I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  The hall was becoming crowded with a mix of nationalities and Lebanese citizens. India inched her way over to the group. “Hello, Emile, do introduce me to your mother and father.”

  Emile’s face lit up. “India! Of course. How did you know these were my parents?”

  She laughed and held out her hand to his mother and then his father. “I just knew. I’m India Fox. Emile has been so kind to me. I’ve lived in Beirut before, but it has changed so much, I would have been lost without him showing me around.”

  Emile put his hand on her shoulder. “India is a TV correspondent with World Broadcast TV. She was sent to take Brian Brady’s place when he was sent to Baghdad.”

  “We knew Brian and were sorry to see him leave, but welcome Miss Fox. How did you happen to live here?” Professor Bashir asked.

  “My father was ambassador in the Nineties. I went away to school in Switzerland before he left his posting here.”

  “Jack’s here, India,” Emile said.

  “Yes, I saw him come in. He was with a beautiful girl. Do you know her?”

  “Well, everybody does. I mean sort of. Nadia Rohbani. She’s very big in films here.”

  “We go to all her pictures,” Mrs. Bashir said. “Our film industry is really growing. Last year one of our movies went to the U.S. Academy Awards for foreign films. We were so sorry it didn’t win, but maybe next year.”

  “I remember it. It was very good.” India said. “Will you excuse me? I see the ambassador motioning to me. I need to talk to her.” She said to Emile, “I saw Mariam. I’ll tell you about our visit later.”

  India moved through the crush of people to the ambassador’s side. “You have quite a crowd here. It’s good to see so many locals.”

  “Yes, it makes me feel I’m doing my job when I socialize with the Lebanese people. Did you get some champagne?”

  “I did. I noticed it was French. Don’t the local winemakers do sparkling wine?”

  “Unfortunately no. They did at one time, but the market for hashish is so much more profitable. Champagne takes so much coddling.”

  “Ma’am,” India asked. “I wonder if we could have coffee, or perhaps lunch. I saw Mariam and there are things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “Yes. I’d heard. I was going to ring you to come for luncheon. There are some rumors I’ve discovered that you should perhaps be up on. I’ll have my secretary set something up.”

  “You’re very kind. Any time will suit me.”

  “Now, let’s have you meet our Information Officer. You should get to know him in your line of work.”

  “Thanks, good idea.” Aren’t those guys usually spies? Or CIA…if it’s not the same thing.

  The Information Officer was a tall, rangy blond guy who looked like he belonged out in the cornfields of Iowa. Very un-spy looking India thought, which was probably the point.

  The ambassador touched his shoulder. “Jed, this is India Fox. She’s stepping in for Brian Brady. “You two get acquainted. Now, I must circulate. Make everybody feel good about Americans.”

  India smiled and thought, good luck with that. She held out her hand. “Hi. Our ambassador seems to think I should know you. I’d appreciate anything that might be newsy. Actually, anything you think I should know.”

  Jed Ellsworth held her hand longer than necessary. “Well now, it’s newsy that a new girl is in town…better looking than ol’ Brady.” He took a second to admire her cleavage. “Smashing dress. Have dinner with me...uh, let’s see. How’s tomorrow? I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  India pulled her hand loose. Whoa. That’s fast. But the ambassador’s right. I need this guy. And that’s what a smashing dress is for. “Hm.” She smiled. “I do need to be up to speed. Tomorrow night isn’t good, though. How about next week?”

  “Give me your number. I’ll call you. Hear you were out to the Beqa’a. Met your old nanny?”

  India raised an eyebrow. “You’re pretty good. How did you know that?”

  “You’d be surprised how small Lebanon is. Besides, it’s my job.” He looked at his empty champagne glass. “I was just going to get myself a nice, strong double American bourbon. You want?”

  “Yeah, sure. A good Scotch…rocks. Something easy to carry around.”

  India watched the Information man elbow his way through the crowd. I’ll find out soon enough if Jed Ellsworth is worth my time.

