The Jet Set

by Mack Reynolds

  He was gone.

  Larry looked after him. “Was he kidding?”

  “About the party? Hell no. You ought to take it in. Meet the Jet Set.”

  “Jet Set?”

  “Sure. You’ve heard of the international set. St. Moritz in the winter, Biarritz or the Lido in the summer, yachts converted from destroyer escorts, polo, safaris for lion in Kenya or tiger in Kashmir — all that sort of thing. Well, take the top — or the bottom, as the case might be — five percent of the fast-moving international set, and you’ve got the Jet Set.”

  • • •

  The Contessa Marcella di Loraine came awake slowly in an unhappy languor composed of equal parts of morning alcohol and sexual satiation. It took long moments to reach that point of awareness where she remembered just where she was sleeping and the circumstances in which she had gone to bed.

  It came back slowly. She’d been staying at her converted palace in the Tangier casbah. And it had all suddenly become a crashing bore. Somebody had mentioned Torremolinos. Simply everyone was doing Torremolinos this season. Even the Cham, Muley Khalid, was flying in from Pakistan. And that bitch, Loretta Alsace, movie-land’s champion in the endless game of musical beds. And that Greek with all the ships. Simply everyone was doing Torremolinos this year.

  Yes. One moment she had been sitting in the Parade Bar, discussing Tangier’s decline and fall since the return of the Sultan. Jay Hazelwood’s place was one of the few still remaining open, but even Jay seemed glum these days. The next moment she had phoned the airport to charter a plane, phoned the house to have the maids pack her a few bags. On an impulse, she’d go alone. Not even a secretary, not even a girl. She couldn’t bear the thought of remaining in Tangier another hour. She’d go alone and, if Torremolinos lived up to its billing, send for her staff.

  The Mirasierra. Yes, that was the name of this place. She’d checked in the evening before, making the gesture of registering simply as Marcella Loraine, by way of doing it incognito. She hadn’t felt up to more than phoning around a bit, in spite of the irritating loneliness of the empty sute. Why hadn’t she brought at least Rita and Fatima along?

  And then, yes, the photographer.

  Marcella Loraine was suddenly fully awake. Larry. His name was Larry something or other. She turned quickly in the bed, surprised to find him gone. She came to one elbow to look about the room. Possibly he was in the bath. But there were no signs of his clothes.

  She scowled. He had left her. She was alone again.

  Then all the memory returned. Allah! She had practically been raped. She, Marcella Mae Edmonds. How many times had the young fool performed? At least four. Five, she supposed. She had been limp with exhaustion long before he ceased. Now that she remembered, it had been she who called a halt. Marcella had never expected to see the day.

  But she was alone now. All alone in this damned echoing suite. It seemed to be happening to her more and more often these days. She’d allow herself to get into a spot where she was alone. No one even to talk to. Damn it. Why wasn’t she able to find a husband worthy of her love and stay married to him? She had reached an age where to bear existence demanded companionship. Continual, satisfying companionship. Why were they all these fortune-hunting jerks? The last one, the Conte, was actually queer. She had caught him kissing, of all things, his valet.

  Her eyes went about the room and through the open door to the living room beyond and in her mind she pictured the rest of the suite. Not a soul in it. Not a single damned person.

  She grabbed at the phone. Demanded room service. Demanded a maid to be sent up immediately. Not either of those clods who had unpacked for her yesterday. No, one wouldn’t be enough, send up two girls.

  She had remembered calling Bill Daly last night. She had gone to school with the writer’s ex-wife, and although she had never been close friends with Big Bill, they were long-time acquaintances. Except when on some film-writing assignment, he lived here in Torremolinos and was the one to contact in regards to who was in town and what was going on. Big Bill Daly had given her the mild welcome she had expected and invited her to his party.

  At least there would be someone to talk to.

  Where in the confounded world were those damned maids? She wanted to get dressed. She was getting to the point where she hated servants, no matter how necessary they might be. As the years went by they seemed to get increasingly cloddish.

