ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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👁 :1
US President-elect Donald Trump has nominated veteran prosecutor Pam Bondi as his new pick for attorney general, hours after Matt Gaetz withdrew his name from consideration.
Bondi has a long track record in law enforcement and previously served as Florida's attorney general.
The 59-year-old is a long-time Trump ally who defended him during his first Senate impeachment trial.
Losing his first choice, Gaetz, to run the Justice Department is a setback for Trump but his new pick should have a less bumpy ride from senators who must approve the appointment."Pam was a prosecutor for nearly 20 years, where she was very tough on Violent Criminals, and made the streets safe for Florida Families," Trump said in a social media post announcing his choice.
Bondi has been close to Trump since his 2016 campaign, telling voters at a recent Trump rally that she considers him a "friend".
In 2019, she joined his White House to focus on "proactive impeachment messaging", serving both as his legal advisor and defence attorney during his first impeachment - during which he was acquitted.
She continued to be part of Trump's legal team in 2020 as it made false claims that the election had been stolen from Trump due to voter fraud.
She also served on Trump's Opioid and Drug Abuse Commission, and more recently, has headed the legal arm of the America First Policy Institute, a conservative think tank founded by former Trump staff members.
The rise and fall of Matt Gaetz in eight wild days
If confirmed by the Senate, Bondi will become the country's chief law enforcement officer, in charge of the justice department's more than 115,000 employees and roughly $45bn (£35.7bn) budget.
She would also play a key role in attempting to implement Trump's vow to punish his political enemies once he takes office.
She has been a vocal critic of the criminal cases brought against Trump, as well as special counsel Jack Smith, who charged Trump in two federal cases.
“For too long, the partisan Department of Justice has been weaponized against me and other Republicans - Not anymore,” Trump wrote on Thursday evening.
"Pam will refocus the DOJ [Department of Justice] to its intended purpose of fighting Crime, and Making America Safe Again."
Trump's other plans for the department include ending "weaponised government", protecting US borders, dismantling criminal organisations and restoring Americans' "badly-shattered faith and confidence" in the department.Trump's transition team will be hoping that Bondi's nomination path will be less tumultuous than Gaetz's.
Reacting to the announcement, Republican Senator Lindsey Graham predicted that Bondi “will be confirmed quickly,” calling her selection a “grand slam, touchdown, hole in one, ace, hat trick, slam dunk, Olympic gold medal pick”.
The news of Bondi's nomination came about six hours after Gaetz said he would not seek the high-profile cabinet post, following days of debate over whether to release a congressional report on sexual misconduct allegations against him.
Announcing his withdrawal, the 41-year-old said the controversy over his potential nomination "was unfairly becoming a distraction" to the work of the incoming Trump administration.The report included the findings of a probe sparked by allegations of sexual misconduct and illicit drug use. Gaetz has vehemently denied the claims but said that he hoped to avoid a "needlessly protracted Washington scuffle" by withdrawing.
Later on Thursday, Gaetz offered his congratulations to Bondi, calling her "a stellar selection by President Trump".
It is unclear if Gaetz, who resigned his House seat soon after Trump tapped him for attorney general, will now try to retain his seat.
Since his resounding election win earlier this month, Trump has named several close allies to fill high-ranking positions in his administration.
👁 :1
PART I
“I HAVE SERVED A LORD WHO NOW ABANDONS ME INTO the hands of my
enemies,” said Elijah.
“God is God,” the Levite replied. “He did not tell Moses whether He was good or evil; He simply said: I am. He is everything that exists under the sun–the lightning bolt that destroys a house, and the hand of man that rebuilds it.”
Talking was the only way to ward off fear; at any moment, soldiers would open the door to the stable where they were hiding, discover them both, and offer the only choice possible: worship Baal, the Phoenician god, or be executed. They were searching house by house, converting the prophets or executing them.
Perhaps the Levite would convert and escape death. But for Elijah there was no choice: everything was happening through his own fault, and Jezebel wanted his head under all circumstances.
“It was an angel of the Lord who obliged me to speak to King Ahab and warn him that it would not rain so long as Baal was worshiped in Israel,” he said, almost in a plea for absolution for having heeded what the angel had told him. “But God acts slowly; when the drought begins to take hold, Princess Jezebel will already have destroyed all who remain loyal to the Lord.”
The Levite said nothing. He was reflecting on whether he should convert to Baal or die in the name of the Lord.
“Who is God?” Elijah continued. “Is it He who holds the sword of the soldier, the sword that executes those who will not betray the faith of our patriarchs? Was it He who placed a foreign princess on our country's throne, so that all this misfortune could befall our generation? Does God kill the faithful, the innocent, those who follow the law of Moses?”
The Levite made his decision: he preferred to die. Then he began to laugh, for the idea of death frightened him no longer. He turned to the young prophet beside him and attempted to calm him. “Ask God, since you doubt His decisions,” he said. “I have accepted my fate.”
“The Lord cannot wish us to be massacred without mercy,” insisted Elijah.
“God is all-powerful. If He limited Himself to doing only that which we call good, we could not call Him the Almighty; he would command only
one part of the universe, and there would exist someone more powerful than He, watching and judging His acts. In that case, I would worship that more powerful someone.”
“If He is all-powerful, why doesn't He spare the suffering of those who love Him? Why doesn't He save them, instead of giving might and glory to His enemies?”
“I don't know,” said the Levite. “But a reason exists, and I hope to learn it soon.”
“You have no answer to this question.” “No.”
The two men fell silent. Elijah felt a cold sweat.
“You are terrified, but I have already accepted my fate,” the Levite said. “I am going out, to bring an end to this agony. Each time I hear a scream out there, I suffer, imagining how it will be when my time comes. Since we've been locked in here, I have died a hundredfold, while I could have died just once. If I am to be beheaded, let it be as quickly as possible.”
He was right. Elijah had heard the same screams, and he had suffered beyond his ability to withstand.
“I'm going with you. I weary of fighting for a few more hours of life.”
He rose and opened the stable door, allowing the sun to enter and expose the two men hiding there.
THE LEVITE took him by the arm, and they began to walk. If not for one then another scream, it would have seemed a normal day in a city like any other–a sun that barely tingled the skin, the breeze coming from a distant ocean to moderate the temperature, the dusty streets, the houses built of a mixture of clay and straw.
“Our souls are prisoners of the terror of death, and the day is beautiful,” said the Levite. “Many times before, when I felt at peace with God and the world, the temperature was horrible, the desert wind filled my eyes with sand and did not permit me to see a hand's span before me. Not always does His plan agree with what we are or what we feel, but be assured that He has a reason for all of this.”
“I admire your faith.”
The Levite looked at the sky, as if reflecting briefly. Then he turned to Elijah. “Do not admire, and do not believe so much; it was a wager I made with myself. I wagered that God exists.”
“You're a prophet,” answered Elijah. “You too hear voices and know that there is a world beyond this world.”
“It could be my imagination.”
“You have seen God's signs,” Elijah insisted, beginning to feel anxiety at his companion's words.
“It could be my imagination,” was again the answer. “In actuality, the only concrete thing I have is my wager: I have told myself that everything comes from the Most High.”
THE STREET was deserted. Inside their houses, the people waited for Ahab's soldiers to complete the task that the foreign princess had demanded: executing the prophets of Israel. Elijah walked beside the Levite, feeling that behind each door and window was someone watching him–and blaming him for what had happened.
“I did not ask to be a prophet. Perhaps everything is merely the fruit of my own imagination,” thought Elijah.
But, after what had occurred in the carpenter's shop, he knew it was not.
SINCE CHILDHOOD, he had heard voices and spoken with angels. This was when he had been impelled by his father and mother to seek out a priest of Israel who, after asking many questions, identified Elijah as a nabi, a prophet, a “man of the spirit,” one who “exalts himself with the word of God.”
After speaking with him for many hours, the priest told his father and mother that whatever the boy might utter should be regarded as earnest.
When they left that place, his father and mother demanded that Elijah never tell anyone what he saw and heard; to be a prophet meant having ties to the government, and that was always dangerous.
In any case, Elijah had never heard anything that might interest priests or kings. He spoke only with his guardian angel and heard only advice about his own life; from time to time he had visions he could not understand–distant seas, mountains populated with strange beings,
wheels with wings and eyes. As soon as the visions disappeared, he–obedient to his father and mother–made every effort to forget them as rapidly as possible.
For this reason, the voices and visions became more and more infrequent. His father and mother were pleased, and they did not raise the matter again. When he came of an age to sustain himself, they lent him money to open a small carpentry shop.
NOW AND AGAIN, he would gaze respectfully upon the other prophets, who walked the streets of Gilead wearing their customary cloaks of skins and sashes of leather and saying that the Lord had singled them out to guide the Chosen People. Truly, such was not his destiny; never would he be capable of evoking a trance through dancing or self-flagellation, a common practice among those “exalted by the voice of God,” because he was afraid of pain. Nor would he ever walk the streets of Gilead, proudly displaying the scars from injuries achieved during a state of ecstasy, for he was too shy.
Elijah considered himself a common man, one who dressed like the rest and who tortured only his soul, with the same fears and temptations of simple mortals. As his work in the carpentry shop went on, the voices ceased completely, for adults and workers have no time for such things. His father and mother were happy with their son, and life proceeded in harmony and peace.
The conversation with the priest, when he was still a child, came to be merely a remote memory. Elijah could not believe that Almighty God must talk with men to have His orders obeyed; what had happened in his childhood was only the fantasy of a boy with nothing to do. In Gilead, his native city, there were those thought by the inhabitants to be mad. They were unable to speak coherently and incapable of distinguishing the voice of the Lord from the delirium of insanity. They spent their lives in the streets, preaching the end of the world and living on the charity of others. Even so, none of the priests considered them “exalted by the voice of God.”
Elijah concluded in the end that the priests would never be sure of what they were saying. The “exalted of God” were a consequence of a country uncertain of its way, where brother fought brother, where new governments appeared with regularity. Prophets and madmen were one and the same.
When he learned of his king's marriage to Jezebel, princess of Tyre, he
had thought it of little significance. Other kings of Israel had done the same, and the result had been a lasting peace in the region and an ever more important trade with Lebanon. Elijah scarcely cared if the people of the neighboring country believed in gods that did not exist or dedicated themselves to strange religious practices such as worshiping animals and mountains; they were honest in their negotiations, and that was what mattered most.
Elijah went on buying the cedar they brought in and selling the products of his carpentry shop. Though they were somewhat haughty and liked to call themselves “Phoenicians” because of the different color of their skin, none of the merchants from Lebanon had ever tried to take advantage of the confusion that reigned in Israel. They paid a fair price for the merchandise and made no comment about the constant internal wars or the political problems facing the Israelites.
AFTER ASCENDING to the throne, Jezebel had asked Ahab to replace the worship of the Lord with that of the gods of Lebanon.
That too had happened before. Elijah, though outraged at Ahab's compliance, continued to worship the God of Israel and to observe the laws of Moses. “It will pass,” he thought. “Jezebel seduced Ahab, but she will not succeed in convincing the people.”
But Jezebel was a woman unlike others; she believed that Baal had brought her into the world to convert peoples and nations. Astutely and patiently, she began rewarding those who deserted the Lord and accepted the new deities. Ahab ordered a temple built for Baal in Samaria and in it raised an altar. Pilgrimages began, and the worship of the gods of Lebanon spread to all parts.
“It will pass. It may take a generation, but it will pass,” Elijah went on thinking.
THEN SOMETHING he was not expecting took place. One afternoon, as he was finishing a table in his shop, everything around him grew dark and thousands of tiny lights began twinkling about him. His head began to ache as never before; he tried to sit but could not move a muscle.
It was not his imagination.
“I'm dying,” he thought at that instant. “And now I'll discover where God sends us after death: to the heart of the firmament.”
One of the lights shone more brightly, and suddenly, as if coming from everywhere at once:
“And the word of the Lord came unto him, saying: Tell Ahab, that as surely as the Lord God of Israel liveth, before whom thou standest, there shall not be dew nor rain these years, but according to My word.”
The next moment, all returned to normal: the carpentry shop, the afternoon light, the voices of children playing in the street.
ELIJAH DID NOT SLEEP that night. For the first time in many years, the sensations of his childhood came back to him; and it was not his guardian angel speaking but “something” larger and more powerful than he. He feared that if he failed to carry out the order he might be cursed in his trade.
By morning, he had decided to do as he had been asked. After all, he was only the messenger of something that did not concern him; once the task was done, the voices would not return to trouble him.
It was not difficult to arrange a meeting with King Ahab. Many generations before, with the ascension of King Samuel to the throne, the prophets had gained importance in commerce and in government. They could marry, have children, but they must always be at the Lord's disposal so that the rulers would never stray from the correct path. Tradition held that thanks to these “exalted of God” many battles had been won, and that Israel survived because its rulers, when they did stray from the path of righteousness, always had a prophet to lead them back to the way of the Lord.
Arriving at the palace, he told the king that a drought would assail the region until worship of the Phoenician gods was forsaken.
The sovereign gave little importance to his words, but Jezebel–who was at Ahab's side and listened attentively to what Elijah was saying–began to ask a series of questions about the message. Elijah told her of the vision, of the pain in his head, of the sensation that time had stopped as he listened to the angel. As he described what had happened, he was able to observe closely the princess of whom all were talking; she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with long, dark hair falling to the waist of a perfectly contoured body. Her green eyes, which shone in her dark face, remained fixed on Elijah's; he was unable to decipher what they meant, nor could he know the impact his words were causing.
He left convinced that he had carried out his mission and could go back to his work in the carpentry shop. On his way, he desired Jezebel, with all the ardor of his twenty-three years. And he asked God whether in the future he could find a woman from Lebanon, for they were beautiful with their dark skin and green eyes full of mystery.
HE WORKED for the rest of the day and slept peacefully. The next morning he was awakened before dawn by the Levite; Jezebel had convinced the king that the prophets were a menace to the growth and expansion of Israel. Ahab's soldiers had orders to execute all who refused to abandon the sacred task that God had conferred upon them.
To Elijah alone, however, no right of choice had been given: he was to be killed.
He and the Levite spent two days hidden in the stable south of Gilead while 450 nabi were summarily executed. But most of the prophets, who roamed the streets flagellating themselves and preaching the end of the world for its corruption and lack of faith, had accepted conversion to the new religion.
A SHARP SOUND, followed by a scream, broke into Elijah's thoughts. He turned in alarm to his companion.
“What was that?”
There was no answer; the Levite's body fell to the ground, an arrow piercing his chest.
Standing before him, a soldier fitted another arrow into his bow. Elijah looked about him: the street with doors and windows tightly shut, the sun shining in the heavens, a breeze coming from an ocean of which he had heard so much but had never seen. He thought of running, but he knew he would be overtaken before he reached the next corner.
“If I must die, let it not be from behind,” he thought.
The soldier again raised his bow. To Elijah's surprise, he felt neither fear nor the instinct to survive, nor anything else; it was as if everything had been determined long ago, and the two of them–he and the soldier–were merely playing roles in a drama not of their own writing. He remembered his childhood, the mornings and afternoons in Gilead, the unfinished work he would leave in his carpentry shop. He thought of his
mother and father, who had never desired their son to be a prophet. He thought of Jezebel's eyes and of King Ahab's smile.
He thought how stupid it was to die at twenty-three, without ever having known a woman's love.
The soldier's hand released the string, the arrow slashed through the air, hummed past his right ear to bury itself in the dusty ground behind him.
The soldier rearmed his bow and pointed it. But instead of firing, he fixed his eyes on Elijah's.
“I am the greatest archer in all King Ahab's armies,” he said. “For seven years I have never erred a shot.”
Elijah turned to the Levite's body.
“That arrow was meant for you.” The soldier's bow was still taut, and his hands were trembling. “Elijah was the only prophet who must be killed; the others could choose the faith of Baal,” he said.
“Then finish your task.”
He was surprised at his own calmness. He had imagined death so often during the nights in the stable, and now he saw that he had suffered unnecessarily; in a few seconds all would be ended.
“I can't,” said the soldier, his hands still trembling, the arrow changing directions at every instant. “Leave, get out of my presence, because I believe God deflected my arrow and will curse me if I kill you.”
It was then, as he discovered that death could elude him, that the fear of death returned. There was still the possibility of seeing the ocean, of finding a wife, having children, and completing his work in the shop.
“Finish this here and now,” he said. “At this moment I am calm. If you tarry, I will suffer over all that I am losing.”
The soldier looked about him to make certain that no one had witnessed the scene. Then he lowered his bow, replaced the arrow in its quiver, and disappeared around the corner.
Elijah felt his legs begin to weaken; the terror had returned in all its intensity. He must flee at once, disappear from Gilead, never again have to meet face-to-face a soldier with a drawn bow and an arrow pointed at his heart. He had not chosen his destiny, nor had he sought out Ahab in order to boast to his neighbors that he could talk with the king. He was not responsible for the massacre of the prophets–nor even for, one
afternoon, having seen time stop and the carpentry shop transformed into a dark hole filled with points of light.
Mimicking the soldier's gesture, he looked to all sides; the street was deserted. He thought of seeing if he could still save the Levite's life, but the terror quickly returned, and before anyone else could appear, Elijah fled.
HE WALKED FOR MANY HOURS, TAKING PATHS LONG since unused, until he arrived at the bank of the rivulet of Cherith. He felt shame at his cowardice but joy at being alive.
He drank a bit of water, sat, and only then realized the situation in which he found himself: the next day he would need to feed himself, and food was nowhere to be found in the desert.
He remembered the carpentry shop, his long years of work, and having been forced to leave it all behind. Some of his neighbors were friends, but he could not count on them; the story of his flight must have already spread throughout the city, and he was hated by all for having escaped while he sent true men of faith to martyrdom.
Whatever he had done in the past now lay in ruins–merely because he had elected to carry out the Lord's will. Tomorrow, and in the days, weeks, and months to come, the traders from Lebanon would knock on his door and someone would tell them the owner had fled, leaving behind a trail of innocent prophets' deaths. Perhaps they would add that he had tried to destroy the gods that protected heaven and earth; the story would quickly cross Israel's borders, and he could forget forever marrying a woman as beautiful as those in Lebanon.
“THERE ARE the ships.”
Yes, there were the ships. Criminals, prisoners of war, fugitives were usually accepted as mariners because it was a profession more dangerous than the army. In war, a soldier always had a chance to escape with his life; but the seas were an unknown, populated by monsters, and when a tragedy occurred, none were left to tell the story.
There were the ships, but they were controlled by Phoenician merchants. Elijah was not a criminal, a prisoner, or a fugitive but someone who had dared raise his voice against the god Baal. When they found him out, he would be killed and cast into the sea, for mariners believed that Baal and
his gods governed the storms.
He could not go toward the ocean. Nor could he make his way north, for there lay Lebanon. He could not go east, where certain tribes of Israel were engaged in a war that had already lasted two generations.
HE RECALLED the feeling of calm he had experienced in the presence of the soldier; after all, what was death? Death was an instant, nothing more. Even if he felt pain, it must pass at once, and then the Lord of Hosts would receive him in His bosom.
He lay down on the ground and looked at the sky for a long time. Like the Levite, he tried to make his wager. It was not a wager about God's existence, for of that he had no doubt, but about the reason for his own life.
He saw the mountains, the earth that soon would be beset by a long drought, as the angel of the Lord had said, but for now still had the coolness of many generations of rain. He saw the rivulet of Cherith, whose waters in a short time would cease to flow. He took his leave of the world with fervor and respect, and asked the Lord to receive him when his time was come.
He thought about the reason for his existence, and obtained no answer.
He thought about where he should go, and discovered that he was surrounded.
The following day he would go back and hand himself over, even if his fear of death returned.
He tried to find joy in the knowledge that he would go on living for a few more hours. But it was futile; he had just discovered that, as in almost all the days of a life, man is powerless to make a decision.
ELIJAH AWOKE THE NEXT DAY AND AGAIN LOOKED AT the Cherith.
Tomorrow, or a year from now, it would be only a bed of fine sand and smooth stones. The old inhabitants still referred to the site as Cherith, and perhaps they would give directions to those passing through by saying: “Such a place is on the bank of the river that runs near here.” The travelers would make their way there, see the round stones and the fine sand, and reflect to themselves: “Here in this land there was once a river.” But the only thing that mattered about a river, its flow of water,
would no longer be there to quench their thirst.
Souls too, like rivulets and plants, needed a different kind of rain: hope, faith, a reason to live. When this did not come to pass, everything in that soul died, even if the body went on living; and the people could say: “Here in this body there was once a man.”
It was not the time to think about that. Again he remembered the conversation with the Levite just before they left the stable: what was gained from dying many deaths, if one alone sufficed? All he had to do was wait for Jezebel's soldiers. They would come, beyond any doubt, for there were few places to flee from Gilead; wrongdoers always fled to the desert–where they were found dead within a few days–or to the Cherith, where they were quickly captured.
The soldiers would therefore come soon. And he would rejoice at their sight.
HE DRANK a bit of the crystalline water that ran beside him. He cleansed his face, then sought out shade where he could await his pursuers. A man cannot fight his destiny–he had already tried, and he had lost.
Despite the priests' belief that he was a prophet, he had decided to work as a carpenter; but the Lord had led him back to his path.
He was not the only one to abandon the life that the Lord had written for every person on earth. He had once had a friend with an excellent voice, whose father and mother had been unwilling to have him become a singer because it was a profession that brought dishonor to the family. A girl with whom he had been friends as a child could have been a dancer without equal; she too had been forbidden by her family, for the king might summon her, and no one knew how long his reign would last. Moreover, the atmosphere in the palace was considered sinful and hostile, ending permanently any possibility of a good marriage.
“Man was born to betray his destiny.” God placed only impossible tasks in human hearts.
“Why?”
Perhaps because custom must be maintained.
But that was not a good answer. “The inhabitants of Lebanon are more advanced than are we, because they did not follow the customs of the navigators. When everyone else was using the same kind of ship, they
decided to build something different. Many lost their lives at sea, but their ships continued to improve, and today they dominate the world's commerce. They paid a high price to adapt, but it proved to be worth the cost.”
Perhaps mankind betrayed its destiny because God was not closer. He had placed in people's hearts a dream of an era when everything was possible–and then gone on to busy Himself with other things. The world had transformed itself, life had become more difficult, but the Lord had never returned to change men's dreams.
God was distant. But if He still sent His angels to speak to His prophets, it was because there was still something left to be done here. What could the answer be?
“Perhaps because our fathers fell into error, and they fear we will repeat their mistakes. Or perhaps they never erred, and thus will not know how to help us if we have some problem.”
He felt he was drawing near. The rivulet was flowing at his side, a few crows were circling in the sky, the plants clinging insistently to life in the sandy, sterile terrain. Had they listened to the words of their forebears, what would they have heard?
“Rivulet, seek a better place for your limpid waters to reflect the brightness of the sun, for the desert will one day dry you up,” the god of waters would have said, if perchance one existed. “Crows, there is more food in the forests than among rocks and sand,” the god of the birds would have said. “Plants, spread your seeds far from here, because the world is full of humid, fertile ground, and you will grow more beautiful,” the god of flowers would have said.
But the Cherith, like the plants and the crows, one of which had perched nearby, had the courage to do what other rivers, or birds, or flowers thought impossible.
Elijah fixed his gaze on the crow.
“I'm learning,” he told the bird. “Though the lesson is a futile one, for I am condemned to death.”
“You have discovered how everything is simple,” the crow seemed to reply. “Having courage is enough.”
Elijah laughed, for he was putting words into the mouth of a bird. It was an amusing game, one he had learned with a woman who made bread, and he decided to continue. He would ask the questions and offer himself
an answer, as if he were a true sage.
The crow, however, took flight. Elijah went on waiting for Jezebel's soldiers to arrive, for dying a single time sufficed.
The day went by without anything happening. Could they have forgotten that the principal enemy of the god Baal still lived? Jezebel must know where he was; why did she not pursue him?
“Because I saw her eyes, and she is a wise woman,” he told himself. “If I were to die, I would live on as a martyr of the Lord. If I'm thought of as just a fugitive, I'll be merely a coward who had no faith in his own words.”
Yes, that was the princess's strategy.
SHORTLY BEFORE NIGHTFALL, a crow–could it be the same one?–perched on the bough where he had seen it that morning. In its beak was a small piece of meat that it accidentally dropped.
To Elijah, it was a miracle. He ran to the spot beneath the tree, picked up the chunk of meat, and ate it. He didn't know from where it had come, nor did he wish to know; what was important was his being able to satisfy a small part of his hunger.
Even with his sudden movement, the crow did not fly away.
“This crow knows I'm going to starve to death here,” he thought. “He's feeding his prey so he can have a better feast later.”
Even as Jezebel fed the faith of Baal with news of Elijah's flight.
The two of them, man and crow, contemplated each other. Elijah recalled the game he had played that morning.
“I would like to talk to you, crow. This morning, I had the thought that souls need food. If my soul has not yet perished of hunger, it has something still to say.”
The bird remained immobile.
“And, if it has something to say, I must listen. Because I have no one else with whom to speak,” continued Elijah.
In his imagination Elijah was transformed into the crow.
“What it is that God expects of you?” he asked himself, as if he were the
crow.
“He expects me to be a prophet.”
“This is what the priests said. But it may not be what God desires.”
“Yes, it is what He wants. An angel appeared to me in my shop and asked me to speak with Ahab. The voices I heard as a child–”
“Everyone hears voices as a child,” interrupted the crow. “But not everyone sees an angel,” Elijah said.
This time the crow did not reply. After an interval, the bird–or rather, his own soul, delirious from the sun and loneliness of the desert–broke the silence.
“Do you remember the woman who used to make bread?” he asked himself.
ELIJAH REMEMBERED. She had come to ask him to make some trays. While Elijah was doing as she asked, he heard her say that her work was a way of expressing the presence of God.
“From the way you make the trays, I can see that you have the same feeling,” she had continued. “Because you smile as you work.”
The woman divided human beings into two groups: those who took joy in, and those who complained about, what they did. The latter affirmed that the curse cast upon Adam by God was the only truth: “Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life.” They took no pleasure in work and were annoyed on feast days, when they were obliged to rest. They used the Lord's words as an excuse for their futile lives, forgetting that He had also said to Moses: “For the Lord shall greatly bless thee in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee for an inheritance to possess it.”
“Yes, I remember the woman. She was right; I did enjoy my work in the carpentry shop. She taught me to talk to things.”
“If you had not worked as a carpenter, you would not have been able to place your soul outside yourself, to pretend that it is a crow talking, and to understand that you are better and wiser than you believe,” came the reply. “Because it was in the carpentry shop that you discovered the sacred that is in all things.”
“I always took pleasure in pretending to talk to the tables and chairs I built; wasn't that enough? And when I spoke to them, I usually found thoughts that had never entered my head. The woman had told me that it was because I had put the greater part of my soul into the work, and it was this part that answered me.
“But when I was beginning to understand that I could serve God in this way, the angel appeared, and–well, you know the rest.”
“The angel appeared because you were ready,” replied the crow. “I was a good carpenter.”
“It was part of your apprenticeship. When a man journeys toward his destiny, often he is obliged to change paths. At other times, the forces around him are too powerful and he is compelled to lay aside his courage and yield. All this is part of the apprenticeship.”
Elijah listened attentively to what his soul was saying.
“But no one can lose sight of what he desires. Even if there are moments when he believes the world and the others are stronger. The secret is this: do not surrender.”
“I never thought of being a prophet,” Elijah said.
“You did, but you were convinced that it was impossible. Or that it was dangerous. Or that it was unthinkable.”
Elijah rose.
“Why do you tell me what I have no wish to hear?” Startled at the movement, the bird fled.
THE BIRD RETURNED the next morning. Instead of resuming the conversation, Elijah began to observe it, for the animal always managed to feed itself and always brought him the food that remained.
A mysterious friendship developed between the pair, and Elijah began to learn from the bird. Observing it, he saw that it managed to find food in the desert, and he discovered that he could survive for a few more days if he learned to do the same. When the crow's flight turned into a circle, Elijah knew there was prey at hand; he would run to the spot and try to catch it. At first, many of the small animals living there escaped, but he gradually acquired the skill and agility to capture them. He used
branches as spears and dug traps, which he disguised with a fine layer of twigs and sand. When the quarry fell, Elijah would divide his food with the crow, then set aside part to use as bait.
But the solitude in which he found himself was terrible and oppressive, which is why he decided again to pretend he was conversing with the crow.
“Who are you?” asked the crow.
“I'm a man who has found peace,” replied Elijah. “I can live in the desert, provide for myself, and contemplate the endless beauty of God's creation. I have discovered that there resides in me a soul better than ever I thought.”
They continued hunting together for another moon. Then one night when his soul was possessed by sorrow, he asked himself again, “Who are you?”
“I don't know.”
ANOTHER MOON DIED and was reborn in the sky. Elijah felt that his body was stronger, his mind more clear. Tonight he turned to the crow, who was perched on the same branch as always, and answered the question he had asked some days before.
“I am a prophet. I saw an angel as I worked, and I cannot doubt what I am capable of doing, even if the entire world should tell me the opposite. I brought about a massacre in my country by challenging the one closest to the king's heart. I'm in the desert, as before I was in a carpentry shop, because my soul told me that a man must go through various stages before he can fulfill his destiny.”
“Yes, and now you know who you are,” commented the crow.
That night, when Elijah returned from the hunt, he went to drink and found that the Cherith had dried up. But he was so weary that he decided to sleep.
In his dream, his guardian angel, whom he had not seen for a long time, came to him.
“The angel of the Lord hath spoken to thy soul,” said the guardian angel. “And hath ordered:
“Get thee hence, and turn thee eastward, and hide thyself by the brook
Cherith, that is before Jordan.
“Thou shalt drink of the brook; and I have commanded the ravens to feed thee there.”
“My soul has heard,” said Elijah in the dream.
“Then awake, for the angel of the Lord biddeth me hence and is desirous of speaking to thee.”
Elijah leapt up, startled. What had happened?
Although it was night, the place was filled with light, and the angel of the Lord appeared.
“What hath brought thee here?” asked the angel. “You brought me here.”
“No. Jezebel and her soldiers caused thee to flee. This must thou never forget, for thy mission is to avenge the Lord thy God.”
“I am a prophet, because you are in my presence and I hear your voice,” Elijah said. “I have changed paths several times, as do all men. But I am ready to go to Samaria and destroy Jezebel.”
“Thou hast found thy way, but thou mayest not destroy until thou learnest to build anew. I order thee:
“Arise, get thee to Zarephath, which belongeth to Sidon, and dwell there; behold, I have commanded a widow woman there to sustain thee.”
The next morning, Elijah looked for the crow, to bid him farewell. The bird, for the first time since he had arrived at the bank of the Cherith, did not appear.
ELIJAH JOURNEYED FOR DAYS BEFORE ARRIVING IN THE valley where
lay the city of Zarephath, which its inhabitants knew as Akbar. When he was at the end of his strength, he saw a woman, dressed in black, gathering wood. The vegetation in the valley was sparse, and she had to be content with small, dry twigs.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The woman looked at the foreigner, not really understanding what he was saying.
“Bring me water to drink,” Elijah said. “Bring me also a piece of bread.” The woman put aside the wood but still said nothing.
“Do not be afraid,” Elijah insisted. “I am alone, hungry and thirsty, and haven't the strength to harm anyone.”
“You're not from here,” she said finally. “By the way you speak, you must be from the kingdom of Israel. If you knew me better, you'd be aware that I have nothing.”
“You are a widow; this the Lord has told me. And I have even less than you. If you do not give me food and drink now, I will die.”
The woman was taken aback; how could this foreigner know of her life?
“A man should feel shame at asking sustenance from a woman,” she said, recovering.
“Do as I ask, please,” Elijah insisted, knowing that his strength was beginning to fail. “When I am better, I will work for you.”
The woman laughed.
“Moments ago, you told me something true; I am a widow, who lost her husband on one of my country's ships. I have never seen the ocean but I know it is like the desert: it slays those who challenge it…”
And she continued. “But now you tell me something false. As surely as Baal lives at the top of the Fifth Mountain, I have no food; there is nothing but a handful of flour in a barrel and a bit of oil in a flagon.”
Elijah saw the horizon changing direction and knew he was about to faint. Gathering the last of his strength, he implored one final time, “I don't know if you believe in dreams; I don't know even if I believe in them. But the Lord told me that I would arrive here, and that I would find you. He has done things that caused me to doubt His wisdom, but never His existence. And thus the God of Israel asked that I tell the woman I met in Zarephath:
“The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail, until the day the Lord sendeth rain upon the earth.”
Without explaining how such a miracle could come about, Elijah fainted.
The woman stood gazing down at the man who lay at her feet. She knew that the God of Israel was a mere superstition; the Phoenician gods were more powerful, and they had made her country one of the most
respected nations on earth. But she was happy; usually she had to ask others for alms, and now, as had not happened for a long time, a man needed her. This made her feel stronger, for it was manifest that there were those in worse circumstances than she.
“If someone asks a favor of me, it is because I still have some use on this earth,” she reflected.
“I'll do as he asks, if only to relieve his suffering. I too have known hunger, and know its power to destroy the soul.”
She went to her house and returned with a piece of bread and some water. She kneeled, placed the foreigner's head in her lap, and began to moisten his lips. Within a few minutes, he had regained his senses.
She held out the bread to him, and Elijah ate quietly, looking at the valley, the ravines, the mountains pointing silently heavenward. Elijah could see the reddish walls of the city of Zarephath dominating the passage through the valley.
“Give me lodging with you, for I am persecuted in my own country,” Elijah said.
“What crime have you committed?” she asked.
“I'm a prophet of the Lord. Jezebel has ordered the death of all who refuse to worship the Phoenician gods.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” Elijah replied.
She looked pityingly at the young man before her. He had long, dirty hair and a beard that was still sparse, as if he wished to appear older than his years. How could a poor fellow like this challenge the most powerful princess in the world?
“If you're Jezebel's enemy, you're my enemy too. She is a princess of Tyre, whose mission when she married your king was to convert your people to the true faith, or so say those who have met her.”
She pointed toward one of the peaks that framed the valley.
“Our gods have lived on the Fifth Mountain for many generations, and they have kept peace in our country. But Israel lives in war and suffering. How can you go on believing in the One God? Give Jezebel time to carry out her work and you'll see that peace will reign in your cities too.”
“I have heard the voice of the Lord,” Elijah replied. “But your people have never climbed to the top of the Fifth Mountain to discover what exists there.”
“Anyone who climbs the Fifth Mountain will die from the fire of the heavens. The gods don't like strangers.”
She fell silent. She had remembered dreaming, the night before, of a very strong light. From the midst of that light came a voice saying: “Receive the stranger who comes seeking you.”
“Give me lodging with you, for I have nowhere to sleep,” Elijah insisted. “I told you that I'm poor. I barely have enough for myself and my son.”
“The Lord asked you to let me stay; He never abandons those He loves. Do what I ask of you. I will work for you. I'm a carpenter, I know how to work cedar; there will be no lack of something to do. This way, the Lord will use my hands to keep His promise: The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail, until the day the Lord sendeth rain upon the earth.”
“Even if I wished to, I would have no way to pay you.” “There is no need. The Lord will provide.”
Confused by the previous night's dream, and even with the knowledge that the stranger was an enemy of the princess of Tyre, the woman decided to obey.
ELIJAH'S PRESENCE WAS SOON NOTICED BY THE NEIGHBORS. People
commented that the widow had taken a foreigner into her house, in disrespect of the memory of her husband–a hero who had died attempting to expand his country's trade routes.
When she heard the rumors, the widow explained that he was an Israelite prophet, weary from hunger and thirst. And word spread that an Israelite prophet in flight from Jezebel was hiding in the city. A delegation went to see the high priest.
“Bring the foreigner to my presence,” he ordered.
And it was done. That afternoon, Elijah was led to the man who, together with the governor and the leader of the military, controlled all that took place in Akbar.
“What have you come here to do?” he asked. “Do you not know that you are our country's enemy?”
“For years I have had commerce with Lebanon, and I respect your people and their customs. I am here because I am persecuted in Israel.”
“I know the reason,” said the high priest. “Was it a woman who made you flee?”
“In all my life, that woman was the most beautiful creature I have ever met, though I stood before her for only a brief moment. But her heart is like stone, and behind those green eyes hides the enemy who wishes to destroy my country. I did not flee; I await only the right moment to return.”
The high priest laughed.
“If you're waiting for the right moment to return, prepare yourself to remain in Akbar for the rest of your life. We are not at war with your country; all we desire is to see the spread of the true faith, by peaceful means, throughout the world. We have no wish to repeat the atrocities committed by your people when you installed yourselves in Canaan.”
“Is killing prophets a peaceful means?”
“If you cut off a monster's head, it ceases to exist. A few may die, but religious wars will be averted forever. And, from what the traders tell me, it was a prophet named Elijah who started all this, then fled.”
The high priest stared at him, before continuing. “A man who looked much like you.”
“It is I,” Elijah replied.
“Excellent. Welcome to the city of Akbar; when we need something from Jezebel, we will pay for it with your head–the most important currency we have. Till then, seek out employment and learn to fend for yourself, because here there is no place for prophets.”
Elijah was preparing to depart, when the high priest told him, “It seems that a young woman from Sidon is more powerful than your One God. She succeeded in erecting an altar to Baal, before which the old priests now kneel.”
“Everything will happen as was written by the Lord,” replied the prophet. “There are moments when tribulations occur in our lives, and we cannot avoid them. But they are there for some reason.”
“What reason?”
“That is a question we cannot answer before, or even during, the trials. Only when we have overcome them do we understand why they were there.”
AS SOON AS ELIJAH had departed, the high priest called the delegation of citizens who had sought him out that morning.
“Do not concern yourselves about this,” said the high priest. “Custom mandates that we offer hospitality to foreigners. Besides that, here he is under our control and we can observe his steps. The best way to know and destroy an enemy is to pretend to become his friend. When the time comes, he will be handed over to Jezebel, and our city will receive gold and other recompense. By then, we shall have learned how to destroy his ideas; for now, we know only how to destroy his body.”
Although Elijah was a worshiper of the One God and a potential enemy of the princess, the high priest demanded that the right of asylum be honored. Everyone knew of the ancient custom: if a city were to deny shelter to a traveler, the sons of its inhabitants would later face the same difficulty. Since the greater part of Akbar had descendants scattered among the country's gigantic merchant fleet, no one dared challenge the law of hospitality.
Furthermore, it cost nothing to await the day when the Jewish prophet's head would be exchanged for large amounts of gold.
That night, Elijah supped with the widow and her son. As the Israelite prophet was now a valuable commodity to be bargained for in the future, several traders sent provisions enough to feed the three of them for a week.
“It appears the God of Israel is keeping His word,” said the widow. “Not since my husband died has my table been as full as today.”
LITTLE BY LITTLE ELIJAH BECAME PART OF THE LIFE OF Zarephath and,
like all its inhabitants, came to call it Akbar. He met the governor, the commander of the garrison, the high priest, and the master glassmakers, who were admired throughout the region. When asked his reason for being there, he would tell the truth: Jezebel was slaying all the prophets in Israel.
“You're a traitor to your country, and an enemy of Phoenicia,” they said. “But we are a nation of traders and know that the more dangerous a man is, the higher the price on his head.”
And so passed several months.
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE VALLEY, A FEW ASSYRIAN patrols had
encamped, apparently intending to remain. The small group of soldiers represented no threat. But even so, the commander asked the governor to take steps.
“They have done nothing to us,” said the governor. “They must be on a mission of trade, in search of a better route for their products. If they decide to make use of our roads, they will pay taxes–and we shall become even richer. Why provoke them?”
To complicate matters further, the widow's son fell ill for no apparent reason. Neighbors attributed the fact to the presence of the foreigner in her house, and the widow asked Elijah to leave. But he did not leave–the Lord had not yet called. Rumors began to spread that the foreigner had brought with him the wrath of the gods of the Fifth Mountain.
It was possible to control the army and calm the population about the foreign patrols. But, with the illness of the widow's son, the governor began having difficulty easing the people's minds about Elijah.
A DELEGATION of the inhabitants of Akbar went to speak with the governor.
“We can build the Israelite a house outside the walls,” they said. “In that way we will not violate the law of hospitality but will still be protected from divine wrath. The gods are displeased with this man's presence.”
“Leave him where he is,” replied the governor. “I do not wish political problems with Israel.”
“What?” the townspeople asked. “Jezebel is pursuing all the prophets who worship the One God, and would slay them.”
“Our princess is a courageous woman, and faithful to the gods of the Fifth Mountain. But, however much power she may have now, she is not an Israelite. Tomorrow she may fall into disfavor, and we shall have to face the anger of our neighbors; if we demonstrate that we have treated one
of their prophets well, they will be kind to us.”
The delegation left unsatisfied, for the high priest had said that one day Elijah would be traded for gold and other rewards. Nevertheless, even if the governor were in error, they could do nothing. Custom said that the ruling family must be respected.
IN THE DISTANCE, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY, THE tents of the
Assyrian warriors began to multiply.
The commander was concerned, but he had the support of neither the governor nor the high priest. He attempted to keep his warriors constantly trained, though he knew that none of them–nor even their grandfathers–had experience in combat. War was a thing of the past for Akbar, and all the strategies he had learned had been superseded by the new techniques and new weapons that other countries used.
“Akbar has always negotiated its peace,” said the governor. “It will not be this time that we are invaded. Let the other countries fight among themselves: we have a weapon much more powerful than theirs–money. When they have finished destroying one another, we shall enter their cities–and sell our products.”
The governor succeeded in calming the population about the Assyrians. But rumors were rife that the Israelite had brought the curse of the gods to Akbar. Elijah was becoming an ever greater problem.
ONE AFTERNOON, the boy's condition worsened severely; he could no longer stand, nor could he recognize those who came to visit him. Before the sun descended to the horizon, Elijah and the widow kneeled at the child's bedside.
“Almighty Lord, who led the soldier's arrow astray and who brought me here, make this child whole again. He has done nothing, he is innocent of my sins and the sins of his fathers; save him, O Lord.”
The boy barely moved; his lips were white, and his eyes were rapidly losing their glow.
“Pray to your One God,” the woman asked. “For only a mother can know when her son's soul is departing.”
Elijah felt the desire to take her hand, to tell her she was not alone and that Almighty God would attend him. He was a prophet; he had accepted
that truth on the banks of the Cherith, and now the angels were at his side.
“I have no more tears,” she continued. “If He has no compassion, if He needs a life, then ask Him to take me, and leave my son to walk through the valley and the streets of Akbar.”
Elijah did all in his power to concentrate on his prayer; but that mother's suffering was so intense that it seemed to engulf the room, penetrating the walls, the door, everywhere.
He touched the boy's body; his temperature was not as high as in earlier days, and that was a bad sign.
THE HIGH PRIEST had come by the house that morning and, as he had done for two weeks, applied herbal poultices to the boy's face and chest. In the preceding days, the women of Akbar had brought recipes for remedies that had been handed down for generations and whose curative powers had been proved on numerous occasions. Every afternoon, they gathered at the foot of the Fifth Mountain and made sacrifices so the boy's soul would not leave his body.
Moved by what was happening in the city, an Egyptian trader who was passing through Akbar gave, without charge, an extremely dear red powder to be mixed with the boy's food. According to legend, the technique of manufacturing the powder had been granted to Egyptian doctors by the gods themselves.
Elijah had prayed unceasingly for all this time. But nothing, nothing whatsoever, had availed.
“I KNOW WHY they have allowed you to remain here,” the woman said, her voice softer each time she spoke, for she had gone many days without sleep. “I know there is a price on your head, and that one day you will be handed over to Israel in exchange for gold. If you save my son, I swear by Baal and the gods of the Fifth Mountain that you will never be captured. I know escape routes that have been forgotten for generations, and I will teach you how to leave Akbar without being seen.”
Elijah did not reply.
“Pray to your One God,” the woman asked again. “If He saves my son, I
swear I will renounce Baal and believe in Him. Explain to your Lord that I gave you shelter when you were in need; I did exactly as He had ordered.”
Elijah prayed again, imploring with all his strength. At that instant, the boy stirred.
“I want to leave here,” the boy said in a weak voice.
His mother's eyes shone with happiness; tears rolled down her cheeks. “Come, my son. We'll go wherever you like, do whatever you wish.” Elijah tried to pick him up, but the boy pushed his hand away.
“I want to do it by myself,” he said.
He rose slowly and began to walk toward the outer room. After a few steps, he dropped to the floor, as if felled by a bolt of lightning.
Elijah and the widow ran to him; the boy was dead.
For an instant, neither spoke. Suddenly, the woman began to scream with all her strength.
“Cursed be the gods, cursed be they who have taken away my son! Cursed be the man who brought such misfortune to my home! My only child!” she screamed. “Because I respected the will of heaven, because I was generous with a foreigner, my son is dead!”
The neighbors heard the widow's lamentations and saw her son laid out on the floor of the house. The woman was still screaming, her fists pounding against the chest of the Israelite prophet beside her; he seemed to have lost any ability to react and did nothing to defend himself. While the women tried to comfort the widow, the men immediately seized Elijah by the arms and took him to the governor.
“This man has repaid generosity with hatred. He put a spell on the widow's house and her son died. We are sheltering someone who is cursed by the gods.”
The Israelite wept, asking himself, “O my Lord and God, even this widow, who has been so generous to me, hast Thou chosen to afflict? If Thou hast slain her son, it can only be because I am failing the mission that has been entrusted to me, and it is I who deserve to die.”
That evening, the council of the city of Akbar was convened, under the direction of the high priest and the governor. Elijah was brought to
judgment.
“You chose to return hatred for love. For that reason, I condemn you to death,” said the governor.
“EVEN THOUGH YOUR HEAD is worth a satchel of gold, we cannot invite the wrath of the gods of the Fifth Mountain,” the high priest said. “For later not all the gold in the world will bring peace back to this city.”
Elijah lowered his head. He deserved all the suffering he could bear, for the Lord had abandoned him.
“You shall climb the Fifth Mountain,” said the high priest. “You shall ask forgiveness from the gods you have offended. They will cause fire to descend from the heavens to slay you. If they do not, it is because they desire justice to be carried out at our hands; we shall be waiting for you at the descent from the mountain, and in accordance with ritual you will be executed the next morning.”
Elijah knew all too well about sacred executions: they tore the heart from the breast and cut off the head. According to ancient beliefs, a man without a heart could not enter paradise.
“Why hast Thou chosen me for this, Lord?” he cried out, knowing that the men about him knew nothing of the choice the Lord had made for him. “Dost Thou not see that I am incapable of carrying out what Thou hast demanded of me?”
He heard no reply.
SHOUTING INSULTS AND HURLING STONES, THE MEN and women of
Akbar followed in procession the group of guards conducting the Israelite to the face of the Fifth Mountain. Only with great effort were the soldiers able to contain the crowd's fury. After walking for half an hour, they came to the foot of the sacred mountain.
The group stopped before the stone altars, where people were wont to leave their offerings and sacrifices, their petitions and prayers. They all knew the stories of giants who lived in the area, and they remembered some who had challenged the prohibition only to be claimed by the fire from heaven. Travelers passing through the valley at night swore they could hear the laughter of the gods and goddesses amusing themselves from above.
Even if no one was certain of all this, none dared challenge the gods.
“Let's go,” said a soldier, prodding Elijah with the tip of his spear. “Whoever kills a child deserves the worst punishment there is.”
ELIJAH STEPPED ONTO the forbidden terrain and began to climb the slope. After walking for some time, until he could no longer hear the shouts of the people of Akbar, he sat on a rock and wept; since that day in the carpentry shop when he saw the darkness dotted with brilliant points of light, he had succeeded only in bringing misfortune to others.
The Lord had lost His voices in Israel, and the worship of Phoenician gods must now be stronger than before. His first night beside the Cherith, Elijah had thought that God had chosen him to be a martyr, as He had done with so many others.
Instead, the Lord had sent a crow–a portentous bird–which had fed him until the Cherith ran dry. Why a crow and not a dove, or an angel? Could it all be merely the delirium of a man trying to hide his fear, or whose head has been too long exposed to the sun? Elijah was no longer certain of anything: perhaps Evil had found its instrument, and he was that instrument. Why had God sent him to Akbar, instead of returning him to put an end to the princess who had inflicted such evil on his people?
He had felt like a coward but had done as ordered. He had struggled to adapt to that strange, gracious people and their completely different way of life. Just when he thought he was fulfilling his destiny, the widow's son had died.
“Why me?”
HE ROSE, walked a bit farther until he entered the mist covering the mountaintop. He could take advantage of the lack of visibility to flee from his persecutors, but what would it matter? He was weary of fleeing, and he knew that nowhere would he find his place in the world. Even if he succeeded in escaping now, he would bear the curse with him to another city, and other tragedies would come to pass. Wherever he went, he would take with him the shadow of those deaths. He preferred to have his heart ripped from his chest and his head cut off.
He sat down again, amid the fog. He had decided to wait a bit, so that those below would think he had climbed to the top of the mountain; then he would return to Akbar, surrendering to his captors.
“The fire of heaven.” Many before had been killed by it, though Elijah doubted that it was sent by the Lord. On moonless nights its glow crossed the firmament, appearing suddenly and disappearing just as abruptly. Perhaps it burned. Perhaps it killed instantly, with no suffering.
AS NIGHT FELL, the fog dissipated. He could see the valley below, the lights of Akbar, and the fires of the Assyrian encampment. He heard the barking of their dogs and the war chants of their soldiers.
“I am ready,” he said to himself. “I accepted that I was a prophet, and did everything I did as best I could. But I failed, and now God needs someone else.”
At that moment, a light descended upon him. “The fire of heaven!”
The light, however, remained before him. And a voice said: “I am an angel of the Lord.”
Elijah kneeled and placed his face against the ground.
“I have seen you at other times, and have obeyed the angel of the Lord,” replied Elijah, without raising his head. “And yet I have done nothing but sow misfortune wherever I go.”
But the angel continued:
“When thou returnest to the city, ask three times for the boy to come back to life. The third time, the Lord will hearken unto thee.”
“Why am I to do this?” “For the grandeur of God.”
“Even if it comes to pass, I have doubted myself. I am no longer worthy of my task,” answered Elijah.
“Every man hath the right to doubt his task, and to forsake it from time to time; but what he must not do is forget it. Whoever doubteth not himself is unworthy–for in his unquestioning belief in his ability, he commiteth the sin of pride. Blessed are they who go through moments of indecision.”
“Moments ago, you saw I was not even sure you were an emissary of
God.”
“Go, and obey what I have said.”
AFTER MUCH TIME HAD PASSED, ELIJAH DESCENDED THE mountain to
the place of the altars of sacrifice. The guards were awaiting him, but the multitude had returned to Akbar.
“I am ready for death,” he said. “I have asked forgiveness from the gods of the Fifth Mountain, and now they command that, before my soul abandons my body, I go to the house of the widow who took me in, and ask her to take pity on my soul.”
The soldiers led him back, to the presence of the high priest, where they repeated what the Israelite had said.
“I shall do as you ask,” the high priest told the prisoner. “Since you have sought the forgiveness of the gods, you should also seek it of the widow. So that you do not flee, you will go accompanied by four armed soldiers. But harbor no illusion that you will convince her to ask clemency; when morning comes, we shall execute you in the middle of the square.”
The high priest wished to inquire what he had seen atop the mountain, but in the presence of the soldiers the answer might be awkward. He therefore decided to remain silent, but he approved of having Elijah ask for forgiveness in public; no one else could then doubt the power of the gods of the Fifth Mountain.
Elijah and the soldiers went to the poor, narrow street where he had dwelled for several months. The doors and windows of the widow's house were open so that, following custom, her son's soul could depart, to go to live with the gods. The body was in the center of the small room, with the entire neighborhood sitting in vigil.
When they noticed the presence of the Israelite, men and women alike were horrified.
“Out with him!” they screamed at the guards. “Isn't the evil he has caused enough? He is so perverse that the gods of the Fifth Mountain refused to dirty their hands with his blood!”
“Leave to us the task of killing him!” shouted a man. “We'll do it right now, without waiting for the ritual execution!”
Standing his ground against the shoves and blows, Elijah freed himself of the hands that grasped him and ran to the widow, who sat weeping in a
corner.
“I can bring him back from the dead. Let me touch your son,” he said. “For just an instant.”
The widow did not even raise her head.
“Please,” he insisted. “Even if it be the last thing you do for me in this life, give me the chance to try to repay your generosity.”
Some men seized him to drag him away. But Elijah resisted, struggling with all his strength, imploring to be allowed to touch the dead child.
Although he was young and determined, he was finally pulled away to the door of the house. “Angel of the Lord, where are you?” he cried to the heavens.
At that moment, everyone stopped. The widow had risen and come toward him. Taking him by the hands, she led him to where the cadaver of her son lay, then removed the sheet that covered him.
“Behold the blood of my blood,” she said. “May it descend upon the heads of your line if you do not achieve what you desire.”
He drew near, to touch the boy.
“One moment,” said the widow. “First, ask your God to fulfill my curse.” Elijah's heart was racing. But he believed what the angel had told him.
“May the blood of this boy descend upon the heads of my father and mother and upon my brothers, and upon the sons and daughters of my brothers, if I do not do that which I have said.”
Then, despite all his doubts, his guilt, and his fears, “He took him out of her bosom, and carried him up into a loft, where he abode, and laid him upon his own bed.
“And he cried unto the Lord, and said, O Lord, my God, hast Thou also brought evil upon the widow with whom I sojourn, by slaying her son?
“And he stretched himself upon the child three times, and cried unto the Lord, and said, O Lord, my God, I pray Thee, let this child's soul come into him again.”
For long moments nothing happened. Elijah saw himself back in Gilead, standing before the soldier with an arrow pointing at his heart, aware that oftentimes a man's fate has nothing to do with what he believes or
fears. He felt calm and confident as he had that day, knowing that, whatever the outcome might be, there was a reason that all of this had come to pass. Atop the Fifth Mountain, the angel had called this reason the “grandeur of God”; he hoped one day to understand why the Creator needed His creatures to demonstrate this glory.
It was then that the boy opened his eyes. “Where's my mother?” he asked.
“Downstairs, waiting for you,” replied Elijah, smiling.
“I had a strange dream. I was traveling through a dark hole, at a speed faster than the swiftest horse in Akbar. I saw a man–I am sure he was my father, though I never knew him. Then I came to a beautiful place where I wanted to stay; but another man–one I don't know but who seemed very good and brave–asked me kindly to turn away from there. I wanted to go on, but you awoke me.”
The boy seemed sad; the place he had almost entered must be lovely.
“Don't leave me alone, for you made me come back from a place where I knew I'd be protected.”
“Let us go downstairs,” Elijah said. “Your mother wants to see you.”
The boy tried to rise, but he was too weak to walk. Elijah took him in his arms and descended the stairs.
The people downstairs appeared overwhelmed by profound terror. “Why are all these people here?” the boy asked.
Before Elijah could respond, the widow took the boy in her arms and began kissing him, weeping.
“What did they do to you, Mother? Why are you so sad?”
“I'm not sad, my son,” she answered, drying her tears. “Never in my life have I been so happy.”
Saying this, the widow threw herself on her knees and said in a loud voice:
“By this act I know that you are a man of God! The truth of the Lord comes from your words!”
Elijah embraced her, asking her to rise.
“Let this man go!” she told the soldiers. “He has overcome the evil that had descended upon my house!”
The people gathered there could not believe what they saw. A young woman of twenty, who worked as a painter, kneeled beside the widow. One by one, others imitated her gesture, including the soldiers charged with taking Elijah into captivity.
“Rise,” he told them, “and worship the Lord. I am merely one of His servants, perhaps the least prepared.”
But they all remained on their knees, their heads bowed.
“You spoke with the gods of the Fifth Mountain,” he heard a voice say. “And now you can do miracles.”
“There are no gods there. I saw an angel of the Lord, who commanded me to do this.”
“You were with Baal and his brothers,” said another person.
Elijah opened a path, pushing aside the kneeling people, and went out into the street. His heart was still racing, as if he had erred and failed to carry out the task that the angel had taught him. “To what avail is it to restore the dead to life if none believe the source of such power?” The angel had asked him to call out the name of the Lord three times but had told him nothing about how to explain the miracle to the multitude in the room below. “Can it be, as with the prophets of old, that all I desired was to show my own vanity?” he wondered.
He heard the voice of his guardian angel, with whom he had spoken since childhood.
“Thou hast been today with an angel of the Lord.”
“Yes,” replied Elijah. “But the angels of the Lord do not converse with men; they only transmit the orders that come from God.”
“Use thy power,” said the guardian angel.
Elijah did not understand what was meant by that. “I have no power but that which comes from the Lord,” he said.
“Nor hath anyone. But all have the power of the Lord, and use it not.” And the angel said moreover:
“From this day forward, and until the moment thou returnest to the land
thou hast abandoned, no other miracle will be granted thee.” “And when will that be?”
“The Lord needeth thee to rebuild Israel,” said the angel. “Thou wilt tread thy land when thou hast learned to rebuild.”
And he said nothing more.
PART II
THE HIGH PRIEST SAID THE PRAYERS TO THE RISING sun and asked the
god of the storm and the goddess of animals to have mercy on the foolish. He had been told, that morning, that Elijah had brought the widow's son back from the kingdom of the dead.
The city was both frightened and excited. Everyone believed the Israelite had received his powers from the gods of the Fifth Mountain, and now it would be much more difficult to be rid of him. “But the right moment will come,” he told himself.
The gods would bring about an opportunity to do away with him. But divine wrath had another purpose, and the Assyrians' presence in the valley was a sign. Why were hundreds of years of peace about to end? He had the answer: the invention of Byblos. His country had developed a form of writing accessible to all, even to those who were unprepared to use it. Anyone could learn it in a short time, and that would mean the end of civilization.
The high priest knew that, of all the weapons of destruction that man could invent, the most terrible–and the most powerful–was the word. Daggers and spears left traces of blood; arrows could be seen at a distance. Poisons were detected in the end and avoided.
But the word managed to destroy without leaving clues. If the sacred rituals became widely known, many would be able to use them to attempt to change the Universe, and the gods would become confused. Till that moment, only the priestly caste knew the memory of the ancestors, which was transmitted orally, under oath that the information would be kept in secret. Or else years of study were needed to be able to decipher the characters that the Egyptians had spread throughout the world; thus only those who were highly trained–scribes and priests–could exchange written information.
Other peoples had their rudimentary forms of recording history, but these were so complicated that no one outside the regions where they were used would bother to learn them. The invention of Byblos, however, had one explosive aspect: it could be used in any country, independent of the language spoken. Even the Greeks, who generally rejected anything not born in their cities, had adopted the writing of Byblos as a common practice in their commercial transactions. As they were specialists in appropriating all that was novel, they had already baptized the invention of Byblos with a Greek name: alphabet.
Secrets guarded through centuries of civilization were at risk of being exposed to the light. Compared to this, Elijah's sacrilege in bringing someone back from the other bank of the river of death, as was the practice of the Egyptians, meant nothing.
“We are being punished because we are no longer able to safeguard that which is sacred,” he thought. “The Assyrians are at our gates, they will cross the valley, and they will destroy the civilization of our ancestors.”
And they would do away with writing. The high priest knew the enemy's presence was not mere happenstance.
It was the price to be paid. The gods had planned everything with great care so that none would perceive that they were responsible; they had placed in power a governor who was more concerned with trade than with the army, they had aroused the Assyrians' greed, had made rainfall ever more infrequent, and had brought an infidel to divide the city. Soon the final battle would be waged.
AKBAR WOULD GO ON EXISTING EVEN AFTER ALL THAT, but the threat
from the characters of Byblos would be expunged from the face of the earth forever. The high priest carefully cleaned the stone that marked the spot where, many generations before, the foreign pilgrim had come upon the place appointed by heaven and had founded the city. “How beautiful it is,” he thought. The stones were an image of the gods–hard, resistant, surviving under all conditions, and without the need to explain why they were there. The oral tradition held that the center of the world was marked by a stone, and in his childhood he had thought about searching out its location. He had nurtured the idea until this year. But when he saw the presence of the Assyrians in the depths of the valley, he understood he would never realize his dream.
“It's not important. It fell to my generation to be offered in sacrifice for having offended the gods. There are unavoidable things in the history of the world, and we must accept them.”
He promised himself to obey the gods: he would make no attempt to forestall the war.
“Perhaps we have come to the end of days. There is no way around the crises that grow with each passing moment.”
The high priest took up his staff and left the small temple; he had a meeting with the commander of Akbar's garrison.
HE WAS NEARLY to the southern wall when he was approached by Elijah.
“The Lord has brought a boy back from the dead,” the Israelite said. “The city believes in my power.”
“The boy must not have been dead,” replied the high priest. “It's happened before; the heart stops and then starts beating again. Today the entire city is talking about it; tomorrow, they will recall that the gods are close at hand and can hear what they say. Their mouths will fall silent once more. I must go; the Assyrians are preparing for battle.”
“Hear what I have to say: after the miracle last night, I slept outside the walls because I needed a measure of calm. Then the same angel that I saw on the Fifth Mountain appeared to me again. And he told me: Akbar will be destroyed by the war.”
“Cities cannot be destroyed,” said the high priest. “They will be rebuilt seventy times seven because the gods know where they have placed them, and they have need of them there.”
THE GOVERNOR APPROACHED, with a group of courtiers, and asked, “What are you saying?”
“That you should seek peace,” Elijah repeated.
“If you are afraid, return to the place from which you came,” the high priest replied coldly.
“Jezebel and her king are waiting for fugitive prophets, to slay them,” said the governor. “But I should like you to tell me how you were able to climb the Fifth Mountain without being destroyed by the fire from heaven.”
The high priest felt the need to interrupt that conversation. The governor was thinking about negotiating with the Assyrians and might want to use Elijah for his purposes.
“Do not listen to him,” he said. “Yesterday, when he was brought into my presence to be judged, I saw him weep with fear.”
“My tears were for the evil I felt I had caused you, for I fear but two things: the Lord, and myself. I did not flee from Israel, and I am ready to return as soon as the Lord permits. I will put an end to your beautiful princess, and the faith of Israel shall survive this threat too.”
“One's heart must be very hard to resist the charms of Jezebel,” the high priest said ironically. “However, even should that happen, we would send another woman even more beautiful, as we did long before Jezebel.”
The high priest was telling the truth. Two hundred years before, a princess of Sidon had seduced the wisest of all Israel's rulers–King Solomon. She had bid him construct an altar to the goddess Astarte, and Solomon had obeyed. For that sacrilege, the Lord had raised up the neighboring armies and Solomon had nearly lost his throne.
“The same will happen with Ahab, Jezebel's husband,” thought Elijah. The Lord would bring him to complete his task when the time came. But what did it avail him to try to convince these men who stood facing him? They were like those he had seen the night before, kneeling on the floor of the widow's house, praising the gods of the Fifth Mountain. Custom would never allow them to think in any other way.
“A PITY that we must honor the law of hospitality,” said the governor, apparently already having forgotten Elijah's words about peace. “If not for that, we could assist Jezebel in her labor of putting an end to the prophets.”
“That is not the reason for sparing my life. You know that I am a valuable commodity, and you want to give Jezebel the pleasure of killing me with her own hands. However, since yesterday, the people attribute miraculous powers to me. They think I met the gods on the Fifth Mountain. For your part, it would not upset you to offend the gods, but you have no desire to vex the inhabitants of the city.”
The governor and the high priest left Elijah talking to himself and walked toward the city walls. At that moment the high priest decided that he would kill the Israelite prophet at the first opportunity; what had till now been only merchandise had been transformed into a menace.
WHEN HE SAW them walk away, Elijah lost hope; what could he do to serve the Lord? He then began to shout in the middle of the square, “People of Akbar! Last night, I climbed the Fifth Mountain and spoke with the gods who dwell there. When I returned, I was able to reclaim a boy from the kingdom of the dead!”
The people gathered about him; the story was already known throughout the city. The governor and the high priest stopped and retraced their
steps to see what was happening. The Israelite prophet was saying that he had seen the gods of the Fifth Mountain worshiping a superior God.
“I'll have him slain,” said the high priest.
“And the population will rise up against us,” replied the governor, who had an interest in what the foreigner was saying. “It's better to wait for him to commit an error.”
“Before I descended from the mountain,” continued Elijah, “the gods charged me with helping the governor against the threat from the Assyrians! I know he is an honorable man and wishes to hear me; but there are those whose interests lie with war and will not allow me to come near him.”
“The Israelite is a holy man,” said an old man to the governor. “No one can climb the Fifth Mountain without being struck dead by the fire of heaven, but this man did so–and now he raises the dead.”
“Sidon, Tyre, and all the cities of Phoenicia have a history of peace,” said another old man. “We have been through other threats worse than this and overcome them.”
Several sick and lame people began to approach, opening a path through the crowd, touching Elijah's garments and asking to be cured of their afflictions.
“Before advising the governor, heal the sick,” said the high priest. “Then we shall believe the gods of the Fifth Mountain are with you.”
Elijah recalled what the angel had said the night before: only those powers given to ordinary people would be permitted him.
“The sick are asking for help,” insisted the high priest. “We are waiting.”
“First we must attend to avoiding war. There will be more sick, and more infirm, if we fail.”
The governor interrupted the conversation. “Elijah will come with us. He has been touched by divine inspiration.”
Though he did not believe any gods existed on the Fifth Mountain, the governor had need of an ally to help him to convince the people that peace with the Assyrians was the only solution.
AS THEY WALKED to their meeting with the commander, the high priest
commented to Elijah, “You don't believe anything you just said.”
“I believe that peace is the only way out. But I do not believe the top of the Fifth Mountain is inhabited by gods. I have been there.”
“And what did you see?”
“An angel of the Lord. I had seen this angel before, in several places I have been,” replied Elijah. “And there is but one God.”
The high priest laughed.
“You mean that, in your opinion, the same god who sends the storm also made the wheat, even though they are completely different things?”
“Do you see the Fifth Mountain?” Elijah asked. “From whichever side you look, it appears different, though it is the same mountain. Thus it is with all of Creation: many faces of the same God.”
THEY CAME TO THE TOP of the wall, from which they could see the enemy encampment in the distance. In the desert valley, the white tents sprang into sight.
Some time earlier, when the sentinels had first noted the presence of the Assyrians at one end of the valley, spies had said that they were there on a mission of reconnaissance; the commander had suggested taking them prisoner and selling them as slaves. The governor had decided in favor of another strategy: doing nothing. He was gambling that by establishing good relations with them, he could open up a new market for the glass manufactured in Akbar. In addition, even if they were there to prepare for war, the Assyrians knew that small cities will always side with the victor. In this case, all the Assyrian generals desired was to pass through without resistance on their way to Sidon and Tyre, the cities that held the treasure and knowledge of his people.
The patrol had encamped at the entrance to the valley, and little by little reinforcements had arrived. The high priest claimed to know the reason: the city had a well, the only well in several days' travel in the desert. If the Assyrians planned to conquer Tyre or Sidon, they needed that water to supply their armies.
At the end of the first month, they could still be expelled. At the end of the second month, Akbar could still win easily and negotiate an honorable withdrawal of the Assyrian soldiers.
They waited for battle to break out, but there was no attack. At the end
of the fifth month, they could still win the battle. “They're going to attack very soon, because they must be suffering from thirst,” the governor told himself. He asked the commander to draw up defense strategies and to order his men into constant training to react to a surprise attack.
But he concentrated only on preparations for peace.
HALF A YEAR HAD PASSED, and the Assyrian army had made no move. Tension in Akbar, which had grown during the first weeks of occupation, had now diminished almost entirely. People went about their lives: farmers once again returned to their fields; artisans made wine, glass, and soap; tradesmen continued to buy and sell their merchandise. Everyone believed that, as Akbar had not attacked the enemy, the crisis would soon be settled through negotiations. Everyone knew the governor was chosen by the gods and that he always made the wisest decision.
When Elijah arrived in the city, the governor had ordered rumors spread of the curse the foreigner brought with him; in this way, if the threat of war became insurmountable, he could blame the presence of the foreigner as the principal cause of the disaster. The inhabitants of Akbar would be convinced that with the death of the Israelite the Universe would return to normal. The governor would then explain that it was too late to demand that the Assyrians withdraw; he would order Elijah killed and explain to his people that peace was the best solution. In his view, the merchants–who desired peace–would force the others to agree to this idea.
During these months, he had fought the pressure from the high priest and the commander demanding that he attack at once. The gods of the Fifth Mountain had never abandoned him; now, with the miracle of the resurrection last night, Elijah's life was more important than his execution.
“WHY IS THIS foreigner with you?” asked the commander.
“He has been enlightened by the gods,” answered the governor. “And he will help us to find the best solution.” He quickly changed the subject. “The number of tents appears to have increased today.”
“And it will increase even more tomorrow,” said the commander. “If we had attacked when they were nothing but a patrol, they probably wouldn't have returned.”
“You're mistaken. Some of them would have escaped, and they would have returned to avenge themselves.”
“When we delay the harvest, the fruit rots,” insisted the commander. “But when we delay resolving problems, they continue to grow.”
The governor explained that peace, the great pride of his people, had reigned in Phoenicia for almost three centuries. What would the generations yet unborn say if he were to interrupt this era of prosperity?
“Send an emissary to negotiate with them,” said Elijah. “The best warrior is the one who succeeds in transforming an enemy into a friend.”
“We don't know exactly what they want. We don't even know if they desire to conquer our city. How can we negotiate?”
“There are threatening signs. An army does not waste its time on military exercises far from its own country.”
Each day saw the arrival of more soldiers, and the governor mused about the amount of water necessary for all those men. In a short time, the entire city would be defenseless before the enemy army.
“Can we attack now?” the high priest asked the commander.
“Yes, we can. We shall lose many men, but the city will be saved. But we must decide quickly.”
“We must not do that, Governor. The gods of the Fifth Mountain told me that we still have time to find a pacific solution,” Elijah said.
Even after hearing the conversation between the high priest and the Israelite, the governor feigned agreement. To him, it made little difference whether Sidon and Tyre were ruled by Phoenicians, by Canaanites, or by Assyrians; what mattered was that the city be able to go on trading its products.
“We must attack,” insisted the high priest.
“One more day,” said the governor. “It may be that things will resolve themselves.”
He must decide forthwith the best way to face the Assyrian threat. He descended from the wall and headed for the palace, asking the Israelite to go with him.
On the way, he observed the people around him: the shepherds taking their flocks to the mountains; the farmers going to the fields, trying to
wrest from the arid soil sustenance for themselves and their families. Soldiers were exercising with spears, and a few newly arrived merchants displayed their wares in the square. Incredibly, the Assyrians had not closed off the road that traversed the valley from end to end; tradesmen still moved about with their merchandise and paid the city its tax for transport.
“Now that they have amassed such a powerful force, why have they not closed the road?” Elijah asked.
“The Assyrian empire needs the products that arrive in the ports of Sidon and Tyre,” replied the governor. “If the traders were threatened, they would interrupt the flow of supplies. The consequences would be more serious than a military defeat. There must be some way to avoid war.”
“Yes,” said Elijah. “If they want water, we can sell it to them.”
The governor said nothing. But he understood that he could use the Israelite as a weapon against those who desired war; should the high priest persist with the idea of fighting the Assyrians, Elijah would be the only one who could face him. The governor suggested they take a walk together, to talk.
THE HIGH PRIEST REMAINED ATOP THE WALL, OBSERVING the enemy.
“What can the gods do to deter the invaders?” asked the commander.
“I have carried out sacrifices at the Fifth Mountain. I have asked them to send us a more courageous leader.”
“We should act as Jezebel has done: put an end to the prophets. A simple Israelite, who yesterday was condemned to die, is today used by the governor to entice the people to peace.”
The commander looked at the mountain.
“We can have Elijah assassinated. And use my warriors to remove the governor from his position.”
“I shall order Elijah killed,” replied the high priest. “As for the governor, we can do nothing: his ancestors have been in power for several generations. His grandfather was our chieftain, who handed power down to his son, who in turn handed it to him.”
“Why does custom forbid our bringing to power someone more efficient?”
“Custom exists to maintain the world in order. If we meddle with it, the world itself will perish.”
The high priest looked about him. The heavens and the earth, the mountains and the valley, everything fulfilling what had been written for it. Sometimes the ground shook; at other times–such as now–there were long periods without rain. But the stars continued undisturbed in their place, and the sun had not fallen onto the heads of men. All because, since the Flood, men had learned that it was impossible to change the order of Creation.
In the past, only the Fifth Mountain had existed. Men and gods had lived together, strolled through the gardens of paradise, talking and laughing with one another. But human beings had sinned, and the gods expelled them; having nowhere to send them, they created the earth surrounding the mountain, so they could cast them there, keep vigil over them, and ensure that they would forever remember that they abided on a plane far inferior to that of the dwellers of the Fifth Mountain.
The gods took care, however, to leave open a path of return; if humanity carefully followed the way, it would one day go back to the mountaintop. So that this idea would not be forgotten, they charged the priests and the rulers with keeping it alive in the minds of the people.
All peoples shared the same belief: if the families anointed by the gods were removed from power, the consequences would be grave. No one now remembered why these families had been chosen, but everyone knew they were related to the divine families. Akbar had existed for hundreds of years, and its affairs had always been administered by the ancestors of the present governor; it had been invaded many times, had been in the hands of oppressors and barbarians, but with the passing of time the invaders had left or been expelled. Afterward, the old order would be reestablished and the people would return to the life they had known before.
The priests' obligation was to preserve this order: the world had a destiny, and it was governed by laws. The era of attempting to fathom the gods was past; now was the time to respect them and do their will. They were capricious and easily vexed.
If not for the harvest rituals, the earth would bring forth no fruit. If certain sacrifices were neglected, the city would be infested with fatal diseases. If the god of weather were provoked anew, he could cause wheat and men to cease to grow.
“Behold the Fifth Mountain,” the high priest told the commander. “From
its peak, the gods rule over the valley and protect us. They have an eternal plan for Akbar. The foreigner will be killed, or return to his own land; the governor will one day be no more, and his son will be wiser than he. All that we experience today is fleeting.”
“We have need of a new chieftain,” said the commander. “If we continue in the hands of this governor, we shall be destroyed.”
The high priest knew that this was what the gods desired, in order to put an end to the writing of Byblos. But he said nothing; he was pleased to have evidence once again that, unwittingly or not, the rulers always fulfilled the destiny of the Universe.
WALKING THROUGH THE CITY with the governor, Elijah explained to him his plans for peace and was made his counselor. When they arrived at the square, more sick people approached, but he said that the gods of the Fifth Mountain had forbidden him to heal. At the end of the afternoon, he returned to the widow's house; the child was playing in the street, and Elijah gave thanks for having been the instrument of the Lord's miracle.
She was awaiting him for the evening meal. To his surprise, there was a bottle of wine on the table.
“People brought gifts to please you,” she said. “And I want to ask your forgiveness for the injustice I did you.”
“What injustice?” asked Elijah, surprised. “Don't you see that everything is part of God's design?”
The widow smiled, her eyes shone, and he saw for the first time that she was beautiful. She was at least ten years older than he, but at that moment he felt great tenderness for her. He was not accustomed to such sentiments, and he was filled with fear; he remembered Jezebel's eyes, and the wish he had made upon leaving Ahab's palace–to marry a woman from Lebanon.
“Though my life has been useless, at least I had my son. And his story will be remembered, because he returned from the kingdom of the dead,” the woman said.
“Your life is not useless. I came to Akbar at the Lord's order, and you took me in. If someday your son's story is remembered, I am certain that yours will be also.”
The woman filled two cups. They drank to the sun, which was setting, and to the stars of heaven.
“You have come from a distant country, following the signs of a God I did not know but who now has become my Lord. My son has also returned from a far-off land, and he will have a beautiful tale to tell his grandchildren. The priests will preserve and pass on his words to generations yet to come.”
It was through the priests' memory that cities knew of their past, their conquests, the ancient gods, and the warriors who defended the land with their blood. Even though there were now new ways to record the past, the inhabitants of Akbar had confidence only in the memory of their priests: one could write anything he chose, but no one could remember things that never were.
“And what have I to tell?” the widow continued, filling the cup that Elijah had quickly drained. “I don't have the strength or the beauty of Jezebel. My life is like all the rest: a marriage arranged by my father and mother when I was a child, household tasks when I came of age, worship on holy days, my husband always busy with other things. When he was alive, we never spoke of anything important. He was preoccupied with his trade, I took care of the house, and that was how we spent the best of our years.
“After his death, nothing was left for me except poverty and raising my son. When he becomes a man, he will cross the seas and I shall no longer matter to anyone. I feel neither hate nor resentment, only a sense of my own uselessness.”
Elijah refilled his cup. His heart was beginning to give signs of alarm; he was enjoying being at this woman's side. Love could be a more frightening experience than standing before Ahab's soldier with an arrow aimed at his heart; if the arrow had struck him, he would be dead–and the rest was up to God. But if love struck him, he alone would have to take responsibility for the consequences.
“I have so wished for love in my life,” he thought. And yet, now that it was before him–and beyond doubt it was there; all he had to do was not run away from it–his sole thought was to forget it as quickly as possible.
His mind returned to the day he came to Akbar, after his exile on the Cherith. He was so weary and thirsty that he could remember nothing except the moment he recovered from fainting, and seeing her drip water onto his lips. His face was very close to hers, closer than he had ever been to any woman in his entire life. He had noticed that she had Jezebel's green eyes, but with a different glow, as if they could reflect
the cedar trees, the ocean of which he had often dreamed but never known, and–how could it be?–her very soul.
“I should so like to tell her that,” he thought. “But I don't know how. It's easier to speak of the love of God.”
Elijah took another sip. She sensed that she had said something that displeased him, and she decided to change the subject.
“Did you climb the Fifth Mountain?” she asked. He nodded.
She would have liked to ask what he had seen there in the heights and how he had escaped the fire of the heavens. But he seemed loath to discuss it.
“You are a prophet,” she thought. “Read my heart.”
Since the Israelite had come into her life, everything had changed. Even poverty was easier to bear, for that foreigner had awakened something she had never felt: love. When her son had fallen ill, she had fought the entire neighborhood so he could remain in her house.
She knew that to him the Lord was more important than anything that took place beneath the sky. She was aware that it was a dream impossible of fulfillment, for the man before her could go away at any moment, shed Jezebel's blood, and never return to tell of what had happened.
Even so, she would go on loving him, because for the first time in her life, she knew freedom. She could love him, even if he never knew; she did not need his permission to miss him, to think of him every moment of the day, to await him for the evening meal, and to worry about the plots that people could be weaving against the foreigner.
This was freedom: to feel what the heart desired, with no thought to the opinion of the rest. She had fought with her neighbors and her friends about the stranger's presence in her house; there was no need to fight against herself.
Elijah drank a bit of wine, excused himself, and went to his room. She went out, rejoiced at the sight of her son playing in front of the house, and decided to take a short walk.
She was free, for love liberates.
ELIJAH STARED at the wall of his room for a long time. Finally, he decided to invoke his angel.
“My soul is in danger,” he said.
The angel said nothing. Elijah was in doubt about continuing the conversation, but now it was too late: he could not call him forth for no reason.
“When I'm with that woman, I don't feel good.”
“Just the opposite,” answered the angel. “And that disturbs thee, because thou canst come to love her.”
Elijah felt shame, for the angel knew his soul. “Love is dangerous,” he said.
“Very,” replied the angel. “And so?” He suddenly disappeared.
His angel had none of the doubts that tormented Elijah's soul. Yes, he knew what love was; he had seen the king of Israel abandon the Lord because Jezebel, a princess of Sidon, had conquered his heart. Tradition told that King Solomon had come close to losing his throne over a foreign woman. King David had sent one of his best friends to his death after falling in love with his friend's wife. Because of Delilah, Samson had been taken prisoner and had his eyes put out by the Philistines.
How could he not know what love was? History was filled with tragic examples. And even had he no knowledge of sacred Scripture, he had the example of his friends, and of the friends of friends, lost in long nights of waiting and suffering. If he'd had a wife in Israel, it would have been difficult for him to leave his city when the Lord commanded, and he would be dead now.
“I am waging combat in vain,” he thought. “Love will win this battle, and I will love her all of my days. Lord, send me back to Israel so that I may never have to tell this woman what I feel. Because she does not love me and will say to me that her heart lies buried alongside the body of her heroic husband.”
THE NEXT DAY, ELIJAH MET WITH THE COMMANDER AGAIN and learned
that more tents had been erected.
“What is the present complement of warriors?” he asked. “I give no information to an enemy of Jezebel.”
“I am a counselor of the governor,” replied Elijah. “He named me his assistant yesterday afternoon. You have been informed of this, and you owe me an answer.”
The commander felt an urge to put an end to the foreigner's life.
“The Assyrians have two soldiers for each one of ours,” he finally replied. Elijah knew that, to succeed, the enemy needed a much larger force.
“We are approaching the ideal moment to begin peace negotiations,” he said. “They will understand that we are being generous and we shall achieve better conditions. Any general knows that to conquer a city five invaders are needed for each defender.”
“They'll have that number unless we attack now.”
“Even with all their lines of supply, they will not have enough water for so many men. And the moment to send our envoys will have come.”
“What moment is that?”
“We shall allow the number of Assyrian warriors to increase a bit more. When the situation becomes unbearable, they will be forced to attack. But, with the proportion of three or four to one of ours, they know they will end in defeat. That is when our envoys will offer peace, safe passage, and the sale of water. This is the governor's plan.”
The commander said nothing and allowed the foreigner to leave. Even with Elijah dead, the governor could still insist on the idea. He swore to himself that if the situation came to that point he would kill the governor, then commit suicide, because he had no desire to witness the fury of the gods.
Nevertheless, under no circumstance would he let his people be betrayed by money.
“TAKE ME BACK to the land of Israel, O Lord,” cried Elijah every afternoon, as he walked through the valley. “Let not my heart continue imprisoned in Akbar.”
Following a custom of the prophets he had known as a child, he began
lashing himself with a whip whenever he thought of the widow. His back became raw flesh, and for two days he lay delirious with fever. When he awoke, the first thing he saw was the woman's face; she had tended to his wounds with ointment and olive oil. As he was too weak to descend the stairs, she brought food to his room.
AS SOON AS HE WAS WELL, Elijah resumed walking through the valley.
“Take me back to the land of Israel, O Lord,” he said. “My heart is trapped in Akbar, but my body can still continue the journey.”
The angel appeared. It was not the angel of the Lord, whom he had seen on the mountain, but the one who watched over him, and to whose voice he was accustomed.
“The Lord heareth the prayers of those who ask to put aside hatred. But He is deaf to those who would flee from love.”
THE THREE OF THEM supped together every night. As the Lord had promised, meal had never been wanting in the barrel nor oil in the vessel.
They rarely spoke as they ate. One night, however, the boy asked, “What is a prophet?”
“Someone who goes on listening to the same voices he heard as a child. And still believes in them. In this way, he can know the angels' thoughts.”
“Yes, I know what you are speaking of,” said the boy. “I have friends no one else can see.”
“Never forget them, even if adults call it foolishness. That way you will always know God's will.”
“I'll see into the future, like the soothsayers of Babylon,” said the boy.
“Prophets don't know the future. They only transmit the words that the Lord inspires in them at the present moment. That is why I am here, not knowing when I shall return to my own country; He will not tell me before it is necessary.”
The woman's eyes became sad. Yes, one day he would depart.
ELIJAH NO LONGER cried out to the Lord. He had decided that, when the moment arrived to leave Akbar, he would take the widow and her son. But he would say nothing until the time came.
Perhaps she would not want to leave. Perhaps she had not even divined his feelings for her, for he himself had been a long time in understanding them. If it should happen thus, it would be better; he could then dedicate himself wholly to the expulsion of Jezebel and the rebuilding of Israel. His mind would be too occupied to think about love.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” he said, recalling an ancient prayer of King David. “He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me beside still waters.
“And He will not let me forget the meaning of my life,” he concluded in his own words.
ONE AFTERNOON he returned home earlier than was his wont, to find the widow sitting in the doorway of the house.
“What are you doing?”
“I have nothing to do,” she replied.
“Then learn something. At this moment, many people have stopped living. They do not become angry, nor cry out; they merely wait for time to pass. They did not accept the challenges of life, so life no longer challenges them. You are running that same risk; react, face life, but do not stop living.”
“My life has begun to have meaning again,” she said, casting her gaze downward. “Ever since you came here.”
FOR A FRACTION of a second, he felt he could open his heart to her. But he decided not to take the risk; she must surely be referring to something else.
“Start doing something,” he said, changing the subject. “In that way, time will be an ally, not an enemy.”
“But what can I learn?” Elijah thought for a moment.
“The writing of Byblos. It will be useful if one day you have to travel.”
The woman decided to dedicate herself body and spirit to that study. She had never thought of leaving Akbar, but from the way he spoke perhaps he was thinking of taking her with him.
Once more, she felt free. Once more, she awoke at morning and strode smiling through the streets of the city.
“ELIJAH STILL LIVES,” THE COMMANDER TOLD THE HIGH priest two
months later. “You have not succeeded in having him killed.”
“In all of Akbar there is no man who will carry out that mission. The Israelite has comforted the sick, visited the imprisoned, fed the hungry. When anyone has a dispute to settle with his neighbor, he calls on him, and all accept his judgments, because they are just. The governor is using him to increase his own standing among the people, but no one sees this.”
“The merchants have no wish for war. If the governor finds favor enough with the people to convince them that peace is better, we shall never be able to expel the Assyrians. Elijah must be killed immediately.”
The high priest pointed to the Fifth Mountain, its peak cloud-covered as always.
“The gods will not allow their country to be humiliated by a foreign power. They will take action; something will come to pass, and we shall be able to grasp the opportunity.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“I do not know. But I shall remain vigilant for the signs. Do not provide any further truthful information about the Assyrian forces. When you are asked, say only that the proportion of the invading warriors is still four to one. And go on training your troops.”
“Why should I do that? If they attain the proportion of five to one, we are lost.”
“No. We shall be in a state of equality. When the battle begins, you will not be fighting an inferior enemy and therefore cannot be branded a coward who abuses the weak. Akbar's army will confront an adversary as powerful as itself, and it will win the battle–because its commander chose the right strategy.”
Piqued by vanity, the commander accepted the proposal. And from that moment, he began to withhold information from the governor and from Elijah.
TWO MORE MONTHS PASSED, AND ONE MORNING THE Assyrian army
reached the proportion of five soldiers for each of Akbar's defenders. They could attack at any moment.
For some time Elijah had suspected that the commander was lying about the enemy forces, but this might yet turn to his advantage: when the proportion reached the critical point, it would be a simple matter to convince the populace that peace was the only solution.
These were his thoughts as he headed toward the place in the square where, once a week, he was wont to help the inhabitants of the city to settle their disputes. In general, the issues were trivial: quarrels between neighbors, old people reluctant to pay their taxes, tradesmen who felt they had been cheated in their business dealings.
The governor was there; it was his custom to appear now and again to see Elijah in action. The ill will the prophet had felt toward him had disappeared completely; he had discovered that he was a man of wisdom, concerned with solving problems before they arose–although he was not a spiritual man and greatly feared death. On several occasions he had conferred upon Elijah's decisions the force of law. At other times Elijah, having disagreed with a decision, had with the passage of time come to see that the governor was right.
Akbar was becoming a model of the modern Phoenician city. The governor had created a fairer system of taxation, had improved the streets of the city, and administered intelligently the profits from the imposts on merchandise. There was a time when Elijah had asked him to do away with the consumption of wine and beer, for most of the cases he was called upon to settle involved aggression by intoxicated persons. The governor had told him that a city could only be considered great if that type of thing took place. According to tradition, the gods were pleased when men enjoyed themselves after a day's work, and they protected drunkards.
In addition, the region enjoyed the reputation of producing one of the finest wines in the world, and foreigners would be suspicious if the inhabitants themselves did not consume the drink. Elijah respected the governor's decision, and he came to agree that happy people produce more.
“You need not put forth so much effort,” the governor told him before Elijah began his day's work. “A counselor helps the government with nothing more than his opinions.”
“I miss my country and want to return. So long as I am involved in activity, I feel myself of use and forget that I am a foreigner,” he replied.
“And better control my love for her,” he thought to himself.
THE POPULAR TRIBUNAL had come to attract an audience ever alert to what took place. The people were beginning to gather: some were the aged, no longer able to work in the fields, who came to applaud or jeer Elijah's decisions; others were directly involved in the matters to be discussed, either because they had been the victims or because they expected to profit from the outcome. There were also women and children who, lacking work, needed to fill their free time.
He began the morning's proceedings: the first case was that of a shepherd who had dreamed of a treasure buried near the pyramids of Egypt and needed money to journey there. Elijah had never been in Egypt, but he knew it was far away, and he said that he would be hard pressed to find the necessary means, but if the shepherd were to sell his sheep to pay for his dream, he would surely find what he sought.
Next came a woman who desired to learn the magical arts of Israel. Elijah said he was no teacher, merely a prophet.
As he was preparing to find an amicable solution to a case in which a farmer had cursed another man's wife, a soldier pushed his way through the crowd and addressed the governor.
“A patrol has captured a spy,” the newcomer said, sweating profusely. “He's being brought here!”
A tremor ran through the crowd; it would be the first time they had witnessed a judgment of that kind.
“Death!” someone shouted. “Death to the enemy!”
Everyone present agreed, screaming. In the blink of an eye the news spread throughout the city, and the square was packed with people. The other cases were judged only with great difficulty, for at every instant someone would interrupt Elijah, asking that the foreigner be brought forth at once.
“I cannot judge such a case,” he said. “It is a matter for the authorities of Akbar.”
“For what reason have the Assyrians come here?” said one man. “Can they not see we have been at peace for many generations?”
“Why do they want our water?” shouted another. “Why are they threatening our city?”
For months none had dared speak in public about the presence of the enemy. Though all could see an ever-growing number of tents being erected on the horizon, though the merchants spoke of the need to begin negotiations for peace at once, the people of Akbar refused to believe that they were living under threat of invasion. Save for the quickly subdued incursion of some insignificant tribe, war existed only in the memory of priests. They spoke of a nation called Egypt, with horses and chariots of war and gods that looked like animals. But that had all happened long ago; Egypt was no longer a country of import, and the warriors, with their dark skin and strange language, had returned to their own land. Now the inhabitants of Sidon and Tyre dominated the seas and were spreading a new empire around the world, and though they were tried warriors, they had discovered a new way of fighting: trade.
“Why are they restless?” the governor asked Elijah.
“Because they sense that something has changed. We both know that, from this moment on, the Assyrians can attack at any time. Both you and I know that the commander has been lying about the number of the enemy's troops.”
“But he wouldn't be mad enough to say that to anyone. He would be sowing panic.”
“Every man can sense when he is in danger; he begins to react in strange ways, to have premonitions, to feel something in the air. And he tries to deceive himself, for he thinks himself incapable of confronting the situation. They have tried to deceive themselves till now; but there comes a moment when one must face the truth.”
The high priest arrived.
“Let us go to the palace and convene the Council of Akbar. The commander is on his way.”
“Do not do so,” Elijah told the governor in a low voice. “They will force on you what you have no wish to do.”
“We must go,” insisted the high priest. “A spy has been captured, and urgent measures must be taken.”
“Make the judgment in the midst of the people,” murmured Elijah. “They will help you, for their desire is for peace, even as they ask for war.”
“Bring the man here!” ordered the governor. The crowd shouted joyously; for the first time, they would witness a conclave of the Council.
“We cannot do that!” said the high priest. “It is a matter of great delicacy, one that requires calm in order to be resolved!”
A few jeers. Many protests.
“Bring him here,” repeated the governor. “His judgment shall be in this square, amid the people. Together we have worked to transform Akbar into a prosperous city, and together we shall pass judgment on all that threatens us.”
The decision was met with clapping of hands. A group of soldiers appeared dragging a blood-covered, half-naked man. He must have been severely beaten before being brought there.
All noise ceased. A heavy silence fell over the crowd; from another corner of the square could be heard the sound of pigs and children playing.
“Why have you done this to the prisoner?” shouted the governor.
“He resisted,” answered one of the guards. “He claimed he wasn't a spy and said he had come here to talk to you.”
The governor ordered that three chairs be brought from his palace. His servants appeared, bearing the cloak of justice, which he always donned when a meeting of the Council of Akbar was convened.
THE GOVERNOR and the high priest sat down. The third chair was reserved for the commander, who was yet to arrive.
“I solemnly declare in session the tribunal of the Council of Akbar. Let the elders draw near.”
A group of old men approached, forming a semicircle around the chairs. This was the council of elders; in bygone times, their opinions were respected and obeyed. Today, however, the role of the group was merely ceremonial; they were present to accept whatever the ruler
decided.
After a few formalities such as a prayer to the gods of the Fifth Mountain and the declaiming of the names of several ancient heroes, the governor addressed the prisoner.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
The man did not reply. He stared at him in a strange way, as if he were an equal.
“What is it you want?” the governor repeated. The high priest touched his arm.
“We need an interpreter. He does not speak our language.”
The order was given, and one of the guards left in search of a merchant who could serve as interpreter. Tradesmen never came to the sessions that Elijah held; they were constantly occupied with conducting their business and counting their profits.
While they waited, the high priest whispered, “They beat the prisoner because they are frightened. Allow me to carry out this judgment, and say nothing: panic makes everyone aggressive, and we must show authority, lest we lose control of the situation.”
The governor did not answer. He too was frightened. He sought out Elijah with his eyes, but from where he sat could not see him.
A merchant arrived, forcibly brought by the guard. He complained that the tribunal was wasting his time and that he had many matters to resolve. But the high priest, looking sternly at him, bade him to be silent and to interpret the conversation.
“What do you want here?” the governor asked.
“I am no spy,” the man replied. “I am a general of the army. I have come to speak with you.”
The audience, completely silent till then, began to scream as soon as these words were translated. They called it a lie and demanded the immediate punishment of death.
The high priest asked for silence, then turned to the prisoner. “About what do you wish to speak?”
“The governor has the reputation of being a wise man,” said the
Assyrian. “We have no desire to destroy this city: what interests us is Sidon and Tyre. But Akbar lies athwart the route, controlling this valley; if we are forced to fight, we shall lose time and men. I come to propose a treaty.”
“The man speaks the truth,” thought Elijah. He had noticed that he was surrounded by a group of soldiers who hid from view the spot where the governor was sitting. “He thinks as we do. The Lord has performed a miracle and will bring an end to this dangerous situation.”
The high priest rose and shouted to the people, “Do you see? They want to destroy us without combat!”
“Go on,” the governor told the prisoner. The high priest, however, again intervened.
“Our governor is a good man who does not wish to shed a man's blood. But we are in a situation of war, and the prisoner before us is an enemy!”
“He's right!” shouted someone from the crowd.
Elijah realized his mistake. The high priest was playing on the crowd while the governor was merely trying to be just. He attempted to move closer, but he was shoved back. One of the soldiers held him by the arm.
“Stay here. After all, this was your idea.”
He looked behind: it was the commander, and he was smiling.
“We must not listen to any proposal,” the high priest continued, his passion flowing in his words and gestures. “If we show we are willing to negotiate, we shall also be showing that we are fearful. And the people of Akbar are courageous; they have the means to resist any invasion.”
“This prisoner is a man seeking peace,” said the governor, addressing the crowd.