  “So you’ve met the embassy spy. I can probably tell you everything he can.” Jack Spear’s voice sounded close to her ear.

  India turned. “Is that a fact?”

  “He’s a good man. Knows a lot. But so do I.” He took a drink of his whisky, then shook the ice cubes. “You Americans always put too much ice in a good drink.”

  “The bartender is American?”

  “U.S. Marine. But at least he makes it stiff.”

  “I saw you come in.”

  “I know.”

  “Gorgeous girl.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  Smug bastard. “I understand she’s a movie star here. I’d like to meet her. Maybe do an interview. Those can always be good as fillers if there’s not much news going on in the world. Especially if it’s a pretty girl. ”

  “I expect she’d love to be on American TV. I’ll fetch her. She needs rescuing from the UK ambassador. He’s about to start licking her arm, the old satyr. He’ll be on to you before long.” He took her arm. “Come along.”

  “Jed was getting me a drink.”

  “He’ll find us.”

  As they made their way toward a group gathered around the Lebanese beauty, Spear said. “Heard you were out to Beqa’a Valley to see your old nanny.”

  “I’m so glad I don’t have any secrets. Everybody seems to know where I’ve been.”

  “Small town, Beirut,” he said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Be a good idea you don’t forget that. Ah, here we are.”

  Spear pulled India into the group.

  The ambassador spoke, his voice hearty, eyes bright. “Ah, the two beauties in the room…a true bonanza.” His rheumy eyes strayed to her cleavage.

  The actress held out her hand to India and surreptitiously rolled her eyes.

  India suppressed a smile. I like her. Maybe we’ll be friends. And I think the ambassador has had a few too many, which, looking at his red nose, is probably not unusual. God, the things you learn when you socialize.

  The reception drew to a close, people began going off to dinner engagements. India had slipped away from Jack Spear and the actress, strolling aimlessly through the groups of guests, not wanting to be asked to join anyone just yet. And when she had dinner with “Reuters,” she wanted him all to herself.

  It had been a fruitful evening. She had a promise of lunch with Ambassador Masterson, a future date for an interview with a beautiful celebrity, and dinner with the Information guy next week. She’d found Mariam and would see how that played. And she’d only been here a week.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Three days later, the Embassy

  INDIA WAS USHERED into the ambassador’s private quarters. The small dining room’s table had been set for two. India had time to briefly admire the view of the sea before Mary Masterson hurried in. She gave India a small embrace then gestured for her to sit.

  “We’ll talk during lunch. I have to meet with a French trade delegation in an hour.” She sighed. “These commercial boondoggles take up a lot of time. We could conduct any business with the French nationals already here, but a trip to the Mediterranean is a great draw for anyone with some trinket to either buy or sell.” She sat and smoothed her napkin on her lap. “Ah well, that’s what I’m here for. Now tell me about your visit out to Beqa’a. Understand Youssef was your chauffeur.”

  “Glum guy. You know him?”

  “Not personally. But he’s suspected of being one of the big shots in blowing up our embassy. Not a sort I’d want you to spend a lot of time with.”

 
India raised an eyebrow. “Ouch. So he’s a central figure in Hezbollah?”

  “Probably.”

  The Lebanese waiter wheeled in a cart with a covered serving dish, whisked off the cover and with a nod from the ambassador, began serving a colorful salad of greens and a local fish, a type of bream, a fish found often in Lebanese cuisine.

  “I hope a salad is fine with you. Looking at your waist, my dear, I assume you could dine more heartily. I, however, must watch mine. Do console yourself with the lovely warm bread. Our chef is a master. It’s full of olives and seeds of some sort. A meal in itself.” She passed the silver basket to India.

  “It smells wonderful. Now, what can you tell me about Youssef? Mariam insists that when I go out again I must call her and she’ll get him to take me.”

  “I’m surprised he’d consent. He’s pretty high up. Big time unsavory and hates Americans, of course. What interests me is that must mean Mariam’s brother has some rank. Odd that a Maronite Catholic would move in those circles. Before you go out again I’d like you to get together with Jed Ellsworth, our Information Officer. You met him at the reception.”