  • • •

  The villa of Big Bill Daly was situated on Calle San Fernando, perhaps a quarter of a mile behind Torremolinos proper in the direction of the Sierras. From its monstrous terrace one could look out on any aspect of the Costa del Sol’s scenic offerings. The house was situated high enough so that the view of the Mediterranean stretched as far as Malaga to the north and seemingly halfway to Gibraltar to the south. The mountains loomed behind, the oldest part of the fishing town, including the Moorish tower to which the town owed its name, before.

  It was one hell of a view, Larry Land decided.

  He had arrived possibly a half-hour earlier. Had gone through the usual preliminaries of securing a drink, being introduced to a score or so persons almost all of whose names were lost to him immediately, and snagged two or three hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray. In spite of the fact that even he, no follower of the international glamour names, could recognize from newspaper and newsreel publicity half a dozen of those present, it came to him that this cocktail party was remarkably similar to every other he had ever attended. Well, why not? Even kings drank, even oil billionaires ate, even movie-land’s great went to the bathroom. Why should their cocktail parties be basically different from one in Peoria, Illinois?

  But he caught himself. He was being a reverse snob. There was a difference. Basically perhaps the laughter was the same, the tinkling of glasses, the jabber of voices all but drowning each other out. But there was an air here, a sort of tension, a fast-paced atmosphere he couldn’t define. And it intrigued him.

  Big Bill Daly, playing host as all out as he seemed to do everything, was still attired in shirt sleeves and khakis — the prerogative, Larry supposed, of being a name writer and hence having a claim to informality — and was as tight as anyone present. On the face of it, he had no time to give a guest a guided tour of the establishment. So Larry drifted around on his own, staying out of areas that were obviously private.

  He wound up in the garden, estimating that its size called for the employment of at least two full-time gardeners. He stumbled upon two fellow guests on a stone bench who had gone far toward achieving that ultimate intimacy of which male and female are capable, in spite of the fact that the sun had but barely set and twilight was still prevalent. Larry Land cleared his throat apologetically, wished them well in his inner mind and backed away. The thought of sex, as usual, made him uncomfortable.

  He wandered up to the terrace and stared out over the town. The party, behind him, seemed to be growing in intensity. However, at the same time that he was enjoying it, he had no immediate desire to return to the oversized living room where the majority were gathered. He was amused at being here at all. In San Francisco or Los Angeles he could have spent his life without ever having the opportunity to meet these people on this basis. They simply didn’t move in the same circles as a student who worked his way through school. But here in southern Spain, being an American, acceptably dressed and of the right age and appearance to be an addition to a party that seemed to have a surplus of women, he was invited on the spur of the moment by a host who hadn’t exchanged twenty words with him in all.

  A dark-complected, slightly built, immaculately attired young man, his hands tucked easily into slacks pockets, wandered through the open French windows and approached Larry as the sole other person on the terrace for the moment. His cigarette was held at a jaunty angle in his teeth, in a short, green and ivory holder. As he came up to where Larry stood, he flicked the butt from the holder and let it drop to the lawn below. The idea irritated the American; some gardener was
going to have to go out of his way to pick it up.

  The newcomer, staring out over the sea, its vivid blues now touched with pinks from the setting of the sun, said softly, “A charming view our Big Bill has, eh? Reminds me a bit of Southern California.” His voice had a touch of British accent.

  Larry said, “I suppose Southern California — my home, by the way — owes a great deal of its architecture to this part of the world. The Moors hadn’t long been driven from Andalusia when the Spanish conquistadores came up from Mexico.”

  The other nodded. “I’ve sometimes wondered at the possible variations in history if my people had remained here in Spain, rather than being driven back to Morocco.”

  The American looked at him again. The other’s face was as classically fine as a male model for cigarette ads, quiet, friendly, though with an elusive, sardonic quality that seemingly negated his easy smile. He was quite dark, black of eye and as dark of complexion as an American Indian. Larry said, “You’re Moroccan?”

  The other’s too easy smile flashed. “No. I spoke as a Moslem. When Islam held Spain, it was the most highly advanced area of the world. When you Christians regained it, if you’ll pardon my saying so, it became one of the most backward.”