Someone said, “Merchants seek peace. Priests desire peace. Governors administer peace. But an army wants only one thing: war!”
“Can't you see that we were able to face the religious threat from Israel without war?” bellowed the governor. “We sent neither armies nor navies, but Jezebel. Now they worship Baal, without our having to sacrifice even one man on the battlefield.”
“They didn't send a beautiful woman, they sent their warriors!” shouted
the high priest even more loudly.
The people were demanding the Assyrian's death. The governor took the high priest by the arm.
“Sit down,” he said. “You go too far.”
“The idea of public judgment was yours. Or rather it was the Israelite traitor's, who seems to command the acts of the ruler of Akbar.”
“I shall settle accounts with him later. Now, we must discover what the Assyrian wants. For many generations, men tried to impose their will by force; they spoke of what they wanted but cared not what the people thought–and all those empires have been destroyed. Our people have grown because they learned how to listen; this is how we developed trade–by listening to what the other person desires and doing whatever was possible to satisfy him. The result is profit.”
The high priest nodded.
“Your words seem wise, and that is the greatest danger of all. If you were speaking folly, it would be simple to prove you wrong. But what you have just said is leading us into a trap.”
Those in the front row heard the argument. Until that moment, the governor had always sought out the Council's opinion, and Akbar had an excellent reputation. Sidon and Tyre had sent emissaries to see how the city was administered; its name had even reached the ears of the emperor, and with some small good fortune, the governor might end his days as a minister at the imperial court.
Today, his authority had been challenged publicly. If he did not make a decision, he would lose the respect of the people–and no longer be capable of making important decisions, for none would obey him.
“Continue,” he told the prisoner, ignoring the high priest's furious gaze and demanding that the interpreter translate his question.
“I have come to propose an agreement,” said the Assyrian. “Allow us to pass, and we shall march against Sidon and Tyre. When those cities have been overcome–as they surely will be, because a great many of their warriors are on ships, occupied with trade–we shall be generous with Akbar. And keep you as governor.”
“Do you see?” asked the high priest, again rising to his feet. “They think our governor barters Akbar's honor for an office!”
The multitude began to roar in outrage. That half-naked, wounded
prisoner wanted to lay down rules! A defeated man was proposing the surrender of the city! Several people rushed forward to attack him; with much effort, the guards managed to keep control of the situation.
“Wait!” said the governor, trying to speak above the din. “We have before us a defenseless man, one who can arouse in us no fear. We know that our army is better prepared, that our warriors are braver. We need prove that to no one. Should we decide to fight, we will win the battle, but the losses will be enormous.”
Elijah closed his eyes and prayed that the governor could convince his people.
“Our ancestors spoke to us of the Egyptian empire, but it is no more,” he continued. “Now we are returning once again to the Golden Age. Our fathers and their fathers before them were able to live in peace; why should we be the ones to break this tradition? Modern warfare is carried out through commerce, not on the field of battle.”
Little by little, the crowd fell silent. The governor was succeeding! When the noise ceased, he turned to the Assyrian.
“What you are proposing is not enough. To cross our lands, you must also pay taxes, as do the merchants.”
“Believe this, Governor: Akbar has no choice,” replied the prisoner. “We have men enough to raze this city and kill its every inhabitant. You have long been at peace and have forgotten how to fight, while we have been conquering the world.”
Murmurs began again in the crowd. Elijah thought, “He cannot betray indecisiveness now.” But it was difficult to deal with the Assyrian prisoner, who even while captive imposed his conditions. Moment by moment, more people were arriving; Elijah noticed that the tradesmen, concerned about the unfolding of events, had deserted their places of work to join the audience. The judgment had taken on a dangerous significance; there was no longer any way to retreat from making a decision, whether for negotiation or for death.
THE ONLOOKERS began to take sides; some defended peace while others demanded that Akbar resist. The governor whispered to the high priest, “This man has challenged me in public. But so have you.”
The high priest turned to him. And, speaking so none could hear, told
him to condemn the Assyrian to death immediately.
“I do not ask, I demand. It is I who keep you in power, and I can put an end to that whenever I wish, do you understand? I know sacrifices to appease the wrath of the gods, if we are forced to replace the ruling family. It will not be the first time; even in Egypt, an empire that lasted thousands of years, there have been many cases of dynasties being replaced. Yet the Universe continued in its order, and the heavens did not fall upon our heads.”
The governor turned pale.
“The commander is in the middle of the crowd, with some of his soldiers. If you insist on negotiating with this man, I will tell everyone that the gods have abandoned you. And you will be deposed. Let us go on with the judgment. And you shall do exactly as I order.”
If Elijah had been in sight, the governor would have had a way out: he could have asked the Israelite prophet to say he had seen an angel on the Fifth Mountain, as he had recounted. He would recall the story of the resurrection of the widow's son. And it would be the word of Elijah–who had already proved himself able to perform a miracle–against the word of a man who had never demonstrated any type of supernatural power.
But Elijah had deserted him, and he had no choice. In any case, it was only a prisoner, and no army in the world starts a war because it lost one soldier.
“You win, for now,” he told the high priest. One day he would negotiate something in return.
The high priest nodded. The verdict was delivered at once.
“No one challenges Akbar,” said the governor. “And no one enters our city without permission from its people. You have attempted to do so, and are condemned to death.”
From where he stood, Elijah lowered his eyes. The commander smiled.
THE PRISONER, FOLLOWED BY AN EVER LARGER THRONG, was led to a
place beside the walls. There his remaining clothing was torn away, leaving him naked. One of the soldiers shoved him toward the bottom of a hollow located nearby. The people gathered around the hole, jostling against one another for a better view.
“A soldier wears his uniform with pride, and makes himself visible to the
enemy, because he has courage. A spy dresses as a woman, because he's a coward,” shouted the governor, for all to hear. “Therefore I condemn you to depart this life shorn of the dignity of the brave.”
The crowd jeered at the prisoner and applauded the governor.
The prisoner said something, but the interpreter was no longer at hand, and no one understood him. Elijah succeeded in making his way through the crowd to the governor–but it was too late. When he touched his cloak, he was pushed away violently.
“The fault lies with you. You wanted a public judgment.”
“The fault is yours,” replied Elijah. “Even if the Council of Akbar had met in secret, the commander and the high priest would have imposed their will. I was surrounded by soldiers during the entire process. They had everything planned.”
Custom decreed that it was the high priest's task to select the duration of the torture. He knelt, picked up a stone, and handed it to the governor; it was not large enough to grant a swift death, nor so small as to extend the suffering for long.
“First, you.”
“I am being forced to do this,” said the governor in a low voice so that only the high priest could hear. “But I know it is the wrong path.”
“For all these years, you have forced me to take the harshest positions while you enjoyed the fruits of decisions that pleased the people,” the high priest answered, also in a low voice. “I have had to face doubt and guilt, and endure sleepless nights, pursued by the ghosts of errors I may have made. But because I did not lose my courage, today Akbar is a city envied by the entire world.”
People began looking for stones of the chosen size. For a time, the only sound was that of pebbles and stones striking one another. The high priest continued. “It is possible I am mistaken in condemning this man to death. But as to the honor of our city, I am certain we are not traitors.”
THE GOVERNOR raised his hand and threw the first stone; the prisoner dodged it. Immediately, however, the multitude, shouting and jeering, began to stone him.
The man attempted to protect his face with his arms, and the stones struck his chest, his back, his stomach. The governor wanted to leave; he
had seen this many times before and knew that death was slow and painful, that the man's face would become a pulp of bones, hair, and blood, that the people would continue throwing stones even after life had left his body.
Within minutes, the prisoner would abandon his defense and lower his arms; if he had been a good man in this life, the gods would guide one of the stones to strike the front of his skull, bringing unconsciousness. If not, if he had committed cruelties, he would remain conscious until the final moment.
The multitude shouted, hurling stones with growing ferocity, and the condemned man tried to defend himself as best he could. Suddenly, however, he dropped his arms and spoke in a language that all could understand. Dismayed, the crowd interrupted the stoning.
“Long live Assyria!” he shouted. “At this moment I look upon the image of my people and die joyfully, because I die as a general who tried to save the lives of his warriors. I go to join the gods and am content because I know we shall conquer this land!”
“You see?” the high priest said. “He heard and understood everything that was said during the judgment!”
The governor agreed. The man spoke their language, and now he knew of the divisions in the Council of Akbar.
“I am not in hell, because the vision of my country gives me dignity and strength! The vision of my country brings me joy! Long live Assyria!” he shouted once more.
Recovered from its surprise, the crowd again began throwing stones. The man kept his arms at his sides, not attempting to resist; he was a brave warrior. A few seconds later, the mercy of the gods manifested itself: a stone struck his forehead and he fell unconscious to the ground.
“We can go now,” the high priest said. “The people of Akbar will see to finishing the task.”
ELIJAH DID NOT GO back to the widow's house. He began walking through the desert, not knowing exactly where he wanted to go.
“The Lord did nothing,” he said to the plants and rocks. “And He could have done something.”
He regretted his decision and blamed himself for the death of yet
another man. If he had accepted the idea of the Council of Akbar meeting in secret, the governor could have taken Elijah with him; then it would have been the two of them against the high priest and the commander. Their chances, though still small, would have been better than in the public judgment.
Worse yet, he had been impressed by the high priest's way of addressing the crowd; even though he disagreed with what he said, he was obliged to recognize that here was someone with a profound understanding of leadership. He would try to remember every detail of what he had seen, for one day, in Israel, he would have to face the king and the princess from Sidon.
He wandered aimlessly, looking at the mountains, the city, and the Assyrian encampment in the distance. He was a mere dot in this valley, and there was an immense world around him, a world so large that even if he traveled his entire life he would never find where it ended. His friends, and his enemies, might perhaps better understand the earth where they lived, might travel to distant countries, navigate unknown seas, love a woman without guilt. None of them still heard the angels of their childhood, nor offered themselves in the Lord's struggle. They lived out their lives in the present moment, and they were happy.
He too was a person like all the others, and in this moment walking through the valley he wished above all else never to have heard the voice of the Lord, or of His angels.
But life is made not of desires but of the acts of each person. He recalled that several times in the past he had tried to renounce his mission, but he was still there, in the middle of that valley, because this the Lord had demanded.
“I could have been a mere carpenter, O Lord, and still be useful to Thy work.”
But there Elijah stood, carrying out what had been demanded of him, bearing within him the weight of the war to come, the massacre of the prophets by Jezebel, the death by stoning of the Assyrian general, his fear of loving a woman of Akbar. The Lord had given him a gift, and he did not know what to do with it.
In the middle of the valley, a light appeared. It was not his guardian angel, the one he heard but seldom saw. It was an angel of the Lord, come to console him.
“I can do nothing further here,” said Elijah. “When will I return to Israel?”
“When thou learnest to rebuild,” answered the angel. “But remember that which God taught Moses before a battle. Make use of every moment so that later thou wilt not regret, nor lament having lost thy youth. To every age in the life of a man, the Lord bestoweth upon him its own misgivings.”
THE LORD SPOKE UNTO MOSES:
“Say unto them, Hear, O Israel, ye approach this day unto battle against your enemies: let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified because of them. And what man is he that hath planted a vineyard, and bath not yet eaten of it? Let him also go and return unto his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man eat of it. And what man is there that bath betrothed a wife, and hath not taken her? Let him go and return unto his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man take her.”
ELIJAH CONTINUED WALKING FOR SOME TIME, SEEKING to understand
what he had heard. As he was readying to return to Akbar, he saw the woman he loved sitting on a rock facing the Fifth Mountain, a few minutes' walk from where he stood.
“What is she doing here? Does she know about the judgment, the death sentence, and the risks we have come to face?”
He must alert her at once. He decided to approach her.
She noticed his presence and waved. Elijah appeared to have forgotten the angel's words, for the feeling of uncertainty came rushing back. He tried to feign that he was worried about the problems of the city, so that she might not perceive the confusion in his heart and his mind.
“What are you doing here?” he asked when he drew close.
“I came in search of a bit of inspiration. The writing that I'm learning made me think about the Designer of the valleys, of the mountains, of the city of Akbar. Some merchants gave me inks of every color, because they want me to write for them. I thought of using them to describe the world I live in, but I know how difficult that is: although I have the colors, only the Lord can mix them with such harmony.”
She kept her gaze on the Fifth Mountain. She was a completely different person from the woman he had met some months before gathering wood
at the city gate. Her solitary presence in the midst of the desert inspired confidence and respect in him.
“Why do all the mountains have names except the Fifth Mountain, which is known by a number?” asked Elijah.
“So as not to create conflict among the gods,” she replied. “According to tradition, if men had given that mountain the name of a specific god, the others would have become furious and destroyed the earth. Therefore it's called the Fifth Mountain, because it's the fifth mountain we see beyond the walls. In this way, we offend no one, and the Universe continues in its place.”
They said nothing for a time. The woman broke the silence.
“Besides reflecting on colors, I also think about the danger in the writing of Byblos. It might offend the gods of Phoenicia and the Lord our God.”
“Only the Lord exists,” interrupted Elijah. “And every civilized country has its writing.”
“But it's different. When I was a child, I used to go to the square to watch the word painter who worked for the merchants. His drawings were based on Egyptian script and demanded skill and knowledge. Now, ancient and powerful Egypt is in decadence, without money to buy anything, and no one uses its language anymore; sailors from Sidon and Tyre are spreading the writing of Byblos to the entire world. The sacred words and ceremonies can be placed on clay tablets and transmitted from one people to another. What will become of the world if unscrupulous people begin using the rituals to interfere with the Universe?”
Elijah understood what the woman was saying. The writing of Byblos was based on a very simple system: the Egyptian drawings first had to be transformed into sounds, and then a letter was designated for each sound. By placing these letters in order, it was possible to create all possible sounds and to describe everything there was in the Universe.
Some of these sounds were very difficult to pronounce. That difficulty had been solved by the Greeks, who had added five more letters, called vowels, to the twenty-odd characters of Byblos. They baptized this innovation alphabet, a name now used to define the new form of writing.
This had greatly facilitated commercial contact among differing peoples. The Egyptian system had required much space and a great deal of ability to draw the ideas, as well as profound understanding to interpret them; it had been imposed on conquered nations but had not survived the decline
of the empire. The system of Byblos, however, was spreading rapidly through the world, and it no longer depended on the economic might of Phoenicia for its adoption.
The method of Byblos, with the Greek adaptation, had pleased the traders of the various nations; as had been the case since ancient times, it was they who decided what should remain in history and what would disappear with the death of a given king or a given person. Everything indicated that the Phoenician invention was destined to become the common language of business, surviving its navigators, its kings, its seductive princesses, its wine makers, its master glassmakers.
“Will God disappear from words?” the woman asked.
“He will continue in them,” Elijah replied. “But each person will be responsible before Him for whatever he writes.”
She took from the sleeve of her garment a clay tablet with something written on it.
“What does that mean?” Elijah asked. “It's the word love.”
Elijah took the tablet in his hands, not daring to ask why she had given it to him. On that piece of clay, a few scratches summed up why the stars continued in the heavens and why men walked the earth.
He tried to return it to her, but she refused.
“I wrote it for you. I know your responsibility, I know that one day you will have to leave, and that you will become an enemy of my country because you wish to do away with Jezebel. On that day, it may come to pass that I shall be at your side, supporting you in your task. Or it may come to pass that I fight against you, for Jezebel's blood is the blood of my country; this word that you hold in your hands is filled with mystery. No one can know what it awakens in a woman's heart, not even prophets who speak with God.”
“I know the word that you have written,” said Elijah, storing the tablet in a fold of his cape. “I have struggled day and night against it, for, although I do not know what it awakens in a woman's heart, I know what it can do to a man. I have the courage to face the king of Israel, the princess of Sidon, the Council of Akbar, but that one word–love–inspires deep terror in me. Before you drew it on the tablet, your eyes had already seen it written in my heart.”
They fell silent. Despite the Assyrian's death, the climate of tension in the city, the call from the Lord that could occur at any moment–none of this was as powerful as the word she had written.
Elijah held out his hand, and she took it. They remained thus until the sun hid itself behind the Fifth Mountain.
“Thank you,” she said as they returned. “For a long time I had desired to spend the hours of sunset with you.”
When they arrived home, an emissary from the governor was waiting for him. He asked Elijah to come with him immediately for a meeting.
“YOU REPAID MY SUPPORT with cowardice,” said the governor. “What should I do with your life?”
“I shall not live a second longer than the Lord desires,” replied Elijah. “It is He who decides, not you.”
The governor was surprised at Elijah's courage.
“I can have you decapitated at once. Or have you dragged through the streets of the city, saying that you brought a curse upon our people,” he said. “And that would not be a decision of your One God.”
“Whatever my fate, that is what will happen. But I want you to know I did not flee; the commander's soldiers kept me away. He wants war and will do everything to achieve it.”
The governor decided to waste no more time on that pointless discussion. He had to explain his plan to the Israelite prophet.
“It's not the commander who wishes war; like a good military man he is aware that his army is smaller and inexperienced and that it will be decimated by the enemy. As a man of honor, he knows he risks causing shame to his descendants. But his heart has been turned into stone by pride and vanity.
“He thinks the enemy is afraid. He doesn't know that the Assyrian warriors are well trained: when they enter the army, they plant a tree, and every day they leap over the spot where the seed is buried. The seed becomes a shoot, and they leap over it. The shoot becomes a plant, and they go on jumping. They neither become annoyed nor find it a waste of time. Little by little, the tree grows, and the warriors leap higher. Patiently and with dedication, they're preparing to overcome
obstacles.
“They're accustomed to recognizing a challenge when they see it. They've been observing us for months.”
Elijah interrupted the governor. “Then, in whose interest is war?”
“The high priest's. I saw that during the Assyrian prisoner's trial.” “For what reason?”
“I don't know. But he was shrewd enough to convince the commander and the people. Now the entire city is on his side, and I see only one way out of the difficult situation in which we find ourselves.”
He paused for a long moment, then looked directly into the Israelite's eyes. “You.”
The governor began pacing the chamber, his rapid speech betraying his nervousness.
“The merchants also desire peace, but they can do nothing. In any case, they are rich enough to install themselves in some other city or to wait until the conquerors begin buying their products. The rest of the populace have lost their senses and want us to attack an infinitely superior enemy. The only thing that can change their minds is a miracle.”
Elijah became tense. “A miracle?”
“You brought back a boy that death had already claimed. You've helped the people find their way, and though you are a foreigner you are loved by almost everyone.”
“That was the situation until this morning,” Elijah said. “But now it's changed; in the atmosphere you've just described, anyone who advocates peace will be considered a traitor.”
“I don't want you to advocate anything. I want you to perform a miracle as great as the resurrection of that boy. Then you'll tell the people that peace is the only solution, and they'll listen to you. The high priest will lose completely whatever power he possesses.”
There was a moment of silence. The governor continued.
“I am willing to make a pact: if you do what I'm asking, the religion of
the One God will become obligatory in Akbar. You will please Him whom you serve, and I shall be able to negotiate terms of peace.”
ELIJAH CLIMBED THE STAIRS to his room in the upper story of the widow's house. At that moment he had in his hands an opportunity that no prophet had ever had before: to convert a Phoenician city. It would be the most painful way to show Jezebel that there was a price to pay for what she had done to his country.
He was excited by the governor's offer. He even thought of waking the woman who was sleeping downstairs but changed his mind; she must be dreaming about the beautiful afternoon they had spent together.
He called on his guardian angel. He appeared.
“You heard the governor's proposal,” Elijah said. “This is a unique chance.”
“Nothing is a unique chance,” the angel replied. “The Lord giveth men many opportunities. And do not forget what was said: no further miracle will be permitted thee until thou returnest to the bosom of thy country.”
Elijah lowered his head. At that moment the angel of the Lord appeared and hushed his guardian angel. And he said:
“Behold the next of thy miracles:
“Thou wilt gather the people together before the mountain. On one side, thou shalt order built an altar to Baal, and that a bullock be placed on it. On the other side, thou shalt raise an altar to the Lord thy God, and on it also place a bullock.
“And thou shalt say to the worshipers of Baal: invoke the name of your god, and I shall invoke the name of the Lord. Let them be first, and let them spend from morning until noon praying and calling on Baal to come forth and receive what is offered him.
“They will cry out aloud, and cut themselves with knives, asking that the bullock be received by their god, but nothing will happen.
“When they weary, thou shalt fill four barrels with water and pour it over thy bullock. Thou shalt do this a second time. And thou shalt do this still a third time. Then call upon the Lord of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, asking Him to show His power to all.
“At that moment, the Lord will send the fire from heaven and consume
thy sacrifice.”
Elijah knelt and gave thanks.
“However,” continued the angel, “this miracle can be wrought but once in thy lifetime. Choose whether thou desirest to do it here, to avoid a battle, or in thy homeland, to free thy people from Jezebel.”
And the angel of the Lord departed.
THE WOMAN AWOKE EARLY and saw Elijah sitting in the doorway of the house. His eyes were deep in their sockets, like those of one who has not slept.
She would have liked to ask what had happened the night before, but she feared his response. It was possible that the sleepless night had been provoked by his talk with the governor and by the threat of war; but there might be another reason–the clay tablet she had given him. If so, and she raised the subject, she risked hearing that the love of a woman was not in accord with God's design.
She said only the words, “Come and eat something.”
Her son awakened also. The three sat down at the table and ate.
“I should have liked to stay with you yesterday,” Elijah said, “but the governor needed me.”
“Do not concern yourself with him,” she said, a calm feeling reentering her heart. “His family has ruled Akbar for generations, and he will know what to do in the face of the threat.”
“I also spoke with an angel. And he demanded of me a very difficult decision.”
“Nor should you be disturbed because of angels; perhaps it's better to believe that the gods change with the times. My ancestors worshiped the Egyptian gods, who had the forms of animals. Those gods went away, and until you arrived, I was brought up to make sacrifices to Asherat, El, Baal, and all the dwellers on the Fifth Mountain. Now I have known the Lord, but He too may leave us one day, and the next gods may be less demanding.”
The boy asked for water. There was none. “I'll go and fetch it,” said Elijah.
“I want to go with you,” the boy said.
They walked toward the well. On the way they passed the spot where the commander had since the early hours been training his soldiers.
“Let's watch for a while,” said the boy. “I'll be a soldier when I grow up.” Elijah did as he asked.
“Which of us is best at using a sword?” asked one warrior.
“Go to the place where the spy was stoned yesterday,” said the commander. “Pick up a stone and insult it.”
“Why should I do that? The stone would not answer me back.” “Then attack it with your sword.”
“My sword will break,” said the soldier. “And that wasn't what I asked; I want to know who's the best at using a sword.”
“The best is the one who's most like a rock,” answered the commander. “Without drawing its blade, it proves that no one can defeat it.”
“The governor is right: the commander is a wise man,” thought Elijah. “But the greatest wisdom is blinded by the glare of vanity.”
THEY CONTINUED on their way. The boy asked why the soldiers were training so much.
“It's not just the soldiers, but your mother too, and I, and those who follow their heart. Everything in life demands training.”
“Even being a prophet?”
“Even to understand angels. We so want to talk with them that we don't listen to what they're saying. It's not easy to listen: in our prayers we always try to say where we have erred, and what we should like to happen to us. But the Lord already knows all of this, and sometimes asks us only to hear what the Universe is telling us. And to be patient.”
The boy looked at him in surprise. He probably understood nothing, but even so Elijah felt the need to continue the conversation. Perhaps when he came to manhood one of these words might assist him in a difficult situation.
“All life's battles teach us something, even those we lose. When you grow
up, you'll discover that you have defended lies, deceived yourself, or suffered for foolishness. If you're a good warrior, you will not blame yourself for this, but neither will you allow your mistakes to repeat themselves.”
He decided to speak no further; a boy of that age could not understand what he was saying. They walked slowly, and Elijah looked at the streets of the city that had sheltered him and was about to disappear. Everything depended on the decision he must make.
Akbar was more silent than usual. In the central square, people talked in hushed tones, as if fearful that the wind might carry their words to the Assyrian camp. The more elderly among them swore that nothing would happen, while the young were excited at the prospect of battle, and the merchants and artisans made plans to go to Sidon and Tyre until calm was restored.
“It is easy for them to leave,” he thought. Merchants can transport their goods anywhere in the world. Artisans too can work, even in places where a strange language is spoken. “But I must have the Lord's permission.”
THEY CAME to the well, where they filled two vessels with water. Usually the place was crowded with people; women meeting to wash clothes, dye fabrics, and comment on everything that happened in the city. Nothing could be kept secret close to the well; news about business, family betrayals, problems between neighbors, the intimate lives of the rulers–every matter, serious or superficial, was discussed, commented upon, criticized, or applauded there. Even during the months in which the enemy forces had grown unceasingly, Jezebel, the princess who had conquered the king of Israel, remained the favorite topic. People praised her boldness, her courage, and were certain that, should anything happen to the city, she would come back to her country to avenge it.
That morning, however, almost no one was there. The few women present said that it was necessary to go to the fields and harvest the largest possible amount of grain, for the Assyrians would soon close off the entrance and exit to the city. Two of them were making plans to go to the Fifth Mountain and offer sacrifices to the gods; they had no wish to see their sons die in combat.
“The high priest said that we can resist for many months,” one woman commented to Elijah. “We need only to have the necessary courage to defend Akbar's honor and the gods will come to our aid.”
The boy was frightened.
“Is the enemy going to attack?” he asked.
Elijah did not reply; it depended on the choice that the angel had offered him the night before.
“I'm afraid,” the boy said insistently.
“That proves that you find joy in living. It's normal to feel fear at certain moments.”
ELIJAH AND THE BOY returned home before the morning was over. They found the woman ringed by small vessels with inks of various colors.
“I have to work,” she said, looking at the unfinished letters and phrases. “Because of the drought, the city is full of dust. The brushes are always dirty, the ink mixes with dust, and everything becomes more difficult.”
Elijah remained silent; he did not want to share his concerns with anyone. He sat in a corner of the downstairs room, absorbed in his thoughts. The boy went out to play with his friends.
“He needs silence,” the woman said to herself and tried to concentrate on her work.
She took the rest of the morning to complete a few words that could have been written in half the time, and she felt guilt for not doing what was expected of her; after all, for the first time in her life she had the chance to support her family.
She returned to her work. She was using papyrus, a material that a trader on his way from Egypt had recently brought, asking her to write some commercial letters that he had to send to Damascus. The sheet was not of the best quality, and the ink blurred frequently. “Even with all these difficulties, it's better than drawing on clay.”
Neighboring countries had the custom of sending their messages on clay tablets or on animal skins. Although their country was in decadence, with an obsolete script, the Egyptians had discovered a light, practical way of recording their commerce and their history; they cut into strips a plant that grew on the banks of the Nile and through a simple process glued the strips side by side, forming a yellowish sheet. Akbar had to import papyrus because it could not be grown in the valley. Though it was expensive, merchants preferred using it, for they could carry the written
sheets in their pockets, which was impossible to do with clay tablets and animal skins.
“Everything is becoming simpler,” she thought. A pity that the government's authorization was needed to use the Byblos alphabet on papyrus. Some outmoded law still obliged written texts to pass inspection by the Council of Akbar.
As soon as her work was done, she showed it to Elijah, who had been watching her the entire time without comment.
“Do you like the result?” she asked. He seemed to come out of a trance.
“Yes, it's pretty,” he replied, giving no mind to what he was saying.
He must be talking with the Lord. And she did not want to interrupt him. She left, to call the high priest.
When she returned with the high priest, Elijah was still in the same spot. The two men stared at each other. For a long time, neither spoke.
The high priest was the first to break the silence.
“You are a prophet, and speak with angels. I merely interpret the ancient laws, carry out rituals, and seek to defend my people from the errors they commit. Therefore I know this is not a struggle between men; it is a battle of gods–and I must not absent myself from it.”
“I admire your faith, though you worship gods that do not exist,” answered Elijah. “If the present situation is, as you say, worthy of a celestial battle, the Lord will use me as an instrument to defeat Baal and his companions on the Fifth Mountain. It would have been better for you to order my assassination.”
“I thought of it. But it wasn't necessary; at the proper moment the gods acted in my favor.”
Elijah did not reply. The high priest turned and picked up the papyrus on which the woman had just written her text.
“Well done,” he commented. After reading it carefully, he took the ring from his finger, dipped it in one of the small vessels of ink, and applied his seal in the left corner. If anyone were found carrying a papyrus without the high priest's seal, he could be condemned to death.
“Why do you always have to do that?” she asked.
“Because these papyri transport ideas,” he replied. “And ideas have power.”
“They're just commercial transactions.”
“But they could be battle plans. Or our secret prayers. Nowadays, with letters and papyrus, it has become a simple matter to steal the inspiration of a people. It is difficult to hide clay tablets, or animal skins, but the combination of papyrus and the alphabet of Byblos can bring an end to the civilization of any nation, and destroy the world.”
A woman came running.
“Priest! Priest! Come see what's happening!”
Elijah and the widow followed him. People were coming from every corner, heading for the same place; the air was close to unbreathable from the dust they raised. Children ran ahead, laughing and shouting. The adults walked slowly, in silence.
When they arrived at the southern gate to the city, a small multitude was already gathered there. The high priest pushed his way through the crowd and came upon the reason for the confusion.
A sentinel of Akbar was kneeling, his arms spread, his hands tied to a large piece of wood on his shoulders. His clothes were in tatters, and his left eye had been gouged out by a small tree branch.
On his chest, written with slashes of a knife, were some Assyrian characters. The high priest understood Egyptian, but the Assyrian language was not important enough to be learned and memorized; it was necessary to ask the help of a trader who was at the scene.
“'We declare war,'” the man translated.
The onlookers spoke not a word. Elijah could see panic written on their faces.
“Give me your sword,” the high priest said to one of the soldiers.
The soldier obeyed. The high priest asked that the governor and the commander be notified of what had happened. Then, with a swift blow, he plunged the blade into the kneeling sentinel's heart.
The man moaned and fell to the ground. He was dead, free of the pain and shame of having allowed himself to be captured.
“Tomorrow I shall go to the Fifth Mountain to offer sacrifices,” he told the
frightened people. “And the gods will once again remember us.” Before leaving, he turned to Elijah.
“You see it with your own eyes. The heavens are still helping.”
“One question, nothing more,” said Elijah. “Why do you wish to see your people sacrificed?”
“Because it is what must be done to kill an idea.”
After seeing him talk with the woman that morning, Elijah had understood what that idea was: the alphabet.
“It is too late. Already it spreads throughout the world, and the Assyrians cannot conquer the whole of the earth.”
“And who says they cannot? After all, the gods of the Fifth Mountain are on the side of their armies.”
FOR HOURS HE WALKED the valley, as he had done the afternoon before. He knew there would be at least one more afternoon and night of peace: no war was fought in darkness, because the soldiers could not distinguish the enemy. That night, he knew, the Lord was giving him the chance to change the destiny of the city that had taken him into its bosom.
“Solomon would know what to do,” he told his angel. “And David, and Moses, and Isaac. They were men the Lord trusted, but I am merely an indecisive servant. The Lord has given me a choice that should be His.”
“The history of our ancestors seemeth to be full of the right men in the right places,” answered the angel. “Do not believe it: the Lord demandeth of people only that which is within the possibilities of each of them.”
“Then He has made a mistake with me.”
“Whatever affliction that cometh, finally goeth away. Such are the glories and tragedies of the world.”
“I shall not forget that,” Elijah said. “But when they go away, the tragedies leave behind eternal marks, while the glories leave useless memories.”
The angel made no reply.
“Why, during all this time I have been in Akbar, could I not find allies to
work toward peace? What importance has a solitary prophet?”
“What importance hath the sun, in its solitary travel through the heavens? What importance hath a mountain rising in the middle of a valley? What importance hath an isolated well? Yet it is they that indicate the road the caravan is to follow.”
“My heart drowns in sorrow,” said Elijah, kneeling and extending his arms to heaven. “Would that I could die here and now, and never have my hands stained with the blood of my people, or a foreign people. Look behind you. What do you see?”
“Thou knowest that I am blind,” said the angel. “Because mine eyes still retain the light of the Lord's glory, I can perceive nothing else. I can see only what thy heart telleth me. I can see only the vibrations of the dangers that threaten thee. I cannot know what lieth behind thee…”
“Then I'll tell you: there lies Akbar. Seen at this time of day, with the afternoon sun lighting its profile, it's lovely. I have grown accustomed to its streets and walls, to its generous and hospitable folk. Though the city's inhabitants are still prisoners of commerce and superstition, their hearts are as pure as any nation on earth. With them I have learned much that I did not know; in return, I have listened to their laments and–inspired by God–have been able to resolve their internal conflicts. Many times have I been at risk, and someone has always come to my aid. Why must I choose between saving this city and redeeming my people?”
“Because a man must choose,” answered the angel. “Therein lieth his strength: the power of his decisions.”
“It is a difficult choice; it demands that I accept the death of one people to save another.”
“Even more difficult is defining a path for oneself. He who maketh no choice is dead in the eyes of the Lord, though he go on breathing and walking in the streets.
“Moreover,” the angel continued, “no one dieth. The arms of eternity open for every soul, and each one will carry on his task. There is a reason for everything under the sun.”
Elijah again raised his arms to the heavens.
“My people fell away from the Lord because of a woman's beauty. Phoenicia may be destroyed because a priest thinks that writing is a threat to the gods. Why does He who made the world prefer to use
tragedy to write the book of fate?”
Elijah's cries echoed through the valley to return to his ears.
“Thou knowest not whereof thou speakest,” the angel replied. “There is no tragedy, only the unavoidable. Everything hath its reason for being: thou needest only distinguish what is temporary from what is lasting.”
“What is temporary?” asked Elijah. “The unavoidable.”
“And what is lasting?”
“The lessons of the unavoidable.” Saying this, the angel disappeared.
That night, at the evening meal, Elijah told the woman and the boy, “Prepare your things. We may depart at any moment.”
“You haven't slept for two days,” said the woman. “An emissary from the governor was here this afternoon, asking for you to go to the palace. I said you were in the valley and would spend the night there.”
“You did well,” he replied, going straightway to his room and falling into a deep sleep.
HE WAS AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING BY THE SOUND of musical
instruments. When he went downstairs to see what was happening, the boy was already at the door.
“Look!” he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “It's war!”
A battalion of soldiers, imposing in their battle gear and armaments, was marching toward the southern gate of Akbar. A group of musicians followed them, marking the battalion's pace to the beat of drums.
“Yesterday you were afraid,” Elijah told the boy.
“I didn't know we had so many soldiers. Our warriors are the best!”
He left the boy and went into the street; he must find the governor at any cost. The other inhabitants of the city had been awakened by the sound of the war anthems and were enthralled; for the first time in their lives they were seeing the march of an organized battalion in its military uniforms, its lances and shields reflecting the first rays of dawn. The
commander had achieved an enviable feat; he had prepared his army without anyone becoming aware of it, and now–or so Elijah feared–he could make everyone believe that victory over the Assyrians was possible.
He pushed his way through the soldiers and came to the front of the column. There, mounted on horses, the commander and the governor were leading the march.
“We have an agreement!” said Elijah, running to the governor's side. “I can perform a miracle!”
The governor made no reply. The garrison marched past the city wall and into the valley.
“You know this army is an illusion!” Elijah insisted. “The Assyrians have a five-to-one advantage, and they are experienced warriors! Don't allow Akbar to be destroyed!”
“What do you desire of me?” the governor asked, without halting his steed. “Last night I sent an emissary so we could talk, and they said you were out of the city. What else could I do?”
“Facing the Assyrians in the open field is suicide! You know that!”
The commander was listening to the conversation, making no comment. He had already discussed his strategy with the governor; the Israelite prophet would have a surprise.
Elijah ran alongside the horses, not knowing exactly what he should do. The column of soldiers left the city, heading toward the middle of the valley.
“Help me, Lord,” he thought. “Just as Thou stopped the sun to help Joshua in combat, stop time and let me convince the governor of his error.”
As soon as he thought this, the commander shouted, “Halt!”
“Perhaps it's a sign,” Elijah told himself. “I must take advantage of it.”
The soldiers formed two lines of engagement, like human walls. Their shields were firmly anchored in the earth, their swords pointing outward.
“You believe you are looking at Akbar's warriors,” the governor said to Elijah.
“I'm looking at young men who laugh in the face of death,” was the
reply.
“Know then that what we have here is only a battalion. The greater part of our men are in the city, on top of the walls. We have placed there caldrons of boiling oil ready to be poured on the heads of anyone trying to scale them.
“We have stores divided among several locations, so that flaming arrows cannot do away with our food supply. According to the commander's calculations, we can hold out for almost two months against a siege. While the Assyrians were making ready, so too were we.”
“I was never told this,” Elijah said.
“Remember this: even having helped the people of Akbar, you are still a foreigner, and some in the military could mistake you for a spy.”
“But you wished for peace!”
“Peace is still possible, even after combat begins. But now we shall negotiate under conditions of equality.”
The governor related that messengers had been dispatched to Sidon and Tyre advising of the gravity of their position. It had been difficult for him to ask for help; others might think him incapable of controlling the situation. But he had concluded that this was the only solution.
The commander had developed an ingenious plan; as soon as combat began, he would return to the city to organize the resistance. The troops in the field were to kill as many of the enemy as possible, then withdraw to the mountains. They knew the valley better than anyone and could attack the Assyrians in small skirmishes, thus reducing the pressure of the siege.
Relief would come soon, and the Assyrian army would be decimated. “We can resist for sixty days, but that will not be necessary,” the governor told Elijah.
“But many will die.”
“We are all in the presence of death. And no one is afraid, not even I.”
The governor was surprised at his own courage. He had never before been in a battle, and as the moment of combat drew nearer, he had made plans to flee the city. That morning he had agreed with some of his most faithful friends on the best means of retreat. He could not go to Sidon or Tyre, where he would be considered a traitor, but Jezebel would receive him because she needed men she could trust.
But when he stepped onto the field of battle, he had seen in the soldiers' eyes an immense joy, as if they had trained their entire lives for an objective and the great moment had finally come.
“Fear exists until the moment when the unavoidable happens,” he told Elijah. “After that, we must waste none of our energy on it.”
Elijah was confused. He felt the same way, though he was ashamed to recognize it; he recalled the boy's excitement when the troops had marched past.
“Away with you,” the governor said. “You're a foreigner, unarmed, and have no need to fight for something you do not believe in.”
Elijah did not move.
“They will come,” said the commander. “You were caught by surprise, but we are prepared.”
Even so, Elijah remained where he stood.
They scanned the horizon: no dust. The Assyrian army was not on the move.
The soldiers in the first rank held their spears firmly, pointed forward; the bowmen had their strings half-drawn, ready to loose their arrows at the commander's order. A few men slashed at the air with their swords to keep their muscles warm.
“Everything is ready,” the commander repeated. “They are going to attack.”
Elijah noticed the euphoria in his voice. He must be eager for the battle to begin, eager to demonstrate his bravery. Beyond a doubt he was imagining the Assyrian warriors, the sword blows, the shouting and confusion, and picturing himself being remembered by the Phoenician priests as an example of efficiency and courage.
The governor interrupted his thoughts. “They're not moving.”
Elijah remembered what he had asked of the Lord, for the sun to stand still in the heavens as He had done for Joshua. He tried to talk with his angel but did not hear his voice.
Little by little the spearmen lowered their weapons, the archers relaxed the tension on their bowstrings, the swordsmen replaced their weapons in
their scabbards. The burning sun of midday arrived; several warriors fainted from the heat. Even so, for the rest of the day the detachment remained at readiness.
When the sun set, the warriors returned to Akbar; they appeared disappointed at having survived another day.
Elijah alone stayed behind in the valley. He had been wandering about for some time when the light appeared. The angel of the Lord was before him.
“God hath heard thy prayers,” the angel said. “And hath seen the torment in thy soul.”
Elijah turned to the heavens and gave thanks for the blessing.
“The Lord is the source of all glory and all power. He stopped the Assyrian army.”
“No,” the angel replied. “Thou hast said that the choice must be His. And He hath made the choice for thee.”
“LET'S GO,” THE WOMAN TOLD HER SON.
“I don't want to go,” the boy replied. “I'm proud of Akbar's soldiers.”
His mother bade him gather his belongings. “Take only what you can carry,” she said.
“You forget we're poor, and I don't have much.”
Elijah went up to his room. He looked about him, as if for the first and last time; he quickly descended and stood watching the widow store her inks.
“Thank you for taking me with you,” she said. “I was only fifteen when I married, and I had no idea what life was. Our families had arranged everything; I had been raised since childhood for that moment and carefully prepared to help my husband in all circumstances.”
“Did you love him?”
“I taught my heart to do so. Because there was no choice, I convinced myself that it was the best way. When I lost my husband, I resigned myself to the sameness of day and night; I asked the gods of the Fifth Mountain–in those times I still believed in them–to take me as soon as
my son could live on his own.
“That was when you appeared. I've told you this once before, and I want to repeat it now: from that day on, I began to notice the beauty of the valley, the dark outline of the mountains projected against the sky, the moon ever-changing shape so the wheat could grow. Many nights while you slept I walked about Akbar, listening to the cries of newborn infants, the songs of men who had been drinking after work, the firm steps of the sentinels on the city walls. How many times had I seen that landscape without noticing how beautiful it was? How many times had I looked at the sky without seeing how deep it is? How many times had I heard the sounds of Akbar around me without understanding that they were part of my life?
“I once again felt an immense will to live. You told me to study the characters of Byblos, and I did. I thought only of pleasing you, but I came to care deeply about what I was doing, and I discovered something: the meaning of my life was whatever I wanted it to be.”
Elijah stroked her hair. It was the first time he had done so. “Why haven't you always been like this?” she asked.
“Because I was afraid. But today, waiting for the battle to start, I heard the governor's words, and I thought of you. Fear reaches only to the point where the unavoidable begins; from there on, it loses its meaning. And all we have left is the hope that we are making the right decision.”
“I'm ready,” she said.
“We shall return to Israel. The Lord has told me what I must do, and so I shall. Jezebel will be removed from power.”
She said nothing. Like all Phoenician women, she was proud of her princess. When they arrived there, she would try to convince the man at her side to change his mind.
“It will be a long journey, and we shall find no rest until I have done what He has asked of me,” said Elijah, as if guessing her thoughts. “Still, your love will be my mainstay, and in the moments I grow weary in the battles in His name, I can find repose in your arms.”
The boy appeared, carrying a small bag on his shoulder. Elijah took it and told the woman, “The hour has come. As you traverse the streets of Akbar, remember each house, each sound. For you will never again see them.”
“I was born in Akbar,” she said. “The city will forever remain in my heart.”
Hearing this, the boy vowed to himself never to forget his mother's words. If someday he could return, he would look upon the city as if seeing her face.
IT WAS ALREADY DARK when the high priest arrived at the foot of the Fifth Mountain. In his right hand he held a staff; in his left he carried a large sack.
From the sack he took the sacred oil and anointed his forehead and wrists. Then, using the staff, he drew in the sand a bull and a panther, the symbols of the God of the Storm and of the Great Goddess. He said the ritual prayers; finally he opened his arms to heaven to receive the divine revelation.
The gods spoke no more. They had said all they wished to say and now demanded only the carrying out of the rites. The prophets had disappeared everywhere in the world, save in Israel, a backward, superstitious country that still believed men could communicate with the creators of the Universe.
He recalled that generations before, Sidon and Tyre had traded with a king of Jerusalem called Solomon. He was building a great temple and desired to adorn it with the best the world offered; he had commanded that cedars be bought from Phoenicia, which they called Lebanon. The king of Tyre had provided the necessary materials and had received in exchange twenty cities in Galilee, but was not pleased with them. Solomon had then helped him to construct his first ships, and now Phoenicia had the largest merchant fleet in the world.
At that time, Israel was still a great nation, despite worshiping a single god whose name was not even known and who was usually called just “the Lord.” A princess of Sidon had succeeded in returning Solomon to the true faith, and he had erected an altar to the gods of the Fifth Mountain. The Israelites insisted that “the Lord” had punished the wisest of their kings, bringing about the wars that had threatened his reign.
His son Rehoboam, however, carried on the worship that his father had initiated. He ordered two golden calves to be made, and the people of Israel worshiped them. It was then that the prophets appeared and began a ceaseless struggle against the rulers.
Jezebel was right: the only way to keep the true faith alive was by doing away with the prophets. Although she was a gentle woman, brought up in the way of tolerance and of horror at the thought of war, she knew that there comes a moment when violence is the only answer. The blood that now stained her hands would be forgiven by the gods she served.
“Soon, my hands too will be stained with blood,” the high priest told the silent mountain before him. “Just as the prophets are the curse of Israel, writing is the curse of Phoenicia. Both bring about an evil beyond redress, and both must be stopped while it is still possible. The god of weather must not desert us now.”
He was concerned about what had happened that morning; the enemy army had not attacked. The god of weather had abandoned Phoenicia in the past because he had become irritated at its inhabitants. As a consequence, the light of the lamps had stilled, the lambs and cows had abandoned their young, the wheat and barley had failed to ripen. The Sun god commanded that important beings be sent to search for him–the eagle and the God of the Storm–but no one succeeded in finding him. Finally, the Great Goddess sent a bee, which found him asleep in a forest and stung him. He awoke furious and began to destroy everything around him. It was necessary to bind him and remove the wrath from his soul, but from that time onward, all returned to normal.
If he decided to leave again, the battle would not take place. The Assyrians would remain permanently in the entrance to the valley, and Akbar would continue to exist.
“Courage is fear that prays,” he said. “That is why I am here, because I cannot vacillate at the moment of combat. I must show the warriors of Akbar that there is a reason to defend the city. It is neither the well, nor the marketplace, nor the governor's palace. We shall confront the Assyrian army because we must set the example.”
The Assyrian triumph would end the threat of the alphabet for all time to come. The conquerors would impose their language and their customs, but they would go on worshiping the same gods on the Fifth Mountain; that was what truly mattered.
“In the future, our navigators will take to other lands the feats of our warriors. The priests will recall the names and the date when Akbar attempted to resist the Assyrian invasion. Painters will draw Egyptian characters on papyrus; the scribes of Byblos will be dead. The sacred texts will continue only in the hands of those born to study them. Then the later generations will try to imitate what we have done, and we shall build a better world.
“But now,” he continued, “we must first lose this battle. We shall fight bravely, but our situation is inferior, and we shall die with glory.”
At that moment the high priest listened to the night and saw that he was right. The silence anticipated the moment of an important battle, but the inhabitants of Akbar were misinterpreting it; they had laid down their weapons and were amusing themselves at precisely the moment when they had need of vigilance. They paid no heed to nature's example: the animals fell silent when danger was at hand.
“Let the gods' designs be fulfilled. May the heavens not fall upon the earth, for we have acted rightly; we have obeyed tradition,” he concluded.
ELIJAH, THE WOMAN, AND THE BOY WENT IN A WESTERLY direction,
toward Israel; they did not need to pass near the Assyrian encampment because it was located to the south. The full moon made the walk easier but also cast strange shadows and sinister forms on the rocks and stones of the valley.
In the midst of the darkness, the angel of the Lord appeared. He bore a sword of fire in his right hand.
“Whither goest thou?” he asked. “To Israel,” Elijah answered. “Hath the Lord summoned thee?”
“I know the miracle that God expects me to perform. And now I know where I am to execute it.”
“Hath the Lord summoned thee?” repeated the angel. Elijah remained silent.
“Hath the Lord summoned thee?” asked the angel for the third time. “No.”
“Then return to the place whence thou comest, for thou hast yet to fulfill thy destiny. The Lord hath still to summon thee.”
“If nothing else, permit them to leave, for they have no reason to remain,” implored Elijah.
But the angel was no longer there. Elijah dropped the bag he was carrying, sat in the middle of the road, and wept bitterly.
“What happened?” asked the woman and the boy, who had seen nothing. “We're going back,” he said. “Such is the Lord's desire.”
HE WAS NOT ABLE to sleep well. He awoke in the night and sensed the tension in the air around him; an evil wind blew through the streets, sowing fear and distrust.
“In the love of a woman, I have discovered the love for all creatures,” he prayed silently. “I need her. I know that the Lord will not forget that I am one of His instruments, perhaps the weakest of those He has chosen. Help me, O Lord, because I must repose calmly amidst the battles.”
He recalled the governor's comment about the uselessness of fear. Despite that, sleep eluded him. “I need energy and tranquillity; give me rest while it is still possible.”
He thought of summoning his angel and talking with him for a while, but knowing he might be told things he had no wish to hear, he changed his mind. To relax, he went downstairs; the bags that the woman had prepared for their flight had not been undone.
He considered returning to his room. He remembered what the Lord had told Moses: “And what man is there that hath betrothed a wife, and hath not taken her? Let him go and return unto his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man take her.”
They had not yet known each other. But it had been a wearying night, and this was not the moment to do so.
He decided to unpack the bags and return everything to its place. He discovered that, besides the few clothes she possessed, she was carrying the instruments for drawing the characters of Byblos.
He picked up a stylus, moistened a small clay tablet, and began to sketch a few letters; he had learned to write by watching the woman as she worked.
“What a simple and ingenious thing,” he thought, in an effort to turn his mind to other concerns. Often, on his way to the well for water, he had heard the women commenting, “The Greeks stole our most important invention,” but Elijah knew it was not that way: the adaptation they had
made by including vowels had transformed the alphabet into something that the peoples of all nations could use. Furthermore, they called their collections of parchments biblia, in honor of the city where the invention had occurred.
The Greek biblia were written on animal hides. Elijah felt this was a very fragile way of storing words; hides were less resistant than clay tablets and could be easily stolen. Papyrus came apart after some handling and was destroyed by water. “Biblia and papyrus will not last; only clay tablets are destined to remain forever,” he reflected.
If Akbar survived for a time longer, he would recommend that the governor order his country's entire history written on clay tablets and stored in a special room, so that generations yet to come might consult them. In this way, if one day the priests of Phoenicia, who kept in their memory the history of their people, were decimated, the feats of warriors and poets would not be forgotten.
He amused himself for some time by writing the same letters but by ordering them differently, forming several words. He was enchanted with the result. The task relaxed him, and he returned to his bed.
HE AWOKE some time later at the sound of the door to his room crashing to the floor.
“It's not a dream. It's not the armies of the Lord in combat.”
Shadows came from all sides, screaming like madmen in a language he did not understand.
“The Assyrians.”
Other doors fell, walls were leveled by powerful hammer blows, the shouts of the invaders mixed with cries for help rising from the square. He attempted to stand, but one of the shadows knocked him to the ground. A muffled sound shook the floor below.
“Fire,” Elijah thought. “They've set the house on fire.”
“It's you,” he heard someone saying in Phoenician. “You're the leader. Hiding like a coward in a woman's house.”
He looked at the face of the person who had just spoken; flames lit the room, and he could see a man with a long beard, in a military uniform. Yes, the Assyrians had come.
“You invaded at night?” he asked, disoriented.
The man did not respond. Elijah saw the flash of swords drawn from their scabbards, and one of the warriors slashed his right arm.
Elijah closed his eyes; the scenes of an entire lifetime passed before him in a fraction of a second. He was once again playing in the street of the city of his birth, traveling to Jerusalem for the first time, smelling the odor of cut wood in the carpenter's shop, marveling at the vastness of the sea and at the garments people wore in the great cities of the coast. He saw himself walking the valleys and mountains of the Promised Land, remembered when he first saw Jezebel, who seemed like a young girl and charmed all who came near. He witnessed a second time the massacre of the prophets, heard anew the voice of the Lord ordering him into the desert. He saw again the eyes of the woman who awaited him at the gates of Zarephath, which its inhabitants called Akbar, and understood that he had loved her from the first moment. Once more he climbed the Fifth Mountain, brought a child back to life, and was welcomed by the people as a sage and a judge. He looked at the heavens, where the constellations were rapidly changing position, was dazzled by the moon that displayed its four phases in a single instant, felt heat, cold, fall and spring, experienced the rain and the lightning's flash. Clouds swept past in millions of different shapes, and the water of rivers again ran in their beds. He relived the day that he had seen the first Assyrian tent being erected, then the second, then several, many, the angels that came and went, the fiery sword on the road to Israel, sleepless nights, drawings on clay tablets, and–
He was back in the present. He thought about what was happening on the floor below; he had to save the widow and her son at any cost.
“Fire!” he told one of the enemy soldiers. “The house is on fire!”
He was not afraid; his only concern was for the widow and her child. Someone pushed his head against the floor, and he felt the taste of earth in his mouth. He kissed it, told it how much he loved it, and explained that he had done everything possible to avoid what was happening. He tried to wrest free of his captors, but someone had his foot on his chest.
“She must have fled,” he thought. “They wouldn't harm a defenseless woman.”
A deep calm took hold of his heart. Perhaps the Lord had come to realize that he was the wrong man and had found another prophet to rescue Israel from sin. Death had finally come, in the way he had hoped, through martyrdom. He accepted his fate and waited for the fatal blow.
Seconds went by; the voices were still shouting, blood still ran from his wound, but the fatal blow had not come.
“Ask them to kill me at once!” he shouted, knowing that at least one of them spoke his language.
No one heeded his words. They were arguing heatedly, as if something had gone wrong. Some of the soldiers began kicking him, and for the first time Elijah noticed the instinct for survival reasserting itself. This created in him a sensation of panic.
“I can't wish for life any longer,” he thought desperately. “Because I'm not leaving this room alive.”
But nothing happened. The world seemed to be suspended endlessly in that confusion of shouts, noises, and dust. Perhaps the Lord had done as He had with Joshua and time had stood still amid the combat.
That was when he heard the woman's screams from below. With an effort surpassing human strength, Elijah pushed aside two of the guards and struggled to his feet, but he was quickly struck down; a soldier kicked him in the head, and he fainted.
A FEW MINUTES LATER he recovered consciousness. The Assyrians had dragged him into the street.
Still dizzy, he raised his head; every house in the neighborhood was in flames.
“An innocent, helpless woman is caught in there! Save her!”
Cries, people running in every direction, confusion everywhere. He tried to rise but was struck down again.
“Lord, Thou canst do with me as Thou wilt, for I have dedicated my life and my death to Thy cause,” Elijah prayed. “But save the woman who took me in!”
Someone raised him by his arms.
“Come and see,” said the Assyrian officer who knew his language. “You deserve it.”
Two guards seized him and pushed him toward the door. The house was rapidly being devoured by flames, and the light from the fire illuminated everything around it. He heard cries coming from all sides: children
sobbing, old men begging for forgiveness, desperate women searching for their children. But he had ears only for the pleas for help of the woman who had afforded him shelter.
“What is happening? A woman and child are inside! Why have you done this to them?”
“Because she tried to hide the governor of Akbar.”
“I'm not the governor! You're making a terrible mistake!”
The Assyrian officer pushed him toward the door. The ceiling had collapsed in the fire, and the woman was half-buried in the debris. Elijah could see only her arm, moving desperately from side to side. She was asking for help, begging them not to let her be burned alive.
“Why spare me,” he implored, “and do this to her?”
“We're not going to spare you, but we want you to suffer as much as possible. Our general died without honor, stoned to death, in front of the city walls. He came in search of life and was condemned to death. Now you will have the same fate.”
Elijah struggled desperately to free himself, but the guards carried him away. They passed through the streets of Akbar, in infernal heat; the soldiers were sweating heavily, and some of them appeared shocked at the scene they had just witnessed. Elijah thrashed about, clamoring against the heavens, but the Assyrians were as silent as the Lord Himself.
They arrived at the square. Most of the buildings in the city were ablaze, and the sound of flames mingled with the cries of Akbar's inhabitants.
“How good that death still exists.”
Since that day in the stable, how often Elijah had thought this!
The corpses of Akbar's warriors, most of them without uniforms, were spread out on the ground. He saw people running in every direction, not knowing where they were going, not knowing what they sought, guided by nothing more than the necessity of pretending they were doing something, fighting against death and destruction.
“Why do they do that?” he thought. “Don't they see the city is in the hands of the enemy and there is nowhere to flee?” Everything had happened very quickly. The Assyrians had taken advantage of their large superiority in numbers and had been able to spare their warriors from combat. Akbar's soldiers had been exterminated almost without a
struggle.
They stopped in the middle of the square. Elijah was made to kneel on the ground and his hands were tied. He no longer heard the woman's screams; perhaps she had died quickly, without going through the slow torture of being burned alive. The Lord had her in His hands. And she was carrying her son at her bosom.
Another group of Assyrian soldiers brought a prisoner whose face was disfigured by numerous blows. Even so, Elijah recognized the commander.
“Long live Akbar!” he shouted. “Long life to Phoenicia and its warriors, who engage the enemy by day! Death to the cowards who attack in darkness!”
He barely had time to finish the phrase. An Assyrian general's sword descended, and the commander's head rolled along the ground.
“Now it is my turn,” Elijah told himself. “I'll meet her again in paradise, where we shall stroll hand in hand.”
At that moment, a man approached and began to argue with the officers. He was an inhabitant of Akbar who was wont to attend the meetings in the square. Elijah recalled having helped him resolve a serious dispute with a neighbor.
The Assyrians were arguing among themselves, their words growing louder and louder, and pointing at him. The man kneeled, kissed the feet of one of them, extended his hand toward the Fifth Mountain, and wept like a child. The invaders' fury appeared to subside.
The discussion seemed to go on endlessly. The man implored and wept the entire time, pointing to Elijah and to the house where the governor lived. The soldiers appeared dissatisfied with the conversation.
Finally, the officer who spoke his language approached.
“Our spy,” he said, indicating the man, “says that we are mistaken. It was he who gave us the plans to the city, and we have confidence in what he says. It's not you we wish to kill.”
He pushed him with his foot. Elijah fell to the ground.
“He says you would go to Israel and remove the princess who usurped the throne. Is that true?”
Elijah did not answer.
“Tell me if it's true,” the officer insisted. “And you can leave here and return to your dwelling in time to save that woman and her son.”
“Yes, it's true,” he said. Perhaps the Lord had listened to him and would help him to save them.
“We could take you captive to Sidon and Tyre,” the officer continued. “But we still have many battles before us, and you'd be a weight on our backs. We could demand a ransom for you, but from whom? You're a foreigner even in your own country.”
The officer put his foot on Elijah's face.
“You're useless. You're no good to the enemy and no good to friends. Just like your city; it's not worth leaving part of our army here, to keep it under our rule. After we conquer the coastal cities Akbar will be ours in any case.”
“I have one question,” Elijah said. “Just one question.” The officer looked at him warily.
“Why did you attack at night? Don't you know that wars are fought by day?”
“We did not break the law; there is no custom that forbids it,” answered the officer. “And we had a long time to become familiar with the terrain. All of you were so preoccupied with custom that you forgot that times change.”
Without a further word, the group left him. The spy approached and untied his hands.
“I promised myself that I would one day repay your generosity; I have kept my word. When the Assyrians entered the palace, one of the servants told them that the man they were looking for had taken refuge in the widow's house. While they went there, the real governor was able to flee.”
Elijah was not listening. Fire crackled everywhere, and the screams continued.
In the midst of the confusion, it was evident that one group still maintained discipline; obeying an invisible order, the Assyrians were silently withdrawing.
The battle of Akbar was over.
“SHE'S DEAD,” he told himself. “I don't want to go there, for she is dead. Or she was saved by a miracle and will come looking for me.”
His heart nevertheless bade him rise to his feet and go to the house where they lived. Elijah struggled with himself; at that moment, more than a woman's love was at stake–his entire life, his faith in the Lord's designs, the departure from the city of his birth, the idea that he had a mission and was capable of completing it.
He looked about him, searching for a sword with which to take his own life, but with the Assyrians had gone every weapon in Akbar. He thought of throwing himself onto the flames of the burning houses, but he feared the pain.
For some moments he stood paralyzed. Little by little, he began recovering his awareness of the situation in which he found himself. The woman and her child must have already left this world, but he must bury them in accord with custom. At that moment the Lord's work–whether or not He existed–was his only succor. After finishing his religious duty, he would yield to pain and doubt.
Moreover, there was a possibility that they still lived. He could not remain there, doing nothing.
“I don't want to see their burned faces, the skin falling from their flesh. Their souls are already running free in heaven.”
NEVERTHELESS, HE BEGAN walking toward the house, choking and blinded by the smoke that prevented his finding his way. He gradually began to comprehend the situation in the city. Although the enemy had withdrawn, panic was mounting in an alarming manner. People continued to wander aimlessly, weeping, petitioning the gods on behalf of their dead.
He looked for someone to help him. A lone man was in sight, in a total state of shock; his mind seemed distant.
“It's best to go straightway and not ask for help.” He knew Akbar as if it were his native city and was able to orient himself, even without recognizing many of the places that he was accustomed to passing. In the street the cries he heard were now more coherent. The people were beginning to understand that a tragedy had taken place and that it was necessary to react.
“There's a wounded man here!” said one.
“We need more water! We're not going to be able to control the fire!” said another.
“Help me! My husband is trapped!”
He came to the place where, many months before, he had been received and given lodging as a friend. An old woman was sitting in the middle of the street, almost in front of the house, completely naked. Elijah tried to help her but was pushed away.
“She's dying!” the old woman cried. “Do something! Take that wall off her!”
And she began screaming hysterically. Elijah took her by the arms and shoved her aside, for the noise she was making prevented his hearing the widow's moans. Everything around him was total destruction–the roof and walls had collapsed, and it was difficult to recognize where he had last seen her. The flames had died down but the heat was still unbearable; he stepped over the rubble covering the floor and went toward the place where the woman's bedroom had been.
Despite the confusion outside, he was able to make out a moan. It was her voice.
He instinctively shook the dust from his garments, as if trying to improve his appearance. He remained silent, trying to concentrate. He heard the crackling of the fire, the cries for help from people buried in the neighboring houses, and felt the urge to tell them to be silent because he must discover where the woman and her son were. After a long time, he heard the sound again; someone was scratching on the wood beneath his feet.
He fell to his knees and began digging like one possessed. He removed the dirt, stones, and wood. Finally, his hand touched something warm: it was blood.
“Please, don't die,” he said.
“Leave the rubble over me,” he heard her voice say. “I don't want you to see my face. Go and help my son.”
He continued to dig, and she repeated, “Go and find the body of my son. Please, do as I ask.”
Elijah's head fell against his chest, and he began weeping softly.
“I don't know where he's buried,” he said. “Please, don't go; how I long to have you remain with me. I need you to teach me how to love; my heart is ready now.”
“Before you arrived, for so many years I called out to death. It must have heard and come looking for me.”
She moaned. Elijah bit his lips but said nothing. Someone touched his shoulder.
Startled, he turned and saw the boy. He was covered with dust and soot but appeared unhurt.
“Where is my mother?” he asked.
“I'm here, my son,” answered the voice from beneath the ruins. “Are you injured?”
The boy began to cry. Elijah took him in his arms.
“You're crying, my son,” said the voice, ever weaker. “Don't do that. Your mother took a long time to learn that life has meaning; I hope I have been able to teach it to you. In what condition is the city where you were born?”
Elijah and the boy remained silent, each clinging to the other.
“It's fine,” Elijah lied. “A few warriors died, but the Assyrians have withdrawn. They were after the governor, to avenge the death of one of their generals.”
Again, silence. And again her voice, still weaker than before. “Tell me that my city is safe.”
He knew that she would be gone at any moment. “The city is whole. And your son is well.”
“What about you?” “I have survived.”
He knew that with these words he was liberating her soul and allowing her to die in peace.
“Ask my son to kneel,” the woman said after a time. “And I want you to swear to me, in the name of the Lord thy God.”
“Whatever you want. Anything that you want.”
“You once told me that the Lord is everywhere, and I believed you. You said that souls don't go to the top of the Fifth Mountain, and I also believed what you said. But you didn't explain where they go.
“This is the oath: you two will not weep for me, and each will take care of the other until the Lord allows each of you to follow his path. From this moment on, my soul will become one with all I have known on this earth: I am the valley, the mountains that surround it, the city, the people walking in its streets. I am its wounded and its beggars, its soldiers, its priests, its merchants, its nobles. I am the ground that they tread, and the well that slakes each one's thirst.
“Don't weep for me, for there is no reason to be sad. From this moment on, I am Akbar, and the city is beautiful.”
The silence of death descended, and the wind ceased to blow. Elijah no longer heard the cries outside or the flames crackling in neighboring houses; he heard only the silence and could almost touch it in its intensity.
Then Elijah led the boy away, rent his own garments, turned to the heavens, and bellowed with all the strength of his lungs, “O Lord my God! For Thy cause have I felt Israel and cannot offer Thee my blood as did the prophets who remained there. I have been called a coward by my friends and a traitor by my enemies.
“For Thy cause have I eaten only what crows brought me and have crossed the desert to Zarephath, which its inhabitants call Akbar. Guided by Thy hand, I met a woman; guided by Thee, my heart learned to love her. But at no time did I forget my true mission; during all the days I spent here I was always ready to depart.
“Beautiful Akbar is in ruins, and the woman who trusted me lies beneath them. Where have I sinned, O Lord? At what moment have I strayed from what Thou desirest of me? If Thou art discontent with me, why hast Thou not taken me from this world? Instead, Thou hast afflicted yet again those who succored me and loved me.
“I do not understand Thy designs. I see no justice in Thy acts. In bearing the suffering Thou hast imposed on me, I am sorely wanting. Remove Thyself from my life, for I too am reduced to ruins, fire, and dust.”
Amidst the fire and desolation, the light appeared to Elijah. And the angel of the Lord was before him.
“Why are you here?” asked Elijah. “Don't you see that it is too late?”
“I have come to say that once again the Lord hath heard thy prayer and thy petition will be granted thee. No more shalt thou hear thy angel, nor shall I meet again with thee till thou hast undergone thy days of trial.”
Elijah took the boy by the hand and they began to walk aimlessly. The smoke, till then dispersed by the winds, was now concentrated in the streets, making the air impossible to breathe. “Perhaps it's a dream,” he thought. “Perhaps it's a nightmare.”
“You lied to my mother,” the boy said. “The city is destroyed.”
“What does that matter? If she did not see what was happening around her, why not allow her to die in peace?”
“Because she trusted you, and said that she was Akbar.”
Elijah cut his foot on one of the broken pieces of glass and pottery strewn on the ground. The pain proved to him that he was not dreaming; everything around him was terribly real. They arrived at the square where–how long ago?–he had met with the people and helped them to resolve their disputes; the sky was gilded by flames from the fires.
“I don't want my mother to be this that I'm looking at,” the boy insisted. “You lied to her.”
The boy was managing to keep his oath; Elijah had not seen a single tear on his face. “What can I do?” he thought. His foot was bleeding, and he decided to concentrate on the pain, to ward off despair.
He looked at the sword cut the Assyrian had made in his body; it was not as deep as he had imagined. He sat down with the boy at the same spot where he had been bound by his enemies, and saved by a traitor. He noticed that people were no longer running; they were walking slowly from place to place, amidst the smoky, dusty ruins, as if they were the living dead. They seemed like souls abandoned by the heavens and condemned to walk the earth eternally. Nothing made sense.
Some of the people reacted; they still heeded the women's voices and the confused orders from the soldiers who had survived the massacre. But they were few and were not achieving any result.
The high priest had once said that the world was the collective dream of the gods. What if, fundamentally, he was right? Could he now help the gods to awaken from this nightmare and then make them sleep again to dream a gentler dream? When Elijah had nocturnal visions, he always
awoke and then slept anew; why should the same not occur with the creators of the Universe?
He stumbled over the dead. None of them was now concerned with having to pay taxes, Assyrian encampments in the valley, religious rituals, or the existence of a wandering prophet who perhaps one day had spoken to them.
“I can't remain here permanently. The legacy that she left me is this boy, and I shall be worthy of it, even if it be the last thing I do on the face of the earth.”
With a great effort, he rose, took the boy by the hand, and they began to walk. Some of the people were sacking the shops and tents that had been smashed. For the first time, he attempted to react to what had happened, by asking them not to do that.
But the people pushed him aside, saying, “We're eating the remains of what the governor devoured by himself. Get out of the way.”
Elijah did not have the strength to argue; he led the boy out of the city, where they began to walk through the valley. The angels, with their swords of fire, would come no more.
“A full moon.”
Far from the dust and smoke, he could see the night illuminated by moonlight. Hours before, when he was attempting to leave the city for Jerusalem, he had been able to find his way without difficulty; the Assyrians had had the same advantage.
The boy stumbled over a body and screamed. It was the high priest; his arms and legs had been cut off, but he was still alive. His eyes were fixed on the heights of the Fifth Mountain.
“As you see,” he said in a labored but calm voice, “the Phoenician gods have won the celestial battle.” Blood was spurting from his mouth.
“Let me end your suffering,” Elijah replied.
“Pain means nothing, compared to the joy of having done my duty.” “Your duty was to destroy a city of righteous men?”
“A city does not die, only its inhabitants and the ideas they bore within themselves. One day, others will come to Akbar, drink its water, and the stone that its founder left behind will be polished and cared for by new priests. Leave me now; my pain will soon be over, while your despair
will endure for the rest of your life.”
The mutilated body was breathing with difficulty, and Elijah left him. At that moment, a group of people–men, women, and children–came running toward him and encircled him.
“It was you!” they shouted. “You dishonored your homeland and brought a curse upon our city!”
“May the gods bear witness to this! May they know who is to blame!”
The men pushed him and shook him by the shoulders. The boy pulled loose from his hands and disappeared. The others struck him in the face, the chest, the back, but his only thoughts were for the boy; he had not even been able to keep him at his side.
The beating did not last long; perhaps his assailants were themselves weary of so much violence. Elijah fell to the ground.
“Leave this place!” someone said. “You have repaid our love with your hatred!”
The group withdrew. Elijah did not have the strength to rise to his feet. When he recovered from the shame, he had ceased to be the same man. He desired neither to die nor to go on living. He desired nothing: he possessed no love, no hate, no faith.
HE AWOKE to someone touching his face. It was still night, but the moon was no longer in the sky.
“I promised my mother that I'd take care of you,” the boy said. “But I don't know what to do.”
“Go back to the city. The people there are good, and someone will take you in.”
“You're hurt. I need to attend to your arm. Maybe an angel will come and tell me what to do.”
“You're ignorant, you know nothing about what's happening!” Elijah shouted. “The angels will come no more because we're common folk, and everyone is weak when faced with suffering. When tragedy occurs, let people fend for themselves!”
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself; there was no point in arguing further.
“How did you find your way here?” “I never left.”
“Then you saw my shame. You saw that there is nothing left for me to do in Akbar.”
“You told me that all life's battles teach us something, even those we lose.”
He remembered the walk to the well the morning before. But it seemed as if years had passed since then, and he felt the urge to tell him that those beautiful words meant nothing when one faces suffering; but he decided not to upset the boy.
“How did you escape the fire?”
The boy lowered his head. “I hadn't gone to sleep. I decided to spend the night awake, to see if you and my mother were going to meet in her room. I saw the first soldiers come in.”
Elijah rose and began to walk. He was looking for the stone in front of the Fifth Mountain where one afternoon he had watched the sunset with the woman.
“I mustn't go,” he thought. “I'll become even more desperate.”
But some force drew him in that direction. When he arrived there, he wept bitterly; like the city of Akbar, the spot was marked by a stone, but he alone in that entire valley understood its significance; it would neither be praised by new inhabitants, nor polished by couples discovering the meaning of love.
He took the boy in his arms and once again slept.
“I'M HUNGRY AND THIRSTY,” THE BOY TOLD ELIJAH AS soon as he
awoke.
“We can go to the home of one of the shepherds who live nearby. It's likely nothing happened to them because they didn't live in Akbar.”
“We need to repair the city. My mother said that she was Akbar.”
What city? No longer was there a palace, a market, or walls. The city's good people had turned into robbers, and its young soldiers had been massacred. Nor would the angels return, though this was the least among
his problems.
“Do you think that last night's destruction, suffering, and deaths have a meaning? Do you think that it's necessary to destroy thousands of lives to teach someone something?”
The boy looked at him in alarm.
“Put from your mind what I just said,” Elijah told him. “We're going to look for the shepherd.”
“And we're going to rebuild the city,” the boy insisted.
Elijah did not reply. He knew he would no longer be able to use his authority with the people, who accused him of having brought misfortune. The governor had taken flight, the commander was dead; soon Sidon and Tyre might fall under foreign domination. Perhaps the woman was right: the gods were always changing, and this time it was the Lord who had gone away.
“When will we go back there?” the boy asked again.
Elijah took him by the shoulders and began shaking him forcefully.
“Look behind you! You're not some blind angel but a boy who intended to spy on his mother's acts. What do you see? Have you noticed the columns of rising smoke? Do you know what that means?”
“You're hurting me! I want to leave here, I want to go away!”
Elijah stopped, disconcerted at himself: he had never acted in such a way. The boy broke loose and began running toward the city. Elijah overtook him and kneeled at his feet.
“Forgive me. I don't know what I'm doing.”
The boy sobbed, but not a single tear ran down his cheeks. Elijah sat beside him, waiting for him to regain his calm.
“Don't leave,” he asked. “When your mother went away, I promised her I'd stay with you until you could follow your own path.”
“You also promised that the city was whole. And she said–”
“There's no need to repeat it. I'm confused, lost in my own guilt. Give me time to find myself. I didn't mean to hurt you.”
The boy embraced him. But his eyes shed no tears.
THEY CAME TO THE HOUSE in the middle of the valley; a woman was at the door, and two children were playing in front. The flock was in the enclosure, which meant that the shepherd had not yet left for the mountains that morning.
Startled, the woman looked at the man and boy walking toward her. Her instinct was to send them away at once, but custom–and the gods–demanded that she honor the universal law of hospitality. If she did not receive them now, her own children might in the future suffer the same fate.
“I have no money,” she said. “But I can give you a little water and something to eat.”
They sat on a small porch with a straw roof, and she brought dried fruit and a jar of water. They ate in silence, experiencing, for the first time since the events of the night before, something of the normal routine that marked their every day. The children, frightened by the newcomers' appearance, had taken refuge inside the house.
When they finished their meal, Elijah asked about the shepherd.
“He'll be here soon,” she said. “We heard a lot of noise, and somebody came by this morning saying that Akbar had been destroyed. He went to see what happened.”
The children called her, and she went inside.
“It will avail me nothing to try to convince the boy,” Elijah thought. “He'll not leave me in peace until I do what he asks. I must show him that it is impossible; only then will he be persuaded.”
The food and water achieved a miracle: he again felt himself a part of the world.
His thoughts flowed with incredible speed, seeking solutions rather than answers.
SOME TIME LATER, the aged shepherd arrived. He looked at the man and boy with fear, concerned for the safety of his family. But he quickly understood what was happening.
“You must be refugees from Akbar,” he said. “I've just returned from there.”
“And what's happening?” asked the boy.
“The city was destroyed, and the governor ran away. The gods have disorganized the world.”
“We lost everything we had,” said Elijah. “We ask that you receive us.”
“I think my wife has already received you, and fed you. Now you must leave and face the unavoidable.”
“I don't know what to do with the boy. I'm in need of help.”
“Of course you know. He's young, he seems intelligent, and he has energy. And you have the experience of someone who's known many victories and defeats in life. The combination is perfect, because it can help you to find wisdom.”
The man looked at the wound on Elijah's arm. He said it was not serious; he entered the house and returned with some herbs and a piece of cloth. The boy helped him apply the poultice. When the shepherd said that he could do it alone, the boy told him that he had promised his mother to take care of this man.
The shepherd laughed.
“Your son is a man of his word.”
“I'm not his son. And he's a man of his word too. He'll rebuild the city because he has to bring my mother back, the way he did with me.”
Suddenly, Elijah understood the boy's concern, but before he could do anything, the shepherd shouted to his wife, who was coming out of the house at that moment. “It's better to start rebuilding life right away,” he said. “It will take a long time for everything to return to what it was.”
“It will never return.”
“You look like a wise young man, and you can understand many things that I cannot. But nature has taught me something that I shall never forget: a man who depends on the weather and the seasons, as only a shepherd does, manages to survive the unavoidable. He cares for his flock, treats each animal as if it were the only one, tries to help the mothers with their young, is never too far from a place where the animals can drink. Still, now and again one of the lambs to which he gave so much of himself dies in an accident. It might be a snake, some wild animal, or even a fall over a cliff. But the unavoidable always happens.”
Elijah looked in the direction of Akbar and recalled his conversation with the angel. The unavoidable always happens.
“You need discipline and patience to overcome it,” the shepherd said.
“And hope. When that no longer exists, one can't waste his energy fighting against the impossible.”
“It's not a question of hope in the future. It's a question of re-creating your own past.”
The shepherd was no longer in a hurry; his heart was filled with pity for the refugees who stood facing him. As he and his family had been spared the tragedy, it cost nothing to help them, and thus to thank the gods. Moreover, he had heard talk of the Israelite prophet who had climbed the Fifth Mountain without being slain by the fire from heaven; everything indicated that it was the man before him.
“You can stay another day if you wish.”
“I didn't understand what you said before,” commented Elijah. “About re-creating your own past.”
“I have long seen people passing through here on their way to Sidon and Tyre. Some of them complained that they had not achieved anything in Akbar and were setting out for a new destiny.
“One day these people would return. They had not found what they were seeking, for they carried with them, along with their bags, the weight of their earlier failure. A few returned with a government position, or with the joy of having given their children a better life, but nothing more. Their past in Akbar had left them fearful, and they lacked the confidence in themselves to take risks.
“On the other hand, there also passed my door people full of ardor. They had profited from every moment of life in Akbar and through great effort had accumulated the money for their journey. To these people, life was a constant triumph and would go on being one.
“These people also returned, but with wonderful tales to tell. They had achieved everything they desired because they were not limited by the frustrations of the past.”
THE SHEPHERD'S WORDS touched Elijah's heart.
“It is not difficult to rebuild a life, just as it is not impossible to raise
Akbar from its ruins,” the shepherd continued. “It is enough to be aware that we go on with the same strength that we had before. And to use that in our favor.”
The man gazed into Elijah's eyes.
“If you have a past that dissatisfies you, forget it now,” he went on. “Imagine a new story of your life, and believe in it. Concentrate only on those moments in which you achieved what you desired, and this strength will help you to accomplish what you want.”
“There was a moment when I desired to be a carpenter, and later I wanted to be a prophet sent to save Israel,” Elijah thought. “Angels descended from the heavens, the Lord spoke to me. Until I understood that He is not just and that His motives are always beyond my understanding.”
The shepherd called to his wife, saying that he was not leaving; he had already been to Akbar on foot, and he was too weary to walk farther.
“Thank you for receiving us,” Elijah said.
“It is no burden to shelter you for one night.”
The boy interrupted the conversation. “We want to go back to Akbar.”
“Wait till morning. The city is being sacked by its own inhabitants, and there is nowhere to sleep.”
The boy looked at the ground, bit his lip, and once again held back tears. The shepherd led them into the house, calmed his wife and children, and, to distract them, spent the rest of the day talking about the weather.
THE NEXT DAY THEY AWOKE EARLY, ATE THE MEAL PREPARED by the
shepherd's wife, and went to the door of the house.
“May your life be long and your flock grow ever larger,” said Elijah. “I have eaten what my body had need of, and my soul has learned what it did not know. May God never forget what you did for us, and may your sons not be strangers in a strange land.”
“I don't know to which God you refer; there are many who dwell on the Fifth Mountain,” the shepherd said brusquely, then quickly changed his tone. “Remember the good things you have done. They will give you courage.”
“I have done very few such things, and none of them was because of my abilities.”
“Then it's time to do more.”
“Perhaps I could have prevented the invasion.” The shepherd laughed.
“Even if you were governor of Akbar, you would not be able to stop the unavoidable.”
“Perhaps the governor of Akbar should have attacked the Assyrians when they first arrived in the valley with few troops. Or negotiated peace, before war broke out.”
“Everything that could have happened but did not is carried away with the wind and leaves no trace,” said the shepherd. “Life is made of our attitudes. And there are certain things that the gods oblige us to live through. Their reason for this does not matter, and there is no action we can take to make them pass us by.”
“Why?”
“Ask a certain Israelite prophet who lived in Akbar. He seems to have the answer to everything.”
The man went to the fence. “I must take my flock to pasture,” he said. “Yesterday they didn't go out, and they're impatient.”
He took his leave with a wave of his hand, departing with his sheep.
THE BOY AND THE MAN WALKED THROUGH THE VALLEY.
“You're walking slowly,” the boy said. “You're afraid of what might happen to you.”
“I'm afraid only of myself,” Elijah replied. “They can do me no harm because my heart has ceased to be.”
“The God that brought me back from death is alive. He can bring back my mother, if you do the same thing to the city.”
“Forget that God. He's far away and no longer does the miracles we hope for from Him.”
The old shepherd was right. From this moment on, it was necessary to
reconstruct his own past, forget that he had once thought himself to be a prophet who would free Israel but had failed in his mission of saving even one city.
The thought gave him a strange sense of euphoria. For the first time in his life he felt free, ready to do whatever he desired whenever he wished. True, he would hear no more angels, but as compensation he was free to return to Israel, to go back to work as a carpenter, to travel to Greece to learn the thoughts of wise men, or to journey with Phoenician navigators to the lands across the sea.
First, however, he must avenge himself. He had dedicated the best years of his youth to an unheeding God who was constantly giving commands and always did things in His own fashion. Elijah had learned to accept His decisions and to respect His designs.
But his loyalty had been rewarded by abandonment, his dedication had been ignored, his efforts to comply with the Supreme Being's will had led to the death of the only woman he had ever loved.
“Thou hast the strength of the world and the stars,” said Elijah in his native tongue, so that the boy beside him would not understand the words. “Thou canst destroy a city, a country, as we destroy insects. Send, then, Thy fire from heaven and end my life, for if Thou dost not, I shall go against Thy handiwork.”
Akbar loomed in the distance. He took the boy's hand and grasped it tightly.
“From this moment until we go through the city gates, I am going to walk with my eyes closed, and you must guide me,” he told the boy. “If I die on the way, do what you have asked me to do: rebuild Akbar, even if to do so you must first grow to manhood and learn to cut wood or work stone.”
The boy did not reply. Elijah closed his eyes and allowed himself to be led. He heard the blowing of the wind and the sound of his own steps in the sand.
He remembered Moses, who, after liberating the Chosen People and leading them through the desert, surmounting enormous difficulties, had been forbidden by God to enter Canaan. At the time, Moses had said:
“I pray Thee, let me go over, and see the good land that is beyond Jordan.”
The Lord, however, had been offended by his entreaty. And He had
answered, “Let it suffice thee; speak no more unto Me of this matter. Lift up thine eyes westward, and northward, and southward, and eastward, and behold it with thine eyes; for thou shalt not go over this Jordan.”
Thus had the Lord rewarded the long and arduous task of Moses: He had not permitted him to set foot in the Promised Land. What would have happened if he had disobeyed?
Elijah again turned his thoughts to the heavens.
“O Lord, this battle was not between Assyrians and Phoenicians but between Thee and me. Thou didst not foretell to me our singular war, and as ever, Thou hast triumphed and seen Thy will made manifest. Thou hast destroyed the woman I loved and the city that took me in when I was far from my homeland.”
The sound of the wind was louder in his ears. Elijah was afraid, but he continued.
“I cannot bring the woman back, but I can change the fate of Thy work of destruction. Moses accepted Thy will and did not cross the river. But I shall go forward: slay me now, because if Thou allowest me to arrive at the gates of the city, I shall rebuild that which Thou wouldst sweep from the face of the earth. And I shall go against Thy judgment.”
He fell silent. He emptied his mind and waited for death. For a long time he concentrated on nothing beyond the sound of his footsteps in the sand; he did not want to hear the voices of angels or threats from heaven. His heart was free, and no longer did he fear what might befall him. Yet in the depths of his soul was the beginning of disquiet, as if he had forgotten a thing of importance.
After much time had passed, the boy stopped, then tugged on Elijah's arm.
“We've arrived,” he said.
Elijah opened his eyes. The fire from heaven had not descended on him, and before him were the ruined walls of Akbar.
HE LOOKED AT THE BOY, WHO NOW CLUTCHED ELIJAH'S hand as if
fearing that he might escape. Did he love him? He had no idea. But such reflections could wait till later; for now, he had a task to carry out–the first in many years not imposed upon him by God.
From where they stood, he could smell the odor of burning. Scavenger
birds circled overhead, awaiting the right moment to devour the corpses of the sentinels that lay rotting in the sun. Elijah approached one of the fallen soldiers and took the sword from his belt. In the confusion of the previous night, the Assyrians had forgotten to gather up the weapons outside the city walls.
“Why do you want that?” the boy asked. “To defend myself.”
“The Assyrians aren't here anymore.”
“Even so, it's good to have it with me. We have to be prepared.”
His voice shook. It was impossible to know what might happen from the moment they crossed the half-destroyed wall, but he was ready to kill whoever tried to humiliate him.
“Like this city, I too was destroyed,” he told the boy. “But also like this city, I have not yet completed my mission.”
The boy smiled.
“You're talking the way you used to,” he said.
“Don't be fooled by words. Before, I had the objective of removing Jezebel from the throne and turning Israel back to the Lord; now that He has forgotten us, we must forget Him. My mission is to do what you have asked of me.”
The boy looked at him warily.
“Without God, my mother will not come back from the dead.” Elijah ran his hand over the boy's hair.
“Only your mother's body has gone away. She is still among us, and as she told us, she is Akbar. We must help her recover her beauty.”
THE CITY was almost deserted. Old people, women, and children were walking aimlessly through its streets, in a repetition of the scene he had witnessed the night of the invasion. They seemed uncertain of what to do next.
Each time Elijah's path crossed that of someone else, the boy saw him grip the handle of his sword. But the people displayed indifference; most recognized the prophet from Israel, some nodded at him, but none
directed a single word to him, not even one of hatred.
“They've lost even the sense of rage,” he thought, looking toward the top of the Fifth Mountain, the summit of which was covered as always by its eternal clouds. Then he recalled the Lord's words:
“I will cast your carcasses upon the carcasses of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you. And I will make your cities waste, and bring the land into desolation.
“And upon them that are left alive of you I will send a faintness into their hearts; and the sound of a shaken leaf shall chase them; and they shall fall when none pursueth.”
“BEHOLD, O LORD, WHAT THOU HAST WROUGHT: THOU hast kept Thy
promise, and the living dead still walk the earth. And Akbar is the city chosen to shelter them.”
Elijah and the boy continued to the main square, where they sat and rested on pieces of rubble while they surveyed their surroundings. The destruction seemed more severe and unrelenting than he had thought; the roofs of most of the houses had collapsed; filth and insects had taken over everything.
“The dead must be removed,” he said. “Or plague will enter the city through the main gate.”
The boy kept his eyes downward.
“Raise your head,” Elijah said. “We have much work to do, so your mother can be content.”
But the boy did not obey; he was beginning to understand: somewhere among the ruins was the body that had brought him into life, and that body was in a condition similar to all the others scattered on every side.
Elijah did not insist. He rose, lifted a corpse to his shoulders, and carried it to the middle of the square. He could not remember the Lord's recommendations about burying the dead; what he must do was prevent the coming of plague, and the only solution was to burn them.
He worked the entire morning. The boy did not stir from his place, nor did he raise his eyes for an instant, but he kept his promise to his mother: no tear dropped to Akbar's soil.
A woman stopped and stood for a time observing Elijah's efforts.
“The man who solved the problems of the living now puts in order the bodies of the dead,” she commented.
“Where are the men of Akbar?” Elijah asked.
“They left, and they took with them the little that remained. There is nothing left worth staying for. The only ones who haven't deserted the city are those incapable of leaving: the old, widows, and orphans.”
“But they were here for generations. They can't give up so easily.” “Try to explain that to someone who has lost everything.”
“Help me,” said Elijah, taking another corpse onto his shoulders and placing it on the pile. “We're going to burn them, so that the plague god will not come to visit us. He is horrified by the smell of burning flesh.”
“Let the plague god come,” said the woman. “And may he take us all, as soon as possible.”
Elijah went on with his task. The woman sat down beside the boy and watched what he was doing. After a time, she approached him again.
“Why do you want to save this wretched city?”
“If I stop to reflect on it, I'll conclude I'm incapable of accomplishing what I desire,” he answered.
The old shepherd was right: the only solution was to forget a past of uncertainty and create a new history for oneself. The former prophet had died together with a woman in the flames of her house; now he was a man without faith in God and beset by doubts. But he was still alive, even after challenging divine retribution. If he wished to continue on this path, he must do what he had proposed.
The woman chose one of the lighter bodies and dragged it by the heels, taking it to the pile that Elijah had started.
“It's not from fear of the plague god,” she said. “Or for Akbar, since the Assyrians will soon return. It's for that boy sitting there with his head hanging; he has to learn that he still has his life ahead of him.”
“Thank you,” said Elijah.
“Don't thank me. Somewhere in these ruins we'll find the body of my son. He was about the same age as the boy.”
She lifted her hand to her face and wept copiously. Elijah took her gently
by the arm.
“The pain you and I feel will never go away, but work will help us to bear it. Suffering has no strength to wound a weary body.”
They spent the entire day at the macabre task of collecting and piling up the dead; most of them were youths, whom the Assyrians had identified as part of Akbar's army. More than once he recognized friends, and wept–but he did not interrupt his task.
AT THE END of the afternoon, they were exhausted. Even so, the work done was far from sufficient, and no other inhabitant of Akbar had assisted.
The pair approached the boy, who lifted his head for the first time. “I'm hungry,” he said.
“I'm going to go look for something,” the woman answered. “There's plenty of food hidden in the various houses in Akbar; people were preparing for a long siege.”
“Bring food for me and for yourself, for we are ministering to the city with the sweat of our brows,” said Elijah. “But if the boy wants to eat, he will have to take care of himself.”
The woman understood; she would have done the same with her son. She went to the place where her house had stood; almost everything had been ransacked by looters in search of objects of value, and her collection of vases, created by the great master glassmakers of Akbar, lay in pieces on the floor. But she found the dried fruits and grain that she had cached.
She returned to the square, where she divided part of the food with Elijah. The boy said nothing.
An old man approached them.
“I saw that you spent all day gathering the bodies,” he said. “You're wasting your time; don't you know the Assyrians will be back, after they conquer Sidon and Tyre? Let the plague god come here and destroy them.”
“We're not doing this for them, or for ourselves,” Elijah answered. “She is working to teach a child that there is still a future. And I am working to show him there is no longer a past.”
“So the prophet is no more a threat to the great princess of Sidon: what a surprise! Jezebel will rule Israel till the end of her days, and we shall always have a refuge if the Assyrians are not generous to the conquered.”
Elijah did not reply. The name that had once awakened in him such hatred now sounded strangely distant.
“Akbar will be rebuilt, in any case,” the old man insisted. “The gods choose where cities are erected, and they will not abandon it; but we can leave that labor for the generations to come.”
“We can, but we will not.”
Elijah turned his back on the old man, ending the conversation.
The three of them slept in the open air. The woman embraced the boy, noting that his stomach was growling from hunger. She considered giving him food but quickly dismissed the idea: fatigue truly did diminish pain, and the boy, who seemed to be suffering greatly, needed to busy himself with something. Perhaps hunger would persuade him to work.
THE NEXT DAY, ELIJAH AND THE WOMAN RESUMED their labors. The old man who had approached them the night before came to them again.
“I don't have anything to do and I could help you,” he said. “But I'm too weak to carry bodies.”
“Then gather bricks and small pieces of wood. Sweep away the ashes.” The old man began doing as they asked.
WHEN THE SUN reached its zenith, Elijah sat on the ground, exhausted. He knew that his angel was at his side, but he could not hear him. “To what avail? He was unable to help me when I needed him, and now I don't want his counsel; all I desire is to put this city in order, to show God I can face Him, and then leave for wherever I want to go.”
Jerusalem was not far away, just seven days' travel on foot, with no really difficult places to pass through, but there he was hunted as a traitor. Perhaps it would be better to go to Damascus, or find work as a scribe in some Greek city.
He felt something touch him. He turned and saw the boy holding a small
jar.
“I found it in one of the houses,” the boy said.
It was full of water. Elijah drank it to the final drop.
“Eat something,” he said. “You're working and deserve your reward.”
For the first time since the night of the invasion, a smile appeared on the boy's lips, and he ran to the spot where the woman had left the fruits and grain.
Elijah returned to his work, entering destroyed homes, pushing aside the rubble, picking up the bodies, and carrying them to the pile in the middle of the square. The bandage that the shepherd had put on his arm had fallen off, but that mattered little; he had to prove to himself that he was strong enough to regain his dignity.
The old man, who now was amassing the refuse scattered throughout the square, was right: soon the enemy would be back, to harvest fruits they had not sown. Elijah was laboring for the invaders–the assassins of the only woman he had ever loved in his life. The Assyrians were superstitious and would rebuild Akbar in any case. According to ancient beliefs, the gods had spaced the cities in an organized manner, in harmony with the valleys, the animals, the rivers, the seas. In each of these they had set aside a sacred place to rest during their long voyages about the world. When a city was destroyed, there was always a great risk that the skies would tumble to the earth.
Legend said that the founder of Akbar had passed through there, hundreds of years before, journeying from the north. He decided to sleep at the spot and, to mark where he had left his things, planted a wooden staff upright in the ground. The next day, he was unable to withdraw it, and he quickly understood the will of the Universe; he marked with a stone the place where the miracle had occurred, and he discovered a spring nearby. Little by little, tribes began settling around the stone and the well; Akbar was born.
The governor had once explained to Elijah that, following Phoenician custom, every city was the third point, the element liking the will of heaven to the will of the earth. The Universe made the seed transform itself into a plant, the soil allowed it to grow, man harvested it and took it to the city, where the offerings to the gods were consecrated before they were left at the sacred mountains. Even though he had not traveled widely, Elijah was aware that a similar vision was shared by many nations of the world.
The Assyrians feared leaving the gods of the Fifth Mountain without food; they had no desire to disturb the equilibrium of the Universe.
“Why am I thinking such thoughts, if this is a struggle between my will and that of the Lord, who has left me alone in the midst of tribulations?”
The sensation he had felt the day before, when he challenged God, returned: he was forgetting something of importance, and however much he forced his memory, he could not recall it.
ANOTHER DAY WENT BY. MOST OF THE BODIES HAD been collected when a second woman approached.
“I have nothing to eat,” she said.
“Nor have we,” answered Elijah. “Yesterday and today we divided among three what had been intended for one. Discover where you can obtain food, then inform me.”
“Where can I learn that?”
“Ask the children. They know everything.”
Ever since he had offered Elijah water, the boy had seemed to recover some part of his taste for life. Elijah had told him to help the old man gather up the trash and debris but had not succeeded in keeping him working for long; he was now playing with the other boys in a corner of the square.
“It's better this way. He'll have his time to sweat when he's a man.” But Elijah did not regret having made him spend an entire night hungry, under the pretext that he must work; if he had treated him as a poor orphan, the victim of the evil of murderous warriors, he would never have emerged from the depression into which he had been plunged when they entered the city. Now Elijah planned to leave him by himself for a few days to find his own answers to what had taken place.
“How can children know anything?” said the woman who had asked him for food.
“See for yourself.”
The woman and the old man who were helping Elijah saw her talking to the young boys playing in the street. They said something, and she turned, smiled, and disappeared around one corner of the square.
“How did you find out that the children knew?” the old man asked.
