by CK Collins
“Today is her birthday, Sule.”
“I know.”
“Twenty-eight.”
A big ball splashes in the fountain. A teen girl screeches down the waterslide and the music blares. Callie lays a palm on her belly, her immense belly, and grins. A private grin. She tucks her hair behind her ear, glances at the clear sky, and goes back inside.
“Tchori.”
“I know. Time to go.”
16 March
* * *
South Masalay
A limousine picks me up. Tinted windows, mini bar, the whole deal.
It’s funny, I tried explaining this to Ephraim and his attitude was totally blasé. The way he sees it, I think, the distance between me and the prime minister is nothing compared to the distance between me and him. And a chauffeured limo is not a miracle to compare with air conditioning and a machine that washes things while you sleep. I told him to take it easy today and he promised he would, but relaxation is literally not something he understands.
Dad wasn’t that impressed either, and he didn’t care that she was just featured in the New York Times. Anything that makes me more connected to this place, he doesn’t like. And all politicians are crooks anyway.
I drink a Perrier on the way and eat the cookies and crackers. There’s no trash can (how can there not be a trash can?), so I cram the wrappers in the ashtray. After my screw-up at the Murais, I’m guarding my dress like it’s the Mona Lisa. They’re worth about the same.
Pashi was right about how the Murais would react — suddenly their calendars have cleared way up. A few days ago, sister number two, Piraadi, calls me up about having lunch. The hell if I’m back over there, though, and I don’t want them coming to the house and embarrassing Ephraim. She starts naming restaurants and I say (proud of myself for this one) that they should come by the Buckingham.
When we all sat down yesterday, the Queen Bitch remarked how she’d never had the pleasure of visiting the Buckingham before. I think they’ve always assumed the buildings past King George Avenue are just set pieces tacked up by the government to make the city seem bigger.
It was one of those mutual performances where everybody says the opposite of what they’re thinking. They asked about the baby of course, and I gave all the standard answers. A few questions about the OB, which I dodged pretty easy. Nirkathi, who seems slightly more real than the others, was the one who finally brought up Mrs. Daar. They played it that the Daar and Murai families go way back, and they took turns giving me chummy advice about how to get on with Caida. Might have been smart to actually pay attention, but all my mental energy was going into playacting. And for all I know they were just screwing with me.
When it was over, we air-kissed in the lobby. Piraadi said they simply must have me back for tea, and I said how I’d simply love that. Her and Mrs. Murai gave this thrilling description of their new drapes and meanwhile Nirkathi’s all zoned out with one of those looks people are always getting around me — my apparently bizarre white-girl pregnancy glow — and it took Piraadi grabbing her shoulder for them to get moving. Then on the way through the revolving door, she looked back at me one more time.
Sometimes I wonder if other people can hear the baby’s lovewhisper. That’s crazy, I know, but it makes me anxious anyway.
Long drive. The M1 to Sagaro, then a bit on the Trans-Mas, and then to the West Shore Road. Aside from the coastline and architecture (which is fancy but not that great a lot of the time if you ask me), South Masalay is actually not that beautiful. Pretty flat, mostly brown, and so built up — a little too SoCal for my taste. Once we finally get through the Sagaro hyper-sprawl and further up the Shore Road, the coastline gets rocky and really sparse.
After a long way, past the exits for Sutcliffe, we turn onto an unmarked road. Soon it gets super wooded, with no sight of the water. Pashi said I should look for all the hidden security, but I guess they take the hidden part seriously because it looks like just woods to me.
When I was out with Pashi, she got me a new Masalayan guidebook (much better than that junk one I bought and lost a thousand years ago) and showed me Caida’s island on the map: this barely visible dot off the west coast, not that far from the Karsk. Sutcliffe isn’t up to Caida’s tastes, apparently, and she spends most of her time at the estate.
Pashi’s theory for what this is all about: Caida has a reputation for taking care of her friends. She hasn’t been able to deliver on helping Rika and doesn’t want to look unconcerned. And by inviting me, she gets to snub the Colonel at the same time, which I gather is something she gets a real kick out of. Pashi expects it’ll be deluxe but brief, fifteen minutes between meetings (or tennis sets), which is cool by me.
We get to a short gate and the chauffeur swipes a card. Two minutes later, the ocean’s back in view and then comes the real gate — black iron fence, reams of razor wire, guys with guns. The driver hands the guard some papers, both of them friendly, and then lowers the window so they can have a look at me. We’re waived through to a dock and my door gets opened by a guy who’s almost as handsome as his silk suit.
He shows me to a chair and offers me a drink. I tell him no thanks — I already need to pee — and him and the chauffeur have a smoke while a boat motors over from the island. It’s closer than I thought it would be. I could swim it easy.