  “Personally, I’m a member of the Reformed Agnostic Church,” Larry said drily. “So don’t blame me.”

  The other’s titter of mirth was as easy as his smile.

  From within the house came a bellowing of song, the words of which couldn’t at first be made out.

  “Friend Big Bill has arrived to the point where he feels belligerent about the parasitical qualities of his guests,” the self-possessed Moslem said easily. “It invariably happens. I sometimes think Big Bill’s wide popularity is due to the absolutely insulting view he has of the rest of us.”

  Larry, who didn’t understand the other’s comment, now caught a line of their host’s song.

  “The Copper bosses killed you, Joe.

  They shot you dead,” said I.

  “Takes more than guns to kill a man,”

  Said Joe, “I didn’t die.”

  He had to laugh aloud. “Joe Hill,” he said. “One of the old Wobbly songs, the I.W.W. Hardly a song for a member of the Jet Set to be singing.”

  The other smiled brightly but shook his head. “But Big Bill could hardly be considered a member of the Jet Set — he works. At most he could be considered a marginal member.”

  Larry looked at him. He couldn’t quite make this fellow out. There was a pervasive charm that couldn’t be denied. An easy, gentle charm that seemed to be bred in, not acquired. Bred in over long generations. “Is being a non-working parasite a requisite of belonging to the Jet Set? I hadn’t run into the term until today.”

  “Of course. We are the ultimate of the eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die philosophy. After us, the deluge. While such as Big Bill Daly will survive in whatever world the future provides.”

  They were speaking, of course, lightly, but there was a vein of both self-deprecation and fatalism in the Moslem’s tone. Larry Land was intrigued by the young man.

  Several others had drifted from the party onto the terrace, and now a maid came by with a tray of drinks. She walked as only the Andalusian girl walks, with a calm dignity, a hush of grace. Larry took up a French seventy-five. His companion shook his head infinitesimally and the girl went on.

  Larry said, “You don’t drink? How can you bear a cocktail party without stimulants? Particularly after all the others have had half a dozen or so?”

  The Moslem had brought a strikingly worked case from an inner pocket and was now inserting a dark cigarette into the holder he had used earlier. His twist of lips had a mocking quality. “You must remember that alcohol is denied the faithful. However, you make an error. Alcohol is a depressant, not a stimulant; it dulls your senses rather than sharpening them. The Prophet was quite correct in suppressing its use. It makes swine of men.”

  Larry sipped at the drink and shrugged. “Still, have you noticed that those areas of the world where alcohol is most highly appreciated are also the most advanced? Possibly man, to reach his heights, needs an occasional — what’s the term? — flight from reality.”

  “Undoubtedly, my friend, but there are other wings than alcohol. Did you know that the word is Moslem? Originally, when first our alchemists distilled it, it was called al-kuhl. Nor is your comment upon the most advanced areas of the world to stand without debate. You are probably thinking in terms of present-day science. Have you ever considered the fact that science, too, was discovered by the Moslems? Yes, the Greeks had logic, the Romans were capable engineers. But science, as we use the term, was an Arabic discovery joining the two.”

  Larry said ruefully, “I’m afraid I’ll have to retreat. I don’t know enough about the origins of science to put up a battle.” The other was obviously touchy on the subject of the West being more advanced than the East, and a cocktail party wasn’t exactly the place to resolve the matter. Larry attempted to switch subjects. “That’s the most impressive cigarette case I think I’ve ever seen. It must be an antique.”

  Before the American comprehended, his companion had opened the case, dumped the remaining cigarettes first into a hand and then into a jacket pocket, snapped the case shut again and put the ivory, jade and gold container into Larry’s hand. “Accept it with the appreciation of the craftsman who made it for me. I shall inform him of your admiration of his skill.”

  “Hey,” Larry said, thrusting it back. “Excuse me, but I can’t take this. Why, it’s worth a fortune.”

  But the other’s hands were back in his pockets and his sardonic smile was flickering. “Don’t be silly, old chap. It’s merely a trinket. You must never refuse a gift from a Moslem. Shocking bad manners. Besides, I want you to keep it as a reminder of our pleasant conversation.”