“Because I was once a boy, and I know that children have no past,” he said, remembering once again his conversation with the shepherd. “They were horrified the night of the invasion, but they're no longer concerned about it; the city has been transformed into an immense park where they can come and go without being bothered. Naturally they would come across the food that people had put aside to withstand the siege of Akbar.
“A child can always teach an adult three things: to be happy for no reason, to always be busy with something, and to know how to demand with all his might that which he desires. It was because of that boy that I returned to Akbar.”
THAT AFTERNOON, more old men and women added their numbers to the labor of collecting the dead. The children put to flight the scavenger birds and brought pieces of wood and cloth. When night fell, Elijah set fire to the immense pile of corpses. The survivors of Akbar contemplated silently the smoke rising to the heavens.
As soon as the task was completed, Elijah was felled by exhaustion. Before sleeping, however, the sensation he had felt that morning came again: something of importance was struggling desperately to enter his memory. It was nothing that he had learned during his time in Akbar but an ancient story, one that seemed to make sense of everything that was happening.
THAT NIGHT, a man entered Jacob's tent and wrestled with him until the break of day. And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he said, “Let me go.”
Jacob answered, “I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.”
Then the man said to him: “As a prince, hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed. What is thy name?” And he said, Jacob.
And the man answered: “Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel.”
ELIJAH AWOKE WITH A START AND LOOKED AT THE FIRMAMENT. That
was the story that was missing!
Long ago, the patriarch Jacob had encamped, and during the night, someone had entered his tent and wrestled with him until daybreak. Jacob accepted the combat, even knowing that his adversary was the Lord. At morning, he had still not been defeated; and the combat ceased only when God agreed to bless him.
The story had been transmitted from generation to generation so that no one would ever forget: sometimes it was necessary to struggle with God. Every human being at some time had tragedy enter his life; it might be the destruction of a city, the death of a son, an unproved accusation, a sickness that left one lame forever. At that moment, God challenged one to confront Him and to answer His question: “Why dost thou cling fast to an existence so short and so filled with suffering? What is the meaning of thy struggle?”
The man who did not know how to answer this question would resign himself, while another, one who sought a meaning to existence, feeling that God had been unjust, would challenge his own destiny. It was at this moment that fire of a different type descended from the heavens–not the fire that kills but the kind that tears down ancient walls and imparts to each human being his true possibilities. Cowards never allow their hearts to blaze with this fire; all they desire is for the changed situation to quickly return to what it was before, so they can go on living their lives and thinking in their customary way. The brave, however, set afire that which was old and, even at the cost of great internal suffering, abandon everything, including God, and continue onward.
“The brave are always stubborn.”
From heaven, God smiles contentedly, for it was this that He desired, that each person take into his hands the responsibility for his own life. For, in the final analysis, He had given His children the greatest of all gifts: the capacity to choose and determine their acts.
Only those men and women with the sacred flame in their hearts had the courage to confront Him. And they alone knew the path back to His love, for they understood that tragedy was not punishment but challenge.
Elijah retraced in his mind each of his steps. Upon leaving the carpentry shop, he had accepted his mission without dispute. Even though it was real–and he felt it was–he had never had the opportunity to see what was happening in the paths that he had chosen not to follow because he feared losing his faith, his dedication, his will. He thought it very dangerous to experience the path of common folk–he might become
accustomed to it and find pleasure in what he saw. He did not understand that he was a person like any other, even if he heard angels and now and again received orders from God; in his certainty that he knew what he wanted, he had acted in the selfsame way as those who at no time in their lives had ever made an important decision.
He had fled from doubt. From defeat. From moments of indecision. But the Lord was generous and had led him to the abyss of the unavoidable, to show him that man must choose–and not accept–his fate.
Many, many years before, on a night like this, Jacob had not allowed God to leave without blessing him. It was then that the Lord had asked: “What is thy name?”
The essential point was this: to have a name. When Jacob had answered, God had baptized him Israel. Each one has a name from birth but must learn to baptize his life with the word he has chosen to give meaning to that life.
“I am Akbar,” she had said.
The destruction of the city and the death of the woman he loved had been necessary for Elijah to understand that he too must have a name. And at that moment he named his life Liberation.
HE STOOD and looked at the square before him: smoke still rose from the ashes of those who had lost their lives. By setting fire to the bodies he had challenged an ancient custom of the country, which demanded that the dead be buried in accord with ritual. He had struggled with God and with custom by choosing incineration, but he felt no sense of sin when a new solution was needed to a new problem. God was infinite in His mercy, and implacable in His severity with those who lacked the courage to dare.
He looked around the square again: some of the survivors still had not slept and kept their gaze fixed on the flames, as if the fire were also consuming their memories, their pasts, Akbar's two hundred years of peace and torpor. The time for fear and hope had ended: now there remained only rebuilding or defeat.
Like Elijah, they too could choose a name for themselves. Reconciliation, Wisdom, Lover, Pilgrim–there were as many choices as stars in the sky, but each one had need to give a name to his life.
Elijah rose and prayed, “I fought Thee, Lord, and I am not ashamed. And
because of it I discovered that I am on my path because such is my wish, not because it was imposed on me by my father and mother, by the customs of my country, or even by Thee.
“It is to Thee, O Lord, that I would return at this moment. I wish to praise Thee with the strength of my will and not with the cowardice of one who has not known how to choose another path. But for Thee to confide to me Thy important mission, I must continue this battle against Thee, until Thou bless me.”
To rebuild Akbar. What Elijah thought was a challenge to God was, in truth, his reencounter with Him.
THE WOMAN WHO HAD ASKED ABOUT FOOD REAPPEARED the next
morning. She was accompanied by several other women.
“We found some deposits,” she said. “Because so many died, and so many fled with the governor, we have enough food for a year.”
“Seek older people to oversee the distribution of food,” Elijah said. “They have experience at organization.”
“The old ones have lost the will to live.” “Ask them to come anyway.”
The woman was making ready to leave when Elijah stopped her. “Do you know how to write, using letters?”
“No.”
“I have learned, and I can teach you. You'll need this skill to help me administer the city.”
“But the Assyrians will return.”
“When they arrive, they'll need our help to manage the affairs of the city.”
“Why should we do this for the enemy?”
“So that each of us can give a name to his life. The enemy is only a pretext to test our strength.”
AS ELIJAH HAD FORESEEN, the old people came.
“Akbar needs your help,” he told them. “Because of that, you don't have the luxury of being old; we need the youth that you once had and have lost.”
“We do not know where to find it,” one of them replied. “It vanished among the wrinkles and the disillusion.”
“That's not true. You never had illusions, and it is that which caused your youth to hide itself away. Now is the moment to find it again, for we have a dream in common: to rebuild Akbar.”
“How can we do the impossible?” “With ardor.”
Eyes veiled behind sorrow and discouragement made an effort to shine again. They were no longer the useless citizens who attended judgments searching for something to talk about later in the day; now they had an important mission before them. They were needed.
The stronger among them separated the usable materials from the damaged houses and utilized them to repair those that were still standing. The older ones helped spread in the fields the ashes of the incinerated bodies, so that the city's dead might be remembered at the next harvest; others took on the task of separating the grains stocked haphazardly throughout the city, making bread, and raising water from the well.
TWO NIGHTS LATER, ELIJAH GATHERED ALL THE INHABITANTS in the
square, now cleared of most of the debris. Torches were lit, and he began to speak.
“We have no choice,” he said. “We can leave this work for the foreigner to do; but that means giving away the only chance that a tragedy offers us: that of rebuilding our lives.
“The ashes of the dead that we burned some days ago will become the plants that are reborn in the spring. The son who was lost the night of the invasion will become the many children running freely through the ruined streets and amusing themselves by invading forbidden places and houses they had never known. Until now only the children have been able to overcome what took place, because they have no past–for them, everything that matters is the present moment. So we shall try to act as
they do.”
“Can a man cast from his heart the pain of a loss?” asked a woman. “No. But he can find joy in something won.”
Elijah turned, pointed to the top of the Fifth Mountain, forever covered in clouds. The destruction of the walls had made it visible from the middle of the square.
“I believe in One God, though you think that the gods dwell in those clouds on the Fifth Mountain. I don't want to argue whether my God is stronger or more powerful; I would speak not of our differences but of our similarities. Tragedy has united us in a single sentiment: despair. Why has that come to pass? Because we thought that everything was answered and decided in our souls, and we could accept no changes.
“Both you and I belong to trading nations, but we also know how to act as warriors,” he continued. “And a warrior is always aware of what is worth fighting for. He does not go into combat over things that do not concern him, and he never wastes his time over provocations.
“A warrior accepts defeat. He does not treat it as a matter of indifference, nor does he attempt to transform it into a victory. The pain of defeat is bitter to him; he suffers at indifference and becomes desperate with loneliness. After all this has passed, he licks his wounds and begins everything anew. A warrior knows that war is made of many battles; he goes on.
“Tragedies do happen. We can discover the reason, blame others, imagine how different our lives would be had they not occurred. But none of that is important: they did occur, and so be it. From there onward we must put aside the fear that they awoke in us and begin to rebuild.
“Each of you will give yourselves a new name, beginning at this very moment. This will be the sacred name that brings together in a single word all that you have dreamed of fighting for. For my name, I have chosen Liberation.”
The square was silent for some time. Then the woman who had been the first to help Elijah rose to her feet.
“My name is Reencounter,” she said. “My name is Wisdom,” said an old man.
The son of the widow whom Elijah had loved shouted, “My name is
Alphabet.”
The people in the square burst into laughter. The boy, embarrassed, sat down again.
“How can anybody call himself Alphabet?” shouted another boy.
Elijah could have interfered, but it was good for the boy to learn to defend himself.
“Because that was what my mother did,” the boy said. “Whenever I look at drawn letters, I'll remember her.”
This time no one laughed. One by one, the orphans, widows, and old people of Akbar spoke their names, and their new identities. When the ceremony was over, Elijah asked everyone to go to sleep early: they had to resume their labors the next morning.
He took the boy by the hand, and the two went to the place in the square where a few pieces of cloth had been extended to form a tent.
Starting that night, he began teaching him the writing of Byblos.
THE DAYS BECAME WEEKS, AND THE FACE OF AKBAR was changing. The
boy quickly learned to draw the letters and had already begun creating words that made sense; Elijah charged him with writing on clay tablets the history of the rebuilding of the city.
The clay tablets were baked in an improvised oven, transformed into ceramics, and carefully stored away by an aged couple. At the meetings at the end of each afternoon, Elijah asked the old folk to tell of what they had seen in their childhood, and he wrote down the greatest possible number of stories.
“We shall keep Akbar's memory on a material that fire cannot destroy,” he explained. “One day our children and the children of their children will know that defeat was not accepted, and that the unavoidable was overcome. This can serve as an example for them.”
Each night, after his lessons with the boy, Elijah would walk through the deserted city until he came to the beginning of the road leading to Jerusalem; he would think about departing, then turn around.
The heavy work demanded that he concentrate on the present moment. He knew that the inhabitants of Akbar were relying on him for the rebuilding; he had already disappointed them once, when he had been
unable to prevent the death of the enemy general–and thus avoid war. But God always gives His children a second chance, and he must take advantage of this new opportunity. In addition, he was becoming ever fonder of the boy and desired to teach him not only the characters of Byblos but also faith in the Lord and the wisdom of his ancestors.
Even so, he did not forget that in his own land reigned a foreign princess and a foreign god. There were no more angels bearing flaming swords; he was free to leave whenever he desired, and to do whatever he wished.
Each night, he thought of departing. And each night he would lift his hands to the heavens and pray.
“Jacob fought the whole night through and was blessed at daybreak. I have fought Thee for days, for months, and Thou refusest me Thy ear. But if Thou lookest about Thee, Thou wilt know that I am winning: Akbar is rising from its ruins, and I am rebuilding what Thou, using the Assyrian sword, made ashes and dust.
“I shall struggle with Thee until Thou bless me, and bless the fruits of my labor. One day Thou shalt have to answer me.”
WOMEN AND CHILDREN carried water to the fields, struggling against the drought that seemed to have no end. One day, when the inclement sun shone down in all its force, Elijah heard someone say, “We work without ceasing, we no longer recall the pains of that night, and we even forget that the Assyrians will return as soon as they have sacked Tyre, Sidon, Byblos, and all of Phoenicia. This is a good thing for us.
“But because we concentrate so much on rebuilding the city, it seems that everything remains the same; we do not see the result of our effort.”
Elijah reflected for some time on what he had heard. And he ordered that, at the end of each day of work, the people gather at the foot of the Fifth Mountain to contemplate together the sunset.
Most were so weary that they exchanged not a word, but they discovered that it is important to allow thought to wander as aimlessly as the clouds in the sky. In this way, anxiety fled from each person's heart and they found inspiration and strength for the day to come.
ELIJAH AWOKE SAYING THAT TODAY HE WOULD NOT LABOR.
“In my land, this is the Day of Atonement.”
“There is no sin in your soul,” a woman told him. “You have done the best that you can.”
“But custom must be maintained. And I shall keep it.”
The women left, bearing water for the fields, the old men went back to their task of erecting walls and shaping the wood for doors and windows. The children helped to mold the small clay bricks that would later be baked in fire. Elijah watched them with immense joy in his heart. Then he went out from Akbar and walked toward the valley.
He wandered about aimlessly, praying the prayers that he had learned in childhood. The sun was not yet completely risen, and from the place where he stood he could see the enormous shadow of the Fifth Mountain covering part of the valley. He felt a horrible premonition: the struggle between the God of Israel and the gods of the Phoenicians would go on for many generations, and for many thousands of years.
HE RECALLED that one night he had climbed to the top of the mountain and spoken with an angel. But since Akbar's destruction he had never again heard the voices from heaven.
“O Lord, today is the Day of Atonement, and my list of sins against Thee is long,” he said, turning toward Jerusalem. “I have been weak, for I have forgotten my strength. I have been compassionate when I should have been firm. I have failed to choose, for fear of making the wrong decision. I have yielded before the time to do so, and I have blasphemed when I should have given thanks.
“Still, Lord, I have also a long list of Thy sins against me. Thou hast made me suffer more than was just, by taking from this world one that I loved. Thou hast destroyed the city that received me, Thou hast confounded my search, Thy harshness almost made me forget the love I have for Thee. For all that time I have struggled with Thee, yet Thou dost not accept the worthiness of my combat.
“If we compare the list of my sins with the list of Thy sins, Thou shalt see that Thou art in my debt. But, as today is the Day of Atonement, give me Thy forgiveness and I shall forgive Thee, so that we may go on walking at each other's side.”
At that moment, a wind blew, and he heard his angel say to him, “Thou hast done well, Elijah. God hath accepted thy combat.”
Tears streamed from his eyes. He knelt and kissed the valley's arid soil.
“Thanks unto you for having come, for I still have one doubt: is it not a sin to do this?”
The angel said, “If a warrior fight with his instructor, doth he offend him?”
“No. It is the only way to teach the technique that he must learn.”
“Then continue, until the Lord call thee back to Israel,” said the angel. “Rise and go on proving that thy struggle hath meaning, because thou hast known how to cross the current of the unavoidable. Many navigate it and founder; others are swept to places for which they were not fated. But thou confrontest the crossing with dignity; thou hast guided the path of thy vessel well and transformed pain into action.”
“How sad that you are blind,” said Elijah. “Otherwise you would see how orphans, widows, old people have been able to rebuild a city. Soon, all will be as it was.”
“Would that it not be so,” said the angel. “Remember that they have paid a high price so that their lives could be changed.”
Elijah smiled. The angel was right.
“Would that thou mightest act as do men who are given a second chance: do not twice commit the same error. Never forget the reason for thy life.”
“I shall not forget,” he replied, happy that the angel had returned.
CARAVANS NO LONGER CAME THROUGH THE VALLEY; the Assyrians must
have destroyed the roads and changed the trade routes. Day after day, children scaled the only turret in the wall that had escaped destruction; they were charged with watching the horizon and alerting the city to the return of enemy warriors. Elijah planned to receive them with dignity and hand over command.
Then he could depart.
But with each passing day the feeling grew that Akbar had become part of his life. Perhaps his mission was not to remove Jezebel from the
throne but to be there with these people for the rest of his life, carrying out the humble role of servant for the Assyrian conqueror. He would help to reestablish trade routes, learn the language of the enemy, and during his moments of repose, oversee the library, which was daily more complete.
Whereas on a night already lost in time the city had appeared to be at its end, it now seemed possible to make it even more beautiful than it had been. The work of rebuilding encompassed widening streets, erecting sturdier roofs, and creating an ingenious system for bringing water from the well to the most distant places. And his soul too was being restored; each day he learned something new from the old people, from the children, from the women. That group, which had not abandoned Akbar only because of the absolute impossibility of doing so, was now a competent, disciplined company.
“If the governor had known that they were of such help, he would have created another type of defense, and Akbar would not have been destroyed.”
Elijah thought a moment, then saw that he was mistaken. Akbar needed to be destroyed so that all could awaken the forces that lay dormant inside their own being.
Months went by without the Assyrians showing any sign of life. By now Akbar was almost complete, and Elijah could think of the future. The women had repaired pieces of cloth and made new garments from them. The old folk were reorganizing the dwellings and attending to the city's sanitation. The children were helping when asked, but they usually spent the day at play: that is a child's foremost obligation.
Elijah lived with the boy in a small stone house rebuilt on the site that had once been a storage place for merchandise. Each night the inhabitants of Akbar would sit around a fire in the main square, telling stories that they had heard earlier in their lives, alongside the boy, who noted everything on clay tablets that were baked the next day. The library was growing before their very eyes.
The woman who had lost her son was also learning the characters of Byblos. When Elijah saw that she could create words and phrases, he charged her with teaching the alphabet to the rest of the population; in this way, when the Assyrians returned, they could be used as interpreters or teachers.
“This was just what the high priest wanted to prevent,” an old man, who had taken the name Ocean because he desired to have a soul as great as
the sea, said one afternoon. “That the writing of Byblos survive to threaten the gods of the Fifth Mountain.”
“Who can prevent the unavoidable?” Elijah replied.
The people of Akbar would toil by day, watch the sunset together, and recount stories during the night.
Elijah was proud of his work. And with each day that passed he grew more impassioned with it.
One of the children charged with keeping the vigil descended in a run. “I saw dust on the horizon!” he said excitedly. “The enemy is returning!”
Elijah climbed to the turret and saw that the news was correct. He reckoned that they would be at the gates of Akbar the next day.
That afternoon he told the inhabitants that they should not attend the sunset but gather in the square. When the day's work was over, he stood before the assembled group and saw that they were afraid.
“Today we shall tell no stories of the past, nor speak of Akbar's future,” he said. “We shall talk about ourselves.”
No one said a word.
“Some time ago, a full moon shone in the sky. That night, what all of us had foreseen, but did not want to accept, came to pass: Akbar was destroyed. When the Assyrian army departed, the best among our men were dead. Those who had escaped saw that it was futile to remain here, and they determined to go. Only the old, the widows, and the orphans were left–that is, the useless.
“Look about you; the square is more beautiful than ever, the buildings are more solid, the food is divided among us, and everyone is learning the writing invented in Byblos. Somewhere in this city is a collection of tablets on which we have written our stories, and generations yet to be born will remember what we did.
“Today we know that the old, the widows, the orphans, also departed. They left in their place a band of youths of every age, filled with enthusiasm, who have given name and meaning to their lives.
“At each moment of rebuilding, we knew that the Assyrians would return. We knew that one day we would be obliged to hand our city over to them and, together with the city, our efforts, our sweat, our joy at seeing it more beautiful than before.”
The light from the fire illuminated tears coursing down the faces of some of the people. Even the children, who customarily played during the evening meetings, were listening attentively to his words. Elijah continued.
“This does not matter. We have carried out our duty to the Lord because we accepted His challenge and the honor of His struggle. Before that night, He had urged us, saying, Walk! But we heeded Him not. Why?
“Because each of us had already decided his own future: I thought only of removing Jezebel from the throne, the woman who is now called Reencounter wanted her son to become a navigator, the man who today bears the name Wisdom wished merely to spend the rest of his days drinking wine in the square. We were accustomed to the sacred mystery of life and gave little importance to it.
“Then the Lord thought to Himself: They would not walk? Then let them be idle for a long time!
“And only then did we understand His message. The steel of Assyrian blades swept away our youth, and cowardice swept away our adults. Wherever they are at this moment, they are still idle; they have accepted God's curse.
“We, however, struggle with the Lord, just as we struggle with the men and women we love in our lifetimes. For it is that struggle with the divine that blesses us and makes us grow. We grasp the opportunity in the tragedy and do our duty by Him, by proving we were able to obey the order to walk. Even in the worst of circumstances, we have forged ahead.
“There are moments when God demands obedience. But there are moments in which He wishes to test our will and challenges us to understand His love. We understood that will when Akbar's walls tumbled to the ground: they opened our horizon and allowed each of us to see his capabilities. We stopped thinking about life and chose to live it.
“The result is good.”
Elijah saw that the people's eyes were shining again. They had understood.
“Tomorrow I shall deliver Akbar without a struggle; I am free to leave whenever I choose, for I have done what the Lord expected of me. But my blood, my sweat, and the only love I have known are in the soil of this city, and I have decided to remain here the rest of my days, to prevent its being destroyed again. Make whatever decision you wish but
never forget one thing: all of you are much better than you believed.
“Take advantage of the chance that tragedy has given you; not everyone is capable of doing so.”
Elijah rose, ending the meeting. He told the boy that he would return late and said he should go to bed without waiting for his arrival.
HE WENT TO THE TEMPLE, the only place that had escaped the destruction and had not needed rebuilding, though the statues of the gods had been taken away by the Assyrians. With all respect, he touched the stone that, according to tradition, marked the spot where an ancestor had embedded a staff in the ground and been unable to wrest it free.
He thought how, in his country, places such as this were being erected by Jezebel, and a part of his people bowed down before Baal and his deities. Once again the premonition ran through his soul that the war between the Lord of Israel and the gods of Phoenicia would go on for a long time, beyond anything his imagination could encompass. As in a vision, he saw stars crossing the sun and raining death and destruction on both countries. Men who spoke strange languages rode animals of steel and dueled in the middle of the clouds.
“It is not this that thou shouldst now see, for the time hath not yet come,” he heard his angel say. “Look out the window.”
Elijah did as he was ordered. Outside, the full moon illuminated the streets and houses of Akbar, and despite the late hour he could hear conversations and laughter from the city's inhabitants. Even facing the Assyrians' return, the people kept the will to live, ready to confront a new stage in their lives.
He saw a form and knew that it was the woman he had loved, who now returned to walk with pride through her city. He smiled, feeling her touch his face.
“I am proud,” she seemed to be saying. “Akbar truly is still beautiful.”
He felt the urge to weep, then remembered the boy, who had never shed a tear for his mother. He checked his sobs and thought anew of the most beautiful parts of the story that together they had lived, from the meeting at the city gates, till the moment she had written the word love on a clay tablet. Once again he could see her garment, her chair, the fine sculpting of her nose.
“You told me you were Akbar. Well, I have taken care of you, healed your wounds, and now I return you to life. May you be happy among your new companions.
“And I want to tell you something: I too was Akbar and did not know.” He knew that she was smiling.
“Long since, the desert wind wiped away our footprints in the sand. But at every second of my existence, I remember what happened, and you still walk in my dreams and in my reality. Thank you for having crossed my path.”
He slept there, in the temple, feeling the woman caressing his hair.
THE CHIEF TRADER SAW A RAGGED GROUP OF PEOPLE IN the middle of
the road. Thinking they were robbers, he ordered the caravan to take up arms.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We are the people of Akbar,” replied a bearded man with shining eyes. The leader of the caravan noticed that he spoke with a foreign accent.
“Akbar was destroyed. We have been charged by the governments of Sidon and Tyre to find a well so caravans can cross the valley again. Communication with the rest of the land cannot be interrupted forever.”
“Akbar still exists,” the man said. “Where are the Assyrians?”
“The entire world knows where they are,” laughed the caravan leader. “Making the soil more fertile. And feeding the birds and wild animals for a long time now.”
“But they were a powerful army.”
“There's no such thing as power or an army, if we find out where they're going to attack. Akbar sent word that they were approaching, and Sidon and Tyre set an ambuscade for them at the end of the valley. Whoever didn't die in battle was sold as slaves by our navigators.”
The ragged people cheered and embraced one another, crying and laughing at the same time.
“Who are you people?” insisted the trader. “And who are you?” he asked, pointing to their leader.
“We are the young warriors of Akbar” was the reply.
THE THIRD HARVEST had begun, and Elijah was the governor of Akbar. There had been great resistance at first; the old governor had attempted to return and reoccupy his position, for such did custom dictate. The inhabitants of the city, however, refused to admit him and for days threatened to poison the water in the well. The Phoenician authorities finally yielded to their demands; after all, Akbar's only importance was the water it supplied to travelers, and the government of Israel was in the hands of a princess of Tyre. By conceding the position of governor to an Israelite, the Phoenician rulers could begin to consolidate a stronger commercial alliance.
The news spread throughout the region, carried by the merchant caravans that had begun circulating again. A minority in Israel considered Elijah the worst of traitors, but at the proper moment Jezebel would take on the task of eliminating this resistance, and peace would return to the region. The princess was content, for one of her worst foes had in the end become her greatest ally.
RUMORS OF A NEW Assyrian invasion began to arise, and the walls of Akbar were rebuilt. A new system of defense was developed, with sentinels and outposts spread between Tyre and Akbar; in this way, if one of the cities was besieged, the other could send troops overland while assuring the delivery of food by sea.
The city prospered before one's very eyes: the new Israelite governor had created a rigorous system, based on writing, to control taxes and merchandise. The old folk of Akbar attended to it all, using new techniques for supervision, and patiently resolved the problems that arose.
The women divided their time between tending to the crops and weaving. During the period of isolation, to recover the small amount of cloth that had remained, they had been obliged to create new patterns of embroidery; when the first merchants arrived in the city, they were enchanted by the designs and placed several orders.
The children too had learned the writing of Byblos; Elijah was certain that one day this would be of help to them.
As was always his wont before the harvest, he strolled through the fields
that afternoon, giving thanks to the Lord for the countless blessings bestowed upon him for all these years. He saw people with their baskets filled with grain, and around them children at play. He waved to them, and they returned his greeting.
Smiling, he walked toward the stone where, long ago, he had been given a clay tablet with the word love. It was his custom to visit that spot every day to watch the sunset and recall each instant that they had spent together.
“AND IT CAME TO PASS AFTER MANY DAYS, THAT THE WORD OF the Lord
came to Elijah in the third year, saying, Go, shew thyself unto Ahab; and I will send rain upon the earth.”
FROM THE STONE WHERE HE SAT, ELIJAH SAW THE world shudder about him. The sky turned black for an instant, but the sun quickly shone again.
He saw the light. An angel of the Lord was before him.
“What has happened?” asked Elijah, startled. “Has the Lord pardoned Israel?”
“No,” answered the angel. “He desireth that thou return to liberate thy people. Thy struggle with Him is ended, and–at this moment–he hath blessed thee. He hath given thee leave to continue His work in that land.”
Elijah was astonished.
“But, now, just when my heart has again found peace?”
“Recall the lesson once taught thee,” said the angel. “And recall the words the Lord spake unto Moses:
“And thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee to humble thee, and to prove thee. To know what was in thine heart.
“Lest when thou hast eaten and art full, and hast built goodly houses, and dwelt therein, and when thy herds and thy flocks multiply, then thine heart be lifted up, and thou forget the Lord thy God.”
Elijah turned to the angel. “What about Akbar?” he asked.
“It can live without thee, for thou hast left an heir. It will survive for many years.”
The angel of the Lord disappeared.
ELIJAH AND THE BOY ARRIVED AT THE FOOT OF THE Fifth Mountain.
Weeds had grown between the stones of the altars; since the high priest's death no one had gone there.
“Let's climb it,” he said. “It's forbidden.”
“Yes, it's forbidden. But that doesn't mean it's dangerous.”
He took him by both hands, and they began climbing toward the top. They stopped from time to time to gaze at the valley below; the absence of rain had left its mark throughout the countryside, and with the exception of the cultivated fields around Akbar, everything seemed a desert as harsh as those of Egypt.
“I've heard my friends say the Assyrians are coming back,” the boy said.
“That could be, but what we have done was worthwhile; it was the way that God chose to teach us.”
“I don't know if He bothers much with us,” the boy said. “He didn't have to be so severe.”
“He must have tried other means before discovering that we were not listening to Him. We were too accustomed to our lives and no longer read His words.”
“Where are they written?”
“In the world around us. Merely be attentive to what happens in your life, and you will discover where, every moment of the day, He hides His words and His will. Seek to do as He asks: this alone is the reason you are in the world.”
“If I discover it, I'll write it on clay tablets.”
“Do so. But write them, above all, in your heart; there they can be neither burned nor destroyed, and you will take them wherever you go.”
They walked for some time more. The clouds were now very close.
“I don't want to go there,” the boy said, pointing to them. “They will do you no harm: they're just clouds. Come with me.”
He took him by the hands, and they climbed. Little by little, they found themselves entering the fog. The boy clung to him, and although Elijah tried to talk to him now and again, he said not a word. They walked among the naked rocks of the summit.
“Let's go back,” asked the boy.
Elijah decided not to insist; the boy had already experienced great difficulties and much fear in his short life. He did as he was asked; they came out from the fog and could once again discern the valley below.
“Someday, look in Akbar's library for what I wrote for you. It's called
The Manual of the Warrior of Light.”
“Am I a warrior of light?” replied the boy.
“Do you know what my name is?” asked Elijah. “Liberation.”
“Sit here beside me,” said Elijah, pointing to a rock. “I cannot forget my name. I must continue with my task, even if at this moment all I desire is to be at your side. That was why Akbar was rebuilt, to teach us that it is necessary to go onward, however difficult it may appear.”
“You're going away.”
“How do you know?” he asked, surprised.
“I wrote it on a tablet, last night. Something told me; it may have been my mother, or an angel. But I already felt it in my heart.”
Elijah caressed the boy's head.
“You have learned to read God's will,” he said contentedly. “So there's nothing that I need to explain to you.”
“What I read was the sadness in your eyes. It wasn't difficult. Other friends of mine noticed it too.”
“This sadness you read in my eyes is part of my story. Only a small part that will last but a few days. Tomorrow, when I depart for Jerusalem, it will not have the strength it had before, and little by little it will disappear. Sadness does not last forever when we walk in the direction
of that which we always desired.” “Is it always necessary to leave?”
“It's always necessary to know when a stage of one's life has ended. If you stubbornly cling to it after the need has passed, you lose the joy and meaning of the rest. And you risk being shaken to your senses by God.”
“The Lord is stern.”
“Only with those He has chosen.”
ELIJAH LOOKED AT AKBAR below. Yes, God sometimes could be very stern, but never beyond a person's capacity: the boy was unaware that they were sitting where Elijah had received an angel of the Lord and learned how to bring him back from the dead.
“Are you going to miss me?” Elijah asked.
“You told me that sadness disappears if we press ahead. There's still much to do to leave Akbar as beautiful as my mother deserves. She walks in its streets.”
“Come back to this place when you have need of me. And look toward Jerusalem: I shall be there, seeking to give meaning to my name, Liberation. Our hearts are linked forever.”
“Was that why you brought me to the top of the Fifth Mountain? So I could see Israel?”
“So you could see the valley, the city, the other mountains, the rocks and clouds. The Lord often has his prophets climb mountains to converse with Him. I always wondered why He did that, and now I know the answer: when we are on high, we can see everything else as small.
“Our glory and our sadness lose their importance. Whatever we conquered or lost remains there below. From the heights of the mountain, you see how large the world is, and how wide its horizons.”
The boy looked about him. From the top of the Fifth Mountain, he could smell the sea that bathed the beaches of Tyre. And he could hear the desert wind that blew from Egypt.
“Someday I'll govern Akbar,” he told Elijah. “I know what's big. But I also know every corner of the city. I know what needs to be changed.”
“Then change it. Don't let things remain idle.”
“Couldn't God have chosen a better way of showing us all this? There was a time when I thought He was evil.”
Elijah said nothing. He recalled a conversation, many years before, with a Levite prophet while the two awaited death at the hands of Jezebel's soldiers.
“Can God be evil?” the boy insisted.
“God is all-powerful,” answered Elijah. “He can do anything, and nothing is forbidden to Him, for if it were, there would exist someone more powerful than He, to prevent His doing certain things. In that case, I should prefer to worship and revere that more powerful someone.”
He paused for several instants to allow the boy to fathom the meaning of his words. Then he continued.
“Still, because of His infinite power, He chose to do only Good. If we reach the end of our story, we shall see that often Good is disguised as Evil, but it goes on being the Good, and is part of the plan that He created for humanity.”
He took the boy by the hand, and together they descended the mountain in silence.
THAT NIGHT, the boy went to sleep in his arms. As soon as day began to break, Elijah carefully removed him from his bosom so he would not awaken him.
He quickly donned the only garment he possessed and departed. On the road, he picked up a piece of wood from the ground and used it as a staff. He planned never to be without it: it was the remembrance of his struggle with God, of the destruction and rebuilding of Akbar.
Without looking back, he continued toward Israel.
FIVE YEARS LATER, ASSYRIA AGAIN INVADED THE COUNTRY, this time
with a more professional army and more competent generals. All Phoenicia fell under the domination of the foreign conqueror except Tyre and Zarephath, which its inhabitants called Akbar.
The boy became a man, governed the city, and was judged a sage by his
contemporaries. He died in the fullness of his years, surrounded by loved ones and saying always that “it was necessary to keep the city beautiful and strong, for his mother still strolled its streets.” Because of their joint system of defense, Tyre and Zarephath were not occupied by the Assyrian king Sennacherib until 701 B.C., almost 160 years after the events related in this book.
From that time on, Phoenician cities never recovered their importance and began to suffer a series of invasion–by the Neo-Babylonians, the Persians, the Macedonians, the Seleucids, and, finally, by Rome. Even so, they continue to exist in our own time because, according to ancient tradition, the Lord never selected at random the places He wished to see inhabited. Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos are still part of Lebanon, which even today remains a battlefield.
ELIJAH RETURNED TO ISRAEL AND CALLED THE PROPHETS together at
Mount Carmel. There he asked them to divide into two groups: those who worshiped Baal, and those who believed in the Lord. Following the angel's instructions, he offered a bullock to the first group and asked them to call out to the heavens for their gods to receive it. The Bible says:
“And it came to pass at noon, that Elijah mocked them, and said, Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked.
“And they cried aloud, and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them.
“And there was neither voice, nor any to answer, nor any that regarded.”
Then Elijah took his animal and offered it, following the angel's instructions. At that moment the fire of heaven descended and “consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones.” Minutes later, a heavy rain fell, ending four years of drought.
From that moment, civil war broke out. Elijah ordered the execution of the prophets who had betrayed the Lord, and Jezebel sought him everywhere, to kill him. He fled, however, to the eastern part of the Fifth Mountain, which faced Israel.
The Syrians invaded the country and killed King Ahab, husband of the princess of Tyre, with an accidentally shot arrow that entered an opening in his armor. Jezebel took refuge in her palace and, following several popular revolts and the rise and fall of various governments, was captured. She preferred leaping from a window to giving herself up to the
men sent to arrest her.
Elijah remained on the mountain until the end of his days. The Bible says that one afternoon, when he was conversing with Elisha, the prophet he had named as his successor, “there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven.”
Almost eight hundred years later, Jesus bade Peter, James, and John to climb a mountain. The Gospel according to Matthew relates that Jesus “was transfigured before them; and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light. And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him.”
Jesus asks the apostles not to speak of this vision until the Son of Man be risen from the dead, but they reply that this will happen only when Elijah returns.
Matthew 17:10–13 tells the rest of the story:
Zd his disciples asked him, saying, Why then say the scribes that Elias must first come?
“And Jesus answered and said unto them, Elias truly shall first come, and restore all things. But I say unto you, That Elias is come already, and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed.
“Then the disciples understood that he spake unto them of John the Baptist.”
MARIA CONCEIVED WITHOUT SIN, PRAY FOR US WHO call on Thee.
Amen.
About the Translator
CLIFFORD E. LANDERS is professor of political science at Jersey City State College and a premier translator of Latin American fiction. He has translated into English many of Brazil's top writers, including Jorge Amado, Rubem Fonseca, and Chico Buarque. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAULO COELHO is an international bestselling author whose books–The Alchemist, The Pilgrimage, The Valkyries, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, and The Fifth Mountain–have sold more than 25 million copies in 117 countries and have been translated into 43 languages. He lives in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
ALSO BY PAULO COELHO
The Alchemist The Pilgrimage The Valkyries
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
CREDITS
Cover design by Doreen Louie
Cover photograph © 2000 by Colour Library
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE FIFTH MOUNTAIN. Copyright © 2006 by Paulo Coelho. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
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The long boat of the Marjorie W. was floating down the broad Ugambi with ebb tide and current. Her crew were lazily enjoying this respite from the arduous labor of rowing up stream. Three miles below them lay the Marjorie W. herself, quite ready to sail so soon as they should have clambered aboard and swung the long boat to its davits. Presently the attention of every man was drawn from his dreaming or his gossiping to the northern bank of the river. There, screaming at them in a cracked falsetto and with skinny arms outstretched, stood a strange apparition of a man.
“Wot the ’ell?” ejaculated one of the crew.
“A white man!” muttered the mate, and then: “Man the oars, boys, and we’ll just pull over an’ see what he wants.”
When they came close to the shore they saw an emaciated creature with scant white locks tangled and matted. The thin, bent body was naked but for a loin cloth. Tears were rolling down the sunken pock-marked cheeks. The man jabbered at them in a strange tongue.
“Rooshun,” hazarded the mate. “Savvy English?” he called to the man.
He did, and in that tongue, brokenly and haltingly, as though it had been many years since he had used it, he begged them to take him with them away from this awful country. Once on board the Marjorie W. the stranger told his rescuers a pitiful tale of privation, hardships, and torture, extending over a period of ten years. How he happened to have come to Africa he did not tell them, leaving them to assume he had forgotten the incidents of his life prior to the frightful ordeals that had wrecked him mentally and physically. He did not even tell them his true name, and so they knew him only as Michael Sabrov, nor was there any resemblance between this sorry wreck and the virile, though unprincipled, Alexis Paulvitch of old.
It had been ten years since the Russian had escaped the fate of his friend, the arch-fiend Rokoff, and not once, but many times during those ten years had Paulvitch cursed the fate that had given to Nicholas Rokoff death and immunity from suffering while it had meted to him the hideous terrors of an existence infinitely worse than the death that persistently refused to claim him.
Paulvitch had taken to the jungle when he had seen the beasts of Tarzan and their savage lord swarm the deck of the Kincaid, and in his terror lest Tarzan pursue and capture him he had stumbled on deep into the jungle, only to fall at last into the hands of one of the savage cannibal tribes that had felt the weight of Rokoff’s evil temper and cruel brutality. Some strange whim of the chief of this tribe saved Paulvitch from death only to plunge him into a life of misery and torture. For ten years he had been the butt of the village, beaten and stoned by the women and children, cut and slashed and disfigured by the warriors; a victim of often recurring fevers of the most malignant variety. Yet he did not die. Smallpox laid its hideous clutches upon him; leaving him unspeakably branded with its repulsive marks. Between it and the attentions of the tribe the countenance of Alexis Paulvitch was so altered that his own mother could not have recognized in the pitiful mask he called his face a single familiar feature. A few scraggly, yellow-white locks had supplanted the thick, dark hair that had covered his head. His limbs were bent and twisted, he walked with a shuffling, unsteady gait, his body doubled forward. His teeth were gone—knocked out by his savage masters. Even his mentality was but a sorry mockery of what it once had been.
They took him aboard the Marjorie W., and there they fed and nursed him. He gained a little in strength; but his appearance never altered for the better—a human derelict, battered and wrecked, they had found him; a human derelict, battered and wrecked, he would remain until death claimed him. Though still in his thirties, Alexis Paulvitch could easily have passed for eighty. Inscrutable Nature had demanded of the accomplice a greater penalty than his principal had paid.
In the mind of Alexis Paulvitch there lingered no thoughts of revenge—only a dull hatred of the man whom he and Rokoff had tried to break, and failed. There was hatred, too, of the memory of Rokoff, for Rokoff had led him into the horrors he had undergone. There was hatred of the police of a score of cities from which he had had to flee. There was hatred of law, hatred of order, hatred of everything. Every moment of the man’s waking life was filled with morbid thought of hatred—he had become mentally as he was physically in outward appearance, the personification of the blighting emotion of Hate. He had little or nothing to do with the men who had rescued him. He was too weak to work and too morose for company, and so they quickly left him alone to his own devices.
The Marjorie W. had been chartered by a syndicate of wealthy manufacturers, equipped with a laboratory and a staff of scientists, and sent out to search for some natural product which the manufacturers who footed the bills had been importing from South America at an enormous cost. What the product was none on board the Marjorie W. knew except the scientists, nor is it of any moment to us, other than that it led the ship to a certain island off the coast of Africa after Alexis Paulvitch had been taken aboard.
The ship lay at anchor off the coast for several weeks. The monotony of life aboard her became trying for the crew. They went often ashore, and finally Paulvitch asked to accompany them—he too was tiring of the blighting sameness of existence upon the ship.
The island was heavily timbered. Dense jungle ran down almost to the beach. The scientists were far inland, prosecuting their search for the valuable commodity that native rumor upon the mainland had led them to believe might be found here in marketable quantity. The ship’s company fished, hunted, and explored. Paulvitch shuffled up and down the beach, or lay in the shade of the great trees that skirted it. One day, as the men were gathered at a little distance inspecting the body of a panther that had fallen to the gun of one of them who had been hunting inland, Paulvitch lay sleeping beneath his tree. He was awakened by the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he sat up to see a huge, anthropoid ape squatting at his side, inspecting him intently. The Russian was thoroughly frightened. He glanced toward the sailors—they were a couple of hundred yards away. Again the ape plucked at his shoulder, jabbering plaintively. Paulvitch saw no menace in the inquiring gaze, or in the attitude of the beast. He got slowly to his feet. The ape rose at his side.
Half doubled, the man shuffled cautiously away toward the sailors. The ape moved with him, taking one of his arms. They had come almost to the little knot of men before they were seen, and by this time Paulvitch had become assured that the beast meant no harm. The animal evidently was accustomed to the association of human beings. It occurred to the Russian that the ape represented a certain considerable money value, and before they reached the sailors he had decided he should be the one to profit by it.
When the men looked up and saw the oddly paired couple shuffling toward them they were filled with amazement, and started on a run toward the two. The ape showed no sign of fear. Instead he grasped each sailor by the shoulder and peered long and earnestly into his face. Having inspected them all he returned to Paulvitch’s side, disappointment written strongly upon his countenance and in his carriage.
The men were delighted with him. They gathered about, asking Paulvitch many questions, and examining his companion. The Russian told them that the ape was his—nothing further would he offer—but kept harping continually upon the same theme, “The ape is mine. The ape is mine.” Tiring of Paulvitch, one of the men essayed a pleasantry. Circling about behind the ape he prodded the anthropoid in the back with a pin. Like a flash the beast wheeled upon its tormentor, and, in the briefest instant of turning, the placid, friendly animal was metamorphosed to a frenzied demon of rage. The broad grin that had sat upon the sailor’s face as he perpetrated his little joke froze to an expression of terror. He attempted to dodge the long arms that reached for him; but, failing, drew a long knife that hung at his belt. With a single wrench the ape tore the weapon from the man’s grasp and flung it to one side, then his yellow fangs were buried in the sailor’s shoulder.
With sticks and knives the man’s companions fell upon the beast, while Paulvitch danced around the cursing, snarling pack mumbling and screaming pleas and threats. He saw his visions of wealth rapidly dissipating before the weapons of the sailors.
The ape, however, proved no easy victim to the superior numbers that seemed fated to overwhelm him. Rising from the sailor who had precipitated the battle he shook his giant shoulders, freeing himself from two of the men that were clinging to his back, and with mighty blows of his open palms felled one after another of his attackers, leaping hither and thither with the agility of a small monkey.
The fight had been witnessed by the captain and mate who were just landing from the Marjorie W., and Paulvitch saw these two now running forward with drawn revolvers while the two sailors who had brought them ashore trailed at their heels. The ape stood looking about him at the havoc he had wrought, but whether he was awaiting a renewal of the attack or was deliberating which of his foes he should exterminate first Paulvitch could not guess. What he could guess, however, was that the moment the two officers came within firing distance of the beast they would put an end to him in short order unless something were done and done quickly to prevent. The ape had made no move to attack the Russian but even so the man was none too sure of what might happen were he to interfere with the savage beast, now thoroughly aroused to bestial rage, and with the smell of new spilled blood fresh in its nostrils. For an instant he hesitated, and then again there rose before him the dreams of affluence which this great anthropoid would doubtless turn to realities once Paulvitch had landed him safely in some great metropolis like London.
The captain was shouting to him now to stand aside that he might have a shot at the animal; but instead Paulvitch shuffled to the ape’s side, and though the man’s hair quivered at its roots he mastered his fear and laid hold of the ape’s arm.
“Come!” he commanded, and tugged to pull the beast from among the sailors, many of whom were now sitting up in wide eyed fright or crawling away from their conqueror upon hands and knees.
Slowly the ape permitted itself to be led to one side, nor did it show the slightest indication of a desire to harm the Russian. The captain came to a halt a few paces from the odd pair.
“Get aside, Sabrov!” he commanded. “I’ll put that brute where he won’t chew up any more able seamen.”
“It wasn’t his fault, captain,” pleaded Paulvitch. “Please don’t shoot him. The men started it—they attacked him first. You see, he’s perfectly gentle—and he’s mine—he’s mine—he’s mine! I won’t let you kill him,” he concluded, as his half-wrecked mentality pictured anew the pleasure that money would buy in London—money that he could not hope to possess without some such windfall as the ape represented.
The captain lowered his weapon. “The men started it, did they?” he repeated. “How about that?” and he turned toward the sailors who had by this time picked themselves from the ground, none of them much the worse for his experience except the fellow who had been the cause of it, and who would doubtless nurse a sore shoulder for a week or so.
“Simpson done it,” said one of the men. “He stuck a pin into the monk from behind, and the monk got him—which served him bloomin’ well right—an’ he got the rest of us, too, for which I can’t blame him, since we all jumped him to once.”
The captain looked at Simpson, who sheepishly admitted the truth of the allegation, then he stepped over to the ape as though to discover for himself the sort of temper the beast possessed, but it was noticeable that he kept his revolver cocked and leveled as he did so. However, he spoke soothingly to the animal who squatted at the Russian’s side looking first at one and then another of the sailors. As the captain approached him the ape half rose and waddled forward to meet him. Upon his countenance was the same strange, searching expression that had marked his scrutiny of each of the sailors he had first encountered. He came quite close to the officer and laid a paw upon one of the man’s shoulders, studying his face intently for a long moment, then came the expression of disappointment accompanied by what was almost a human sigh, as he turned away to peer in the same curious fashion into the faces of the mate and the two sailors who had arrived with the officers. In each instance he sighed and passed on, returning at length to Paulvitch’s side, where he squatted down once more; thereafter evincing little or no interest in any of the other men, and apparently forgetful of his recent battle with them.
When the party returned aboard the Marjorie W., Paulvitch was accompanied by the ape, who seemed anxious to follow him. The captain interposed no obstacles to the arrangement, and so the great anthropoid was tacitly admitted to membership in the ship’s company. Once aboard he examined each new face minutely, evincing the same disappointment in each instance that had marked his scrutiny of the others. The officers and scientists aboard often discussed the beast, but they were unable to account satisfactorily for the strange ceremony with which he greeted each new face. Had he been discovered upon the mainland, or any other place than the almost unknown island that had been his home, they would have concluded that he had formerly been a pet of man; but that theory was not tenable in the face of the isolation of his uninhabited island. He seemed continually to be searching for someone, and during the first days of the return voyage from the island he was often discovered nosing about in various parts of the ship; but after he had seen and examined each face of the ship’s company, and explored every corner of the vessel he lapsed into utter indifference of all about him. Even the Russian elicited only casual interest when he brought him food. At other times the ape appeared merely to tolerate him. He never showed affection for him, or for anyone else upon the Marjorie W., nor did he at any time evince any indication of the savage temper that had marked his resentment of the attack of the sailors upon him at the time that he had come among them.
Most of his time was spent in the eye of the ship scanning the horizon ahead, as though he were endowed with sufficient reason to know that the vessel was bound for some port where there would be other human beings to undergo his searching scrutiny. All in all, Ajax, as he had been dubbed, was considered the most remarkable and intelligent ape that any one aboard the Marjorie W. ever had seen. Nor was his intelligence the only remarkable attribute he owned. His stature and physique were, for an ape, awe inspiring. That he was old was quite evident, but if his age had impaired his physical or mental powers in the slightest it was not apparent.
And so at length the Marjorie W. came to England, and there the officers and the scientists, filled with compassion for the pitiful wreck of a man they had rescued from the jungles, furnished Paulvitch with funds and bid him and his Ajax Godspeed.
Upon the dock and all through the journey to London the Russian had his hands full with Ajax. Each new face of the thousands that came within the anthropoid’s ken must be carefully scrutinized, much to the horror of many of his victims; but at last, failing, apparently, to discover whom he sought, the great ape relapsed into morbid indifference, only occasionally evincing interest in a passing face.
In London, Paulvitch went directly with his prize to a certain famous animal trainer. This man was much impressed with Ajax with the result that he agreed to train him for a lion’s share of the profits of exhibiting him, and in the meantime to provide for the keep of both the ape and his owner.
And so came Ajax to London, and there was forged another link in the chain of strange circumstances that were to affect the lives of many people.
II.
Mr. Harold Moore was a bilious-countenanced, studious young man. He took himself very seriously, and life, and his work, which latter was the tutoring of the young son of a British nobleman. He felt that his charge was not making the progress that his parents had a right to expect, and he was now conscientiously explaining this fact to the boy’s mother.
“It’s not that he isn’t bright,” he was saying; “if that were true I should have hopes of succeeding, for then I might bring to bear all my energies in overcoming his obtuseness; but the trouble is that he is exceptionally intelligent, and learns so quickly that I can find no fault in the matter of the preparation of his lessons. What concerns me, however, is the fact that he evidently takes no interest whatever in the subjects we are studying. He merely accomplishes each lesson as a task to be rid of as quickly as possible and I am sure that no lesson ever again enters his mind until the hours of study and recitation once more arrive. His sole interests seem to be feats of physical prowess and the reading of everything that he can get hold of relative to savage beasts and the lives and customs of uncivilized peoples; but particularly do stories of animals appeal to him. He will sit for hours together poring over the work of some African explorer, and upon two occasions I have found him setting up in bed at night reading Carl Hagenbeck’s book on men and beasts.”
The boy’s mother tapped her foot nervously upon the hearth rug.
“You discourage this, of course?” she ventured.
Mr. Moore shuffled embarrassedly.
“I—ah—essayed to take the book from him,” he replied, a slight flush mounting his sallow cheek; “but—ah—your son is quite muscular for one so young.”
“He wouldn’t let you take it?” asked the mother.
“He would not,” confessed the tutor. “He was perfectly good natured about it; but he insisted upon pretending that he was a gorilla and that I was a chimpanzee attempting to steal food from him. He leaped upon me with the most savage growls I ever heard, lifted me completely above his head, hurled me upon his bed, and after going through a pantomime indicative of choking me to death he stood upon my prostrate form and gave voice to a most fearsome shriek, which he explained was the victory cry of a bull ape. Then he carried me to the door, shoved me out into the hall and locked me from his room.”
For several minutes neither spoke again. It was the boy’s mother who finally broke the silence.
“It is very necessary, Mr. Moore,” she said, “that you do everything in your power to discourage this tendency in Jack, he—”; but she got no further. A loud “Whoop!” from the direction of the window brought them both to their feet. The room was upon the second floor of the house, and opposite the window to which their attention had been attracted was a large tree, a branch of which spread to within a few feet of the sill. Upon this branch now they both discovered the subject of their recent conversation, a tall, well-built boy, balancing with ease upon the bending limb and uttering loud shouts of glee as he noted the terrified expressions upon the faces of his audience.
The mother and tutor both rushed toward the window but before they had crossed half the room the boy had leaped nimbly to the sill and entered the apartment with them.
“‘The wild man from Borneo has just come to town,’” he sang, dancing a species of war dance about his terrified mother and scandalized tutor, and ending up by throwing his arms about the former’s neck and kissing her upon either cheek.
“Oh, Mother,” he cried, “there’s a wonderful, educated ape being shown at one of the music halls. Willie Grimsby saw it last night. He says it can do everything but talk. It rides a bicycle, eats with knife and fork, counts up to ten, and ever so many other wonderful things, and can I go and see it too? Oh, please, Mother—please let me.”
Patting the boy’s cheek affectionately, the mother shook her head negatively. “No, Jack,” she said; “you know I do not approve of such exhibitions.”
“I don’t see why not, Mother,” replied the boy. “All the other fellows go and they go to the Zoo, too, and you’ll never let me do even that. Anybody’d think I was a girl—or a mollycoddle. Oh, Father,” he exclaimed, as the door opened to admit a tall gray-eyed man. “Oh, Father, can’t I go?”
“Go where, my son?” asked the newcomer.
“He wants to go to a music hall to see a trained ape,” said the mother, looking warningly at her husband.
“Who, Ajax?” questioned the man.
The boy nodded.
“Well, I don’t know that I blame you, my son,” said the father, “I wouldn’t mind seeing him myself. They say he is very wonderful, and that for an anthropoid he is unusually large. Let’s all go, Jane—what do you say?” And he turned toward his wife, but that lady only shook her head in a most positive manner, and turning to Mr. Moore asked him if it was not time that he and Jack were in the study for the morning recitations. When the two had left she turned toward her husband.
“John,” she said, “something must be done to discourage Jack’s tendency toward anything that may excite the cravings for the savage life which I fear he has inherited from you. You know from your own experience how strong is the call of the wild at times. You know that often it has necessitated a stern struggle on your part to resist the almost insane desire which occasionally overwhelms you to plunge once again into the jungle life that claimed you for so many years, and at the same time you know, better than any other, how frightful a fate it would be for Jack, were the trail to the savage jungle made either alluring or easy to him.”
“I doubt if there is any danger of his inheriting a taste for jungle life from me,” replied the man, “for I cannot conceive that such a thing may be transmitted from father to son. And sometimes, Jane, I think that in your solicitude for his future you go a bit too far in your restrictive measures. His love for animals—his desire, for example, to see this trained ape—is only natural in a healthy, normal boy of his age. Just because he wants to see Ajax is no indication that he would wish to marry an ape, and even should he, far be it from you Jane to have the right to cry ‘shame!’” and John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, put an arm about his wife, laughing good-naturedly down into her upturned face before he bent his head and kissed her. Then, more seriously, he continued: “You have never told Jack anything concerning my early life, nor have you permitted me to, and in this I think that you have made a mistake. Had I been able to tell him of the experiences of Tarzan of the Apes I could doubtless have taken much of the glamour and romance from jungle life that naturally surrounds it in the minds of those who have had no experience of it. He might then have profited by my experience, but now, should the jungle lust ever claim him, he will have nothing to guide him but his own impulses, and I know how powerful these may be in the wrong direction at times.”
But Lady Greystoke only shook her head as she had a hundred other times when the subject had claimed her attention in the past.
“No, John,” she insisted, “I shall never give my consent to the implanting in Jack’s mind of any suggestion of the savage life which we both wish to preserve him from.”
It was evening before the subject was again referred to and then it was raised by Jack himself. He had been sitting, curled in a large chair, reading, when he suddenly looked up and addressed his father.
“Why,” he asked, coming directly to the point, “can’t I go and see Ajax?”
“Your mother does not approve,” replied his father.
“Do you?”
“That is not the question,” evaded Lord Greystoke. “It is enough that your mother objects.”
“I am going to see him,” announced the boy, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. “I am not different from Willie Grimsby, or any other of the fellows who have been to see him. It did not harm them and it will not harm me. I could go without telling you; but I would not do that. So I tell you now, beforehand, that I am going to see Ajax.”
There was nothing disrespectful or defiant in the boy’s tone or manner. His was merely a dispassionate statement of facts. His father could scarce repress either a smile or a show of the admiration he felt for the manly course his son had pursued.
“I admire your candor, Jack,” he said. “Permit me to be candid, as well. If you go to see Ajax without permission, I shall punish you. I have never inflicted corporal punishment upon you, but I warn you that should you disobey your mother’s wishes in this instance, I shall.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy; and then: “I shall tell you, sir, when I have been to see Ajax.”
Mr. Moore’s room was next to that of his youthful charge, and it was the tutor’s custom to have a look into the boy’s each evening as the former was about to retire. This evening he was particularly careful not to neglect his duty, for he had just come from a conference with the boy’s father and mother in which it had been impressed upon him that he must exercise the greatest care to prevent Jack visiting the music hall where Ajax was being shown. So, when he opened the boy’s door at about half after nine, he was greatly excited, though not entirely surprised to find the future Lord Greystoke fully dressed for the street and about to crawl from his open bed room window.
Mr. Moore made a rapid spring across the apartment; but the waste of energy was unnecessary, for when the boy heard him within the chamber and realized that he had been discovered he turned back as though to relinquish his planned adventure.
“Where were you going?” panted the excited Mr. Moore.
“I am going to see Ajax,” replied the boy, quietly.
“I am astonished,” cried Mr. Moore; but a moment later he was infinitely more astonished, for the boy, approaching close to him, suddenly seized him about the waist, lifted him from his feet and threw him face downward upon the bed, shoving his face deep into a soft pillow.
“Be quiet,” admonished the victor, “or I’ll choke you.”
Mr. Moore struggled; but his efforts were in vain. Whatever else Tarzan of the Apes may or may not have handed down to his son he had at least bequeathed him almost as marvelous a physique as he himself had possessed at the same age. The tutor was as putty in the boy’s hands. Kneeling upon him, Jack tore strips from a sheet and bound the man’s hands behind his back. Then he rolled him over and stuffed a gag of the same material between his teeth, securing it with a strip wound about the back of his victim’s head. All the while he talked in a low, conversational tone.
“I am Waja, chief of the Waji,” he explained, “and you are Mohammed Dubn, the Arab sheik, who would murder my people and steal my ivory,” and he dexterously trussed Mr. Moore’s hobbled ankles up behind to meet his hobbled wrists. “Ah—ha! Villain! I have you in me power at last. I go; but I shall return!” And the son of Tarzan skipped across the room, slipped through the open window, and slid to liberty by way of the down spout from an eaves trough.
Mr. Moore wriggled and struggled about the bed. He was sure that he should suffocate unless aid came quickly. In his frenzy of terror he managed to roll off the bed. The pain and shock of the fall jolted him back to something like sane consideration of his plight. Where before he had been unable to think intelligently because of the hysterical fear that had claimed him he now lay quietly searching for some means of escape from his dilemma. It finally occurred to him that the room in which Lord and Lady Greystoke had been sitting when he left them was directly beneath that in which he lay upon the floor. He knew that some time had elapsed since he had come up stairs and that they might be gone by this time, for it seemed to him that he had struggled about the bed, in his efforts to free himself, for an eternity. But the best that he could do was to attempt to attract attention from below, and so, after many failures, he managed to work himself into a position in which he could tap the toe of his boot against the floor. This he proceeded to do at short intervals, until, after what seemed a very long time, he was rewarded by hearing footsteps ascending the stairs, and presently a knock upon the door. Mr. Moore tapped vigorously with his toe—he could not reply in any other way. The knock was repeated after a moment’s silence. Again Mr. Moore tapped. Would they never open the door! Laboriously he rolled in the direction of succor. If he could get his back against the door he could then tap upon its base, when surely he must be heard. The knocking was repeated a little louder, and finally a voice called: “Mr. Jack!”
It was one of the house men—Mr. Moore recognized the fellow’s voice. He came near to bursting a blood vessel in an endeavor to scream “come in” through the stifling gag. After a moment the man knocked again, quite loudly and again called the boy’s name. Receiving no reply he turned the knob, and at the same instant a sudden recollection filled the tutor anew with numbing terror—he had, himself, locked the door behind him when he had entered the room.
He heard the servant try the door several times and then depart. Upon which Mr. Moore swooned.
In the meantime Jack was enjoying to the full the stolen pleasures of the music hall. He had reached the temple of mirth just as Ajax’s act was commencing, and having purchased a box seat was now leaning breathlessly over the rail watching every move of the great ape, his eyes wide in wonder. The trainer was not slow to note the boy’s handsome, eager face, and as one of Ajax’s biggest hits consisted in an entry to one or more boxes during his performance, ostensibly in search of a long-lost relative, as the trainer explained, the man realized the effectiveness of sending him into the box with the handsome boy, who, doubtless, would be terror stricken by proximity to the shaggy, powerful beast.
When the time came, therefore, for the ape to return from the wings in reply to an encore the trainer directed its attention to the boy who chanced to be the sole occupant of the box in which he sat. With a spring the huge anthropoid leaped from the stage to the boy’s side; but if the trainer had looked for a laughable scene of fright he was mistaken. A broad smile lighted the boy’s features as he laid his hand upon the shaggy arm of his visitor. The ape, grasping the boy by either shoulder, peered long and earnestly into his face, while the latter stroked his head and talked to him in a low voice.
Never had Ajax devoted so long a time to an examination of another as he did in this instance. He seemed troubled and not a little excited, jabbering and mumbling to the boy, and now caressing him, as the trainer had never seen him caress a human being before. Presently he clambered over into the box with him and snuggled down close to the boy’s side. The audience was delighted; but they were still more delighted when the trainer, the period of his act having elapsed, attempted to persuade Ajax to leave the box. The ape would not budge. The manager, becoming excited at the delay, urged the trainer to greater haste, but when the latter entered the box to drag away the reluctant Ajax he was met by bared fangs and menacing growls.
The audience was delirious with joy. They cheered the ape. They cheered the boy, and they hooted and jeered at the trainer and the manager, which luckless individual had inadvertently shown himself and attempted to assist the trainer.
Finally, reduced to desperation and realizing that this show of mutiny upon the part of his valuable possession might render the animal worthless for exhibition purposes in the future if not immediately subdued, the trainer had hastened to his dressing room and procured a heavy whip. With this he now returned to the box; but when he had threatened Ajax with it but once he found himself facing two infuriated enemies instead of one, for the boy had leaped to his feet, and seizing a chair was standing ready at the ape’s side to defend his new found friend. There was no longer a smile upon his handsome face. In his gray eyes was an expression which gave the trainer pause, and beside him stood the giant anthropoid growling and ready.
What might have happened, but for a timely interruption, may only be surmised; but that the trainer would have received a severe mauling, if nothing more, was clearly indicated by the attitudes of the two who faced him.
It was a pale-faced man who rushed into the Greystoke library to announce that he had found Jack’s door locked and had been able to obtain no response to his repeated knocking and calling other than a strange tapping and the sound of what might have been a body moving about upon the floor.
Four steps at a time John Clayton took the stairs that led to the floor above. His wife and the servant hurried after him. Once he called his son’s name in a loud voice; but receiving no reply he launched his great weight, backed by all the undiminished power of his giant muscles, against the heavy door. With a snapping of iron butts and a splintering of wood the obstacle burst inward.
At its foot lay the body of the unconscious Mr. Moore, across whom it fell with a resounding thud. Through the opening leaped Tarzan, and a moment later the room was flooded with light from a dozen electric bulbs.
It was several minutes before the tutor was discovered, so completely had the door covered him; but finally he was dragged forth, his gag and bonds cut away, and a liberal application of cold water had hastened returning consciousness.
“Where is Jack?” was John Clayton’s first question, and then; “Who did this?” as the memory of Rokoff and the fear of a second abduction seized him.
Slowly Mr. Moore staggered to his feet. His gaze wandered about the room. Gradually he collected his scattered wits. The details of his recent harrowing experience returned to him.
“I tender my resignation, sir, to take effect at once,” were his first words. “You do not need a tutor for your son—what he needs is a wild animal trainer.”
“But where is he?” cried Lady Greystoke.
“He has gone to see Ajax.”
It was with difficulty that Tarzan restrained a smile, and after satisfying himself that the tutor was more scared than injured, he ordered his closed car around and departed in the direction of a certain well-known music hall.
III.
As the trainer, with raised lash, hesitated an instant at the entrance to the box where the boy and the ape confronted him, a tall broad-shouldered man pushed past him and entered. As his eyes fell upon the newcomer a slight flush mounted the boy’s cheeks.
“Father!” he exclaimed.
The ape gave one look at the English lord, and then leaped toward him, calling out in excited jabbering. The man, his eyes going wide in astonishment, stopped as though turned to stone.
“Akut!” he cried.
The boy looked, bewildered, from the ape to his father, and from his father to the ape. The trainer’s jaw dropped as he listened to what followed, for from the lips of the Englishman flowed the gutturals of an ape that were answered in kind by the huge anthropoid that now clung to him.
And from the wings a hideously bent and disfigured old man watched the tableau in the box, his pock-marked features working spasmodically in varying expressions that might have marked every sensation in the gamut from pleasure to terror.
“Long have I looked for you, Tarzan,” said Akut. “Now that I have found you I shall come to your jungle and live there always.”
The man stroked the beast’s head. Through his mind there was running rapidly a train of recollection that carried him far into the depths of the primeval African forest where this huge, man-like beast had fought shoulder to shoulder with him years before. He saw the black Mugambi wielding his deadly knob-stick, and beside them, with bared fangs and bristling whiskers, Sheeta the terrible; and pressing close behind the savage and the savage panther, the hideous apes of Akut. The man sighed. Strong within him surged the jungle lust that he had thought dead. Ah! if he could go back even for a brief month of it, to feel again the brush of leafy branches against his naked hide; to smell the musty rot of dead vegetation—frankincense and myrrh to the jungle born; to sense the noiseless coming of the great carnivora upon his trail; to hunt and to be hunted; to kill! The picture was alluring. And then came another picture—a sweet-faced woman, still young and beautiful; friends; a home; a son. He shrugged his giant shoulders.
“It cannot be, Akut,” he said; “but if you would return, I shall see that it is done. You could not be happy here—I may not be happy there.”
The trainer stepped forward. The ape bared his fangs, growling.
“Go with him, Akut,” said Tarzan of the Apes. “I will come and see you tomorrow.”
The beast moved sullenly to the trainer’s side. The latter, at John Clayton’s request, told where they might be found. Tarzan turned toward his son.
“Come!” he said, and the two left the theater. Neither spoke for several minutes after they had entered the limousine. It was the boy who broke the silence.
“The ape knew you,” he said, “and you spoke together in the ape’s tongue. How did the ape know you, and how did you learn his language?”
And then, briefly and for the first time, Tarzan of the Apes told his son of his early life—of the birth in the jungle, of the death of his parents, and of how Kala, the great she ape had suckled and raised him from infancy almost to manhood. He told him, too, of the dangers and the horrors of the jungle; of the great beasts that stalked one by day and by night; of the periods of drought, and of the cataclysmic rains; of hunger; of cold; of intense heat; of nakedness and fear and suffering. He told him of all those things that seem most horrible to the creature of civilization in the hope that the knowledge of them might expunge from the lad’s mind any inherent desire for the jungle. Yet they were the very things that made the memory of the jungle what it was to Tarzan—that made up the composite jungle life he loved. And in the telling he forgot one thing—the principal thing—that the boy at his side, listening with eager ears, was the son of Tarzan of the Apes.
After the boy had been tucked away in bed—and without the threatened punishment—John Clayton told his wife of the events of the evening, and that he had at last acquainted the boy with the facts of his jungle life. The mother, who had long foreseen that her son must some time know of those frightful years during which his father had roamed the jungle, a naked, savage beast of prey, only shook her head, hoping against hope that the lure she knew was still strong in the father’s breast had not been transmitted to his son.
Tarzan visited Akut the following day, but though Jack begged to be allowed to accompany him he was refused. This time Tarzan saw the pock-marked old owner of the ape, whom he did not recognize as the wily Paulvitch of former days. Tarzan, influenced by Akut’s pleadings, broached the question of the ape’s purchase; but Paulvitch would not name any price, saying that he would consider the matter.
When Tarzan returned home Jack was all excitement to hear the details of his visit, and finally suggested that his father buy the ape and bring it home. Lady Greystoke was horrified at the suggestion. The boy was insistent. Tarzan explained that he had wished to purchase Akut and return him to his jungle home, and to this the mother assented. Jack asked to be allowed to visit the ape, but again he was met with flat refusal. He had the address, however, which the trainer had given his father, and two days later he found the opportunity to elude his new tutor—who had replaced the terrified Mr. Moore—and after a considerable search through a section of London which he had never before visited, he found the smelly little quarters of the pock-marked old man. The old fellow himself replied to his knocking, and when he stated that he had come to see Ajax, opened the door and admitted him to the little room which he and the great ape occupied. In former years Paulvitch had been a fastidious scoundrel; but ten years of hideous life among the cannibals of Africa had eradicated the last vestige of niceness from his habits. His apparel was wrinkled and soiled. His hands were unwashed, his few straggling locks uncombed. His room was a jumble of filthy disorder. As the boy entered he saw the great ape squatting upon the bed, the coverlets of which were a tangled wad of filthy blankets and ill-smelling quilts. At sight of the youth the ape leaped to the floor and shuffled forward. The man, not recognizing his visitor and fearing that the ape meant mischief, stepped between them, ordering the ape back to the bed.
“He will not hurt me,” cried the boy. “We are friends, and before, he was my father’s friend. They knew one another in the jungle. My father is Lord Greystoke. He does not know that I have come here. My mother forbid my coming; but I wished to see Ajax, and I will pay you if you will let me come here often and see him.”
At the mention of the boy’s identity Paulvitch’s eyes narrowed. Since he had first seen Tarzan again from the wings of the theater there had been forming in his deadened brain the beginnings of a desire for revenge. It is a characteristic of the weak and criminal to attribute to others the misfortunes that are the result of their own wickedness, and so now it was that Alexis Paulvitch was slowly recalling the events of his past life and as he did so laying at the door of the man whom he and Rokoff had so assiduously attempted to ruin and murder all the misfortunes that had befallen him in the failure of their various schemes against their intended victim.
He saw at first no way in which he could, with safety to himself, wreak vengeance upon Tarzan through the medium of Tarzan’s son; but that great possibilities for revenge lay in the boy was apparent to him, and so he determined to cultivate the lad in the hope that fate would play into his hands in some way in the future. He told the boy all that he knew of his father’s past life in the jungle and when he found that the boy had been kept in ignorance of all these things for so many years, and that he had been forbidden visiting the zoological gardens; that he had had to bind and gag his tutor to find an opportunity to come to the music hall and see Ajax, he guessed immediately the nature of the great fear that lay in the hearts of the boy’s parents—that he might crave the jungle as his father had craved it.
And so Paulvitch encouraged the boy to come and see him often, and always he played upon the lad’s craving for tales of the savage world with which Paulvitch was all too familiar. He left him alone with Akut much, and it was not long until he was surprised to learn that the boy could make the great beast understand him—that he had actually learned many of the words of the primitive language of the anthropoids.
During this period Tarzan came several times to visit Paulvitch. He seemed anxious to purchase Ajax, and at last he told the man frankly that he was prompted not only by a desire upon his part to return the beast to the liberty of his native jungle; but also because his wife feared that in some way her son might learn the whereabouts of the ape and through his attachment for the beast become imbued with the roving instinct which, as Tarzan explained to Paulvitch, had so influenced his own life.
The Russian could scarce repress a smile as he listened to Lord Greystoke’s words, since scarce a half hour had passed since the time the future Lord Greystoke had been sitting upon the disordered bed jabbering away to Ajax with all the fluency of a born ape.
It was during this interview that a plan occurred to Paulvitch, and as a result of it he agreed to accept a certain fabulous sum for the ape, and upon receipt of the money to deliver the beast to a vessel that was sailing south from Dover for Africa two days later. He had a double purpose in accepting Clayton’s offer. Primarily, the money consideration influenced him strongly, as the ape was no longer a source of revenue to him, having consistently refused to perform upon the stage after having discovered Tarzan. It was as though the beast had suffered himself to be brought from his jungle home and exhibited before thousands of curious spectators for the sole purpose of searching out his long lost friend and master, and, having found him, considered further mingling with the common herd of humans unnecessary. However that may be, the fact remained that no amount of persuasion could influence him even to show himself upon the music hall stage, and upon the single occasion that the trainer attempted force the results were such that the unfortunate man considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life. All that saved him was the accidental presence of Jack Clayton, who had been permitted to visit the animal in the dressing room reserved for him at the music hall, and had immediately interfered when he saw that the savage beast meant serious mischief.
And after the money consideration, strong in the heart of the Russian was the desire for revenge, which had been growing with constant brooding over the failures and miseries of his life, which he attributed to Tarzan; the latest, and by no means the least, of which was Ajax’s refusal to longer earn money for him. The ape’s refusal he traced directly to Tarzan, finally convincing himself that the ape man had instructed the great anthropoid to refuse to go upon the stage.
Paulvitch’s naturally malign disposition was aggravated by the weakening and warping of his mental and physical faculties through torture and privation. From cold, calculating, highly intelligent perversity it had deteriorated into the indiscriminating, dangerous menace of the mentally defective. His plan, however, was sufficiently cunning to at least cast a doubt upon the assertion that his mentality was wandering. It assured him first of the competence which Lord Greystoke had promised to pay him for the deportation of the ape, and then of revenge upon his benefactor through the son he idolized. That part of his scheme was crude and brutal—it lacked the refinement of torture that had marked the master strokes of the Paulvitch of old, when he had worked with that virtuoso of villainy, Nikolas Rokoff—but it at least assured Paulvitch of immunity from responsibility, placing that upon the ape, who would thus also be punished for his refusal longer to support the Russian.
Everything played with fiendish unanimity into Paulvitch’s hands. As chance would have it, Tarzan’s son overheard his father relating to the boy’s mother the steps he was taking to return Akut safely to his jungle home, and having overheard he begged them to bring the ape home that he might have him for a play-fellow. Tarzan would not have been averse to this plan; but Lady Greystoke was horrified at the very thought of it. Jack pleaded with his mother; but all unavailingly. She was obdurate, and at last the lad appeared to acquiesce in his mother’s decision that the ape must be returned to Africa and the boy to school, from which he had been absent on vacation.
He did not attempt to visit Paulvitch’s room again that day, but instead busied himself in other ways. He had always been well supplied with money, so that when necessity demanded he had no difficulty in collecting several hundred pounds. Some of this money he invested in various strange purchases which he managed to smuggle into the house, undetected, when he returned late in the afternoon.
The next morning, after giving his father time to precede him and conclude his business with Paulvitch, the lad hastened to the Russian’s room. Knowing nothing of the man’s true character the boy dared not take him fully into his confidence for fear that the old fellow would not only refuse to aid him, but would report the whole affair to his father. Instead, he simply asked permission to take Ajax to Dover. He explained that it would relieve the old man of a tiresome journey, as well as placing a number of pounds in his pocket, for the lad purposed paying the Russian well.
“You see,” he went on, “there will be no danger of detection since I am supposed to be leaving on an afternoon train for school. Instead I will come here after they have left me on board the train. Then I can take Ajax to Dover, you see, and arrive at school only a day late. No one will be the wiser, no harm will be done, and I shall have had an extra day with Ajax before I lose him forever.”
The plan fitted perfectly with that which Paulvitch had in mind. Had he known what further the boy contemplated he would doubtless have entirely abandoned his own scheme of revenge and aided the boy whole heartedly in the consummation of the lad’s, which would have been better for Paulvitch, could he have but read the future but a few short hours ahead.
That afternoon Lord and Lady Greystoke bid their son good-bye and saw him safely settled in a first-class compartment of the railway carriage that would set him down at school in a few hours. No sooner had they left him, however, than he gathered his bags together, descended from the compartment and sought a cab stand outside the station. Here he engaged a cabby to take him to the Russian’s address. It was dusk when he arrived. He found Paulvitch awaiting him. The man was pacing the floor nervously. The ape was tied with a stout cord to the bed. It was the first time that Jack had ever seen Ajax thus secured. He looked questioningly at Paulvitch. The man, mumbling, explained that he believed the animal had guessed that he was to be sent away and he feared he would attempt to escape.
Paulvitch carried another piece of cord in his hand. There was a noose in one end of it which he was continually playing with. He walked back and forth, up and down the room. His pock-marked features were working horribly as he talked silent to himself. The boy had never seen him thus—it made him uneasy. At last Paulvitch stopped on the opposite side of the room, far from the ape.
“Come here,” he said to the lad. “I will show you how to secure the ape should he show signs of rebellion during the trip.”
The lad laughed. “It will not be necessary,” he replied. “Ajax will do whatever I tell him to do.”
The old man stamped his foot angrily. “Come here, as I tell you,” he repeated. “If you do not do as I say you shall not accompany the ape to Dover—I will take no chances upon his escaping.”
Still smiling, the lad crossed the room and stood before the Russ.
“Turn around, with your back toward me,” directed the latter, “that I may show you how to bind him quickly.”
The boy did as he was bid, placing his hands behind him when Paulvitch told him to do so. Instantly the old man slipped the running noose over one of the lad’s wrists, took a couple of half hitches about his other wrist, and knotted the cord.
The moment that the boy was secured the attitude of the man changed. With an angry oath he wheeled his prisoner about, tripped him and hurled him violently to the floor, leaping upon his breast as he fell. From the bed the ape growled and struggled with his bonds. The boy did not cry out—a trait inherited from his savage sire whom long years in the jungle following the death of his foster mother, Kala the great ape, had taught that there was none to come to the succor of the fallen.
Paulvitch’s fingers sought the lad’s throat. He grinned down horribly into the face of his victim.
“Your father ruined me,” he mumbled. “This will pay him. He will think that the ape did it. I will tell him that the ape did it. That I left him alone for a few minutes, and that you sneaked in and the ape killed you. I will throw your body upon the bed after I have choked the life from you, and when I bring your father he will see the ape squatting over it,” and the twisted fiend cackled in gloating laughter. His fingers closed upon the boy’s throat.
Behind them the growling of the maddened beast reverberated against the walls of the little room. The boy paled, but no other sign of fear or panic showed upon his countenance. He was the son of Tarzan. The fingers tightened their grip upon his throat. It was with difficulty that he breathed, gaspingly. The ape lunged against the stout cord that held him. Turning, he wrapped the cord about his hands, as a man might have done, and surged heavily backward. The great muscles stood out beneath his shaggy hide. There was a rending as of splintered wood—the cord held, but a portion of the footboard of the bed came away.
At the sound Paulvitch looked up. His hideous face went white with terror—the ape was free.
With a single bound the creature was upon him. The man shrieked. The brute wrenched him from the body of the boy. Great fingers sunk into the man’s flesh. Yellow fangs gaped close to his throat—he struggled, futilely—and when they closed, the soul of Alexis Paulvitch passed into the keeping of the demons who had long been awaiting it.
The boy struggled to his feet, assisted by Akut. For two hours under the instructions of the former the ape worked upon the knots that secured his friend’s wrists. Finally they gave up their secret, and the boy was free. Then he opened one of his bags and drew forth some garments. His plans had been well made. He did not consult the beast, which did all that he directed. Together they slunk from the house, but no casual observer might have noted that one of them was an ape.
IV.
The killing of the friendless old Russian, Michael Sabrov, by his great trained ape, was a matter for newspaper comment for a few days. Lord Greystoke read of it, and while taking special precautions not to permit his name to become connected with the affair, kept himself well posted as to the police search for the anthropoid.
As was true of the general public, his chief interest in the matter centered about the mysterious disappearance of the slayer. Or at least this was true until he learned, several days subsequent to the tragedy, that his son Jack had not reported at the public school en route for which they had seen him safely ensconced in a railway carriage. Even then the father did not connect the disappearance of his son with the mystery surrounding the whereabouts of the ape. Nor was it until a month later that careful investigation revealed the fact that the boy had left the train before it pulled out of the station at London, and the cab driver had been found who had driven him to the address of the old Russian, that Tarzan of the Apes realized that Akut had in some way been connected with the disappearance of the boy.
Beyond the moment that the cab driver had deposited his fare beside the curb in front of the house in which the Russian had been quartered there was no clue. No one had seen either the boy or the ape from that instant—at least no one who still lived. The proprietor of the house identified the picture of the lad as that of one who had been a frequent visitor in the room of the old man. Aside from this he knew nothing. And there, at the door of a grimy, old building in the slums of London, the searchers came to a blank wall—baffled.
The day following the death of Alexis Paulvitch a youth accompanying his invalid grandmother, boarded a steamer at Dover. The old lady was heavily veiled, and so weakened by age and sickness that she had to be wheeled aboard the vessel in an invalid chair.
The boy would permit none but himself to wheel her, and with his own hands assisted her from the chair to the interior of their stateroom—and that was the last that was seen of the old lady by the ship’s company until the pair disembarked. The boy even insisted upon doing the work of their cabin steward, since, as he explained, his grandmother was suffering from a nervous disposition that made the presence of strangers extremely distasteful to her.
Outside the cabin—and none there was aboard who knew what he did in the cabin—the lad was just as any other healthy, normal English boy might have been. He mingled with his fellow passengers, became a prime favorite with the officers, and struck up numerous friendships among the common sailors. He was generous and unaffected, yet carried an air of dignity and strength of character that inspired his many new friends with admiration as well as affection for him.
Among the passengers there was an American named Condon, a noted blackleg and crook who was “wanted” in a half dozen of the larger cities of the United States. He had paid little attention to the boy until on one occasion he had seen him accidentally display a roll of bank notes. From then on Condon cultivated the youthful Briton. He learned, easily, that the boy was traveling alone with his invalid grandmother, and that their destination was a small port on the west coast of Africa, a little below the equator; that their name was Billings, and that they had no friends in the little settlement for which they were bound. Upon the point of their purpose in visiting the place Condon found the boy reticent, and so he did not push the matter—he had learned all that he cared to know as it was.
Several times Condon attempted to draw the lad into a card game; but his victim was not interested, and the black looks of several of the other men passengers decided the American to find other means of transferring the boy’s bank roll to his own pocket.
At last came the day that the steamer dropped anchor in the lee of a wooded promontory where a score or more of sheet-iron shacks making an unsightly blot upon the fair face of nature proclaimed the fact that civilization had set its heel. Straggling upon the outskirts were the thatched huts of natives, picturesque in their primeval savagery, harmonizing with the background of tropical jungle and accentuating the squalid hideousness of the white man’s pioneer architecture.
The boy, leaning over the rail, was looking far beyond the man-made town deep into the God-made jungle. A little shiver of anticipation tingled his spine, and then, quite without volition, he found himself gazing into the loving eyes of his mother and the strong face of the father which mirrored, beneath its masculine strength, a love no less than the mother’s eyes proclaimed. He felt himself weakening in his resolve. Nearby one of the ship’s officers was shouting orders to a flotilla of native boats that was approaching to lighter the consignment of the steamer’s cargo destined for this tiny post.
“When does the next steamer for England touch here?” the boy asked.
“The Emanuel ought to be along most any time now,” replied the officer. “I figgered we’d find her here,” and he went on with his bellowing remarks to the dusty horde drawing close to the steamer’s side.
The task of lowering the boy’s grandmother over the side to a waiting canoe was rather difficult. The lad insisted on being always at her side, and when at last she was safely ensconced in the bottom of the craft that was to bear them shoreward her grandson dropped catlike after her. So interested was he in seeing her comfortably disposed that he failed to notice the little package that had worked from his pocket as he assisted in lowering the sling that contained the old woman over the steamer’s side, nor did he notice it even as it slipped out entirely and dropped into the sea.
Scarcely had the boat containing the boy and the old woman started for the shore than Condon hailed a canoe upon the other side of the ship, and after bargaining with its owner finally lowered his baggage and himself aboard. Once ashore he kept out of sight of the two-story atrocity that bore the legend “Hotel” to lure unsuspecting wayfarers to its multitudinous discomforts. It was quite dark before he ventured to enter and arrange for accommodations.
In a back room upon the second floor the lad was explaining, not without considerable difficulty, to his grandmother that he had decided to return to England upon the next steamer. He was endeavoring to make it plain to the old lady that she might remain in Africa if she wished but that for his part his conscience demanded that he return to his father and mother, who doubtless were even now suffering untold sorrow because of his absence; from which it may be assumed that his parents had not been acquainted with the plans that he and the old lady had made for their adventure into African wilds.
Having come to a decision the lad felt a sense of relief from the worry that had haunted him for many sleepless nights. When he closed his eyes in sleep it was to dream of a happy reunion with those at home. And as he dreamed, Fate, cruel and inexorable, crept stealthily upon him through the dark corridor of the squalid building in which he slept—Fate in the form of the American crook, Condon.
Cautiously the man approached the door of the lad’s room. There he crouched listening until assured by the regular breathing of those within that both slept. Quietly he inserted a slim, skeleton key in the lock of the door. With deft fingers, long accustomed to the silent manipulation of the bars and bolts that guarded other men’s property, Condon turned the key and the knob simultaneously. Gentle pressure upon the door swung it slowly inward upon its hinges. The man entered the room, closing the door behind him. The moon was temporarily overcast by heavy clouds. The interior of the apartment was shrouded in gloom. Condon groped his way toward the bed. In the far corner of the room something moved—moved with a silent stealthiness which transcended even the trained silence of the burglar. Condon heard nothing. His attention was riveted upon the bed in which he thought to find a young boy and his helpless, invalid grandmother.
The American sought only the bank roll. If he could possess himself of this without detection, well and good; but were he to meet resistance he was prepared for that too. The lad’s clothes lay across a chair beside the bed. The American’s fingers felt swiftly through them—the pockets contained no roll of crisp, new notes. Doubtless they were beneath the pillows of the bed. He stepped closer toward the sleeper; his hand was already half way beneath the pillow when the thick cloud that had obscured the moon rolled aside and the room was flooded with light. At the same instant the boy opened his eyes and looked straight into those of Condon. The man was suddenly conscious that the boy was alone in the bed. Then he clutched for his victim’s throat. As the lad rose to meet him Condon heard a low growl at his back, then he felt his wrists seized by the boy, and realized that beneath those tapering, white fingers played muscles of steel.
He felt other hands at his throat, rough hairy hands that reached over his shoulders from behind. He cast a terrified glance backward, and the hairs of his head stiffened at the sight his eyes revealed, for grasping him from the rear was a huge, man-like ape. The bared fighting fangs of the anthropoid were close to his throat. The lad pinioned his wrists. Neither uttered a sound. Where was the grandmother? Condon’s eyes swept the room in a single all-inclusive glance. His eyes bulged in horror at the realization of the truth which that glance revealed. In the power of what creatures of hideous mystery had he placed himself! Frantically he fought to beat off the lad that he might turn upon the fearsome thing at his back. Freeing one hand he struck a savage blow at the lad’s face. His act seemed to unloose a thousand devils in the hairy creature clinging to his throat. Condon heard a low and savage snarl. It was the last thing that the American ever heard in this life. Then he was dragged backward upon the floor, a heavy body fell upon him, powerful teeth fastened themselves in his jugular, his head whirled in the sudden blackness which rims eternity—a moment later the ape rose from his prostrate form; but Condon did not know—he was quite dead.
The lad, horrified, sprang from the bed to lean over the body of the man. He knew that Akut had killed in his defense, as he had killed Michael Sabrov; but here, in savage Africa, far from home and friends what would they do to him and his faithful ape? The lad knew that the penalty of murder was death. He even knew that an accomplice might suffer the death penalty with the principal. Who was there who would plead for them? All would be against them. It was little more than a half-civilized community, and the chances were that they would drag Akut and him forth in the morning and hang them both to the nearest tree—he had read of such things being done in America, and Africa was worse even and wilder than the great West of his mother’s native land. Yes, they would both be hanged in the morning!
Was there no escape? He thought in silence for a few moments, and then, with an exclamation of relief, he struck his palms together and turned toward his clothing upon the chair. Money would do anything! Money would save him and Akut! He felt for the bank roll in the pocket in which he had been accustomed to carry it. It was not there! Slowly at first and at last frantically he searched through the remaining pockets of his clothing. Then he dropped upon his hands and knees and examined the floor. Lighting the lamp he moved the bed to one side and, inch by inch, he felt over the entire floor. Beside the body of Condon he hesitated, but at last he nerved himself to touch it. Rolling it over he sought beneath it for the money. Nor was it there. He guessed that Condon had entered their room to rob; but he did not believe that the man had had time to possess himself of the money; however, as it was nowhere else, it must be upon the body of the dead man. Again and again he went over the room, only to return each time to the corpse; but no where could he find the money.
He was half-frantic with despair. What were they to do? In the morning they would be discovered and killed. For all his inherited size and strength he was, after all, only a little boy—a frightened, homesick little boy—reasoning faultily from the meager experience of childhood. He could think of but a single glaring fact—they had killed a fellow man, and they were among savage strangers, thirsting for the blood of the first victim whom fate cast into their clutches. This much he had gleaned from penny-dreadfuls.
And they must have money!
Again he approached the corpse. This time resolutely. The ape squatted in a corner watching his young companion. The youth commenced to remove the American’s clothing piece by piece, and, piece by piece, he examined each garment minutely. Even to the shoes he searched with painstaking care, and when the last article had been removed and scrutinized he dropped back upon the bed with dilated eyes that saw nothing in the present—only a grim tableau of the future in which two forms swung silently from the limb of a great tree.
How long he sat thus he did not know; but finally he was aroused by a noise coming from the floor below. Springing quickly to his feet he blew out the lamp, and crossing the floor silently locked the door. Then he turned toward the ape, his mind made up.
Last evening he had been determined to start for home at the first opportunity, to beg the forgiveness of his parents for this mad adventure. Now he knew that he might never return to them. The blood of a fellow man was upon his hands—in his morbid reflections he had long since ceased to attribute the death of Condon to the ape. The hysteria of panic had fastened the guilt upon himself. With money he might have bought justice; but penniless!—ah, what hope could there be for strangers without money here?
But what had become of the money? He tried to recall when last he had seen it. He could not, nor, could he, would he have been able to account for its disappearance, for he had been entirely unconscious of the falling of the little package from his pocket into the sea as he clambered over the ship’s side into the waiting canoe that bore him to shore.
Now he turned toward Akut. “Come!” he said, in the language of the great apes.
Forgetful of the fact that he wore only a thin pajama suit he led the way to the open window. Thrusting his head out he listened attentively. A single tree grew a few feet from the window. Nimbly the lad sprang to its bole, clinging cat-like for an instant before he clambered quietly to the ground below. Close behind him came the great ape. Two hundred yards away a spur of the jungle ran close to the straggling town. Toward this the lad led the way. None saw them, and a moment later the jungle swallowed them, and John Clayton, future Lord Greystoke, passed from the eyes and the knowledge of men.
It was late the following morning that a native houseman knocked upon the door of the room that had been assigned to Mrs. Billings and her grandson. Receiving no response he inserted his pass key in the lock, only to discover that another key was already there, but from the inside. He reported the fact to Herr Skopf, the proprietor, who at once made his way to the second floor where he, too, pounded vigorously upon the door. Receiving no reply he bent to the key hole in an attempt to look through into the room beyond. In so doing, being portly, he lost his balance, which necessitated putting a palm to the floor to maintain his equilibrium. As he did so he felt something soft and thick and wet beneath his fingers. He raised his open palm before his eyes in the dim light of the corridor and peered at it. Then he gave a little shudder, for even in the semi-darkness he saw a dark red stain upon his hand. Leaping to his feet he hurled his shoulder against the door. Herr Skopf is a heavy man—or at least he was then—I have not seen him for several years. The frail door collapsed beneath his weight, and Herr Skopf stumbled precipitately into the room beyond.
Before him lay the greatest mystery of his life. Upon the floor at his feet was the dead body of a strange man. The neck was broken and the jugular severed as by the fangs of a wild beast. The body was entirely naked, the clothing being strewn about the corpse. The old lady and her grandson were gone. The window was open. They must have disappeared through the window for the door had been locked from the inside.
But how could the boy have carried his invalid grandmother from a second story window to the ground? It was preposterous. Again Herr Skopf searched the small room. He noticed that the bed was pulled well away from the wall—why? He looked beneath it again for the third or fourth time. The two were gone, and yet his judgment told him that the old lady could not have gone without porters to carry her down as they had carried her up the previous day.
Further search deepened the mystery. All the clothing of the two was still in the room—if they had gone then they must have gone naked or in their night clothes. Herr Skopf shook his head; then he scratched it. He was baffled. He had never heard of Sherlock Holmes or he would have lost no time in invoking the aid of that celebrated sleuth, for here was a real mystery: An old woman—an invalid who had to be carried from the ship to her room in the hotel—and a handsome lad, her grandson, had entered a room on the second floor of his hostelry the day before. They had had their evening meal served in their room—that was the last that had been seen of them. At nine the following morning the corpse of a strange man had been the sole occupant of that room. No boat had left the harbor in the meantime—there was not a railroad within hundreds of miles—there was no other white settlement that the two could reach under several days of arduous marching accompanied by a well-equipped safari. They had simply vanished into thin air, for the native he had sent to inspect the ground beneath the open window had just returned to report that there was no sign of a footstep there, and what sort of creatures were they who could have dropped that distance to the soft turf without leaving spoor? Herr Skopf shuddered. Yes, it was a great mystery—there was something uncanny about the whole thing—he hated to think about it, and he dreaded the coming of night.
It was a great mystery to Herr Skopf—and, doubtless, still is.
V.
Captain Armand Jacot of the Foreign Legion sat upon an outspread saddle blanket at the foot of a stunted palm tree. His broad shoulders and his close-cropped head rested in luxurious ease against the rough bole of the palm. His long legs were stretched straight before him overlapping the meager blanket, his spurs buried in the sandy soil of the little desert oasis. The captain was taking his ease after a long day of weary riding across the shifting sands of the desert.
Lazily he puffed upon his cigarette and watched his orderly who was preparing his evening meal. Captain Armand Jacot was well satisfied with himself and the world. A little to his right rose the noisy activity of his troop of sun-tanned veterans, released for the time from the irksome trammels of discipline, relaxing tired muscles, laughing, joking, and smoking as they, too, prepared to eat after a twelve-hour fast. Among them, silent and taciturn, squatted five white-robed Arabs, securely bound and under heavy guard.
It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot with the pleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For a long, hot, gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured the places of the desert waste in search of a band of marauders to the sin-stained account of which were charged innumerable thefts of camels, horses, and goats, as well as murders enough to have sent the whole unsavory gang to the guillotine several times over.
A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battle he had lost two of his own men, but the punishment inflicted upon the marauders had been severe almost to extinction. A half dozen, perhaps, had escaped; but the balance, with the exception of the five prisoners, had expiated their crimes before the nickel jacketed bullets of the legionaries. And, best of all, the ring leader, Achmet ben Houdin, was among the prisoners.
From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traverse the remaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where, upon the morrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcome his wife and little daughter. His eyes softened to the memory of them, as they always did. Even now he could see the beauty of the mother reflected in the childish lines of little Jeanne’s face, and both those faces would be smiling up into his as he swung from his tired mount late the following afternoon. Already he could feel a soft cheek pressed close to each of his—velvet against leather.