When the boat gets to the dock (a driver and two more armed guys), everybody chats. A little annoying because I really would like to get to a bathroom. They finish their smokes finally, and I get escorted onto the boat.
The sun’s brilliant on the water. It’s sheer rock around the island, and I can see the edge of Caida’s mansion. A tower too with machine guns and a navy ship patrolling. It takes longer than you’d think, but we finally come around to a landing. I’m led up this steep, winding staircase to a veranda. Leading to the mansion. Leading to a second veranda. Leading to me working hard at not acting like a tourist.
I’m passed off to a new guy who looks Masalayan but his accent sounds like Clive Owen, and the suit-and-stubble action is GQ-perfect. Pashi told me about this, that when Caida chooses a bodyguard she really focuses on the first half of that word. He shows me to the bathroom, very much needed, then leads me out a side door and down curving steps to the pool. There’s water flowing out of the house and then down a waterfall into the pool, which is contoured and black, and water flows silky over the non-existent edge.
My destination is this chaise lounge at the side of the pool. “Mrs. Daar is attending to matters of state,” he tells me and I get the impression that he always says that. “May I bring you a drink?”
All the classiness I thought I brought with me, I guess I left it in the limousine: “Do you have Coke?”
“Pepsi madam?”
Worth your life to get a Coke in this country. “That’s fine, yeah.”
“Ice?”
“Yes please.”
“Sliced melon?”
His cologne smells like Heaven after a rain. “Okay.”
“Anything else I could provide?”
Oh yes there is.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
The Pepsi and melon arrive. Along with a plate of jumbo scallops wrapped in prosciutto, which the chef would like me to consider. I consider all eight of them. A while after I finish the melon, he offers to bring me more. I don’t want to seem like a glutton. “I’m fine, thanks.” He apologizes for the delay and gives me that ‘matters of state’ line again. I tell him it’s no problem. And it’s not. I could stay here all day. I close my eyes and enjoy the sun. They bring me mango juice. Even the baby’s taking the chance to relax.
“The prime minister will see you now.”
I get up from the chaise, suddenly all head-rush and racing heart.
He leads me down a Gone With The Wind staircase and across the long, manicured lawn. Small table under a broad umbrella. Sweeping view. He pulls out my chair and pours lemon water from a brass pitcher. Is it a pitcher or a flagon? I’ve read two books lately with
the word flagon. I should look it up. Or just start using it. He says Mrs. Daar will be with me shortly and then stands a butler-like distance back.
There’s a girl, could be Caida junior, sauntering across the lawn and spinning a tennis racket like it’s a baton. She pays me no mind. She’s got earbuds in and reminds me of Suapartni. Ah dear Suapartni — my grand red hair is gone but I’ve gained other splendor.
Gardeners are snipping at the bird-shaped bushes. I’m hungry and feel like a dope for saying no to more melon. The ocean is so pretty. There’s a cruise ship way on the horizon. This day of the week, it must the one from Bangkok. The Buckingham has coupons in all the What To Do In Jaya booklets. It’s a cinch to spot the boat people from the day-glo lanyards they wear. I’m always tempted to strike up a conversation with the Americans, but I never do.
I see her coming from the direction the tennis girl went. If you fed emeralds to Parisian silkworms, eventually you’d get her pantsuit. The gardeners stop their clipping and scurry off. I stand — am I supposed to stand? — and she extends her hand. I wonder if I’m supposed to kiss it, but we shake and that seems fine.
“I do hope you’ve been enjoying my view. I may call you Callie?”
“Callie’s good. Thank you.”
In her fifties. Black hair that’s exquisitely done without looking done, a touch of makeup, not a smooth or gentle face but beautiful. “Lovely of you to join me, Callie.”
“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Daar.” We sit and I smooth my dress. “It’s beautiful here.”
“A place of repose.” I think if tigers purr, they sound like her. “Well, about dear Rika: He is alive, we feel sure of it. And we’re doing all we can, you must trust that.”
“I’m sure that you are, yes. Thank you.”
“From Hilm Hivaa we can expect only lies. Their nature.” She wiggles a long finger at the man and he leans over her, super suave — a maître d’ who happens to have a gun in his vest. “Veal today,” she instructs him, “the medallions not the cutlets. Capers of course. He can be creative with the rest.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Daar.”
“And a martini. The Stoli today. Callie? Superb martinis my man makes, you’ll never taste better. I could have the wine list brought.”
“Actually, I’ll just have a sparkling water please.”
The guy nods and strides off. I guess I’m having veal.
“My dear, when are you due?”
“Eight more weeks.”
“You’ve seen a proper physician? One hears dreadful stories.”
“Um yes, I’ve been fine. Thank you.”
“Now, I don’t know if Rika has told you — such a modest lad — what a tremendous help he’s been to me.”