  Big Bill’s singing, thus far in the background, now welled louder. Even as Larry continued his shocked protest at the gift, the big man emerged onto the terrace roaring:

  “Hallelujah, I’m a bum!

  Hallelujah, bum again!

  Hallelujah, give us a handout,

  To revive us again.

  Oh, I love my boss,

  And my boss — ”

  He broke it off in mid-line when he spotted Larry and his companion. “There you are.” He waved his highball glass in their direction and made his way over, tacking slightly to the starboard.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “Loretta Alsace just dropped in. You mentioned earlier that you wanted to meet her.” There had been a slight element of amusement in his tone when he used the title.

  Nor did the other fail to catch it. He said gently, “My friend, Big Bill, you know I dislike designation of rank in address. To you I am always Muley.” But his eyes had narrowed ever so slightly, and there was a chill which possibly the intoxicated writer didn’t catch but which Larry Land did.

  Muley bowed slightly to Big Bill, smiled his gentle smile at Larry and turned to stroll toward the villa’s interior.

  Bill sniffed the air. “Who’s been blasting pot?” he growled.

  Larry didn’t get it. “Pot, pot,” Big Bill growled. Marijuana. If you’ve ever wandered around in the souk of any town in Morocco, you’ve smelled so much of the stuff that you never forget it. How’d you get along with the Cham?”

  “Who? Listen, what was the gag about calling Muley Your Highness?”

  Big Bill looked at him. “Don’t you know who you were talking to?”

  “Well, no. Other than a Moslem with strong ideas about the importance of Islam.”

  “He ought to have,” Big Bill grunted. “That’s Muley Khalid, Cham of the Ismalian Shiahs.”

  “That youngster?” Larry stared after the man in question, who had disappeared a moment before into the house. “Why, he can’t be any older than I am.”

  “Youngster he might be,” the writer said, “but he’s also the hereditary leader of an Islamic sect of twenty or thirty million with
power of life and death over every one.” The big Irish American twisted his mouth into a bleak grimace. “It’s said that both his father and now he have occasionally exercised it, in places like Pakistan and Persia where the Ismailian Shiahs are strongest.”

  • CHAPTER THREE •

  BIG BILL SAID, “What’n the hell are you doing out here? Come on in and do your duty. I’ve got more women at this shindig than I know what to do with. What’s your name again, Mac?”

  “Lawrence Land, Larry.”

  “That’s right, sorry. I hate these bastards you meet can’t remember your name. Kind of snobbery. You’re not important enough for them to remember your moniker. Anyway, come on in.”

  The big Irishman grinned at him, and led the way toward the French windows that opened into the oversized living room where the greater part of the festivities were taking place. “I hope you like girls.”

  Larry looked at him. “Of course I like girls.”

  Big Bill Daly, listing to windward, said, “Well then, welcome aboard. So do I. But percentage-wise I think we’re in a minority in Torremolinos.”

  They entered the villa’s interior and for a moment their voices seemed drowned out in the bedlam of a party that had got to the six drinks per capita point. But Big Bill Daley simply raised his voice to a shout. “I’ve never seen the statistics, mind, but I’ve got a theory there’s more men queers than lesbians. That fouls things up. More normal women around than normal men.”

  Larry laughed and took a pull at his drink. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Bill Bill Daly looked at him owlishly. “I’m not as young as I once was, Doc, let’s face it. Hell, I better get over and introduce that Cham to Loretta Alsace. He’s got hot pants for her. Only reason he came to this party was so he could meet her. Hates my guts.”

  The big Irishman wavered off. Larry wondered vaguely how the host was ever going to make it through the evening if he was this smashed already.

  So Loretta Alsace was here. Although from California, Larry Land hadn’t seen more than two or three top movie names in person in his life. And had never had the opportunity to meet and talk to one. Stars such as Loretta Alsace, in his world, were to be seen on the screen, on TV, on magazine covers or in the news columns when they switched mates, had their jewelry stolen or took an overdose of sleeping pills. They weren’t real people that you met.