His reverie was broken in upon by the voice of a sentry summoning a non-commissioned officer. Captain Jacot raised his eyes. The sun had not yet set; but the shadows of the few trees huddled about the water hole and of his men and their horses stretched far away into the east across the now golden sand. The sentry was pointing in this direction, and the corporal, through narrowed lids, was searching the distance. Captain Jacot rose to his feet. He was not a man content to see through the eyes of others. He must see for himself. Usually he saw things long before others were aware that there was anything to see—a trait that had won for him the sobriquet of Hawk. Now he saw, just beyond the long shadows, a dozen specks rising and falling among the sands. They disappeared and reappeared, but always they grew larger. Jacot recognized them immediately. They were horsemen—horsemen of the desert. Already a sergeant was running toward him. The entire camp was straining its eyes into the distance. Jacot gave a few terse orders to the sergeant who saluted, turned upon his heel and returned to the men. Here he gathered a dozen who saddled their horses, mounted and rode out to meet the strangers. The remaining men disposed themselves in readiness for instant action. It was not entirely beyond the range of possibilities that the horsemen riding thus swiftly toward the camp might be friends of the prisoners bent upon the release of their kinsmen by a sudden attack. Jacot doubted this, however, since the strangers were evidently making no attempt to conceal their presence. They were galloping rapidly toward the camp in plain view of all. There might be treachery lurking beneath their fair appearance; but none who knew The Hawk would be so gullible as to hope to trap him thus.
The sergeant with his detail met the Arabs two hundred yards from the camp. Jacot could see him in conversation with a tall, white-robed figure—evidently the leader of the band. Presently the sergeant and this Arab rode side by side toward camp. Jacot awaited them. The two reined in and dismounted before him.
“Sheik Amor ben Khatour,” announced the sergeant by way of introduction.
Captain Jacot eyed the newcomer. He was acquainted with nearly every principal Arab within a radius of several hundred miles. This man he never had seen. He was a tall, weather beaten, sour looking man of sixty or more. His eyes were narrow and evil. Captain Jacot did not relish his appearance.
“Well?” he asked, tentatively.
The Arab came directly to the point.
“Achmet ben Houdin is my sister’s son,” he said. “If you will give him into my keeping I will see that he sins no more against the laws of the French.”
Jacot shook his head. “That cannot be,” he replied. “I must take him back with me. He will be properly and fairly tried by a civil court. If he is innocent he will be released.”
“And if he is not innocent?” asked the Arab.
“He is charged with many murders. For any one of these, if he is proved guilty, he will have to die.”
The Arab’s left hand was hidden beneath his burnous. Now he withdrew it disclosing a large goatskin purse, bulging and heavy with coins. He opened the mouth of the purse and let a handful of the contents trickle into the palm of his right hand—all were pieces of good French gold. From the size of the purse and its bulging proportions Captain Jacot concluded that it must contain a small fortune. Sheik Amor ben Khatour dropped the spilled gold pieces one by one back into the purse. Jacot was eyeing him narrowly. They were alone. The sergeant, having introduced the visitor, had withdrawn to some little distance—his back was toward them. Now the sheik, having returned all the gold pieces, held the bulging purse outward upon his open palm toward Captain Jacot.
“Achmet ben Houdin, my sister’s son, MIGHT escape tonight,” he said. “Eh?”
Captain Armand Jacot flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair. Then he went very white and took a half-step toward the Arab. His fists were clenched. Suddenly he thought better of whatever impulse was moving him.
“Sergeant!” he called. The non-commissioned officer hurried toward him, saluting as his heels clicked together before his superior.
“Take this black dog back to his people,” he ordered. “See that they leave at once. Shoot the first man who comes within range of camp tonight.”
Sheik Amor ben Khatour drew himself up to his full height. His evil eyes narrowed. He raised the bag of gold level with the eyes of the French officer.
“You will pay more than this for the life of Achmet ben Houdin, my sister’s son,” he said. “And as much again for the name that you have called me and a hundred fold in sorrow in the bargain.”
“Get out of here!” growled Captain Armand Jacot, “before I kick you out.”
All of this happened some three years before the opening of this tale. The trail of Achmet ben Houdin and his accomplices is a matter of record—you may verify it if you care to. He met the death he deserved, and he met it with the stoicism of the Arab.
A month later little Jeanne Jacot, the seven-year-old daughter of Captain Armand Jacot, mysteriously disappeared. Neither the wealth of her father and mother, or all the powerful resources of the great republic were able to wrest the secret of her whereabouts from the inscrutable desert that had swallowed her and her abductor.
A reward of such enormous proportions was offered that many adventurers were attracted to the hunt. This was no case for the modern detective of civilization, yet several of these threw themselves into the search—the bones of some are already bleaching beneath the African sun upon the silent sands of the Sahara.
Two Swedes, Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, after three years of following false leads at last gave up the search far to the south of the Sahara to turn their attention to the more profitable business of ivory poaching. In a great district they were already known for their relentless cruelty and their greed for ivory. The natives feared and hated them. The European governments in whose possessions they worked had long sought them; but, working their way slowly out of the north they had learned many things in the no-man’s-land south of the Sahara which gave them immunity from capture through easy avenues of escape that were unknown to those who pursued them. Their raids were sudden and swift. They seized ivory and retreated into the trackless wastes of the north before the guardians of the territory they raped could be made aware of their presence. Relentlessly they slaughtered elephants themselves as well as stealing ivory from the natives. Their following consisted of a hundred or more renegade Arabs and Negro slaves—a fierce, relentless band of cut-throats. Remember them—Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, yellow-bearded, Swedish giants—for you will meet them later.
In the heart of the jungle, hidden away upon the banks of a small unexplored tributary of a large river that empties into the Atlantic not so far from the equator, lay a small, heavily palisaded village. Twenty palm-thatched, beehive huts sheltered its black population, while a half-dozen goat skin tents in the center of the clearing housed the score of Arabs who found shelter here while, by trading and raiding, they collected the cargoes which their ships of the desert bore northward twice each year to the market of Timbuktu.
Playing before one of the Arab tents was a little girl of ten—a black-haired, black-eyed little girl who, with her nut-brown skin and graceful carriage looked every inch a daughter of the desert. Her little fingers were busily engaged in fashioning a skirt of grasses for a much-disheveled doll which a kindly disposed slave had made for her a year or two before. The head of the doll was rudely chipped from ivory, while the body was a rat skin stuffed with grass. The arms and legs were bits of wood, perforated at one end and sewn to the rat skin torso. The doll was quite hideous and altogether disreputable and soiled, but Meriem thought it the most beautiful and adorable thing in the whole world, which is not so strange in view of the fact that it was the only object within that world upon which she might bestow her confidence and her love.
Everyone else with whom Meriem came in contact was, almost without exception, either indifferent to her or cruel. There was, for example, the old black hag who looked after her, Mabunu—toothless, filthy and ill tempered. She lost no opportunity to cuff the little girl, or even inflict minor tortures upon her, such as pinching, or, as she had twice done, searing the tender flesh with hot coals. And there was The Sheik, her father. She feared him more than she did Mabunu. He often scolded her for nothing, quite habitually terminating his tirades by cruelly beating her, until her little body was black and blue.
But when she was alone she was happy, playing with Geeka, or decking her hair with wild flowers, or making ropes of grasses. She was always busy and always singing—when they left her alone. No amount of cruelty appeared sufficient to crush the innate happiness and sweetness from her full little heart. Only when The Sheik was near was she quiet and subdued. Him she feared with a fear that was at times almost hysterical terror. She feared the gloomy jungle too—the cruel jungle that surrounded the little village with chattering monkeys and screaming birds by day and the roaring and coughing and moaning of the carnivora by night. Yes, she feared the jungle; but so much more did she fear The Sheik that many times it was in her childish head to run away, out into the terrible jungle forever rather than longer to face the ever present terror of her father.
As she sat there this day before The Sheik’s goatskin tent, fashioning a skirt of grasses for Geeka, The Sheik appeared suddenly approaching. Instantly the look of happiness faded from the child’s face. She shrunk aside in an attempt to scramble from the path of the leathern-faced old Arab; but she was not quick enough. With a brutal kick the man sent her sprawling upon her face, where she lay quite still, tearless but trembling. Then, with an oath at her, the man passed into the tent. The old, black hag shook with appreciative laughter, disclosing an occasional and lonesome yellow fang.
When she was sure The Sheik had gone, the little girl crawled to the shady side of the tent, where she lay quite still, hugging Geeka close to her breast, her little form racked at long intervals with choking sobs. She dared not cry aloud, since that would have brought The Sheik upon her again. The anguish in her little heart was not alone the anguish of physical pain; but that infinitely more pathetic anguish—of love denied a childish heart that yearns for love.
Little Meriem could scarce recall any other existence than that of the stern cruelty of The Sheik and Mabunu. Dimly, in the back of her childish memory there lurked a blurred recollection of a gentle mother; but Meriem was not sure but that even this was but a dream picture induced by her own desire for the caresses she never received, but which she lavished upon the much loved Geeka. Never was such a spoiled child as Geeka. Its little mother, far from fashioning her own conduct after the example set her by her father and nurse, went to the extreme of indulgence. Geeka was kissed a thousand times a day. There was play in which Geeka was naughty; but the little mother never punished. Instead, she caressed and fondled; her attitude influenced solely by her own pathetic desire for love.
Now, as she pressed Geeka close to her, her sobs lessened gradually, until she was able to control her voice, and pour out her misery into the ivory ear of her only confidante.
“Geeka loves Meriem,” she whispered. “Why does The Sheik, my father, not love me, too? Am I so naughty? I try to be good; but I never know why he strikes me, so I cannot tell what I have done which displeases him. Just now he kicked me and hurt me so, Geeka; but I was only sitting before the tent making a skirt for you. That must be wicked, or he would not have kicked me for it. But why is it wicked, Geeka? Oh dear! I do not know, I do not know. I wish, Geeka, that I were dead. Yesterday the hunters brought in the body of El Adrea. El Adrea was quite dead. No more will he slink silently upon his unsuspecting prey. No more will his great head and his maned shoulders strike terror to the hearts of the grass eaters at the drinking ford by night. No more will his thundering roar shake the ground. El Adrea is dead. They beat his body terribly when it was brought into the village; but El Adrea did not mind. He did not feel the blows, for he was dead. When I am dead, Geeka, neither shall I feel the blows of Mabunu, or the kicks of The Sheik, my father. Then shall I be happy. Oh, Geeka, how I wish that I were dead!”
If Geeka contemplated a remonstrance it was cut short by sounds of altercation beyond the village gates. Meriem listened. With the curiosity of childhood she would have liked to have run down there and learn what it was that caused the men to talk so loudly. Others of the village were already trooping in the direction of the noise. But Meriem did not dare. The Sheik would be there, doubtless, and if he saw her it would be but another opportunity to abuse her, so Meriem lay still and listened.
Presently she heard the crowd moving up the street toward The Sheik’s tent. Cautiously she stuck her little head around the edge of the tent. She could not resist the temptation, for the sameness of the village life was monotonous, and she craved diversion. What she saw was two strangers—white men. They were alone, but as they approached she learned from the talk of the natives that surrounded them that they possessed a considerable following that was camped outside the village. They were coming to palaver with The Sheik.
The old Arab met them at the entrance to his tent. His eyes narrowed wickedly when they had appraised the newcomers. They stopped before him, exchanging greetings. They had come to trade for ivory they said. The Sheik grunted. He had no ivory. Meriem gasped. She knew that in a near-by hut the great tusks were piled almost to the roof. She poked her little head further forward to get a better view of the strangers. How white their skins! How yellow their great beards!
Suddenly one of them turned his eyes in her direction. She tried to dodge back out of sight, for she feared all men; but he saw her. Meriem noticed the look of almost shocked surprise that crossed his face. The Sheik saw it too, and guessed the cause of it.
“I have no ivory,” he repeated. “I do not wish to trade. Go away. Go now.”
He stepped from his tent and almost pushed the strangers about in the direction of the gates. They demurred, and then The Sheik threatened. It would have been suicide to have disobeyed, so the two men turned and left the village, making their way immediately to their own camp.
The Sheik returned to his tent; but he did not enter it. Instead he walked to the side where little Meriem lay close to the goat skin wall, very frightened. The Sheik stooped and clutched her by the arm. Viciously he jerked her to her feet, dragged her to the entrance of the tent, and shoved her viciously within. Following her he again seized her, beating her ruthlessly.
“Stay within!” he growled. “Never let the strangers see thy face. Next time you show yourself to strangers I shall kill you!”
With a final vicious cuff he knocked the child into a far corner of the tent, where she lay stifling her moans, while The Sheik paced to and fro muttering to himself. At the entrance sat Mabunu, muttering and chuckling.
In the camp of the strangers one was speaking rapidly to the other.
“There is no doubt of it, Malbihn,” he was saying. “Not the slightest; but why the old scoundrel hasn’t claimed the reward long since is what puzzles me.”
“There are some things dearer to an Arab, Jenssen, than money,” returned the first speaker—“revenge is one of them.”
“Anyhow it will not harm to try the power of gold,” replied Jenssen.
Malbihn shrugged.
“Not on The Sheik,” he said. “We might try it on one of his people; but The Sheik will not part with his revenge for gold. To offer it to him would only confirm his suspicions that we must have awakened when we were talking to him before his tent. If we got away with our lives, then, we should be fortunate.”
“Well, try bribery, then,” assented Jenssen.
But bribery failed—grewsomely. The tool they selected after a stay of several days in their camp outside the village was a tall, old headman of The Sheik’s native contingent. He fell to the lure of the shining metal, for he had lived upon the coast and knew the power of gold. He promised to bring them what they craved, late that night.
Immediately after dark the two white men commenced to make arrangements to break camp. By midnight all was prepared. The porters lay beside their loads, ready to swing them aloft at a moment’s notice. The armed askaris loitered between the balance of the safari and the Arab village, ready to form a rear guard for the retreat that was to begin the moment that the head man brought that which the white masters awaited.
Presently there came the sound of footsteps along the path from the village. Instantly the askaris and the whites were on the alert. More than a single man was approaching. Jenssen stepped forward and challenged the newcomers in a low whisper.
“Who comes?” he queried.
“Mbeeda,” came the reply.
Mbeeda was the name of the traitorous head man. Jenssen was satisfied, though he wondered why Mbeeda had brought others with him. Presently he understood. The thing they fetched lay upon a litter borne by two men. Jenssen cursed beneath his breath. Could the fool be bringing them a corpse? They had paid for a living prize!
The bearers came to a halt before the white men.
“This has your gold purchased,” said one of the two. They set the litter down, turned and vanished into the darkness toward the village. Malbihn looked at Jenssen, a crooked smile twisting his lips. The thing upon the litter was covered with a piece of cloth.
“Well?” queried the latter. “Raise the covering and see what you have bought. Much money shall we realize on a corpse—especially after the six months beneath the burning sun that will be consumed in carrying it to its destination!”
“The fool should have known that we desired her alive,” grumbled Malbihn, grasping a corner of the cloth and jerking the cover from the thing that lay upon the litter.
At sight of what lay beneath both men stepped back—involuntary oaths upon their lips—for there before them lay the dead body of Mbeeda, the faithless head man.
Five minutes later the safari of Jenssen and Malbihn was forcing its way rapidly toward the west, nervous askaris guarding the rear from the attack they momentarily expected.
VI.
His first night in the jungle was one which the son of Tarzan held longest in his memory. No savage carnivora menaced him. There was never a sign of hideous barbarian. Or, if there were, the boy’s troubled mind took no cognizance of them. His conscience was harassed by the thought of his mother’s suffering. Self-blame plunged him into the depths of misery. The killing of the American caused him little or no remorse. The fellow had earned his fate. Jack’s regret on this score was due mainly to the effect which the death of Condon had had upon his own plans. Now he could not return directly to his parents as he had planned. Fear of the primitive, borderland law, of which he had read highly colored, imaginary tales, had thrust him into the jungle a fugitive. He dared not return to the coast at this point—not that he was so greatly influenced through personal fear as from a desire to shield his father and mother from further sorrow and from the shame of having their honored name dragged through the sordid degradation of a murder trial.
With returning day the boy’s spirits rose. With the rising sun rose new hope within his breast. He would return to civilization by another way. None would guess that he had been connected with the killing of the stranger in the little out-of-the-way trading post upon a remote shore.
Crouched close to the great ape in the crotch of a tree the boy had shivered through an almost sleepless night. His light pajamas had been but little protection from the chill dampness of the jungle, and only that side of him which was pressed against the warm body of his shaggy companion approximated to comfort. And so he welcomed the rising sun with its promise of warmth as well as light—the blessed sun, dispeller of physical and mental ills.
He shook Akut into wakefulness.
“Come,” he said. “I am cold and hungry. We will search for food, out there in the sunlight,” and he pointed to an open plain, dotted with stunted trees and strewn with jagged rock.
The boy slid to the ground as he spoke, but the ape first looked carefully about, sniffing the morning air. Then, satisfied that no danger lurked near, he descended slowly to the ground beside the boy.
“Numa, and Sabor his mate, feast upon those who descend first and look afterward, while those who look first and descend afterward live to feast themselves.” Thus the old ape imparted to the son of Tarzan the boy’s first lesson in jungle lore. Side by side they set off across the rough plain, for the boy wished first to be warm. The ape showed him the best places to dig for rodents and worms; but the lad only gagged at the thought of devouring the repulsive things. Some eggs they found, and these he sucked raw, as also he ate roots and tubers which Akut unearthed. Beyond the plain and across a low bluff they came upon water—brackish, ill-smelling stuff in a shallow water hole, the sides and bottom of which were trampled by the feet of many beasts. A herd of zebra galloped away as they approached.
The lad was too thirsty by now to cavil at anything even remotely resembling water, so he drank his fill while Akut stood with raised head, alert for any danger. Before the ape drank he cautioned the boy to be watchful; but as he drank he raised his head from time to time to cast a quick glance toward a clump of bushes a hundred yards away upon the opposite side of the water hole. When he had done he rose and spoke to the boy, in the language that was their common heritage—the tongue of the great apes.
“There is no danger near?” he asked.
“None,” replied the boy. “I saw nothing move while you drank.”
“Your eyes will help you but little in the jungle,” said the ape.
“Here, if you would live, you must depend upon your ears and your nose but most upon your nose. When we came down to drink I knew that no danger lurked near upon this side of the water hole, for else the zebras would have discovered it and fled before we came; but upon the other side toward which the wind blows danger might lie concealed. We could not smell it for its scent is being blown in the other direction, and so I bent my ears and eyes down wind where my nose cannot travel.”
“And you found—nothing?” asked the lad, with a laugh.
“I found Numa crouching in that clump of bushes where the tall grasses grow,” and Akut pointed.
“A lion?” exclaimed the boy. “How do you know? I can see nothing.”
“Numa is there, though,” replied the great ape. “First I heard him sigh. To you the sigh of Numa may sound no different from the other noises which the wind makes among the grasses and the trees; but later you must learn to know the sigh of Numa. Then I watched and at last I saw the tall grasses moving at one point to a force other than the force of the wind. See, they are spread there upon either side of Numa’s great body, and as he breathes—you see? You see the little motion at either side that is not caused by the wind—the motion that none of the other grasses have?”
The boy strained his eyes—better eyes than the ordinary boy inherits—and at last he gave a little exclamation of discovery.
“Yes,” he said, “I see. He lies there,” and he pointed. “His head is toward us. Is he watching us?”
“Numa is watching us,” replied Akut, “but we are in little danger, unless we approach too close, for he is lying upon his kill. His belly is almost full, or we should hear him crunching the bones. He is watching us in silence merely from curiosity. Presently he will resume his feeding or he will rise and come down to the water for a drink. As he neither fears or desires us he will not try to hide his presence from us; but now is an excellent time to learn to know Numa, for you must learn to know him well if you would live long in the jungle. Where the great apes are many Numa leaves us alone. Our fangs are long and strong, and we can fight; but when we are alone and he is hungry we are no match for him. Come, we will circle him and catch his scent. The sooner you learn to know it the better; but keep close to the trees, as we go around him, for Numa often does that which he is least expected to do. And keep your ears and your eyes and your nose open. Remember always that there may be an enemy behind every bush, in every tree and amongst every clump of jungle grass. While you are avoiding Numa do not run into the jaws of Sabor, his mate. Follow me,” and Akut set off in a wide circle about the water hole and the crouching lion.
The boy followed close upon his heels, his every sense upon the alert, his nerves keyed to the highest pitch of excitement. This was life! For the instant he forgot his resolutions of a few minutes past to hasten to the coast at some other point than that at which he had landed and make his way immediately back to London. He thought now only of the savage joy of living, and of pitting one’s wits and prowess against the wiles and might of the savage jungle brood which haunted the broad plains and the gloomy forest aisles of the great, untamed continent. He knew no fear. His father had had none to transmit to him; but honor and conscience he did have and these were to trouble him many times as they battled with his inherent love of freedom for possession of his soul.
They had passed but a short distance to the rear of Numa when the boy caught the unpleasant odor of the carnivore. His face lighted with a smile. Something told him that he would have known that scent among a myriad of others even if Akut had not told him that a lion lay near. There was a strange familiarity—a weird familiarity in it that made the short hairs rise at the nape of his neck, and brought his upper lip into an involuntary snarl that bared his fighting fangs. There was a sense of stretching of the skin about his ears, for all the world as though those members were flattening back against his skull in preparation for deadly combat. His skin tingled. He was aglow with a pleasurable sensation that he never before had known. He was, upon the instant, another creature—wary, alert, ready. Thus did the scent of Numa, the lion, transform the boy into a beast.
He had never seen a lion—his mother had gone to great pains to prevent it. But he had devoured countless pictures of them, and now he was ravenous to feast his eyes upon the king of beasts in the flesh. As he trailed Akut he kept an eye cocked over one shoulder, rearward, in the hope that Numa might rise from his kill and reveal himself. Thus it happened that he dropped some little way behind Akut, and the next he knew he was recalled suddenly to a contemplation of other matters than the hidden Numa by a shrill scream of warning from the Ape. Turning his eyes quickly in the direction of his companion, the boy saw that, standing in the path directly before him, which sent tremors of excitement racing along every nerve of his body. With body half-merging from a clump of bushes in which she must have lain hidden stood a sleek and beautiful lioness. Her yellow-green eyes were round and staring, boring straight into the eyes of the boy. Not ten paces separated them. Twenty paces behind the lioness stood the great ape, bellowing instructions to the boy and hurling taunts at the lioness in an evident effort to attract her attention from the lad while he gained the shelter of a near-by tree.
But Sabor was not to be diverted. She had her eyes upon the lad. He stood between her and her mate, between her and the kill. It was suspicious. Probably he had ulterior designs upon her lord and master or upon the fruits of their hunting. A lioness is short tempered. Akut’s bellowing annoyed her. She uttered a little rumbling growl, taking a step toward the boy.
“The tree!” screamed Akut.
The boy turned and fled, and at the same instant the lioness charged. The tree was but a few paces away. A limb hung ten feet from the ground, and as the boy leaped for it the lioness leaped for him. Like a monkey he pulled himself up and to one side. A great forepaw caught him a glancing blow at the hips—just grazing him. One curved talon hooked itself into the waist band of his pajama trousers, ripping them from him as the lioness sped by. Half-naked the lad drew himself to safety as the beast turned and leaped for him once more.
Akut, from a near-by tree, jabbered and scolded, calling the lioness all manner of foul names. The boy, patterning his conduct after that of his preceptor, unstoppered the vials of his invective upon the head of the enemy, until in realization of the futility of words as weapons he bethought himself of something heavier to hurl. There was nothing but dead twigs and branches at hand, but these he flung at the upturned, snarling face of Sabor just as his father had before him twenty years ago, when as a boy he too had taunted and tantalized the great cats of the jungle.
The lioness fretted about the bole of the tree for a short time; but finally, either realizing the uselessness of her vigil, or prompted by the pangs of hunger, she stalked majestically away and disappeared in the brush that hid her lord, who had not once shown himself during the altercation.
Freed from their retreats Akut and the boy came to the ground, to take up their interrupted journey once more. The old ape scolded the lad for his carelessness.
“Had you not been so intent upon the lion behind you you might have discovered the lioness much sooner than you did.”
“But you passed right by her without seeing her,” retorted the boy.
Akut was chagrined.
“It is thus,” he said, “that jungle folk die. We go cautiously for a lifetime, and then, just for an instant, we forget, and—” he ground his teeth in mimicry of the crunching of great jaws in flesh. “It is a lesson,” he resumed. “You have learned that you may not for too long keep your eyes and your ears and your nose all bent in the same direction.”
That night the son of Tarzan was colder than he ever had been in all his life. The pajama trousers had not been heavy; but they had been much heavier than nothing. And the next day he roasted in the hot sun, for again their way led much across wide and treeless plains.
It was still in the boy’s mind to travel to the south, and circle back to the coast in search of another outpost of civilization. He had said nothing of this plan to Akut, for he knew that the old ape would look with displeasure upon any suggestion that savored of separation.
For a month the two wandered on, the boy learning rapidly the laws of the jungle; his muscles adapting themselves to the new mode of life that had been thrust upon them. The thews of the sire had been transmitted to the son—it needed only the hardening of use to develop them. The lad found that it came quite naturally to him to swing through the trees. Even at great heights he never felt the slightest dizziness, and when he had caught the knack of the swing and the release, he could hurl himself through space from branch to branch with even greater agility than the heavier Akut.
And with exposure came a toughening and hardening of his smooth, white skin, browning now beneath the sun and wind. He had removed his pajama jacket one day to bathe in a little stream that was too small to harbor crocodiles, and while he and Akut had been disporting themselves in the cool waters a monkey had dropped down from the over hanging trees, snatched up the boy’s single remaining article of civilized garmenture, and scampered away with it.
For a time Jack was angry; but when he had been without the jacket for a short while he began to realize that being half-clothed is infinitely more uncomfortable than being entirely naked. Soon he did not miss his clothing in the least, and from that he came to revel in the freedom of his unhampered state. Occasionally a smile would cross his face as he tried to imagine the surprise of his schoolmates could they but see him now. They would envy him. Yes, how they would envy him. He felt sorry for them at such times, and again as he thought of them amid luxuries and comforts of their English homes, happy with their fathers and mothers, a most uncomfortable lump would arise into the boy’s throat, and he would see a vision of his mother’s face through a blur of mist that came unbidden to his eyes. Then it was that he urged Akut onward, for now they were headed westward toward the coast. The old ape thought that they were searching for a tribe of his own kind, nor did the boy disabuse his mind of this belief. It would do to tell Akut of his real plans when they had come within sight of civilization.
One day as they were moving slowly along beside a river they came unexpectedly upon a native village. Some children were playing beside the water. The boy’s heart leaped within his breast at sight of them—for over a month he had seen no human being. What if these were naked savages? What if their skins were black? Were they not creatures fashioned in the mold of their Maker, as was he? They were his brothers and sisters! He started toward them. With a low warning Akut laid a hand upon his arm to hold him back. The boy shook himself free, and with a shout of greeting ran forward toward the ebon players.
The sound of his voice brought every head erect. Wide eyes viewed him for an instant, and then, with screams of terror, the children turned and fled toward the village. At their heels ran their mothers, and from the village gate, in response to the alarm, came a score of warriors, hastily snatched spears and shields ready in their hands.
At sight of the consternation he had wrought the boy halted. The glad smile faded from his face as with wild shouts and menacing gestures the warriors ran toward him. Akut was calling to him from behind to turn and flee, telling him that the blacks would kill him. For a moment he stood watching them coming, then he raised his hand with the palm toward them in signal for them to halt, calling out at the same time that he came as a friend—that he had only wanted to play with their children. Of course they did not understand a word that he addressed to them, and their answer was what any naked creature who had run suddenly out of the jungle upon their women and children might have expected—a shower of spears. The missiles struck all about the boy, but none touched him. Again his spine tingled and the short hairs lifted at the nape of his neck and along the top of his scalp. His eyes narrowed. Sudden hatred flared in them to wither the expression of glad friendliness that had lighted them but an instant before. With a low snarl, quite similar to that of a baffled beast, he turned and ran into the jungle. There was Akut awaiting him in a tree. The ape urged him to hasten in flight, for the wise old anthropoid knew that they two, naked and unarmed, were no match for the sinewy black warriors who would doubtless make some sort of search for them through the jungle.
But a new power moved the son of Tarzan. He had come with a boy’s glad and open heart to offer his friendship to these people who were human beings like himself. He had been met with suspicion and spears. They had not even listened to him. Rage and hatred consumed him. When Akut urged speed he held back. He wanted to fight, yet his reason made it all too plain that it would be but a foolish sacrifice of his life to meet these armed men with his naked hands and his teeth—already the boy thought of his teeth, of his fighting fangs, when possibility of combat loomed close.
Moving slowly through the trees he kept his eyes over his shoulder, though he no longer neglected the possibilities of other dangers which might lurk on either hand or ahead—his experience with the lioness did not need a repetition to insure the permanency of the lesson it had taught. Behind he could hear the savages advancing with shouts and cries. He lagged further behind until the pursuers were in sight. They did not see him, for they were not looking among the branches of the trees for human quarry. The lad kept just ahead of them. For a mile perhaps they continued the search, and then they turned back toward the village. Here was the boy’s opportunity, that for which he had been waiting, while the hot blood of revenge coursed through his veins until he saw his pursuers through a scarlet haze.
When they turned back he turned and followed them. Akut was no longer in sight. Thinking that the boy followed he had gone on further ahead. He had no wish to tempt fate within range of those deadly spears. Slinking silently from tree to tree the boy dogged the footsteps of the returning warriors. At last one dropped behind his fellows as they followed a narrow path toward the village. A grim smile lit the lad’s face. Swiftly he hurried forward until he moved almost above the unconscious black—stalking him as Sheeta, the panther, stalked his prey, as the boy had seen Sheeta do on many occasions.
Suddenly and silently he leaped forward and downward upon the broad shoulders of his prey. In the instant of contact his fingers sought and found the man’s throat. The weight of the boy’s body hurled the black heavily to the ground, the knees in his back knocking the breath from him as he struck. Then a set of strong, white teeth fastened themselves in his neck, and muscular fingers closed tighter upon his wind-pipe. For a time the warrior struggled frantically, throwing himself about in an effort to dislodge his antagonist; but all the while he was weakening and all the while the grim and silent thing he could not see clung tenaciously to him, and dragged him slowly into the bush to one side of the trail.
Hidden there at last, safe from the prying eyes of searchers, should they miss their fellow and return for him, the lad choked the life from the body of his victim. At last he knew by the sudden struggle, followed by limp relaxation, that the warrior was dead. Then a strange desire seized him. His whole being quivered and thrilled. Involuntarily he leaped to his feet and placed one foot upon the body of his kill. His chest expanded. He raised his face toward the heavens and opened his mouth to voice a strange, weird cry that seemed screaming within him for outward expression, but no sound passed his lips—he just stood there for a full minute, his face turned toward the sky, his breast heaving to the pent emotion, like an animate statue of vengeance.
The silence which marked the first great kill of the son of Tarzan was to typify all his future kills, just as the hideous victory cry of the bull ape had marked the kills of his mighty sire.
VII.
Akut, discovering that the boy was not close behind him, turned back to search for him. He had gone but a short distance in return when he was brought to a sudden and startled halt by sight of a strange figure moving through the trees toward him. It was the boy, yet could it be? In his hand was a long spear, down his back hung an oblong shield such as the black warriors who had attacked them had worn, and upon ankle and arm were bands of iron and brass, while a loin cloth was twisted about the youth’s middle. A knife was thrust through its folds.
When the boy saw the ape he hastened forward to exhibit his trophies. Proudly he called attention to each of his newly won possessions. Boastfully he recounted the details of his exploit.
“With my bare hands and my teeth I killed him,” he said. “I would have made friends with them but they chose to be my enemies. And now that I have a spear I shall show Numa, too, what it means to have me for a foe. Only the white men and the great apes, Akut, are our friends. Them we shall seek, all others must we avoid or kill. This have I learned of the jungle.”
They made a detour about the hostile village, and resumed their journey toward the coast. The boy took much pride in his new weapons and ornaments. He practiced continually with the spear, throwing it at some object ahead hour by hour as they traveled their loitering way, until he gained a proficiency such as only youthful muscles may attain to speedily. All the while his training went on under the guidance of Akut. No longer was there a single jungle spoor but was an open book to the keen eyes of the lad, and those other indefinite spoor that elude the senses of civilized man and are only partially appreciable to his savage cousin came to be familiar friends of the eager boy. He could differentiate the innumerable species of the herbivora by scent, and he could tell, too, whether an animal was approaching or departing merely by the waxing or waning strength of its effluvium. Nor did he need the evidence of his eyes to tell him whether there were two lions or four up wind,—a hundred yards away or half a mile.
Much of this had Akut taught him, but far more was instinctive knowledge—a species of strange intuition inherited from his father. He had come to love the jungle life. The constant battle of wits and senses against the many deadly foes that lurked by day and by night along the pathway of the wary and the unwary appealed to the spirit of adventure which breathes strong in the heart of every red-blooded son of primordial Adam. Yet, though he loved it, he had not let his selfish desires outweigh the sense of duty that had brought him to a realization of the moral wrong which lay beneath the adventurous escapade that had brought him to Africa. His love of father and mother was strong within him, too strong to permit unalloyed happiness which was undoubtedly causing them days of sorrow. And so he held tight to his determination to find a port upon the coast where he might communicate with them and receive funds for his return to London. There he felt sure that he could now persuade his parents to let him spend at least a portion of his time upon those African estates which from little careless remarks dropped at home he knew his father possessed. That would be something, better at least than a lifetime of the cramped and cloying restrictions of civilization.
And so he was rather contented than otherwise as he made his way in the direction of the coast, for while he enjoyed the liberty and the savage pleasures of the wild his conscience was at the same time clear, for he knew that he was doing all that lay in his power to return to his parents. He rather looked forward, too, to meeting white men again—creatures of his own kind—for there had been many occasions upon which he had longed for other companionship than that of the old ape. The affair with the blacks still rankled in his heart. He had approached them in such innocent good fellowship and with such childlike assurance of a hospitable welcome that the reception which had been accorded him had proved a shock to his boyish ideals. He no longer looked upon the black man as his brother; but rather as only another of the innumerable foes of the bloodthirsty jungle—a beast of prey which walked upon two feet instead of four.
But if the blacks were his enemies there were those in the world who were not. There were those who always would welcome him with open arms; who would accept him as a friend and brother, and with whom he might find sanctuary from every enemy. Yes, there were always white men. Somewhere along the coast or even in the depths of the jungle itself there were white men. To them he would be a welcome visitor. They would befriend him. And there were also the great apes—the friends of his father and of Akut. How glad they would be to receive the son of Tarzan of the Apes! He hoped that he could come upon them before he found a trading post upon the coast. He wanted to be able to tell his father that he had known his old friends of the jungle, that he had hunted with them, that he had joined with them in their savage life, and their fierce, primeval ceremonies—the strange ceremonies of which Akut had tried to tell him. It cheered him immensely to dwell upon these happy meetings. Often he rehearsed the long speech which he would make to the apes, in which he would tell them of the life of their former king since he had left them.
At other times he would play at meeting with white men. Then he would enjoy their consternation at sight of a naked white boy trapped in the war togs of a black warrior and roaming the jungle with only a great ape as his companion.
And so the days passed, and with the traveling and the hunting and the climbing the boy’s muscles developed and his agility increased until even phlegmatic Akut marvelled at the prowess of his pupil. And the boy, realizing his great strength and revelling in it, became careless. He strode through the jungle, his proud head erect, defying danger. Where Akut took to the trees at the first scent of Numa, the lad laughed in the face of the king of beasts and walked boldly past him. Good fortune was with him for a long time. The lions he met were well-fed, perhaps, or the very boldness of the strange creature which invaded their domain so filled them with surprise that thoughts of attack were banished from their minds as they stood, round-eyed, watching his approach and his departure. Whatever the cause, however, the fact remains that on many occasions the boy passed within a few paces of some great lion without arousing more than a warning growl.
But no two lions are necessarily alike in character or temper. They differ as greatly as do individuals of the human family. Because ten lions act similarly under similar conditions one cannot say that the eleventh lion will do likewise—the chances are that he will not. The lion is a creature of high nervous development. He thinks, therefore he reasons. Having a nervous system and brains he is the possessor of temperament, which is affected variously by extraneous causes. One day the boy met the eleventh lion. The former was walking across a small plain upon which grew little clumps of bushes. Akut was a few yards to the left of the lad who was the first to discover the presence of Numa.
“Run, Akut,” called the boy, laughing. “Numa lies hid in the bushes to my right. Take to the trees. Akut! I, the son of Tarzan, will protect you,” and the boy, laughing, kept straight along his way which led close beside the brush in which Numa lay concealed.
The ape shouted to him to come away, but the lad only flourished his spear and executed an improvised war dance to show his contempt for the king of beasts. Closer and closer to the dread destroyer he came, until, with a sudden, angry growl, the lion rose from his bed not ten paces from the youth. A huge fellow he was, this lord of the jungle and the desert. A shaggy mane clothed his shoulders. Cruel fangs armed his great jaws. His yellow-green eyes blazed with hatred and challenge.
The boy, with his pitifully inadequate spear ready in his hand, realized quickly that this lion was different from the others he had met; but he had gone too far now to retreat. The nearest tree lay several yards to his left—the lion could be upon him before he had covered half the distance, and that the beast intended to charge none could doubt who looked upon him now. Beyond the lion was a thorn tree—only a few feet beyond him. It was the nearest sanctuary but Numa stood between it and his prey.
The feel of the long spear shaft in his hand and the sight of the tree beyond the lion gave the lad an idea—a preposterous idea—a ridiculous, forlorn hope of an idea; but there was no time now to weigh chances—there was but a single chance, and that was the thorn tree. If the lion charged it would be too late—the lad must charge first, and to the astonishment of Akut and none the less of Numa, the boy leaped swiftly toward the beast. Just for a second was the lion motionless with surprise and in that second Jack Clayton put to the crucial test an accomplishment which he had practiced at school.
Straight for the savage brute he ran, his spear held butt foremost across his body. Akut shrieked in terror and amazement. The lion stood with wide, round eyes awaiting the attack, ready to rear upon his hind feet and receive this rash creature with blows that could crush the skull of a buffalo.
Just in front of the lion the boy placed the butt of his spear upon the ground, gave a mighty spring, and, before the bewildered beast could guess the trick that had been played upon him, sailed over the lion’s head into the rending embrace of the thorn tree—safe but lacerated.
Akut had never before seen a pole-vault. Now he leaped up and down within the safety of his own tree, screaming taunts and boasts at the discomfited Numa, while the boy, torn and bleeding, sought some position in his thorny retreat in which he might find the least agony. He had saved his life; but at considerable cost in suffering. It seemed to him that the lion would never leave, and it was a full hour before the angry brute gave up his vigil and strode majestically away across the plain. When he was at a safe distance the boy extricated himself from the thorn tree; but not without inflicting new wounds upon his already tortured flesh.
It was many days before the outward evidence of the lesson he had learned had left him; while the impression upon his mind was one that was to remain with him for life. Never again did he uselessly tempt fate.
He took long chances often in his after life; but only when the taking of chances might further the attainment of some cherished end—and, always thereafter, he practiced pole-vaulting.
For several days the boy and the ape lay up while the former recovered from the painful wounds inflicted by the sharp thorns. The great anthropoid licked the wounds of his human friend, nor, aside from this, did they receive other treatment, but they soon healed, for healthy flesh quickly replaces itself.
When the lad felt fit again the two continued their journey toward the coast, and once more the boy’s mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation.
And at last the much dreamed of moment came. They were passing through a tangled forest when the boy’s sharp eyes discovered from the lower branches through which he was traveling an old but well-marked spoor—a spoor that set his heart to leaping—the spoor of man, of white men, for among the prints of naked feet were the well defined outlines of European made boots. The trail, which marked the passage of a good-sized company, pointed north at right angles to the course the boy and the ape were taking toward the coast.
Doubtless these white men knew the nearest coast settlement. They might even be headed for it now. At any rate it would be worth while overtaking them if even only for the pleasure of meeting again creatures of his own kind. The lad was all excitement; palpitant with eagerness to be off in pursuit. Akut demurred. He wanted nothing of men. To him the lad was a fellow ape, for he was the son of the king of apes. He tried to dissuade the boy, telling him that soon they should come upon a tribe of their own folk where some day when he was older the boy should be king as his father had before him. But Jack was obdurate. He insisted that he wanted to see white men again. He wanted to send a message to his parents. Akut listened and as he listened the intuition of the beast suggested the truth to him—the boy was planning to return to his own kind.
The thought filled the old ape with sorrow. He loved the boy as he had loved the father, with the loyalty and faithfulness of a hound for its master. In his ape brain and his ape heart he had nursed the hope that he and the lad would never be separated. He saw all his fondly cherished plans fading away, and yet he remained loyal to the lad and to his wishes. Though disconsolate he gave in to the boy’s determination to pursue the safari of the white men, accompanying him upon what he believed would be their last journey together.
The spoor was but a couple of days old when the two discovered it, which meant that the slow-moving caravan was but a few hours distant from them whose trained and agile muscles could carry their bodies swiftly through the branches above the tangled undergrowth which had impeded the progress of the laden carriers of the white men.
The boy was in the lead, excitement and anticipation carrying him ahead of his companion to whom the attainment of their goal meant only sorrow. And it was the boy who first saw the rear guard of the caravan and the white men he had been so anxious to overtake.
Stumbling along the tangled trail of those ahead a dozen heavily laden blacks who, from fatigue or sickness, had dropped behind were being prodded by the black soldiers of the rear guard, kicked when they fell, and then roughly jerked to their feet and hustled onward. On either side walked a giant white man, heavy blonde beards almost obliterating their countenances. The boy’s lips formed a glad cry of salutation as his eyes first discovered the whites—a cry that was never uttered, for almost immediately he witnessed that which turned his happiness to anger as he saw that both the white men were wielding heavy whips brutally upon the naked backs of the poor devils staggering along beneath loads that would have overtaxed the strength and endurance of strong men at the beginning of a new day.
Every now and then the rear guard and the white men cast apprehensive glances rearward as though momentarily expecting the materialization of some long expected danger from that quarter. The boy had paused after his first sight of the caravan, and now was following slowly in the wake of the sordid, brutal spectacle. Presently Akut came up with him. To the beast there was less of horror in the sight than to the lad, yet even the great ape growled beneath his breath at useless torture being inflicted upon the helpless slaves. He looked at the boy. Now that he had caught up with the creatures of his own kind, why was it that he did not rush forward and greet them? He put the question to his companion.
“They are fiends,” muttered the boy. “I would not travel with such as they, for if I did I should set upon them and kill them the first time they beat their people as they are beating them now; but,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “I can ask them the whereabouts of the nearest port, and then, Akut, we can leave them.”
The ape made no reply, and the boy swung to the ground and started at a brisk walk toward the safari. He was a hundred yards away, perhaps, when one of the whites caught sight of him. The man gave a shout of alarm, instantly levelling his rifle upon the boy and firing. The bullet struck just in front of its mark, scattering turf and fallen leaves against the lad’s legs. A second later the other white and the black soldiers of the rear guard were firing hysterically at the boy.
Jack leaped behind a tree, unhit. Days of panic ridden flight through the jungle had filled Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn with jangling nerves and their native boys with unreasoning terror. Every new note from behind sounded to their frightened ears the coming of The Sheik and his bloodthirsty entourage. They were in a blue funk, and the sight of the naked white warrior stepping silently out of the jungle through which they had just passed had been sufficient shock to let loose in action all the pent nerve energy of Malbihn, who had been the first to see the strange apparition. And Malbihn’s shout and shot had set the others going.
When their nervous energy had spent itself and they came to take stock of what they had been fighting it developed that Malbihn alone had seen anything clearly. Several of the blacks averred that they too had obtained a good view of the creature but their descriptions of it varied so greatly that Jenssen, who had seen nothing himself, was inclined to be a trifle skeptical. One of the blacks insisted that the thing had been eleven feet tall, with a man’s body and the head of an elephant. Another had seen THREE immense Arabs with huge, black beards; but when, after conquering their nervousness, the rear guard advanced upon the enemy’s position to investigate they found nothing, for Akut and the boy had retreated out of range of the unfriendly guns.
Jack was disheartened and sad. He had not entirely recovered from the depressing effect of the unfriendly reception he had received at the hands of the blacks, and now he had found an even more hostile one accorded him by men of his own color.
“The lesser beasts flee from me in terror,” he murmured, half to himself, “the greater beasts are ready to tear me to pieces at sight. Black men would kill me with their spears or arrows. And now white men, men of my own kind, have fired upon me and driven me away. Are all the creatures of the world my enemies? Has the son of Tarzan no friend other than Akut?”
The old ape drew closer to the boy.
“There are the great apes,” he said. “They only will be the friends of Akut’s friend. Only the great apes will welcome the son of Tarzan. You have seen that men want nothing of you. Let us go now and continue our search for the great apes—our people.”
The language of the great apes is a combination of monosyllabic gutturals, amplified by gestures and signs. It may not be literally translated into human speech; but as near as may be this is what Akut said to the boy.
The two proceeded in silence for some time after Akut had spoken. The boy was immersed in deep thought—bitter thoughts in which hatred and revenge predominated. Finally he spoke: “Very well, Akut,” he said, “we will find our friends, the great apes.”
The anthropoid was overjoyed; but he gave no outward demonstration of his pleasure. A low grunt was his only response, and a moment later he had leaped nimbly upon a small and unwary rodent that had been surprised at a fatal distance from its burrow. Tearing the unhappy creature in two Akut handed the lion’s share to the lad.
VIII.
A year had passed since the two Swedes had been driven in terror from the savage country where The Sheik held sway. Little Meriem still played with Geeka, lavishing all her childish love upon the now almost hopeless ruin of what had never, even in its palmiest days, possessed even a slight degree of loveliness. But to Meriem, Geeka was all that was sweet and adorable. She carried to the deaf ears of the battered ivory head all her sorrows all her hopes and all her ambitions, for even in the face of hopelessness, in the clutches of the dread authority from which there was no escape, little Meriem yet cherished hopes and ambitions. It is true that her ambitions were rather nebulous in form, consisting chiefly of a desire to escape with Geeka to some remote and unknown spot where there were no Sheiks, no Mabunus—where El Adrea could find no entrance, and where she might play all day surrounded only by flowers and birds and the harmless little monkeys playing in the tree tops.
The Sheik had been away for a long time, conducting a caravan of ivory, skins, and rubber far into the north. The interim had been one of great peace for Meriem. It is true that Mabunu had still been with her, to pinch or beat her as the mood seized the villainous old hag; but Mabunu was only one. When The Sheik was there also there were two of them, and The Sheik was stronger and more brutal even than Mabunu. Little Meriem often wondered why the grim old man hated her so. It is true that he was cruel and unjust to all with whom he came in contact, but to Meriem he reserved his greatest cruelties, his most studied injustices.
Today Meriem was squatting at the foot of a large tree which grew inside the palisade close to the edge of the village. She was fashioning a tent of leaves for Geeka. Before the tent were some pieces of wood and small leaves and a few stones. These were the household utensils. Geeka was cooking dinner. As the little girl played she prattled continuously to her companion, propped in a sitting position with a couple of twigs. She was totally absorbed in the domestic duties of Geeka—so much so that she did not note the gentle swaying of the branches of the tree above her as they bent to the body of the creature that had entered them stealthily from the jungle.
In happy ignorance the little girl played on, while from above two steady eyes looked down upon her—unblinking, unwavering. There was none other than the little girl in this part of the village, which had been almost deserted since The Sheik had left long months before upon his journey toward the north.
And out in the jungle, an hour’s march from the village, The Sheik was leading his returning caravan homeward.
A year had passed since the white men had fired upon the lad and driven him back into the jungle to take up his search for the only remaining creatures to whom he might look for companionship—the great apes. For months the two had wandered eastward, deeper and deeper into the jungle. The year had done much for the boy—turning his already mighty muscles to thews of steel, developing his woodcraft to a point where it verged upon the uncanny, perfecting his arboreal instincts, and training him in the use of both natural and artificial weapons.
He had become at last a creature of marvelous physical powers and mental cunning. He was still but a boy, yet so great was his strength that the powerful anthropoid with which he often engaged in mimic battle was no match for him. Akut had taught him to fight as the bull ape fights, nor ever was there a teacher better fitted to instruct in the savage warfare of primordial man, or a pupil better equipped to profit by the lessons of a master.
As the two searched for a band of the almost extinct species of ape to which Akut belonged they lived upon the best the jungle afforded. Antelope and zebra fell to the boy’s spear, or were dragged down by the two powerful beasts of prey who leaped upon them from some overhanging limb or from the ambush of the undergrowth beside the trail to the water hole or the ford.
The pelt of a leopard covered the nakedness of the youth; but the wearing of it had not been dictated by any prompting of modesty. With the rifle shots of the white men showering about him he had reverted to the savagery of the beast that is inherent in each of us, but that flamed more strongly in this boy whose father had been raised a beast of prey. He wore his leopard skin at first in response to a desire to parade a trophy of his prowess, for he had slain the leopard with his knife in a hand-to-hand combat. He saw that the skin was beautiful, which appealed to his barbaric sense of ornamentation, and when it stiffened and later commenced to decompose because of his having no knowledge of how to cure or tan it was with sorrow and regret that he discarded it. Later, when he chanced upon a lone, black warrior wearing the counterpart of it, soft and clinging and beautiful from proper curing, it required but an instant to leap from above upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting black, sink a keen blade into his heart and possess the rightly preserved hide.
There were no after-qualms of conscience. In the jungle might is right, nor does it take long to inculcate this axiom in the mind of a jungle dweller, regardless of what his past training may have been. That the black would have killed him had he had the chance the boy knew full well. Neither he nor the black were any more sacred than the lion, or the buffalo, the zebra or the deer, or any other of the countless creatures who roamed, or slunk, or flew, or wriggled through the dark mazes of the forest. Each had but a single life, which was sought by many. The greater number of enemies slain the better chance to prolong that life. So the boy smiled and donned the finery of the vanquished, and went his way with Akut, searching, always searching for the elusive anthropoids who were to welcome them with open arms. And at last they found them. Deep in the jungle, buried far from sight of man, they came upon such another little natural arena as had witnessed the wild ceremony of the Dum-Dum in which the boy’s father had taken part long years before.
First, at a great distance, they heard the beating of the drum of the great apes. They were sleeping in the safety of a huge tree when the booming sound smote upon their ears. Both awoke at once. Akut was the first to interpret the strange cadence.
“The great apes!” he growled. “They dance the Dum-Dum. Come, Korak, son of Tarzan, let us go to our people.”
Months before Akut had given the boy a name of his own choosing, since he could not master the man given name of Jack. Korak is as near as it may be interpreted into human speech. In the language of the apes it means Killer. Now the Killer rose upon the branch of the great tree where he had been sleeping with his back braced against the stem. He stretched his lithe young muscles, the moonlight filtering through the foliage from above dappling his brown skin with little patches of light.
The ape, too, stood up, half squatting after the manner of his kind. Low growls rumbled from the bottom of his deep chest—growls of excited anticipation. The boy growled in harmony with the ape. Then the anthropoid slid softly to the ground. Close by, in the direction of the booming drum, lay a clearing which they must cross. The moon flooded it with silvery light. Half-erect, the great ape shuffled into the full glare of the moon. At his side, swinging gracefully along in marked contrast to the awkwardness of his companion, strode the boy, the dark, shaggy coat of the one brushing against the smooth, clear hide of the other. The lad was humming now, a music hall air that had found its way to the forms of the great English public school that was to see him no more. He was happy and expectant. The moment he had looked forward to for so long was about to be realized. He was coming into his own. He was coming home. As the months had dragged or flown along, retarded or spurred on as privation or adventure predominated, thoughts of his own home, while oft recurring, had become less vivid. The old life had grown to seem more like a dream than a reality, and the balking of his determination to reach the coast and return to London had finally thrown the hope of realization so remotely into the future that it too now seemed little more than a pleasant but hopeless dream.
Now all thoughts of London and civilization were crowded so far into the background of his brain that they might as well have been non-existent. Except for form and mental development he was as much an ape as the great, fierce creature at his side.
In the exuberance of his joy he slapped his companion roughly on the side of the head. Half in anger, half in play the anthropoid turned upon him, his fangs bared and glistening. Long, hairy arms reached out to seize him, and, as they had done a thousand times before, the two clinched in mimic battle, rolling upon the sward, striking, growling and biting, though never closing their teeth in more than a rough pinch. It was wondrous practice for them both. The boy brought into play wrestling tricks that he had learned at school, and many of these Akut learned to use and to foil. And from the ape the boy learned the methods that had been handed down to Akut from some common ancestor of them both, who had roamed the teeming earth when ferns were trees and crocodiles were birds.
But there was one art the boy possessed which Akut could not master, though he did achieve fair proficiency in it for an ape—boxing. To have his bull-like charges stopped and crumpled with a suddenly planted fist upon the end of his snout, or a painful jolt in the short ribs, always surprised Akut. It angered him too, and at such times his mighty jaws came nearer to closing in the soft flesh of his friend than at any other, for he was still an ape, with an ape’s short temper and brutal instincts; but the difficulty was in catching his tormentor while his rage lasted, for when he lost his head and rushed madly into close quarters with the boy he discovered that the stinging hail of blows released upon him always found their mark and effectually stopped him—effectually and painfully. Then he would withdraw growling viciously, backing away with grinning jaws distended, to sulk for an hour or so.
Tonight they did not box. Just for a moment or two they wrestled playfully, until the scent of Sheeta, the panther, brought them to their feet, alert and wary. The great cat was passing through the jungle in front of them. For a moment it paused, listening. The boy and the ape growled menacingly in chorus and the carnivore moved on.
Then the two took up their journey toward the sound of the Dum-Dum. Louder and louder came the beating of the drum. Now, at last, they could hear the growling of the dancing apes, and strong to their nostrils came the scent of their kind. The lad trembled with excitement. The hair down Akut’s spine stiffened—the symptoms of happiness and anger are often similar.
Silently they crept through the jungle as they neared the meeting place of the apes. Now they were in the trees, worming their way forward, alert for sentinels. Presently through a break in the foliage the scene burst upon the eager eyes of the boy. To Akut it was a familiar one; but to Korak it was all new. His nerves tingled at the savage sight. The great bulls were dancing in the moonlight, leaping in an irregular circle about the flat-topped earthen drum about which three old females sat beating its resounding top with sticks worn smooth by long years of use.
Akut, knowing the temper and customs of his kind, was too wise to make their presence known until the frenzy of the dance had passed. After the drum was quiet and the bellies of the tribe well-filled he would hail them. Then would come a parley, after which he and Korak would be accepted into membership by the community. There might be those who would object; but such could be overcome by brute force, of which he and the lad had an ample surplus. For weeks, possibly months, their presence might cause ever decreasing suspicion among others of the tribe; but eventually they would become as born brothers to these strange apes.
He hoped that they had been among those who had known Tarzan, for that would help in the introduction of the lad and in the consummation of Akut’s dearest wish, that Korak should become king of the apes. It was with difficulty, however, that Akut kept the boy from rushing into the midst of the dancing anthropoids—an act that would have meant the instant extermination of them both, since the hysterical frenzy into which the great apes work themselves during the performance of their strange rites is of such a nature that even the most ferocious of the carnivora give them a wide berth at such times.
As the moon declined slowly toward the lofty, foliaged horizon of the amphitheater the booming of the drum decreased and lessened were the exertions of the dancers, until, at last, the final note was struck and the huge beasts turned to fall upon the feast they had dragged hither for the orgy.
From what he had seen and heard Akut was able to explain to Korak that the rites proclaimed the choosing of a new king, and he pointed out to the boy the massive figure of the shaggy monarch, come into his kingship, no doubt, as many human rulers have come into theirs—by the murder of his predecessor.
When the apes had filled their bellies and many of them had sought the bases of the trees to curl up in sleep Akut plucked Korak by the arm.
“Come,” he whispered. “Come slowly. Follow me. Do as Akut does.”
Then he advanced slowly through the trees until he stood upon a bough overhanging one side of the amphitheater. Here he stood in silence for a moment. Then he uttered a low growl. Instantly a score of apes leaped to their feet. Their savage little eyes sped quickly around the periphery of the clearing. The king ape was the first to see the two figures upon the branch. He gave voice to an ominous growl. Then he took a few lumbering steps in the direction of the intruders. His hair was bristling. His legs were stiff, imparting a halting, jerky motion to his gait. Behind him pressed a number of bulls.
He stopped just a little before he came beneath the two—just far enough to be beyond their spring. Wary king! Here he stood rocking himself to and fro upon his short legs, baring his fangs in hideous grinnings, rumbling out an ever increasing volume of growls, which were slowly but steadily increasing to the proportions of roars. Akut knew that he was planning an attack upon them. The old ape did not wish to fight. He had come with the boy to cast his lot with the tribe.
“I am Akut,” he said. “This is Korak. Korak is the son of Tarzan who was king of the apes. I, too, was king of the apes who dwelt in the midst of the great waters. We have come to hunt with you, to fight with you. We are great hunters. We are mighty fighters. Let us come in peace.”
The king ceased his rocking. He eyed the pair from beneath his beetling brows. His bloodshot eyes were savage and crafty. His kingship was very new and he was jealous of it. He feared the encroachments of two strange apes. The sleek, brown, hairless body of the lad spelled “man,” and man he feared and hated.
“Go away!” he growled. “Go away, or I will kill you.”
The eager lad, standing behind the great Akut, had been pulsing with anticipation and happiness. He wanted to leap down among these hairy monsters and show them that he was their friend, that he was one of them. He had expected that they would receive him with open arms, and now the words of the king ape filled him with indignation and sorrow. The blacks had set upon him and driven him away. Then he had turned to the white men—to those of his own kind—only to hear the ping of bullets where he had expected words of cordial welcome. The great apes had remained his final hope. To them he looked for the companionship man had denied him. Suddenly rage overwhelmed him.
The king ape was almost directly beneath him. The others were formed in a half circle several yards behind the king. They were watching events interestedly. Before Akut could guess his intention, or prevent, the boy leaped to the ground directly in the path of the king, who had now succeeded in stimulating himself to a frenzy of fury.
“I am Korak!” shouted the boy. “I am the Killer. I came to live among you as a friend. You want to drive me away. Very well, then, I shall go; but before I go I shall show you that the son of Tarzan is your master, as his father was before him—that he is not afraid of your king or you.”
For an instant the king ape had stood motionless with surprise. He had expected no such rash action upon the part of either of the intruders. Akut was equally surprised. Now he shouted excitedly for Korak to come back, for he knew that in the sacred arena the other bulls might be expected to come to the assistance of their king against an outsider, though there was small likelihood that the king would need assistance. Once those mighty jaws closed upon the boy’s soft neck the end would come quickly. To leap to his rescue would mean death for Akut, too; but the brave old ape never hesitated. Bristling and growling, he dropped to the sward just as the king ape charged.
The beast’s hands clutched for their hold as the animal sprang upon the lad. The fierce jaws were wide distended to bury the yellow fangs deeply in the brown hide. Korak, too, leaped forward to meet the attack; but leaped crouching, beneath the outstretched arms. At the instant of contact the lad pivoted on one foot, and with all the weight of his body and the strength of his trained muscles drove a clenched fist into the bull’s stomach. With a gasping shriek the king ape collapsed, clutching futilely for the agile, naked creature nimbly sidestepping from his grasp.
Howls of rage and dismay broke from the bull apes behind the fallen king, as with murder in their savage little hearts they rushed forward upon Korak and Akut; but the old ape was too wise to court any such unequal encounter. To have counseled the boy to retreat now would have been futile, and Akut knew it. To delay even a second in argument would have sealed the death warrants of them both. There was but a single hope and Akut seized it. Grasping the lad around the waist he lifted him bodily from the ground, and turning ran swiftly toward another tree which swung low branches above the arena. Close upon their heels swarmed the hideous mob; but Akut, old though he was and burdened by the weight of the struggling Korak, was still fleeter than his pursuers.
With a bound he grasped a low limb, and with the agility of a little monkey swung himself and the boy to temporary safety. Nor did he hesitate even here; but raced on through the jungle night, bearing his burden to safety. For a time the bulls pursued; but presently, as the swifter outdistanced the slower and found themselves separated from their fellows they abandoned the chase, standing roaring and screaming until the jungle reverberated to their hideous noises. Then they turned and retraced their way to the amphitheater.
When Akut felt assured that they were no longer pursued he stopped and released Korak. The boy was furious.
“Why did you drag me away?” he cried. “I would have taught them! I would have taught them all! Now they will think that I am afraid of them.”
“What they think cannot harm you,” said Akut. “You are alive. If I had not brought you away you would be dead now and so would I. Do you not know that even Numa slinks from the path of the great apes when there are many of them and they are mad?”
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A town council in Canada is at a standstill after its newly elected members refused to pledge allegiance to King Charles III as required in the swearing-in ceremony.
Stephen Johnson, the mayor-elect of Dawson City in Yukon Territory, and the new council were elected last month. They were to be sworn early this month but that process stalled after they refused to take the oath.
Johnson says the refusal is in solidarity with an indigenous council member who has raised concerns about the Crown’s history with Canada’s indigenous people.
Under Yukon law, a newly elected official must take the oath within 40 days of their election or else their win "shall be considered null".This means Johnson and the rest of council have until 9 December to take the Oath of Allegiance, in which elected officials in Canada - a Commonwealth country and former British colony - swear or affirm they "will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King Charles III" and his "heirs and successors according to law".
In the meantime, the new council is not able to govern or make official decisions until the matter is resolved.
In an interview with the Canadian Press, Mayor-elect Johnson said the situation had left him stuck.
“We can’t do anything legally required of us under the Municipal Act,” he explained, until the council takes the oath. “It’s a bit of a sticky situation.”
Johnson said he and the other councillors refused the oath in solidarity with fellow councillor Darwyn Lynn, a member of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in First Nation, who was hesitant to pledge allegiance.
“This is being done with no disrespect to His Majesty King Charles,” Johnson told the Canadian Press. “And also we’re not doing this to go, ‘Rah, rah, look at us,’ to poke everybody across Canada, to get rid of the Crown.
“It was just something we wanted to do together to show solidarity in what we do here in this town."
As a remedy, the town council has asked Yukon provincial officials if they could take an alternative oath.
A spokesperson for Yukon’s Department of Community Services confirmed to the BBC that they had received this request, but have not commented on whether it will be granted.
Bill Kendrick, the town's outgoing mayor, told the BBC that he hoped "it gets worked out for the sake of the new council, so they can get down to business".
He added the town's response to the standoff had been mixed.
"I'd say it's the whole gamut," Mr Kendrick said. Some believe the oath is outdated, while others interpret it as a symbol of support for Canada's system of governance.
Dawson City is a town of 2,400, known for being the heart of the historic Klondike Gold Rush that began in 1896. It is the second-largest municipality in the Yukon, a Canadian territory that borders Alaska.
The town is located on the former site of Tr’ochëk, a hunting and fishing camp where the Klondike and Yukon rivers meet. Its people, the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in, were displaced after the Klondike gold rush brought nearly 17,000 new settlers.
Canada has acknowledged its fraught history with its indigenous peoples in recent years. In 2017, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau declared before the United Nations that the country’s legacy of colonialism was one of “humiliation, neglect and abuse”.
This is not the first time that elected officials in Canada have refused to take an oath to the King.
In 2022, the French-speaking province of Quebec passed legislation that ended the requirement to have elected officials take an oath to the monarchy. One lawmaker called it “a relic from the past”.
Earlier this year, a member of Canada’s national parliament introduced a similar bill, though it was defeated by a vote of 197-113.
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Russia is estimated to have supplied North Korea with more than a million barrels of oil since March this year, according to satellite imagery analysis from the Open Source Centre, a non-profit research group based in the UK.
The oil is payment for the weapons and troops Pyongyang has sent Moscow to fuel its war in Ukraine, leading experts and UK Foreign Secretary, David Lammy, have told the BBC.
These transfers violate UN sanctions, which ban countries from selling oil to North Korea, except in small quantities, in an attempt to stifle its economy to prevent it from further developing nuclear weapons.
The satellite images, shared exclusively with the BBC, show more than a dozen different North Korean oil tankers arriving at an oil terminal in Russia’s Far East a total of 43 times over the past eight months.
Further pictures, taken of the ships at sea, appear to show the tankers arriving empty, and leaving almost full.
North Korea is the only country in the world not allowed to buy oil on the open market. The number of barrels of refined petroleum it can receive is capped by the United Nations at 500,000 annually, well below the amount it needs.The first oil transfer documented by the Open Source Centre in a new report, was on 7 March 2024, seven months after it first emerged Pyongyang was sending Moscow weapons.
The shipments have continued as thousands of North Korean troops are reported to have been sent to Russia to fight, with the last one recorded on 5 November.
“While Kim Jong Un is providing Vladimir Putin with a lifeline to continue his war, Russia is quietly providing North Korea with a lifeline of its own,” says Joe Byrne from the Open Source Centre.
“This steady flow of oil gives North Korea a level of stability it hasn’t had since these sanctions were introduced.”
Four former members of a UN panel responsible for tracking the sanctions on North Korea have told the BBC the transfers are a consequence of increasing ties between Moscow and Pyongyang.
“These transfers are fuelling Putin’s war machine – this is oil for missiles, oil for artillery and now oil for soldiers,” says Hugh Griffiths, who led the panel from 2014 to 2019.
UK Foreign Secretary David Lammy has told the BBC in a statement: “To keep fighting in Ukraine, Russia has become increasingly reliant on North Korea for troops and weapons in exchange for oil."
He added that this was “having a direct impact on security in the Korean peninsula, Europe and Indo-Pacific"Easy and cheap oil supply
While most people in North Korea rely on coal for their daily lives, oil is essential for running the country’s military. Diesel and petrol are used to transport missile launchers and troops around the country, run munitions factories and fuel the cars of Pyongyang’s elite.
The 500,000 barrels North Korea is allowed to receive fall far short of the nine million it consumes – meaning that since the cap was introduced in 2017, the country has been forced to buy oil illicitly from criminal networks to make up this deficit.
This involves transferring the oil between ships out at sea – a risky, expensive and time-consuming business, according to Dr Go Myong-hyun, a senior research fellow at South Korea’s Institute for National Security Strategy, which is linked to the country’s spy agency.
“Now Kim Jong Un is getting oil directly, it’s likely better quality, and chances are he’s getting it for free, as quid pro quo for supplying munitions. What could be better than that?"
“A million barrels is nothing for a large oil producer like Russia to release, but it is a substantial amount for North Korea to receive,” Tracking the ‘silent’ transfers
In all 43 of the journeys tracked by the Open Source Centre using satellite images, the North Korean-flagged tankers arrived at Russia’s Vostochny Port with their trackers switched off, concealing their movements.
The images show they then made their way back to one of four ports on North Korea’s east and west coast.
“The vessels appear silently, almost every week,” says Joe Byrne, the researcher from the Open Source Centre. “Since March there’s been a fairly constant flow.”
The team, which has been tracking these tankers since the oil sanctions were first introduced, used their knowledge of each ship’s capacity to calculate how many oil barrels they could carry.
Then they studied images of the ships entering and leaving Vostochny and, in most instances, could see how low they sat in the water and, therefore, how full they were.
The tankers, they assess, were loaded to 90% of their capacity.
“We can see from some of the images that if the ships were any fuller they would sink,” Mr Byrne says.Based on this, they calculate that, since March, Russia has given North Korea more than a million barrels of oil - more than double the annual cap, and around ten times the amount Moscow officially gave Pyongyang in 2023.
This follows an assessment by the US government in May that Moscow had already supplied more than 500,000 barrels’ worth of oil.
Cloud cover means the researchers cannot get a clear image of the port every day.
“The whole of August was cloudy, so we weren’t able to document a single trip,” Mr Byrne says, leading his team to believe that one million barrels is a “baseline” figure.A ‘new level of contempt’ for sanctions
Not only do these oil deliveries breach UN sanctions on North Korea, that Russia, as a permanent member of the UN Security Council, signed off on – but also, more than half of the journeys tracked by the Open Source Centre were made by vessels that have been individually sanctioned by the UN.
This means they should have been impounded upon entering Russian waters.
But in March 2024, three weeks after the first oil transfer was documented, Russia disbanded the UN panel responsible for monitoring sanctions violations, by using its veto at the UN Security Council.
Ashley Hess, who was working on the panel up until its collapse, says they saw evidence the transfers had started.
“We were tracking some of the ships and companies involved, but our work was stopped, possibly after they had already breached the 500,000-barrel cap”.
Eric Penton-Voak, who led the group from 2021-2023, says the Russian members on the panel tried to censor its work.
“Now the panel is gone, they can simply ignore the rules,” he adds. “The fact that Russia is now encouraging these ships to visit its ports and load up with oil shows a new level of contempt for these sanctions.”
But Mr Penton-Voak, who is on the board of the Open Source Centre, thinks the problem runs much deeper.
“You now have these autocratic regimes increasingly working together to help one another achieve whatever it is they want, and ignoring the wishes of the international community.”
This is an “increasingly dangerous” playbook, he argues.
“The last thing you want is a North Korean tactical nuclear weapon turning up in Iran, for instance.”
Oil the tip of the iceberg?
As Kim Jong Un steps up his support for Vladimir Putin’s war, concern is growing over what else he will receive in return.
The US and South Korea estimate Pyongyang has now sent Moscow 16,000 shipping containers filled with artillery shells and rockets, while remnants of exploded North Korean ballistic missiles have been recovered on the battlefield in Ukraine.More recently, Putin and Kim signed a defence pact, leading to thousands of North Korean troops being sent to Russia’s Kursk region, where intelligence reports indicate they are now engaged in battle.
The South Korean government has told the BBC it would “sternly respond to the violation of the UN Security Council resolutions by Russia and North Korea”.
Its biggest worry is that Moscow will provide Pyongyang with technology to improve its spy satellites and ballistic missiles.
Last month, Seoul’s defence minister, Kim Yong-hyun, stated there was a “high chance” North Korea was asking for such help.
“If you’re sending your people to die in a foreign war, a million barrels of oil is just not sufficient reward,” Dr Go says.
Andrei Lankov, an expert in North Korea-Russia relations at Seoul’s Kookmin University, agrees.
“I used to think it was not in Russia’s interest to share military technology, but perhaps its calculus has changed. The Russians need these troops, and this gives the North Koreans more leverage.”
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Jet engines are one of the most jaw-dropping feats of engineering humans have ever come up with.
But jet engines shouldn’t be possible, says Ben Beake, director of materials research at Micro Materials, an equipment testing company in Wales.
“The air coming in is hotter than the melting point of the metal underneath – which is obviously not a good thing,” he explains, pointing out that this air reaches temperatures well above 1,000C.
Designers of jet engines have got around this problem by applying heat-resistant ceramic coatings to the engine blades. And now, researchers are developing yet stronger coatings that allow the engines to run hotter still.
“If you get it to go hotter, then there’s a massive saving on fuel and CO2,” says Dr Beake. By increasing the temperature by just 30C or so, you might get an 8% fuel saving, he estimates.This is the power of coatings – they radically transform the functionality and capabilities of an underlying material. Few people realise how important they are, but these overlays and veneers can supercharge high-performance machines, or ensure that expensive equipment survives the harshest of environments.
Dr Beake and his colleagues are tasked with pushing coatings to their limits, in order to see how robust or effective they really are. His clients don’t always get the results they want. He recalls telling a missile manufacturer, “We’ve broken your coating,” some years ago. “They stormed off in a huff,” says Dr Beake.
Besides exposing coatings to high temperatures, Micro Materials also has a “woodpecker” device, a tiny diamond stylus, which repeatedly taps a coating at random locations to test its durability.
Recently, the firm has worked with UK-based Teer Coatings to test a product that could be applied to satellite components including gears and bearings used in various moving parts.
It is a tricky task, says Xiaoling Zhang, from the company, because the coating must protect such components both pre-launch (when they are exposed to atmospheric humidity at ground level) and also in orbit, against dust particles and radiation in space. However, she claims that the firm has achieved the desired results.
But besides protecting spacecraft, coatings could also stop astronauts from getting sick.
Biofilms – gloopy accumulations of bacteria inside pipes – grow faster in low gravity environments, which could be a problem for water supplies or machinery that moves fluid around on space stations or future spacecraft, for example.
“Biofilms are known to cause mechanical failures,” says Kripa Varanasi at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. “You don’t want this.”Prof Varanasi and his colleagues have developed a range of coatings that make surfaces slippery and therefore resistant to the formation of biofilms. Tests of one such coating in an experiment carried out on board the International Space Station found that it worked as intended.
The idea behind the coating is to mix together a solid material and a lubricant. This is then sprayed onto the interior of a pipe or tube, which makes that inner surface extremely slippery.
Prof Varanasi has previously made headlines for developing similar coatings for the insides of toothpaste packets – so you can get every last bit of toothpaste out. He and his colleagues have commercialised the technology through their spin-out company LiquiGlide.Slipperiness is, perhaps, an underappreciated attribute. Nuria Espallargas at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology and colleagues have developed a silicon carbide-based coating for equipment used in aluminium manufacturing or repair.
It is a sort of non-stick frying pan solution, meaning that layers of molten aluminium do not get stuck on this expensive equipment. The precise functioning of this particular coating is currently something of a mystery, though.
“To be honest, we really don’t know how it works, the mechanism is unknown at the moment,” says Prof Espallargas.
Nonetheless, the coating is available commercially through her spin-out company Seram Coatings. Atlas Machine and Supply, a US firm that makes and repairs industrial machinery, has tried it out.
“The real benefit lies in extending the life of the tools and improving the quality of the products being produced,” says Jeremy Rydberg, chief innovation officer.
He says that, without the coating, Atlas must rebuild the roller tools it uses to work aluminium every two days. This costs $4.5m annually. But the new coating means that these tools last for a whole week, not just a couple of days, slashing those rebuild costs to around $1.3m per year.Coatings can do some amazing things, but they don’t always work as intended, notes Andy Hopkinson, managing director at Safinah Group, a firm that often gets called in to investigate when coatings go wrong.
“We’re seeing a lot of issues at the moment with car parks, where their passive fire protection system is peeling off,” he says, referring to the fire-resistant paint sometimes applied to concrete structures.
And his company has also found that coatings applied to commercial ships do not always prevent barnacles and other sea life from attaching themselves to the hull. This problem, known as biofouling, increases friction, meaning the ship’s engine must work harder – and burn more fuel.
Despite the availability of coatings that promise to help, ship owners do not always choose the correct one for their vessel. That choice should depend on where the ship is sailing, how long it is due to be idle rather than in motion, and so on, says Dr Hopkinson.
The cost of fixing issues like this can run into many thousands, or even millions of pounds. “Typically, paint costs between 1 and 2% of the project. The problem is, when it goes wrong, the costs become exponential,” says Mr Hopkinson.
The researchers working in this field, though, say that there are still many opportunities to improve coatings and develop new ones that could drastically improve the performance of machines or infrastructure in the future.
source: https://www.bbc.com/innovation
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Suspected methanol poisoning from tainted drinks has reportedly killed five tourists in a Laos holiday town in the past fortnight.
A British woman, an Australian woman, a US man and two Danish nationals have died, while another Australian woman remains critically ill in hospital. The deaths remain under police investigation, but news reports and testimonies online from other tourists suggest they may have consumed drinks laced with methanol, a deadly substance often found in bootleg alcohol.
Methanol poisoning has long been a well-known issue across South-East Asia, particularly in the poorer countries along the Mekong river.
But despite foreign governments posting warnings about alcohol consumption in these places, there is still little awareness among the backpacker party scene.Flavourless and colourless, methanol is hard to detect in drinks and victims typically don’t see symptoms of poisoning straight away.
And in countries like Laos - one of the poorest and least developed in Asia - the problem arises from alcohol suppliers exploiting an environment where there is low law enforcement and almost no regulations in the food and hospitality industries.
What is methanol poisoning?
Methanol is a toxic alcohol used in industrial and household products like paint thinners, antifreeze, varnish and photocopier fluid.
It is colourless and has a similar smell to ethyl alcohol - the chemical substance found in alcoholic drinks.
But methanol is dangerous for humans and drinking just 25ml of it can be lethal.
It can take up to 24 hours for victims to start showing signs of illness which include: nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain which can escalate into hyperventilation and breathing problems.
If not treated, fatality rates are often reported to be 20% to 40%, depending on the concentration of methanol and the amount taken, says international medical charity Medicins Sans Frontiers (MSF) which tracks the number of global outbreaks.
But if a poisoning is diagnosed quickly enough, ideally within the first 30 hours, treatment can reduce some of the worse effects.
How common is the problem in South-East Asia?
Asia has the highest prevalence of methanol poisoning worldwide, according to MSF’s database.
It is a problem that often affects poorer countries - outbreaks are common in Indonesia, India, Cambodia, Vietnam and the Philippines.
Indonesia is regarded as a hotspot – it has reported the highest number of incidents in the past two decades, according to MSF, largely down to the widespread production and consumption of bootleg liquor.
Towns like Vang Vieng in Laos, where the fatal poisonings took place, are known stops on the backpacking trail through South East Asia. The town's economy is built on tourism, with streets of bars, restaurants and hostels that cater to visitors.
But in Laos, law enforcement is under-resourced and there are few regulations around food and alcohol standards. There is also an industry of home-brewed alcohol, which can lead to accidental poisonings.
Producers also make counterfeit drinks by making products with methanol instead of ethanol because it is cheaper, say local observers.
"You have the unscrupulous producer adding methanol to their drinks because it’s cheaper – it’s used to create a stronger-seeming drink or make lower-quality alcohol drinks seem more potent," one Western diplomat in the region told the BBC. They also said methanol poisonings are reported to consulates across the region.
However, a lack of data means it is hard to quantify the scale of the contamination, and where tainted drinks enter the supply chain.
"I don't think it's nefarious bar owners going out of their way to poison tourists - that's not good for them or their industry either," the diplomat said.
"It's more about the production side – there being being low education, low regulation, people cutting corners."
What can be done about it?
The diplomat also said that the risks of bootleg alcohol are well known among tourism operators and embassies, but a high-profile campaign is needed to inform tourists.
"This horrific event will probably help educate people, but not solve the cause of the problem,” they added.
Several Western governments updated their advice about alcohol dangers in South-East Asia on their consulate and travel pages this week.
Some campaigners have sought to raise attention to the dangers before. Australian man Colin Ahearn runs a Facebook page called 'Don't Drink Spirits in Bali' where he warns against mixed drinks like cocktails or drinks made from opened bottles of spirits.
He told Australian media earlier this week that his page used to receive a submission a week about methanol poisoning across South East Asia.
Addressing this, the western diplomat told the BBC that it would be hard for people to protect themselves unless they went completely teetotal on holiday, as it is unrealistic for tourists to check the original source of all their alcoholic drinks.
👁 :1
Chapter One.
Thursday, September 10, 1992
8:00 P.M. The 727 was lost in a sea of cumulus clouds that tossed the
plane around like a giant silver feather. The pilot's worried voice
came over the speaker.
"Is your seat belt fastened, Miss Cameron?" There was no response.
"Miss Cameron... Miss Cameron She was shaken out of a deep reverie.
"Yes." Her thoughts had been drifting to happier times, happier
places.
"Are you all right? We should be out of this storm soon." "I'm fine, Roger."
Maybe we'll get lucky and crash, Lara Cameron thought. It would be a
fitting end. Somewhere, somehow, it had all gone wrong. It's the
Fates, Lara thought. You can't fight the Fates. In the past year her
life had spun wildly out of control. She was in danger of losing
everything. At least nothing else can go wrong, she thought wryly.
There is nothing else.
The door of the cockpit opened, and the pilot came into the cabin. He
paused for a moment to admire his passenger. The woman was beautiful,
with shiny black hair swept up in a crown, a flawless complexion,
intelligent eyes, cat-gray. She had changed clothes after they had
taken off from Reno, and she was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder
Scaasi evening gown that accented a slender, seductive figure. Around
her throat was a diamond and ruby necklace. How can she look so damn
calm with her world collapsing around her? he wondered.
The
newspapers had been mercilessly attacking her for the past month.
"Is the phone working yet, Roger?"
"I'm afraid not, Miss Cameron. There's a lot of interference because
of the storm. We're going to be about an hour late getting into La
Guardia. I'm sorry."
I'm going to be late for my birthday party, Lara thought.
Everyone is
going to be there. Two hundred guests, including the Vice President of
the United States, the governor of New York, the mayor,
Hollywood
celebrities, famous athletes, and financiers from half a.dozen
countries. She had approved the guest list herself.
She could visualize the Grand Ballroom of the Cameron Plaza, where the
party was being held. Baccarat crystal chandeliers would hang from the
ceiling, prisms of light reflecting a dazzling diamondlike
brilliance.
There would be place settings for two hundred guests, at twenty
tables.
The finest linens, china, silver, and stemware would adorn each place
setting, and in the center of each table would be a floral display of
white orchids mixed with white freesias.
Bar service would have been set up at both ends of the large reception
hall outside. In the middle of the hall would be a long buffet with an
ice carving of a swan, and surrounding it, Beluga caviar, gravlax,
shrimp, lobster, and crab, while buckets of champagne were being
iced.
A ten-her birthday cake would be in the kitchen waiting.
Waiters, captains, and security guards would all be in position by
now.
In the ballroom a society orchestra would be on the bandstand, ready to
tempt the guests to dance the night away in celebration of her fortieth
birthday. Everything would be in readiness.
The dinner was going to be delicious. She had chosen the menu
herself.
Foie gras to begin with, followed by a cream of mushroom soup under a
delicate crust, fillets of John Dory, and then the main course: lamb
with rosemary and pommes soulfles with French beans and a mesclun salad
with hazelnut oil. Cheese and grapes would be next, followed by the
birthday cake and coffee.
It was going to be a spectacular party. She would hold her head high
and face her guests as though nothing were wrong. She was Lara
Cameron.
When the private jet finally landed at La Guardia, it was an hour and a
half late.
Lara turned to the pilot. "We'll be flying back to Reno later tonight,
Roger."
"I'll be here, Miss Cameron."
Her limousine and driver were waiting for her at the ramp. "I was getting worried about you, Miss Cameron."
"We ran into some weather, Max. Let's get to the Plaza as fast as
possible." "Yes, ma'am."
Lara reached for the car phone and dialed Jerry Townsend's number. He
had made all the arrangements for the party. Lara wanted to make sure
that her guests were being looked after. There was no answer. He's
probably in the ballroom, Lara thought. "Hurry, Max."
"Yes, Miss Cameron."
The sight of the huge Cameron Plaza Hotel never failed to give Lara a
glow of satisfaction at what she had created, but on this evening she
was in too much of a hurry to think about it. Everyone would be
waiting for her in the Grand Ballroom.
She pushed through the revolving door and hurried across the large
spectacular lobby. Carlos, the assistant manager, saw her and came
running to her side. "Miss Cameron..."
"Later," Lara said. She kept walking. She reached the closed door of
the Grand Ballroom and stopped to take a deep breath. I'm ready to
face them, Lara thought. She flung open the door, a smile on her face,
and stopped in shock. The room was in total darkness.
Were they
planning some kind of surprise? She reached for the switch behind the
door and flicked it up. The huge room was flooded with incandescent
light. There was no one there.
Not one single person. Lara stood there, stunned.
What in the world could have happened to two hundred guests? The
invitations had read eight o'clock.
It was now almost ten o'clock. How could that many people disappear
into thin air? It was eerie. She looked around the enormous empty
ballroom and shivered. Last year, at her birthday party, this same
room had been filled with her friends, filled with music and
laughter.
She remembered that day so well. ... Chapter Two.
The year earlier Lara Cameron's appointment schedule for the day had
been routine. September 10,1991
5:00 A.M. Workout with trainer 7:00 A.M. Appearance on Good Morning
America 7:45 A.M. Meeting with Japanese bankers 9:30 A.M. Jerry
Townsend 10:30 A.M. Executive Planning Committee 11:00
A.M. Faxes,
overseas calls, mail 11:30 A.M. Construction meeting 12:30
P.M. S&L
meeting 1:00 P.M. LunchFortune magazine interviewHugh Thompson 2:30
P.M. Metropolitan Union bankers 4:00 P.M. City Planning Commission
5:00
P.M. Meeting with mayorGracie Mansion 6:15 P.M. Architects meeting
6:30
P.M. Housing Department 7:30 P.M. Cocktails with Dallas investment
group 8:00 P.M. Birthday party at Grand BallroomCameron Plaza She had
been in her workout clothes impatiently waiting when Ken, her trainer,
arrived. "You're late."
"Sorry, Miss Cameron. My alarm didn't go off and..." "I have a busy day. Let's get started."
"Right."
They did stretches for half an hour and then switched to energetic
aerobics.
She's got the body of a twenty-one-year-old, Ken thought.
I'd sure
love to get that into my bed. He enjoyed coming here every morning
just to look at her, to be near her. People constantly asked him what
Lara Cameron was like. He would answer, "The lady's a ten."
Lara went through the strenuous routine easily, but her mind was not on
it this morning.
When the session was finally over, Ken said, "I'm going to watch you on
Good Morning America."
"What?" For a moment Lara had forgotten about it.
She had been thinking about the meeting with the Japanese bankers.
"See you tomorrow, Miss Cameron." "Don't be late again, Ken."
Lara showered and changed and had breakfast alone on the terrace of the
penthouse, a breakfast of grapefruit, cereal, and green tea. When she
had finished, she went into her study.
Lara buzzed her secretary. "I'll do the overseas calls from the
office," Lara said. "I have to be at ABC at seven. Have Max bring the car around."
* * The segment on Good Morning America went well.
Joan Lunden did the interview and was gracious, as always.
"The last time you were on this program," Joan Lunden said, "you had
just broken ground for the tallest skyscraper in the world. That was
almost four years ago."
Lara nodded. "That's right. Cameron Towers will be finished next
year."
"How does it feel to be in your position-to have accomplished all the
incredible things you've done and to still be so young and beautiful?
You're a role model for so many women."
"You're very flattering," Lara laughed. "I don't have time to think
about myself as a role model. I'm much too busy."
"You're one of the most successful real estate developers in a business
that's usually considered a man's domain. How do you operate? How do
you decide, for instance, where to put up a building?"
"I don't choose the site," Lara said. "The site chooses me. I'll be
driving along and I'll pass a vacant field-but that's not what I see.
I see a beautiful office building or a lovely apartment building filled
with people living comfortably in a nice atmosphere. I dream."
"And you make those dreams come true. We'll be right back after this
commercial."
The Japanese bankers were due at seven forty-five.
They had arrived from Tokyo the evening before, and Lara had arranged
the meeting at that early-morning hour so they would still be
jet-lagged after their twelvehour and ten-minute flight.
When they had
protested, Lara had said, "I'm so sorry, gentlemen, but I'm afraid it's
the only time I have. I'm leaving for South America immediately after
our meeting."
And they had reluctantly agreed. There were four of them, diminutive
and polite, with minds as sharp as the edges of samurai swords. In an
earlier decade the financial community had wildly underestimated the
Japanese.
It no longer made that mistake.
The meeting was held at Cameron Center on Avenue of the Americas. The
men were there to invest a hundred million dollars in a new hotel
complex Lara was developing. They were ushered into the large
conference room.
Each of the men carried a gift. Lara thanked them and in turn gave
each of them a gift. She had instructed her secretary to make certain
the presents were wrapped in plain brown or gray paper. White, to the
Japanese, represented death, and gaudy wrapping paper was unacceptable.
Lara's assistant, Tricia, brought in tea for the Japanese and coffee
for Lara. The Japanese would have preferred coffee, but
they were too
polite to say so. When they had finished their tea, Lara made sure
their cups were replenished.
Howard Keller, Lara's associate, came into the room.
He was in his fifties, pale and thin, with sandy hair, wearing a
rumpled suit and managing to look as though he had just gotten out of
bed. Lara made the introductions. Keller passed around copies of the
investment proposal.
"As you can see, gentlemen," Lara said, "we already have a first
mortgage commitment. The complex will contain seven hundred and twenty
guest units, approximately thirty thousand square feet of meeting
space, and a one-thousand-car parking garage. "
Lara's voice was charged with energy. The Japanese bankers were
studying the investment proposal, fighting to stay awake.
The meeting was over in less than two hours, and it was a complete
success. Lara had learned long ago that it was easier to make a
hundred-million-dollar deal than it was to try to borrow fifty thousand
dollars.
As soon as the Japanese delegation left, Lara had her meeting with
Jerry Townsend. The tall, hyper exHollywood publicity man was in
charge of public relations for Cameron Enterprises.
"That was a great interview on Good MorningAmerica this morning. I've
been getting a lot of calls."
"What about Forbes?"
"All set. People has you on the cover next week. Did you see The New
Yorker article on you? Wasn't it great?" Lara walked over to her desk. "Not bad."
"The Fortune interview is set for this afternoon." "I changed it."
He looked surprised. "Why?"
"I'm having their reporter here for lunch." "Soften him up a little?"
Lara pressed down the intercom button. "Come in, Kathy." A disembodied voice said, "Yes, Miss Cameron."
Lara Cameron looked up. "That's all, Jerry. I want you and your staff
to concentrate on Cameron Towers." "We're already doing..."
"Let's do more. I want it written about in every newspaper and
magazine there is. For God's sake, it's going to be the tallest
building in the world. In the world! I want people talking about
it.
By the time we open, I want people to be begging to get into those
apartments and shops."
Jerry Townsend got to his feet. "Right."
Kathy, Lara's executive assistant, came into the office.
She was an
attractive, neatly dressed black woman in her early thirties.
"Did you find out what he likes to eat?"
"The man's a gourmet. He likes French food. I called Le Cirque and
asked Sino to cater a lunch here for two." "Good. We'll eat in my private dining room."
"Do you know how long the interview will take? You have a two-thirty
with the Metropolitan bankers downtown."
"Push it to three o'clock, and have them come here."
Kathy made a note. "Do you want me to read you your messages?"
"Go ahead."
"The Children's Foundation wants you to be their guest of honor on the
twenty-eighth."
"No. Tell them I'm flattered. Send them a check."
"Your meeting has been arranged in Tulsa for Tuesday at..."
"Cancel it."
"You're invited to a luncheon next Friday for a Manhattan Women's
Group."
"No. If they're asking for money, send them a check."
"The Coalition for Literacy would like you to speak at a luncheon on
the fourth."
"See if we can work it out."
"There's an invitation to be guest of honor at a fund raiser for
muscular dystrophy, but there's a conflict in dates. You'll be in San
Francisco."
"Send them a check."
"The Srbs are giving a dinner party next Saturday."
"I'll try to make that," Lara said. Kristian and Deborah Srb were
amusing, and good friends, and she enjoyed being with them.
"Kathy, how many of me do you see?" "What?"
"Take a good look."
Kathy looked at her. "One of you, Miss Cameron."
"That's right. There's only one of me. How did you expect me to meet
with the bankers from Metropolitan at two-thirty today, the City
Planning Commission at four, then meet with the mayor at five, the
architects at six-fifteen, the Housing Department at six-thirty, have a
cocktail party at seven-thirty and my birthday dinner at eight? The
next time you make up a schedule, try using your brain." "I'm sorry. You wanted me to..."
"I wanted you to think. I don't need stupid people around me.
Reschedule the appointments with the architects and the Housing
Department."
"Right," Kathy said stiffly. "How's the baby?"
The question caught the secretary by surprise. "David? He's... he's fine."
"He must be getting big by now." "He's almost two."
"Have you thought about a school for him?" "Not yet. It's too early to .
"You're wrong. If you want to get him into a decent school in New
York, you start before he's born."
Lara made a note on a desk pad. "I know the principal at Dalton. I'll
arrange to have David registered there." "I... thank you."
Lara did not bother to look up. "That's all."
"Yes, ma'am." Kathy walked out of the office not knowing whether to
love her boss or hate her. When Kathy had first come to work at
Cameron Enterprises, she had been warned about Lara Cameron. "The Iron
Butterfly is a bitch on wheels," she had been told. "Her secretaries
don't figure their employment there by the calendar-they use
stopwatches. She'll eat you alive."
Kathy remembered her first interview with her. She had seen pictures
of Lara Cameron in half a dozen magazines, but none of them had done
her justice. In person, the woman was breathtakingly beautiful.
Lara Cameron had been reading Kathy's resume.
She looked up and said, "Sit down, Kathy." Her voice was husky and
vibrant. There was an energy about her that was almost overpowering.
"This is quite a resume." "Thank you."
"How much of it is real?" "I'm sorry?"
"Most of the ones that come across my desk are fiction.
Are you good
at what you do?"
"I'm very good at what I do, Miss ) "Two of my secretaries just quit.
Everything's snowballing around here. Can you handle pressure?"
"I think so."
"This isn't a guessing contest. Can you handle pressure or can't
you?"
At that moment Kathy was not sure she wanted the job. "Yes, I can."
"Good. You're on a one-week trial. You'll have to sign a form saying
that at no time will you discuss me or your work here at Cameron
Enterprises. That means no interviews, no books, nothing.
Everything
that happens here is confidential." "I understand."
"Fine."
That was how it had begun five years earlier. During that time Kathy
had learned to love, hate, admire, and despise her boss.
In the
beginning Kathy's husband had asked, "What is the legend like?"
It was a difficult question. "She's larger than life,"
Kathy had said.
"She's drop-dead beautiful. She works harder than anyone I've ever
known. God only knows when she sleeps. She's a perfectionist, so she
makes everyone around her miserable. In her own way, she's a genius.
She can be petty and vengeful and incredibly generous." Her husband had smiled. "In other words, she's a woman."
Kathy had looked at him and said, unsmiling, "I don't know what she
is.
Sometimes she scares me."
"Come on, honey, you're exaggerating."
"No. I honestly believe that if someone stood in Lara Cameron's
way...
she would kill."
When Lara finished with the faxes and overseas calls, she
buzzed
Charlie Hunter, an ambitious young man in charge of accounting. "Come
in, Charlie."
"Yes, Miss Cameron."
A minute later he entered her office. "Yes, Miss Cameron?"
"I read the interview you gave in The New York Times this morning,"
Lara said.
He brightened. "I haven't seen it yet. How was it?"
"You talked about Cameron Enterprises and about some of the problems
we're having."
He frowned. "Well, you know, that reporter fellow probably misquoted
some of my..." "You're fired."
"What? Why? "When you were hired, you signed a paper agreeing not
to give any interviews. I'll expect you out of here this morning."
"I... you can't do that. Who would take my place?" "I've already arranged that," Lara told him.
The luncheon was almost over. The Fortune reporter, Hugh Thompson, was
an intense, intellectual-looking man with sharp brown eyes behind black
horn-rimmed glasses.
"It was a great lunch," he said. "All my favorite dishes. Thanks."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"You really didn't have to go to all that trouble for me."
"No trouble at all." Lara smiled. "My father always told me that the
way to a man's heart was through his stomach."
"And you wanted to get to my heart before we started the interview?"
Lara smiled. "Exactly."
"How much trouble is your company really in?" Lara's smile faded. "I beg your pardon?"
"Come on. You can't keep a thing like that quiet. The word on the
street is that some of your properties are on the verge of collapse
because of the principal payments due on your junk bonds.
You've done
a lot of leveraging, and with the market down, Cameron Enterprises has
to be pretty overextended."
Lara laughed. "Is that what the street says? Believe me, Mr.
Thompson, you'd be wise not to listen to silly rumors.