“He said, yes, that he liked working for you. Very much.”
“You’ve met his father, I presume.”
“Once.”
“He is a hyena.”
“That’s . . . the impression I got.”
“It’s been some thirty years since I first had the pleasure. He would come round to see my husband. Extortion of course. How else could a man of such meager wits have risen so high? Have you seen that gauche home they have on University Hill? That harridan he married — his attempt at social climbing — she has no more taste than he does. He’s told you, I presume, that he’s doing all he can to bring dear Rika home?”
“Yes.”
“Well. He’s not lying entirely. We can be sure he’s petrified that Rika might let something slip. One can imagine Sidaarik making quite the rich spectacle of a ‘confession’ from Colonel Murai’s own son. It would be entertaining in its way. But not in the nation’s interests. Or Rika’s.”
“Right . . .”
“And there are some aspects of Rika’s dealings with me that might be misinterpreted if not presented correctly. It happens that Sidaarik and I have recently come to some understandings that are mutually beneficial. So I’m not terribly worried. But still.”
“I mean, I’m sure . . .”
“These things tend to work out in the end.”
Our drinks come. She taps the man’s hand, he bends toward her, and she whispers a few words. “Straight away, Mrs. Daar.” Salads come a couple minutes later. We chat about vodka and the many sub-par martinis that are served even by heads of state. The veal — I haven’t eaten any since Aaron Kaplan showed me pictures of calves locked in cages — it tastes amazing.
“Now you must know that when Rika first began doing favors for me, that hyena pushed him to spy on me. Of course he declined. I excel at judging character, young miss. And at rewarding loyalty.”
She beckons to one of her men, who delivers a leather-bound book. She opens the cover then gets an irritated expression — another finger-wiggle and the guy presents her with reading glasses.
She flips through the book, and I try not to feel too nervous. I finish my veal. And because I was raised good, I know that it would be bad form to finish hers too. She shuts the book and sighs.
“The press like to portray Hilm Hivaa as impeccable operators. Whilst the government can’t know left from right without a map. Well. We have capabilities of our own. It happens my people have obtained a communication from Hilm Hivaa. A sensitive one. With a very curious subject matter.”
“About Rika?”
Her green fingernails tap the book. “No dear miss. About you.”
I stare at her.
“Now, I’m told that, apart from your connection to Rika, you are most ordinary. That you possess no important accomplishments or connections. I don’t intend to be rude, of course.”
“No, it’s true. Can I ask what it said?”
“They seem to consider you a person of great, great interest.”
“I have no idea.”
“You met Rika how?”
“I don’t know. I mean, Lake Ghaatasira. I went there and we just met and . . .”
“Love at first sight.”
“Sure. Yes.”
“He discussed his dealings with me?”
“No. Not at all.”
“You’re certain about that?”
“I mean, he mentioned you, but you know . . . he didn’t tell me anything private. Not that kind of private.”
“Of course. Rika is a good lad.”
“And I mean, honestly, I don’t understand the first thing about Masalay.”
“Ah.” She tilts her head like she’s trying to see what Rika saw. She smiles. “Well, I do hope we can reunite you.”
“Thank you.”
She holds up the briefing book and the man takes it. “Be a dear and ask Mr. Naadu to join us.” She watches him leave and finishes her martini. “I understand we’ve missed your birthday.”
“Um, it was a couple days ago.”
“Pleasant, I hope?”
“It was good. Thank you.”
“Splendid.”
There’s a man crossing to us, white suit and thin mustache, very 1930s debonair. A little older than Caida probably. Runai I assume, but I don’t remember ever seeing one with facial hair. This formal bow to Caida: “Madam Prime Minister.”
“You’ve something for our guest?”
“Certainly,” and he reaches into his breast pocket for an envelope.
“Shortly before that terrible business with his wife,” she tells me, “Rika performed a service. Well done and valuable as always. He was supposed to come round to Mr. Naadu for payment but, well, circumstances.”
Mr. Naadu sets the envelope in front of me. “Madam, you will find inside the information necessary to contact a bank in Geneva. There is also an access code. You are advised to store that number in a most secure location.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“And I’ve added a bit to the sum,” Caida says. “In consideration of your circumstances.”
“Thank you.”
“My best wishes for the safe return of Mr. Murai.”
“Thank you Naadu,” Caida says and as he walks back across the la
wn, she asks, “Everything alright, dear?”
“Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
“You needn’t share this with the hyena and his family, of course.”
“No, I won’t say anything.”
“But when Rika returns, you’ll tell him of the kindness I’ve shown you.”
“Thank you, yes, of course, you’ve been, um . . .”
“I’ve instructed that you be looked after, dear miss. They’ll be most discreet. You’ll not even know when they’re watching.”