  India grinned. “I’m scheduled to have dinner with him Thursday. I don’t want to seem too thick with embassy personnel. My job is to cultivate locals. But I’ll agree to keep my eyes open. We could help each other.”

  “Good. He and Brady kept in touch. Give me that basket of bread, will you? I’m a weak woman.” They both laughed and India wondered if that was the end of the conversation about Youssef and Mariam. It seemed so, when Mary Masterson spoke. “Is your father anxious to get away from the capital? It’s a real zoo. I’d say he’s more a trained diplomat out in the field than an adviser type. He’s worth more promoting America abroad than navigating the swamps of Foggy Bottom.”

  “That pretty much sums up how he feels. Mother, of course, loves it all—the intrigues and the back-biting. And the parties. Oh, my, the parties.”

  The ambassador put down her fork and tapped her forefinger on the white linen cloth for a few seconds. “Tell me, is she happy you’ve been sent by your network to the Middle East?”

  “I don’t think it’s any secret my mother wasn’t exactly a mommy, at least to the diplomatic corps. I’ve been pretty independent ever since I went off to school in Europe. Then I went to Stanford. Mother always knew I’d be off on some career when I graduated. We aren’t…close. But you know that as well as anyone.” She picked up her napkin and patted her mouth. Smiled. “I don’t think she loses much sleep over it. I’ve wanted to be a journalist forever. To be sent here is really a bit of luck. I would hope she’s happy for me.”

  “I’m sure she’s very proud of you.”

  India took a sip of water. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  The waiter cleared the table and brought a thick honey cake dessert. The two women chatted about the latest news from the States, the French president’s peccadillos, the upcoming midterm elections.

  “It’s been delightful to chat with you, my dear. You must come often. I miss my children so it’s good to have someone young to talk to.”

  AS SHE WAITED for the security man to bring her car, India checked her email. There was a message from Nadia Rohbani.

  Would you like to come out to the set tomorrow? I’m filming, but there are free times. I could show you around and we could talk. I’ll tell them at the gate if you can come. Someone will meet you.

  Nadia.

  Would she like? You bet. She’d check and see if Emile could come with his camera. Or maybe not. It would be better to get to know the actress. This wasn’t hard news. But she’d let New York know. There could be a tie-in. Nadia wasn’t an unknown apparently.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TRUE TO THE actress’s word, there was an escort waiting at the gate to the film lot. Gibran, the young Lebanese guide, seemed to be in Bedouin makeup and costume, but he was eager to show Nadia’s guest to the sound stage where she was filming. India had parked her car where she was told and transferred to a golf cart. Gibran, voluble in his sightseeing mission, pointed excitedly to the sights in the hubbub of the crowded streets of the lot. India discovered there was a thriving movie industry in Lebanon, a fact she’d been unaware of.

  Gibran was chattering along. “Lebanon has the largest film industry in the Arab world. Well, outside of Egypt, but we’re going to get bigger. We got nominated last year for an Oscar. I had a small part.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that. I’d like to pick it up on my tablet if I can. “

  “Oh, yes. You should be able to download it. Look for me. I’m riding a camel in the oasis scene.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Here we are. You can go on in. They know you’re coming. Nadia’s doing the crying scene. Her boyfriend Fuoad is leaving her to go fight in the war.”

  “Which war?” India asked.

  He grinned. “Take your pick. There’s always one going on somewhere in the Middle East.” He waved. “See you later. They’ll call me to take you back.” He floored it and the golf cart jumped away.

  The man at the door led her in, his finger to his lips signaling she was to be quiet. India’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, then focused on the well-lit center of the large soundstage. Cameras and dollies, lighting equipment, all the paraphernalia of movie making cluttered the huge darkened space. At this moment, there was a hush over the building.