I'll tell you
what I'll do. I'll send you a copy of my financials to set the record
straight. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough. By the way, I didn't see your husband at the opening of
the new hotel."
Lara sighed. "Philip wanted so much to be there, but unfortunately he
had to be away on a concert tour."
"I went to one of his recitals once about three years ago.
He's
brilliant. You have been married a year now, haven't you?"
"The happiest year of my life. I'm a very lucky woman. I travel a
lot, and so does Philip, but when I'm away from him, I can listen to
his recordings wherever I am."
Thompson smiled. "And he can see your buildings wherever he" Lara
laughed. "You flatter me."
"It's pretty true, isn't it? You've put up buildings all over this
fair country of ours. You own apartment buildings, office buildings, a
hotel chain... How do you do it?" She smiled. "With mirrors." "You're a puzzle."
"Am I? Why?"
"At this moment you're arguably the most successful builder in New
York. Your name is plastered on half the real estate in this town.
You're putting up the world's tallest skyscraper. Your competitors
call you the Iron Butterfly. You've made it big in a business
traditionally dominated by men." "Does that bother you, Mr. Thompson?"
"No. What bothers me, Miss Cameron, is that I can't figure out who you
are. When I ask two people about you, I get three opinions. Everyone
grants that you're a brilliant businesswoman. I mean... you didn't
fall off a hay wagon and become a success. I know a lot about
construction crews-they're a rough, tough bunch of men.
How does a
woman like you keep them in line?"
She smiled. "There are no women like me. Seriously, I simply hire the
best people for the job, and I pay them well."
Too simplistic, Thompson thought. Much too simplistic.
The real story
is what she's not telling me. He decided to change the direction of
the interview.
"Every magazine on the stands has written about how successful you
are.
I'd like to do a more personal story. There's been very little printed
about your background."
"I'm very proud of my background."
"Good. Let's talk about that. How did you get started in the real
estate business?"
Lara smiled, and he could see that her smile was genuine.
She suddenly
looked like a little girl. "Genes."
"Your genes?"
"My father's." She pointed to a portrait on a wall behind her. It
showed a handsome-looking man with a leonine head of silver hair.
"That's my father-James Hugh Cameron." Her voice was soft. "He's
responsible for my success. I'm an only child. My mother died when I
was very young, and my father brought me up. My family left Scotland a
long time ago, Mr. Thompson, and emigrated to Nova Scotia-New
Scotland, Glace Bay." "Glace Bay?"
"It's a fishing village in the northeast part of Cape Breton, on the
Atlantic shore. It was named by early French explorers.
It means 'ice
bay'. More coffee?" "No, thanks."
"My grandfather owned a great deal of land in Scotland, and my father
acquired more. He was a very wealthy man. We still have our castle
there near Loch Morlich. When I was eight years old, I had my own
horse, my dresses were bought in London, we lived in an enormous house
with a lot of servants. It was a fairy tale life for a little girl."
Her voice was alive with echoes of long-ago memories.
"We would go ice skating in the winter, and watch hockey games, and go
swimming at Big Glace Bay Lake in the summer. And there were dances at
the Forum and the Venetian Gardens." The reporter was busily making notes.
"My father put up buildings in Edmonton, and Calgary, and Ontario.
Real estate was like a game to him, and he loved it. When I was very
young, he taught me the game, and I learned to love it, too."
Her voice was filled with passion. "You must understand something, Mr.
Thompson. What I do has nothing to do with the money or the bricks and
steel that make a building. It's the people who matter.
I'm able to
give them a comfortable place to work or to live, a place where they
can raise families and have decent lives.
That's what was important to my father, and it became important to
me."
Hugh Thompson looked up. "Do you remember your first real estate
venture?"
Lara leaned forward. "Of course. On my eighteenth birthday my father
asked me what I would like as a gift.
A lot of newcomers were arriving in Glace Bay, and it was getting
crowded. I felt the town needed more places for them to live. I told
my father I wanted to build a small apartment house. He gave me the
money as a present, but two years later I was able to pay him back.
Then I borrowed money from a bank to put up a second building.
By the time I was twenty-one, I owned three buildings, and they were
all successful."
"Your father must have been very proud of you."
There was that warm smile again. "He was. He named me Lara. It's an
old Scottish name that comes from the Latin. It means 'well known' or
'famous." From the time I was a little girl, my father always told me
I would be famous one day." Her smile faded. "He died of a heart
attack, much too young." She paused. "I go to Scotland to visit his
grave every year. I... I found it very difficult to stay on in the
house without him. I decided to move to Chicago. I had an idea for
small boutique hotels, and I persuaded a banker there to finance me.
The hotels were a success." She shrugged. "And the rest, as the
cliche goes, is history. I suppose that a psychiatrist would say that
I haven't created this empire just for myself. In a way, it's a
tribute to my father. James Cameron was the most wonderful man I've
ever known."
"You must have loved him a lot."
"I did. And he loved me a lot." A smile touched her lips. "I've
heard that on the day I was born, my father bought every man in Glace
Bay a drink."
"So, really," Thompson said, "everything started in Glace Bay."
"That's right," Lara said softly, "everything started in Glace Bay.
That's where it all began, almost forty years ago. "
Chapter Three.
Glace Bay, Nova Scotia September 10, 1952 ames Cameron was in a
whorehouse, drunk, the night his daughter and son were born. He was in
bed, sandwiched in between the Scandinavian twins, when Kirstie, the
madam of the brothel, pounded on the door.
"James!" she called out. She pushed open the door and walked in.
"Och, ye auld hell!" James yelled out indignantly. "Can't a mon have any privacy even here?"
"Sorry to interrupt your pleasure, James. It's about your wife."
"Fuck my wife," Cameron roared.
"You did," Kirstie retorted, "and she's having your baby." "So? Let her have it. That's what you women are guid
for, nae?"
"The doctor just called. He's been trying desperately to find you.
Your wife is bad off. You'd better hurry."
James Cameron sat up and slid to the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed,
trying to clear his head. "Damned woman. She niver leaves me in
peace." He looked up at the madam. "All right, I'll go."
He glanced
at the naked girls in the bed. "But I'll nae pay for these two."
"Never mind that now. You'd just better get back to the boardinghouse." She turned to the girls. "You two come
along with me."
James Cameron was a once-handsome man whose face reflected fulfilled
sins. He appeared to be in his early fifties. He was thirty years old
and the manager of one of the boardinghouses owned by Sean MacAllister,
the town banker. For the past five years James Cameron and his wife,
Peggy, had divided the chores: Peggy did the cleaning and cooking for
the two dozen boarders, and James did the drinking. Every Friday it
was his responsibility to collect the rents from the four other
boardinghouses in Glace Bay owned by MacAllister. It was another
reason, if he needed one, to go out and get drunk.
James Cameron was a bitter man, who reveled in his bitterness. He was
a failure, and he was convinced that everyone else was to blame. Over
the years he had come to enjoy his failure. It made him feel like a
martyr. When James was a year old, his family had emigrated to Glace
Bay from Scotland with nothing but the few possessions they could
carry, and they had struggled to survive. His father had put James to
work in the coal mines when the boy was fourteen. James had suffered a
slight back injury in a mining accident when he was sixteen, and had
promptly quit the mine. One year later his parents were killed in a
train disaster. So it was that James Cameron had decided that he was
not responsible for his adversity-it.was the Fates that were against
him. But he had two great assets: He was extraordinarily
handsome, and
when he wished to, he could be charming. One weekend in Sydney, a town
near Glace Bay, he met an impressionable young American girl named
Peggy Maxwell, who was there on vacation with her family.
She was not
attractive, but the Maxwells were very wealthy, and James Cameron was
very poor. He swept Peggy Maxwell off her feet, and against the advice
of her father, she married him.
"I'm giving Peggy a dowry of five thousand dollars," her father told
James. "The money will give you a chance to make something of
yourself. You can invest it in real estate, and in five years it will
double. I'll help you."
But James was not interested in waiting five years.
Without consulting anyone, he invested the money in a wildcat oil
venture with a friend, and sixty days later he was broke.
His
father-in-law, furious, refused to help him any further. "You're a
fool, James, and I will not throw good money after bad."
The marriage that was going to be James Cameron's salvation turned out
to be a disaster, for he now had a wife to support, and no job.
It was Sean MacAllister who had come to his rescue.
The town banker was a man in his mid-fifties, a stumpy, pompous man, a
pound short of being obese, given to wearing vests adorned with a heavy
gold watch chain.
He had come to Glace Bay twenty years earlier and had immediately seen
the possibilities there. Miners and lumbermen were pouring into the
town and were unable to find adequate housing.
MacAllister could have
financed homes for them, but he had a better plan. He decided it would
be cheaper to herd the men together in boardinghouses.
Within two
years he had built a hotel and five boardinghouses, and they were
always full.
Finding managers was a difficult task because the work was exhausting.
The manager's job was to keep all the rooms rented, supervise the
cooking, handle the meals, and see that the premises were kept
reasonably clean. As far as salaries were concerned, Sean MacAllister
was not a man to throw away his money.
The manager of one of his boardinghouses had just quit, and MacAllister
decided that James Cameron was a likely candidate.
Cameron had
borrowed small amounts of money from the bank from time to time, and
payment on a loan was overdue. MacAllister sent for the young man.
"I have a job for you," MacAllister said. "You have?"
"You're in luck. I have a splendid position that's just opened up."
"Working at the bank, is it?" James Cameron asked. The idea of working in a bank appealed to him. Where
there was a lot
of money, there was always a possibility of having some stick to one's
fingers.
"Not at the bank," MacAllister told him. "You're a very personable
young man, James, and I think you would be very good at dealing with
people. I'd like you to run my boardinghouse on Cablehead Avenue."
"A boardinghouse, you say?" There was contempt in the young man's
voice.
"You need a roof over your head," MacAllister pointed out. "You and
your wife will have free room and board and a small salary."
"How's ma?"
"I'll be generous with you, James. Twenty-five dollars a week."
"Twenty-fi...?"
"Take it or leave it. I have others waiting."
In the end James Cameron had no choice. "I'll tach it."
"Good. By the way, every Friday I'll also expect you to collect the
rents from my other boardinghouses and deliver the money to me on
Saturday."
When James Cameron broke the news to Peggy, she was dismayed. "We
don't know anything about running a boardinghouse, James." "We'll learn. We'll share the work."
And she had believed him. "All right. We'll manage," she said.
And in their own fashion they had managed.
Over the years, several opportunities had come along for James Cameron
to get better jobs, employment that would give him dignity and more
money, but he was enjoying his failure too much to leave it.
"Why bother?" he would grumble. "When Fate's agin you, naething guid
can happen."
And now, on this September night, he thought, They won't even let me
enjoy my whores in peace. God damn my wife.
When he stepped out of Madam Kirstie's establishment, a chilly
September wind was blowing.
I'd best fortify myself for the troubles aheid, James Cameron
decided.
He stopped in at the Ancient Mariner.
One hour later he wandered toward the boardinghouse in New Aberdeen,
the poorest section of Glace Bay.
When he finally arrived, half a dozen boarders were anxiously waiting
for him.
"The doctor is in wi' Peggy," one of the men said. "You'd better hurry, mon."
James staggered into the tiny, dreary back bedroom he and his wife
shared. From another room he could hear the whimpering of a newborn
baby. Peggy lay on the bed, motionless. Dr. Patrick Duncan was
leaning over her. He turned as he heard James enter. "Wass going' on here?" James asked.
The doctor straightened up and looked at James with distaste. "You
should have had your wife come to see me," he said.
"And throw guid money away? She's only haein' a baby.
Wass the big...?"
"Peggy's dead. I did everything I could. She had twins.
I couldn't save the boy."
"Oh, Jesus," James Cameron whimpered. "It's the Fates agin."
"What?"
"The Fates. They've. always been agin me. Now they've taine my hairn
frae me. I dinna .
A nurse walked in, carrying a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket. "This is
your daughter, Mr. Cameron."
"A daughter? Wha' the hell will I dae wi' a daughter?" His speech was becoming more slurred.
"You disgust me, mon," Dr. Duncan said.
The nurse turned to James. "I'll stay until tomorrow and show you how
to take care of her."
James Cameron looked at the tiny, wrinkled bundle in the
blanket and
thought, hopefully: Maybe she'll die, too.
For the first three weeks no one was sure whether the baby would live
or not. A wet nurse came in to tend to her. And finally, the day came
when the doctor was able to say, "Your daughter is going to live."
And he looked at James Cameron and said under his breath, "God have
mercy on the poor child."
The wet nurse said, "Mr. Cameron, you must give the child a name."
"I dinna care wha' the hell ye call it. Ye gie her a name."
"Why don't we name her Lara? That's such a pretty..." "Suit your bloody self."
And so she was christened Lara.
There was no one in Lara's life to care for her or nurture her. The
boardinghouse was filled with men too busy with their own lives to pay
attention to the baby.
The only woman around was Bertha, the huge Swede who was hired to do
the cooking and handle the chores.
James Cameron was determined to have nothing to do with his daughter.
The damned Fates had betrayed him once again by letting her live. At
night he would sit in the living room with his bottle of whiskey and
complain. "The hairn murdered my wife and my son."
"You shouldn't say that, James."
"Weel, it's sae. My son would hae grown up to be a big strapping
mon.
He would hae been smart and rich and taine good care of his father in
his auld age."
And the boarders let him ramble on.
James Cameron tried several times to get in touch with Maxwell, his
father-in-law, hoping he would take the child off his hands, but the
old man had disappeared.
It would be just my luck the auld fool's daid, he thought.
Glace Bay was a town of transients who moved in and out of the
boardinghouses. They came from France and China and the Ukraine. They
were Italian and Irish and Greek, carpenters and tailors and plumbers
and shoemakers. They swarmed into lower Main Street, Bell Street,
North Street, and Water Street, near the waterfront area.
They came to
work the mines and cut timber and fish the seas. Glace Bay was a
frontier town, primitive and rugged. The weather was an abomination.
The winters were harsh with heavy snowfalls that lasted until April,
and because of the heavy ice in the harbor, even April and May were
cold and windy, and from July to October it rained.
There were eighteen boardinghouses in town, some of them accommodating
as many as seventy-two guests.
At the boardinghouse managed by James Cameron, there were twenty-four
boarders, most of them Scotsmen.
Lara was hungry for affection, without knowing what the hunger was.
She had no toys or dolls to cherish nor any playmates.
She had no one
except her father. She made childish little gifts for him, desperate
to please him, but he either ignored or ridiculed them.
When Lara was five years old, she overheard her father say to one of
the boarders, "The wrong child died, ye ken. My son is the one who
should hae lived."
That night Lara cried herself to sleep. She loved her father so
much.
And she hated him so much.
When Lara was six, she resembled a Keane painting, enormous eyes in a
pale, thin face. That year a new boarder moved in. His name was Mungo
McSween, and he was a huge bear of a man. He felt an instant affection
for the little girl.
"What's your name, wee lassie?" "Lara."
"Ah. 'Tis a braw name for a braw hairn. Dae ye gan to school then?"
"School? No."
"And why not?" "I don't know."
"Weel, we maun find out."
And he went to find James Cameron. "I'm tauld your hairn daes nae gae
to school."
"And why should she? She's only a girl. She dinna need no school."
"You're wrong, mon. She maun have an education. She maun be gien a chance in life."
"Forget it," James said. "It wad be a waste."
But McSween was insistent, and finally, to shut him up,
James Cameron
agreed. It would keep the brat out of his sight for a few hours.
Lara was terrified by the idea of going to school. She had lived in a
world of adults all her short life, and had had almost no contact with
other children.
The following Monday Big Bertha dropped her off at St. Anne's Grammar
School, and Lara was taken to the principal's office. "This is Lara Cameron."
The principal, Mrs. Cummings, was a middle-aged gray-haired widow with
three children of her own. She studied the shabbily dressed little
girl standing before her. "Lara. What a pretty name," she said,
smiling. "How old are you, dear?"
"Six." She was fighting back tears.
The child is terrified, Mrs. Cummings thought. "Well, we're very glad
to have you here, Lara. You'll have a good time, and you're going to
learn a lot."
"I can't stay," Lara blurted out. "Oh? Why not?"
"My papa misses me too much." She was fiercely determined not to
cry.
"Well, we'll only keep you here for a few hours a day."
Lara allowed herself to be taken into a classroom filled with children,
and she was shown to a seat near the back of the room.
Miss Terkel, the teacher, was busily writing letters on a blackboard.
"A is for apple," she said. "B is for boy. Does anyone know what & is
for?"
A tiny hand was raised. "Candy." "Very good! And I)?"
"Dog."
"And E?"
"Eat."
"Excellent. Can anyone think of a word beginning with I,'?"
Lara spoke up. "Fuck."
Lara was the youngest one in her class, but it seemed to Miss Terkel
that in many ways she was the oldest.
There was a disquieting maturity about her.
"She's a small adult, waiting to grow taller," her teacher told Mrs.
Cummings.
The first day at lunch, the other children took out their colorful
little lunch pails and pulled out apples and cookies and sandwiches
wrapped in wax paper.
No one had thought to pack a lunch for Lara. "Where is your lunch, Lara?" Miss Terkel asked.
"I'm not hungry," Lara said stubbornly. "I had a big breakfast."
Most of the girls at school were nicely dressed in clean skirts and
blouses. Lara had outgrown her few faded plaid dresses and threadbare
blouses. She had gone to her father.
"I need some clothes for school," Lara said.
"Dae ye now? Weel, I'm nae made of money. Get yourself something frae
the Salvation Army Citadel." "That's charity, Papa."
And her father had slapped her hard across the face.
The children at school were familiar with games Lara had never even
heard of. The girls had dolls and toys, and some of them were willing
to share them with Lara, but she was painfully aware that
nothing
belonged to her.
And there was something more. Over the next few years Lara got a
glimpse of a different world, a world where children had mothers and
fathers who gave them presents and birthday parties and loved them and
held them and kissed them. And for the first time Lara began to
realize how much was missing in her life. It only made her feel
lonelier.
The boardinghouse was a different kind of school. It was an
international microcosm. Lara learned to tell where the boarders came
from by their names. Mac was from Scotland... Hodder and Pyke were
from Newfoundland... Chiasson and Aucoin were from France... Dudash and
Kosick from Poland. The boarders were lumbermen, fishermen, miners,
and tradesmen. They would gather in the large dining room in the
morning for breakfast and in the evening for supper, and their talk was
fascinating to Lara. Each group seemed to have its own mysterious
language.
There were thousands of lumbermen in Nova Scotia, scattered around the
peninsula. The lumbermen at the boardinghouse smelled of sawdust and
burnt bark, and they spoke of arcane things like chippers and edging
and trim.
"We should get out almost two hundred million board feet this year,"
one of them announced at supper.
"How can feet be bored?" Lara asked.
There was a roar of laughter. "Child, board foot is a piece of lumber
a foot square by an inch thick. When you grow up and get married, if
you want to build a five-room, all-wood house, it will take twelve
thousand board feet."
"I'm not going to get married," Lara swore.
The fishermen were another breed. They returned to the boardinghouse
stinking of the sea, and they talked about the new experiment of
growing oysters on the Bras d'Or Lake and bragged to one another of
their catches of cod and herring and mackerel and haddock.
But the boarders who fascinated Lara the most were the miners. There
were thirty-five hundred miners in Cape Breton, working the collieries
at Lingan and Prince and Phalen. Lara loved the names of the mines.
There was the Jubilee and the Last Chance and the Black Diamond and the
Lucky Lady.
She was fascinated by their discussion of the day's work. "What's this I hear about Mike?"
"It's true. The poor bastard was traveling inbye in a man-rake, and a
box jumped the track and crushed his leg. The son of a bitch of a
foreman said it was Mike's fault for not getting' out of the way fast
enough, and he's having his lamp stopped."
Lara was baffled. "What does that mean?"
One of the miners explained. "It means Mike was on his way to
work-going inbye-in a man-rake-that's a car that takes you down to your
working level. A boxthat's a coal train-jumped the track and hit
him."
"And stopped his lamp?" Lara asked.
The miner laughed. "When you've had your lamp stopped, it means you've
been suspended."
When Lara was fifteen, she entered St. Michael's High School. She was
gangly and awkward, with long legs, stringy black hair, and intelligent
gray eyes still too large for her pale, thin face. No one quite knew
how she was going to turn out. She was on the verge of womanhood, and
her looks were in a stage of metamorphosis. She could have become ugly or beautiful.
To James Cameron, his daughter was ugly. "Ye hae best marry the first
mon fool enough to ask ye," he told her. "Ye'll nae hae the looks to
make a guid bargain."
Lara stood there, saying nothing.
"And tell the poor mon nae to expect a dowry frae me."
Mungo McSween had walked into the room. He stood there listening,
furious.
"That's all, girl," James Cameron said. "Gae back to the kitchen."
Lara fled.
"Why dae ye dae that to your daughter?" McSween demanded.
James Cameron looked up, his eyes bleary. "Nane of your business."
"You're drunk."
"Aye. And what else is there? If it isn't women, it's the whiskey,
isn't it?"
McSween went into the kitchen, where Lara was washing dishes at the
sink. Her eyes were hot with tears.
McSween put his arms around her. "Niver ye mind, lassie," he said.
"He dinna mean it." "He hates me." "Nae, he doesna."
"He's never given me one kind word. Never once. Never!"
There was nothing McSween could say.
In the summer the tourists would arrive at Glace Bay.
They came in
their expensive cars, wearing beautiful clothes and shopped along
Castle Street and dined at the Cedar House and at Jasper's, and they
visited Ingonish Beach and Cape Smoky and the Bird Islands. They were
superior beings from another world, and Lara envied them and longed to
escape with them when they left at the end of summer. But
how?
Lara had heard stories about Grandfather Maxwell.
"The auld bastard tried to keep me frae marryin' his precious
daughter," James Cameron would complain to any of the boarders who
would listen. "He was filthy rich, but do ye think he wad gie me
aught? Nae. But I took guid care of his Peggy anyway. "
And Lara would fantasize that one day her grandfather would come to
take her away to glamorous cities she had read about:
London and Rome
and Paris. And I'll have beautiful clothes to wear.
Hundreds of
dresses and new shoes.
But as the months and the years went by, and there was no word, Lara
finally came to realize that she would never see her grandfather. She
was doomed to spend the rest of her life in Glace Bay. Chapter Four.
here were myriad activities for a teenager growing up in Glace Bay:
There were football games and hockey games, skating rinks and bowling,
and in the summer, swimming and fishing.
Carl's Drug Store was the popular after-school hangout.
There were two movie theaters, and for dancing, the Venetian Gardens.
Lara had no chance to enjoy any of those things. She rose at five
every morning to help Bertha prepare breakfast for the boarders and
make up the beds before she left for school. In the afternoon she
would hurry home to begin preparing supper. She helped Bertha serve,
and after supper Lara cleared the table and washed and dried the
dishes.
The boardinghouse served some favorite Scottish dishes: howtowdie and
hairst bree, cabbieclaw and skirlie.
Black Bun was a favorite, a spicy mixture encased in a short paste
jacket made from half a pound of flour.
The conversation of the Scotsmen at supper made the Highlands of
Scotland come alive for Lara. Her ancestors had come from the
Highlands, and the stories about them gave Lara the only sense of
belonging that she had. The boarders talked of the Great Glen
containing Loch Ness, Lochy, and Linnhe and of the rugged islands off
the coast.
There was a battered piano in the sitting room, and sometimes at night,
after supper, half a dozen boarders would gather around and sing the
songs of home: "Annie Laurie," and "Comin' Through the Rye," and "The
Hills of Home," and "The Bonnie Banks O'Loch Lomond."
Once a year there was a parade in town, and all the Scotsmen in Glace
Bay would proudly put on their kilts or tartans and march through the
streets to the raucous accompaniment of bagpipes.
"Why do the men wear skirts?" Lara asked Mungo McSween.
He frowned. "It's nae a skirt, lass. It's a kilt.. Our ancestors
invented it long ago. In the Highlands a plaid covered a mon's body
agin the bitter cold but kept his legs free sae he could race across
the heather and peat and escape his enemies. And at night, if he was
in the open, the great length of the cloth was both bed and tent for
him."
The names of the Scottish places were poetry to Lara.
There was Breadalbane, Glenfinnan, and Kilbride, Kilninver, and
Kilmichael. Lara learned that "kil" referred to a monk's cell of
medieval times. If a name began with "inver" or "aber," it meant the
village was at the mouth of a stream. If it began with "strath," it
was in a valley.
"Bad" meant the village was in a grove.
There were fierce arguments every night at the supper table. The
Scotsmen argued about everything. Their ancestors had belonged to
proud clans, and they were still fiercely protective of their
history.
"The House of Bruce produced cowards. They lay down for the English
like groveling dogs."
"You dinna ken wha' you're talking aboot, as usual, Ian. 'Twas the
great Bruce himself who stood up to the English. 'Twas the House of
Stuart that groveled."
"Och, you're a fool, and your clan comes from a long line of fools."
The argument would grow more heated.
"You ken wha' Scotland needed? Mair leaders like Robert the Second.
Now, there was a great mon. He sired twenty-one hairns?" "Aye, and half of them were bastards!"
And another argument would start.
Lara could not believe that they were fighting over events that had
happened more than six hundred years earlier.
Mungo McSween said to Lara, "Dinna let it bother ye, lassie. A
Scotsman wi' start a fight in an empty house."
It was a poem by Sir Walter Scott that set Lara's imagination on fire:
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west: Through all the wide
Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapon
had none; He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight
like the young Lochinvar.
And the glorious poem went on to tell how Lochinvar risked his life to
rescue his beloved, who was being forced to marry another man.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of
gallant like young Lochinvar?
Someday, Lara thought, a handsome Lochinvar will come and
rescue me.
One day Lara was working in the kitchen when she came across an
advertisement in a magazine, and her breath caught in her throat. It
showed a tall, handsome man, blond, elegantly dressed in tails and
white tie. He had blue eyes and a warm smile, and he looked every inch
a prince. That's what my Lochinvar will look like, Lara thought. He's
out there somewhere, looking for me. He'll come and rescue me from
here. I'll be at the sink washing dishes, and he'll come up behind me,
put his arms around me, and whisper, "Can I help you?"
And I'll turn
and look into his eyes. And I'll say, "Do you dry dishes?"
Bertha's voice said, "Do I what?"
Lara whirled around. Bertha was standing behind her.
Lara had not
realized she had spoken aloud. "Nothing." Lara blushed.
To Lara, the most fascinating dinner conversations revolved around the
stories of the notorious Highland clearances. She had heard them told
over and over but could never get enough of it.
"Tell me again," she would ask. And Mungo McSween was eager to
oblige....
"Weel, it began in the year 1792, and it went on for more than sixty
years. At first they called it Bliadhna nan Co-arach-The Year of the
Sheep. The landowners in the Highlands had decided that
their land
would be more profitable with sheep than with tenant farmers, so they
brought flocks of sheep into the Highlands and found that they could
survive the cold winters. That was when the clearances began.
"The cry became Mo thruaighe ort a thir, that'n caoraich mhor a'
teachd!
'Woe to thee, oh, land, the great sheep is coming." First there were a
hundred sheep, then a thousand, then ten thousand. It was a bloody
invasion.
"The lairds saw riches beyond their dreams, but they maun first get rid
of the tenants, who worked their wee patches of land.
They had little
enough to begin with, God knows. They lived in sma stone houses with
nae chimneys and nae windows. But the lairds forced them out."
The young girl was wide-eyed. "How?"
"The government regiments were ordered to attack the villages and evict
the tenants. The soldiers wad come to a little village and gie the
tenants six hours to remove their cattle and furniture and get out.
They maun leave their crops behind. Then the soldiers burned their
huts to the ground. More than a quarter of a million men, women, and
children were forced frae their holdings and driven to the shores of
the sea."
"But how could they drive them from their own land?"
"Ah, they niver owned the land, you see. They had the use of an acre
or two frae a laird, but it was niver theirs. They paid a fee in goods
or labor in order to till the land and grow some tatties and raise a
few cattle."
"What happened if the people wouldn't move?" Lara asked breathlessly.
"The old folk that didn't get out in time were burned in their huts.
The government was ruthless. Och, it was a terrible time.
The people
had naething to eat. Cholera struck, and diseases spread like
wildfire."
"How awful," Lara said.
"Aye, lassie. Our people lived on tatties and bread and porridge, when
they could git it. But there's one thing the government could nae take
away frae the Highlanders-their pride. They fought back as best they
could.
For days after the burning was o'er, the homeless people remained in
the glen, trying to salvage what they could frae the ruins. They put
canvas over their heids for protection agin the night rain. My
great-greatgrandfather and my great-great-grandmother were there and
suffered through it all. It's part of our history, and it's been
burned into our very souls."
Lara could visualize the thousands of desperate, forlorn people robbed
of everything they possessed, stunned by what had happened to them.
She could hear the crying of the mourners and the screams of the
terrified children.
"What finally happened to the people?" Lara asked.
"They left for other lands on ships that were deathtraps.
The crowded
passengers died of fever or frae dysentery. Sometimes the ship would
hit storms that delayed them for weeks, sae they ran out of food. Only
the strong were still alive when the ships landed in Canada. But once
they landed here, they were able to hae something' they niver had
before."
"Their own land," Lara said. "That's right, lass."
Someday, Lara thought fiercely, I will have my own land, and no one-no
one-will ever take it away from me.
On an evening in early July, James Cameron was in bed with one of the
whores at Kirstie's bawdy house when he suffered a heart attack. He
was quite drunk, and when he suddenly toppled over, his playmate
assumed he had simply fallen asleep.
"Oh, no, you don't! I have other customers waitin' for me. Wake up,
James! Wake up!"
He was gasping for breath and clutching his chest.
"For Gude's sake," he moaned, "git me a doctor."
An ambulance took him to the little hospital on Quarry Street. Dr.
Duncan sent for Lara. She walked into the hospital, her heart
pounding. Duncan was waiting for her.
"What happened?" Lara asked urgently. "Is my father dead?"
"No, Lara, but I'm afraid he's had a heart attack."
She stood there, frozen. "Is he... is he going to live?"
"I don't know. We're doing everything we can for "Can I see him?"
"It would be better if you came back in the morning, lass."
She walked home, numb with fear. Please don't let him die, God. He's
all I have.
When Lara reached the boardinghouse, Bertha was waiting for her. "What
happened?" Lara told her.
"Oh, God!" Bertha said. "And today is Friday." "What?"
"Friday. The day the rents have to be collected. If I know Sean
MacAllister, he'll use this as an excuse to throw us all out into the
streets."
At least a dozen times in the past when James Cameron had been too
drunk to handle it himself, he had sent Lara around to collect the
rents from the other boardinghouses that Sean MacAllister owned. Lara
had given the money to her father, and the next day he had taken it to
the banker.
"What are we going to do?" Bertha moaned. And suddenly Lara knew what had to be done.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of it."
In the middle of supper that evening Lara said, "Gentlemen, would you
listen to me, please?" The conversations stopped. They were all
watching her. "My father has had a... a little dizzy spell. He's in
the hospital.
They want to keep him under observation for a bit. So, until he comes
back, I'll be collecting the rents. After supper I'll wait for you in
the parlor."
"Is he going to be all right?" one of the boarders asked.
"Oh, yes," Lara said with a forced smile. "It's nothing serious."
After supper the men came into the parlor and handed Lara their week's
rent.
"I hope your father recovers soon, child..." "If there's anything I can do, let me know..."
"You're a braw lassie to do this for your father..." "What about the other boardinghouses?" Bertha asked Lara.
"He has to
collect from four more."
"I know," Lara said. "If you'll take care of the dishes,
I'll go
collect the rents."
Bertha looked at her dubiously. "I wish you luck."
It was easier than Lara had expected. Most of the boarders were
sympathetic and happy to help out the young girl.
Early the following morning Lara took the rent envelopes and went to
see Sean MacAllister. The banker was seated in his office when Lara
walked in.
"My secretary said you wanted to see me." "Yes, sir."
MacAllister studied the scrawny, unkempt girl standing before him.
"You're James Cameron's daughter, aren't you?" "Yes, sir."
"Sarah."
"Lara."
"Sorry to hear about your father," MacAllister said.
There was no sympathy in his voice. "I'll have to make other
arrangements, of course, now that your father's too ill to carry out
his job. I..."
"Oh, no, sir!" Lara said quickly. "He asked me to handle it for
him." "You?"
"Yes," "I'm afraid that won't..."
Lara put the envelopes on his desk. "Here are this week's rents."
MacAllister looked at her, surprised. "All of them?" She nodded.
"And you collected them?"
"Yes, sir. And I'll do it every week until Papa gets better."
"I see." He opened the envelopes and carefully counted the money.
Lara watched him enter the amount in a large green ledger.
For some time now MacAllister had intended to replace James Cameron
because of his drunkenness and erratic performance, and now he saw his
opportunity to get rid of the family.
He was sure that the young girl in front of him would not be able to
carry out her father's duties, but at the same time he realized what
the town's reaction would be if he threw James Cameron and his daughter
out of the boardinghouse into the street. He made his decision.
"I'll try you for one month," he said. "At the end of that time we'll
see where we stand."
"Thank you, Mr. MacAllister. Thank you very much."
"Wait." He handed Lara twenty-five dollars. "This is yours."
Lara held the money in her hand, and it was like a taste of freedom.
It was the first time she had ever been paid for what she had done.
From the bank, Lara went to the hospital. Dr. Duncan was just coming
out of her father's room. Lara felt a sudden sense of panic. "He
isn't...?"
"No... no... he's going to be all right, Lara." He hesitated. "When I
say 'all right,' I mean he is not going to die... not yet, at
least...
but he is going to have to stay in bed for a few weeks.
He'll need
someone to take care "I'll take care of him," Lara said.
He looked at her and said, softly, "Your father doesn't know it, my
dear, but he's a very lucky man." "May I go in and see him now?" "Yes."
Lara walked into her father's room and stood there staring at him.
James Cameron lay in bed, looking pale and helpless, and he suddenly
seemed very old. Lara was engulfed by a wave of tenderness. She was
finally going to be able to do something for her father, something that
would make him appreciate her and love her. She approached the bed.
"Papa..."
He looked up and muttered, "What the bluidy hell are you doin' here?
You've work to dae at the boardin'house."
Lara froze. "I... I know, Papa. I just wanted to tell you that I saw
Mr. MacAllister. I told him I would collect the rents until you got
better and..."
"Ye collect the rents? Dinna make me laugh." He was shaken with a
sudden spasm. When he spoke again, his voice was weak. "It's the
Fates," he moaned. "I'm gang to be thrown oot into the streets."
He was not even thinking about what would happen to her.
Lara stood
there looking at him for a long time. Then she turned and walked out.
James Cameron was brought home three days later, and put to bed.
"You're not to get out of bed for the next couple of weeks," Dr.
Duncan told him. "I'll come back and check on you in a day or two."
"I canna stay in bed," James Cameron protested. "I'm a busy mon. I
have a lot to dae."
The doctor looked at him and said, quietly, "You have a choice. You
can either stay in bed and live, or get up and die." MacAllister's boarders were, at first, delighted to see
the innocent
young girl come around to collect their rents.
But when the novelty wore off, they had a myriad of excuses: "I was
sick this week, and I had medical bills..."
"My son sends me money every week, but the mail's been delayed..."
"I had to buy some equipment..."
"I'll have the money for you next week for sure .
But the young girl was fighting for her life. She listened politely
and said, "I'm so sorry, but Mr. MacAllister says that the money is
due today, and if you don't have it, you'll have to vacate immediately."
And somehow, they all managed to come up with the money. Lara was inflexible.
"It was easier dealing with your father," one of the boarders
grumbled.
"He was always willing to wait a few days."
But in the end they had to admire the young girl's spunk.
If Lara had thought that her father's illness would bring him closer to
her, she was sadly mistaken. Lara tried to anticipate his every need,
but the more solicitous she was, the more badly he behaved.
She brought him fresh flowers every day, and little treats.
cried. "Stop hoverin' aboot.
Hae you nae work to dae?"
I just thought you'd like..."
"Dot!" He turned his face to the wall. I hate him, Lara thought. I hate him.
At the end of the month, when Lara walked into Sean MacAllister's
office with the envelopes filled with rent money, and he had finished
counting it, he said, "I don't mind admitting, young lady, that you've
been quite a surprise to me. You've done better than your father."
The words were thrilling. "Thank you."
"As a matter of fact, this is the first month that everybody has paid
on time in full."
"Then my father and I can stay on at the boardinghouse?"
Lara asked eagerly.
MacAllister studied her a moment. "I suppose so. You must love your
father very much."
"I'll see you next Saturday, Mr. MacAllister." Chapter Five.
seventeen, the spindly, gaunt little girl had grown into a woman. Her
face bore the imprint of her Scottish forebears: the gleaming skin, the
arched, fine eyebrows, the thundercloud gray eyes, the stormy black
hair. And in addition, there was a strain of melancholy that seemed to
hover around her, the bleed-through of a people's tragic history. It
was hard to look away from Lara Cameron's face.
Most of the boarders were without women, except for the companions they
paid for at Madam Kirstie's and some of the other houses of
prostitution, and the beautiful young girl was a natural target for
them. One of the men would corner her in the kitchen or in his bedroom
when she was cleaning it and say, "Why don't you be nice to me, Lara?
I could do a lot for you."
Or, "You don't have a boyfriend, do you? Let me show you what a man is
like."
Or, "How would you like to go to Kansas City? I'm leaving next week,
and I'd be glad to take you with me."
After one or another of the boarders had tried to persuade Lara to go
to bed with him, she would walk into the small room where her father
lay helpless, and say, "You were wrong, Father. All the men want
me."
And she would walk out, leaving him staring after her.
James Cameron died on an early morning in spring, and Lara buried him
at the Greenwood Cemetery in the Passiondale area. The only other
person at the funeral was Bertha. There were no tears.
A new boarder moved in, an American named Bill Rogers. He was in his
seventies, bald and fat, an affable man who liked to talk.
After
supper he would sit and chat with Lara. "You're too damned pretty to
be stuck in a hick town like this," he advised her. "You should go to
Chicago or New York. Big time." "I will one day," Lara said.
"You've got your whole life ahead of you. Do you know what you want to
do with it?"
"I want to own things." "Ah, pretty clothes and..."
"No. Land. I want to own land. My father never owned anything. He
had to live off other people's favors all his life."
Bill Rogers's face lit up. "Real estate was the business I was in."
"Really?"
"I had buildings all over the Midwest. I even had a chain of hotels
once." His tone was wistful. "What happened?"
He shrugged. "I got greedy. Lost it all. But it was sure fun while
it lasted."
After that they talked about real estate almost every night.
"The first rule in real estate," Rogers told her, "is 0PM.
Never
forget that." "What's 0PM?"
"Other people's money. What makes real estate a great business is that
the government lets you take deductions on interest and depreciation
while your assets keep growing. The three most important things in
real estate are location, location, and location. A beautiful building
up on a hill is a waste of time. An ugly building downtown will make
you rich."
Rogers taught Lara about mortgages and refinancing and the use of bank
loans. Lara listened and learned and remembered. She was like a
sponge, eagerly soaking up every bit of information.
The most meaningful thing Rogers said to her was: "You know, Glace Bay
has a big housing shortage. It's a great opportunity for someone. If
I were twenty years younger...
From that moment on Lara looked at Glace Bay with different eyes,
visualizing office buildings and homes on vacant lots. It was
exciting, and it was frustrating.
Her dreams were there, but she had no money to carry them out.
The day Bill Rogers left town he said, "Rememberother people's money.
Good luck, kid."
A week later Charles Colin moved into the boardinghouse.
He was a
small man in his sixties, neat and trim and well dressed.
He sat at
the supper table with the other boarders but said very
little. He
seemed cocooned in his own private world.
He watched Lara as she worked around the boardinghouse, smiling, never
complaining.
"How long do you plan to stay with us?" Lara asked Colin. "I'm not sure. It could be a week or a month or two..."
Charles Colin was a puzzle to Lara. He did not fit in with the other
boarders at all. She tried to imagine what he did. He was certainly
not a miner or a fisherman, and he did not look like a merchant. He
seemed superior to the other boarders, better educated.
He told Lara
that he had tried to get into the one hotel in town but that it was
full. Lara noticed that at mealtimes he ate almost nothing.
"If you have a little fruit," he would say, apologetically, "or some
vegetables..."
"Are you on some special kind of diet?" Lara asked.
"In a way. I eat only kosher food, and I'm afraid Glace Bay doesn't
have any."
The next evening, when Charles Colin sat down to supper, a plate of
lamb chops was placed in front of him.
He looked up at Lara in surprise. "I'm sorry. I can't eat this," he
said. "I thought I explained..."
Lara smiled. "You did. This is kosher."
"What?"
"I found a kosher meat market in Sydney. The shochet there sold me
this. Enjoy it. Your rent includes two meals a day.
Tomorrow you're having a steak."
From that time on, whenever Lara had a lree moment, Colin made it a
point to talk to her, to draw her out. He was impressed by her quick
intelligence and her independent spirit.
One day Charles Colin confided to Lara what he was doing in Glace
Bay.
"I'm an executive with Continental Supplies." It was a famous national
chain. "I'm here to find a location for our new store."
"That's exciting," Lara said. I knew he was in Glace Bay for some
important reason. "You're going to put up a building?"
"No. We'll find someone else to do that. We just lease our
buildings."
At three o'clock in the morning Lara awakened out of a sound sleep and
sat up in bed, her heart pounding wildly. Had it been a dream? No.
Her mind was racing.
She was too excited to go back to sleep.
When Charles Colin came out of his room for breakfast,
Lara was waiting for him.
"Mr. Colin... I know a great place," she blurted out.
He stared at her, puzzled. "What?" "For the location you're looking for." "Oh? Where?"
Lara evaded the question. "Let me ask you something. If I owned a
location that you liked, and if I put up a building on it, would you
agree to lease it from me for five years?"
He shook his head. "That's a rather hypothetical question, isn't
it?"
"Would you?" Lara persisted.
"Lara, what do you know about putting up a building?"
"I wouldn't be putting it up," she said. "I'd hire an architect and a
good construction firm to do that."
Charles Colin was watching her closely. "I see. And where is this
wonderful piece of land?"
"I'll show it to you," Lara said. "Believe me, you're going to love
it. It's perfect."
After breakfast Lara took Charles Colin downtown.
At the corner of Main and Commercial streets in the center of Glace Bay
was a vacant square block. It was a site Colin had examined two days
earlier.
"This is the location I had in mind," Lara said.
Colin stood there, pretending to study it. "You have an
ahf-a nose.
It's a very good location."
He had already made discreet inquiries and learned that the property
was owned by a banker, Sean MacAllister. Colin's assignment was to
locate a site, arrange for someone to construct the building, and then
lease it from them. It would not matter to the company who put up the
building as long as its specifications were met. Colin was studying Lara. She's too young, he thought.
It's a foolish idea. A nd yet... "I found a kosher meat market in
Sydney... Tomorrow you're having a steak." She had such rachmones-compassion.
Lara was saying, excitedly, "If I could acquire this land and put up a
building to meet your specifications, would you give me a five-year
lease?"
He paused, and then said slowly, "No, Lara. It would have to be a
ten-year lease."
That afternoon Lara went to see Sean MacAllister.
He looked up in surprise as she walked into his office. "You're a few days early, Lara. Today's only Wednesday." "I know. I want to ask a favor, Mr. MacAllister."
Sean MacAllister sat there, watching her. She has really turned into a
beautiful-looking girl. Not a girl, a woman. He could see the swell
of her breasts against the cotton blouse she was wearing.
"Sit down, my dear. What can I do for you?"
Lara was too excited to sit. "I want to take out a loan." It took him by surprise. "What?"
"I'd like to borrow some money."
He smiled indulgently. "I don't see why not. If you need a new dress
or something, I'll be happy to advance..."
"I want to borrow two hundred thousand dollars." MacAllister's smile died. "Is this some kind ofjoke?"
"No, sir." Lara leaned forward and said earnestly, "There's a piece of
land I want to buy to put up a building.
I have an important tenant who's willing to give me a ten-year lease.
That will guarantee the cost of the land and the building."
MacAllister was studying her, frowning. "Have you discussed this with
the owner of the land?"
"I'm discussing it with him now," Lara said.
It took a moment for it to sink in. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that this is land that I own?"
"Yes. It's the lot on the corner of Main and Commercial streets."
"You came here to borrow money from me to buy my land?"
"That lot is worth no more than twenty thousand dollars. I checked.
I'm offering you thirty. You'll make a profit of ten thousand dollars
on the land plus interest on two hundred thousand dollars you're going
to loan me to put up the building."
MacAllister shook his head. "You're asking me to loan you two hundred
thousand dollars with no security. It's out of the question."
Lara leaned forward. "There is security. You'll hold the mortgage on
the building and the land. You can't lose."
MacAllister sat there studying her, turning her proposal over in his
mind. He smiled. "You know," he said, "you have a lot of nerve. But
I could never explain a loan like that to my board of directors."
"You have no board of directors," Lara told him. The smile turned to a grin. "True."
Lara leaned forward, and he could see her breasts touching the edge of
his desk.
"If you say yes, Mr. MacAllister, you'll never regret it. I
promise."
He could not take his eyes off her breasts. "You're not a bit like
your father, are you?"
"No, sir." Nothing like him, Lara thought fiercely.
"Supposing for the sake of argument," MacAllister said carefully, "that
I was interested. Who is this tenant of yours?"
"His name is Charles Colin. He's an executive with Continental
Supplies."
"The chain store?" "Yes."
MacAllister was suddenly very interested.
Lara went on. "They want to have a big store built here to supply the
miners and lumbermen with equipment."
To MacAllister, it had the smell of instant success. "Where did you meet this man?" he asked casually. "He's staying at the boardinghouse."
"I see. Let me think about it, Lara. We'll discuss it again
tomorrow."
Lara was almost trembling with excitement. "Thank you, Mr.
MacAllister. You won't be sorry."
He smiled. "No, I don't think I will be."
That afternoon Sean MacAllister went to the boardinghouse to meet
Charles Colin.
"I just dropped by to welcome you to Glace Bay," MacAllister said.
"I'm Sean MacAllister. I own the bank here. I heard you were in
town.
But you shouldn't be staying at my boardinghouse; you
should be staying
at my hotel. It's much more comfortable." "It was full," Mr. Colin explained.
"That's because we didn't know who you were." Mr. Colin said pleasantly, "Who am I?"
Sean MacAllister smiled. "We don't have to play games, Mr. Colin.
Word gets around. I understand that you're interested in leasing a
building to be put up on a property I own." "What property would that be?"
"The lot at Main and Commercial. It's a great location, isn't it? I
don't think we'll have any problem making a deal." "I already have a deal with someone."
Sean MacAllister laughed. "Lara? She's a pretty little thing, isn't
she? Why don't you come down to the bank with me and we'll draw up a
contract?"
"I don't think you understand, Mr. MacAllister. I said I already have
a deal."
"I don't think you understand, Mr. Colin. Lara doesn't own that
land.
I do."
"She's trying to buy it from you, isn't she?" "Yes. I don't have to sell it to her."
"And I don't have to use that lot. I've seen three other lots that
will do just as nicely. Thanks for dropping by." Sean MacAllister looked at him for a long moment. "You mean... you're serious?"
"Very. I never go into a deal that's not kosher, and I never break my
word."
"But Lara doesn't know anything about building. She..."
"She plans to find people who do. Naturally, we'll have final
approval."
The banker was thoughtful. "Do I understand that Continental Supplies
is willing to sign a ten-year lease?" "That's correct."
"I see. Well, under the circumstances, I... let me think about it."
When Lara arrived at the boardinghouse, Charles Colin told her about
his conversation with the banker.
Lara was upset. "You mean Mr. MacAllister went behind my back
and...?"
"Don't worry," Colin assured her, "he'll make the deal with you."
"Do you really think so?"
"He's a banker. He's in business to make a profit."
"What about you? Why are you doing this for me?" Lara asked.
He had asked himself the same question. Because you're achingly young,
he thought. Because you don't belong in this town.
Because I wish I
had a daughter like you.
But he said none of those things.
"I have nothing to lose, Lara. I found some other locations that would
serve just as well. If you can acquire this land, I'd like to do this
for you. It doesn't matter to my company who I deal with.
If you get
your loan, and I approve your builder, we're in business."
A feeling of elation swept over Lara. "I... I don't know how to thank
you. I'll go to see Mr. MacAllister and..."
"I wouldn't if I were you," Colin advised her. "Let him come to
you."
She looked worried. "But what if he doesn't...?" Colin smiled. "He will."
He handed her a printed lease. "Here's the ten-year lease we
discussed. It's contingent, you understand, on your meeting all our
requirements for the building." He handed her a set of blueprints.
"These are our specifications."
Lara spent the night studying the pages of drawings and instructions.
The following morning Sean MacAllister telephoned Lara. "Can you come down to see me, Lara?"
Her heart was pounding. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
He was waiting for her.
"I've been thinking about our conversation," MacAllister said. "I
would need a written agreement for a ten-year lease from Mr. Colin."
"I already have it," Lara said. She opened her bag and took out the
contract.
Sean MacAllister examined it carefully. "It seems to be in order."
"Then we have a deal?" Lara asked. She was holding her breath.
MacAllister shook his head. "No." "But I thought..."
His fingers were drumming restlessly on his desk.
"To tell you the truth, I'm really in no hurry to sell that lot,
Lara.
The longer I hold on to it, the more valuable it will become."
She looked at him blankly. "But you..."
"Your request is completely unorthodox. You've had no experience. I
would need a very special reason to make this loan to you."
"I don't under... what kind of reason?"
"Let's say... a little bonus. Tell me, Lara, have you ever had a
lover?"
The question caught her completely off-guard.
"I... no." She could feel the deal slipping away from her. "What does
that have...?"
MacAllister leaned forward. "I'm going to be frank with you, Lara. I
find you very attractive. I'd like to go to bed with you.
Quid pro
quo. That means...
"I know what it means." Her face had turned to stone.
"Look at it this way. This is your chance to make something of
yourself, isn't it? To own something, to be somebody. To prove to
yourself that you're not like your father." Lara's mind was spinning.
"You'll probably never have another chance like this again, Lara.
Perhaps you'd like some time to think it over, and..." "No." Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.
"I can give you my answer now." She pressed her arms tightly against
her sides to stop her body from trembling. Her whole future, her very
life, hung on her next words. "I'll go to bed with you."
Grinning, MacAllister rose and moved toward her, his fat
arms outstretched.
"Not now," Lara said. "After I see the contract."
The following day Sean MacAllister handed Lara a contract for the bank
loan.
"It's a very simple contract, my dear. It's a ten-year two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan at eight percent." He gave her a
pen.
"You can just sign here on the last page."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to read it first," Lara said. She looked at her watch. "But I don't have time now. May
I take it
with me? I'll bring it back tomorrow."
Sean MacAllister shrugged. "Very well." He lowered his voice. "About
our little date. Next Saturday I have to go into Halifax.
I thought
we might go there together."
Lara looked at his leering smile and felt sick to her stomach. "All
right." It was a whisper.
"Good. You sign the contract and bring it back and we're in
business."
He was thoughtful for a moment.
"You're going to need a good builder. Are you familiar with the Nova
Scotia Construction Company?"
Lara's face lit up. "Yes. I know their foreman, Buzz Steele."
He had put up some of the biggest buildings in Glace Bay. "Good. It's a fine outfit. I would recommend them."
"I'll talk to Buzz tomorrow."
That evening Lara showed the contract to Charles Colin.
She did not
dare tell him about the private deal she had made with MacAllister.
She was too ashamed.
Colin read the contract carefully, and when he finished, he handed it
back to Lara. "I would advise you not to sign this." She was dismayed. "Why?"
"There's a clause in there that stipulates that the building must be
completed by December thirty-first, or title reverts to the bank. In
other words, the building will belong to MacAllister, and my company
will become his tenant. You forfeit the deal and are still obligated
to repay the loan with interest. Ask him to change that."
MacAllister's words rang in Lara's ears. "I'm really in no hurry to
sell that lot. The longer I hold on to it, the more valuable it will
become."
Lara shook her head. "He won't."
"Then you're taking a big gamble, Lara. You could wind up with
nothing, and a debt of two hundred thousand dollars plus interest."
"But if I bring the building in on time..."
"That's a big 'if." When you put up a building, you're at the mercy of
a lot of other people. You'd be surprised at the number of things that
can go wrong."
"There's a very good construction company in Sydney.
They've put up a
lot of buildings around here. I know the foreman. If he says he can
have the building up in time, I want to go ahead."
It was the desperate eagerness in Lara's voice that made him put aside
his doubts. "All right," he finally said, "talk to him."
Lara found Buzz Steele walking the girders of a fivestory building he
was erecting in Sydney. Steele was a grizzled, weather-beaten man in
his forties. He greeted Lara warmly. "This is a nice surprise," he
said. "How did they let a pretty girl like you get out of Glace
Bay?"
"I sneaked out," Lara told him. "I have a job for you, Mr. Steele."
He smiled. "You do? What are we building-a dollhouse?"
"No." She pulled out the blueprints Charles Colin had given her.
"This is the building."
Buzz Steele studied it a moment. He looked up, surprised. "This is a
pretty big job. What does it have to do with you?"
"I put the deal together," Lara said proudly. "I'm going to own the
building."
Steele whistled softly. "Well, good for you, honey." "There are two catches."
"Oh?"
"The building has to be finished by December thirtyfirst or it reverts
to the bank, and the building can't cost more than one hundred seventy
thousand dollars. Can it be done?"
Steele looked at the blueprints again. Lara watched him silently
calculating.
Finally he spoke. "It can be done."
It was all Lara could do not to shout out loud. "Then you've got a deal."
They shook hands. "You're the prettiest boss I've ever had," Buzz
Steele said.
"Thank you. How soon can you get started?"
"Tell you what. I'll go into Glace Bay tomorrow to look over the
lot.
I'm going to give you a building you'll be proud of." When Lara left, she felt that she had wings.
Lara returned to Glace Bay and told Charles Colin the news.
"Are you sure this company is reliable, Lara?"
"I know it is," Lara assured him. "They've put up buildings here and
in Sydney and Halifax and..." Her enthusiasm was contagious.
Colin smiled. "Well, then, it looks like we're in business."
"It does, doesn't it?" Lara beamed. And then she remembered the deal
she had made with Sean MacAllister, and her smile faded. "Next
Saturday I have to go into Halifax. I thought we might go there
together." Saturday was only two days away.
* * Lara signed the contracts the following morning. As Sean
MacAllister watched her leave the office, he was very pleased with
himself. He had no intention of letting her have the new building.
And he almost laughed aloud at her naivete. He would loan her the
money, but he would really be loaning it to himself. He thought about
making love to that wonderful young body, and he began to get an
erection.
Lara had been to Halifax only twice. Compared to Glace Bay, it was a
bustling town, full of pedestrians and automobiles and shops crammed
with merchandise. Sean MacAllister drove Lara to a motel on the
outskirts of town. He pulled into the parking lot and patted her on
the knee. "You wait here while I register for us, honey."
Lara sat in the car, waiting, panicky. I'm selling myself, she
thought. Like a whore. But it's all I've got to sell, and at least he
thinks I'm worth two hundred thousand dollars. My father never saw two
hundred thousand dollars in his life. He was always too...
The car door opened, and MacAllister was standing there, grinning.
"All set. Let's go."
Lara suddenly found it hard to breathe. Her heart was pounding so hard
she thought it was going to fly out of her chest. I'm having a heart
attack, she thought.
"Lara..." He was looking at her strangely. "Are you all right?"
No. I'm dying. They'll take me to the hospital, and I'll die there.
A virgin. "I'm fine," she said.
Slowly she got out of the car and followed MacAllister into a drab
cabin with a bed, two chairs, a battered dressing table, and a tiny
bathroom.
She was caught up in a nightmare.
"So this is your first time, eh?" MacAllister said.
She thought of the boys at school who had fondled her and kissed her
breasts and tried to put their hands between her legs. "Yes," she
said.
"Well, you mustn't be nervous. Sex is the most natural thing in the
world."
Lara watched as MacAllister began to strip off his clothes. His body
was pudgy.
"Get undressed," MacAllister ordered.
Slowly Lara took off her blouse and skirt and shoes. She was wearing a brassiere and panties.
MacAllister looked at her figure and walked over to her. "You're
beautiful, you know that, baby?"
She could feel his male hardness pressing against her body.
MacAllister kissed her on the lips, and she felt disgust. "Get the rest of your clothes off," he said urgently.
He walked over to the bed and stripped off his shorts.
His penis was hard and red.
That will never fit inside me, Lara thought. It will kill me.
"Hurry up."
Slowly Lara took off her brassiere and stepped out of her panties.
"My God," he said, "you're fantastic. Come over here."
Lara walked over to the bed and sat down. MacAllister squeezed her
breasts hard, and she cried aloud with the pain.
"That felt good, didn't it? It's time you had yourself a man."
MacAllister pushed her down on her back and spread her legs.
Lara was suddenly panicky. "I'm not wearing anything," she said. "I
mean... I could get pregnant."
"Don't worry," MacAllister promised her, "I won't come inside you."
An instant later Lara felt him pushing inside her, hurting her.
"Wait!" she cried. "I..."
MacAllister was past the waiting. He rammed himself into her, and the
pain was excruciating. He was pounding into her body now, harder and
harder, and Lara put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. It
will be over in a minute, she thought, and I'll own a building. And I
can put up a second building. And another... The pain was becoming unbearable.
"Move your ass," MacAllister cried. "Don't just lay there. Move
it!"
She tried to move, but it was impossible. She was in too much pain.
Suddenly MacAllister gave a gasp, and Lara felt his body jerk. He let
out a satisfied sigh and lay limp against her. She was horrified. "You said you wouldn't..."
He lifted himself up on his elbows and said earnestly, "Darling, I
couldn't help it, you're just so beautiful. But don't worry. If you
get pregnant, I know a doctor who'll take care of you."
Lara turned her face away so he could not see her revulsion. She
limped into the bathroom, sore and bleeding. She stood in the shower,
letting the warm water wash over her body, and she thought, It's over
with. I've done it. I own the land. I'm going to be rich.
Now all she had to do was get dressed and go back to Glace Bay and get
her building started.
She walked out of the bathroom, and Sean MacAllister said, "That was so
good we're going to do it again." Chapter Six.
harles Colin had inspected five buildings erected by the Nova Scotia
Construction Company.
"They're a first-rate outfit," he had told Lara. "You shouldn't have
any problem with them."
Now Lara, Charles Colin, and Buzz Steele were inspecting the new
site.
"It's perfect," Buzz Steele said. "The measurements come to
forty-three thousand five hundred sixty square feet. That will give
you the twenty-thousand-square-foot building you want."
Charles Colin asked, "Can you have the building finished by December
thirty-first?" He was determined to protect Lara.
"Sooner," Steele said. "I can promise it to you by Christmas Eve."
Lara was beaming. "How soon can you get started?" "I'll have my crew here by the middle of next week."
* * * Watching the new building going up was the most exciting thing
Lara had ever experienced. She was there every day. "I want to
learn," she told Charles Colin. "This is just the beginning for me.
Before I'm through, I'm going to put up a hundred buildings."
Colin wondered whether Lara really knew what she was getting into.
The first men to set foot on the project site were members of the
survey team. They established the legal geometric borders of the
property and drove hubs into the ground at each corner, every hub
painted with a fluorescent color for easy identification.
The survey
work was finished in two days, and early the following morning, heavy
earth-moving equipment-a truck-mounted Caterpillar front-end
loader-arrived at the site.
Lara was there, waiting. "What happens now?" she asked Buzz Steele.
"We clear and grub."
Lara looked at him. "What does that mean?"
"The Caterpillar is gonna dig up tree stumps and do some rough
grading."
The next piece of equipment that came in was a backhoe to dig the
trenches for foundations, utility conduits, and drainage piping.
By now the boarders at the house had all heard what was happening, and
it became the main topic of conversation at breakfast and supper. They
were all cheering for Lara.
"What happens next?" they would ask.
She was becoming an expert. "This morning they put the underground
piping in place. Tomorrow they start to put in the wood and concrete
formwork, so they can wiretie the steel bars into the skeletal
gridiron." She grinned.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Pouring the concrete was the next step, and when the concrete
foundation was cured, large truckloads of lumber rolled in, and crews
of carpenters began to assemble the wooden frames. The noise was
horrendous, but to Lara it was music. The place was filled with the
sounds of rhythmic hammers and whining power saws.
After two weeks the wall panels, punctuated with window and door
openings, were stood upright as if the building had suddenly been
inflated.
To passersby, the building was a maze of wood and steel, but to Lara it
was something else. It was her dream come to life. Every morning and
every evening she went downtown and stared at what was being built. I
own this, Lara thought. This belongs to me.
After the episode with MacAllister, Lara had been terrified that she
might become pregnant. The thought of it made her sick to her
stomach.
When her period came, she was weak with relief. Now all I have to
worry about is my building.
She continued to collect the rents for Sean MacAllister because she
needed a place to live, but she had to steel herself to go into his
office and face him.
"We had a good time in Halifax, didn't we, honey? Why don't we do it again?"
"I'm busy with my building," Lara said firmly.
The level of activity began to heighten as the sheet metal crews,
rodfers, and carpenters worked simultaneously, the number of men,
materials, and trucks tripling.
Charles Colin had left Glace Bay, but he telephoned Lara once a week.
"How is the building going?" he had asked the last time he called.
"Great!" Lara said enthusiastically. "Is it on schedule?"
"It's ahead of schedule."
"That's wonderful. I can tell you now that I wasn't really sure you
could do it."
"But you gave me a chance anyway. Thank you, Charles."
"One good turn deserves another. Remember, if it hadn't been for you,
I might have starved to death."
From time to time Sean MacAllister would join Lara at the building
site.
"It's coming along just fine, isn't it?" "Yes," Lara said.
MacAllister seemed genuinely pleased. Lara thought: Mr.
Colin was
wrong about him. He's not trying to take advantage of me.
By the end of November the building was progressing rapidly. The
windows and doors were in place, and the exterior walls were set. The
structure was ready to accept the network of nerves and arteries.
On Monday, the first week of December, work on the building began to
slow down. Lara went to the site one morning, and there were only two
men there, and they seemed to be doing very little. "Where's the rest of the crew today?" Lara asked. "They're on another job," one of the men explained. "They'll be here tomorrow."
The following day no one was there.
Lara took a bus into Halifax to see Buzz Steele. "What's happening?" Lara asked. "The work has stopped."
"Nothing to worry about," Steele assured her. "We ran into a little
snag on another job, and I had to pull my men off temporarily."
"When will they be coming back to work?" "Next week. We'll be on schedule."
"Buzz, you know how much this means to me." "Sure, Lara."
"If the building's not completed on time, I lose it. I lose
everything."
"Don't worry, kid. I won't let that happen." When Lara left, she had a feeling of unease.
The following week the workmen still had not appeared. She went into
Halifax again to see Steele.
"I'm sorry," the secretary said, "Mr. Steele is not in." "I must talk to him. When will he be back?"
"He's out of town on a job. I don't know when he'll be back."
Lara felt the first stirrings of panic. "This is very important," Lara
insisted. "He's putting up a building for me. It has to be finished
in three weeks."
"I wouldn't worry, Miss Cameron. If Mr. Steele said it will be
finished, it will be finished."
"But nothing's happening," Lara cried. "No one's working on it."
"Would you like to talk to Mr. Ericksen, his assistant?" "Yes, please."
Ericksen was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and amiable. He
radiated reassurance.
"I know why you're here," he said, "but Buzz told me to assure you that
you have nothing to worry about. We've been held back a little on your
project because of some problems on a couple of big construction jobs
we're handling, but your building is only three weeks away from
completion."
"There's still so much to do..."
"Not to worry. We'll have a crew out there first thing on Monday
morning."
"Thank you," Lara said, relieved. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, but
I'm a little nervous. This means a great deal to me."
"No problem," Ericksen smiled. "You just go home and relax. You're in
good hands."
Monday morning there was not a single workman at the site.
Lara was
frantic. She telephoned Charles Colin.
"The men have stopped working," she told him, "and I can't find out
why. They keep making promises and breaking them."
"What's the name of the company-Nova Scotia Construction?" "That's right."
"I'll call you back," Colin said.
Two hours later Charles Colin telephoned. "Who recommended the Nova
Scotia Construction Company to you?" She thought back. "Sean MacAllister."
"I'm not surprised. He owns the company, Lara."
Lara felt suddenly faint. "And he's stopping the men from finishing it
on time...?"
"I'm afraid it looks that way." "Oh, my God."
"He's a nahash tzefa-a poisonous snake."
He was too kind to say that he had warned her.
All he managed was: "Maybe... maybe something will turn up."
He admired the young girl's spirit and ambition, and he despised Sean
MacAllister. But he was helpless. There was nothing he could do.
Lara lay awake all night thinking about her folly.
The building she had put up would belong now to Sean MacAllister, and
she would be left with a staggering debt which she would spend the rest
of her life working to repay. The thought of how MacAllister might
exact payment made her shudder.
* * * When Lara awakened, she went to see Sean MacAllister.
"Good morning, my dear. You're looking lovely today." Lara came right to the point. "I need an extension.
The building won't be ready by the thirty-first." MacAllister sat back in his chair and frowned. "Really? That's bad news, Lara."
"I need another month."
MacAllister sighed. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Oh, dear, no. You signed a contract. A deal is a deal." "But..."
"I'm sorry, Lara. On the thirty-first, the property reverts to the
bank."
When the boarders at the house heard what was happening, they were
furious.
"That son of a bitch!" one of them cried. "He can't do this to
you."
"He's done it," Lara said, despairingly. "It's over." "Are we going to let him get away with this?"
"Hell, no. What have you got left-three weeks?" Lara shook her head. "Less. Two and a half weeks."
The man turned to the others. "Let's go down and take a look at that
building."
"What good will...?"
"We'll see."
Soon half a dozen boarders were standing at the building site,
carefully inspecting it.
"The plumbing hasn't been put in," one of the men said. "Nor the electricity."
They stood there, shivering in the freezing December wind, discussing
what still remained to be done.
One of the men turned to Lara. "Your banker's a tricky fellow. He's
had the building almost finished so that he wouldn't have much to do
when your contract was up." He turned to the others. "I would say
that this could be finished in two and a half weeks." There was a chorus of agreement.
Lara was bewildered. "You don't understand. The workmen won't
come."
"Look, lassie, in your boardinghouse you've got plumbers and carpenters
and electricians, and we've got lots of friends in town who can handle
the rest."
"I don't have any money to pay you," Lara said. "Mr.
MacAllister
won't give me..."
"It will be our Christmas gift to you."
What happened after that was incredible. Word quickly spread around
Glace Bay of what was happening.
Construction workers on other buildings came to take a look at Lara's
property. Half of them were there because they liked Lara, and the
other half because they had had dealings with Sean MacAllister and
hated him.
"Let's fix the bastard," they said.
They dropped by to lend a hand after work, working past midnight and on
Saturdays and Sundays, and the sound of construction began again,
filling the air with a joyful noise. Beating the deadline became a
challenge, and the building was soon swarming with carpenters and
electricians and plumbers, all eager to pitch in. When Sean
MacAllister heard what was happening, he rushed over to the site.
He stood there, stunned. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Those
aren't my workmen."
"They're mine," Lara said defiantly. "There's nothing in the contract
that says I can't use my own men.
"Well, I..." MacAllister sputtered. "That building had better be up
to specifications."
"It will be,?" Lara assured him.
The day before New Year's Eve the building was completed.
It stood
proud da,nst the sky, solid and strong, and it was the most beautiful
thing Lara had ever seen. She stood there staring at it, dazed.
"It's all yours," one of the workmen said proudly. "Are we going to have a party or what?"
That night it seemed that the whole town of Glace Bay celebrated Lara
Cameron's first building. It was the beginning.
There was no stopping Lara after that. Her mind was brimming with
ideas.
"Your new employees are going to need places to live in Glace Bay," she
told Charles Colin. "I'd like to build houses for them.
Are you interested?"
He nodded. "I'm verb interested."
Lara went to see a banker in Sydney and borrowed enough money on her
building to finance the new project.
When the houses were finished, Lara said to Charles Colin, "Do you know
what else this town needs, Charles?
Cabins to accommodate the summer tourists who come here to fish. I
know a wonderful place near the bay where I could build..."
Charles Colin became Lara's unofficial financial adviser, and during
the next three years Lara built an office building, half a dozen
seashore cottages, and a shopping mall. The banks in Sydney and
Halifax were happy to loan her money.
Two years later, when Lara sold out her real estate
holdings, she had a
certified check for three million dollars. She was twenty-one years
old.
The following day she said good-bye to Glace Bay and left for
Chicago.
Chapter Seven.
Chicago was a revelation.
Halifax had been the largest city Lara had ever seen, but it was like a
hamlet compared to the giant of the Midwest.
Chicago was a loud and noisy city, bustling and energetic, and everyone
seemed to be hurrying to some important destination.
Lara checked into the Stevens Hotel. She took one look at the smartly
dressed women walking through the lobby and became self-conscious about
the clothes she was wearing. Glace Bay, yes, Lara thought. Chicago,
no. The following morning, Lara went into action. She visited Kane's
and Ultimo for designer dresses, Joseph's for shoes, Saks Fifth Avenue
and Marshall Field's for lingerie, Trabert and Hoeffer for jewelry, and
Ware for a mink coat. And every time she bought something, she heard
her father's voice saying, "I'm nae made of money.
Get yourself some thing frae the Salvation Army Citadel."
Before her shopping spree was over, the closets in her hotel suite were
filled with beautiful clothes.
Lara's next move was to look in the yellow pages of the
telephone book
under "Real Estate Brokers." She selected the one that had the largest
advertisement, Parker & Associates. Lara telephoned and asked to speak
to Mr. Parker.
"May I tell him who's calling?" "Lara Cameron."
A moment later a voice said, "Bruce Parker speaking. How can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a location where I can put up a beautiful new hotel,"
Lara said.
The voice at the other end of the phone grew warmer. "Well, we're experts at that, Mrs. Cameron."
"Miss Cameron."
"Right. Did you have any particular area in mind?"
"No. To tell you the truth, I'm not really familiar with Chicago."
"That's no problem. I'm sure we can line up some very interesting
properties for you. Just to give me an idea of what we're looking for,
how much equity do you have?"
Lara said proudly, "Three million dollars."
There was a long silence. "Three million dollars?" "Yes."
"And you want to build a beautiful new hotel?"
"Yes."
Another silence.
"Were you interested in building or acquiring something in the inner
city area, Miss Cameron?"
"Of course not," Lara said. "What I have in mind is exactly the
opposite. I want to build an exclusive boutique hotel in a nice area
that..."
"With an equity of three million dollars?" Parker chuckled. "I'm
afraid we're not going to be able to help you." "Thank you," Lara said. She replaced the receiver. She had obviously called the wrong broker.
She went back to the yellow pages again and made half a dozen more
calls. By the end of the afternoon Lara was forced to face reality.
None of the brokers was interested in trying to find a prime location
where she could build a hotel with a down payment of three million
dollars. They had offered Lara a variety of suggestions, and they had
all come down to the same thing: a cheap hotel in an inner city area.
Never, Lara thought. I'll go back to Glace Bay first.
She had dreamed for months about the hotel she wanted to build, and in
her mind it was already a reality-beautiful, vivid, three-dimensional.
Her plan was to turn a hotel into a real home away from
home. It would
have mostly suites, and each suite would have a living room and a
library with a fireplace in each room, and be furnished with
comfortable couches, easy chairs, and a grand piano.
There would be
two large bedrooms and an outside terrace running the length of the
apartment.
There would be a Jacuzzi and a minibar. Lara knew exactly what she
wanted. The question was how she was going to get it.
Lara walked into a printshop on Lake Street. "I would like to have a
hundred business cards printed up, please." "Certainly. And how will the cards read?"
"'Miss Lara Cameron,' and at the bottom, 'Real Estate Developer.""
"Yes, Miss Cameron. I can have them for you in two days." "No. I would like them this afternoon, please."
The next step was to get acquainted with the city.
Lara walked along Michigan Avenue and State Street and La Salle,
strolled along Lake Shore Drive and wandered through Lincoln Park with
its zoo and golf course and lagoon. She visited the Merchandise Mart
and went to Kroch-Brentano's and bought books about Chicago. She read
about the famous who had made Chicago their home: Carl Sandburg, Frank
Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan, Saul Bellow. She read about the pioneer
families of Chicago-the John Bairds and Gaylord Donnelleys, the
Marshall Fields and Potter Palmers, and Walgreens-and she
passed by
their homes on Lake Shore Drive and their huge estates in suburban Lake
Forest. Lara visited the South Side, and she felt at home there
because of all the ethnic groups: Swedes, Poles, Irish, Lithuanians.
It reminded her of Glace Bay.
She took to the streets again, looking at buildings with For Sale
signs, and she went to see the listed brokers. "What's the price of that building?"
"Eighty million dollars.;,." "Sixty million dollars...
"A hundred million dollars..."
Her three million dollars was becoming more and more insignificant.
Lara sat in her hotel room considering her options.
Either she could
go to one of the slum sections of the city and put up a little hotel
there, or she could return home. Neither choice appealed to her.
I've too much at stake to give up now, Lara thought.
The following morning Lara stopped in at a bank on La Salle Street.
She walked up to a clerk behind the counter. "I would like to speak to
your vice-president, please." She handed the clerk her card.
Five minutes later she was in the office of Tom Peterson,
a flaccid
middle-aged man, with a nervous tic. He was studying her card.
"What can I do for you, Miss Cameron?"
"I'm planning to put up a hotel in Chicago. I'll need to borrow some
money He gave her a genial smile. "That's what we're here for. What
kind of hotel were you planning to build'?" "A beautiful boutique hotel in a nice area."
"Sounds interesting "I have to tell you," Lara said, "that I only have
three million dollars to put down, and. He smiled. "No problem."
She felt a thrill of excitemeiit. "Really?"
"Three million can go a long way if you know what to do with it." He
looked at his watch. "I have another appointment now. I wonder if we
could get together for dinner tonight and talk about this."
"Certainly," Lara said. "That would be fine." "Where are you staying?"
"At the Palmer House."
"Why don't I pick you up at eight?"
Lara got to her feet. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how good
you make me feel. Frankly I was beginning to get discouraged."
"No need," he said. "I'm going to take good care of you.
At eight o'clock 'I'om Peterson picked up Lara and took her to
Henricl's for dinner. When they- were seated, he said, "You know, I'm
glad that you came to me. We can do a lot for each other."
"We can?"
"Yes. There's a lot of ass around this town, but none of it as
beautiful as yours, honey You can open a luxury whorehouse and cater to
an exclusive Lara froze. "I beg your pardon?"
"If you can get half a dozen girls together, we Lara was gone.
The following day Lara visited three more banks.
When she explained her plans to the manager of the first bank, he said,
"I'm going to give you the best advice you'll ever get: Forget it.
Real estate development is a man's game. There's no place for women in
it."
"And why is that?" Lara asked tonelessly.
"Because you'd be dealing with a bunch of macho roughnecks. They'd eat
you alive."
"They didn't eat me alive in Glace Bay," Lara said.
He leaned forward. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret.
Chicago is not Glace Bay."
At the next bank the manager said to her, "We'll be glad to help you
out, Miss Cameron. Of course, what you have in mind is out of the
question. What I would suggest is to let us handle your money and
invest it..."
Lara was out of his office before he finished his sentence.
At the third bank Lara was ushered into the office of Bob Vance, a
pleasant-looking gray-haired man who looked exactly as the president of
a bank should look. In the office with him was a pale, thin,
sandy-haired man in his early thirties, wearing a rumpled suit and
looking completely out of place.
"This is Howard Keller, Miss Cameron, one of our vice-presidents."
"How do you do?"
"What can I do for you this morning?" Bob Vance asked.
"I'm interested in building a hotel in Chicago," Lara said, "and I'm
looking for finance."
Bob Vance smiled. "You've come to the right place. Do you have a location in mind?"
"I know the general area I want. Near the Loop, not too far from
Michigan Avenue . "Excellent."
Lara told him about her boutique hotel idea.
"That sounds interesting," Vance said. "And how much equity do you
have?"
"Three million dollars. I want to borrow the rest."
There was a thoughtful pause. "I'm afraid I can't help you. Your
problem is that you have big ideas and a small purse.
Now, if you
would like us to invest your money for you..." "No, thank you," Lara said. "Thanks for your time.
Good afternoon, gentlemen." She turned and left the office, fuming.
In Glace Bay three million dollars was a fortune. Here people seemed
to think it was nothing.
As Lara reached the street, a voice said, "Miss Cameron!"
Lara turned. It was the man she had been introduced to-Howard
Keller. "Yes?"
"I'd like to talk to you," he said. "Perhaps we could have a cup of
coffee."
Lara stiffened. Was everyone in Chicago a sex maniac? "There's a good coffee shop just around the corner." Lara shrugged. "All right."
When they had ordered, Howard Keller said, "If you don't mind my
butting in, I'd like to give you some advice." Lara was watching him, wary. "Go ahead."
"In the first place, you're going about this all wrong."
"You don't think my idea will work?" she asked stiffly.
"On the contrary. I think a boutique hotel is a really great idea."
She was surprised. "Then why...?"
"Chicago could use a hotel like that, but I don't think you should
build it."
"What do you mean?"
"I would suggest that instead you find an old hotel in a good location
and remodel it. There are a lot of rundown hotels that can be bought
at a low figure. Your three million dollars would be enough equity for
a down payment. Then you could borrow enough from a bank to refurbish
it and turn it into your boutique hotel."
Lara sat there thinking. He was right. It was a better approach.
"Another thing. no bank is going to be interested in financing you
unless you come in with a solid architect and builder.
They'll want to
see a complete package."
Lara thought about Buzz Steele. 'I understand. Do you know a good
architect and builder?"
Howard Keller smiled. "Quite a few."
"Thanks for your advice," Lara said. "If I find the right site, could
I come back and talk to you about it?" "Any time. Good luck."
Lara was waiting for him to say something like "Why don't we talk it
over at my apartment?" Instead all Howard Keller said was. "Would you
care for more coffee, Miss Cameron?"
Iara roamed the downtown streets again, but this time she was looking
for something different. A few blocks from Michigan Avenue, on
Delaware, Lara passed a prewar r,in-down transient. hotel. A sign
outside said, CONe ESSI HAL HOTFL. Lara started to pass it, then
suddenly stopped. She took a closer look. The brick facade was so
dirty that it was difficult to tell what its original color had been.
It was eight stories high. Lara turned and entered the hotel lobby.
The interior was even worse than the exterior. clerk dressed in jeans
and a torn sweater was pushing a derelict out the door.
The front desk
looked more like a ticket window than a reception area.
At one end of
the lobby was a staircase leading to what once were meeting rooms, now
turned into rented offices. On the mezzanine Lara could see a travel
agency, a theater ticket service, and an employment agency.
The clerk returned to the front desk. "You wanna room?"
"No. I wanted to know..." She was interrupted by a heavily made-up
young woman in a tight-fitting skirt.
"Give me a key, Mike." There was an elderly man at her side.
The clerk handed her a key.
Lara watched the two of them head for the elevator. "What can I do for you?" the clerk asked.
"I'm interested in this hotel," Lara said. "Is it for sale?"
"I guess everything's for sale. Is your father in the real estate
business?"
"No," Lara said, "I am."
He looked at her in surprise. "Oh. Well, the one you want to talk to
is one of the Diamond brothers. They own a chain of these dumps."
"Where would I find them?" Lara asked.
The clerk gave her an address on State Street. "Would you mind if I looked around?"
He shrugged. "Help yourself." He grinned. "Who knows, you might wind
up being my boss."
Not ill can help it, Lara thought.
She walked around the lobby, examining it closely.
There were old marble columns lining the entrance. On a hunch, Lara
pulled up an edge of the dirty, worn carpet.
Underneath was a dull marble floor. She walked up to the mezzanine.
The mustard-colored wallpaper was peeling. She pulled away an edge of
it, and underneath was the same marble. Lara was becoming more and
more excited. The handrail of the staircase was painted black.
Lara turned to make sure that the room clerk was not watching and took
out her key from the Stevens Hotel and scratched away some of the
paint. She found what she was hoping for, a solid brass railing. She
approached the elevators that were painted with the same black paint,
scratched a bit away, and found more brass.
Lara walked back to the clerk, trying to conceal her excitement. "I
wonder ill might look at one of the rooms."
He shrugged. "No skin off my nose." He handed her a key. "Four-ten."
"Thank you."
Lara got in the elevator. It was slow and antiquated.
I'll have it redone, Lara thought. And I'll put a mural inside.
In her mind she was already beginning to decorate the hotel.
Room 410 looked like a disaster, but the possibilities were immediately
evident. It was a surprisingly large room with antiquated facilities
and tasteless furniture.
Lara's heart began to beat faster. It'sperfect, she thought.
She walked downstairs. The stairway was old and had a musty smell.
The carpets were worn, but underneath she found the same marble.
Lara returned the key to the desk clerk. "Did you see what you wanted?"
"Yes," Lara said. "Thank you."
He grinned at her. "You really going to buy this joint?" "Yes," Lara said. "I'm really going to buy this joint." "Cool," he said.
The elevator door opened, and the young hooker and her elderly john
emerged. She handed the key and some money to the clerk. "Thanks,
Mike."
"Have a nice day," Mike called. He turned to Lara. "Are you coming back?"
"Oh, yes," Lara assured him, "I'm coming back."
Lara's next stop was at the City Hall of Records. She asked to see the
records on the property that she was interested in. For a fee of ten
dollars, she was handed a file on the Congressional Hotel.
It had been
sold to the Diamond brothers five years earlier for six million
dollars.
The office of the Diamond brothers was in an old building on a corner
of State Street. An Oriental receptionist in a tight red skirt greeted
Lara as she walked in.
"Can I help you?"
"I'd like to see Mr. Diamond." "Which one?"
"Either of them." "I'll give you John."
She picked up the phone and spoke into it. "There's a lady here to see
you, John." She listened a moment, then looked up at Lara. "What's it
about?"
"I want to buy one of his hotels."
She spoke into the mouthpiece again. "She says she wants to buy one of
your hotels. Right." She replaced the receiver. "Go right in."
John Diamond was a huge man, middle-aged and hairy, and he had the
pushed-in face of a man who had once played a lot of football. He was
wearing a shortsleeved shirt and smoking a large cigar.
He looked up
as Lara entered his office.
"My secretary said you wanted to buy one of my buildings."
He studied
her a moment. "You don't look old enough to vote."
"Oh, I'm old enough to vote," Lara assured him. "I'm also old enough
to buy one of your buildings." "Yeah? Which one?"
"The Cong essi nal Hotel." "The what?"
"That's what the sign says. I assume it means 'Congressional."" "Oh.
Yeah."
"Is it for sale?"
He shook his head. "Gee, I don't know. That's one of our big
money-makers. I'm not sure we could let it go." "You have let it go," Lara said.
"Huh?"
"It's in terrible shape. The place is falling apart." "Yeah? Then what the hell do you want with it?"
"I'd like to buy it and fix it up a little. Of course, it would have
to be delivered to me vacant."
"That's no problem. Our tenants are on a week-toweek basis."
"How many rooms does the hotel have?"
"A hundred and twenty-five. The gross building area is a hundred
thousand square feet."
Too many rooms, Lara thought. But ill combine them to create suites, I
would end up with sixty to seventy-five keys. It could work.
It was time to discuss price.
"If I decided to buy the building, how much would you want for it?"
Diamond said, "If I decided to sell the building, I'd want
ten million
dollars, a six-million cash down payment..." Lara shook her head, "I'll offer..."
..... period. No negotiating."
Lara sat there, mentally figuring the cost of renovation.
It would be
approximately eighty dollars per square foot, or eight million dollars,
plus furniture, fixtures, and equipment.
Lara's mind was furiously calculating. She was sure she could get a
bank to finance the loan. The problem was that she needed six million
dollars in equity, and she only had three million.
Diamond was asking
too much for the hotel, but she wanted it. She wanted it more than
anything she had ever wanted in her life. "I'll make you a deal," Lara said.
He was listening. "Yeah?"
"I'll give you your asking price He smiled. "So far so g "And I'll
give you a down payment of three million in cash."
He shook his head "Can't do it. I've got to have six million in cash
up front." "You'll have it."
"Yeah? Where's the other three coming from?" "From you."
"What?"
"You're going to give me a second mortgage for three
million."
"You want to borrow money from me to buy my building?"
It was the same thing Sean MacAllister had asked her in Glace Bay.
"Look at it this way," Lara said. "You're really borrowing the money
from yourself You'll own the building until I pay it off.
There's no
way you can lose."
He thought about it and grinned. "Lady, you just bought yourself a
hotel" Howard Keller's office in the bank was a cubicle with his name
on the door. When Lara walked in, he looked more rumpled than ever.
"Back so soon?"
"You told me to come and see you when I found a hotel. I found one."
Keller leaned back in his chair. "Tell me about it."
"I found an old hotel called the Congressional. It's on Delaware.
It's a few blocks from Michigan Avenue.
It's run-down and seedy, and I want to buy it and turn it into the best
hotel in Chicago." "Tell me the deal." Lara told him.
Keller sat there, thinking. "Let's run it past Bob Vance."
Bob Vance listened and made some notes. "It might be
possible," he
said, "but..." He looked at Lara. "Have you ever run a hotel before,
Miss Cameron?"
Lara thought about all the years of running the boardinghouse in Glace
Bay, making the beds, scrubbing the floors and doing the laundry and
the dishes, trying to please the different personalities and keep
peace.
"I ran a boardinghouse full of miners and lumbermen. A hotel will be a
cinch."
Howard Keller said, "I'd like to take a look at the property, Bob."
Lara's enthusiasm was irresistible. Howard Keller watched Lara's face
as they walked through the seedy hotel rooms, and he saw them through
her eyes.
"This will be a beautiful suite with a sauna," Lara said excitedly.
"The fireplace will be here, and the grand piano in that corner." She
began to pace back and forth.
"When affluent travelers come to Chicago, they stay at the best hotels,
but they're all the same-cold rooms without any character.
If we can
offer them something like this, even though it may cost a little more,
there's no doubt about which they'll choose. This will really be a
home away from home."
"I'm impressed," Howard Keller said.
Lara turned to him eagerly. "Do you think the bank will loan me the
money?"
"Let's find out."
Thirty minutes later Howard Keller was in a conference with Vance.
"What do you think about it?" Vance asked.
"I think the lady's on to something. I like her idea about a boutique
hotel."
"So do I. The only problem is that she's so young and inexperienced.
It's a gamble." They spent the next half hour discussing costs and
projected earnings.
"I think we should go ahead with it," Keller finally said. "We can't
lose." He grinned. "If worse comes to worst, you and I can move into
the hotel."
Howard Keller telephoned Lara at the Palmer House. "The bank has just
approved your loan."
Lara let out a shriek. "Do you mean it? That's wonderful! Oh, thank
you, thank you!"
"We have a few things to talk about," Howard Keller said. "Are you
free for dinner this evening?" "Yes."
"Fine. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."
They had dinner at the Imperial House. Lara was so excited that she
barely touched her food.
"I can't tell you how thrilled I am," she said. "It's going to be the
most beautiful hotel in Chicago."
"Easy," Keller warned, "there's a long way to go."
He hesitated. "May I be frank with you, Miss Cameron?" "Lara."
"Lara. You're a dark horse. You have no track record." "In Glace Bay..."
"This isn't Glace Bay. To mix metaphors, it's a different ball
park."
"Then why is the bank doing this?" Lara asked.
"Don't get me wrong. We're not a charitable organization.
The worst
thing that can happen is that the bank will break even.
But I have a
feeling about you. I believe you're going to make it. I think there
could be a big upside. You don't intend to stop with this one hotel,
do you?"
"Of course not," Lara said.
"I didn't think so. What I want to say is that when we make a loan, we
don't usually get personally involved in the project. But in this case
I'd like to give you whatever help you might need."
And Howard Keller intended to get personally involved with
her. He had
been attracted to Lara from the moment he had seen her.
He was
captivated by her enthusiasm and determination. She was a beautiful
womanchild. He wanted desperately to impress her. Maybe,
Keller
thought, one day I'll tell her how close I came to being famous....
Chapter Eight.
It was the final game of the World Series, and Wrigley Field was packed
with 38,710 screaming fans. "It's the top of the ninth, with the score
Cubs one, Yankees zero. The Yankees are up at bat, with two outs. The
bases are loaded with Tony Kubek on first, Whitey Ford on second, and
Yogi Berra on third."
As Mickey Mantle stepped up to the plate, the crowd roared. "The Mick"
had hit .304 for the season and had forty-two home runs under his belt
for the year.
Jack Brickhouse, the Wrigley Field announcer, said, excitedly, "Oh,
oh... it looks like they're going to change pitchers.
They're taking
out Moe Drabowsky.... Cub Manager Bob Scheffing is talking to the
umpire... let's see who's coming in... it's Howard Keller!
Keller is
walking up to the pitcher's mound, and the crowd is screaming!
The whole burden of the World Series rests on this youngster's
shoulders. Can he strike out the great MickeyMantle? We'll know in a moment! Keller is on the mound now...
he looks around the loaded bases... takes a deep breath, and winds
up.
Here's the pitch... Mantle hauls back the bat... takes a swing, and
misses! Strike one!"
The crowd had become hushed. Mantle moved forward a little, his face
grim, his bat cocked, ready to swing.
Howard Keller checked the runners. The pressure was enormous, but he
seemed to be cool and composed. He turned to the catcher, looked in
for the sign, and wound up for another pitch.
"There's the windup and the pitch!" the announcer yelled. "It's
Keller's famous curve ball... Mantle swings on and misses!
Strike two!
If young Keller can strike out the Mick, the Chicago Cubs will win the
World Series!
We're watching David and Goliath, ladies and gentlemen!
Young Keller has only played in the big leagues for one year, but
during that time he has made an enviable reputation for himself Mickey
Mantle is Goliath... can the rookie Keller beat him?
Everything is
riding on this next pitch.
"Keller checks the runners again... here's the windup ... and here we
go! It's the curve... Mantle bails out as it curves right over the
heart of the plate... Strike three called!" The announcer
was
screaming now. "Mantle is caught looking! The mighty Mick has struck
out, ladies and gentlemen! Young Howard Keller struck out the great
Mickey Mantle! The game is over-the World Series belongs to the
Chicago Cubs! The fans are on their feet going crazy!"
On the field, Howard Keller's teammates raced up to him and picked him
up on their shoulders and started to cross the... "Howard, what in the world are you doing?"
"My homework, Mom." Guiltily the fifteen-year-old Howard Keller turned
off the television set. The ball game was almost over anyway.
Baseball was Howard's passion and his life. He knew that one day he
would play in the major leagues. At the age of six he was competing
against kids twice his age in stickball, and when he was twelve, he
began pitching for an American Legion team. When Howard was fifteen, a
scout for the Chicago Cubs was told about the young boy. "I've never
seen anything like him," his informant said. "The kid has an
outstanding curve, and a mean slider, and a change-up you wouldn't
believe!"
The scout was skeptical. Grudgingly, he said, "All right.
I'll take a
look at the kid." He went to the next American Legion game that Howard
Keller played in, and he became an instant convert. He sought out the
young boy after the game. "What do you want to do with your life,
son?"
"Play baseball," said Keller promptly.
"I'm glad to hear that. We're going to sign you to a contract with our
minor-league team."
Howard couldn't wait to tell his parents the exciting news.
The Kellers were a close-knit Catholic family. They went to mass every
Sunday, and they saw to it that their son attended church. Howard
Keller, Sr was a typewriter salesman, and he was on the road a great
deal.
When he was at home, he spent as much time as possible with his son.
Howard was close to both his parents. His mother made it a point to
attend all the ball games when her son was playing, and cheer him on.
Howard got his first glove and uniform when he was six years old.
Howard was a fanatic about baseball. He had an encyclopedic memory for
the statistics of games that were played before he was even born. He
knew all the stats of the winning pitchers-the strikes, the outs, the
number of saves and shutouts. He won money betting with his
schoolmates that he could name the starting pitchers in any team
lineup.
"Nineteen forty-nine."
"That's easy," Howard said. "Newcombe, Roe, Hatten, and Branca for the
Dodgers. Reynolds, Raschi, Byrne, and Lopat for the Yankees."
"All right," one of his teammates challenged. "Who played the most
consecutive games in major-league history?" The challenger was holding
the Guinness Book of Records in front of him.
Howard Keller didn't even pause. "Lou Gehrig-two thousand one hundred
thirty."
"Who had the record for the most shutouts?" "Walter Johnson-one hundred and thirteen." "Who hit the most home runs in his career?" "Babe Ruth-seven hundred and fourteen."
Word of the young player's ability began to circulate, and professional
scouts came to take a look at the young phenomenon who was playing on
the Chicago Cubs minor-league team. They were stunned. By the time
Keller was seventeen, he had been approached by scouts from the St.
Louis Cardinals and the Baltimore Orioles and the New York Yankees.
Howard's father was proud of him. "He takes after me," he would
boast.
"I used to play baseball when I was a youngster."
During the summer of his senior year in high school,
Howard Keller
worked as a junior clerk in a bank owned by one of the sponsors of his
American Legion team.
Howard was going steady with a pretty schoolmate named Betty Quinlan.
It was understood that when they finished college, they would get
married. Howard would talk baseball by the hour with her, and because
she cared for him, she listened patiently. Howard loved the anecdotes
about his favorite ballplayers, and every time he heard a new one, he
would rush to tell it to Betty.
"Casey Stengel said, 'The secret of managing is to keep the five guys
who hate you away from the five who are undecided."" "Someone asked
Yogi Berra what time it was, and he said, 'You mean right now?"' "And
when a player was hit in the shoulder by a pitched ball, his teammate
said, 'There's nothing wrong with his shoulder except some pain-and
pain doesn't hurt you."' Young Keller knew that he was soon going to
join the pantheon of the great players. But the gods had other plans
for him.
Howard came home from school one day with his best friend,
Jesse, who
played shortstop on the team. There were two letters waiting for
Keller. One offered him a baseball scholarship at Princeton, and the
other a baseball scholarship at Harvard.
"Gee, that's great!" Jesse said. "Congratulations!" And he meant it. Howard Keller was his idol.
"Which one do you think you're going to take?" Howard's
father asked.
"Why do I have to go to college at all?" Howard wondered. "I could
get on one of the big-league teams now."
His mother said firmly, "There's plenty of time for that, son. You're
going to get a good education first; then, when you're through playing
baseball, you'll be fit to do anything you like."
"All right," Howard said. "Harvard. Betty is going to Wellesley and I
can be near her."
Betty Quinlan was delighted when Howard told her what he had decided.
"We'll get to see each other over the weekends!" she said.
His buddy, Jesse, said, "I'm sure going to miss you."
The day before Howard Keller was to leave for the university, his
father ran off with the secretary of one of his customers. The young boy was stunned. "How could he do that?"
His mother was in shock. "He... he must be going through a change of
life," she stammered. "Your... your father loves me very much.
He'll... he'll come back. You'll see..."
The following day Howard's mother received a letter from an attorney,
formally stating that his client, Howard Keller, Sr wanted a divorce
and, since he had no money to pay for alimony, was willing to let his
wife have their small house.
Howard held his mother in his arms. "Don't worry, Mom,
I'm going to
stay here and take care of you."
"No. I don't want you to give up college for me. From the day you
were born, your father and I planned for you to go to college." Then
quietly, after a moment: "Let's talk about it in the morning. I'm very
tired."
Howard stayed up all night, thinking about his choices. He could go to
Harvard on a baseball scholarship or take one of the offers in the
major leagues. Either way he would be leaving his mother alone. It
was a difficult decision.
When his mother didn't appear at breakfast the next morning, Howard
went into her bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, unable to move, her
face pulled up on one side. She had suffered a stroke.
With no money to pay for the hospital or doctors, Howard went back to
work at the bank, full-time. He was finished at four o'clock, and each
afternoon he hurried home to take care of his mother.
It was a mild stroke, and the doctor assured Howard that in time his
mother would be fine .""She's had a terrible shock, but she's going to
recover.
Howard still got calls from scouts from the major leagues, but he knew
that he could not leave his mother.
I'll go when she's better, he told himself. The medical bills kept piling up.
In the beginning he talked to Betty Quinlan once a week, but after a
few months the calls became less and less frequent.
Howard's mother did not seem to be improving. Howard talked to the
doctor. "When is she going to be all right?"
"In a case like this, it's hard to tell, son. She could go on for
months like this, or even years. Sorry I can't be more specific."
The year ended and another began, and Howard was still living with his
mother and working at the bank. One day he received a letter from
Betty Quinlan, telling him that she had fallen in love with someone
else and that she hoped his mother was feeling better.
The calls from
scouts became less frequent and finally stopped altogether. Howard's
life centered on taking care of his mother. He did the shopping and
the cooking and carried on with his job. He no longer thought about
baseball. It was difficult enough just getting through each day.
When his mother died four years later, Howard Keller was no longer
interested in baseball. He was now a banker. His chance of fame had vanished.
Chapter Nine.
oward Keller and Lara were having dinner. "How do we get started?" Lara asked.
"First of all, we're going to get you the best team money can buy.
We'll start out with a real estate lawyer to work out the contract with
the Diamond brothers. Then we want to get you a top architect. I have
someone in mind.
After that, we want to hire a top construction company.
I've done a little arithmetic of my own. The soft costs for the
project will come to about three hundred thousand dollars a room. The
cost of the hotel will be about seven million dollars. If we plan it
right, it can work."
The architect's name was Ted Tuttle, and when he heard Lara's plans, he
grinned and said, "Bless you. I've been waiting for someone to come
along with an idea like this."
Ten working days later he had rendered his drawings. They were
everything Lara had dreamed of.
"Originally the hotel had a hundred and twenty-five rooms," the
architect said. "As you can see, I've cut it down to seventy-five
keys, as you've asked."
In the drawing there were fifty suites and twenty-five deluxe rooms.
"It's perfect," Lara said.
Lara showed the plans to Howard Keller. He was equally enthusiastic.
"Let's go to work. I've set up a meeting with a contractor. His name
is Steve Rice."
Steve Rice was one of the top contractors in Chicago.
Lara liked him immediately. He was a rugged, nononsense, down-to-earth
type.
Lara said, "Howard Keller tells me that you're the best."
"He's right," Rice said. "Our motto is 'We build for posterity.""
"That's a good motto."
Rice grinned. "I just made it up."
The first step was to break down each element into a series of
drawings. The drawings were sent to potential subcontractors: steel
manufacturers, bricklayers, window companies, electrical contractors.
All in all, more than sixty subcontractors were involved.
The day escrow closed, Howard Keller took the afternoon off to
celebrate with Lara.
"Does the bank mind your taking this time off?" Lara asked.
"No," Keller lied. "It's part of my job." The truth was that he was
enjoying this more than he had enjoyed anything in years.
He loved
being with Lara: he loved talking to her, looking at her.
He wondered
how she felt about marriage.
Lara said, "I read this morning that they've almost completed the Sears
Tower. It's a hundred and ten stories-the tallest building in the
world."
"That's right," Keller said.
Lara said gravely, "Someday I'm going to build a higher one, Howard."
He believed her.
They were having lunch with Steve Rice at the Whitehall. "Tell me what
happens next," Lara asked.
"Well," Rice said, "first we're going to clean up the interior of the
building. We'll keep the marble. We'll remove all the windows and gut
the bathrooms. We'll take out the electrical risers for the
installation of the new electrical wiring and update the plumbing.
When the demolition company is through, we'll be ready to begin
building your hotel."
"How many people will be working on it?"
Rice laughed. "A mob, Miss Cameron. There'll be a window team, a
bathroom team, a corridor team. These teams work floor by floor,
usually from the top floor down.
The hotel is scheduled to have two restaurants, and you'll have room
service."
"How long is all this going to take?"
"I would say-equipped and furnished-eighteen months."
"I'll give you a bonus if you finish it in a year," Lara told him.
"Great. The Congressional should..."
"I'm changing the name. It's going to be called the Cameron Palace."
Lara felt a thrill just saying the words.
It was almost a sexual feeling. Her name was going to be on a building
for all the world to see.
At six o'clock on a rainy September morning, the reconstruction of the
hotel began. Lara was at the site eagerly watching as the workmen
trooped into the lobby and began to tear it apart. To Lara's surprise, Howard Keller appeared. "You're up early," Lara said.
"I couldn't sleep." Keller grinned. "I have a feeling this is the
beginning of something big."
Twelve months later the Cameron Palace opened to rave reviews and land
office business.
The architectural critic for the Chicago Tribune wrote, "Chicago
finally has a hotel that lives up to the motto 'Your home away from
home!" Lara Cameron is someone to keep an eye on. "
By the end of the first month the hotel was full and had a
long waiting list.
Howard Keller was enthusiastic. "At this rate," he said, "the hotel
will be paid off in twelve years. That's wonderful. We..."
"Not good enough," Lara said. "I'm raising the rates." She saw the expression on Keller's face. "Don't worry.
They'll pay it. Where else can they get two fireplaces, a sauna, and a
grand piano?"
Two weeks after the Cameron Palace opened, Lara had a meeting with Bob
Vance and Howard Keller.
"I found another great site for a hotel," Lara said.
"It's going to be like the Cameron Palace, only bigger and better."
Howard Keller grinned. "I'll take a look at it." The site was perfect, but there was a problem.
"You're too late," the broker told Lara. "A developer named Steve
Murchison was here this morning, and he made me an ofller.
Ne's going to buy it."
"How much did he offer?" "Three million."
"I'll give you four. Draw up the papers." The broker blinked only once. "Right."
Lara received a telephone call the following afternoon.
"Lara Cameron?" "Yes."
"This is Steve Murchison. I'm going to let it go this time, bitch,
because I don't think you know what the hell you're doing.
But in the
future stay out of my way-you could get hurt." And the line went dead.
It was 1974, and momentous events were occurring around the world.
President Nixon resigned to avoid impeachment, and Gerald Ford stepped
into the White House. OPEC ended its oil embargo, and Isabel Peron
became the president of Argentina. And in Chicago Lara started
construction on her second hotel, the Chicago Cameron Plaza. It was
completed eighteen months later, and it was an even bigger success than
the Cameron Palace. There was no stopping Lara after that. As Forbes
magazine was to write later, "Lara Cameron is a phenomenon. Her
innovations are changing the concept of hotels. Miss Cameron has
invaded the traditionally male turf of real estate developers and has
proved that a woman can outshine them all."
Lara received a telephone call from Charles Colin.
"Congratulations," he said. "I'm proud of you. I've never had a
protegee before."
"I've never had a mentor before. Without you, none of this would have
happened."
"You would have found a way," Colin said.
* * In 1975 the movie Jaws swept the country, and people stopped going
into the ocean. The world population passed four billion, reduced by
one when Teamster President James Hoffa disappeared. When Lara heard
the four billion population figure, she said to Keller, "Do you have
any idea how much housing that would require?" He was not sure whether she was joking.
Over the next three years, two apartment buildings and a condominium
were completed. "I want to put up an office building next," Lara told
Keller, "right in the heart of the Loop."
"There's an interesting piece of property coming on the market," Keller
told her. "If you like it, we'll finance you.
That afternoon they went to look at it. It was on the waterfront, in a
choice location.
"What's it going to cost?" Lara asked.
"I've done the numbers. It will come to a hundred and twenty million
dollars."
Lara swallowed. "That scares me."
"Lara, in real estate the name of the game is to borrow.
Otherpeople's money, Lara thought. That's what Bill Rogers had told
her at the boardinghouse. All that seemed so long ago, and so much had
happened since then. And it's only the beginning, Lara thought. It's
only the beginning.
"Some developers put up buildings with almost no cash of their own."
"I'm listening."
"The idea is to rent or resell the building for enough money to pay off
the debt on it, and still have money left over to buy some more
property with that cash, and borrow more money for another property.
It's an inverted pyramid-a real estate pyramid-that you can build on a
very small initial cash investment." "I understand," Lara said.
"Of course, you have to be careful. The pyramid is built on paper-the
mortgages. If anything goes wrong, if the profit from one investment
fails to cover the debt on the next one, the pyramid can topple and
bury you."
"Right. How can I acquire the waterfront property?"
"We'll set up ajoint venture for you. I'll talk to Vance about it. If
it's too big for our bank to handle, we'll go to an insurance company
or a savings and loan. You'll take out a fifty-million-dollar mortgage
loan. You'll get their mortgage coupon rate-that would be five million
and a ten percent rate, plus amortization on the mortgageand they'll be
your partners. They'll take the first ten percent of the earnings, but
you'll get your property, fully financed. You can get your cash repaid
and keep one hundred percent of the depreciation, because financial
institutions have no use for losses." Lara was listening, absorbing every word. "Are you with me so far?"
"I'm with you."
"In five or six years, after the building is leased, you sell it. If
the property sells for seventy-five million, after you pay off the
mortgage, you'Il net twelve and a half million dollars. Besides that,
you'll have a tax-sheltered earning stream of eight million in
depreciation that you can use to reduce taxes on other income. All of
this for a cash investment of ten million." "That's fantastic!" Lara said.
Keller grinned. "The government wants you to make money." "How would you like to make some money, Howard?
Some real money?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I want you to come to work for me."
Keller was suddenly quiet. He knew he was facing one of the most
important decisions of his life, and it had nothing to do with money.
It was Lara. He had fallen in love with her. There had been one
painful episode when he had tried to tell her. He had
practiced his
marriage proposal all night, and the following morning he had gone to
her and stammered, "Lara, I love you," and before he could say more,
she had kissed him on the cheek and said, "I love you, too, Howard.
Take a look at this new production schedule." And he had not had the
nerve to try again.
Now she was asking him to be her partner. He would be working near her
every day, unable to touch her, unable to... "Do you believe in me, Howard?"
"I'd be crazy not to, wouldn't I?"
"I'll pay you twice whatever you're making now, and give you five
percent of the company."
"Can I... can I think about it?"
"There's really nothing to think about, is there?" He made his decision. "I guess not... partner."
Lara gave him a hug. "That's wonderful! You and I are going to build
beautiful things. There are so many ugly buildings around. There's no
excuse for them. Every building should be a tribute to this city."
He put his hand on her arm. "Don't ever change, Lara." She looked at him hard.
"I won't." Chapter Ten.
The late 1970s were years of growth and change and excitement. In 1976
there was a successful Israeli raid on Entebbe, and Mao Zedong died,
and James Earl Carter, Jr was elected President of the United States.
Lara erected another office building.
In 1977 Charlie Chaplin died, and Elvis Presley temporarily died.
Lara built the largest shopping mall in Chicago.
In 1978 Reverend Jim Jones and 911 followers committed mass suicide in
Guyana. The United States recognized Communist China, and the Panama
Canal treaties were ratified.
Lara built a series of high-rise condominiums in Rogers Park.
In 1979 Israel and Egypt signed a peace treaty at Camp David, there was
a nuclear accident at Three-Mile Island, and Muslim fundamentalists
seized the United States Embassy in Iran.
Lara built a skyscraper and a glamorous resort and country club in
Deerfield, north of Chicago.
Lara seldom went out socially, and when she did, she usually went to a
club where jazz was played. She liked Andy's, a club where the top
jazz artists performed. She listened to Von Freeman, the great
saxophonist, and Eric Schneider, and reed man Anthony Braxton, and Art
Hodes at the piano.
Lara had no time to feel lonely. She spent every day with her family:
the architects and the construction crew, the carpenters, the
electricians and surveyors and plumbers. She was obsessed with the
buildings she was putting up. Her stage was Chicago, and she was the
star.
Her professional life was proceeding beyond her wildest dreams, but she
had no personal life. Her experience with Sean MacAllister had soured
her on sexual relationships, and she never met anyone she was
interested in seeing for more than an evening or two. In the back of
Lara's mind was an elusive image, someone she had once met and wanted
to meet again. But she could never seem to capture it.
For a fleeting
moment she would recall it, and then it was gone.
There were plenty of suitors. They ranged from business executives to
oilmen to poets, and even included some of her employees.
Lara was
pleasant to all of the men, but she never permitted any relationship to
go further than a good-night handshake at the door.
But then Lara found herself attracted to Pete Ryan, the head foreman on
one of Lara's building jobs, a handsome, strapping young man with an
Irish brogue and a quick smile, and Lara started visiting the project
Ryan was working on more and more often. They would talk about
construction problems, but underneath they were both aware that they
were speaking about other things.
"Are you going to have dinner with me?" Ryan asked. The word "dinner" was stretched out slowly.
Lara felt her heart give a little jump. "Yes."
Ryan picked Lara up at her apartment, but they never got to dinner.
"My God, you're a lovely thing," he said. And his strong arms went
around her.
She was ready for him. Their foreplay had been going on for months.
Ryan picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. They undressed
together, quickly, urgently.
He had a lean, hard build, and Lara had a quick mental picture of Sean
MacAllister's heavy, pudgy body. The next moment she was in bed and
Ryan was on top of her, his hands and tongue all over her, and she
cried aloud with the joy of what was happening to her.
When they were both spent, they lay in each other's arms. "My God,"
Ryan said softly, "you're a bloody miracle." "So are you," Lara whispered.
She could not remember when she had been so happy.
Ryan was everything she wanted. He was intelligent and warm, and they
understood each other, they spoke the same language. Ryan squeezed her hand. "I'm starved."
"So am I. I'll make us some sandwiches."
"Tomorrow night," Ryan promised, "I'll take you out for a proper
dinner."
Lara held him close. "It's a date."
The following morning Lara went to visit Ryan at the building site.
She could see him high up on one of the steel girders, giving orders to
his men. As Lara walked toward the work elevator, one of the workmen
grinned at her. "Mornin', Miss Cameron." There was an odd note in his
voice.
Another workman passed her and grinned. "Mornin', Miss Cameron."
Two other workmen were leering at her. "Morning, boss."
Lara looked around. Other workmen were watching her, all smirking.
Lara's face turned red. She stepped into the work elevator and rode up
to the level where Ryan was. As she stepped out, Ryan saw her and
smiled.
"Morning, sweetheart," Ryan said. "What time is dinner tonight?"
"You'll starve first," Lara said fiercely. "You're fired."
Every building Lara put up was a challenge. She erected small office
buildings with floor spaces of five thousand square feet, and large
office buildings and hotels. But no matter what type of building it
was, the most important thing to her was the location.
Bill Rogers had been right. Location, location, location.
Lara's empire kept expanding. She was beginning to get recognition
from the city fathers and from the press and the public.
She was a
glamorous figure, and when she went to charity events or to the opera
or a museum, photographers were always eager to take her picture. She
began to appear in the media more and more often. All her buildings
were successes, and still she was not satisfied. It was as though she
were waiting for something wonderful to happen to her, waiting for a
door to open, waiting to be touched by some unknown magic. Keller was puzzled. "What do you want, Lara?"
"More."
And it was all he could get out of her.
One day Lara said to Keller, "Howard, do you know how much we're paying
every month for janitors and linen service and window washers?"
"It goes with the territory," Keller said. "Then let's buy the territory."
"What are you talking about?"
"We're going to start a subsidiary. We'll supply those services to
ourselves and to other builders."
The idea was a success from the beginning. The profits kept pouring
in.
It seemed to Keller that Lara had built an emotional wall around
herself. He was closer to her than anyone else, and yet Lara never
spoke to him about her family or her background. It was as though she
had emerged full blown out of the mists of nowhere. In the beginning
Keller had been Lara's mentor, teaching her and guiding her, but now
Lara made all the decisions alone. The pupil had outgrown the
teacher.
Lara let nothing stand in her way. She was becoming an irresistible
force, and there was no stopping her. She was a perfectionist. She
knew what she wanted and insisted on getting it.
At first some of the workmen tried to take advantage of her. They had
never worked for a woman before, and the idea amused them.
They were
in for a shock. When Lara caught one of the foremen pencil-whipping-signing off for work that had not been done-she called
him in front of the crew and fired him. She was at the building site
every morning. The crew would arrive at six o'clock and find Lara
already there, waiting for them. There was rampant sexism. The men
would wait until Lara was in earshot and exchange lewd jokes.
"Did you hear about the talking pussy at the farm? It fell in love with a cock and..."
"So the little girl said, 'Can you get pregnant swallowing a man's
seed?" And her mama said, 'No. From that, darling, you get
jewelry...
There were some overt gestures. Occasionally one of the workmen
passing Lara would "accidentally" brush his arm across her breasts or
press against her bottom. "Oops, sorry."
"No problem," Lara said. "Pick up your check and get out ofhere."
Their amusement eventually began to change to respect.
One day, when Lara was driving along Kedzie Avenue with Howard Keller,
she came to a block filled with small shops. She stopped the car.
"This block is being wasted," Lara said. "There should be a high rise
here. These little shops can't bring much of an income."
"Yeah, but the problem is, you'd have to persuade every one of these
tenants to sell out," Keller said. "Some of them may not want to."
"We can buy them out," Lara declared.
"Lara, if even one tenant refuses to sell, you could be stuck for a
bundle. You'll have bought a lot of little shops you don't want and
you won't be able to put up your building. And if the tenants get wind
that a big high rise is going up here, they'll hold you up."
"We won't let them know what we're doing," Lara said. She was
beginning to get excited. "We'll have different people approach the
owners of the shops."
"I've been through this before," Keller warned. "If word leaks out,
they're going to gouge you for every penny they can get."
"Then we'll have to be careful. Let's get an option on the
property."
The block on Kedzie Avenue consisted of more than a dozen small stores
and shops. There was a bakery, a hardware store, a barbershop, a
clothing store, a butcher, a tailor, a drugstore, a stationery store, a
coffee shop, and a variety of other businesses.
"Don't forget the risk," Keller warned Lara. "If there's one holdout,
you've lost all the money you've put in to buy those businesses."
"Don't worry," Lara said. "I'll handle it."
A week later a stranger walked into the two-chair barbershop. The
barber was reading a magazine. As the door opened, he looked up and
nodded. "Can I help you, sir? Haircut?"
The stranger smiled. "No," he said. "I just arrived in town. I had a
barbershop in New Jersey, but my wife wanted to move here to be near
her mother. I'm looking for a shop I can buy."
"This is the only barbershop in the neighborhood," the barber said.
"It's not for sale."
The stranger smiled. "When you come right down to it, everything's for
sale, isn't it? At the right price, of course. What's this shop
worth-about fifty, sixty thousand dollars?" "Something like that," the barber admitted.
"I really am anxious to have my own shop again. I'll tell you what.
I'll give you seventy-five thousand dollars for this place."
"No, I couldn't think of selling it." "A hundred."
"Really, mister, I don't..."
"And you can take all the equipment with you."
The barber was staring at him. "You'll give me a hundred thousand and
let me take the barber chairs and the rest of the equipment?"
"That's right. I have my own equipment."
"Can I think about it? I'll have to talk to my wife." "Sure. I'll drop back tomorrow."
Two days later the barbershop was acquired. "That's one down," Lara said.
The bakery was next. It was a small family bakery owned by a husband
and wife. The ovens in the back room permeated the store with the
smell of fresh bread. A woman was talking to one of the owners.
"My husband died and left me his insurance money.
We had a bakery in Florida. I've been looking for a place just like
this. I'd like to buy it."
"It's a comfortable living," the owner said. "My wife and I have never
thought about selling."
"If you were interested in selling, how much would you want?"
The owner shrugged. "I don't know."
"Would you say the bakery's worth sixty thousand dollars?" "Oh, at least seventy-five," the owner said.
"I'll tell you what," the woman said. "I'll give you a hundred
thousand dollars for it."
The owner stared at her. "Are you serious?" "I've never been more serious in my life."
The next morning Lara said, "That's two down."
The rest of the deals went just as smoothly. They had a dozen men and
women going around impersonating tailors, bakers, pharmacists, and
butchers. Over the period of the next six months Lara bought out the
stores, then hired people to come in and run the different operations.
The architects had already started to draw up plans for the high
rise.
Lara was studying the latest reports. "It looks like we've done it,"
she told Keller.
"I'm afraid we have a problem."
"Why? The only one left is the coffee shop."
"That's our problem. He's there on a five-year lease, but he won't
give up the lease." "Offer him more money..."
"He says he won't give it up at any price."
Lara was staring at him. "Does he know about the high rise going
up?" "No."
"All right. I'll go talk to him. Don't worry, he'll get out. Find
out who owns the building he's" The following morning Lara paid a visit
to the site.
Haley's Coffee Shop was at the far end of the southwest corner of the
block The shop was small, with half a dozen stools along the counter
and four booths. A man Lara presumed to be the proprietor was behind
the counter.
He appeared to be in his late sixties. Lara sat down at a booth.
"Morning,' the man said pleasantly. "What can I bring you?"
"Orange juice and coffee, please." "Coming up."
She watched him squeeze some fresh orange juice.
"My waitress didn't show up today. Good help's hard to get these
days." He poured the coffee and came from behind the counter. He was
in a wheelchair. He had no legs. Lara watched silently as he brought
the coffee and orange juice to the table.
"Thank you," Lara said She looked around. "Nice place you have
here."
"Yep. I like it."
"How I ong have you been here?"
"Ten years "Did you ever think of retiring?"
He shook his head. "You're the second person who asked me that this
week. No, I'll never retire."
"Maybe they didn't offer you enough money," Lara suggested.
"It has nothing to do with money, miss Before I came here,
I spent two
years in a veterans hospital No lrienri<.
Not much point to life. And then someone talked me into leasing this
place." He smiled. "It changed my whole life.
All the people in the neighborhood drop in here. They've become my
friends, almost like my family. It's given me a reason for living."
He shook his head. "No. Money has nothing to do with it.
Can I bring
you more coffee?"
Lara was in a meeting with Howard Keller and the
architect. "We don't
even have to buy out his lease," Keller was saying. "I just talked to
the landlord. There's a forfeiture clause if the coffee shop doesn't
gross a certain amount each month. For the last few months he's been
under that gross, so we can close him out."
Lara turned to the architect. "I have a question for you." She looked
down at the plans spread out on the table and pointed to the southwest
corner of the drawing.
"What if we built a setback here, eliminated this little area and let
the coffee shop stay? Could the building still be put up?"
The architect studied the plan. "I suppose so. I could slope that
side of the building and counterbalance it on the other side. Of
course, it would look better if we didn't have to do that..."
"But it could work," Lara pressed. "Yes."
Keller said, "Lara, I told you we can force him out of there."
Lara shook her head. "We've bought up the rest of the block, haven't
we?"
Keller nodded. "You bet. You're the proud owner of a clothing store,
a tailor shop, a stationery store, a drugstore, a bakery, a..."
"All right," Lara said. "The tenants of the new high rise
are going to
have a coffee shop to drop in on. And so do we. Haley stays."
On her father's birthday Lara said to Keller, "Howard, I want you to do
me a favor." "Sure."
"I want you to go to Scotland for me."
"Are we going to build something in Scotland?" "We're going to buy a castle."
He stood there, listening.
"There's a place in the Highlands called Loch Morlich.
It's on the
road to Glenmore near Aviemore. There are castles all around there.
Buy one."
"Kind of a summer home?"
"I don't plan to live in it. I want to bury my father in the
grounds."
Keller said, slowly, "You want me to buy a castle in Scotland to bury
your father in?"
"That's right. I haven't time to go over myself. You're the only one
I can trust to do it. My father is in the Greenwood Cemetery at Glace
Bay."
It was the first real insight Keller ever had into Lara's feelings
about her family.
"You must have loved your father very much." "Will you do it for me?"
"Certainly."
"After he's buried, arrange for a caretaker to tend the grave."
Three weeks later Keller returned from Scotland and said, "It's all
taken care of. You own a castle. Your father's resting in the
grounds. It's a beautiful place near the hills and with a small lake
close by. You'll love it. When are you going over?" Lara looked up in surprise. "Me? I'm not," she said. Chapter Eleven.
In 1984 Lara Cameron decided that the time had come to conquer New
York. When she told Keller her plan, he was appalled.
"I don't like the idea," he said flatly. "You don't know New York.
Neither do I. It's a different city, Lara. We..."
"That's what they told me when I came from Glace Bay to Chicago," Lara
pointed out. "Buildings are the same whether you put them up in Glace
Bay, Chicago, New York, or Tokyo. We all play by the same rules."
"But you're doing so great here," Keller protested. "What is it you want?"
"I told you. More. I want my name up on the New York skyline. I'm
going to build a Cameron Plaza there, and a Cameron Center. And one
day, Howard, I'm going to build the tallest skyscraper in the world.
That's what I want. Cameron Enterprises is moving to New York."
New York was in the middle of a building boom, and it was peopled by
real estate giants-the Zeckendorfs, Harry Helmsley, Donald Trump, the
Urises, and the Rudins.
"We're going to join the club," Lara told Keller.
They checked into the Regency and began to explore the city. Lara
could not get over the size and dynamics of the bustling metropolis.
It was a canyon of skyscrapers, with rivers of cars running through
it.
"It makes Chicago look like Glace Bay!" Lara said. She could not wait to get started.
"The first thing we're going to do is assemble a team.
We'll find the best real estate lawyer in New York. Then a great
management team. Find out who Rudin uses. See if you can lure them
away." "Right."
Lara said, "Here's a list of buildings I like the looks of. Find out
who the architects are. I want to meet with them." Keller was beginning to feel Lara's excitement. "I'll
open up a line
of credit with the banks. With the assets we have in Chicago, that
won't be any problem. I'll make contacts with some savings and loan
companies and some real estate brokers." "Fine."
"Lara, before we start to get involved in all this, don't you think you
should decide what your next project is going to be?"
Lara looked up and asked innocently, "Didn't I tell you?
We're going
to buy Manhattan Central Hospital."
Several days earlier Lara had gone to a hairdresser on Madison
Avenue.
While she was having her hair done, she had overheard a conversation in
the next booth.
"We're going to miss you, Mrs. Walker."
"Same here, Darlene. How long have I been coming here?" "Almost fifteen years."
"Time certainly flies, doesn't it? I'm going to miss New York."
"When will you be leaving?"
"Right away. We just got the closing notice this morning.
Imagine-a
hospital like Manhattan Central closing down because they've run out of
cash. I've been supervisor there for almost twenty years, and they
send me a memo telling me I'm through! You'd think they'd have the
decency to do it in person, wouldn't you? What's the world coming
to?"
Lara was now listening intently.
"I haven't seen anything about the closing in the papers." "No. They're keeping it quiet. They want to break the
news to the employees first."
Her beautician was in the middle of blow-drying Lara's hair. Lara
started to get up.
"I'm not through yet, Miss Cameron." "Never mind," Lara said, "I'm in a hurry."
Manhattan Central Hospital was a dilapidated, uglylooking building
located on the East Side, and it took up an entire block.
Lara stared
at it for a long time, and what she was seeing in her mind was a
majestic new skyscraper with chic retail stores on the ground floor and
luxury condominiums on the upper floors.
Lara walked into the hospital and asked the name of the corporation
that owned it. She was sent to the offices of a Roger Burnham on Wall
Street.
'What can I do for you, Miss Cameron?"
"I hear that Manhattan Central Hospital is for sale."
He looked at her in surprise. "Where did you hear that?" "Is it true?"
He hedged. "It might be."
"I might be interested in buying it," Lara said. "What's your price?"
"Look, lady... I don't know you from Adam. You can't walk in off the
street and expect me to discuss a ninety-million-dollar deal with
you.
I..."
"Ninety million?" Lara had a feeling it was high, but she wanted that
site. It would be an exciting beginning. "Is that what we're talking about?" "We're not talking about anything."
Lara handed Roger Burnham a hundred-dollar bill. "What's this for?"
"That's for a forty-eight-hour option. All I'm asking is forty-eight
hours. You weren't ready to announce that it was for sale anyway.
What can you lose? If I meet your asking price, you've got what you
wanted."
"I don't know anything about you."
"Call the Mercantile Bank in Chicago. Ask for Bob Vance.
He's the president."
He stared at her for a long moment, shook his head, and muttered
something with the word "crazies" in it.
He looked up the telephone number himself. Lara sat there while his
secretary got Bob Vance for him.
"Mr. Vance? This is Roger Burnham in New York. I have a Miss..." He
looked up at her. "Lara Cameron."
"Lara Cameron here. She's interested in buying a property of ours
here, and she says that you know her." He sat there listening.
"She is...? I see. ... Really...? No, I wasn't aware of that....
Right. ... Right." After a long time he said, "Thank you very
much."
He replaced the receiver and stared at Lara. "You seem to have made
quite an impression in Chicago."
"I intend to make quite an impression in New York."
Burnham looked at the hundred-dollar bill. "What am I supposed to do
with this?"
"Buy yourself some Cuban cigars. Do I have the option if I meet your
price?"
He sat there, studying her. "It's a little unorthodox ... but yes.
I'll give you forty-eight hours."
"We have to move fast on this," Lara had told Keller.
"We have forty-eight hours to line up our financing." "Do you have any figures on it?"
"Ball park. Ninety million for the property, and I estimate another
two hundred million to demolish the hospital and put up the
building."
Keller was staring at her. "That's two hundred and ninety million
dollars."
"You were always quick with figures," Lara said.
He ignored it. "Lara, where's that kind of money coming from?"
"We'll borrow it," Lara said. "Between my collateral in Chicago and
the new property, it shouldn't be any problem." "It's a big risk. A hundred things could go wrong. You'll be gambling everything you have on..."
"That's what makes it exciting," Lara said, "the gamble.
And winning."
Getting financing for a building in New York was even simpler than in
Chicago. Mayor Koch had instituted a tax program called the 421-A, and
under it a developer replacing a functionally obsolete building could
claim tax exemptions, with the first two years tax-free.
When the banks and savings and loan companies checked on Lara Cameron's
credit, they were more than eager to do business with her.
Before forty-eight hours had passed, Lara walked into Burnham's office
and handed him a check for three million dollars.
"This is a down payment on the deal," Lara said. "I'm meeting your
asking price. By the way, you can keep the hundred dollars."
During the next six months Keller worked with banks on financing, and
Lara worked with architects on planning.
Everything was proceeding smoothly. The architects and builders and
marketing people were on schedule.
Work was to begin on the demolition of the hospital and the
construction of the new building in April.
Lara was restless. At six o'clock every morning she was at the
construction site watching the new building going up. She felt
frustrated because at this stage the building belonged to the
workmen.
There was nothing for her to do. She was used to more action. She
liked to have half a dozen projects going at once.
"Why don't we look around for another deal?" Lara asked Keller.
"Because you're up to your ears in this one. f you even breathe hard,
this whole thing is going to collapse.
Do you know you've leveraged every penny youhave to put this building
up? If anything goes wrong...
"Nothing is going to go wrong." She was watching his expression.
"What's bothering you?"
"The deal you made with the savings and loan company..." "What about it? We got our financing, didn't we?"
"I don't like the completion date clause. If the building's not
finished by March fifteenth, they'll take it over, and you stand to
lose everything you have."
Lara thought of the building she had put up in Glace Bay and how her
friends had pitched in and finished it for her. But this was
different.
"Don't worry," she told Keller. "The building will be finished. Are
you sure we can't look around for another project?" Lara was talking to the marketing people.
"The downstairs retail stores are already signed up," the marketing
manager told Lara. "And more than half the condominiums have been
taken. We estimate we'll ú have sold three fourths of them before the
building is finished, and the rest of them shortly after."
"I want them all sold before the building is completed," Lara said.
"Step up the advertising." "Very well."
Keller came into the office. "I have to hand it to you, Lara. You
were right. The building's on schedule." "This is going to be a money machine."
On January 15, sixty days before the date of completion, the huge
girders and walls were finished, and the workers were already
installing the electrical wiring and plumbing lines.
Lara stood there watching the men working on the girders high above.
One of the workmen stopped to pull out a pack of cigarettes, and as he
did so, a wrench slipped from his hand and fell to the ground far
below. Lara watched in disbelief as the wrench came hurtling down
toward her. She leaped out of the way, her heart pounding. The
workman was looking down. He waved a "sorry."
Grim-faced, Lara got into the construction elevator and took it to the
level where the workman was. Ignoring the dizzying empty space below,
she walked across the scaffolding to the man. "Did you drop that wrench?"
"Yeah, sorry."
She slapped him hard across the face. "You're fired. Now get off my building."
"Key," he said, "it was an accident. I..." "Get out of here."
The man glared at her for a moment, then walked away and took the
elevator down.
Lara took a deep breath to control herself. The other workers were
watching her.
"Get back to work," she ordered.
Lara was having lunch with Sam Gosden, the New York attorney who
handled her contracts for her.
"I hear everything's going very well," Gosden said.
Lara smiled. "Better than very well. We're only a few weeks away from
completion."
"Can I make an admission?"
"Yes, but be careful not to incriminate yourself." He laughed. "I was betting that you couldn't do it." "Really? Why?"
"Real estate development on the level where you're operating is a man's
game. The only women who should be in real estate are the little old
blue-haired ladies who sell co-ops."
"So you were betting against me," Lara said. Sam Gosden smiled. "Yeah."
Lara leaned forward. "Sam..." "Yes?"
"No one on my team bets against me. You're fired."
He sat there openmouthed as Lara got up and walked out of the
restaurant.
On the following Monday morning, as Lara drove toward the building
site, she sensed that something was wrong. And suddenly she realized
what it was. It was the silence. There were no sounds of hammers or
drills. When Lara arrived at the construction site, she stared in
disbelief. The workmen were collecting their equipment and leaving.
The foreman was packing up his things. Lara hurried up to him.
"What's going on?" Lara demanded. "It's only seven o'clock."
"I'm pulling the men."
"What are you talking about?"
"There's been a complaint, Miss Cameron." "What kind of complaint?"
"Did you slap one of the workmen?"
"What?" She had forgotten. "Yes. He deserved it. I fired him."
"Did the city give you a license to go around slapping the people who
work for you?"
"Wait a minute," Lara said. "It wasn't like that. He dropped a
wrench. It almost killed me. I suppose I lost my temper. I'm sorry,
but I don't want him back here."
"He won't be coming back here," the foreman said. "None of us will."
Lara stared at him. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"My union doesn't think it's a joke," the foreman told her. y gave us
orders to walk. g)) "You have a contract."
"You broke it," the foreman told her. "If you have any complaints,
take it up with the union." He started to walk away.
"Wait a minute. I said I'm sorry. I'll tell you what. I
... I'm
willing to apologize to the man, and he can have his job back."
"Miss Cameron, I don't think you get the picture. He doesn't want his
job back. We've all got other jobs waiting for us. This is a busy
city. And I'll tell you something else, lady. We're too goddamn busy
to let our bosses slap us around."
Lara stood there watching him walk away. It was her worst nightmare.
Lara hurried back to the office to tell the news to Keller.
Before she could speak, he said, "I heard. I've been on the phone
talking to the union."
"What did they say?" Lara asked eagerly. "They're going to hold a hearing next month."
Lara's face filled with dismay. "Next month! We've got less than two
months to finish the building."
"I told them that."
"And what did they say?"
"That it's not their problem."
Lara sank onto the couch. "Oh, my God. What are we going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe we could persuade the bank to..." She saw the look on his
face.
"I guess not." Lara suddenly brightened. "I know. We'll hire another
construction crew and.
"Lara, there isn't a union worker who will touch that building."
"I should have killed that bastard."
"Right. That would have helped a lot," Keller said dryly.
Lara got up and began pacing. "I could ask Sam Gosden to..." She
suddenly remembered. "No, I fired him." "Why?"
"Never mind."
Keller was thinking aloud. "Maybe if we got hold of a good labor
lawyer... someone with clout."
"That's a good idea. Someone who can move fast. Do you know
anybody?"
"No. But Sam Gosden mentioned someone in one of our meetings. A man
named Martin. Paul Martin." "Who is he?"
"I'm not sure, but we were talking about union problems, and his name
came up."
"Do you know what firm he's with?" "No."
Lara buzzed her secretary. "Kathy, there's a lawyer in Manhattan named
Paul Martin. Get me his address."
Keller said, "Don't you want his phone number so you can make an
appointment?"
"There's no time. I can't afford to sit around waiting for an
appointment. I'm going to see him today. If he can help us, fine. If
he can't, we'll have to come up with something else." But Lara was thinking to herself, There is nothing else. Chapter Twelve.
Paul Martin's office was on the twenty-fifth floor in an office building
on Wall Street.
The frosted sign on the door read, PAUL MARTIN, ATTORNEY AT LAw.
Lara took a deep breath and stepped inside. The reception office was
smaller than she had expected. It contained one scarred desk with a
bottle-blond secretary behind it. "Good morning. Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Mr. Martin," Lara said. "Is he expecting you?"
"Yes, he is." There was no time for explanations. "And your name?"
"Cameron. Lara Cameron."
The secretary looked at her quizzically. "Just a moment.
I'll see
whether Mr. Martin can see you."
The secretary got up from behind the desk and disappeared into the
inner office.
He's got to see me, Lara thought.
A moment later the secretary emerged. "Yes, Mr. Martin will see
you."
Lara concealed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
She walked into the inner office. It was small and simply furnished.
A desk, two couches, a coffee table, and a few chairs.
Not exactly a
citadel ofpower, Lara thought.
The man behind the desk appeared to be in his early sixties. He had a
deeply lined face, a hawk nose, and a mane of white hair.
There was a
feral, animal-like vitality about him. He was wearing an old-fashioned
pinstripe double-breasted gray suit and a white shirt with a narrow
collar. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, low, somehow compelling.
"My secretary said that I was expecting you."
"I'm sorry," Lara said. "I had to see you. It's an emergency.
"Sit down, Miss..."
"Cameron. Lara Cameron." She took a chair. "What can I do for you?"
Lara took a deep breath. "I have a little problem." A skeleton
twenty-four stories of uncompleted steel and concrete standing idle.
"It's about a building." "What about it?"
"I'm a real estate developer, Mr. Martin. I'm in the middle of
putting up an office building on the East Side, and I'm having a
problem with the union."
He was listening, saying nothing.
Lara hurried on. "I lost my temper and slapped one of the workmen, and
the union called a strike."
He was studying her, puzzled. "Miss Cameron... what does all this have to do with me?"
"I heard you might be able to help me."
"I'm afraid you heard wrong. I'm a corporate attorney.
I'm not
involved with buildings, and I don't deal with unions." Lara's heart sank. "Oh, I thought... isn't there anything
you can do?"
He placed the palm of his hands on the desk, as though he were about to
rise. "I can give you a couple pieces of advice. Get hold of a labor
lawyer. Have him take the union to court and..." "There's no time. I'm up against a deadline. I... what's the second piece of advice?"
"Get out of the building business." His eyes were fixed on her
breasts. "You don't have the right equipment for it." "What?"
"It's no place for a woman."
"And what is the place for a woman?" Lara asked angrily. "Barefoot,
pregnant, and in the kitchen?" "Something like that. Yeah."
Lara rose to her feet. It was all she could do to control herself.
"You must come from a long line of dinosaurs.
Maybe you haven't heard the news. Women are free now." Paul Martin shook his head. "No. Just noisier."
"Good-bye, Mr. Martin. I'm sorry I took up your valuable time."
Lara turned and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind
her.
She stopped in the corridor and took a deep breath. This
was a
mistake, she thought. She had finally reached a dead end.
She had
risked everything it had taken her years to build up, and she had lost
it in one swift instant. There was no one to turn to.
Nowhere to go.
It was over.
Lara walked the cold, rainy streets. She was completely unaware of the
icy wind and her surroundings.
Her mind was filled with the terrible disaster that had befallen her.
Howard Keller's warning was ringing in her ears: You put up buildings
and borrow on them. It's like a pyramid, only if you're not careful,
thatpyramid can fall down. And it had. The banks in Chicago would
foreclose on her properties there, and she would lose all the money she
had invested in the new building. She would have to start all over,
from the beginning. Poor Howard, she thought. He believed in my
dreams, and I've let him down.
The rain had stopped, and the sky was beginning to clear.
A pale sun
was fighting its way through the clouds.
She suddenly realized it was dawn. She had walked all night. Lara
looked around and saw where she was for the first time.
She was only
two blocks from the doomed property. I'll take a last look at it, Lara
thought, resignedly.
She was a full block away when she first heard it. It was the sound of
pneumatic drills and hammers and the roar of cement mixers filling the
air. Lara stood there, listening for an instant, then started running
toward the building site. When she reached it, she stood there,
staring, unbelievingly.
The full crew was there, hard at work.
The foreman came up to her, smiling. "Morning, Miss Cameron."
Lara finally found her voice. "What... what's happening? I... I
thought you were pulling your men off the job."
He said sheepishly, "That was a little misunderstanding, Miss
Cameron.
Bruno could have killed you when he dropped that wrench." Lara swallowed. "But he "Don't worry. Ne's gone.
Nothing like that
will happen again. You don't have a thing to worry about.
We're right
back on schedule."
Lara felt as though she were in a dream. She stood there watching the
men swarming over the skeleton of the building and she thought, I got
it all back again. Everything. Paul Martin.
Lara telephoned him as soon as she returned to her office.
His
secretary said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Martin is not available." "Would you ask him to call me, please?" Lara left her
number.
At three o'clock in the afternoon she still had not heard from him.
She called him again.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Martin is not available." He did not return her call.
At five o'clock Lara went to Paul Martin's office.
She said to the blond secretary, "Would you please tell Mr. Martin
that Lara Cameron is here to see him?"
The secretary looked uncertain. "Well, I'll... Just a moment." She
disappeared into the inner office and returned a minute later. "Go
right in, please."
Paul Martin looked up as Lara walked in.
"Yes, Miss Cameron?" His voice was cool, neither friendly nor
unfriendly. "What can I do for you?" "I came to thank you."
"Thank me for what?"
"For... for straightening things out with the union." He frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"All the workmen came back this morning, and everything's wonderful.
The building is back on schedule." "Well, congratulations."
"If you'll send me a bill for your fee..."
"Miss Cameron, I think you're a little confused. If your problem is
solved, I'm glad. But I had nothing to do with it." Lara looked at him for a long time. "All right. I'm... I'm sorry I bothered you."
"No problem." He watched her leave the office.
A moment later his secretary came in. "Miss Cameron left a package for
you, Mr. Martin."
It was a small package, tied with bright ribbon. Curious, he opened
it. Inside was a silver knight in full armor, ready to do battle. An
apology. What did she call me? A dinosaur. He could still hear his
grandfather's voice. Those were dangerous times, Paul.
The young men
decided to take control of the Mafia, to get rid of the oldtimers, the
mustache Petes, the dinosaurs. It was bloody, but they did it.
But all that was a long, long time ago, in the old country. Sicily.
Chapter Thirteen.
Gibellina, Sicily- 1879 he Martinis were strani en-outsiders, in the
little Sicilian village of Gibellina.
The countryside was desolate, a barren land of death, bathed in blazing
pitiless sunlight, a landscape painted by a sadistic artist. In a land
where the large estates belonged to the gabelloti, the wealthy
landowners, the Martinis had bought a small farm and tried to run it
themselves.
The soprintendente had come calling on Giuseppe Martini one day.
"This little farm of yours," he said, "the land is too rocky. You will
not be able to make a decent living on it, growing olives and
grapes."
"Don't worry about me," Martini said. "I've been farming all my
life."
"We're all worried about you," the soprintendente insisted. "Don Vito
has some good farmland that he is willing to lease to you."
"I know about Don Vito and his land," Giuseppe Martini snorted. "If I
sign a mezzadria with him to farm his land, he will take three fourths
of my crops and charge me a hundred percent interest for the seed. I
will end up with nothing, like the other fools who deal with him. Tell
him I said no, thank you."
"You are making a big mistake, signore. This is dangerous country.
Serious accidents can happen here." "Are you threatening me?"
"Certainly not, signore. I was merely pointing out..." "Get off my land," Giuseppe Martini said.
The overseer looked at him for a long time, then shook his
head sadly.
"You are a stubborn man."
Giuseppe Martini's young son, Ivo, said, "Who was that, Papa?"
"Ne's the overseer for one of the large landowners." "I don't like him," the young boy said.
"I don't like him either, Ivo."
The following night Giuseppe Martini's crops were set on fire and the
few cattle he had disappeared.
That was when Giuseppe Martini made his second mistake.
Ne went to the
guardia in the village.
"I demand protection," he said.
he chief of police studied him noncommittally.
"That's what we are here for," he said. "What is your problem,
signore?"
"Last night Don Vito's men burned my crops and stole my cattle."
"That is a serious charge. Can you prove it?"
"His soprintendente came to me and threatened me."
"Did he tell you they were going to burn your crops and steal your
cattle?"
"Of course not," Giuseppe Martini said. "What did he say to you?"
"He said that I should give up my farm and lease land from Don Vito."
"And you refused?" "Naturally."
"Signore, Don Vito is a very important man. Do you wish me to arrest
him simply because he offered to share his rich farmland with you?"
"I want you to protect me," Giuseppe Martini demanded. "I'm not going
to let them drive me off my land."
"Signore, I am most sympathetic. I will certainly see what I can
do."
"I would appreciate that." "Consider it done."
The following afternoon, as young Ivo was returning from town, he saw
half a dozen men ride up to his father's farm. They dismounted and
went into the house.
A few minutes later Ivo saw his father dragged out to the field.
One of the men took out a gun. "We are going to give you a chance to
escape. Run for it."
"No! This is my land! I..."
Ivo watched, terrified, as the man shot at the ground near his father's
feet.
"Run!"
Giuseppe Martini started to run.
The campieri got on their horses and began circling Martini, yelling
all the while.
Ivo hid, watching in horror at the terrible scene that was unfolding
before his eyes.
The mounted men watched the man run across the field, trying to
escape.
Each time he reached the edge of the dirt road, one of them raced to
cut him off and knock him to the ground. The farmer was bleeding and
exhausted. He was slowing down.
The campieri decided they had had enough sport. One of them put a rope
around the man's neck and dragged him toward the well. "Why?" he gasped. "What have I done?"
"You went to the guardia. You should not have done that."
The campieri pulled down the victim's trousers, and one of the men took
out a knife, while the others held him down. "Let this be a lesson to you."
The man screamed, "No, please! I'm sorry."
The campiero smiled. "Tell that to your wife."
He reached down, grabbed the man's member, and slashed through it with
the knife.
His screams filled the air.
"You won't need this anymore," the captain assured him.
He took the member and stuffed it in the man's mouth. He gagged and
spit it out.
The captain looked at the other campieri. "He doesn't like the taste
of it."
"Uccidi quel figlio th puttana!"
One of the campieri dismounted from his horse and picked up some heavy
stones from the field. He pulled up the victim's bloodied pants and
filled his pockets with the stones.
"Up you go." They lifted the man and carried him to the top of the
well. "Have a nice trip."
They dumped him into the well.
"That water's going to taste like piss," one of them said.
Another one laughed. "The villagers won't know the difference."
They stayed for a moment, listening to the diminishing sounds and
finally the silence, then mounted their horses and rode toward the
house.
Ivo Martini stayed in the distance, watching in horror, hidden by the
brush. The ten-year-old boy hurried to the well. He looked down and whispered, "Papa..."
But the well was deep, and he heard nothing.
When the campieri had finished with Giuseppe Martini, they went to find
his wife, Maria. She was in the kitchen when they entered.
"Where's my husband?" she demanded. A grin. "Getting a drink of water."
Two of the men were closing in on her. One of them said, "You're too
pretty to be married to an ugly man like that." "Get out of my house," Maria ordered.
"Is that a way to treat guests?" One of the men reached out and tore
her dress. "You're going to be wearing widow's clothes, so you won't
need that anymore." "Animal!"
There was a boiling pot of water on the stove. Maria reached for it
and threw it in the man's face.
He screamed in pain. "Fica!" He pulled out his gun and fired at
her.
She was dead before she hit the floor.
The captain shouted, "Idiot! First you fuck them, then you shoot
them.
Come on, let's report back to Don Vito."
Half an hour later they were back at Don Vito's estate.
"We took good care of the husband and wife," the captain reported.
"What about the son?"
The captain looked at Don Vito in surprise. "You didn't say anything
about a son.> "Cretino! I said to take care of the family."
"But he's only a boy, Don Vito."
"Boys grow up to be men. Men want their vengeance. Kill him."
"As you say."
Two of the men rode back to the Martini farm.
Ivo was in a state of shock. He had watched both his parents
murdered.
He was alone in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to.
Wait! There was one person to turn to: his father's brother, Nunzio
Martini, in Palermo. Ivo knew that he had to move quickly. Don Vito's
men would be coming back to kill him. He wondered why they had not
done so already. The young boy threw some food into a knapsack, slung
it over his shoulder, and hurriedly left the farm.
Ivo made his way to the little dirt road that led away from the
village, and started walking. Whenever he heard a cart coming, he
moved off the road and hid in the trees.
An hour after he had started his journey, he saw a group of campieri
riding along the road searching for him.
Ivo stayed hidden, motionless until long after they were gone. Then he
began walking again. At night, he slept in the orchards and he lived
off the fruit from the trees and the vegetables in the fields. He
walked for three days.
When he felt he was safe from Don Vito, he approached a small
village.
An hour later he was in the back of a wagon headed for Palermo.
Ivo reached the house of his uncle in the middle of the night. Nunzio
Martini lived in a large, prosperouslooking house on the outskirts of
the city. It had a spacious balcony, terraces, and a courtyard. Ivo
pounded on the front door. There was a long silence, and then a deep
voice called out, "Who the hell is it?" "It's Ivo, Uncle Nunzio."
Moments later Nunzio Martini opened the door. Ivo's uncle was a large
middle-aged man with a generous Roman nose and flowing white hair. He
was wearing a nightshirt. He looked at the boy in surprise. "Ivo!
What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Where are your
mother and father?" "They're dead," Ivo sobbed. "Dead? Come in, come in."
Ivo stumbled into the house.
"That's terrible news. Was there some kind of an accident?"
Ivo shook his head. "Don Vito had them murdered." "Murdered? But why?"
"My father refused to lease land from him." "Ah."
"Why would he have them killed? They never did anything to" "It was
nothing personal," Nunzio Martini said.
Ivo stared at him. "Nothing personal? I don't understand."
"Everyone knows of Don Vito. He has a reputation.
He is an uomo rispettato-a man of respect and power.
If he let your father defy him, then others would try to defy him, and
he would lose his power. There is nothing that can be done."
The boy was watching him, aghast. "Nothing?"
"Not now, Ivo. Not now. Meanwhile, you look as though you could use a
good night's sleep."
In the morning, at breakfast, they talked.
"How would you like to live in this fine house and work for me?"
Nunzio Martini was a widower.
"I think I would like that," Ivo said.
"I can use a smart boy like you. And you look strong.
"I am strong," Ivo told him. "Good."
"What business are you in, Uncle?" Ivo asked. Nunzio Martini smiled. "I protect people."
The Mafia had sprung up throughout Sicily and other poverty-stricken
parts of Italy to protect the people from a ruthless, autocratic
government. The Mafia corrected injustices and avenged wrongs, and it
finally became so powerful that the government itself feared it, and
merchants and farmers paid tribute to it.
Nunzio Martini was the Mafia capo in Palermo. He saw to it that proper
tribute was collected and that those who did not pay were punished.
Punishment could range from a broken arm or leg to a slow and painful
death.
Ivo went to work for his uncle.
For the next fifteen years Palermo was Ivo's school, and his uncle
Nunzio was his teacher. Ivo started out as an errand boy, then moved
up to collector, and finally became his uncle's trusted lieutenant.
When Ivo was twenty-five years old, he married Carmela, a buxom
Sicilian girl, and a year later they had a son, Gian Carlo. Ivo moved
his family into their own house. When his uncle died, Ivo took his
position and became even more successful and prosperous.
But he had
some unfinished business to attend to.
One day he said to Carmela, "Start packing up. We're moving to
America."
She looked at him in surprise. "Why are we going to America?"
Ivo was not accustomed to being questioned. "Just do as I say. I'm
leaving now. I'll be back in two or three days." "Ivo..."
"Pack."
* * Three black macchine pulled up in front of the guardia headquarters
in Gibellina. The captain, now heavier by thirty pounds, was seated at
his desk when the door opened and half a dozen men walked in. They
were well dressed and prosperous-looking. "Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?"
"We have come to help you," Ivo said. "Do you remember me? I'm the
son of Giuseppe Martini."
The police captain's eyes widened. "You," he said. "What are you doing here? It is dangerous for you." "I came because of your teeth."
"My teeth?"
"Yes." Two of Ivo's men closed in on the captain and pinned his arms
to his side. "You need dental work. Let me fix them."
Ivo shoved the gun into the chief's mouth and pulled the trigger.
Ivo turned to his companions. "Let's go."
Fifteen minutes later the three automobiles drove up to Don Vito's
house. There were two guards outside. They watched the procession
curiously. When the cars came to a stop, Ivo got out. "Good morning. Don Vito's expecting us," he said.
One of the guards frowned. "He didn't say anything about..."
In the next instant the guards were gunned down.
The guns were loaded with lupare, cartridges with large leaden balls, a
hunter's trick to spread the pellets. The guards were cut to pieces.
Inside the house Don Vito heard the shooting. When he looked out the
window and saw what was happening, he quickly crossed to a drawer and
pulled out a gun.
"Franco!" he called. "Antonio! Quickly!" There were more sounds of shots from outside. A voice said, "Don Vito..."
He spun around.
Ivo stood there, a gun in his hand. "Drop your gun." "I..."
"Drop it."
Don Vito let his gun fall to the floor. "Take whatever
you want and get out."
"I don't want anything," Ivo said. "As a matter of fact,
I came here
because I owe you something."
Don Vito said, "Whatever it is, I'm prepared to forget it."
"I'm not. Do you know who I am?" "No."
"Ivo Martini."
The old man frowned, trying to remember. He shrugged. "It means
nothing to me."
"More than fifteen years ago. Your men killed my mother and father."
"That's terrible," Don Vito exclaimed. "I will have them punished,
I'll..."
Ivo reached out and smashed him across his nose with his gun. Blood
started pouring out. "This isn't necessary," Don Vito gasped.
"I..."
Ivo pulled out a knife. "Take down your trousers." "Why? You can't..."
Ivo raised the gun. "Take down your trousers."
"No!" It was a scream. "Think about what you're doing.
I have sons
and brothers. If you harm me, they will track you down and kill you
like a dog."
"If they can find me," Ivo said. "Your trousers." "No."
Ivo shot one of his kneecaps. The old man screamed out in pain.
"Let me help you," Ivo said. He reached out and pulled the old man's
trousers down, and then his underwear. "There's not much there, is
there? Well, we'll have to do the best we can." He grabbed Don Vito's
member and slashed it off with a knife. Don Vito fainted.
Ivo took the penis and shoved it into the man's mouth. "Sorry I don't
have a well to drop you into," Ivo said. As a parting gesture, he shot
the old man in the head, then turned and walked out of the house to the
car.
His friends were waiting for him. "Let's go."
"He has a large family, Ivo. They'll come after you." "Let them."
Two days later Ivo, his wife, and son, Gian Carlo, were on a boat to
New York.
At the end of the last century the New World was a land of opportunity.
New York had a large population of Italians. Many of Ivo's friends had
already emigrated to the big city and decided to use their expertise in
what they knew best: the protection racket. The Mafia began spreading
its tentacles. Ivo anglicized his family name from Martini to Martin
and enjoyed an uninterrupted prosperity.
Gian Carlo was a big disappointment to his father.
He had no interest in working. When he was twentyseven, he got an
Italian girl pregnant, married her in a quiet and hurried ceremony, and
three months later they had a son, Paul.
Ivo had big plans for his grandson. Lawyers were very important in
America, and Ivo decided that his grandson should be an attorney. The
young boy was ambitious and intelligent, and when he was twenty-two, he
was admitted to Harvard Law School. When Paul was graduated, Ivo
arranged for him to join a prestigious law firm, and he soon became a
partner. Five years later Paul opened his own law firm. By this time
Ivo had invested I heavily in legitimate businesses, but he still kept
his contacts with the Mafia, and his grandson handled his business
aflairs for him. In 1967, the year Ivo died, Paul married an Italian
girl, Nina, and a year later his wife gave birth to twins.
In the seventies Paul was kept busy. His main clients were the unions,
and because of that, he was in a position of power. Heads of
businesses and industries deferred to him.
One day Paul was having lunch with a client, Bill Rohan, a respected
banker who knew nothing of Paul's family background.
"You should join Sunnyvale, my golf club," Bill Rohan said. "You play
golf, don't you?"
"Occasionally," Paul said. "When I have time."
"Fine. I'm on the admissions board. Would you like me to put you up
for membership?" "That would be nice."
The following week the board met to discuss new members.
Paul Martin's
name was brought up.
"I can recommend him," Bill Rohan said. "He's a good man."
John Hammond, another member of the board, said, "He's Italian, isn't
he? We don't need any dagos in this club, Bill."
The banker looked at him. "Are you going to blackball him?"
"You're damn right I am."
"Okay, then we'll pass on him. Next..." The meeting continued.
Two weeks later Paul Martin was having lunch with the banker again.
"I've been practicing my golf," Paul joked.
Bill Rohan was embarrassed. "There's been a slight hitch, Paul."
"A hitch?"
"I did propose you for membership. But I'm afraid one of the members
of the board blackballed you." "Oh? Why?"
"Don't take this personally. He's a bigot. He doesn't like
Italians."
Paul smiled. "That doesn't bother me, Bill. A lot of people don't
like Italians. This Mr. "
"Hammond. John Hammond." "The meat-packer?"
"Yes. He'll change his mind. I'll talk to him again."
Paul shook his head. "Don't bother. To tell you the truth, I'm really
not that crazy about golf anyway."
Six months later, in the middle of July, four Hammond Meat Packing
Company refrigerated trucks loaded with pork loins, strip steaks, and
pork butts, headed from the packinghouse in Minnesota to supermarkets
in Buffalo and New Jersey, pulled off the road. The drivers opened the
back doors of the trucks and walked away.
When John Hammond heard the news, he was furious. He called in his
manager.
"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "A million and a half
dollars' worth of meat spoiled in the sun. How could that happen?"
"The union called a strike," the supervisor said.
"Without telling us? What are they striking about? More money?"
The supervisor shrugged. "I don't know. They didn't say anything to
me. They just walked."
"Tell the local union guy to come in and see me. I'll settle it,"
Hammond said.
That afternoon the union representative was ushered into Hammond's
office.
"Why wasn't I told there was going to be a strike?" Hammond demanded.
The representative said, apologetically, "I didn't know it myself, Mr.
Hammond. The men just got mad and walked out. It happened very
suddenly."
"You know I've always been a reasonable man to deal with.
What is it
they want? A raise?" "No sir. It's soap."
Hammond stared at him. "Did you say soap?"
"That's right. They don't like the soap you're using in their
bathrooms. It's too strong."
Hammond could not believe what he was hearing.
"The soap was too strong? And that's why I lost a million and a half
dollars?"
"Don't blame me," the foreman said. "It's the men."
"Jesus," Hammond said. "I can't believe this. What kind of soap would
they like-fairy soap?" He slammed his fist on the desk. "The next
time the men have any problem, you come to me first. You hear me?"
"Yes, Mr. Hammond."
"You tell them to get back to work. There will be the best soap money
can buy in those washrooms by six o'clock tonight. Is that clear?"
"I'll tell them, Mr. Hammond."
John Hammond sat there for a long time fuming. No wonder this country
is going to hell, he thought. Soap!
Two weeks later, at noon on a hot day in August, five Hammond Meat
Packing trucks on their way to deliver meat to Syracuse and Boston
pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the
refrigerated trucks and left.
John Hammond got the news at six o'clock that evening. "What the hell are you talking about?" he screamed. "Didn't you put in the new soap?"
"I did," his manager said, "the same day you told me to." "Then what the hell is it this time?"
The manager said helplessly, "I don't know. There haven't been any
complaints. No one said a word to me."
"Get the goddamned union representative in here."
At seven o'clock that evening Hammond was talking to the union
representative.
"Two million dollars' worth of meat was ruined this afternoon because
of your men," Hammond screamed. "Have they gone crazy?"
"Do you want me to tell the president of the union you asked that, Mr.
Hammond?"
"No, no," Hammond said quickly. "Look, I've never had any problem with
you fellows before. If the men want more money, just come to me and
we'll discuss it like reasonable people. How much are they asking
for?" "Nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"It isn't the money, Mr. Hammond." "Oh? What is it?"
"Lights."
"Lights?" Hammond thought he had misunderstood him.
"Yes. The men are complaining that the lights in the washrooms are too
dim."
John Hammond sat back in his chair, suddenly quiet. "What's going on here?" he asked softly.
"I told you, the men think that..." "Never mind that crap. What's going on?"
The union representative said, "If I knew, I would tell you."
"Is someone trying to put me out of business? Is that it?"
The union representative was silent.
"All right," John Hammond said. "Give me a name. Who can I talk to?"
"There's a lawyer who might be able to help you. The union uses him a
lot. His name is Paul Martin."
"Paul...?" And John Hammond suddenly remembered. "Why, that
blackmailing guinea bastard. Get out of here," he yelled. "Out!"
Hammond sat there seething. No one black mails me. No one.
One week later six more of his refrigerated trucks were abandoned on
side roads.
John Hammond arranged a luncheon with Bill Rohan. "I've been thinking
about your friend Paul Martin," Hammond said. "I may have been a bit
hasty in blackballing him."
"Why, it's very generous of you to say that, John."
"I'll tell you what. You propose him for membership next week and I'll
give him my vote."
The following week, when Paul Martin's name came up, he was accepted
unanimously by the membership committee.
John Hammond personally put in a call to Paul Martin.
"Congratulations, Mr. Martin," he said. "You've just been accepted as
a member of Sunnyvale. We're delighted to have you aboard."
"Thank you," Paul said. "I appreciate the call."
John Hammond's next call was to the district attorney's office. He
made an appointment to meet him the following week.
On Sunday John Hammond and Bill Rohan were part of a foursome at the
club.
"You haven't met Paul Martin yet, have you?" Bill Rohan asked.
John Hammond shook his head. "No. I don't think he's going to be
playing a lot of golf. The grand jury is going to be keeping your
friend too busy."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm going to give information about him to the district attorney that
will certainly interest a grand jury."
Bill Rohan was shocked. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"You bet I do. He's a cockroach, John. I'm going to step on him."
The following Monday, on his way to the district
attorney's office,
John Hammond was killed in a hit-andrun accident. There were no
witnesses. The police never found the driver.
Every Sunday after that Paul Martin took his wife and the twins to the
Sunnyvale Club for lunch. The buffet there was delicious.
Paul Martin took his marriage vows seriously. For instance, he would
never have dreamed of dishonoring his wife by taking her and his
mistress to the same restaurant. His marriage was one part of his
life; his affairs were another. All of Paul Martin's friends had
mistresses.
It was part of their accepted life-style.What bothered Martin was to
see old men taking out young girls. It was undignified, and Paul
Martin placed great value on dignity. He resolved that when he reached
the age of sixty, he would stop having mistresses. And on his sixtieth
birthday, two years earlier, he had stopped. His wife,
Nina, was a
good companion to him. That was enough. Dignity.
It was this man to whom Lara Cameron had come to ask for help. Martin
had been aware of Lara Cameron by name, but he was stunned by how young
and beautiful she was. She was ambitious and angrily independent, and
yet she was very feminine. He found himself strongly attracted to
her.
No, he thought, she's a young girl. I'm an old man. Too
old.
When Lara had stormed out of his office on her first visit, Paul Martin
sat there for a long time, thinking about her. And then he had picked
up the telephone and made a call. ú Chapter Fourteen.
The new building was progressing on schedule. Lara visited the site
every morning and every afternoon, and there was a new respect in the
attitude of the men toward her. She sensed it in the way they looked
at her, talked to her, and worked for her. She knew it was because of
Paul Martin, and disturbingly, she found herself thinking more and more
about the uglyattractive man with the strangely compelling voice.
Lara telephoned him again.
"I wondered if we might have lunch, Mr. Martin?" "Are you having another problem of some kind?"
"No. I just thought it would be nice if we got to know each other
better."
"I'm sorry, Miss Cameron. I never have lunch." "What about dinner one evening?"
"I'm a married man, Miss Cameron. I have dinner with my wife and
children."
"I see. If..." The line went dead. What's the matter with him? Lara
wondered. I'm not trying to go to bed with the man. I
just want to
find some way to thank him. She tried to put him out of her mind.
Paul Martin was disturbed by how pleased he was to hear Lara Cameron's
voice. He told his secretary, "If Miss Cameron calls again, tell her
I'm not in." He did not need temptation, and Lara Cameron was
temptation.
Howard Keller was delighted with the way things were progressing.
"I must admit, you had me a little worried there for a while," he
said.
"It looked as though we were going right down the tube.
You pulled off a miracle."
It wasn't my miracle, Lara thought. It was Paul Martin's.
Perhaps he
was angry with her because she had not paid him for his services.
On an impulse, Lara sent Paul a check for fifty thousand dollars.
The following day, the check was returned with no note.
Lara telephoned him again. His secretary said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Martin
is not available."
Another snub. It was as though he could not be bothered with her. And
if he can't be bothered with me, Lara wondered, why did he go out of
his way to help me?
She dreamed about him that night.
Howard Keller walked into Lara's office.
"I've got two tickets for the new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, Song &
Dance. I have to go to Chicago. Can you use the tickets?"
"No, I... wait." She was quiet for a moment. "Yes, I think I can use
them. Thank you, Howard."
That afternoon Lara put one of the tickets in an envelope and addressed
it to Paul Martin at his office.
* * * When he received the ticket the next day, he looked at it,
puzzled. Who would send him a single ticket to the theater? The
Cameron girl. I'll have to put a stop úto this, he thought.
"Am I free Friday evening?" he asked his secretary.
"You're having dinner with your brother-in-law, Mr. Martin."
"Cancel it."
Lara sat through the first act, and the seat next to her remained
empty. So he's not coming, Lara thought.
Well, to hell with him. I've done everything I can.
As the first act curtain came down, Lara debated whether she should
stay for the second act or leave. A figure appeared at the seat next
to hers.
"Let's get out of here," Paul Martin commanded.
They had dinner at a bistro on the East Side. Ne sat across the table
from her, studying her, quiet and wary. The waiter came to take their drink order. "I'll have a scotch and soda," Lara said. "Nothing for me."
Lara looked at him in surprise. "I don't drink."
After they had ordered dinner, Paul Martin said, "Miss Cameron, what do
you want from me?"
"I don't like owing anyone anything," Lara said. "I owe you something,
and you won't let me pay you. That bothers me." "I told you before... you don't owe me anything." "But I..."
"I hear your building is coming along well."
"Yes." She started to say "thanks to you," then thought better of
it.
"You're good at what you do, aren't you?"
Lara nodded. "I want to be. It's the most exciting thing in the world
to have an idea and watch it grow into concrete and steel, and become a
building that people work in and live in. In a way, it becomes a
monument, doesn't it?"
Her face was vibrant and alive.
"I suppose it does. And is one monument going to lead to another?"
"You bet it is," Lara said enthusiastically. "I intend to become the
most important real estate developer in this city." There was a sexuality about her that was mesmerizing. Paul Martin smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised."
"Why did you decide to come to the theater tonight?" Lara asked.
He had come to tell her to leave him alone, but being with her now,
being this close to her, he could not bring himself to say it. "I
heard good things about the show."
Lara smiled. "Maybe we'll go again and see it together, Paul."
He shook his head. "Miss Cameron, I'm not only married,
I'm very much
married. I happen to love my wife."
"I admire that," Lara said. "The building will be finished on the
fifteenth of March. We're having a party to celebrate.
Will you come?"
He hesitated a long time trying to word his refusal as gently as
possible. When he finally spoke, he said, "Yes, I'll come."
The celebration for the opening of the new building was a moderate
success. Lara Cameron's name was not big enough to attract many
members of the press or any of the city's important
dignitaries. But
one of the mayor's assistants was there, and a reporter from the
Post.
"The building is almost fully leased out," Keller told Lara. "And we
have a flood of inquiries."
"Good," Lara said absently. Her mind was on something else. She was
thinking about Paul Martin and wondering whether he would appear. For
some reason it was important to her. He was an intriguing mystery. He
denied that he had helped her, and yet... She was pursuing a man old
enough to be her father. Lara put the connection out of her mind.
Lara attended to her guests. Hors d'oeuvres and drinks were being
served, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. In the midst of
the festivities, Paul Martin arrived, and the tone of the party
immediately changed. The workmen greeted him as though he were
royalty. They were obviously in awe of him.
I'm a corporate attorney... I don't deal with unions.
Martin shook hands with the mayor's assistant and some of the union
officials there, then went up to Lara. "I'm glad you could come," Lara said.
Paul Martin looked around at the huge building and said, "Congratulations. You've done a good job."
"Thank you." She lowered her voice. "And I do mean thank you."
He was staring at her, bemused by how ravishing Lara looked and the way
he felt, looking at her.
"The party's almost over," Lara said. "I was hoping you would take me
to dinner."
"I told you, I have dinner with my wife and children." He was looking into her eyes. "I'll buy you a drink." Lara smiled. "That will do nicely."
They stopped at a small bar on Third Avenue. They talked, but
afterward neither of them would remember what they talked about. The
words were camouflage for the sexual tension between them.
"Tell me about yourself," Paul Martin said. "Who are you?
Where are
you from? How did you get started in this business?"
Lara thought of Sean MacAllister and his repulsive body on top of
hers.
"That was so good we're going to do "I came from a little town in Nova
Scotia," Lara said.
"Glace Bay. My father collected rents from some boardinghouses
there.
When he died, I took over. One of the boarders helped me buy a lot,
and I put up a building on it. That was the beginning." He was listening closely.
"After that I went to Chicago and developed some buildings there. I
did well and came to New York." She smiled. "That's really the whole
story." Except for the agony of growing up with a father who hated
her, the shame of poverty, of never owning anything, the giving of her
body to Sean MacAllister...
As though reading her mind, Paul Martin said, "I'll bet it wasn't
really all that easy, was it?" "I'm not complaining."
"What's your next project?"
Lara shrugged. "I'm not sure. I've looked at a lot of possibilities,
but there's nothing I'm really wild about." He could not take his eyes off her.
"What are you thinking?" Lara asked.
He took a deep breath. "The truth? I was thinking that if I weren't
married, I would tell you that you're one of the most exciting women
I've ever met. But I am married, so you and I are going to be just
friends. Do I make myself clear?" "Very clear."
He looked at his watch. "Time to go." He turned to the waiter.
"Check, please." He rose to his feet.
"Can we have lunch next week?" Lara asked.
"No. Maybe I'll see you again when your next building is finished."
And he was gone.
That night Lara dreamed they were making love.
Paul Martin was on top of her, stroking her body with his hands and
whispering in her ear.
"You ken, I maun hae ye, and onie ye... Gude forgie me, my bonnie
darling', for I've niver tauld you how mickle I love ye, love ye, love
ye. "
And then he was inside her and her body was suddenly molten. She
moaned, and her moans awakened her. She sat up in bed, trembling.
Two days later Paul Martin telephoned. "I think I have a location you
might be interested in," he said crisply. "It's over on the West Side,
on Sixty-ninth Street.
It's not on the market yet. It belongs to a client of mine who wants
to sell."
Lara and Howard Keller went to look at it that morning.
It was a prime piece of property.
"How did you hear about this?" Keller asked. "Paul Martin."
"Oh, I see." There was disapproval in his voice. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Lara... I checked on Martin. He's Mafia. Stay away from him."
She said indignantly, "He has nothing to do with the Mafia. He's a
good friend. Anyway, what does that have to do with this site? Do you
like it?"
"I think it's great." "Then let's buy it."
Ten days later they closed the deal.
Lara sent Paul Martin a large bouquet of flowers.
There was a note attached: "Paul-please don't send these back. They're
very" She received a call from him that afternoon.
"Thanks for the flowers. I'm not used to getting flowers from
beautiful women." His voice sounded gruffer than usual.
"Do you know your problem?" Lara asked. "No one has ever spoiled you
enough."
"Is that what you want to do, spoil me?" "Rotten."
Paul laughed. "I mean it."
"I know you do."
"Why don't we talk about it at lunch?" Lara asked.
Paul Martin had not been able to get Lara out of his mind.
He knew
that he could easily fall in love with her.
There was a vulnerability about her, an innocence, and, at
the same
time, something wildly sensual. He knew that he would be smart never
to see her again, but he was unable to control himself.
He was drawn
to her by something more powerful than his will. They had lunch at the "21" Club.
"When you're trying to hide something," Paul Martin advised, "always do
it out in the open. Then no one will believe you're doing anything
wrong."
"Are we trying to hide something?" Lara asked softly.
He looked at her and made his decision. She's beautiful and smart, but
so are a thousand other women. It will be easy to get her out of my
system. I'll go to bed with her once, and that will be the end of
it.
As it turned out, he was wrong.
* * * ú When they arrived at Lara's apartment, Paul was unaccountably
nervous.
"I feel like a fuckin' schoolboy," Paul said. "I'm out of practice."
"It's like riding a bicycle," Lara murmured. "It will come back to
you. Let me undress you."
She took off his jacket and tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"You know that this could never become serious, Lara." "I know that."
"I'm sixty-two years old. I could be your father."
She went still for an instant, remembering her dream. "I know." She
finished undressing him. "You have a beautiful body." "Thanks." His wife never told him that.
Lara slid her arms along his thighs. "You're very strong, aren't
you?"
He found himself standing straighter. "I played basketball when I was
in...
Her lips were on his and they were in bed, and he experienced something
that had never happened to him before in his life. He felt as though
his body were on fire.
They were making love, and it was without a beginning or an ending, a
river that swept him along faster and faster, and the tide began to
pull at him, sucking him down and down, deeper and deeper, into a
velvet darkness that exploded into a thousand stars. And the miracle
was that it happened again, and once again, until he lay there panting
and exhausted.
"I can't believe this," he said.
His lovemaking with his wife had always been conventional, routine.
But with Lara it was an incredibly sensual experience.
Paul Martin had
had many women before, but Lara was like no one he had ever known. She
had given him a gift no woman had ever given him: She made him feel
young.
When Paul was getting dressed, Lara asked, "Will I ú see you again?"
"Yes." God help me. "Yes."
The 1980s were a time of changes. Ronald Reagan was elected President
of the United States and Wall Street had the busiest day in its
history. The shah of Iran died in exile, and Anwar Sadat was
assassinated. The public debt hit one trillion dollars, and the
American hostages in Iran were freed. Sandra Day O'Connor became the
first woman to serve on the Supreme Court.
Lara was in the right place at the right time. Real estate development
was booming. Money was abundant, and banks were willing to finance
projects that were both speculative and highly leveraged.
Savings and loan companies were a big source of equity.
High-yield and
high-risk bonds-nicknamed junk bonds-had been popularized by a young
financial genius named Mike Milken, and they were manna to the real
estate industry. The financing was there for the asking.
"I'm going to put up a hotel on the Sixty-ninth Street property,
instead of an office building."
"Why?" Howard Keller asked. "It's a perfect location for an office
building. With a hotel, you have to run it twenty-four hours a day.
Tenants come and go like ants.
With an office building, you only have to worry about a lease every
five or ten years."
"I know, but in a hotel you have drop-dead power, Howard.
You can give
important people suites and entertain them in your own restaurant. I
like that idea. It's going to be a hotel. I want you to set up
meetings with the top architects in New York: Skidmore, Owings and
Merrill, Peter Eisenman, and Philip Johnson." The meetings took place over the next two weeks.
Some of the architects were patronizing. They had never worked for a
female developer before.
One of them said, "If you'd like us to copy..."
"No. We're going to build a hotel that other builders will copy. If
you want a buzzword, try 'elegance." I see an entryway flanked by twin
fountains, a lobby with Italian marble. Off the lobby we'll have a
comfortable conference room where..."
By the end of the meeting they were impressed.
Lara put together a team. She hired a lawyer named Terry Hill, an
assistant named Jim Belon, a project manager named Tom Chriton, and an
advertising agency headed by Tom Scott. She hired the architectural
firm of Higgins, Almont & Clark, and the project was under way.
"We'll meet once a week," Lara told the group, "but I'll
want daily
reports from each of you. I want this hotel to go up on schedule and
on budget. I selected all of you because you're the best at what you
do. Don't let me down. Are there any questions?"
The next two hours were spent in answering them.
Later Lara said to Keller, "How do you think the meeting went?"
"Fine, boss."
It was the first time he had called her that. She liked it.
Charles Colin telephoned.
"I'm in New York. Can we have lunch?" "You bet we can!" Lara said.
They had lunch at Sardi's.
"You look wonderful," Colin said. "Success agrees with you, Lara."
"It's only the beginning," Lara said. "Charles... how would you like
to join Cameron Enterprises? I'll give you a piece of the company
and..."
He shook his head. "Thanks, but no. You've just started the
journey.
I'm near the end of the road. I'll be retiring next summer."
"Let's stay in touch," Lara said. "I don't want to lose
you."
The next time Paul Martin came to Lara's apartment, she said, "I have a
surprise for you, darling."
She handed him half a dozen packages. "Hey! It's not my birthday."
"Open them."
Inside were a dozen Bergdorf Goodman shirts and a dozen Pucci ties.
"I have shirts and ties," he laughed.
"Not like these," Lara told him. "They'll make you feel younger. I
got the name of a good tailor for you, too."
The following week Lara had a new barber style Paul's hair.
Paul Martin looked at himself in the mirror and thought, I do look
younger. Life had become exciting. nd all because of Lara, he
thought.
Paul's wife tried not to notice the change in her husband.
They were all there for the meeting: Keller, Tom Chriton, Jim Belon and
Terry Hill.
"We're going to fast-track the hotel," Lara announced.
The men looked at one another. "That's dangerous," Keller said.
"Not if you do it right."
Tom Chriton spoke up. "Miss Cameron, the safe way to do
this is to
complete one phase at a time. You do your grading, and when that's
done, you begin digging the trenches for foundations.
When that's
done, you put in the utility conduits and drainage piping. Then..."
Lara interrupted. "You put in the wooden concrete framework and the
skeletal gridiron. I know all that." "Then why...?"
"Because that will take two years. I don't want to wait two years."
Jim Belon said, "If we fast-track it, that means starting all the
different steps at once. If anything goes wrong, nothing will fit
together. You could have a lopsided building with electric circuits in
the wrong place and..."
"Then we have to see to it that nothing goes wrong, don't we?" Lara
said. "If we do it this way, we'll get the building up in a year
instead of two, and we'll save close to twenty million dollars."
"True, but it's taking a big chance." "I like taking chances."
Chapter Fifteen.
Lara told Paul Martin about her decision to fast-track the hotel and
the discussion she had had with the committee.
"They may have been right," Paul said. "What you're doing could be
dangerous."
"Trump does it. Uris does it."
Paul said gently, "Baby, you're not Trump or Uris."
"I'm going to be bigger than they are, Paul. I'm going to put up more
buildings in New York than anyone ever has before. It's going to be my
city."
He looked at her for a long moment. "I believe you." Lara had an unlisted telephone installed in her office.
Only Paul Martin had the number. He installed a telephone in his
office for Lara's calls. They spoke to each other several times a
day.
Whenever they could get away in the afternoon, they went to Lara's
apartment. Paul Martin looked forward to those trysts more than he had
ever believed possible.
Lara had become an obsession with him.
* * * When Keller became aware of what was happening, he was
concerned.
"Lara," he said, "I think you're making a mistake. Ne's dangerous."
"You don't know him. Ne's wonderful." "Are you in love with him?"
Lara thought about it. Paul Martin fulfilled a need in her life. But
was she in love with him? "No."
"Is he in love with you?" "I think so."
"Be careful. Be very careful."
Lara smiled. Impulsively, she kissed Keller's cheek. "I love the way you take care of me, Howard."
Lara was at the construction site, studying a report.
"I notice we're paying for an awful lot of lumber," Lara said. She was
talking to Pete Reese, the new project manager.
"I didn't want to mention it before, Miss Cameron, because I wasn't
sure-but you're right. A lot of our lumber's missing.
We've had to double order it."
She looked up at him. "You mean, someone is stealing it?" "It looks that way."
"Do you have any idea who?" "No."
"We have night watchmen here, don't we?" "One watchman."
"And he hasn't seen anything?"
"No. But with all this activity going on, it could be happening during
the day. It could be anybody."
Lara was thoughtful. "I see. Thanks for letting me know,
Pete. I'll
take care of it."
That afternoon Lara hired a private detective, Steve Kane.
"How does anyone walk away in broad daylight with a load of lumber?"
Kane asked. "You tell me."
"You say there's a night watchman at the site?" "Yes."
"Maybe he's in on it."
"I'm not interested in maybes," Lara said. "Find out who's behind it
and get back to me."
"Can you get me hired as a member of the construction crew?"
"I'll take care of it."
Steve Kane went to work at the site the next day.
When Lara told Keller what was happening, he said, "You didn't have to
get involved in this. I could have handled it for you." "I like handling things myself," Lara said.
That was the end of the conversation.
Five days later Kane appeared at Lara's office. "Have you found out anything?"
"Everything," he said.
"Was it the watchman?"
"No. The lumber wasn't stolen from the building site." "What do you mean?"
"I mean it never reached there. It was sent to another construction
site in Jersey and double-billed. The invoices were doctored."
"Who's behind it?" Lara asked. Kane told her.
The following afternoon there was a meeting of the committee. Terry
Hill, Lara's lawyer, was there, Howard Keller, Jim Belon, the project
manager, and Pete Reese. There was also a stranger at the conference
table. Lara introduced him as Mr. Conroy. "Let's have a report," Lara said.
Pete Reese said, "We're right on schedule. We estimate four more
months. You were right about going fast track. It's all going smooth
as silk. We've already started on the electrical and plumbing."
"Good," Lara said.
"What about the stolen lumber?" Keller asked.
"Nothing new on it yet," Pete Reese said. "We're keeping an eye
open."
"I don't think we have to worry about that anymore," Lara announced.
"We found out who's stealing it." She nodded toward the
stranger.
"Mr. Conroy is with the Special Fraud Squad. It's actually Detective
Conroy."
"What's he doing here?" Pete Reese asked. "lIe's come to take you away."
Reese looked up, startled. "What?"
Lara turned to the group. "Mr. Reese has been selling our lumber to
another construction job. When he found out that I was checking the
reports, he decided to tell me there was a problem."
"Wait a minute," Pete Reese said. "I... I... You have it wrong."
She turned to Conroy. "Would you please get him out of here?"
She turned to the others. "Now, let's discuss the opening of the
hotel."
As the hotel grew nearer completion, the pressure became more
intense.
Lara was becoming impossible. She badgered everyone constantly. She
made phone calls in the middle of the night.
"Howard, did you know the shipment of wallpaper hasn't arrived yet?"
"For God's sake, Lara, it's four o'clock in the morning."
"It's ninety days to the opening of the hotel. We can't open a hotel
without wallpaper."
"I'll check it out in the morning." "This is morning. Check it out now."
Lara's nervousness increased as the deadline grew closer. She met with
Tom Scott, head of the advertising agency.
"Do you have small children, Mr. Scott?" lIe looked at her in
surprise. "No. Why?"
"Because I just went over the new advertising campaign and it seems to
have been devised by a small retarded child. I can't believe that
grown men sat down and thought up this junk."
Scott frowned. "If there's something about it that displeases
you..."
"Everything about it displeases me," Lara said. "It lacks excitement.
It's bland. It could be about any hotel anywhere. This isn't any
hotel, Mr. Scott. This is the most beautiful, most modern hotel in
New York. You make it sound like a cold, faceless building. It's a
warm, exciting home. Let's spread the word. Do you think you can
handle that?"
"I assure you we can handle it. We'll revise the campaign and in two
weeks..."
"Monday," Lara said flatly. "I want to see the new campaign Monday."
The new ads went out in newspapers and magazines and
billboards all over the country.
"I think the campaign turned out great," Tom Scott said. "You were
right."
Lara looked at him and said quietly, "I don't want to be right. I want
you to be right. That's what I pay you for."
She turned to Jerry Townsend, in charge of publicity. "Have the invitations all been sent out?"
"Yes. We've gotten most of our replies already.
Everybody's coming to
the opening. It's going to be quite a party."
"It should be," Keller grumbled, "it's costing enough."
Lara grinned. "Stop being a banker. We'll get a million dollars'
worth of publicity. We're going to have dozens of celebrities there
and lIe held up his hand. "All right, all right."
Two weeks before the opening, everything seemed to be happening at
once. The wallpaper had arrived and carpets were being installed;
halls were being painted and pictures were being hung.
Lara inspected
every suite, accompanied by a staff of five.
She walked into one suite and said, "The drapes are wrong.
Switch them
with the suite next door."
In another suite, she tried the piano. "It's out of tune. Take care of it."
In a third suite the electric fireplace didn't work.
"Fix it."
It seemed to the harried staff that Lara was trying to do everything
herself. She was in the kitchen and in the laundry room and in the
utility closets. She was everywhere, demanding, complaining, fixing.
The man whom she had hired to manage the hotel said, "Don't get so
excited, Miss Cameron. At the opening of any hotel, little things
always go wrong."
"Not in my hotels," Lara said. "Not in my hotels."
The day of the opening, Lara was up at 4:00 A.M too nervous to sleep.
She wanted desperately to talk to Paul Martin, but there was no way she
could call him at that hour. She dressed and went for a walk.
Everything is going to be fine, she told herself. The reservation
computer is going to be fixed. They'll get the third oven working.
The lock on Suite Seven will be repaired.
We'll find a replacement for the maids who quit yesterday. The air-conditioning unit in the penthouse will work....
At six o'clock that evening the invited guests began to arrive. A
uniformed guard at each entrance to the hotel examined their
invitations before admitting them. There was a mix of celebrities,
famous athletes, and corporation executives. Lara had
gone over the
list carefully, eliminating the names of the freeloaders and the
hangers-on.
She stood in the spacious lobby greeting the newcomers as they
arrived.
"I'm Lara Cameron. So nice of you to come... Please feel free to look
around."
Lara took Keller aside. "Why isn't the mayor coming?" "lIe's pretty busy, you know, and..."
"You mean he thinks I'm not important enough." "One day he'll change his mind."
One of the mayor's assistants arrived.
"Thank you for coming," Lara said. "This is an honor for the hotel."
Lara kept looking nervously for Todd Grayson, the architectural critic
for The New York Times, who had been invited. Ifhe likes it, Lara
thought, we have a winner.
Paul Martin arrived with his wife. It was the first time Lara had seen
Mrs. Martin. She was an attractive, elegant-looking woman. Lara felt
an unexpected pang of guilt.
Paul walked up to Lara. "Miss Cameron, I'm Paul Martin.
This is my
wife, Nina. Thank you for inviting us."
Lara gripped his hand a second longer than necessary. "I'm delighted
that you're here. Please make yourself at home."
Paul looked around the lobby. lIe had seen it half a dozen times
before. "It's beautiful," he exclaimed. "I think you're going to be
very successful."
Nina Martin was staring at Lara. "I'm sure she will be." And Lara wondered if she knew.
The guests began to stream in.
An hour later Lara was standing in the lobby when Keller rushed up to
her. "For God's sakes," he said, "everyone's looking for you. They're
all in the ballroom, eating. Why aren't you in there?" "Todd Grayson hasn't arrived. I'm waiting for him."
"The Times' architectural critic? I saw him an hour ago." "What?"
"Yes. lIe went on a tour of the hotel with the others." "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew."
"What did he say?" Lara asked eagerly. "How did he look?
Did he
seem impressed?"
"lIe didn't say anything. lIe looked fine. And I don't know whether
he was impressed or not." "Didn't he say anything?" "No."
Lara frowned. "lIe would have said something if he had liked it. It's
a bad sign, Howard."
The party was a huge success. The guests ate and drank and toasted the
hotel. When the evening was over, Lara was showered with compliments.
"It's such a lovely hotel, Miss Cameron..."
"I'll certainly stay here when I come back to New York..."
"What a great idea, having a piano in every living room..."
"I love the fireplaces..."
"I'll certainly recommend this to all my friends..."
Well, Lara thought, even if The New York Times hates it, it's going to
be a success.
Lara saw Paul Martin and his wife as they were leaving. "I think you really have a winner here, Miss Cameron.
It's going to be
the talk of New York."
"You're very kind, Mr. Martin," Lara said. "Thank you for coming."
Nina Martin said quietly, "Good night, Miss Cameron." "Good night."
As they were walking out the lobby door, Lara heard her say, "She's
very beautiful, isn't she, Paul?"
The following Thursday when the first edition of The New York Times
came out, Lara was at the newsstand at Forty-second Street
and Broadway
at four o'clock in the morning, to pick up a copy. She hurriedly
turned to the home Section. Todd Grayson's article began:
Manhattan
has long needed a hotel that does not remind travelers that they're
staying in a hotel. The suites at the Cameron Plaza are large and
gracious, and done in beautiful taste. LaraCameronhasfinallygivenNewYork...
She yelled aloud with joy. She telephoned Keller and woke him up.
"We're in!" she said. "The Times loves us." lIe sat up in bed,
groggy. "That's great. What did they say?"
Lara read the article to him. "All right," Keller said, now you can
get some sleep."
"Sleep? Are you joking? I have a new site picked out.
As soon as the banks open, I want you to start negotiating a loan.
..."
The New York Cameron Plaza was a triumph. It was completely booked,
and there was a waiting list.
"It's only the beginning," Lara told Keller. "There are ten thousand
builders in the metropolitan area-but only a handful of the big
boys-the Tisches, the Rudins, the Rockefellers, the Sterns. Well,
whether they like it or not, we're going to play in their sandbox.
We're going to change the skyline. We're going to invent the
future."
Lara began to get calls from banks offering her loans.
She cultivated the important real estate brokers, taking them to dinner
and the theater. She had power breakfasts at the Regency and was told
about properties that were about to come on the market.
She acquired
two more downtown sites and began construction.
Paul Martin telephoned Lara at the office. "have you seen Business
Week? You're a hot ticket," he said. "The word's out that you're a
shaker. You get things done." "I try."
"Are you free for dinner?" "I'll make myself free."
Lara was in a meeting with the partner of a top architectural firm.
She was examining the blueprints and drawings they had brought.
"You're going to like this," the chief architect said.
"It has grace and symmetry and the scope that you asked for. Let me
explain some of the details "That won't be necessary,"
Lara said. "I
understand them." She looked up. "I want you to turn these plans over
to an artist." "What?"
"I want large color drawings of the building. I want drawings of the
lobby, the corridors, and the offices. Bankers have no imagination.
I'm going to show them what the building is going to look like."
"That's a great idea."
Lara's secretary appeared. "I'm sorry I'm late."
"This meeting was called for nine o'clock, Kathy. It's nine-fifteen."
"I'm sorry, Miss Cameron, my alarm didn't go off and..." "We'll discuss it later."
She turned to the architects. "I want a few changes made..."
Two hours later Lara had finished discussing the changes she wanted.
When the meeting was over, she said to Kathy, "Don't leave. Sit
down." Kathy sat.
"Do you like your job?" "Yes, Miss Cameron."
"This is the third time you've been late this week. I won't put up
with that again."
"I'm terribly sorry, I... I haven't been feeling well." "What's your problem?"
"It's nothing, really."
"It's obviously enough to keep you from coming in on time.
What is it?"
"I haven't been sleeping very well lately. To tell you the truth,
I...
I'm scared."
"Scared of what?" Lara asked impatiently. "I... I have a lump."
"Oh." Lara was silent for a moment. "Well, what did the doctor
say?"
Kathy swallowed. "I haven't seen a doctor."
"Not seen one!" Lara exploded. "For God's sakes, do you come from a
family of ostriches? Of course you've got to see a doctor."
Lara picked up the phone. "Get me Dr. Peters."
She replaced the receiver. "It's probably nothing, but you can't let
it go."
"I have a mother and brother who died of cancer," Kathy said
miserably.
"I don't want a doctor to tell me I have it."
The telephone rang. Lara picked it up. "hello? he what?...Idon't
care if he is. You tell himlwant to talk to him now." She replaced the receiver.
A few moments later the phone rang again. Lara picked it up. "hello,
Alan... no, I'm fine. I'm sending my secretary over to see you. her
name is Kathy Turner.
She'll be there in half an hour. I want her examined this morning, and
I want you to stay on top of it... I know you are... I appreciate
it... thanks."
She replaced the receiver. "Get over to SloanKettering hospital. Dr.
Peters will be waiting for you."
"I don't know what to say, Miss Cameron."
"Say that you'll be on time tomorrow." Howard Keller came into the
office. "We have a problem, boss." "Go."
"It's the property on Fourteenth Street. We've cleared the tenants out
of the whole block except for one apartment house. The Dorchester
Apartments. Six of the tenants refuse to leave, and the city won't let
us force them out." "Offer them more money.
"It's not a question of money. Those people have lived there a long
time. They don't want to leave. They're comfortable there."
"Then let's make them uncomfortable." "What do you mean?"
Lara got up. "Let's go take a look at the building."
On the drive down, they passed bag ladies and homeless people roaming
the streets, asking for handouts.
"In a country as wealthy as this," Lara said, "that's a disgrace."
The Dorchester Apartments was a six-story brick building in the middle
of a block filled with old structures waiting for the bulldozers.
Lara stood in front of it, examining it. "How many tenants are in
there?"
"We got sixteen out of the apartment. Six are still hanging on."
"That means we have sixteen apartments available." lIe looked at her,
puzzled. "That's right. Why?" "Let's fill those apartments."
"You mean, lease them? What's the point..."
"We're not going to lease them. We're going to donate them to the
homeless. There are thousands of homeless people in New York. We're
going to take care of some of them. Crowd in as many as you can. See
that they're given some food."
Keller frowned. "What makes me think this isn't one of your better
ideas?"
"Howard, we're going to become benefactors. We're going to do
something the city can't do-shelter the homeless."
Lara was studying the building more closely, looking at the windows.
"And I want those windows boarded up." "What?"
"We're going to make the building look like an old derelict. Is the
top floor apartment still occupied, the one with the roof garden?"
"Yes."
"Put up a big billboard on the roof to block the view. "But..."
"Get to work on it."
When Lara returned to the office, there was a message for her. "Dr.
Peters would like you to call him," Tricia said.
"Get him for me." lIe came on the phone almost immediately.
"Lara, I examined your secretary." "Yes?"
"She has a tumor. I'm afraid it's malignant. I recommend an immediate
mastectomy."
"I want a second opinion," Lara said.
"Of course, if you wish, but I am head of the department and..."