  India moved as close as she dared. Nadia stood in front of what appeared to be a train station. She was crying bitterly as her handsome soldier pulled her into his arms and kissed her with great tenderness and swung onto a train car. The director called out what was probably “Cut,” India assumed, because everything dissolved into a flurry of people hurrying to end the scene. Someone blotted Nadia’s face and she smiled her thanks, spotting India among the milling crowd of technicians, cameramen, makeup people, assistants, and assistants of assistants—the behind the scenes chaos that produced a movie. India had gone through the MGM lot when she lived in California. It looked much the same. She waved to Nadia.

  Several entourage types trailed Nadia as she made her way to India. “Come with me. My trailer isn’t far. We can talk there. Did you get to watch any of the scene?” There was no sign of her earlier tears.

  “Only the last bit. I loved seeing it even if I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Just another sad farewell to a man going off to fight. Come.” She shrugged and smiled. “We’ll have coffee.” She turned to an assistant and spoke, then took India’s arm. “This way.”

  Nadia’s trailer was down a narrow alley with other dressing rooms. There was a sitting room and small kitchen, and India supposed a bedroom and bathroom toward the back. It was luxuriously furnished, with silk hangings and colorful carpets, testifying to the importance of the star. Framed pictures crowded the walls, most looking like family.

  The actress waved her arm to a brocade sofa. “Please be comfortable. I’ll just be a minute. I must get out of these clothes so they can be pressed for tomorrow. Help yourself to the coffee.”

  India marveled at the speed the assistant had conjured up the coffee, tea sandwiches and small cakes. She poured herself a cup and nibbled on a baba, the rich cake made with apricot jam and fresh apricots, heavily laced with rum.

  Nadia appeared, wrapped in a silk embroidered robe. “Ah, good. God, I’m starved.” She whisked a sandwich from the plate. “Weeping uncontrollably always gives me an appetite. Now, what shall we talk about? Is this a formal interview?”

  “Not really. I just thought we’d get to know each other. I’ll set something up with Emile so we’ll have a proper one.” She took a sandwich. “I don’t know anything about the film industry in Lebanon. I understand it’s pretty big.”

  The actress settled on a chaise. “It’s big in the Arab world. Except for Egypt, but we work with them from time to time. It was really the French who began to film here. And now six of our universities offer a degree in cinema. We get
students from all over the Middle East. Even some ‘veils.’ I come out of that culture.”

  “Veils?”

  “The covered-up devout Muslim women.”

  “Seems a worldly kind of enterprise for a religious woman.”

  “Well, they do make religious films. Making a movie is pretty much the same no matter the subject.”

  India wiped her fingers, sticky from the baba. “These cakes are heavenly.”

  “Dip your napkin in the water. I should have wet towels with those.”

  “Are you a native of Beirut?” India wiped her fingers on the wet napkin.

  “Hardly. I was born in a tiny village in the south of the country. I’m a country peasant.” She waved her arm around the wall. “I have a huge family and I adore them and they’re very proud of me. But I had the looks and the ambition to get out of the countryside.” She shrugged and eyed India. “I’m sure you know as well how far beauty can take a woman.”

  India was slightly taken aback, but in the end she chuckled. “You’re very honest. So am I. A woman can do a lot if she knows how to use what she looks like.”

  There was a pause, then both women began to laugh, knowing it was true. Liking each other.

  “Are you wondering about me and Jack Spear?” Nadia asked, cocking her head.

  India, a bit startled, answered, “Yes. I’ve met him a couple of times. Drove with him and Emile to Tripoli. I think he’s fond of the ladies.”

  “Very true. We had a, what is it you call it? A ‘thing’ for a while. Then it wasn’t. Nothing really happened to spoil it. It just wore itself out. He’s a good friend now.”

  “He was very cool to me when I first met him. He warmed up a bit, but I wondered why he was so unfriendly. I didn’t get my job because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “He and Brady were good friends. Jack didn’t like seeing him go, I expect. And there’s a bit of chauvinisme there as well. His good friend being replaced by a young, and very lovely blonde.” She smiled. “You’ll get a bit of that here I’m afraid. Women here are getting ‘uppy’, is it? That’s new in this part of the world.”