"I still want a second opinion. have someone else examine her. Get
back to me as soon as possible. Where is Kathy now?" "She's on her way back to your office."
"Thanks, Alan."
Lara replaced the receiver. She pressed down the intercom button.
"When Kathy returns, send her in tome."
Lara studied the calendar on her desk. She had only thirty days left
to clear out the Dorchester Apartments before construction was
scheduled to start.
Six stubborn tenants. All right, Lara thought, let's see how long they
can hold out.
Kathy walked into Lara's office. her face was puffy and her eyes were
red.
"I heard the news," Lara told her. "I'm so sorry, Kathy." "I'm going to die," Kathy said.
Lara rose and put her arms around her, holding her close. "You're not
going to do anything of the kind.
They've made a lot of progress with cancer. You're going to have the
operation, and you're going to be all right." "Miss Cameron, I can't afford..."
"Everything will be taken care of. Dr. Peters is going to see that
you have one more examination. If it verifies his diagnosis, you
should have the operation right away.
Now go home and get some rest."
Kathy's eyes filled with tears again. "I... thank you."
As Kathy walked out of the office, she thought, No one really knows
that lady. Chapter Sixteen.
The following Monday Lara had a visitor.
"There's a Mr. O'Brian here to see you from the city planning
commissioner's office, Miss Cameron." "What about?"
"lIe didn't say."
Lara buzzed Keller on the intercom. "Will you come in here,
Howard?"
She said to the secretary, "Send Mr. O'Brian in."
Andy O'Brian was a burly red-faced Irishman with a slight brogue.
"Miss Cameron?"
Lara remained seated behind her desk. "Yes. What can I do for you,
Mr. O'Brian?"
"I'm afraid you're in violation of the law, Miss Cameron." "Really? What is this all about?"
"You own the Dorchester Apartments on East Fourteenth Street?"
"Yes."
"We have a report that about a hundred homeless people have crowded
into those apartments."
"Oh, that." Lara smiled. "Yes, I thought that since the city wasn't
doing anything about the homeless, I would help out. I'm giving them
shelter." Howard Keller walked into the room. "This is Mr. Keller. Mr. O'Brian."
The two men shook hands.
Lara turned to Keller. "I was just explaining how we're helping the
city out by providing housing."
"You invited them in, Miss Cameron?" "That's right."
"Do you have a license from the city?" "A license for what?"
"If you're setting up a shelter, it has to be approved by the city.
There are certain strict conditions that are enforced."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware of that. I'll arrange for the license
immediately."
"I don't think so." "What does that mean?"
"We've had complaints from the tenants in the building.
They say
you're trying to force them out."
"Nonsense."
"Miss Cameron, the city is giving you forty-eight hours to move those
homeless people out of there. And when they leave, we have an order
for you to take down the boards that you put up to cover the
windows."
Lara was furious. "Is that all?"
"No, ma'am. The tenant who has the roof garden says you put up a sign
blocking his view. You'll have to take that down, too." "What if I won't?"
"I think you will. All this comes under harassment.
You'll save yourself a lot of trouble and unpleasant publicity by not
forcing us to take you to court." lIe nodded and said, "have a nice
day."
They watched him walk out of the office.
Keller turned to Lara. "We'll have to get all those people out of
there."
"No." She sat there, thinking.
"What do you mean 'no'? The man said..."
"I know what he said. I want you to bring in more homeless. I want
that building packed with street people.
We're going to stall. Call Terry hill. Tell him the problem. have
him get a stay or something. We've got to get those six tenants out by
the end of the month or it's going to cost us three million dollars."
The intercom buzzed. "Dr. Peters is on the phone." Lara picked up the telephone. "hello, Alan."
"I just wanted to tell you that we finished the operation.
It looks
like we got it all. Kathy's going to be fine." "That's wonderful news. When can I visit her?" "You can come by this afternoon."
"I'll do that. Thanks, Alan. See that I get all the bills, will
you?" "Will do."
"And you can tell the hospital to expect a donation. Fifty thousand dollars."
Lara said to Tricia, "Fill her room with flowers." She looked at her
schedule. "I'll go down to see her at four o'clock."
Terry hill arrived at the office. "There's a warrant for your arrest
coming in." "What?"
"Weren't you warned to get those homeless people out of the
building?" "Yes, but..."
"You can't get away with this, Lara. There's an old adage: 'Don't
fight City hall, you can't'" "Are they really going to
arrest me?"
"You're damn right they are. You were given notice by the city to get
those people out of there."
"All right," Lara said. "Let's get them out." She turned to Keller.
"Remove them, but don't put them out on the street. That isn't
right.... We have those empty rooming houses that we're waiting to
convert in the West Twenties. Let's put them there. Take all the help
you need. I want them gone in an hour."
She turned to Terry hill. "I'll be out of here, so they can't serve
me. By the time they do, the problem will be solved."
The intercom buzzed. "There are two gentlemen here from the district
attorney's office."
Lara motioned to Howard Keller. lIe walked over to the intercom and
said, "Miss Cameron isn't here."
There was a silence. "When do you expect her?"
Keller looked at Lara. Lara shook her head. Keller said into the
intercom, "We don't know." lIe flicked the key up. "I'll go out the back way," Lara said.
Lara hated hospitals. A hospital was her father lying in bed, pale and
suddenly old. "What the bluidy hell are you doin' here?
You've work
to dae at the boardinghouse."
Lara walked into Kathy's room. It was filled with
flowers. Kathy was sitting up in bed.
"How do you feel?" Lara asked.
Kathy smiled. "The doctor said I'm going to be fine." "You'd better be. Your work is piling up. I need you." "I ... I don't know how to thank you for all this." "Don't."
Lara picked up the bedside phone and put a call through to her
office.
She spoke to Terry hill. "Are they still there?"
"They're still here. They intend to stay until you return."
"Check with Howard. As soon as he clears the street people out of the
building, I'll come back." Lara replaced the receiver.
"If you need anything, let me know," Lara said. "I'll be back to see
you tomorrow."
Lara's next stop was at the architectural offices of higgins, Almont &
Clark. She was ushered in to see Mr. Clark. lIe rose as she walked
into his office.
"What a nice surprise. What can I do for you, Miss Cameron?"
"Do you have the plans here for the project on Fourteenth
Street?"
"Yes, indeed." lIe went over to his drawing board. "here we are."
There was a sketch of a beautiful high rise complex with apartment
buildings and shops around it.
"I want you to redraw it," Lara said. "What?"
Lara pointed to a space in the middle of the block.
"There's a building still standing in this area. I want you to draw
the same concept, but construct it around that building."
"You mean you want to put up the project with one of the old buildings
still standing? It would never work.
First of all, it would look terrible and..."
"Just do it, please. Send it over to my office this afternoon."
And Lara was gone.
From the car she telephoned Terry hill. "have you heard from Howard
yet?"
"Yes. The squatters have all been cleared out."
"Good. Get the district attorney on the phone. Tell him that I had
ordered those squatters out two days ago and that there was a lack of
communication. The minute I heard about it, today, I had them moved
out. I'm on my way back to the office now. See if he still wants to
arrest me."
She said to the driver, "Drive through the park. Take your time."
Thirty minutes later, when Lara reached her office, the men with the
warrant were gone.
Lara was in a meeting with Howard Keller and Terry hill.
"The tenants still won't budge," Keller said. "I even went back and
offered them more money. They're not leaving. We've only got five
days left before we have to begin bulldozing."
Lara said, "I asked Mr. Clark to draw up a new blueprint for the
project."
"I saw it," Keller said. "It doesn't make any sense.
We can't leave that old building standing in the middle of a new giant
construction. We're going to have to go to the bank and ask them if
they'll move back the start date."
"No," Lara said. "I want to move it up." "What?"
"Get hold of the contractor. Tell him we want to start bulldozing
tomorrow." "Tomorrow? Lara..."
"First thing in the morning. And take that blueprint and give it to
the foreman of the construction crew." "What good will that do?" Keller asked.
"We'll see."
The following morning the remaining tenants of the Dorchester
Apartments were awakened by the roar of a bulldozer. They looked out
of their windows. halfway down the block, as they watched, a
mechanical behemoth was moving toward them, leveling everything in its
path.
The tenants were stunned.
Mr. hershey, who lived on the top floor, rushed outside and hurried
over to the foreman. "What do you think you're doing?" he screamed.
"You can't go ahead with this." "Who says so?"
"The city does." hershey pointed to the building he lived in.
"You're not permitted to touch that building."
The foreman looked at the blueprint in front of him.
"That's right," he said. "We have orders to leave that building
standing." hershey frowned. "What? Let me see that." lIe looked at
the plan and gasped. "They're going to put up the plaza and leave this
building standing?" "That's right, mister."
"But they can't do that! The noise and dirt!"
"That's not my problem. Now, if you'll get out of my way,
I'd like to
get back to work."
Thirty minutes later Lara's secretary said, "There's a Mr. hershey on
line two, Miss Cameron." "Tell him I'm not available."
When hershey called for the third time that afternoon,
Lara finally
picked up the phone and spoke with him. "Yes, Mr. hershey. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to come in and see you, Miss Cameron."
"I'm afraid I'm rather busy. Whatever it is you have to say you can
say on the phone."
"Well, you'll be glad to know that I've talked to the other tenants in
our building and we've agreed that it might be best after all to take
your offer and vacate our apartments."
"That offer is no longer good, Mr. hershey. You can all stay where
you are."
"If you build around us, we're never going to get any sleep!"
"Who told you we were going to build around you?" Lara demanded. "Where did you get that information?" "The foreman on the job showed me a blueprint and..."
"Well, he's going to be fired." There was fury in Lara's voice. "That
was confidential information."
"Wait a minute. Let's talk like two reasonable people, okay? Your
project would be better off if we got out of here, and I think we'd be
better off leaving. I don't want to live in the middle of a damned
high rise."
Lara said, "It doesn't matter to me whether you go or stay, Mr.
hershey." her voice softened. "I'll tell you what I'll do. If that
building is vacated by next month I'm willing to go with our first
offer."
She could hear him thinking it over.
Finally he said reluctantly, "Okay. I'll talk to the others, but I'm
sure it will be all right. I really appreciate this, Miss Cameron."
Lara said, "It's been my pleasure, Mr. hershey."
The following month, work on the new project began in earnest.
Lara's reputation was growing. Cameron Enterprises was putting up a
high rise in Brooklyn, a shopping center in Westchester, a mall in
Washington, D.C. There was a low-cost housing project being constructed
in Dallas and a block of condominiums in Los Angeles.
Capital flowed
in from banks, savings and loan companies, and eager private
investors.
Lara had become a Name. Kathy had returned to work.
"I'm back."
Lara studied her a moment. "How do you feel?" Kathy smiled. "Great. Thanks to..."
"Do you have a lot of energy?"
She was surprised at the question. "Yes. I..."
"Good. You're going to need it. I'm making you my executive
assistant. There will be a nice raise for you." "I don't know what to say. I "You've earned it." Lara saw the memo in Kathy's hand. "What's that?"
"Gourmet magazine would like to publish your favorite recipe. Are you
interested?"
"No. Tell them I'm too ... wait a minute." She sat there a moment,
lost in thought. Then she said softly, "Yes. I'll give them a
recipe."
The recipe appeared in the magazine three months later.
It began: Black Bun-A classic Scottish dish. A mixture encased in a
short paste jacket made from half a pound of flour, a quarter pound of
butter, a touch of cold water, and a half a teaspoon of baking power.
Inside are two pounds of raisins, half a pound of chopped almonds,
three-quarters of a pound of flour, half a pound of sugar, two
teaspoons of allspice, a teaspoon of ground ginger, a teaspoon of
cinnamon, a half teaspoon of baking powder, and a dash of
brandy...
Lara looked at the article for a long time, and it brought back the
taste of it, the smell of the boardinghouse kitchen, the noise of the
boarders at supper. her father helpless in his bed. She put the
magazine away.
* * * People recognized Lara on the street, and when she walked into a
restaurant, there were always excited whispers. She was escorted
around town by half a dozen eligible suitors and had flattering
proposals, but she was not interested. In a strange, almost eerie way,
she was still looking for someone. Someone familiar.
Someone she had never met.
Lara would wake up at five o'clock every morning and have her driver,
Max, take her to one of the buildings under construction.
She would
stand there, staring at what she was creating, and she thought, You
were wrong, Father. I can collect the rents.
For Lara, the sounds of the day began with the rata-tat-tat of the
jackhammers, the roar of the bulldozers, the clanging of heavy metal.
She would ride the rickety construction elevator to the top and stand
on the steel girders with the wind blowing in her face, and she
thought, I own this city.
Paul Martin and Lara were in bed.
"I hear you chewed out a couple of your construction
workers pretty good today."
"They deserved it," Lara said. "They were doing sloppy work."
Paul grinned. "At least you've learned not to slap them."
"Look what happened when I did slap one." She snuggled up to him. "I
met you."
"I have to take a trip to L.A" Paul said. "I'd like you to come with
me. Can you get away for a few days?"
"I'd love to, Paul, but it's impossible. I schedule my days with a
stopwatch." lIe sat up and looked down at her. "Maybe you're doing
too much, baby.
Don't ever get too busy for me."
Lara smiled and began to stroke him. "Don't worry about that. It will
never happen."
* * It had been there in front of her all the time, and she had not
seen it. It was a huge waterfront property in the Wall Street area,
near the World Trade Center. And it was for sale. Lara had passed it
a dozen times, but she looked at it now and saw what should have been
there all along: In her mind, she could see the world's tallest
building. She knew what Howard was going to say: "You're getting in
over your head, Lara. You can't get involved with this."
But she knew
that nothing was going to stop her.
When she got to the office, she called a meeting of her staff.
"The Wall Street property on the waterfront," Lara said. "We're going
to buy it. We're going to put up the tallest skyscraper in the
world." "Lara..."
"Before you say anything, Howard, let me point out a few things. The
location is perfect. It's in the heart of the business district.
Tenants will be fighting to get office space there. And remember, it's
going to be the tallest skyscraper in the world. That's a big
sizzle.
It's going to be our flagship. We'll call it Cameron Towers."
"Where's the money coming from?" Lara handed him a piece of paper.
Keller was examining the figures. "You're being optimistic."
"I'm being realistic. We're not talking about just any building.
We're talking about a jewel, Howard." lIe was thinking hard. "You'll
be stretching yourself thin."
Lara smiled. "We've done that before, haven't we?"
Keller said, thoughtfully, "The tallest skyscraper in the world..."
"That's right. And the banks call us every day, throwing money at
us.
They'll jump at this."
"They probably will," Keller said. lIe looked at Lara. "You really want this, don't you?"
"Yes."
Keller sighed. lIe looked around at the group. "All right. The first
step is to take an option on the property."
Lara smiled. "I've already done that. And I have some other news for
you. Steve Murchison was negotiating for that property."
"I remember him. We took that hotel site away from him in Chicago."
"I'm going to let it go this time, bitch, because I don't think you
know what the hell you're doing. But in the future, stay out of my
way-you could get hurt."
"Right." Murchison had become one of the most ruthless and successful
real estate developers in New York.
Keller said, "Lara, he's bad news. lIe enjoys destroying people."
"You worry too much."
The financing for Cameron Towers went smoothly.
Lara had been right. The bankers felt that there was a sizzle to the
tallest skyscraper in the world. And the name of Cameron was an added
cachet. They were eager to be associated with her.
Lara was more than a glamorous figure. She was a symbol to the women
of the world, an icon. If she can accomplish this, why not me? A
perfume was named after her. She was invited to all the important
social events, and hostesses were eager to have her at their dinner
parties. her name on a building seemed to ensure success.
"We're going to start our own construction company," Lara decided one
day. "We have the crews. We'll rent them out to other builders."
"That's not a bad idea," Keller said.
"Let's go for it. How soon are we going to break ground for Cameron
Towers?"
"The deal's in place. I would say three months from now.
Lara sat back in her chair. "Can you imagine it, Howard?
The tallest
skyscraper in the world." lIe wondered what Freud would have made of
that.
The ground-breaking ceremony for Cameron Towers had the atmosphere of a
three-ring circus. America's Princess, Lara Cameron, was the main
attraction. The event had been heavily publicized in the newspapers
and on television, and a crowd of more than two hundred people had
gathered, waiting for Lara to arrive. When her white limousine pulled
up to the building site, there was a roar from the crowd. "There she is!"
As Lara stepped out of the car and moved toward the building site to
greet the mayor, police and security guards held the crowd back. The
people pushed forward, screaming and calling her name, and the
photographers' flashbulbs began popping.
In a special roped-off section were the bankers, heads of advertising
agencies, company directors, contractors, project managers, community
representatives, and architects. One hundred feet away, large
bulldozers and backhoes were standing by, ready to go to work. Fifty
trucks were lined up to cart the rubble away.
Lara was standing next to the mayor and the Manhattan borough
president. It had started to drizzle. Jerry Townsend, head of public
relations for Cameron Enterprises, hurried toward Lara with an
umbrella. She smiled and waved him away.
The mayor spoke into the cameras. "Today is a great day for
Manhattan.
This ground-breaking ceremony at Cameron Towers marks the beginning of
one of the largest real estate projects in Manhattan's history. Six
blocks of Manhattan real estate will be converted into a modern
community that will include apartment buildings, two shopping centers,
a convention center, and the tallest skyscraper in the world."
There was applause from the crowd.
"Wherever you look," the mayor continued, "you can see Lara Cameron's
contribution written in concrete." lIe pointed. "Uptown is the
Cameron Center. And near it, Cameron Plaza and half a dozen housing
projects. And across the country is the great Cameron hotel chain."
The mayor turned to Lara and smiled. "And she's not only brainy, she's
beautiful."
There was laughter and more applause. "Lara Cameron, ladies and gentlemen.
Lara looked into the television cameras and smiled.
"Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I'm very pleased to have made some small
contribution to this fabulous city of ours. My father always told me
that the reason we were put on this earth was..." She hesitated. Out
of the corner of her eye, she had seen a familiar figure in the
crowd.
Steve Murchison. She had seen his photograph in newspapers. What
was he doing here? Lara went on. ... "was to leave it a better place
than when we came into it. Well, I hope that in my own small way, I've
been able to do that."
There was more applause. Lara was handed a ceremonial hard hat and a
chrome-plated shovel.
"Time to go to work, Miss Cameron." The flashbulbs began to pop again.
Lara pushed the shovel into the dirt and dug up the first bit of
earth.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, refreshments were served, while the
television cameras kept recording the event. When Lara looked around
again, Murchison was nowhere in sight.
Thirty minutes later Lara Cameron was back in the limousine headed for
the office. Jerry Townsend was seated next to her. "I thought it went great," he said. "Just great." "Not bad," Lara grinned. "Thanks, Jerry."
The executive suites of Cameron Enterprises occupied the entire
fiftieth floor of Cameron Center.
Lara got off at the fiftieth floor, and by then the word had gotten
around that she was arriving. The secretaries and staff were busily at
work.
Lara turned to Jerry Townsend. "Come into my office."
The office was an enormous corner suite overlooking the city.
Lara glanced at some papers on her desk and looked up at Jerry.
"How's your father? Is he any better?" What did she know about his father? "lIe's... he's not well."
"I know. lIe has huntington's chorea, hasn't he, Jerry?"
"Yes."
It was a terrible disease. It was progressive and degenerative,
characterized by spasmodic involuntary movements of the face and
extremities, accompanied by the loss of mental faculties. "How do you know about my father?"
"I'm on the board at the hospital where he's being treated. I heard
some doctors discussing his case." Jerry said tightly, "It's incurable."
"Everything is incurable until they find the cure," Lara said. "I did
some checking. There's a doctor in Switzerland who's doing some
advanced research on the disease. lIe's willing to take on your
father's case. I'll handle the expenses." Jerry stood there, stunned.
"Okay?" lIe found it difficult to speak. "Okay." I don't know her,
Jerry Townsend thought. Nobody knows her.
history was being made, but Lara was too busy to notice. Ronald
Reagan had been re-elected, and a man named Mikhail Gorbachev had
succeeded Chernenko as leader of the USSR.
Lara built a low-income housing development in Detroit.
In 1986 Ivan Boesky had been fined a hundred million dollars in an
insider trading scandal and sentenced to three years in prison.
Lara started development on condominiums in Queens.
Investors were
eager to be a part of the magic of her name. A group of German
investment bankers flew to New York to meet with Lara.
She arranged
for the meeting immediately after their plane landed.
They had
protested, but Lara said, "I'm so sorry, gentlemen. It's the only time
I have. I'm leaving for hong Kong."
The Germans were served coffee. Lara had tea. One of the Germans
complained about the taste of the coffee.
"It's a special brand made for me," Lara explained. "The flavor will
grow on you. Have another cup."
By the end of the negotiations Lara had won all her points.
Life was a series of serendipities, except for one disturbing
incident.
Lara had had several run-ins with Steve Murchison over various
properties, and she had always managed to outwit him. "I think we should back off," Keller warned.
"Let him back off."
And one morning a beautiful package wrapped in rose paper arrived from
Bendel's. Kathy laid it on Lara's desk.
ú "It's awfully heavy," Kathy said. "If it's a hat, you're in
trouble."
Curious, Lara unwrapped it and opened the lid. The box
was packed with
dirt. A printed card inside read: "The Frank E. Campbell Funeral
Chapel."
The building projects were all going well. When Lara read about a
proposed inner-city playground that was stymied because of bureaucratic
red tape, she stepped in, had her company build it, and donated it to
the city. The publicity she received on it was enormous.
One headline
read: LARA CAMERON STANDS FOR "CAN DO."
She was seeing Paul once or twice a week, and she talked to him every
day.
Lara bought a house in Southampton and lived in a farttasy world of
expensive jewels and furs and limousines. her closets were filled
with beautiful designer clothes. "I need some clothes for school."
"Weel, I'm nae made of money. Get yourself something frae the
Salvation Army Citadel."
And Lara would order another outfit.
her employees were her family. She worried about them and was
generous with them. They were all she had. She remembered their
birthdays and anniversaries.
She helped get their children into good schools and set up scholarship
funds for them. When they tried to thank her, Lara was embarrassed.
It was difficult for her to express her emotions. her
father had
ridiculed her when she had tried. Lara had built a protective wall
around herself. No one is ever going to hurt me again, she vowed.
No one.
Chapter Seventeen.
I'm leaving for London in the morning, Howard." "What's up?" Keller asked.
"Lord MacIntosh has invited me to come over and take a look at a
property he's interested in. lIe wants to go into partnership."
Brian MacIntosh was one of the wealthiest real estate developers in
England.
"What time do we leave?" Keller asked. "I've decided to go alone."
"Oh?"
"I want you to keep an eye on things here." lIe nodded. "Right. I'll
do that."
"I know you will. I can always count on you."
The trip to London was uneventful. The private 727 she had purchased
took off in the morning and landed at the Magec Terminal at Luton
Airport outside London.
She had no idea her life was about to change.
When Lara arrived at the lobby of Claridges, Ronald Jones,
the manager,
was there to greet her. "It's a pleasure to have you back, Miss
Cameron. I'll show you to your suite. By the way, we have some
messages for you."
There were more than two dozen.
The suite was lovely. There were flowers from Brian MacIntosh and from
Paul Martin, and champagne and hors d'oeuvres from the management. The
phone began to ring the minute Lara walked in. The calls were from all
over the United States.
"The architect wants to make some changes in the plans.
It will cost a fortune. "
"There's a holdup on the cement delivery. "
"The First National Savings and Loan wants in on our next deal "The
mayor wants to know if you can be in L.A. for the opening. lIe'd like
to plan a big ceremony. "
"The toilets haven't arrived. "
"Bad weather is holding us up. We're falling behind schedule. "
Each problem required a decision, and when Lara finally finished with
her calls, she was exhausted. She had dinner in her room alone and sat
looking out the window, at the Rolls-Royces and Bentleys pulling up to
the Brook Street entrance, and a feeling of elation swept over her.
The little girl from Glace Bay has come a long way, Daddy.
The following morning Lara went with Brian MacIntosh to look at the
proposed site. It was enormoustwo miles of riverside frontage filled
with old run-down buildings and storage sheds.
"The British government will give us a lot of tax relief on this,"
Brian MacIntosh explained, "because we're going to rehabilitate this
whole section of the city."
"I'd like to think about it," Lara said. She had already made up her
mind.
"By the way, I have tickets to a concert tonight," Brian MacIntosh told
her. "My wife has a club meeting. Do you like classical music?"
Lara had no interest in classical music. "Yes."
"Philip Adler is playing Rachmaninoff." lIe looked at Lara as though
expecting her to say something. She had never heard of Philip Adler.
"It sounds wonderful," Lara said.
"Good. We'll have supper afterward at Scotts. I'll pick you up at
seven."
Why did I say I liked classical music? Lara wondered.
It was going to be a boring evening. She would have preferred to take
a hot bath and go to sleep. Oh, well, one more evening won't hurt
me.
I'll fly back to New York in the morning.
The Festival hall was crowded with music aficionados. The men wore
dinner jackets and the women were dressed in beautiful evening gowns.
It was a gala evening, and there was a feeling of excited expectation
in the large hall.
Brian MacIntosh purchased two programs from the usher, and they were
seated. lIe handed Lara a program.
She barely glanced at it. The London Philharmonic Orchestra... Philip
Adler playing Rachmaninoffs Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor, Opus
30.
I've got to call Howard and remind him about the revised estimates on
the Fifth Avenue site.
The conductor appeared on stage, and the audience applauded. Lara paid
no attention. The contractor in Boston is moving too slowly. He needs
a carrot. I'll tell Howard to offer him a bonus.
There was another loud round of applause from the audience. A man was
taking his place at the piano at center stage. The conductor gave a
downbeat, and the music began.
Philip Adler's fingers flashed across the keys.
A woman seated behind Lara said with a loud Texas accent, "Isn't he
fantastic? I told you, Agnes!"
Lara tried to concentrate again. The London deal is out.
It's the
wrong neighborhood, Lara thought. People aren't going to want to live
there. Location. Location. Location. She thought about a project
that had been brought to her, near Columbus Circle. Now that one could
work.
The woman behind Lara said, loudly, "his expression ... he's
fabulous!
lIe's one of the most..." Lara tried to tune her out.
The cost of an office building there would be approximately four
hundred dollars per rentable square foot. If I can bring in the
construction cost at one hundred fifty million, the land costs at one
hundred twenty-five million, the soft costs... "My God!" the woman behind Lara exclaimed.
Lara was startled out of her reverie. "lIe's so brilliant!"
There was a drumroll from the orchestra, and Philip Adler played four
bars alone, and the orchestra began to play faster and faster. The
drums began to beat...
The woman could not contain herself. "Listen to that!
The music is going from pit: vivo to pit: mosso. have you ever heard
anything so exciting?" Lara gritted her teeth.
The minimum break-even should work out all right, 1 she thought. The
cost of the rentable square feet would be three hundred fifty million,
the interest at ten percent would be thirty-five million, plus ten
million in operating expenses...
The tempo of the music was increasing, reverberating through the
hall.
The music came to a sudden climax and stopped, and the audience was on
its feet, cheering.
There were calls of "bravo!" The pianist had risen and was taking
bows.
Lara did not even bother to look up. Taxes would be about six, free
rent concessions would come to two. We're talking about fifty-eight
million.
"lIe's incredible, isn't he?" Brian MacIntosh said.
"Yes." Lara was annoyed at having her thoughts interrupted again.
"Let's go backstage. Philip is a friend of mine."
"I really don't..." lIe took Lara's hand, and they were moving toward
an exit.
"I'm glad I'll have a chance to introduce you to him,"
Brian MacIntosh said.
It's six o'clock in New York, Lara thought. I'll be able to call
Howard and tell him to start negotiations.
"lIe's a once-in-a-lifetime experience, isn't he?" Once is enough for me, Lara thought. "Yes."
They had reached the outside artists' entrance. There was a large
crowd waiting. Brian MacIntosh knocked on the door. A doorman opened
it.
"Yes, sir?"
"Lord MacIntosh to see Mr. Adler."
"Right, my lord. Come in, please." lIe opened the door wide enough to
let Brian MacIntosh and Lara enter, then closed it against the crowd.
"What do all these people want?" Lara asked.
lIe looked at her in surprise. "They're here to see Philip."
She wondered why.
The doorman said, "Go right into the greenroom, my lord." "Thank you."
Five minutes, Lara thought, and I'll say I have to leave.
The greenroom was noisy and already full. People were crowded around a
figure Lara could not see. The crowd shifted, and for an instant he
was clearly visible.
Lara froze, and for a moment she felt her heart stop. The vague,
evanescent image that had been at the back of her mind all those years
had suddenly materialized out of nowhere. Lochinvar, the vision in her
fantasies, had come to life! The man at the center of the crowd was
tall and blond, with delicate, sensitive features. lIe was wearing
white tie and tails, and a feeling of deja vu swept over Lara: She was
standing at the kitchen sink in the boardinghouse, and the handsome
young man in white tie and tails came up behind her and whispered, "Can
I help you?"
Brian MacIntosh was watching Lara, concerned. "Are you all right?"
"I... I'm fine." She was finding it difficult to breathe.
Philip Adler was moving toward them, smiling, and it was the same warm
smile Lara had imagined. lIe held out his hand. "Brian, how good of
you to come."
"I wouldn't have missed it," MacIntosh said. "You were simply
marvelous." "Thank you."
"Oh, Philip, I would like you to meet Lara Cameron."
Lara was looking into his eyes, and the words came out unbidden. "Do
you dry?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Lara turned red. "Nothing. I..." She was suddenly tongue-tied.
People were crowding around Philip Adler, heaping praise
on him.
"You've never played better..."
"I think Rachmaninoff was with you tonight..."
The praise went on and on. The women in the room were crowding around
him, touching and pulling at him.
Lara stood there watching, mesmerized. her childhood dream had come
true. her fantasy had become flesh and blood.
"Are you ready to go?" Brian MacIntosh asked Lara.
No. She wanted nothing more than to stay. She wanted to talk to the
vision again, to touch him, to make sure he was real. "I'm ready,"
Lara said reluctantly.
The following morning Lara was on her way back to New York. She
wondered whether she would ever see Philip Adler again.
She was unable to get him out of her mind. She tried to tell herself
that it was ridiculous, that she was trying to relive a childhood
dream, but it was no use. She kept seeing his face, hearing his
voice.
I must see him again, Lara thought.
Early the next morning Paul Martin telephoned. "hi, baby. I missed you. How was London?" "Fine," Lara said carefully. "Just fine."
When they had finished talking, Lara sat at her desk thinking about
Philip Adler.
"They're waiting for you in the conference room, Miss Cameron."
"I'm coming."
"We lost the Queens deal," Keller said. "Why? I thought it was all set."
"So did I, but the community board refuses to support the zoning
change."
Lara looked around at the Executive Committee assembled in the room.
There were architects, lawyers, publicity men, and construction
engineers.
Lara said, "I don't understand. Those tenants have an average income
of nine thousand dollars a year, and they're paying less than two
hundred dollars a month in rent. We're going to rehabilitate the
apartments for them, at no increase in rent, and we're going to provide
new apartments for some of the other residents in the neighborhood.
We're giving them Christmas in July and they turned you down? What's
the problem?"
"It's not the board so much. It's their chairman. A lady named Edith
Benson."
"Set up another meeting with her. I'll go there myself." Lara took her chief construction supervisor, Bill Whitman,
to the meeting.
Lara said, "Frankly, I was stunned when I heard that your board turned
us down. We're going to put up over a hundred million dollars to
improve this neighborhood, and yet you refuse to..."
Edith Benson cut her short. "Let's be honest, Miss Cameron. You're
not putting up the money to improve the neighborhood.
You're putting
up the money so Cam- I eron Enterprises can make more money."
"Of course, we expect to make money," Lara said.
"But the only way we can do that is to help you people.
We're going to make the living conditions in your area better,
and..."
"Sorry. I don't agree. Right now, we're a quiet little neighborhood.
If we let you in, we're going to become a higher-density area-more
traffic, more automobiles, more pollution. We don't want any of
that."
"Neither do I," Lara said. "We don't intend to put up dingbats that
"Dingbats?"
"Yes, those ugly, stripped-down, three-story stucco boxes.
We're
interested in designs that won't increase the noise level or reduce the
light or change the feel of the neighborhood. We're not interested in
hot dog, show-off architecture. I've already hired
Stanton Fielding,
the top architect in the country, to design this project, and Andrew
Burton from Washington to do the landscaping."
Edith Benson shrugged. "I'm sorry. It's no use. I don't think
there's anything more to discuss." She started to rise.
I can't lose this, Lara thought desperately. Can't they see it's for
the good of their neighborhood? I'm trying to do something for them
and they won't let me. And suddenly she had a wild idea.
"Wait a minute," Lara said. "I understand that the other members of
the board are willing to make the deal but you are the one blocking
it."
"That's correct."
Lara took a deep breath. "There is something to discuss."
She
hesitated. "It's very personal." She was fidgeting now. "You say I'm
not worried about pollution and what happens to the environment in this
neighborhood if we move in? I'm going to tell you something that I
hope you will keep in confidence. I have a ten-year-old daughter that
I'm crazy about, and she's going to live in the new building with her
father. lIe has custody of her."
Edith Benson was looking at her in surprise. "I... I didn't know you
had a daughter."
"No one does," Lara said quietly. "I've never been married. That's
why I'm asking you to keep this confidential. If it gets
out, it could
be very damaging to me.
I'm sure you understand that." "I do understand."
"I love my daughter very much, and I assure you that I would never do
anything in the world that would hurt her. I intend to do everything I
can to make this project wonderful for all the people who live here.
And she'll be one of them."
There was a sympathetic silence. "I must say, this ... this puts quite
a different complexion on things, Miss Cameron. I'd like to have some
time to think about it."
"Thank you. I appreciate that." If I did have a daughter, Lara
thought, it would be safe for her to live here.
Three weeks later Lara got the approval from the City Planning
Commission to go ahead with the project.
"Great," Lara said. "Now we'd better get hold of Stanton Fielding and
Andrew Burton and see if they're interested in working on the
project."
Howard Keller could not believe the news. "I heard what happened," he
said. "You conned her! That's incredible. You don't have a
daughter!"
"They need this project," Lara said. "This was the only way I could
think of to change their minds."
Bill Whitman was listening. "There'll be hell to pay if they ever find
out."
In January construction was completed on a new building on East
Sixty-third Street. It was a forty-fivestory apartment building, and
Lara reserved the duplex penthouse for herself. The rooms were large,
and the apartment had terraces that covered a full block.
She brought
in a top decorator to do the apartment. There was a housewarming for a
hundred people.
"All it lacks is a man," one of the lady guests said cattily.
And Lara thought of Philip Adler and wondered where he was and what he
was doing.
Lara and Howard Keller were in the middle of a discussion when Bill
Whitman came into the office "hi, boss. Got a minute?" Lara looked up from her desk. "Just about, Bill.
What's the problem?" "My wife."
"If you're having marital difficulties..."
"It's not that. She thinks we ought to go away for a while on
vacation. Maybe go to Paris for a few weeks."
Lara frowned. "Paris? We're in the middle of half a dozen jobs."
"I know, but I've been working long hours lately, and I don't get to
see much of my wife. You know what she said to me this morning? She
said, 'Bill, if you got a promotion and a nice raise, you wouldn't have
to work so hard."" lIe smiled.
Lara sat back in her chair, studying him. "You aren't due for a raise
until next year."
Whitman shrugged. "Who knows what can happen in a year?
We might run
into problems with that Queens deal, for instance. You know, old Edith
Benson might hear something that would make her change her mind.
Right?"
Lara sat very still. "I see."
Bill Whitman got to his feet. "Think about it, and let me know."
Lara forced a smile. "Yes."
She watched him walk out of her office, her face grim. "Jesus," Keller said. "What was that all about?"
"It's called blackmail."
The following day Lara had lunch with Paul Martin.
Lara said, "Paul, I have a problem. I'm not sure how to handle it."
She told him about her conversation with Bill Whitman. "Do you think he'll really go back to the old lady?" Paul Martin asked.
"I don't know. But if he does, I could get in a lot of trouble with
the housing Commission."
Paul shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about him. lIe's probably
bluffing."
Lara sighed. "I hope so."
"How would you like to go to Reno?" Paul asked. "I'd love to, but I can't get away."
"I'm not asking you to get away. I'm asking if you'd like to buy a
hotel and casino there."
Lara studied him. "Are you serious?"
"I got word that one of the hotels is going to lose its license. The
place is a gold mine. When the news gets out, everyone is going to be
after it. The hotel's going on auction, but I think I can fix it for
you to get it."
Lara hesitated. "I don't know. I'm pretty heavily committed. Howard
Keller says the banks won't lend me any more until I can pay off some
loans."
"You don't have to go to a bank." "Then where...?"
"Junk bonds. A lot of Wall Street firms offer them.
There are savings and loan companies. You put up five percent equity,
and a savings and loan company will put up sixty-five
percent in
high-yield notes. That leaves thirty percent uncovered.
You can get
that from a foreign bank that invests in casinos. You've got
choices-Switzerland, Germany, Japan. There are half a dozen banks that
will put up the thirty percent in commercial notes." Lara was beginning to get excited. "It sounds great. Do you really think you can get the hotel for me?" Paul grinned. "It will be your Christmas present." "You're wonderful. Why are you so good to me?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea," he teased. But he knew the answer. lIe
was obsessed with her. Lara made him feel young again, and she made
everything exciting for him. I never want to lose you, he thought.
Keller was waiting for Lara when she walked into the office.
"Where have you been?" he asked. "There was a two o'clock meeting
that..."
"Tell me about junk bonds, Howard. We've never dealt with them. How
are bonds rated?"
"Well, at the top you have Triple A. That would be a company like AT
and T. Down the ladder you have Double A, Single A, BAA, and at the
bottom of the ladder, Double B-those are the junk bonds.
An investment
bond will pay nine percent. A junk bond will pay fourteen percent.
Why do you ask?" Lara told him.
"A casino, Lara? Jesus! Paul Martin is behind this, isn't he?"
"No, Howard. If I go ahead with this, I'm behind it.
Did we get an answer on our offer on the Battery Park property?"
"Yes. She won't sell to us."
"The property is up for sale, isn't it?" "In a way."
"Stop talking in circles."
"It's owned by a doctor's widow, Eleanor Royce. Every real estate
developer in town has been bidding on that property." "have we been outbid?"
"It isn't that. The old lady isn't interested in money. She's loaded."
"What is she interested in?"
"She wants some kind of monument to her husband.
Apparently she thinks she was married to Albert Schweitzer. She wants
to keep his flame burning. She doesn't want her property turned into
anything crass or commercial. I hear Steve Murchison has been trying
to talk her into selling." "Oh?"
Lara sat there quietly for a full minute. When she spoke, she said,
"Who's your doctor, Howard?" "What?"
"Who's your doctor?"
"Seymour Bennett. lIe's chief of staff at Midtown hospital."
The following morning Lara's attorney, Terry hill, was sitting in the
office of Dr. Seymour Bennett.
"My secretary told me that you wanted to see me urgently and that it
has nothing to do with a medical problem."
"In a sense," Terry Hill said, "it does concern a medical problem, Dr.
Bennett. I represent an investment group that wants to put up a
nonprofit clinic. We want to be able to take care of those unfortunate
people who can't afford regular medical care."
"That's a splendid idea," Dr. Bennett said. "What can I do to help
you?"
Terry Hill told him.
The following day Dr. Bennett was having tea in the home of Eleanor
Royce.
"They've asked me to approach you on behalf of this group, Mrs.
Royce.
They want to build a beautiful clinic, and they want to name it after
your late husband. They visualize it as sort of a shrine
to him."
Mrs. Royce's face lit up. "They do?"
They discussed the group's plans for an hour, and at the end of that
time Mrs. Royce said, "George would have loved this. You tell them
that they have a deal."
Construction began six months later. When it was completed, it was
gigantic. The entire square block was filled with huge apartment
buildings, an enormous shopping mall, and a theater complex. In a
remote corner of the property was a small one-story brick building. A
simple sign over the door read. GEORGE ROYCE MEDICAL CLINIC.
220
Chapter Eighteen.
ron Christmas Day Lara stayed home. She had been invited to a dozen
parties, but Paul Martin was going to drop by. "I have to be with Nina
and the kids today," he had explained, "but I want to come by and see
you."
She wondered what Philip Adler was doing on this Christmas Day.
It was a Currier & Ives postcard kind of day. New York was blanketed
in a beautiful white snowfall, wrapped in silence. When Paul Martin
arrived, he had a shopping bag full of gifts for Iara. "I had to stop at the office to pick these up," he said.
So his wife wouldn't know.
"You give me so much, Paul. You don't have to bring anything."
"I wanted to. Open them up now." Lara was touched by his eagerness to
see her reaction.
The gifts were thoughtful and expensive. A necklace from Cartier's,
scarves from Hermes, books from Rizzoli, an antique carriage clock, and
a small white envelope.
Lara opened it. It read: "Cameron Reno Hotel & Casino" in large block
letters. She looked up at him, in surprise. "I have the hotel?"
He nodded confidently. "You will have. The bidding starts next
week.
You're going to have fun with it," Paul Martin predicted. "I don't know anything about running a casino."
"Don't worry. I'll put some professionals in to manage it for you.
The hotel, you can handle yourself."
"I don't know how to thank you. You do so much formed."
He took her hands in his. "There isn't anything in the world that I
wouldn't do for you. Remember that." "I will," she said solemnly.
He was looking at his watch. "I have to get back home. I wish..." He
hesitated. "Yes?"
"Never mind. Merry Christmas, Lara." "Merry Christmas, Paul."
She went to the window and looked out. The sky had become a delicate
curtain of dancing snowfiakes. Restless, Lara walked to the radio and
turned it on. An announcer was saying, .... . and now, for its holiday
program, the Boston Symphony Orchestra presents Beethoven's Piano
Concerto No. Five in E flat, with Philip Adler, soloist."
Iara listened with her eyes, seeing him at the piano, handsome and
elegant. When the music ended, she thought, I've got to see him
again.
Bill Whitman was one of the best construction supervisors in the
business. He had risen through the ranks and was in great demand. He
worked steadily and earned good money, but he was dissatisfied. For
years he had watched builders reaping enormous fortunes while he got
nothing but a salary. In a way, he thought, they're making their money
off of me. The owner gets the cake; I get the crumbs. But the day
Lara Cameron had gone before the community board, everything changed.
She had lied to get the board's approval, and that lie could destroy
her.
If I went to the board and told them the truth, she'd be
out of business.
But Bill Whitman had no intention of doing that. He had a better
plan.
He intended to use what had happened as leverage. The boss lady was
going to give him anything he asked for. He could sense from their
first meeting at which he had asked for a promotion and raise that she
was going to give in. She had no choice. I'll start small, Bill
Whitman thought happily, and then I'll begin squeezing.
Two days after Christmas, work began again on the Eastside Plaza
project. Whitman looked around at the huge site and thought, This
one's going to be a real moneymaker. Only this time, I'm going to cash
in on it, too.
The site was crowded with heavy equipment. Cranes were digging into
the earth and lifting tons of it into waiting trucks. A crane wielding
a giant saw-toothed scoop bucket seemed to be stuck. The huge arm hung
suspended high in midair. Whitman strode toward the cab, under the
huge metal bucket.
"Hey, Jesse," he called. "What's the matter up there?"
The man in the cab mumbled something that Whitman could not hear.
Whitman moved closer. "What?"
Everything happened in a split second. A chain slipped, and the huge
metal bucket came crashing down on Whitman, smashing him to the
ground.
Men came running toward the body, but there was nothing to be done.
"The safety brake slipped," the operator explained later. "Gee, I feel
really awful. I liked Bill a lot."
* * When she heard the news, Lara immediately telephoned Paul Martin.
"Did you hear about Bill Whitman?" "Yes. It was on television." "Paul, you didn't...?"
He laughed. "Don't go getting any crazy ideas. You've been seeing too
many movies. Remember, the good guys always win in the end."
And Lara wondered, Am I one of the good guys?
There were more than a dozen bidders for the Reno hotel. "When do I bid?" Lara asked Paul.
"You don't. Not until I tell you. Let the others jump in first."
The bidding was secret, and the bids were sealed, to be opened on the
following Friday. By Wednesday Lara still had not made a bid. She
telephoned Paul Martin.
"Sit tight," he said. "I'll tell you when."
They stayed in touch by phone several times a day.
At 5:00 P.M one hour before the bidding was to close, Lara received a
phone call.
"Now! The high bid is a hundred and twenty million. I want you to go five million over it."
Lara gasped. "But if I do that, I'll lose money on the deal."
"Trust me," Paul said. "After you get the hotel and start redoing it,
you can cut corners on the changes.
They'll all be endorsed by the supervising engineer. You'll make up the five million and then some."
The following day Lara was notified that hers was the winning bid.
Now Lara and Keller were on their way to Reno.
* * * The hotel was called the Reno Palace. It was large and
sumptuous, with fifteen hundred rooms and a huge, glittering casino
that was empty. Iara and Howard Keller were being escorted through the
casino by a man named Tony Wilkie.
"The people who owned this got a bum deal," Wilkie said. "What kind of bum deal?" Keller asked.
"Well, it seems that a couple of the boys were pocketing a little money
from the cash cage "Skimming," Keller interjected.
"Yeah. Of course, the owners didn't know anything about it."
"Of course not."
"But someone blew the whistle, and the Gaming Commission pulled out the
rug. It's too bad. It was a very profitable operation." "I know." Keller had already studied the books.
When the tour of inspection was completed, and Lara and Howard were
alone, she said, "Paul was right. This is a gold mine."
She saw the
expression on Howard's face. "What's the matter?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't like us getting involved in
anything like this."
"What's 'anything like this'? It's a cash cow, Howard." "Who's going to run the casino?"
"We'll find people," Lara said evasively.
"Where from? The Girl Scouts? It takes gamblers to run an operation
like this. I don't know any, do you?" Lara was silent.
"I'll bet Paul Martin does."
"Leave him out of this," Lara said.
"I'd like to, and I'd like to leave you out of it. I don't think this
is such a great idea."
"You didn't think the Queens project was a great idea either, did
you?
Or the shopping center on Houston Street.
But they're making money, aren't they?"
"Lara, I never said they weren't good deals. All I said was that I
think we're moving too fast. You're swallowing up everything in sight,
but you haven't digested anything yet." Lara patted his cheek.
"Relax."
The members of the Gaming Commission received Lara with elaborate
courtesy.
"We don't often meet a beautiful young woman in here," the chairman
said. "It brightens up our day." Lara did look beautiful. She was
wearing a Donna Karan beige wool suit, with a cream-colored silk blouse
and, for good luck, one of the scarves Paul had given her for
Christmas. She smiled. "Thank you."
"What can we do for you?" one of the gaming commissioners asked. They
all knew perfectly well what they could do for her.
"I'm here because I would like to do something for Reno,"
Lara said
earnestly. "I would like to give it the biggest, most beautiful hotel
in Nevada. I'd like to add five stories to the Reno Palace, and put up
a large convention center to attract more tourists here to gamble."
The members of the board glanced at one another.
The chairman said, "I think something like that would have a very
beneficial effect on the city. Of course, our job is to
make sure that
an operation like this would be run completely aboveboard."
"I'm not exactly an escaped convict," Lara smiled.
They chuckled at her little joke. "We know your record, Miss Cameron,
and it is admirable. However, you've had no experience in running a
casino."
"That's true," Lara admitted. "On the other hand, I'm sure it will be
easy to find fine, qualified employees who will meet the approval of
this commission. I would certainly welcome your guidance."
One of the members of the commission spoke up. "As far as the
financing is concerned, can you guarantee...?"
The chairman interrupted. "That's all right, Tom, Miss Cameron has
submitted the financials on it. I'll see that you each get a copy."
Lara sat there, waiting.
The chairman said, "I can't promise anything at this moment, Miss
Cameron, but I think I'm safe in saying that I don't see any obstacles
to your being granted a license."
Iara beamed. "That's wonderful. I'd like to get moving as quickly as
possible."
"I'm afraid things don't move quite that fast here.
There will be a one-month waiting period before we can give you a
definite answer." Lara was dismayed. "A month?" "Yes. We have a bit of checking to do."
"I understand," Lara said. "That will be fine."
There was a music store in the hotel's shopping complex.
In the window
was a large poster of Philip Adler, advertising his new compact disc.
Lara was not interested in the music. She bought the CD for Philip's
photograph on the back of the case.
On their way back to New York, Lara said, "Howard, what do you know
about Philip Adler?"
"Just what everybody else knows. He's probably the top concert pianist
in the world today. He plays with the finest symphony orchestras. I
read somewhere that he just set up a foundation for scholarships for
minority musicians in inner cities." "What's it called?"
"The Philip Adler Foundation, I think."
"I'd like to make a contribution," Lara said. "Send them a check for
ten thousand dollars in my name."
Keller looked at her in surprise. "I thought you didn't care for
classical music."
"I'm starting to get interested in it," Lara said.
The headline read: DISTRICT ATTORNEY PROBE OF PAUL MARTINATTORNEY
REPUTED TO HAVE MAFIA TIES Lara read the story with dismay
and
telephoned Paul immediately. "What's going on?" Lara asked.
He chuckled. "The DA is on another fishing expedition.
They've been
trying to tie me in with the boys for years, and they haven't had any
luck. Every time an election comes up, they try to use me as their
whipping boy. Don't worry about it. What about dinner tonight?"
"Fine," Lara said.
"I know a little place on Mulberry Street where no one will bother
us."
Over dinner Paul Martin said, "I hear that the meeting with the Gaming
Commission went well."
"I think it did. They seemed friendly, but I've never done anything
like this before."
"I don't think you'll have any problem. I'll get you some good boys
for the casino. The man who owned the license got greedy." He changed
the subject. "How are all the construction jobs going?" "Fine. I have three projects in the works, Paul." "You're not getting in over your head, are you, Lara?"
He sounded like Howard Keller. "No. Every job is on budget and on
schedule."
"That's good, baby. I wouldn't want anything to ever go wrong for
you."
"Nothing will." She put her hand on his. "You're my safety net."
"I'll always be there." He squeezed her hand.
Two weeks went by, and Lara had not heard from Philip Adler. She sent
for Keller. "Did you make that ten-thousand dollar contribution to the
Adler Foundation?"
"Yes, the day you mentioned it."
"Strange. I would have thought he would have called me." Keller shrugged. "He's probably traveling somewhere." "Probably." She tried to conceal her disappointment. "Let's talk about the building in Queens."
"That's going to take a big financial bite out of us," Keller said.
"I know how to protect us. I'd like to lock the deal in with one
tenant."
"Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Yes. Mutual Security Insurance. The president is a man named Horace
Guttman. I've heard they're looking for a new location.
I'd like it
to be our building."
"I'll check it out," Keller said.
Lara noticed that he made no notes. "You constantly amaze me. You
remember everything, don't you?"
Keller grinned. "I have a photographic memory. It used to be for
baseball statistics." It all seems so long ago, Howard thought. The
kid with the magic arm, the star of the Chicago Cubs minor league.
Someone else and another time. "Sometimes it's a curse.
There are a
few things in my life I'd like to forget."
"Howard, have the architect go ahead and draw up floors Mutual Security
will need, and how much floor space."
Two days later Keller walked into Lara's office. "I'm afraid I have
some bad news." "What's the problem?"
"I did a little snooping around. You were right about Mutual Security
Insurance. They are looking for a new headquarters, but Guttman is
thinking about a building in Union Square. It's your old friend Steve
Murchison's building."
Murchison again! She was sure that the box of dirt had been sent by
him. I'm not going to let him bluff me. "Has Guttman committed to it?" Lara asked. "Not yet."
"All right. I'll handle it."
That afternoon Lara made a dozen phone calls. She hit the jackpot on
the last call. Barbara Roswell.
"Horace Guttman? Sure, I know him, Lara. What's your
interest in him?"
"I'd like to meet him. I'm a big fan of his. I want you to do me a
favor. Could you please invite him to dinner next Saturday night,
Barbara?" "You've got it."
The dinner party was simple but elegant. There were fourteen people at
the Roswell residence. Alice Guttman wasn't feeling well that evening,
so Horace Guttman had come to the party alone. Lara had been seated
next to him. He was in his sixties, but he seemed much older.
He had a stern, worn face and a stubborn chin. Lara looked enchanting,
provocative. She was wearing a lowcut black Halston gown and simple
but stunning jewelry.
They had had their cocktails and were seated at the diningtable.
"I've been wanting to meet you," Lara confessed. "I've heard so much
about you."
"I've heard a lot about you, young lady. You've made quite a splash in
this town."
"I hope I'm making a contribution," Lara said modestly. "It's such a
wonderful town." "Where are you from?" "Gary, Indiana."
"Really?" He looked at her in surprise. "That's where I was born.
So, you're a Hoosier, eh?" Lara smiled. "That's right.
I have such
fond memories of Gary. My father worked for the Post-Tribune. I went
to Roosevelt High. On weekends we'd go to Gleason Park for picnics and
outdoor concerts, or we'd go bowling at the Twelve and Twenty. I hated
having to leave."
"You've done well for yourself, Miss Cameron." "Iara."
"Lara. What are you up to these days?"
"The project I'm most excited about," Lara told him, "is a new building
I'm putting up in Queens. It's going to have thirty stories and two
hundred thousand square feetoffloorspace." "That's interesting," Guttman said, thoughtfully. "Oh," Lara said innocently. "Why?"
"It happens that we're looking for a building just about that size for
our new headquarters."
"Really? Have you chosen one yet?" "Not exactly, but..."
"If you'd like, I can show you the plans for our new building. They've
already been drawn up."
He studied her a moment. "Yes, I'd like to see them."
"I can bring them to your office Monday morning." "I'll look forward to it."
The rest of the evening went well.
When Horace Guttman reached home that night, he walked into his wife's
bedroom.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. "Better, darling. How was the party?"
He sat down on the bed. "Well, they all missed you, but I had an
interesting time. Have you ever heard of Lara Cameron?" "Certainly. Everyone has heard of Lara Cameron."
"She's quite a woman. A little strange. Says she was born in Gary,
Indiana, same as me. Knew all about GaryGleason Park and the Twelve
and Twenty."
"What's strange about that?"
Guttman looked at his wife and grinned. "The little lady comes from
Nova Scotia."
Early Monday morning lara appeared at Horace Guttman's office, carrying
the blueprints for the Queens project. She was ushered in immediately.
"Nice to see you, Lara. Sit down."
She laid the blueprints on his desk and sat across from him.
"Before you look at these," Lara said, "I have something to confess,
Horace."
Guttman leaned back in his chair. "Yes?"
"That story I told on Saturday about Gary, India..... "What about it?"
"I've never even been to Gary, Indiana. I was trying to impress y)) He
laughed. "Now you've succeeded in confusing me.
I'm not sure I'm going to be able to keep up with you, young lady.
Let's look at these blueprints."
Half an hour later he was through examining them.
"You know," he said reflectively, "I was pretty well set on another
location." "Were you?"
"Why should I change my mind and move into your building?"
"Because you're going to be happier there. I'll see that you have
everything you need." She smiled. "Besides, it's going to cost your
company ten percent less."
"Really? You don't know what my deal is for the other building."
"It doesn't matter. I'll take your word for it."
"You could have come from Gary, Indiana," Guttman said. "You've got a
deal."
When Lara returned to her office, there was a message that Philip Adler
had telephoned. Chapter Nineteen.
The ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria was crowded with patrons of
Carnegie Hall.
Lara moved through the crowd, looking for Philip. She recalled the
telephone conversation they had had a few days earlier. "Miss Cameron, this is Philip Adler."
Her throat went suddenly dry.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to thank you earlier for the donation you made
to the foundation. I've just returned from Europe and learned about
it."
"It was my pleasure," Lara said. She had to keep him talking.
"As...
as a matter of fact, I'm interested in knowing more about the
foundation. Perhaps we could get together and discuss it."
There was a pause. "There's going to be a charity dinner at the
Waldorf Saturday evening. We could meet there. Are you free?" Lara
quickly glanced at her schedule. She had a dinner meeting that evening
with a banker from Texas.
She made a quick decision. "Yes. I'd be delighted to go."
"Wonderful. There will be a ticket at the door for you."
When Lara replaced the receiver, she was beaming.
Philip Adler was nowhere in sight. Lara moved through the huge
ballroom, listening to the conversations around her.
"... so the leading tenor said, 'Dr. Klemperer, I have only two high
C's left. Do you want to hear them now or tonight at the performance?"..."
.... . oh, I admit that he has a good stick. His dynamics and tonal
shadings are excellent... but the tempi! Tempi! Spare me!..."
..... you're insane! Stravinsky is too structured. His music could
have been written by a robot. He holds back his feelings.
Bartok, on
the other hand, lets loose the floodgates, and we're bathed in
emotions. "
"I simply can't stand her playing. Her Chopin is an exercise in
tortured rubato, butchered textures, and purple passion...
It was an arcane language that was beyond Lara's comprehension. And
then she saw Philip, surrounded by an admiring coterie.
Lara pushed
her way through the crowd. An attractive young woman was saying, "When
you played the B flat Minor Sonata, I felt that Rachmaninoff was
smiling. Your tone and voicing, and the softgrained readings...
Wonderful!"
Philip smiled. "Thank you."
A middle-aged dowager was gushing, "I keep listening to your recording
of the Hammerklavier over and over.
My God! The vitality is irresistible! I think you must be the only
pianist left in this world who really understands that Beethoven
sonata..."
Philip saw Lara. "Ah. Excuse me," he said.
He made his way over to where she was standing and took her hand. His
touch aroused her. "Hello. I'm glad you could come, Miss Cameron."
"Thank you." She looked around. "This is quite a crowd."
He nodded. "Yes. I assume that you're a lover of classical music?"
Lara thought of the music she had grown up with: "Annie Laurie,"
"Comin' through the Rye," "The Hills of Home"...
"Oh, yes," Lara said. "My father brought me up on classical music."
"I want to thank you again for your contribution. That was really very generous."
"Your foundation sounds so interesting. I would love to hear more
about it. If..."
"Philip, darling! There are no words! Magnificent!" He was surrounded again.
Lara managed to make herself heard. "If you're free one evening next
week Philip shook his head. "I'm sorry, I leave for Rome tomorrow."
Lara felt a sudden sense of loss. "Oh."
"But I'll be back in three weeks. Perhaps then we could..."
"Wonderful!" Lara said.
..... spend an evening discussing music."
Lara smiled. "Yes. I'll look forward to that."
At that moment they were interrupted by two middle-aged men. One wore
his hair in a ponytail; the other had on a single earring.
"Philip! You must settle an argument for us. When you're playing
Liszt, which do you think is more important-a piano with heavy action
that gives you a colorful sound or light action where you can do a
colorful manipulation?"
Lara had no idea what they were talking about. They went off into a
discussion about neutral sonority and long sounds and transparency.
Lara watched the animation in Philip's face as he talked, and she
thought, This is his world. I've got to find a way to get into it.
The following morning Lara appeared at the Manhattan School of Music.
She said to the woman at the reception desk, "I'd like to see one of
the music professors, please." "Anyone in particular?"
"No."
"Just a moment, please." She disappeared into another room.
A few minutes later a small gray-haired man appeared at Lara's side.
"Good morning. I'm Leonard Meyers. How may I help you?" "I'm interested in classical music."
"Ah, you wish to enroll here. What instrument do you play?"
"I don't play any instrument. I just want to learn about classical
music."
"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. This school is not for
beginners."
"I'll pay you five thousand dollars for two weeks of your time."
Professor Meyers blinked. "I'm sorry, Miss... I didn't get your
name."
"Cameron. Lara Cameron."
"You wish to pay me five thousand dollars for a two week discussion of
classical music?" He had trouble getting the words out.
"That's right. You can use the money for a scholarship fund if you
wish."
Professor Meyers lowered his voice. "That will not be necessary. This
can just be between you and me."
"That's fine."
"When... .... . would you like to begin?" "Now."
"I have a class at the moment, but give me five minutes..."
Lara and Professor Meyers were seated in a classroom alone.
"Let us start at the beginning. Do you know anything about classical
music?"
"Very little."
"I see. Well, there are two ways to understand music," the professor
began. "Intellectually and emotionally.
Someone once said that music reveals to man his hidden soul. Every
great composer was able to accomplish that." Lara was listening intently.
"Are you familiar with any composers, Miss Cameron?" She smiled. "Not too many."
The professor frowned. "I don't really understand your interest
in..."
"I want to get enough of a background so that I can talk intelligently
to a professional musician about the classics. I'm... particularly
interested in piano" "I see." Meyers thought for a moment. "I'll tell
you how we're going to begin. I'm going to give you some
CDs to play."
Lara watched him walk over to a shelf and pull down some compact
discs.
"We'll start with these. I want you to listen carefully to the allegro
in Mozart's Piano Concerto No. Twenty-one in C, Kochel 467, and the
adagio in Brahms Piano Concerto No. One, and the moderato in
Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. Two in C Minor, Opus Eighteen, and
finally, the romanze in Chopin's Piano Concerto No. One. They're all marked."
"Right."
"If you would like to play these and come back in a few days..."
"I'll be back tomorrow."
The following day, when Lara came in, she was carrying half a dozen CDs
of Philip Adler's concerts and recitals.
"Ah, splendid!" Professor Meyers said. "Maestro Adler is the best.
You are particularly interested in his playing?" "Yes."
"The maestro has recorded many beautiful sonatas." "Sonatas?"
He sighed. "You don't know what a sonata is?" "I'm afraid I don't."
"A sonata is a piece, usually in several movements, that has a certain
basic musical form. And when that form is used in a piece for a solo
instrument, like a piano or violin, the piece is called a sonata. A
symphony is a sonata for orchestra."
"I understand." That shouldn't be difficult to work into a
conversation.
"The piano was originally known as the pianoforte. That is Italian for 'soft-loud'..."
They spent the next few days discussing tapes that Philip had
recorded-Beethoven, Liszt, Bartok, Mozart, Chopin. Lara listened, and absorbed, and remembered.
"He likes Liszt. Tell me about him."
"Franz Liszt was a boy genius. Everyone admired him. He was
brilliant. He was treated like a pet by the aristocracy, and he
finally complained that he had become on par with a juggler or a
performing dog. "
"Tell me about Beethoven."
"A difficult man. He was such an unhappy person that in the middle of
his great success he decided he didn't like the work that he had done,
and he changed to longer and more emotional compositions, like the
Eroica and the Pathetique. "
"Chopin?"
"Chopin was criticized for writing music for the piano, so the critics
of his day called him limited..."
Later: "Liszt could play Chopin better than Chopin could. "
Another day: "There's a difference between French pianists and American
pianists. The French like clarity and elegance.
Traditionally, their
technical schooling is grounded in jeu perleperfectly pearly evenness
of articulation with a steady wrist. "
Each day they played one of Philip's recordings and discussed it.
At the end of the two weeks Professor Meyers said, "I must confess that
I'm impressed, Miss Cameron. You are a truly dedicated pupil. Perhaps
you should take up an instrument."
Lara laughed. "Let's not get carried away." She handed him a check.
"Here you are."
She could not wait for Philip to return to New York. Chapter Twenty.
The day started with good news. Terry Hill called. "Lara?"
"Yes?"
"We just heard from the Gaming Commission. You've got your license."
"That's wonderful, Terry!"
"I'll go over the details when I see you, but it's a green light.
Apparently you impressed the hell out of them." "I'll get everything started right away," Lara said. "Thanks."
Lara told Keller what had happened.
"That's great. We can sure use the cash flow. That will take care of
a lot of our problems..."
Lara looked at her calendar. "We can fly there on Tuesday and get
things moving."
Kathy buzzed her. "There's a Mr. Adler on line two. Shall I tell him ...?"
Lara was suddenly nervous. "I'll take it." She picked up the
telephone. "Philip?" "Hello. I'm back."
"I'm glad." I missed you.
"I know it's short notice, but I wondered whether you might be free for
dinner this evening."
She had a dinner engagement with Paul Martin. "Yes. I'm free."
"Wonderful. Where would you like to dine?" "It doesn't matter."
"La Cote Basque?" "Fine."
"Why don't we meet there? Eight o'clock?" "Yes."
"See you tonight."
When Lara hung up, she was smiling. "Was that Philip Adler?" Keller asked. "Uh-huh. I'm going to marry him."
Keller was looking at her, stunned. "Are you serious?" "Yes."
It was a jolt. I'm going to lose her, Keller thought. And then?: Who am I kidding? I could never have her. "Lara... you hardly know him!"
I've known him all my life.
"I don't want you to make a mistake."
"I'm not. I..." Her private telephone rang. The one she had had
installed for Paul Martin. Lara picked it up. "Hello, Paul."
"Hi, Lara. What time would you like to make dinner tonight? Eight?"
She felt a sudden sense of guilt. "Paul... I'm afraid I can't make it
tonight. Something came up. I was just going to call you."
"Oh? Is everything all right?"
"Yes. Some people just flew in from Rome"that part at least was
true-"and I have to meet with them." "My bad luck. Another night, then." "Of course."
"I hear the license came through for the Reno hotel." "Yes."
"We're going to have fun with that place."
"I'm looking forward to it. I'm sorry about tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
The line went dead.
Lara replaced the receiver slowly.
Keller was watching her. She could see the disapproval on his face.
"Is something bothering you?"
"Yeah. It's all this modern equipment." "What are you talking about?"
"I think you have too many phones in your office. He's bad news, Lara."
Lara stiffened. "Mr. Bad News has saved our hides a few times,
Howard. Anything else?" Keller shook his head. "No."
"Right. Let's get back to work."
Philip was waiting for her when she arrived at La Cote Basque. People
turned to stare at Lara as she walked into the restaurant.
Philip
stood up to greet her, and Lara's heart skipped a beat. "I hope I'm not late," she said.
"Not at all." He was looking at her admiringly. His eyes were warm.
"You look lovely."
She had changed clothes half a dozen times. Should I wear something
simple or elegant or sexy? Finally, she had decided on a simple
Dior.
"Thank you."
When they were seated, Philip said, "I feel like an idiot."
"Oh? Why?"
"I never connected the name. You're that Cameron." She laughed. "Guilty."
"My God! You're a hotel chain, you're apartment buildings, office
buildings. When I travel, I see your name all over the country."
"Good." Lara smiled. "It will remind you of me."
He was studying her. "I don't think I need any reminding.
Do you get
tired of people telling you that you're very beautiful?" She started to say, "I'm glad you think I'm beautiful."
What came out was: "Are you married?" She wanted to bite her tongue.
He smiled. "No. It would be impossible for me to get married."
"Why?" For an instant she held her breath. Surely he's not...
"Because I'm on tour most of the year. One night I'm in Budapest, the
next night in London or Paris or Tokyo."
There was a sweeping sense of relief. "Ah. Philip, tell me about
yourself."
"What do you want to know?" "Everything."
Philip laughed. "That would take at least five minutes." "No, I'm serious. I really want to know about you."
He took a deep breath. "Well, my parents were Viennese.
My father was
a musical conductor, and my mother was a piano teacher. They left
Vienna to escape Hitler and settled in Boston. I was born there."
"Did you always know you wanted to be a pianist?" "Yes."
He was six years old. He was practicing the piano, and his father came
storming into the room. "No, no, no!
Don't you know a major chord from a minor?" His hairy finger slashed
at the sheet music. "That's a minor chord.
Minor. Do you understand?"
"Father, please, can I go? My friends are waiting for me outside."
"No. You will sit here until you get it right."
He was eight years old. He had practiced for four hours that morning
and had had a terrible fight with his parents. "I hate the piano," he
cried. "I never want to touch it again."
His mother said, "Fine. Now, let me hear the andante once more."
He was ten years old. The apartment was filled with guests, most of
them old friends of his parents from Vienna. All of them were
musicians.
"Philip is going to play something for us now," his mother announced.
"We'd love to hear little Philip play," they said in patronizing
voices.
"Play the Mozart, Philip."
Philip looked into their bored faces and sat down at the piano,
angry.
They went on chatting among themselves.
He began to play, his fingers flashing across the keyboard. The
talking suddenly stopped. He played a Mozart sonata, and the music was
alive. And at that moment he was Mozart, filling the room with the
magic of the master.
As Philip's fingers struck the last chord, there was an awed silence.
His parents' friends rushed over to the piano, talking excitedly,
effusive with their praise. He listened to their applause and
adulation, and that was the moment of his epiphany, when he knew who he
was and what he wanted to do with his life.
"Yes, I always knew I wanted to be a pianist," Philip told Lara.
"Where did you study piano?"
"My mother taught me until I was fourteen, and then they sent me to
study at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia." "Did you enjoy that?"
"Very much."
He was fourteen years old, alone in the city with no friends. The
Curtis Institute of Music was located in four turn-of-the-century
mansions near Philadelphia's Rittenhouse Square. It was the closest
American equivalent to the Moscow Conservatory of Viardo, Egorov, and
Toradze.
Its graduates included Samuel Barber, Leonard Bernstein, Gian Carlo
Menotti, Peter Serkin, and dozens of other brilliant musicians.
"Weren't you lonely there?" "No."
He was miserable. He had never been away from home before. He had
auditioned for the Curtis Institute, and when they accepted him, the
realization struck him that he was about to begin a new life, that he
would never go home again. The teachers recognized the young boy's
talent immediately. His piano teachers were Isabelle Vengerova and
Rudolf Serkin, and Philip studied piano, theory, harmony, orchestration, and flute. When he was not in class, he played chamber
music with the other students. The piano, which he had been forced to
practice from the time he was three years old, was now the focus of his
life. To him, it had become a magical instrument out of which his
fingers could draw romance and passion and thunder. It spoke a
universal language.
"I gave my first concert when I was eighteen with the Detroit
Symphony."
"Were you frightened?"
He was terrified. He found that it was one thing to play before a
group of friends. It was another to face a huge auditorium filled with
people who had paid money to hear him. He was nervously pacing
backstage when the stage manager grabbed his arm and said, "Go. Y on.>
He had never forgotten the feeling he had when he walked out onto the
stage and the audience began to applaud him.
He sat down at the piano, and his nervousness vanished in an instant.
After that his life became a marathon of concerts. He toured all over
Europe and Asia, and after each tour his reputation grew. William
Ellerbee, an important artists' manager, agreed to represent him.
Within two years Philip Adler was in demand everywhere.
Philip looked at Lara and smiled. "Yes. I still get frightened before
a concert."
"What's it like to go on tour?"
"It's never dull. Once I was on a tour with the Philadelphia
Symphony.
We were in Brussels, on our way to give a concert in London. The
airport was closed because of fog, so they took us by bus to Schiphol
Airport in Amsterdam. The man in charge explained that the plane they
had chartered for us was small and that the musicians could take either
their instruments or their luggage. Naturally they chose their
instruments. We arrived in London just in time to begin the concert.
We played it in jeans, sneakers, and unshaven." Lara laughed. "And I'll bet the audience loved it."
"They did. Another time I was giving a concert in Indiana, and the
piano was locked away in a closet and no one had a key.
We had to
break the door down." Lara giggled.
"Last year I was scheduled to do a Beethoven concerto in Rome, and one
of the music critics wrote: 'Adler gave a ponderous performance, with
his phrasing in the finale completely missing the point.
The tempo was
too broad, rupturing the pulse of the piece."" "That's awful!" Lara
said sympathetically.
"The awful part was that I never even gave that concert.
I had missed the plane!"
Lara leaned forward, eagerly. "Tell me more."
"Well, one time in Sao Paulo the pedals fell off the piano in the
middle of a Chopin concert." "What did you do?"
"I finished the sonata without pedals. Another time the piano slid
clear across the stage."
When Philip talked about his work, his voice was filled with
enthusiasm.
"I'm very lucky. It's wonderful to be able to touch people and
transport them into another world. The music gives each of them a
dream. Sometimes I think music is the only sanity left in an insane
world." He laughed selfconsciously. "I didn't mean to sound
pompous."
"No. You make millions of people so happy. I love to hear you
play."
She took a deep breath. "When I hear you play Debussy's Voiles, I'm on
a lonely beach, and I see the mast of a ship sailing in the
distance..."
He smiled. "Yes, so do I."
"And when I listen to your Scarlatti, I'm in Naples, and I can hear the
horses and the carriages, and see the people walking through the
streets. ... ', She could see the pleasure in his face as he listened
to her.
She was dredging up every memory of her sessions with Professor
Meyers.
"With Bartok, you take me to the villages of Central Europe, to the
peasants of Hungary. You're painting pictures, and I lose myself in
them."
"You're very flattering," Philip said. "No. I mean every word of it."
Dinner arrived. It consisted of a chateaubriand with pommes frites, a
Waldorf salad, fresh asparagus, and a fruit tart for dessert. There
was a wine for each course.
Over dinner Philip said, "Lara, we keep talking about me.
Tell me
about you. What is it like to put up enormous buildings all over the
country?"
Lara was silent for a moment. "It's difficult to describe. You create
with your hands. I create with my mind. I don't physically put up a
building, but I make it possible. I dream a dream of bricks and
concrete and steel, and make it come true. I create jobs for hundreds
of people: architects and bricklayers and designers and carpenters and
plumbers. Because of me, they're able to support their families. I
give people beautiful surroundings to live in and make them
comfortable. I build attractive stores where people can shop and buy
things they need. I build monuments to the future." She smiled,
sheepishly. "I didn't mean to make a speech." "You're quite remarkable, do you know that?" "I want you to think so."
It was an enchanted evening, and by the time it was over,
Lara knew
that for the first time in her life she was in love. She had been so
afraid that she might be disappointed, that no man could live up to the
image in her imagination. But here was Lochinvar in the flesh, and she
was stirred.
When Lara got home, she so excited she was unable to go to sleep. She
went over the evening in her mind, replaying the conversation again and
again and again.
Philip Adler was the most fascinating man she had ever met. The
telephone rang. Lara smiled and picked it up.
She started to say, "Philip.." when Paul Martin said, "Just checking
to make sure you got home safely." "Yes," Lara said.
"How did your meeting go?" "Fine."
"Good. Let's have dinner tomorrow night."
Lara hesitated. "All right." I wonder if there's going to be a
problem.
Chapter Twenty-one.
The following morning, a dozen red roses were delivered to Lara's
apartment.
So, he enjoyed the evening, too, Lara thought happily. She hurriedly tore open the card attached to the flowers. It read: "Baby, looking forward to our dinner tonight.
Paul."
Lara felt a sharp sense of disappointment. She waited all morning for
a call from Philip. She had a busy schedule, but she was unable to
keep her mind on her work.
At two o'clock Kathy said, "The new secretaries are here for you to
interview."
"Start sending them" There were half a dozen of them, all of them
highly qualified. Gertrude Meeks was the choice of the day. She was
in her thirties, bright and upbeat, and obviously in awe of Lara.
Lara looked over her resume. It was impressive.
"You've worked in the real estate development field before."
"Yes, ma'am. But I've never worked for anyone like you.
To tell you
the truth, I'd take this job for no salary!"
Lara smiled. "That won't be necessary. These are good references.
All right, we'll give you a try."
"Thank you so much." She was almost blushing.
"You'll have to sign a form agreeing not to give any interviews or ever
to discuss anything that happens at this firm. Is that agreeable?"
"Of course."
"Kathy will show you to your desk."
There was an eleven o'clock publicity meeting with Jerry Townsend.
"How's your father?" Lara asked.
"He's in Switzerland. The doctor says he may have a chance." His
voice grew husky. "If he has, it's because of you." "Everyone deserves a chance, Jerry. I hope he gets well."
"Thanks." He cleared his throat. "I... I don't know how to tell you
how grateful I..."
Lara stood up. "I'm late for a g) And she walked out, leaving him
standing there, looking after her.
The meeting was with the architects on a New Jersey development.
"You've done a good job," Lara said, "but I'd like some changes. I
want an elliptical arcade with lobbies on three sides and marble
walls.
Change the roof to the shape of a copper pyramid, with a beacon to
light up at night. Any problem with that?" "I don't see any, Miss Cameron."
When the meeting was over, the intercom buzzed.
"Miss Cameron, Raymond Duffy, one of the construction foremen, is on
the line for you. He says it's urgent."
Lara picked up the telephone. "Hello, Raymond." "We have a problem, Miss Cameron."
"Go on."
"They just delivered a load of cement blocks. They won't pass
inspection. There are cracks in them. I'm going to send them back,
but I wanted to tell you first."
Lara was thoughtful for a moment. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough. The point is, they don't meet our specifications,
and..."
"Can they be fixed?"
"I guess they could, but it would be expensive."
"Fix them," Lara said.
There was a silence at the other end of the line. "Right. You're the boss."
Lara replaced the receiver. There were only two cement suppliers in
the city, and it would be suicide to antagonize them.
By five o'clock Philip still had not called. Lara dialed the number at
his foundation. "Philip Adler, please."
"Mr. Adler is out of town on tour. Can I help you?"
He hadn't mentioned that he was leaving town. "Nv, thank you."
That's that, Lara thought. For now.
The day ended with a visit from Steve Murchison.
He was a huge man, built like a stack of bricks. He stormed into
Lara's office.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Murchison?" Lara asked.
"You can keep your nose out of my fucking business," Murchison said.
Lara looked at him calmly. "What's your problem?" "You. I don't like people horning in on my deals." "If you're talking about Mr. Guttman..."
"You're damn right I am."
.... . he preferred my building to yours."
"You suckered him into it, lady. You've been getting in my hair long
enough. I warned you once. I'm not going to warn you again. There's
not room enough for both of us in this town. I don't know where you
keep your balls, but hide 'em, because if you ever do that to me again,
I'm going to cut them off." And he stormed out.
The dinner at her apartment that evening with Paul was strained.
"You seem preoccupied, baby," Paul said. "Any probIems?"
Lara managed a smile. "No. Everything's fine." Why didn't Philip
tell me he was going away?
"When does the Reno project start?"
"Howard and I are going to fly there again next week. We should be able to open in about nine months."
"You could have a baby in nine months." Lara looked at him in surprise. "What?"
Paul Martin took her hand in his. "You know I'm crazy about you,
Lara.
You've changed my whole life. I wish things could have turned out
differently. I would have loved for us to have had kids together."
There was nothing Lara could say to that.
"I have a little surprise for you." He reached into his pocket and
pulled out a jewelry box. "Open it."
"Paul, you've already given me so much..." "Open it."
Inside the box was an exquisite diamond necklace. "It's lovely."
He stood up, and she felt his hands on her as he put the necklace
around her neck. His hands slid down, caressing her breasts, and he
said huskily, "Let's check it out."
Paul was leading her into the bedroom. Lara's mind was spinning. She
had never been in love with him, and going to bed with him had been
easy-the payment for all he had done for her-but now there was a
difference.
She was in love. I'm a fool, Lara thought. I'll probably never see
Philip again.
She undressed slowly, reluctantly, and then they were in bed, and Paul
Martin was on top of her, inside her, moaning, "Baby, I'm nuts about
you." And she looked up and it was Philip's face she saw.
Everything was progressing smoothly. The renovations on the Reno hotel
were proceeding rapidly, Cameron Towers was going to be finished on
schedule, and Lara's reputation kept growing. She had called Philip
Adler several times over the past few months, but he was always away on
tour.
"Mr. Adler is in Beijing..."
"Mr. Adler is in Paris... "Mr. Adler is in Sydney..."
To hell with him, Lara thought.
During the next six months Lara managed to outbid Steve Murchison on
three properties he was after.
Keller came to Lara, worried. "The word around town is that Murchison
is making threats against you. Maybe we should cool it with him. He's
a dangerous enemy, Lara."
"So am I," Lara said. "Maybe he should get into another business."
"It's not a joking matter, Lara. He..."
"Forget about him, Howard. I just got a tip about a property in Los
Angeles. It's not on the market yet. If we move fast, I think we can
get it. We'll fly out in the morning."
* * * The property was on the site of the old Biltmore Hotel and
consisted of five acres. A real estate agent was showing Lara and
Howard around the grounds.
"Prime property," he was saying. "Yes, sir. You can't go wrong with
this. You can build a beautiful little city in this area... apartment
buildings, shopping centers, theaters, malls..." "No."
He looked at Lara in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" "I'm not interested."
"You're not? Why?"
"The neighborhood," Lara said. "I don't think people are going to move
into this area. Los Angeles is moving west. People are like
lemmings.
You aren't going to get them to reverse direction." "But..."
"I'll tell you what I am interested in. Condos. Find me a good
location."
Lara turned to Howard. "I'm sorry I wasted our time. We'll fly back this afternoon."
When they returned to their hotel, Keller bought a newspaper at the
newsstand. "Let's see what the market is doing today."
They looked through the paper. In the entertainment section was a
large advertisement that read: "TONIGHT AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOwL-PHILIP
ADLER." Lara's heart gave a little jump. "Let's go back tomorrow," Lara said.
Keller studied her a moment. "Are you interested in the music or the
musician?"
"Get us two tickets."
Lara had never been to the Hollywood Bowl before.
The largest natural amphitheater in the world, it is surrounded by the
hills of Hollywood, the grounds a park, open year-round
for visitors to
enjoy. The Bowl itself seats eighteen thousand people.
It was filled
to capacity, and Lara could sense the anticipation of the crowd. The
musicians began to come onto the stage, and they were greeted with
expectant applause. Andre Previn appeared, and the applause grew more
enthusiastic. There was a hush, then loud applause from the audience
as Philip Adler walked out on the stage, elegant in white tie and
tails.
Lara squeezed Keller's arm. "Isn't he handsome?" she whispered.
Keller did not answer.
Philip sat down at the piano, and the program began. His magic took
over instantly, enveloping the audience. There was a mysticism about
the night. The stars were shining down, lighting the dark hills
surrounding the Bowl. Thousands of people sat there silently, moved by
the majesty of the music. When the last notes of the concerto died
away, there was a roar from the audience, as the people leaped to their
feet, applauding and cheering. Philip stood there, taking bow after
bow.
"Let's go backstage," Lara said.
Keller turned to look at her. Her voice was trembling with
excitement.
The backstage entrance was at the side of the orchestra shell. A guard
stood at the door, keeping the crowd out. Keller said, "Miss Cameron
is here to see Mr. Adler."
"Is he expecting you?" the guard asked. "Yes," Lara said.
"Wait here, please." A moment later the guard returned. "You can go
in, Miss Cameron."
Lara and Keller walked into the greenroom. Philip was in the center of
a crowd that was congratulating him.
"Darling, I've never heard Beethoven played so exquisitely. You were
unbelievable..."
Philip was saying, "Thank you..."
.... . thank you... with music like that, it's easy to be inspired..."
.... . thank you... Andre is such a brilliant conductor..."
..... thank you... I always enjoy playing at the Bowl..."
He looked up and saw Lara, and again there was that smile. "Excuse
me," he said. He made his way through the crowd, toward her. "I had
no idea you were in town."
"We just flew in this morning. This is Howard Keller, my associate."
"Hello," Keller said curtly.
Philip turned to a short, heavyset man, standing behind him. "This is
my manager, William Ellerbee." They exchanged hellos.
Philip was looking at Lara. "There's a party tonight at the Beverly
Hilton. I was wondering..." "We'd love to," Lara said.
When Lara and Keller arrived at the Beverly Hilton's International
Ballroom, it was filled with musicians and music lovers, talking
music.
.... . have you ever noticed that the closer you get to the equator,
the more demonstrative and hot-blooded the fans are..."
.... . when Franz Liszt played, his piano became an orchestra. "
.... . I disagree with you. De Groote's talent is not for Liszt or
Paganini etudes, but more for Beethoven.
..... you have to dominate the concerto's emotional landscape. "
Musicians speaking in tongues, Lara thought. Philip was surrounded, as usual, by adoring fans. Just watching him gave Lara a warm glow.
When Philip saw her arrive, he greeted her with a broad smile. "You
made it. I'm so glad."
"I wouldn't have missed it."
Howard Keller watched the two of them talking, and he thought, Maybe I
should have learned to play the piano.
Or maybe I should just wake up to reality. It seemed so
long ago when
he had first met the bright, eager, ambitious young girl.
Time had
been good to her, and it had stood still for him.
Lara was saying, "I have to go back to New York tomorrow, but perhaps
we could have breakfast."
"I wish I could. I'm leaving for Tokyo early in the morning."
She felt a sharp pang of disappointment. "Why?"
He laughed. "That's what I do, Lara. I give a hundred and fifty
concerts a year. Sometimes two hundred." "How long will you be gone this time?" "Eight weeks."
"I'll miss you," Lara said quietly. You have no idea how much.
Chapter Twenty-two.
During the next few weeks Lara and Keller flew to Atlanta to
investigate two sites at Ainsley Park and one at Dunwoody.
"Get me some prices on Dunwoody," Lara said. "We might put some condos
there."
From Atlanta they flew to New Orleans. They spent two days exploring
the central business district and a day at Lake Pontchartrain. Lara
found two sites she liked.
A day after they returned, Keller walked into Lara's office. "We had
some bad luck on the Atlanta project," he said.
"What do you mean?" "Someone beat us to it."
Lara looked at him, surprised. "How could they? Those properties weren't even on the market." "I know. Word must have leaked out."
Lara shrugged. "I guess you can't win them all."
That afternoon Keller had more bad news. "We lost the Lake
Pontchartrain deal."
The following week they flew to Seattle and explored Mercer Island and
Kirkland. There was one site that interested Lara, and when they
returned to New York, she said to Keller, "Let's go after it. I think
it could be a money-maker." "Right."
At a meeting the next day Lara asked, "Did you put in the bid on
Kirkland?"
Keller shook his head. "Someone got there ahead of us."
Lara was thoughtful. "Oh. Howard, see if you can find out who's
jumping the gun on us."
It took him less than twenty-four hours. "Steve Murchison."
"Did he get all those deals?" "Yes."
"So someone in this office has a big mouth." "It looks that way."
Her face was grim. The next morning she hired a detective agency to
find the culprit. They had no success.
"As far as we can tell, all your employees are clean, Miss Cameron.
None of the offices is bugged, and your phones haven't been tapped."
They had reached a dead end.
Maybe they were just coincidences, Lara thought. She did not believe
it.
The sixty-eight story residential tower in Queens was half completed,
and Lara had invited the bankers to come and inspect its progress. The
higher the number of floors, the more expensive the unit.
Lara's
sixty-eight stories had only fifty-seven actual floors.
It was a trick
she had learned from Paul Martin.
"Everybody does it," Paul had laughed. "All you do is change the floor
numbers."
"How do you do that?"
"It's very simple. Your first bank of elevators is from the lobby to
the twenty-fourth floor. The second bank of elevators is from the
thirty-fourth floor to the sixtyeighth. It's done all the time."
Because of the unions, the construction jobs had half a
dozen phantoms
on salary-people who did not exist.
There was a Director of Safety Practices, the Coordinator of
Construction, the Supervisor of Materials, and others with impressive-sounding titles. In the beginning Lara had questioned it.
"Don't worry about it," Paul had told her. "It's all part of the
CDB-the cost of doing business."
Howard Keller had been living in a small apartment in Washington
Square, and when Lara had visited him one evening, she had looked
around the tiny apartment and said, "This is a rattrap.
You've got to
move out of here." At Lara's urging, he had moved into a condominium
uptown.
One night Lara and Keller were working late, and when they finally
finished, Lara said, "You look exhausted. Why don't you go home and
get some sleep, Howard?"
"Good idea," Keller yawned. "See you in the morning." "Come in late," Lara told him.
Keller got into his car and started driving home. He was thinking
about a deal they had just closed and how well Lara had handled it. It
was exciting working with her. Exciting and frustrating.
Somehow, in
the back of his mind, he kept hoping that a miracle would happen.
I was blind not to have seen it before, Howard darling.
I'm not interested in Paul Martin or Philip Adler. It's you I've loved
all along.
Fat chance.
When Keller reached his apartment, he took out his key and put it in
the lock. It did not fit. Puzzled, he tried again.
Suddenly the door
flew open from the inside, and a stranger was standing there. "What
the hell do you think you're doing?" the man asked. Keller looked at him, bewildered. "I live here." "The hell you do."
"But I..." Realization suddenly hit him. "I... I'm sorry," he
stammered, red-faced. "I used to live here. I..."
The door was slammed in his face. Keller stood there, disconcerted.
How could I have forgotten that I moved? I've been working too hard.
Lara was in the middle of a conference when her private phone rang.
"You've been pretty busy lately, baby. I've missed you."
"I've been traveling a lot, Paul." She couldn't bring herself to say
that she had missed him. "Let's have lunch today."
Lara thought about all he had done for her.
"I'd like that," she said. The last thing in the world she wanted to
do was to hurt him.
They had lunch at Mr. Chow's.
"You're looking great," Paul said. "Whatever you've been doing agrees
with you. How's the Reno hotel coming?"
"It's coming along beautifully," Lara said enthusiastically. She spent
the next fifteen minutes describing how the work was progressing. "We
should be ready to open in two months."
A man and woman across the room were just leaving.
The man's back was to Lara, but he looked familiar. When he turned for
an instant, she caught a glimpse of his face.
Steve Murchison. The woman with him looked familiar also.
She stooped
to pick up her purse, and Lara's heart skipped a beat. Gertrude Meeks,
my secretary. "Bingo," Lara said softly. "Is anything wrong?" Paul asked.
"No. Everything's fine."
Lara went on describing the hotel.
When Lara returned from lunch, she sent for Keller.
"Do you remember the property in Phoenix we looked at a few months
ago?"
"Yeah, we turned it down. You said it was a g)) "I've changed my
mind." She pressed down the intercom. "Gertrude, would you come in
here, please?"
"Yes, Miss Gertrude Meeks came into the office.
"I want to dictate a memo," Lara said. "To the Baron Brothers in
Phoenix."
Gertrude started writing.
"Gentlemen, I have reconsidered the Scottsdale property and have
decided to go ahead with it immediately.
I think in time it is going to be my most valuable asset."
Keller was staring at her. "I'll be in touch with you regarding price
in the next few days. Best regards. I'll sign it." "Yes, Miss Cameron. Is that all?"
"That's all."
Keller watched Gertrude leave the room. He turned to Lara. "Lara,
what are you doing? We had that property analyzed. It's worthless!
If you..."
"Calm down. We're not making a deal for it." "Then why...?"
"Unless I miss my guess, Steve Murchison will. I saw Gertrude having
lunch with him today."
Keller was staring at Lara. "I'll be damned."
"I want you to wait a couple of days and then call Baron and ask about
the property."
Two days later Keller came into Lara's office, grinning.
"You were
right," he said. "Murchison took the bait-hook, line, and sinker.
He's now the proud owner of fifty acres of worthless land."
Lara sent for Gertrude Meeks. "Yes, Miss Cameron?"
"You're fired," Lara said.
Gertrude looked at her in surprise. "Fired? Why?"
"I don't like the company you keep. Go back to Steve Murchison and
tell him I said so."
Gertrude's face lost its color. "But I..." "That's all. I'll have you escorted out of here."
At midnight Lara buzzed Max, her chauffeur. "Bring the car around to
the front," Lara said. dYes, Miss Cameron."
The car was there waiting for her.
"Where would you like to go, Miss Cameron?" Max asked. "Drive around Manhattan. I want to see what I've done." He was staring at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I want to look at my buildings."
They drove around the city and stopped at the shopping mall, the
housing center, and the skyscraper. There was Cameron Square, Cameron
Plaza, Cameron Center, and the skeleton of Cameron Towers.
Lara sat in
the car, staring at each building, thinking about the people living
there and working there. She had touched all their lives.
I've made this city better, Lara thought. I've done everything I
wanted to do. Then why am I restless? What is missing?
But she knew.
The following morning Lara telephoned William ElIerbee,
Philip's
concert manager.
"Good morning, Mr. Ellerbee."
"Good morning, Miss Cameron. What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering where Philip Adler is playing this week."
"Philip has a pretty heavy schedule. Tomorrow night he'll be in
Amsterdam, then he goes on to Milan, Venice, and... do you want to know
the rest of his...?"
"No, no. That's fine. I was just curious. Thank you." "No problem."
Lara walked into Keller's office. "Howard, I have to go to
Amsterdam."
He looked at her in surprise. "What do we have going on there?"
"It's just an idea," Lara said evasively. "I'll let you know if it
checks out. Have them get the jet ready for me, will you?"
"You sent Bert to London on it, remember? I'll tell them
to have it
back here tomorrow, and..."
"I want to leave today." There was an urgency in her that took her
completely by surprise. "I'll fly commercial."
She returned to her office and said to Kathy, "Get me a seat on the
first flight to Amsterdam on KLM." "Yes, Miss Cameron."
"Are you going to be gone long'?" Keller asked. "We have some
meetings coming up that..." "I'll be back in a day or two."
"Do you want me to come with you?" "Thanks, Howard. Not this time."
"I talked to a senator friend of mine in Washington.
He thinks there's a chance they're going to pass a bill that will
remove most of the tax incentives for building.
If it passes, it's going to kill capital gains taxes and stop
accelerated depreciation."
"That would be stupid," Lara said. "It would cripple the real estate
industry."
"I know. He's against the bill."
"A lot of people will be against it. It will never pass,"
Lara
predicted. "In the first place..."
The private phone on the desk rang. Lara stared at it.
It rang agaIn.
"Aren't you going to answer it?" Keller asked. Lara's mouth was dry. "No."
Paul Martin listened to the hollow ring a dozen times before he
replaced the receiver. He sat there a long time thinking about Lara.
It seemed to him that lately she had been less accessible, a little
cooler. Could there be someone else? No. Paul Martin thought. She
belongs to me. She'll always belong to me.
The flight on KLM was pleasant. The first-class seats in the
wide-bodied 747 were spacious and comfortable, and the cabin attendants
were attentive.
Lara was too nervous to eat or drink anything. What am I doing? she
wondered. I'm going to Amsterdam uninvited, and he'll probably be too
busy to even see me.
Running after him is going to ruin whatever chance I might have had.
Too late.
She checked in at the Grand Hotel on Oudezijds Voorburgwal 197, one of
the most beautiful hotels in Amsterdam.
"We have a lovely suite for you, Miss Cameron," the clerk said.
"Thank you. I understand that Philip Adler is giving a recital this
evening. Do you know where he would be playing?" "Of course, Miss Cameron. At the Concertgebouw." "Could you arrange a ticket for me?"
"It will be my pleasure."
As Lara entered her suite, the telephone was ringing. It was Howard Keller.
"Did you have a nice flight?" "Yes, thanks."
"I thought you'd like to know that I've spoken to the two banks about
the Seventh Avenue deal." "And?"
His voice was vibrant. "They're jumping at it."
Lara was elated. "I told you! This is going to be a big one. I want
you to start assembling a team of architects, builders-our construction
group-the works."
"Right. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She replaced the receiver and
thought about Howard Keller. He was so dear. I'm so lucky. He's
always there for me. I have to find someone wonderful for him.
Philip Adler was always nervous before playing. He had rehearsed with
the orchestra in the morning, and had a light lunch, and then, to take
his mind off the concert, had gone to see an English movie. As he
watched the picture, his mind was filled with the music he
was going to
play that evening. He was unaware that he was drumming his fingers on
the arm of his seat until the person next to him said, "Would you mind
stopping that awful sound?"
"I beg your pardon," Philip said politely.
He got up and left the theater and roamed the streets of Amsterdam. He
visited the Rijksmuseum, and he strolled through the Botanical Gardens
of the Free University, and window-shopped along the P. C. Hooftstraat.
At four o'clock he went back to his hotel to take a nap.
He was unaware that Lara Cameron was in the suite directly above him.
At 7:00 P.M. Philip arrived at the artists' entrance of the
Concertgebouw, the lovely old theater in the heart of Amsterdam. The
lobby was already crowded with early arrivals.
Backstage, Philip was in his dressing room, changing into tails. The
director of the Concertgebouw bustled into the room.
"We're completely sold out, Mr. Adler! And we had to turn away so
many people. If it were possible for you to stay another day or two, I
would... I know you are fully booked... I will talk to Mr.
Ellerbee
about your return here next year and perhaps..."
Philip was not listening. His mind was focused on the recital that lay
ahead. The director finally shrugged apologetically and bowed his way
out. Philip played the music over and over in his mind.
A page
knocked at the dressing-room door.
"They're ready for you on stage, Mr. Adler." "Thank you."
It was time. Philip rose to his feet. He held out his hands. They
were trembling slightly. The nervousness before playing never went
away. It was true of all the great pianists-Horowitz, Rubenstein,
Serkin. Philip's stomach was churning, and his heart was pounding.
Why do I put myself through this agony? he asked himself.
But he knew
the answer. He took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of
the dressing room, and walked through the long corridor, and started to
descend the thirty-three steps that led onto the stage.
There was a
spotlight on him as he moved toward the piano. The applause grew
thunderous.
He sat down at the piano, and as if by magic, his nervousness
disappeared. It was as though another person were taking his place,
someone calm, and poised, and completely in charge. He began to
play.
Lara, seated in the audience, felt a thrill as she watched Philip walk
out on the stage. There was a presence about him that was mesmerizing.
I am going to marry him, Lara thought. I know it. She sat back in her
seat and let his playing wash over her.
The recital was a triumph, and afterward the greenroom was packed.
Philip had long ago learned to divide the crowd invited to the
greenroom into two groups: the fans and other musicians.
The fans were
always enthusiastic. If the performance was a success, the
congratulations of the other musicians were cordial. If it was a
failure, their congratulations were very cordial.
Philip had many avid fans in Amsterdam, and on this particular evening
the greenroom was crowded with them. He stood in the center of the
room, smiling, signing autographs, and being patiently polite to a
hundred strangers. Invariably someone would say, "Do you remember
me?"
And Philip would pretend to. "Your face looks so familiar..."
He remembered the story of Sir Thomas Beecham, who had hit upon a
device to conceal his bad memory.
When someone asked, "Do you remember me?" the great conductor would
reply, "Of course, I do! How are you, and how is your father, and what
is he doing?" The device worked well until a concert in London when a
young woman in the greenroom said, "Your performance was wonderful,
Maestro. Do you remember me?" and Beecham gallantly replied, "Of
course, I do, my dear. How is your father, and what is he doing?" The
young woman said, "Father is fine, thank you. And he's still king
ofEngland."
Philip was busily signing autographs, listening to the familiar
phrases-"You made Brahms come alive for me!"... "I can't tell you how
moved I was!"... "I have all your albums"... "Would you sign an
autograph for my mother too? She's your biggest fan... "-when
something made him look up. Lara was standing in the doorway,
watching. His eyes widened in surprise. "Excuse me." He made his way over to her and took her hand.
"What a wonderful surprise! What are you doing in Amsterdam?"
Careful, Lara. "I had some business to attend to here, and when I
heard you were giving a recital, I had to come." That was innocent
enough. "You were wonderful, Philip."
"Thank you... I..." He stopped to sign another autograph. "Look, if
you're free for supper..." "I'm free," Lara said quickly.
They had supper at the Bali restaurant on Leidsestraat.
As they
entered the restaurant, the patrons rose and applauded. In the United
States, Lara thought, the excitement would have been for me. But she
felt a warm glow, simply being at Philip's side.
"It's a great honor to have you with us, Mr. Adler," the maitre d'
said as he led them to their table.
"Thank you."
As they were being seated, Lara looked around at all the people staring
admiringly at Philip. "They really love you, don't they?"
He shook his head. "It's the music they love. I'm just the
messenger.
I learned that a long time ago. When I was very young and perhaps a
little arrogant, I gave a concert, and when I had finished my solo,
there was tremendous applause, and I was bowing to the audience and
smugly smiling at them, and the conductor turned to the audience and
held up the score over his head to remind everyone that they were
really applauding Mozart. It's a lesson I've never forgotten."
"Don't you ever get tired of playing the same music over and over,
night after night?"
"No, because no two recitals are the same. The music may be the same,
but the conductor is different, and the orchestra is different."
They ordered a rijsttafel dinner, and Philip said, "We try to make each
recital perfect, but there's no such thing as a completely successful
one because we're dealing with music that is always better than we
are.
We have to rethink the music each time in order to recreate the sound
of the composer."
"You're never satisfied?"
"Never. Each composer has his own distinctive sound. Whether it's
Debussy, Brahms, Haydn, Beethoven ... our goal is to capture that
particular sound."
Supper arrived. The rijsttafel was an Indonesian feast, consisting of
twenty-one courses, including a variety of meats, fish, chicken,
noodles, and two desserts.
"How can anyone eat all this?" Lara laughed. "The Dutch have hearty appetites."
Philip found it difficult to take his eyes off Lara. He found himself
ridiculously pleased that she was there. He had been involved with
more than his share of beautiful women, but Lara was like no one he had
ever known. She was strong and yet very feminine and totally
unselfconscious about her beauty. He liked her throaty, sexy voice.
In fact, I like everything about her, Philip admitted to himself.
"Where do you go from here?" Lara was asking.
"Tomorrow I'll be in Milan. Then Venice and Vienna, Paris and London,
and finally New York." "It sounds so romantic."
Philip laughed. "I'm not sure romantic is the word I would choose.
We're talking about iffy airline schedules, strange hotels, and eating
out in restaurants every night.
I don't really mind because the act of playing is so wonderful. It's
the 'say cheese' syndrome that I hate." "What's that?"
"Being put on exhibit all the time, smiling at people you care nothing
about, living your life in a world of strangers." "I know what that's like," Lara said slowly.
As they were finishing supper, Philip said, "Look, I'm always keyed up
after a concert. Would you care to take a ride on the canal?"
"I'd love to."
They boarded a canalbus that cruised the Amstel.
There was no moon, but the city was alive with thousands of sparkling
lights. The canal trip was an enchantment.
A loudspeaker poured out information in four languages: "We are now
passing centuries-old merchants' houses with their richly decorated
gables. Ahead are ancient church towers. There are twelve hundred
bridges on the canals, all in the shade of magnificent avenues of elm
trees..."
They passed the Smalste Huis-the narrowest house in Amsterdam-which was
only as wide as the front door, and the Westerkerk with the crown of
the Hapsburg emperor Maximilian, and they went under the
wooden lift
bridge over the Amstel and the Magere Brug-the skinny bridge-and passed
scores of houseboats that served as home for hundreds of families.
"This is such a beautiful city," Lara said. "You've never been here before?"
"No."
"And you're here on business." Lara took a deep breath. "No."
He looked at her puzzled. "I thought you said..." "I came to Amsterdam to see you."
He felt a sudden frisson of pleasure. "I... I'm very flattered."
"And I have another confession to make. I told you I was interested in
classical music. That's not true."
A smile touched the corner of Philip's lips. "I know." Lara looked at him in surprise. "You know?"
"Professor Meyers is an old friend of mine," he said gently. "He
called to tell me that he was giving you a crash course on Philip
Adler. He was concerned that you might have designs on me."
Lara said softly, "He was right. Are you involved with anyone?"
"You mean seriously?"
Lara was suddenly embarrassed. "If you're not interested,
I'll leave
and He took her hand in his. "Let's get off at the next stop."
When they arrived back at the hotel, there were a dozen messages from
Howard Keller. Lara put them in her purse, unread. At this moment
nothing else in her life seemed important. "Your room or mine?" Philip asked lightly. "Yours."
There was a burning urgency in her.
It seemed to Lara that she had waited all her life for this moment.
This was what she had been missing. She had found the stranger she was
in love with. They reached Philip's room, and there was an urgency in
both of them.
Philip took her in his arms and kissed her softly and tenderly,
exploring, and Lara murmured, "Oh, my God," and they began to undress
each other.
The silence of the room was broken by a sudden clap of thunder
outside.
Slowly, gray clouds in the sky spread their skirts open, wider and
wider, and soft rain began to fall. It started quietly and gently,
caressing the warm air erotically, licking at the sides of buildings,
sucking at the soft grass, kissing all the dark corners of the night.
It was a hot rain, wanton and sensuous, sliding down slowly, slowly,
until the tempo began to increase and it changed to a driving, pounding
storm, fierce and demanding, an orgiastic beat in a steady, savage
rhythm, plunging down harder and harder, moving faster and faster until
it finally exploded in a burst of thunder. Suddenly, as quickly as it
had started, it was over.
Lara and Philip lay in each other's arms, spent.
Philip held Lara close, and he could feel the beating of her heart. He
thought of a line he had once heard in a movie. "Did the earth move
for you?" By God, it did. Philip thought. If she were music, she
would be Chopin's Barcarolle or Schumann's Fantasy.
He could feel the soft contours of her body pressed against him, and he
began to get aroused again. "Philip..." Her voice was husky. "Yes?"
"Would you like me to go with you to Milan?" He found himself grinning. "Oh, my God, yes!"
"Good," Lara murmured. She leaned over him, and her soft hair started
to trail down his lean, hard body. It began to rain again.
When Lara finally returned to her room, she telephoned Keller. "Did I
wake you up, Howard?"
"No." His voice was groggy. "I'm always up at four in the morning.
What's going on there?"
Lara was bursting to tell him, but she said, "Nothing. I'm leaving for Milan."
"What? We aren't doing anything in Milan." Oh, yes, we are, Lara thought happily. "Did you see my messages?"
She had forgotten to look at them. Guiltily, she said, "Not yet."
"I've been hearing rumors about the casino." "What's the problem?"
"There have been some complaints about the bidding."
"Don't worry about it. If there's any problem, Paul Martin will take
care of it." "You're the boss."
"I want you to send the plane to Milan. Have the pilots wait for me
there. I'll get in touch with them at the airport." "All right, but..."
"Go back to sleep."
At four o'clock in the morning, Paul Martin was wideawake.
He had left
several messages on Lara's private answering machine at her apartment,
but none of his calls had been returned. In the past, she had always
let him know when she was going to be away. Something was happening.
What was she up to? "Be careful, my darling," he whispered. "Be very
careful."
Chapter Twenty-three.
Milan, Lara and Philip Adler checked into the Antica Locanda Solferino,
a charming hotel with only twelve rooms, and they spent the morning
making passionate love. Afterward, they took the drive to Cernobbia
and had lunch at Lake Como, at the beautiful Villa d'Este.
The concert that night was a triumph, and the greenroom at La Scala
Opera House was packed with wellwishers.
Lara stood to one side, watching as Philip's fans surrounded him,
touching him, adoring him, asking for autographs, handing him little
gifts. Lara felt a sharp pang ofjealousy. Some of the women were
young and beautiful, and it seemed to Lara that all of them were
obvious. An American woman in an elegant Fendi gown was saying, coyly,
"If you're free tomorrow, Mr. Adler, I'm having an intimate little
dinner at my villa. Very intimate." Lara wanted to strangle the bitch.
Philip smiled. ....... thank you, but I'm afraid I'm not free."
Another woman tried to slip Philip her hotel key. He shook his head.
Philip looked over at Lara and grinned. Women kept
crowding around him.
"Lei era magnifico, maestro!"
"Molto gentile da parte sua," Philip replied. "L'ho sentita suonare iI anno scorso. Bravo!" "Grazie." Philip smiled.
A woman was clutching his arm. "Sarebbe possibile cenare insieme?"
Philip shook his head. "Ma non credo che sarai impossibile."
To Lara, it seemed to go on forever. Finally, Philip made his way over
to Lara and whispered, "Let's get out ofhere." "Si!" Lara grinned.
They went to Biffy, the restaurant in the opera house, and the moment
they walked in, the patrons, dressed in black tie for the concert, rose
to their feet and began applauding. The maitre d' led Philip and Lara
toward a table in the center of the room. "It's such an honor to have
you with us, Mr. Adler."
A complimentary bottle of champagne arrived, and they drank a toast.
"To us," Philip said warmly. "To us."
Philip ordered two of the specialties of the house, 0550 buco and penne
all'arrabbiata. All during supper they talked, and it was as though
they had known each other forever.
They were constantly interrupted by people coming up to the table to
compliment Philip and to ask for autographs. "It's always like this, isn't it?" Lara asked.
Philip shrugged. "It goes with the territory. For every two hours you
spend on stage, you spend countless more signing autographs or giving
interviews."
As if to punctuate what he was saying, he stopped to sign another
autograph.
"You've made this tour wonderful for me." Philip sighed. "The bad
news is that I have to leave for Venice tomorrow. I'm going to miss
you a lot."
"I've never been to Venice," Lara said.
Lara's jet was waiting for them at Linate Airport.
When they arrived there, Philip looked at the huge jet in astonishment.
"This is your plane?"
"Yes. It's going to take us to Venice." "You're going to spoil me, lady."
Lara said softly, "I intend to."
They landed in Venice thirty-five minutes later at Marco Polo Airport
where a limousine waited to drive them the short distance to the
dock.
From the dock they would take a motorboat to the island of Giudecca,
where the Cipriani Hotel was located.
"I arranged for two suites for us," Lara said. "I thought it would be
more discreet that way.
In the motorboat on the way to the hotel, Lara asked, "How long will we
be here?"
"Only one night, I'm afraid. I'm giving a recital at La Fenice, and
then we head for Vienna."
The "we" gave Lara a little thrill. They had discussed it the night
before. "I'd like you to stay with me as long as you can," Philip had
said, "but are you sure I'm not keeping you from something more
important?"
"There is nothing more important."
"Are you going to be all right by yourself this afternoon?
I'm going
to be busy rehearsing."
"I'll be fine," Lara assured him.
After they had checked into their suites, Philip took Lara in his
arms.
"I have to go to the theater now, but there's a lot to see here.
Enjoy Venice. I'll see you later this afternoon." They kissed. It
was meant to be a brief one, but it turned into a long, lingering
kiss.
"I'd better get out of here while I can," Philip murmured, "or I'll
never be able to make it through the lobby." "Happy rehearsal." Lara grinned.
And Philip was gone.
Lara telephoned Howard Keller.
"Where are you?" Keller demanded. "I've been trying to reach you."
"I'm in Venice."
There was a pause. "Are we buying a canal?" "I'm checking it out." Lara laughed.
"You really should be back here," Keller said.
"There's a lot going on. Young Frank Rose brought in some new plans.
I like them, but I need your approval so we can get..." "If you like them," Lara interrupted, "go ahead."
"You don't want to see them?" Keller's voice was filled with
surprise.
"Not now, Howard."
"All right. And on the negotiations for the West Side property, I need
your okay to..." "You have it."
"Lara... are you feeling all right?"
"I've never felt better in my life." "When are you coming home?"
"I don't know. I'll stay in touch. Good-bye, Howard."
* * * Venice was the kind of magical city that Prospero might have
created. Lara spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon
exploring. She roamed through St. Mark's Square, and visited the
Doge's Palace and the Bell Tower, and wandered along the crowded Riva
degli Schiavoni, and everywhere she went she thought of Philip. She
walked through the winding little side streets, crammed with jewelry
shops and leather goods and restaurants, and stopped to buy expensive
sweaters and scarves and lingerie for the secretaries at the office,
and wallets and ties for Keller and some of the other men.
She stopped
in at a jeweler's to buy Philip a Piaget watch with a gold band.
"Would you please inscribe it 'To Philip with Love from Lara'?" Just
saying his name made her miss him.
When Philip returned to the hotel, they had coffee in the verdant
garden of the Cipriani.
Lara looked across at Philip and thought, What a perfect place this
would be for a honeymoon.
"I have a present for you," Lara said. She handed him the box with the
watch in it.
He opened it and stared. "My God! This must have cost a
fortune. You
shouldn't have, Lara." "Don't you like it?"
"Of course I do. It's beautiful, but..." "Ssh! Wear it and think of me."
"I don't need this to think of you, but thank you." "What time do we have to leave for the theater?" Lara asked.
"Seven o'clock."
Lara glanced at Philip's new watch and said innocently, "That gives us
two hours."
The theater was packed. The audience was volatile, applauding and
cheering each number.
When the concert was over, Lara went back to the greenroom to join
Philip. It was London and Amsterdam and Milan all over again, and the
women seemed even more nubile and eager. There were at least half a
dozen beautiful women in the room, and Lara wondered which one Philip
would have spent the night with if she were not there.
They had supper at the storied Harry's Bar and were warmly greeted by
the affable owner, Arrigo Cipriani.
"What a pleasure to see you, signore. And signorina. Please!"
He led them to a corner table. They ordered Bellinis, the
specialty of
the house. Philip said to Lara, "I recommend starting with the pasta e
fagioli. It's the best in the world."
Later Philip had no memory of what he had eaten for dinner. He was
mesmerized by Lara. He knew he was falling in love with her, and it
terrified him. I can't make a commitment, he thought.
It's
impossible. I'm a nomad.
He hated to think about the moment when she would leave him to go back
to New York. He wanted to prolong their evening as long as possible.
When they had finished supper, Philip said, "There's a casino out on
the Lido. Do you gamble?" Lara laughed aloud. "What's so funny?"
Lara thought about the hundreds of millions of dollars she gambled on
her buildings. "Nothing," she said. "I'd love to go."
They took a motorboat to Lido Island. They walked past the Excelsior
Hotel and went to the huge white building that housed the casino. It
was filled with eager gamblers. "Dreamers," Philip said.
Philip played roulette and within half an hour had won two thousand
dollars. He turned to Lara. "I've never won before. You're my
good-luck charm."
They played until 3:00 A.M and by that time they were hungry again.
A motorboat took them back to St. Mark's Square, and they wandered
through the side streets until they came to the Cantina do Mori.
"This is one of the best bacaros in Venice," Philip said. Lara said, "I believe you. What's a bacaro?"
"It's a wine bar where they serve cicchetti-little nibbles of local
delicacies."
Bottle-glass doors led to a dark, narrow space where copper pots hung
from the ceiling and dishes gleamed on a long banquette.
It was dawn before they got back to their hotel. They got undressed,
and Lara said, "Speaking of nibbles..."
Early the following morning Lara and Philip flew to Vienna.
"Going to Vienna is like going into another century,"
Philip explained.
"There's a legend that airline pilots say, 'Ladies and gentlemen, we're
on our final approach to Vienna Airport. Please make sure your seat
backs and table trays are in the upright position, refrain from smoking
until inside the terminal, and set your watches back one hundred
years."" Lara laughed.
"My parents were born here. They used to talk about the
old days, and
it made me envious."
They were driving along the Ringstrasse, and Philip was filled with
excitement, like a small boy eager to share his treasures with her.
"Vienna is the city of Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Brahms." He looked at
Lara and grinned. "Oh, I forgotyou're an expert on classical music."
They checked into the Imperial Hotel.
"I have to go to the concert hall," Philip told Lara, "but I've decided
that tomorrow we're going to take the whole day off. I'm going to show
you Vienna."
"I'd like that, Philip."
He held Lara in his arms. "I wish we had more time now," he said
ruefully. "So do I."
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "We'll make up for it
tonight."
She held him close. "Promises, promises."
The concert that evening took place at the Musikverein.
The recital
consisted of compositions by Chopin, Schumann, and Prokofiev, and it
was another triumph for Philip.
The greenroom was packed again, but this time the language was
German.
"Sie waren wunderbar, Herr Adler!"
Philip smiled. "Das ist sehr nett von Ihnen. Danke." "Ich bin ein grosser Anhanger von Ihnen."
Philip smiled again. "Sie sind sehr freundlich."
He was talking to them, but he could not take his eyes off Lara.
After the recital Lara and Philip had a late supper in the hotel. They
were greeted by the maitre d'.
"What an honor!" he exclaimed. "I was at the concert tonight. You
were magnificent! Magnificent!"
"You're very kind," Philip said modestly.
The dinner was delicious, but they were both too excited by each other
to eat. When the waiter asked, "Would you like some dessert?" Philip
said quickly, "Yes." And he was looking at Lara. His instincts told him that something was wrong.
She had never been gone this long without telling him where she was.
Was she deliberately avoiding him? If she was, there could only be one
reason. And I can't allow that, Paul Martin thought.
A beam of pale moonlight streamed through the window, making soft
shadows on the ceiling. Lara and Philip lay in bed, naked, watching
their shadows move above their heads. The ripple of the curtains made
the shadows dance, in a soft, swaying motion. The shadows
came slowly
together and separated and came together again, until the two became
entwined, became one, and the movement of the dance became faster, and
faster, a wild savage pounding, and suddenly it stopped, and there was
only the gentle ripple of the curtains.
Early the following morning Philip said, "We have a whole day and an
evening here. I have a lot to show you."
They had breakfast downstairs in the hotel dining room, then walked
over to the Karntnerstrasse, where no cars were permitted.
The shops
there were filled with beautiful clothes and jewelry and antiques.
Philip hired a horse-drawn Fiaker, and they rode through the wide
streets of the city along the Ring Road.
They visited Schonbrunn Palace and looked at the colorful imperial
coach collection. In the afternoon they got tickets for the Spanish
Riding School and saw the Lipizzaner stallions. They rode the huge
Ferris wheel at the Prater, and afterward Philip said, "Now we're going
to sin!" "Ooh!"
"No," Philip laughed. "I had something else in mind."
He took Lara to Demel's for its incomparable pastry and coffee.
* * Lara was fascinated by the mix of architecture in Vienna: beautiful
baroque buildings centuries old that faced neomodern
buildings.
Philip was interested in the composers. "Did you know that Franz
Schubert started as a singer here, Lara?
He was in the Imperial Chapel choir, and when his voice changed at
seventeen, he was thrown out. That's when he decided to compose
music."
They had a leisurely dinner at a small bistro, and stopped at a wine
tavern in Grinzing. Afterward Philip said, "Would you like to go for a
cruise on the Danube?" "I'd love to."
It was a perfect night, with a bright full moon and a soft summer
breeze. The stars were shining down.
They're shining down on us, Lara thought, because we're so happy. Lara
and Philip boarded one of the cruise ships, and from the ship's
loudspeaker came the soft strains of "The Blue Danube."
In the
distance they saw a falling star. "Quick! Make a wish," Philip said.
Lara closed her eyes and was silent for a moment. "Did you make your wish?"
"Yes."
"What did you wish for?"
Lara looked up at him and said seriously, "I can't tell you, or it
won't come true." I'm going to make it come true, Lara thought.
Philip leaned back and smiled at Lara. "This is perfect, isn't it?"
"It can always be this way, Philip." "What do you mean?"
"We could get married."
And there it was, out in the open. He had been thinking of nothing
else for the past few days. He was deeply in love with Lara, but he
knew he could not make a commitment to her. "Lara, that's impossible."
"Is it? Why?"
"I've explained it to you, darling. I'm almost always on tour like
this. You couldn't travel with me all the time, could you?"
"No," Lara said, "but..."
"There you are. It would never work. Tomorrow in Paris,
I'll show you..."
"I'm not going to Paris with you, Philip." He thought he had misunderstood her. "What?"
Lara took a deep breath. "I'm not going to see you again."
It was like a blow to the stomach. "Why? I love you, Lara.I..."
"And I love you. But I'm not a groupie. I don't want to
be just
another one of your fans, chasing you around. You can have all those you want."
"Lara, I don't want anyone but you. But don't you see, darling, our
marriage could never work. We have separate lives that are important
to both of us. I would want us to be together all the time, and we
couldn't be."
"That's it then, isn't it?" Lara said tightly. "I won't see you
again, Philip."
"Wait. Please! Let's talk about this. Let's go to your room, and
..."
"No, Philip. I love you very much, but I won't go on like this. It's
over."
"I don't want it to be over," Philip insisted. "Change your mind."
"I can't. I'm sorry. It's all or nothing."
They were silent the rest of the way back to their hotel.
When they reached the lobby, Philip said, "Why don't I come up to your
room? We can talk about this and..."
"No, my darling. There's nothing more to talk about." He watched Lara get into the elevator and disappear.
When Lara reached her suite, the telephone was ringing.
She hurried to
pick it up. "Philip..."
"It's Howard. I've been trying to reach you all day."
She managed to hide her disappointment. "Is anything wrong?"
"No. Just checking in. There's a lot going on around here. When do
you think you'll be coming back?"
"Tomorrow," Lara said. "I'll be back in New York tomorrow." Slowly,
Lara replaced the receiver.
She sat there, staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. Two hours
later, it was still silent. I made a mistake, Lara thought
miserably.
I gave him an ultimatum, and I lost him. If I had only waited...
Ifonly I had gone to Paris with him... if... if. .. She tried to
visualize her life without Philip. It was too painful to think
about.
But we can't go on this way, Lara thought. I want us to belong to each
other.
Tomorrow she would have to return to New York.
Lara lay down on the couch, fully dressed, the telephone by her side.
She felt drained. She knew it would be impossible to get any sleep.
She slept.
In his room Philip was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He
was furious with Lara, furious with himself. He could not bear the
thought of not seeing her again, not holding her in his arms. Damn all
women! he thought. His parents had warned him. "Your life is
music.
If you want to be the best, there's no room for anything else." And
until he met Lara, he had believed it. But now everything had
changed.
Damn it! What we had was wonderful. Why did she have to destroy it?
He loved her, but he knew he could never marry her. Lara was awakened by the ringing of the telephone.
She sat up the couch, groggy, and looked at the clock on the wall. It
was five o'clock in the morning. Sleepily, Lara picked up the
telephone. "Howard?"
It was Philip's voice. "How would you like to get married in Paris?"
Chapter Twenty-four.
The marriage of Lara Cameron to Philip Adler made headlines around the
world.
When Howard Keller heard the news, he went out and got drunk for the
first time in his life. He had kept telling himself that Lara's
infatuation with Philip Adler would pass. Lara and I are a team. We
belong together. No one can come between us. He stayed drunk for two
days, and when he sobered up, he telephoned Lara in Paris.
"If it's true," he said, "tell Philip I said he's the luckiest man who
ever lived."
"It's true," Lara assured him brightly. "You sound happy."
"I've never been happier in my life!"
"I... I'm pleased for you, Lara. When are you coming home?"
"Philip is giving a concert in London tomorrow, and then we'll be back
in New York."
"Did you talk to Paul Martin before the wedding?" She hesitated. "No."
"Don't you think you should do it now?"
"Yes, of course." She had been more concerned about that than she
wanted to admit to herself. She was not sure how he was going to take
the news of her marriage.
"I'll talk to him when I get back."
"I'll sure be glad to see you. I miss you."
"I miss you, too, Howard." And it was true. He was very dear. He had
always been a good and loyal friend.
I don't know what I would have done without him, Lara thought.
When the 727 taxied up to the Butler Aviation Terminal at New York's La
Guardia Airport, the press was there in full force. There were
newspaper reporters and television cameras.
The airport manager led Lara and Philip into the reception office. "I
can sneak you out of here," he said, or...
Lara turned to Philip. "Let's get this over with, darling. Otherwise,
they'll never let us have any peace." "You're probably right."
The press conference lasted for two hours. "Where did you two
meet...?"
"Have you always been interested in classical music, Mrs. Adler...?"
"How long have you known each other...?" "Are you going to live in New York.
"Will you give up your touring, Mr. Adler...?" Finally, it was over.
There were two limousines waiting for them. The second one was for
luggage.
"I'm not used to traveling in this kind of style," Philip said.
Lara laughed. "You'll get used to it."
When they were in the limousine, Philip asked, "Where are we going? I
have an apartment on Fiftyseventh Street..."
"I think you might be more comfortable at my place, darling. Look it
over, and if you like it, we'll have your things moved"
They arrived at
the Cameron Plaza. Philip looked up at the huge building. "You own this?"
"A few banks and I." "I'm impressed."
Lara squeezed his arm. "Good. I want you to be." The lobby had been freshly decorated with flowers. A half dozen employees were waiting to greet them. "Welcome home, Mrs. Adler, Mr. Adler."
Philip looked around and said, "My God! All this is yours?"
"Ours, sweetheart."
The elevator took them up to the penthouse. It covered the whole
forty-fifth floor. The door was opened by the butler. "Welcome home, Mrs. Adler."
"Thank you, Simms."
Lara introduced Philip to the rest of the staff and showed him through
the duplex penthouse. There was a large white drawing room, filled
with antiques, a large enclosed terrace, a dining room, four master
bedrooms and three staff bedrooms, six bathrooms, a kitchen, a library,
and an office.
"Do you think you could be comfortable here, darling?"
Lara asked.
Philip grinned. "It's a little small-but I'll manage."
In the middle of the drawing room was a beautiful new Bechstein
piano.
Philip walked over to it and ran his fingers over the keys.
"It's wonderful!" he said.
Lara moved to his side. "It's your wedding present."
"Really?" He was touched. He sat down at the piano and began to
play.
"I just had it tuned for you." Lara listened as the cascade of notes
filled the room. "Do you like it?" "I love it! Thank you, Lara."
"You can play here to your heart's content."
Philip rose from the piano bench. "I'd better give Ellerbee a call,"
Philip said. "He's been trying to reach me." "There's a telephone in the library, darling."
Lara went into her office and turned on the answering machine. There
were half a dozen messages from Paul Martin. "Lara, where are you? I
miss you, darling...
"Lara, I assume you're out of the country, or I would have heard from
you"... "I'm worried about you, Lara. Call me..." Then the tone
changed. "I just heard about your marriage. Is it true?
Let's talk."
Philip had walked into the room. "Who's the mysterious caller?" he
asked.
Lara turned. "An... an old friend of mine."
Philip walked up to her and put his arms around her. "Is he someone I should be jealous of?"
Lara said softly, "You don't have to be jealous of anyone in the
world.
You're the only man I've ever loved." And it's true.
Philip held her closely. "You're the only woman I've ever loved."
Later that afternoon, while Philip sat at the piano, Lara went back
into her office and returned Paul Martin's telephone calls.
He came on the line almost immediately. "You're back."
His voice was tight.
"Yes." She had been dreading this conversation.
"I don't mind telling you that the news was quite a shock, Lara."
"I'm sorry, Paul... I... it happened rather suddenly." "It must have."
"Yes." She tried to read his mood.
"I thought we had something pretty good going for us. I thought it was
something special." "It was, Paul, but..."
"We'd better talk about it." "Well, I..."
"Let's make it lunch tomorrow. Vitello's. One o'clock."
It was an order.
Lara hesitated. It would be foolish to antagonize him any further.
"All right, Paul. I'll be there."
The line went dead. Lara sat there worried. How angry was Paul, and
was he going to do anything about it? Chapter Twenty-five.
The following morning when Lara arrived at Cameron Center, the entire
staff was waiting to congratulate her. "It's wonderful news!"
"It was such a big surprise to all of us!..." "I'm sure you'll be very happy. "
And on it went.
Howard Keller was waiting in Lara's office for her.
He gave her a big hug. "For a lady who doesn't like classical music,
you sure went and did it!"
Lara smiled. "I did, didn't I?"
"I'll have to get used to calling you Mrs. Adler."
Lara's smile faded. "I think it might be better for business reasons
if I keep using Cameron, don't you?"
"Whatever you say. I'm sure glad you're back. Everything is piling up
here."
Lara settled in a chair opposite Howard. "Okay, tell me what's been
happening."
"Well, the West Side hotel is going to be a moneylosing proposition.
We have a buyer lined up from Texas who's interested in it, but I went
over to the hotel yesterday. It's in terrible shape. It needs a
complete refurbishing, and that's going to run into five or six million
dollars."
"Has the buyer seen it yet?"
"No. I told him I'd show it to him tomorrow."
"Show it to him next week. Get some painters in there.
Make it look
squeaky clean. Arrange for a crowd to be in the lobby when he's
there."
He grinned. "Right. Frank Rose is here with some new sketches. He's
waiting in my office." "I'll take a look at them."
"The Midland Insurance Company that was going into the new building?"
"Yes."
"They haven't signed the deal yet. They're a little shaky."
Lara made a note. "I'll talk to them about it. Next?"
"Gotham Bank's seventy-five million loan on the new project?"
"Yes?"
"They're pulling back. They think you're getting overextended."
"How much interest were they going to charge us?" "Seventeen percent."
"Set up a meeting with them. We're going to offer to pay twenty
percent."
He was looking at her, aghast. "Twenty percent? My God,
Lara! No one
pays twenty percent."
"I would rather be alive at twenty percent than dead at seventeen
percent. Do it, Howard." "All right."
The morning went by swiftly. At twelve-thirty Lara said, "I'm going to
meet Paul Martin for lunch."
Howard looked worried. "Make sure you aren't lunch." "What do you mean?"
"I mean he's Sicilian. They don't forgive and they don't forget."
"You're being melodramatic. Paul would never do anything to harm
me."
"I hope you're right."
Paul Martin was waiting for Lara at the restaurant when she arrived.
He looked thin and haggard, and there were circles under his eyes, as
though he had not been sleeping well. "Hello, Lara." He did not get up. "Paul." She sat down across from him.
"I left some stupid messages on your answering machine.
I'm sorry. I
had no idea..." He shrugged.
"I should have let you know, Paul, but it all happened so fast."
"Yeah." He was studying her face. "You're looking great."
"Thank you."
"Where did you meet Adler?" "In London."
"And you fell in love with him just like that?" There was a bitter
undertone to his words.
"Paul, what you and I had was wonderful, but it wasn't enough for me.
I needed something more than that.
I needed someone to come home to every night."
He was listening, watching her.
"I would never do anything in the world to hurt you, but this just..
.just happened." More silence. "Please understand."
"Yeah." A wintry smile crossed his face. "I guess I have no choice,
have I? What's done is done. It was just kind of a shock to read
about it in the newspapers and see it on television. I thought we were
closer than that."
"You're right," Lara said again. "I should have told you."
His hand reached out and caressed her chin. "I was crazy about you,
Lara. I guess I still am. You were my miracolo. I could have given
you anything in the world you wanted except what he could give you-a
wedding ring. I love you enough to want you to be happy."
Lara felt a wave of relief sweep through her. "Thank you, Paul."
"When am I going to meet your husband?"
"We're giving a party next week for our friends. Will you come?"
"I'll be there. You tell him that he had better treat you right, or
he'll have to answer to me." Lara smiled. "I'll tell him."
When Lara returned to her office, Howard Keller was waiting for her.
"How did the luncheon go?" he asked nervously.
"Fine. You were wrong about Paul. He behaved beautifully."
"Good. I'm glad I was wrong. Tomorrow morning I've set up some
meetings for you with..."
"Cancel them," Lara said. "I'm staying home with my husband
tomorrow.
We're honeymooning for the next few days." "I'm glad you're so happy," Howard said.
"Howard, I'm so happy it scares me. I'm afraid that I'll wake up and
find this is all a dream. I never knew anyone could be this happy."
He smiled. "All right, I'll handle the meetings."
"Thank you." She kissed him on the cheek. "Philip and I are giving a
party next week. We expect you there."
* * * The party took place the following Saturday at the penthouse.
There was a lavish buffet and more than a hundred guests.
Lara had
invited the men and women she worked with: bankers, builders,
architects, construction chiefs, city officials, the city planners, and
the heads of unions. Philip had invited his musician friends and music
patrons and benefactors. The combination proved to be
disastrous.
It wasn't that the two groups did not try to mix. The problem was that
most of them had nothing in common.
The builders were interested in construction and architecture, and the
musicians were interested in music and composers.
Lara introduced a city planner to a group of musicians.
The
commissioner stood there, trying to follow the discussion.
"Do you know what Rossini felt about Wagner's music? One day he sat
his ass on the piano keys and said, 'That's what Wagner sounds like to
me."" "Wagner deserved it. When a fire broke out at the Ring Theater
in Vienna during a performance of Tales ofHoffmann, four hundred people
burned to death. When Wagner heard about it, he said, 'That's what
they get for listening to an Offenbach operetta."" The commissioner
hastily moved on.
Lara introduced some of Philip's friends to a group of real estate
men.
"The problem," one of the men said, "is that you need thirty-five
percent of the tenants signed up before you can go co-op. "If you want my opinion, that's a pretty stupid rule."
"I agree. I'm switching to hotels. Do you know the hotels in
Manhattan now are averaging two hundred dollars a room per night? Next
year..."
The musicians moved on.
Conversations seemed to be going on in two different languages.
"The trouble with the Viennese is that they love dead composers. "
"There's a new hotel going up on two parcels, between Forty-seventh and
Forty-eighth streets. Chase Manhattan is financing it. "
"He might not be the greatest conductor in the world, but his stick
technique is. "
.... . I remember a lot of the mavens said that the 1929 stock market
crash wasn't a bad thing. It would teach people to put their money in
real estate. "
.... . and Horowitz wouldn't play for years because he thought his
fingers were made of glass. "
.... . I've seen the plans. There's going to be a classic base rising
from three floors from Eighth Avenue, and inside an elliptical arcade
with lobbies on three sides. "
.... . Einstein loved the piano. He used to play with Rubenstein, but
Einstein kept playing off beat. Finally, Rubenstein couldn't stand it
anymore, and he yelled, 'Albert, can't you count?". "
.... . Congress must have been drunk to pass the Tax Reform Act. It's
going to cripple the building industry. "
"...and at the end of the evening when Brahms left the
party he said,
'If there's anyone here I've forgotten to insult, I apologize."" The
Tower of Babel.
Paul Martin arrived alone, and Lara hurried over to the door to greet
him. "I'm so glad you could come, Paul."
"I wouldn't have missed it." He looked around the room. "I want to
meet Philip."
Lara took him over to where Philip was standing with a group. "Philip,
this is an old friend of mine, Paul Martin."
Philip held out his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you." The two men shook hands.
"You're a lucky man, Mr. Adler. Lara's a remarkable woman."
"That's what I keep telling him." Lara smiled.
"She doesn't have to tell me," Philip said. "I know how lucky I am."
Paul was studying him. "Do you?"
Lara could feel the sudden tension in the air. "Let me get you a
cocktail," she said to Paul.
"No, thanks. Remember? I don't drink."
Lara bit her lip. "Of course. Let me introduce you to some people."
She escorted him around the room, introducing him to some of the
guests.
One of the musicians was saying, "Leon Fleisher is giving a recital
tomorrow night. I wouldn't miss it for the world." He turned to Paul
Martin, who was standing next to Howard Keller. "Have you heard him
play?" "No."
"He's remarkable. He plays only with his left hand, of course."
Paul Martin was puzzled. "Why would he do that?"
"Fleisher developed carpal-tunnel syndrome in his right hand about ten
years ago."
"But how can he give a recital with one hand?"
"Half a dozen composers wrote concertos for the left hand.
There's one
by Demuth, Franz Schmidt, Korngold, and a beautiful concerto by
Ravel."
Some of the guests were asking Philip to play for them.
"All right. This is for my bride." He sat down at the piano and began
to play a theme from a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. The room was
hushed. Everyone seemed mesmerized by the lovely strains that filled
the penthouse. When Philip rose, there was loud applause.
An hour later the party began to break up. When they had seen the last
guest to the door, Philip said, "That was quite a party." "You hate big parties, don't you?" Lara said.
Philip took her in his arms and grinned. "Did it show?"
"We'll only do this every ten years," Lara promised.
"Philip, did you have a feeling that our guests were from two different
planets?"
He put his lips to her cheek. "It doesn't matter. We have our own
planet. Let's make it spin. "
Chapter Twenty-six.
Lara decided to work at home mornings.
"I want us to be together as much as possible," she told Philip.
Lara asked Kathy to arrange for some secretaries to be interviewed at
the penthouse. Lara talked to half a dozen before Marian Bell
appeared. She was in her middle twenties with soft blond hair,
attractive features, and a warm personality. "Sit down," Lara said.
"Thank you."
Lara was looking over her resume. "You were graduated from Wellesley
College?" "Yes."
"And you have a B.A. Why do you want a job as a secretary?"
"I think I can learn a lot working for you. Whether I get this job or
not, I'm a big fan of yours, MissCameron." "Really? Why?"
"You're my role model. You've accomplished a lot, and you've done it
on your own."
Lara was studying the young woman. "This job would mean long hours. I
get up early. You'd be working at my apartment. You'd start at six in
the morning."
"That wouldn't be a problem. I'm a hard worker."
Lara smiled. She liked Marian. "I'll give you a oneweek trial," she
said.
By the end of the week Lara knew that she had found a jewel. Marian
was capable and intelligent and pleasant. Gradually, a routine was
established. Unless there was an emergency, Lara spent the mornings
working at the apartment. In the afternoon she would go to the
office.
Each morning Lara and Philip had breakfast together and afterward
Philip would go to the piano and sit in a sleeveless athletic shirt and
jeans and practice for two or three hours while Lara went into her
office and dictated to Marian. Sometimes Philip would play old
Scottish tunes for Lara: "Annie Laurie," and "Comin' Through the
Rye."
She was touched. They would have lunch together.
"Tell me what your life was like in Glace Bay," Philip said.
"It would take at least five minutes." Lara smiled. "No, I'm serious. I really want to know."
She talked about the boardinghouse, but she could not bring herself to
talk about her father. She told Philip the story of Charles Colin, and
Philip said, "Good for him. I'd like to meet him one day." "I'm sure you will."
Lara told him about her experience with Sean MacAllister, and Philip
said, "That bastard! I'd like to kill him!" He held Lara close and
said, "No one is ever going to hurt you again."
* * * Philip was working on a concerto. She would hear him play three
notes at a time, over and over and then move on, practicing slowly and
picking up the tempo until the different phrases finally flowed into
one.
In the beginning Lara would walk into the drawing room while Philip was
playing and interrupt him.
"Darling, we're invited to Long Island for the weekend.
Would you like to go?"
Or, "I have theater tickets for the new Neil Simon play."
Or, "Howard Keller would like to take us out to dinner Saturday
night."
Philip had tried to be patient. Finally, he said, "Lara, please don't
interrupt me while I'm at the piano. It breaks my concentration."
"I'm sorry," Lara said. "But I don't understand why you practice every
day. You're not giving a concert now."
"I practice every day so I can give a concert. You see, my darling,
when you put up a building and a mistake is made, it can be
corrected.
You can change the plans or you can redo the plumbing or the lighting
or whatever.
But at a recital there is no second chance. You're live in front of an
audience and every note has to be perfect." "I'm sorry," Lara apologized. "I understand."
Philip took her in his arms. "There's the old joke about a man in New
York carrying a violin case. He was lost. He stopped a stranger and
said, 'How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" 'Practice,' the stranger
said, 'practice."" Lara laughed. "Go back to your piano.
I'll leave you alone."
She sat in her office listening to the faint strains of Philip playing
and she thought, I'm so lucky. Thousands of women would envy me
sitting here listening to Philip Adler play.
She just wished he did not have to practice so often.
* * * They both enjoyed playing backgammon, and in the evening, after
dinner, they would sit in front of the fireplace and have
mock-fierce
contests. Lara treasured those moments of being alone with him.
The Reno casino was getting ready to open. Six months earlier Lara had
had a meeting with Jerry Townsend. "I want them to read about this
opening in Timbuktu," Lara said. "I'm flying in the chef from Maxim's
for the opening. I want you to get me the hottest talent available.
Start with Frank Sinatra and work your way down. I want the invitation
list to include the top names in Hollywood, New York, and Washington.
I want people fighting to get on that list."
Now, as Lara looked it over, she said, "You've done a good job. How
many turndowns have we had?"
"A couple dozen," Townsend said. "That's not bad from a list of six
hundred."
"Not bad at all," Lara agreed.
Keller telephoned Lara in the morning. "Good news," he said. "I got a
call from the Swiss bankers. They're flying in to meet with you
tomorrow to discuss the joint venture." "Great," Lara said. "Nine o'clock, my office." "I'll set it up."
At dinner that evening Philip said, "Lara, I'm doing a recording
session tomorrow. You've never been to one, have you?"
"No."
"Would you like to come and watch?"
Lara hesitated, thinking about the meeting with the Swiss. "Of
course," she said.
Lara telephoned Keller. "Start the meeting without me.
I'll get there
as soon as I can."
The recording studio was located on West Thirtyfourth Street, in a
large warehouse filled with electronic equipment. There were 130
musicians seated in the room and a glass-enclosed control booth where
the sound engineers worked. It seemed to Lara that the recording was
going very slowly. They kept stopping and starting again. During one of the breaks she telephoned Keller.
"Where are you?" he demanded. "I'm stalling but they want to talk to
y "I'll be there in an hour or two," she said. "Keep them talking."
Two hours later the recording session was still going on. Lara telephoned Keller again.
"I'm sorry, Howard, I can't leave. Have them come back tomorrow."
"What's so important?" Keller demanded.
"My husband," Lara said. And she replaced the receiver.
When they returned to the apartment, Lara said, "We're going to Reno
next week."
"What's in Reno?"
"It's the opening of the hotel and casino. We'll fly down on
Wednesday."
Philip's voice was filled with distress. "Damn!" "What's the matter?"
"I'm sorry, darling, I can't."
She was staring at him. "What do you mean?"
"I thought I had mentioned it. I'm leaving on a tour Monday."
"What are you talking about?"
"Ellerbee has booked me on a six-week tour. I'm going to Australia
and..." "Australia?"
"Yes. Then Japan and Hong Kong."
"You can't, Philip. I mean... why are you doing this? You don't have to. I want to be with you."
"Well, come with me, Lara. I'd love that."
"You know I can't. Not now. There's too much happening here." Lara
said miserably, "I don't want you to leave me."
"I don't want to. But, darling, I warned you before we were married
that this is what my life is about."
"I know," Lara said, "but that was before. Now it's different.
Everything has changed."
"Nothing has changed," Philip said gently, "except that I'm absolutely
crazy about you, and when I go away, I'll miss you like the devil."
There was nothing Lara could say to that.
Philip was gone, and Lara had never known such loneliness.
In the
middle of a meeting she would suddenly think about Philip and her heart
would melt.
She wanted him to go on with his career, but she needed him with her.
She thought of the wonderful times they had together, and of his arms
around her, and his warmth and gentleness. She had never known she
could love anyone so much. Philip telephoned her every day, but
somehow it made the loneliness worse. "Where are you, darling?"
"I'm still in Tokyo." "How's the tour going?" "Beautifully. I miss you."
"I miss you, too.-" Lara could not tell him how much she missed him.
"I leave for Hong Kong tomorrow and then..."
"I wish you'd come home." She regretted it the moment she said it.
"You know I can't."
There was a silence. "Of course not."
They talked for half an hour and when Lara put the receiver down, she
was lonelier than ever. The time differences were maddening.
Sometimes her Tuesday would be his Wednesday, and he would call in the
middle of the night or in the early hours of the morning. "How's Philip?" Keller asked.
"Fine. Why does he do it, Howard?" "Why does he do what?"
"This tour of his. He doesn't have to do it. I mean, he certainly
doesn't need the money."
"Whoa. I'm sure he's not doing it for the money. It's what he does,
Lara."
The same words that Philip had used. She understood it intellectually,
but not emotionally.
"Lara," Keller said, "you only married the man-you don't own him."
"I don't want to own him. I was just hoping that I was more important
to him than..." She stopped herself in mid-sentence. "Never mind. I
know I'm being silly."
Lara telephoned William Ellerbee.
"Are you free for lunch today?" Lara asked.
"I can make myself free," Ellerbee said. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, no. I just thought we should have a talk." They met at Le Cirque.
"Have you talked to Philip lately?" Ellerbee asked. "I talk to him every day."
"He's having a successful tour." "Yes."
Ellerbee said, "Frankly, I never thought Philip would get married.
He's like a priest-dedicated to what he does."
"I know"-Lara hesitated-"but don't you think he's traveling too
much?"
"I don't understand."
"Philip has a home now. There's no reason for him to be running all
over the world." She saw the expression on Ellerbee's face. "Oh, I
don't mean he should just stay in New York. I'm sure you could arrange
concerts for him in Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles. You know... where he
wouldn't have to travel so far from home."
Ellerbee said carefully, "Have you discussed this with Philip?"
"No. I wanted to talk to you first. It would be possible, wouldn't
it? I mean, Philip doesn't need the money, not anymore."
"Mrs. Adler, Philip makes thirty-five thousand dollars a performance.
Last year he was on tour for forty weeks." "I understand, but..."
"Do you have any idea how few pianists make it to the top, or how hard
they have to struggle to get there?
There are thousands of pianists out there, playing their fingers to the
bone, and there are only about four or five superstars.
Your husband
is one of them. You don't know much about the concert world. The
competition is murderous. You can go to a recital and see a soloist on
the stage dressed in tails, looking prosperous and glamorous, but when
he gets off that stage, he can barely afford to pay his rent or buy a
decent meal. It took Philip a long time to become a world class
pianist. Now you're asking me to take that away from him."
"No, I'm not. I'm merely suggesting..."
"What you're suggesting would destroy his career. You don't really want to do that, do you?"
"Of course not, "Lara said. She hesitated. "I understand that you get
fifteen percent of what Philip earns." "That's right."
"I wouldn't want you to lose anything if Philip gave fewer concerts,"
Lara said carefully. "I'd be glad to make up the difference and..."
"Mrs. Adler, I think this is something you should discuss with
Philip.
Shall we order?" Chapter Twenty-seven.
Liz Smith's column read: "IRON BUTTERFLY ABOUT TO GET HER WINGS
CLIPPED...
What beautiful real estate tycoon is about to hit her penthouse roof
when she learns that a book about her, written by a former employee, is
going to be published by Candlelight Press? The word is that it's
going to be hot! Hot! Hot!"
Lara slammed the newspaper down. It had to be Gertrude Meeks, the
secretary she had fired! Lara sent for Jerry Townsend. "Have you seen
Liz Smith's column this morning?"
"Yes, I just read it. There isn't much we can do about it, boss. If
you..."
"There's a lot we can do. All my employees sign an agreement that they
will not write anything about me during or after their employment
here.
Gertrude Meeks has no right to do this. I'm going to sue the publisher
for all he's worth."
Jerry Townsend shook his head. "I wouldn't do that." "Why not?"
"Because it will create a lot of unfavorable publicity.
If you let it ride, it becomes a small wind that will blow over. If
you try to stop it, it will become a hurricane."
She listened, unimpressed. "Find out who owns the company," Lara
ordered.
One hour later Lara was speaking on the phone to Henry Seinfeld, the
owner and publisher of Candlelight Press.
"This is Lara Cameron. I understand you intend to publish a book about
me."
"You read the Liz Smith item, huh? Yes, it's true, Miss Cameron."
"I want to warn you that if you publish the book, I'm going to sue you
for invasion of privacy."
The voice at the other end of the phone said, "I think perhaps you
should check with your attorney. You're a public figure, Miss
Cameron.
You have no right of privacy. And according to Gertrude Meeks's
manuscript, you're quite a colorful character."
"Gertrude Meeks signed a paper forbidding her to write anything about
me."
"Well, that's between you and Gertrude. You can sue her But by then,
of course, the book would be out.
"I don't want it published. If I can make it worth your while not to
publish it "Hold on. I think you're treading on dangerous
ground. I
would suggest that we terminate this conversation.
Good-bye." The line went dead.
Damn him! Lara sat there thinking. She sent for Howard Keller.
"What do you know about Candlelight Press?"
He shrugged. "They're a small outfit. They do exploitation books.
They did a hatchet job on Cher, Madonna..." "Thanks. That's all."
* * * Howard Keller had a headache. It seemed to him that he was
getting a lot of headaches lately. Not enough sleep.
He was under pressure, and he felt that things were moving too
rapidly.
He had to find a way to slow Lara down.
Maybe this was a hunger headache. He buzzed his secretary.
"Bess, order some lunch in for me, would you?" There was a silence.
"Bess?"
"Are you joking, Mr. Keller?" "Joking? No, why?"
"You just had your lunch."
Keller felt a chill go through him.
"But if you're still hungry..."
"No, no." He remembered now. He had had a salad and a roast beef
sandwich and... My God, he thought, what's happening to me?
"Just kidding, Bess," he said. Who am I kidding?
The opening of the Cameron Palace in Reno was a smash.
The hotel was
fully booked, and the casino was crowded with players.
Lara had spared
no expense to see that the invited celebrities were well taken care
of.
Everyone was there. There's only one person missing. Lara thought.
Philip. He had sent an enormous bouquet of flowers with a note:
"You're the music in my life. I adore you and miss you. Hub."
Paul Martin arrived. He came up to Lara. "Congratulations. You've
outdone yourself."
"Thanks to you, Paul. I couldn't have done it without you."
He was looking around. "Where's Philip?" "He couldn't be here. He's on tour."
"He's out playing piano somewhere? This is a big night for you,
Lara.
He should be at your side."
Lara smiled. "He really wanted to be."
The manager of the hotel came up to Lara. "This is quite a night,
isn't it? The hotel is fully booked for the next three months."
"Let's keep it that way, Donald."
Lara had hired a Japanese and a Brazilian agent to bring in big players
from abroad. She had spent a million dollars on each of the luxury
suites, but it was going to pay off.
"You've got a gold mine here, Miss Cameron," the manager said. He
looked around. "By the way, where's your husband? I've been looking
forward to meeting him."
"He couldn't be here," Lara said. He's out playing the piano
somewhere.
The entertainment was brilliant, but Lara was the star of the vening.
Sammy Cahn had written special lyrics for "My Kind of Town." It went,
"My kind of gal, Lara is..." She got up to make a speech, and there
was enthusiastic applause. Everyone wanted to meet her, to touch
her.
The press was there in full force, and Lara gave interviews for
television, radio, and the press. It all went well until the
interviewers asked, "Where's your husband tonight?" And Lara found
herself getting more and more upset. He should have been at my side.
The concert could have waited. But she smiled sweetly and
said,
"Philip was so disappointed he couldn't be here."
When the entertainment was over, there was dancing. Paul Martin walked
up to Lara's table. "Shall we?"
Lara rose and stepped into his arms.
"How does it feel owning all this?" Paul asked. "It feels wonderful. Thanks for all your help."
"What are friends for? I notice that you have some heavyweight
gamblers here. Be careful with them, Lara.
Some of them are going to lose big, and you have to make them feel like
they're winners. Get them a new car or girls or anything that will
make them feel important." "I'll remember," Lara said.
"It's good to hold you again," Paul said. "Paul..."
"I know. Do you remember what I said about your husband taking good
care of you?" "Yes."
"He doesn't seem to be doing a very good job." "Philip wanted to be here," Lara said defensively. And even as she said it, she thought, Did he really?
He telephoned her late that night, and the sound of his voice made her
twice as lonely.
"Lara, I've been thinking about you all day, darling. How did the opening go?"
"Wonderfully. I wish you could have been here, Philip." "So do I. I miss you like crazy."
Then why aren't you here with me? "I miss you, too. Hurry home."
Howard Keller walked into Lara's office carrying a thick manila
envelope.
"You're not going to like this," Keller said. "What's up?"
Keller laid the envelope on Lara's desk. "This is a copy of Gertrude
Meeks's manuscript. Don't ask me how I got hold of it.
We could both go to jail."
"Have you read it?" He nodded. "Yes." "And?"
"I think you'd better read it yourself. She wasn't even working here
when some of these things happened. She must have done a lot of
digging." "Thanks, Howard."
Lara waited until he left the office; then she pressed down the key on
the intercom. "No calls."
She opened the manuscript and began to read.
It was devastating. It was a portrait of a scheming, domineering woman
who had clawed her way to the top.
It depicted her temper tantrums and her imperious manner with her
employees. It was meanspirited, filled with nasty little anecdotes.
What the manuscript left out was Lara's independence and courage, her
talent and vision and generosity. She went on reading.
.... . One of the Iron Butterfly's tricks was to schedule her business
meetings early on the first morning of negotiations, so that the others
were jet-lagged and Cameron was fresh.
.... . At a meeting with the Japanese, they were served tea with Valium
in it, while Lara Cameron drank coffee with Ritalin, a stimulant that
speeds up the thought process.
.... . At a meeting with some German bankers, they were served coffee
with Valium, while she drank tea with Ritalin.
.... . When Lara Cameron was negotiating for the Queens property and
the community board turned her down, she got them to change their mind
by making up a story that she had a young daughter who was going to
live in one of the buildings..."
.... . When tenants refused to leave the building at the Dorchester
Apartments, Lara Cameron filled it with homeless people. "
Nothing had been left out. When Lara finished reading it, she sat at
her desk for a long time, motionless. She sent for Howard Keller.
"I want you to run a Dun and Bradstreet on Henry Seinfeld. He owns
Candlelight Press." "Right."
He was back fifteen minutes later. "Seinfeld has a D-C rating."
"Which means?"
"That's the lowest rating there is. A fourth-line credit rating is
poor, and he's four notches below that. A good stiff wind would blow
him over. He lives from book to book. One flop and he's out of
business."
"Thanks, Howard." She telephoned Terry Hill, her attorney.
"Terry, how would you like to be a book publisher?" "What did you have in mind?"
"I want you to buy Candlelight Press in your name. It's owned by Henry Seinfeld."
"That should be no problem. How much do you want to pay?"
"Try to buy him out for five hundred thousand. If you have to, go to a
million. Make sure that the deal includes all the literary properties
he owns. Keep my name out of it."
The offices of Candlelight Press were downtown in an old building on
Thirty-fourth Street. Henry Seinfeld's quarters consisted of a small
secretarial office and a slightly larger office for himself.
Seinfeld's secretary said, "There's a Mr. Hill to see you, Mr.
Seinfeld."
"Send him" Terry Hill had called earlier that morning.
He walked into the shabby little office. Seinfeld was sitting behind
the desk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Hill?"
"I'm representing a German publishing company that might be interested
in buying your company."
Seinfeld took his time lighting a cigar. "My company's not for sale,"
he said.
"Oh, that's too bad. We're trying to break into the American market,
and we like your operation."
"I've built this company up from scratch," Seinfeld said. "It's like
my baby. I'd hate to part with it."
"I understand how you feel," the lawyer said sympathetically. "We'd be
willing to give you five hundred thousand dollars for it." Seinfeld almost choked on his cigar. "Five hundred?
Hell, I've got one book coming out that's going to be worth a million
dollars alone. No, sir. Your offer's an insult."
"My offer's a gift. You have no assets, and you're over a hundred
thousand dollars in debt. I checked. Tell you what I'll do. I'll go
up to six hundred thousand. That's my final offer."
"I'd never forgive myself. Now, if you could see your way clear to
going to seven..."
Terry Hill rose to his feet. "Good-bye, Mr. Seinfeld. I'll find another py)) He started toward the door. "Wait a minute," Seinfeld said. "Let's not be hasty.
The fact is, my wife's been after me to retire. Maybe this would be a
good time."
Terry Hill walked over to the desk and pulled a contract out of his
pocket. "I have a check here for six hundred thousand dollars. Just
sign where the X is." Lara sent for Keller.
"We just bought Candlelight Press." "Great. What do you want to do with it?"
"First of all, kill Gertrude Meeks's book. See that it doesn't get
published. There are plenty of ways to keep stalling. If she sues to
get her rights back, we can tie her up in court for years."
"Do you want to fold the company?"
"Of course not. Put someone in to run it. We'll keep it
as a tax loss."
When Keller returned to his office, he said to his secretary, "I want
to give you a letter. Jack Hellman, Hellman Realty. Dear Jack, I
discussed your offer with Miss Cameron, and we feel that it would be
unwise to go into your venture at this time. However, we want you to
know that we would be interested in any future..." His secretary had stopped taking notes.
Keller looked up. "Do you have that?" She was staring at him. "Mr. Keller?" "Yes."
"You dictated this letter yesterday." Keller swallowed. "What?"
"It's already gone out in the mail."
Howard Keller tried to smile. "I guess I'm on overload."
At four o'clock that afternoon Keller was being examined by Dr.
Seymour Bennett.
"You seem to be in excellent shape," Dr. Bennett said. "Physically, there's nothing wrong with you at all." "What about these lapses of memory?"
"How long since you've had a vacation, Howard?"
Keller tried to think. "I guess it's been quite a few years," he
said.
"We've been pretty busy."
Dr. Bennett smiled. "There you are. You're on overload."
That word
again. "This is more common than you think. Go somewhere where you
can relax for a week or two. Get business off your mind.
When you
come back, you'll feel like a new man." Keller stood up, relieved.
Keller went to see Lara in her office. "Could you spare me for a
week?"
"About as easily as I can spare my right arm. What did you have in
mind?"
"The doctor thinks I should take a little vacation, Lara.
To tell you
the truth, I've been having some problems with my memory." She was watching him, concerned. "Anything serious?"
"No, not really. It's just annoying. I thought I might go to Hawaii
for a few days." "Take the jet."
"No, no, you'll be using it. I'll fly commercial." "Charge everything to the company."
"Thanks. I'll check in every "No, you won't. I want you to forget
about the office.
Just take care of yourself. I don't want anything to happen to you."
I hope he's all right, Lara thought. He's got to be all right.
Philip telephoned the next day. When Marian Bell said, "Mr. Adler is
calling from Taipei," Lara hurriedly picked up the telephone.
"Philip...?"
"Hello, darling. There's been a phone strike. I've been trying to
reach you for hours. How do you feel?" Lonely. "Wonderful. How is the tour going?" "It's the usual. I miss you."
In the background Lara could hear music and voices. "Where are you?"
"Oh, they're giving a little party for me. You know how it is."
Lara could hear the sound of a woman laughing. "Yes, I know how it is."
"I'll be home Wednesday." "Philip?"
"Yes?"
"Nothing, darling. Hurry home." "I will. Good-bye."
She replaced the receiver. What was he going to do after the party?
Who was the woman? She was filled with a sense of jealousy so strong
that it almost smothered her. She had never been jealous of anyone in
her life.
Everything is so perfect, Lara thought. I don't want to lose it. I
can't lose it.
She lay awake thinking about Philip and what he was doing.
Howard Keller was stretched out on Kona Beach at a small hotel on the
big island of Hawaii. The weather had been ideal. He had gone
swimming every day. He had gotten a tan, played some golf, and had
daily massages. He was completely relaxed and had never felt better.
Dr. Bennett was right, he thought. Overload. I'm going to have to
slow down a little when I get back. The truth was that the episodes of
memory loss had frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
Finally, it was time to return to New York. He took a midnight flight
back and was in Manhattan at four o'clock in the afternoon. He went
directly to the office.
His secretary was there, smiling. "Welcome back, Mr.
Keller. You look great."
"Thank you..." He stood there, and his face drained of color.
He could not remember her name. Chapter Twenty-eight.
Philip arrived home Wednesday afternoon, and Lara took the
limousine to
the airport to meet him. Philip stepped off the plane, and the image
of Lochinvar instantly sprang to Lara's mind.
My God, but he's handsome! She ran into his arms. "I've missed you," she said, hugging him.
"I've missed you, too, darling." "How much?"
He held his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. "This much."
"You beast," she said. "Where's your luggage?" "It's coming."
One hour later they were back at the apartment.
Marian Bell opened the door for them. "Welcome back, Mr. Adler."
"Thanks, Marian." He looked around. "I feel as though I've been away
for a year."
"Two years, "Lara said. She started to add, "Don't ever leave me
again," and bit her lip.
"Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Adler?" Marian asked.
"No. We're fine. You can run along now. I'll dictate some letters in
the morning. I won't be going into the office today." "Very well. Good-bye." Marian left.
"Sweet girl," Philip said.
"Yes, isn't she?" Lara moved into Philip's arms. "Now show me how
much you missed me."
Lara stayed away from the office for the next three days.
She wanted
to be with Philip, to talk to him, touch him, assure herself that he
was real. They had breakfast in the morning, and while Lara dictated
to Marian, Philip was at the piano practicing.
At lunch on the third day Lara told Philip about the casino opening.
"I wish you could have been there, darling. It was fantastic."
"I'm so sorry I missed it."
He's out playing the piano somewhere. "Well, you'll have your chance
next month. The mayor is giving me the keys to the city."
Philip said unhappily, "Darling, I'm afraid I'm going to have to miss
that, too."
Lara froze. "What do you mean?"
"Ellerbee's booked me for another tour. I leave for Germany in three
weeks."
"You can't!" Lara said.
"The contracts have already been signed. There's nothing I can do
about it."
"You just got back. How can you go away again so soon?" "It's an important tour, darling."
"And our marriage isn't important?" "Lara..."
"You don't have to go," Lara said angrily. "I want a husband, not a
part-time..."
Marian Bell came into the room carrying sbme letters. "Oh, I'm
sorry.
I didn't mean to interrupt. I have these letters ready for you to
sign."
"Thank you," Lara said stiffly. "I'll call you when I need you."
"Yes, Miss Cameron."
They watched Marian retreat to her office.
"I know you have to give concerts," Lara said, "but you don't have to
give them this often. It's not as though you were some kind of
traveling salesman."
"No, it isn't, is it?" His tone was cool.
"Why don't you stay here for the ceremony and then go on your tour?"
"Lara, I know that it's important to you, but you must understand that
my concert tours are important to me.
I'm very proud of you and what you're doing, but I want you to be proud
of me."
"I am," Lara said. "Forgive me, Philip, I just..." She was trying
hard not to cry.
"I know, darling." He took her in his arms. "We'll work it out. When
I come back, we'll take a long vacation together."
A vacation's impossible, Lara thought. There are too many projects in
the works.
"Where are you going this time, Philip?"
"I'll be going to Germany, Norway, Denmark, England, and then back
here."
Lara took a deep breath. "I see."
"I wish you could come with me, Lara. It's very lonely out there
without you."
She thought of the laughing lady. "Is it?" She shook herself out of
her mood and managed to smile. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you
take the jet? It will make it more comfortable for you." "Are you sure you're...?"
"Absolutely. I'll manage without it until you're back." "There's no one in the world like you," Philip said.
Lara rubbed a finger slowly along his cheek. "Remember that."
Philip's tour was a huge success. In Berlin the audiences went wild
and the reviews were ecstatic.
Afterward the greenrooms were always crowded with eager fans, most of
them female: "I've traveled three hundred miles to hear
you play..."
"I have a little castle not far from here, and I was wondering...
"I've prepared a midnight supper just for the two of us..."
Some of them were rich and beautiful, and most of them were very
willing. But Philip was in love. He called Lara after the concert in
Denmark. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too, Philip. How did the concert go?" "Well, no one walked out while I was playing."
Lara laughed. "That's a good sign. I'm right in the middle of a
meeting now, darling. I'll call you at your hotel in an hour."
Philip said, "I won't be going right to the hotel, Lara.
The manager of the concert hall is giving a dinner party for me
and..."
"Oh? Really? Does he have a beautiful daughter?" She regretted it the moment the words were out. "What?"
"Nothing. I have to go now. I'll talk to you later." She hung up and turned to the men in the office.
Keller was watching her. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," Lara said lightly. She found it difficult to concentrate on
the meeting. She visualized Philip at the party,
beautiful women
handing him their hotel keys.
She was consumed with jealousy, and she hated herself for it.
The mayor's ceremony honoring Lara was a standing-room-only event. The
press was out in force.
"Could we get a shot of you and your husband together?"
And Lara was forced to say, "He wanted so much to be here..."
Paul Martin was there. "He's gone again, huh?"
"He really wanted to be here, Paul."
"Bullshit! This is a big honor for you. He should be at your side.
What the hell kind of husband is he? Someone should have a talk with
him!"
That night she lay in bed alone, unable to sleep.
Philip was ten thousand miles away. The conversation with Paul Martin
ran through Lara's mind. "What the hell kind of husband is he?
Someone should have a talk with him!"
When Philip returned from Europe, he seemed happy to be home. He
brought Lara an armload of gifts. There was an exquisite porcelain
figurine from Denmark, lovely dolls from Germany, silk blouses, and a
gold purse from England. In the purse was a diamond
bracelet.
"It's lovely," Lara said. "Thank you, darling."
The next morning Lara said to Marian Bell, "I'm going to work at home
all day."
Lara sat in her office dictating to Marian, and from the drawing room
she could hear the sounds of Philip at the piano. Our life is so
perfect like this, Lara thought. Why does Philip want to spoil it?
William Ellerbee telephoned Philip. "Congratulations," he said. "I
hear the tour went wonderfully."
"It did. The Europeans are great audiences."
"I got a call from the management at Carnegie Hall.
They have an unexpected opening a week from Friday, on the seventeenth.
They would like to book you for a recital. Are you interested?"
"Very much."
"Good. I'll work out the arrangements. By the way," Ellerbee said,
"are you thinking of cutting back on your concerts?" Philip was taken aback. "Cutting back? No. Why?"
"I had a talk with Lara, and she indicated that you might want to just
tour the United States. Perhaps it would be best if you talked to her
and..."
Philip said, "I will. Thank you."
Philip replaced the receiver and walked into Lara's office. She was
dictating to Marian.
"Would you excuse us?" Philip asked.
Marian smiled. "Certainly." She left the room.
Philip turned to Lara. "I just had a call from William Ellerbee. Did
you talk to him about my cutting down on foreign tours?" "I might have mentioned something like that, Philip.
I thought it might be better for both of us if..."
"Please, don't do that again," Philip said. "You know how much I love
you. But apart from our lives together, you have a career and I have a
career. Let's make a rule.
I won't interfere in yours, and you won't interfere in mine.
Is that fair enough?"
"Of course, it is," Lara said. "I'm sorry, Philip. It's just that I
miss you so much when you're away." She went into his arms. "Forgive
me?"
"It's forgiven and forgotten."
Howard Keller came to the penthouse to bring Lara contracts to sign.
"How's everything going?" "Beautifully," Lara said.
"The wandering minstrel is home?" "Yes."
"So music is your life now, huh?"
"The musician is my life. You have no idea how wonderful he is,
Howard."
"When are you coming into the office? We need you." "I'll come in a few days."
Keller nodded. "Okay."
They began to examine the papers he had brought.
The following morning Terry Hill telephoned. "Lara, I just received a
call from the Gaming Commission in Reno," the attorney said. "There's
going to be a hearing on your casino license." "Why?" Lara asked.
"There have been some allegations that the bidding was rigged. They
want you to go there and testify on the seventeenth." "How serious is this?" Lara asked.
The lawyer hesitated. "Are you aware of any irregularities in the
bidding?"
"No, of course not."
"Then you have nothing to worry about. I'll fly to Reno with you."
"What happens if I don't go?"
"They'll subpoena you. It would look better if you went
on your own."
"All right."
Lara telephoned Paul Martin's private number at the office. He picked
up the phone immediately. "Lara?"
"Yes, Paul."
"You haven't used this number in a long time." "I know. I'm calling about Reno..."
"I heard."
"Is there a real problem?"
He laughed. "No. The losers are upset that you beat them to it."
"Are you sure it's all right, Paul?" She hesitated. "We did discuss
the other bids."
"Believe me, it's done all the time. Anyway, they have no way of
proving that. Don't worry about a thing." "All right. I won't."
She replaced the receiver and sat there, worried.
At lunch Philip said, "By the way, they offered me a concert at
Carnegie Hall. I'm going to do it."
"Wonderful." Lara smiled. "I'll buy a new dress. When is it?"
"The seventeenth."
Lara's smile faded. "Oh." "What's the matter?"
"I'm afraid I won't be able to be there, darling. I have to be in
Reno. I'm so sorry."
Philip put his hands over hers. "Our timing seems to be off, doesn't
it? Oh, well. Don't worry. There will be plenty more recitals."
Lara was in her office at Cameron Center. Howard Keller had called her
at home that morning.
"I think you'd better get down here," he had said. "We have a few problems."
"I'll be there in an hour."
They were in the middle of a meeting. "A couple of deals have gone
sour," Keller told her. "The insurance company that was moving into
our building in Houston has gone bankrupt. They were our only
tenant."
"We'll find someone else," Lara said.
"It's not going to be that simple. The Tax Reform Act is hurting us.
Hell, it's hurting everybody. Congress has wiped out corporate tax
shelters and eliminated most deductions. I think we're heading for a
goddamned recession. The savings and loan companies we're dealing with
are in trouble. Drexel Burnham Lambert may go out of business. Junk
bonds are turning into land mines. We're having problems with half a
dozen of our buildings. Two of them are only half finished. Without
financing, those costs are going to be eating us up."
Lara sat there, thinking. "We can handle it. Sell whatever properties
we have to to keep up our mortgage payments."
"The bright side of it," Keller said, "is that we have a cash flow from
Reno that's bringing us in close to fifty million a year." Lara said nothing.
On Friday the seventeenth Lara left for Reno. Philip rode with her to
the airport. Terry Hill was waiting at the plane. "When will you be back?" Philip said.
"Probably tomorrow. This shouldn't take long." "I'll miss you," Philip said.
"I'll miss you, too, darling."
He stood there watching the plane taking off. I am going to miss her,
Philip thought. She's the most fantastic woman in the world.
In the offices of the Nevada Gaming Commission, Lara was facing the
same group of men she had met with during the application for a casino
license. This time, however, they were not as friendly.
Lara was sworn in, and a court reporter took down her testimony.
The chairman said, "Miss Cameron, some rather disturbing allegations
have been made concerning the licensing of your casino." "What kind of allegations?" Terry Hill demanded.
"We'll come to those in due course." The chairman turned his attention
back to Lara. "We understood that this was your first experience in
acquiring a gambling casino."
"That's right. I told you that at the first hearing."
"How did you arrive at the bid you put in? I mean ... how did you come
to that precise figure?"
Terry Hill interrupted. "I'd like to know the reason for the
question."
"In a moment, Mr. Hill. Will you permit your client to answer the
question?"
Terry Hill looked at Lara and nodded.
Lara said, "I had my comptroller and accountants give me an estimate on
how much we could afford to bid, and we figured in a small profit we
could add to that, and that became my bid."
The chairman scanned the paper in front of him.
"Your bid was five million dollars more than the next highest bid."
"Was it?"
"You weren't aware of that at the time you made your bid?" "No. Of course not."
"Miss Cameron, are you acquainted with Paul Martin?"
Terry Hill interrupted. "I don't see the relevance of this line of
questioning."
"We'll come to that in a moment. Meanwhile, I'd like Miss Cameron to
answer the question."
"I have no objection," Lara said. "Yes. I know Paul Martin."
"Have you ever had any business dealings with him?" Lara hesitated. "No. He's just a friend."
"Miss Cameron, are you aware that Paul Martin is reputed to be involved
with the Mafia, that..."
"Objection. It's hearsay, and it has no place in this record."
"Very well, Mr. Hill. I'll withdraw that. Miss Cameron, when was the
last time you saw or talked to Paul Martin?"
Lara hesitated. "I'm not sure, exactly. To be perfectly candid, since
I got married, I've seen very little of Mr. Martin. We run into each
other at parties occasionally, that's all."
"But it wasn't your habit to speak regularly with him on the
telephone?"
"Not after my marriage, no."
"Did you ever have any discussions with Paul Martin regarding this
casino?"
Lara looked over at Terry Hill. He nodded. "Yes, I believe that after
I won the bid for it, he called to congratulate me. And then once
again after I got the license to operate the casino." "But you did not talk to him at any other time?" "No."
"I'll remind you that you're under oath, Miss Cameron." "Yes."
"You're aware of the penalty for perjury?" "Yes."
He held up a sheet of paper. "I have here a list of fifteen telephone
calls between you and Paul Martin, made during the time sealed bids
were being submitted for the casino." Chapter Twenty-nine.
Most soloists are dwarfed by the huge twenty-eight-hundred-seat space
at Carnegie EtaIl. There are not many musicians who can fill the
prestigious hall, but on Friday night it was packed.
Philip Adler
walked out onto the vast stage to the thunderous applause of the
audience. He sat down at the piano, paused a moment, then began to
play. The program consisted of Beethoven sonatas. Over the years he
had disciplined himself to concentrate only on the music.
But on this
night Philip's thoughts drifted away to Lara and their problems, and
for a split second his fingers started to fumble, and he
broke out in a
cold sweat. It happened so swiftly that the audience did not notice.
There was loud applause at the end of the first part of the recital.
At intermission Philip went to his dressing room.
The concert manager said, "Wonderful, Philip. You held them
spellbound. Can I get anything for you?"
"No, thanks." Philip closed the door. He wished the recital were
over. He was deeply disturbed by the situation with Lara.
He loved
her a great deal, and he knew she loved him, but they seemed to have
come to an impasse. There had been a lot of tension between them
before Lara had left for Reno. I've got to do something about it,
Philip thought. But what? How do we compromise? He was still
thinking about it when there was a knock at the door, and the stage
manager's voice said, "Five minutes, Mr. Adler." "Thank you."
The second half of the program consisted of the Hammerklavier sonata.
It was a stirring, emotional piece, and when the last notes had
thundered out through the vast hall, the audience rose to its feet with
wild applause.
Philip stood on the stage bowing, but his mind was elsewhere. I've got
to go home and talk to Lara. And then he remembered that she was
away.
We'll have to settle this now, Philip thought. We can't go on like
this.
The applause continued. The audience was shouting "bravo" and
"encore." Ordinarily, Philip would have played another selection, but
on this evening he was too upset. He returned to his dressing room and
changed into his street clothes. From outside he could hear the
distant rumble of thunder. The papers had said rain, but that had not
kept the crowd away. The greenroom was filled with well-wishers
waiting for him. It was always exciting to feel and hear the approval
of his fans, but tonight he was in no mood for them. He stayed in his
dressing room until he was sure the crowd had gone.
When he came out, it was almost midnight. He walked through the empty
backstage corridors and went out the stage door. The limousine was not
there. I'll find a taxi, Philip decided.
He stepped outside into a pouring rain. There was a cold wind blowing,
and Fifty-seventh Street was dark. As Philip moved toward Sixth
Avenue, a large man in a raincoat approached from the shadows.
"Excuse me," he said, "how do you get to Carnegie Hall?"
Philip thought of the old joke he had told Lara and was tempted to say
"practice," but he pointed to the building behind him. "It's right
there."
As Philip turned, the man shoved him hard up against the building. In
his hand was a deadly-looking switchblade knife. "Give me your
wallet."
Philip's heart was pounding. He looked around for help.
The rainswept
street was deserted. "All right," Philip said. "Don't get excited.
You can have it."
The knife was pressing against his throat. "Look, there's no need to..."
"Shut up! Just give it to me."
Philip reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
The man
grabbed it with his free hand and put it in his pocket.
He was looking
at Philip's watch. He reached down and tore it from Philip's wrist.
As he took the watch, he grabbed Philip's left hand, held it tightly,
and slashed the razor-sharp knife across Philip's wrist, slicing it to
the bone. Philip screamed aloud with pain. Blood began to gush out.
The man fled.
Philip stood there in shock, watching his blood mingling with the rain,
dripping into the street. He fainted.
Chapter Thirty.
Lara received the news about Philip in Reno. Marian Bell was on the phone, near hysteria. "Is he badly hurt?" Lara demanded.
"We don't have any details yet. He's at Roosevelt Hospital in the
emergency room."
"I'll come back immediately."
When Lara arrived at the hospital six hours later, Howard Keller was
waiting there for her. He looked shaken. "What happened?" Lara asked.
"Apparently, Philip was mugged after he left Carnegie Hall. They found
him in the street, unconscious." "How bad is it?"
"His wrist was slashed. He's heavily sedated, but he's conscious."
They went into the hospital room. Philip was lying "Philip...
Philip."
It was Lara's voice calling to him from a long way off.
He opened his
eyes. Lara and Howard Keller were there. There seemed to be two of
each. His mouth was dry, and he felt groggy. "What happened?" Philip mumbled.
"You were hurt," Lara said. "But you're going to be all right."
Philip looked down and saw that his left wrist was heavily
bandaged.
Memory came flooding back. "I was... how bad is it?"
"I don't know, darling," Lara said. "I'm sure it will be fine. The
doctor is coming in to see you."
Keller said reassuringly, "Doctors can do anything these days."
Philip was drifting back to sleep. "I told him to take what he
wanted.
He shouldn't have hurt my wrist," he mumbled. "He shouldn't have hurt
my wrist..."
Two hours later Dr. Dennis Stanton walked into Philip's room, and the
moment Philip saw the expression on his face he knew what he was going
to say.
Philip took a deep breath. "Tell me."
Dr. Stanton sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have very good news for you,
Mr. Adler."
"How bad is it?"
"The flexor tendons have been severed, so you'll have no motion in your
hand, and there will be a permanent numbness. In addition to that,
there's median and ulnar nerve damage." He illustrated on his hand.
"The median nerve affects the thumb and first three fingers. The ulnar
nerve goes to all the fingers."
Philip closed his eyes tightly against the wave of sudden despair that
engulfed him. After a moment he spoke. "Are you saying that I'll...
I'll never have the use of my left hand again?"
"That's right. The fact is that you're lucky to be alive.
Whoever did this cut the artery. It's a wonder you didn't bleed to
death. It took sixty stitches to sew your wrist together again."
Philip said in desperation, "My God, isn't there anything you can
do?"
"Yes. We could put in an implant in your left hand so you would have
some motion, but it would be very limited."
He might as well have killed me, Philip thought despairingly.
"As your hand starts to heal, there's going to be a great deal of
pain.
We'll give you medication to control it, but I can assure you that in
time the pain will go away."
Not the real pain, Philip thought. Not the real pain.
He was caught up in a nightmare. And there was no escape.
A detective came to see Philip at the hospital. He stood by the side
of Philip's bed. He was one of the old breed, in his sixties and
tired, with eyes that had already seen it all twice.
"I'm Lieutenant Mancini. I'm sorry about what happened, Mr. Adler,"
he said. "It's too bad they couldn't have broken your leg instead. I
mean... if it had to happen...
"I know what you mean," Philip said curtly.
Howard Keller came into the room. "I was looking for Lara." He saw
the stranger. "Oh, sorry."
"She's around here somewhere," Philip said. "This is Lieutenant
Mancin,. Howard Keller."
Mancini was staring at him. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"
"I don't think so."
Mancini's face lit up. "Keller! My God, you used to play baseball in
Chicago."
"That's right. How do you...?"
"I was a scout for the Cubs one summer. I still remember your sliders
and your change-ups. You could have had a big career."
"Yeah. Well, if you'll excuse me..." He looked at Philip. "I'll wait
for Lara outside." He left.
Mancini turned to Philip. "Did you get a look at the man who attacked
you?"
"He was a male Caucasian. A large man. About six foot two. Maybe
fifty or so."
"Could you identify him if you saw him again?" "Yes." It was a face he would never forget.
"Mr. Adler, I could ask you to look through a lot of mug shots, but
frankly, I think it would be a waste of your time. I mean, this isn't
exactly a high-tech crime.
There are hundreds of muggers all over the city. Unless someone nabs
them on the spot, they usually get away with it." He took out his
notebook. "What was taken from you?" "My wallet and my wristwatch."
"What kind of watch was it?" "A Piaget."
"Was there anything distinctive about it? Did it have an inscription,
for example?"
It was the watch Lara had given him. "Yes. On the back of the case,
it read 'To Philip with Love from Lara."" He made a note. "Mr.
Adler... I have to ask you this. Had you ever seen this man before?"
Philip looked up at him in surprise. "Seen him before? No. Why?"
"I just wondered." Mancini put the notebook away.
"Well, we'll see what we can do. You're a lucky man, Mr. Adler."'
"Really?" Philip's voice was filled with bitterness.
"Yeah. We have thousands of muggings a year in this city, and we can't
afford to spend much time on them, but our captain happens to be a fan
of yours. He collects all your records. He's going to do everything
he can to catch the SOB who did this to you. We'll send out a
description of your watch to pawnshops around the country."
"If you catch him, do you think he can give me my hand back?" Philip
asked bitterly. "What?" "Nothing."
"You'll be hearing from us. Have a nice day."
Lara and Keller were waiting in the corridor for the detective.
"You said you wanted to see me?" Lara asked.
"Yes. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions,"
Lieutenant Mancini
said. "Mrs. Adler, does your husband have any enemies that you know
of?"
Lara frowned. "Enemies? No. Why?"
"No one who might be jealous of him? Another musician maybe? Someone
who wants to hurt him?"
"What are you getting at? It was a simple street mugging, wasn't
it?"
"To be perfectly frank, this doesn't fit the pattern of an ordinary
mugging. He slashed your husband's wrist after he took his wallet and
watch."
"I don't see what difference..."
"That was a pretty senseless thing to do, unless it was deliberate.
Your husband didn't put up any resistance. Now, a kid on dope might do
a thing like that, but..." He shrugged. "I'll be in touch."
They watched him walk away.
"Jesus!" Keller said. "He thinks it was a setup." Lara had turned pale.
Keller looked at her and said slowly, "My God! One of Paul Martin's
hoods! But why would he do this?"
Lara found it difficult to speak. "He... he might have thought he was
doing it for me. Philip has... has been away a lot, and Paul kept
saying that it... it wasn't right, that someone should have a talk with
him. Oh, Howard!"
She buried her head in his shoulder, fighting back the tears.
"That son of a bitch! I warned you to stay away from that man."
Lara took a deep breath. "Philip is going to be all right. He has to
be."
Three days later Lara brought Philip home from the hospital. He looked
pale and shaken. Marian Bell was at the door, waiting for them. She
had gone to the hospital every day to see Philip and to bring him his
messages.
There had been an outpouring of sympathy from all around the
world-cards and letters and telephone calls from distraught fans. The
newspapers had played the story up, condemning the violence on the
streets of New York.
Lara was in the library when the telephone rang.
"It's for you," Marian Bell said. "A Mr. Paul" "I... I can't talk to
him," Lara told her. And she stood there, fighting to keep her body
from trembling. hapter Thirty-one.
Overnight their lives together changed.
Lara said to Keller, "I'm going to be working at home from now on.
Philip needs me." "Sure. I understand."
The calls and get-well cards kept pouring in, and Marian Bell proved to
be a blessing. She was self-effacing and never got in the way. "Don't
worry about them, Mrs. Adler. I'll handle them, if you like."
"Thank you, Marian."
William Ellerbee called several times, but Philip refused to take his
calls. "I don't want to talk to anyone," he told Lara.
Dr. Stanton had been right about the pain. It was excruciating.
Philip tried to avoid taking pain pills until he could no longer stand
it.
Lara was always at his side. "We're going to get you the best doctors
in the world, darling. There must be someone who can fix your hand. I
heard about a doctor in Switzerland..."
Philip shook his head. "It's no use." He looked at his bandaged
hand.
"I'm a cripple."
"Don't talk like that," Lara said fiercely. "There are a thousand
things you can still do. I blame myself. If I hadn't gone to Reno
that day, if I had been with you at the concert, this never would have
happened. If..."
Philip smiled wryly. "You wanted me to stay home more.
Well, now I
have nowhere else to go."
Lara said huskily, "Someone said, 'Be careful what you wish for,
because you might get it." I did want you to stay home, but not like
this. I can't stand to see you in pain."
"Don't worry about me," Philip said. "I just have to work a few things
out in my mind. It's all happened so suddenly. I... I don't think
I've quite realized it, yet."
Howard Keller came to the penthouse with some contracts. "Hello,
Philip. How do you feel?"
"Wonderful," Philip snapped. "I feel just wonderful." "It was a stupid question. I'm sorry."
"Don't mind me," Philip apologized. "I haven't been myself lately."
He pounded his right hand against the chair. "If the bastard had only
cut my right hand. There are a dozen left-handed concertos I could
have played."
And Keller remembered the conversation at the party. "Ha If a dozen
composers wrote concertos for the left hand. There's one by Demuth,
Franz Schmidt, Korngold, and a beautiful concerto by Ravel."
And Paul Martin had been there and heard it.
Dr. Stanton came to the penthouse to see Philip.
Carefully, he removed the bandage, exposing a long angry scar.
"Can you flex your hand at all?" Philip tried. It was impossible. "How's the pain?" Dr. Stanton asked.
"It's bad, but I don't want to take any more of those damned pain
pills."
"I'll leave another prescription anyway. You can take them if you have
to. Believe me, the pain will stop in the next few weeks." He rose to
leave. "I really am sorry. I happen to be a big fan of yours."
"Buy my records," Philip said curtly.
Marian Bell made a suggestion to Lara. "Do you think it might help Mr.
Adler if a therapist came to work on his hand?"
Lara thought about it. "We can try. Let's see what happens."
When Lara suggested it to Philip, he shook his head. "No. What's the point? The doctor said..."
"Doctors can be wrong," Lara said firmly. "We're going to try
everything."
The next day a young therapist appeared at the apartment.
Lara brought
him in to Philip. "This is Mr. Rossman. He works at Columbia
Hospital. He's going to try to help you, Philip." "Good luck," Philip said bitterly.
"Let's take a look at that hand, Mr. Adler."
Philip held out his hand. Rossman examined it carefully. "Looks as
though there's been quite a bit of muscle damage, but we'll see what we
can to. Can you move your fingers?" Philip tried.
"There's not much motion, is there? Let's try to exercise it."
It was unbelievably painful.
They worked for half an hour, and at the end of that time Rossman said,
"I'll come back tomorrow."
"No," Philip said. "Don't bother."
Lara had come into the room. "Philip, won't you try?"
"I tried," he snarled. "Don't you understand? My hand is dead.
Nothing's going to bring it back to life." "Philip..." Her eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," Philip said. "I just... Give me time."
That night Lara was awakened by the sound of the piano.
She got out of
bed and quietly walked over to the entrance of the drawing room.
Philip was in his robe, seated at the piano, his right hand softly
playing. He looked up when he saw Lara. "Sorry if I woke you up."
Lara moved toward him. "Darling..."
"It's a big joke, isn't it? You married a concert pianist and you
wound up with a cripple."
She put her arms around him and held him close.
"You're not a cripple. There are so many things you can do."
"Stop being a goddamn Pollyanna!" "I'm sorry. I just meant..."
"I know. Forgive me, I"-he held up his mutilated hand-"I just can't
get used to this." "Come back to bed."
"No. You go ahead. I'll be all right."
He sat up all night, thinking about his future, and he wondered
angrily, What future?
Lara and Philip had dinner together every evening, and after dinner
they read or watched television and then went to sleep.
Philip said apologetically, "I know I'm not being much of a husband,
Lara. I just... I just don't feel like sex. Believe me, it has
nothing to do with you."
Lara sat up in bed, her voice trembling. "I didn't marry you for your
body. I married you because I was wildly head over heels in love with
you. I still am. If we never make love again, it will be fine with
me. All I want is for you to hold me and love me." "I do love you," Philip said.
Invitations to dinner parties and charity events came in constantly,
but Philip refused them all. He did not want to leave the apartment.
"You go," he would tell Lara. "It's important to your business."
"Nothing is more important to me than you. We'll have a nice quiet
dinner at home."
Lara saw to it that their chef prepared all of Philip's favorite
dishes. He had no appetite. Lara arranged to hold her meetings at the
penthouse. When it was necessary for her to go out during the day, she
would say to Marian, "I'll be gone for a few hours. Keep an eye on Mr.
Adler."
"I will," Marian promised.
One morning Lara said, "Darling, I hate to leave you, but I have to go
to Cleveland for a day. Will you be all right?"
"Of course," Philip said. "I'm not helpless. Please go. Don't worry about me."
Marian brought in some letters she had finished answering for Philip.
"Would you like to sign these, Mr. Adler?"
Philip said, "Sure. It's a good thing I'm right-handed, isn't it?"
There was a bitter edge to his voice. He looked at Marian and said,
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you."
Marian said quietly, "I know that, Mr. Adler. Don't you think it
would be a good idea for you to go outside and see some friends?"
"My friends are all working," Philip snapped.
"They're musicians. They're busy playing concerts. How can you be so
stupid?"
He stormed out of the room.
Marian stood there looking after him.
An hour later Philip walked back into the office. Marian was at the
typewriter. "Marian?"
She looked up. "Yes, Mr. Adler?"
"Please forgive me. I'm not myself. I didn't mean to be rude."
"I understand," she said quietly.
He sat down opposite her. "The reason I'm not going out," Philip said,
"is that I feel like a freak. I'm sure that everybody's going to be
staring at my hand. I don't want anyone's pity." She was watching him, saying nothing.
"You've been very kind, and I appreciate it, I really do.
But there's
nothing anyone can do. You know the expression 'The bigger they are,
the harder they fall'?
Well, I was big, Marian-really big. Everybody came to hear me
play...
kings and queens and..." He broke off.
"People all over the world heard my music. I've given recitals in
China and Russia and India and Germany."
His voice choked up, and tears began rolling down his cheeks. "Have
you noticed I cry a lot lately?" he said. He was fighting to control
himself.
Marian said softly, "Please don't. Everything's going to be all
right."
"No! Nothing's going to be all right. Nothing! I'm a goddamn
cripple."
"Don't say that. Mrs. Adler is right, you know. There are a hundred
things you can do. When you get over this pain, you'll begin to do
them."
Philip took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "Jesus Christ, I'm becoming a damn crybaby."
"If it helps you," Marian said, "do it."
He looked up at her and smiled. "How old are you?" "You're a pretty wise twenty-six, aren't you?"
"No. I just know what you're going through, and I'd give anything if
it hadn't happened. But it has happened, and I know that you're going
to figure out the best way to deal with it."
"You're wasting your time here," Philip said. "You should have been a
shrink."
"Would you like me to make a drink for you?"
"No, thanks. Are you interested in a game of backgammon?"
Philip asked.
"I'd love it, Mr. Adler."
"If you're going to be my backgammon partner, you'd better start
calling me Philip." "Philip."
From that time on, they played backgammon every day. Lara received a telephone call from Terry Hill. "Lara, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you." Lara readied herself. "Yes?"
"The Nevada Gaming Commission has voted to suspend your gambling
license until further investigation. You may be facing criminal charges."
It was a shock. She thought of Paul Martin's words "Don't worry. They
can't prove anything."
"Isn't there something we can do about it, Terry?"
"Not for the present. Just sit tight. I'm working on it."
When Lara told Keller the news, he said, "My God!
We're counting on the cash flow from the casino to pay off the
mortgages on three buildings. Are they going to reinstate your
license?"
"I don't know."
Keller was thoughtful. "All right. We'll sell the Chicago hotel and
use the equity to pay the mortgage on the Houston property. The real
estate market has gone to hell. A lot of banks and savings and loans
are in deep trouble. Drexel Burnham Lambert has folded.
It's the end
of Milken honey."
"It will turn around," Lara said.
"It had better turn around fast. I've been getting calls from the
banks about our loans."
"Don't worry," Lara said confidently. "If you owe a bank a million
dollars, they own you. If you owe a bank a hundred million dollars,
you own them. They can't afford to let anything happen to me."
The following day, an article appeared in Business Week.
It was
headlined: CAMERON EMPIRE SHAKY-LARA CAMERON FACING POSSIBLE CRIMINAL
INDICTMENT IN RENO.
CAN THE IRON BUTTERFLY KEEP HER EMPIRE TOGETHER?
Lara slammed her fist against the magazine. "How dare they print
that?
I'm going to sue them."
Keller said, "Not a great idea."
Lara said earnestly, "Howard, Cameron Towers is almost fully rented,
right?"
"Seventy percent, so far, and climbing. Southern Insurance has taken
twenty floors, and International Investment Banking has taken ten
floors."
"When the building is finished, it will throw off enough money to take
care of all our problems. How far away are we from completion?"
"Six months."
Lara's voice was filled with excitement. "Look what we'll have then.
The biggest skyscraper in the world! It's going to be beautiful."
She turned to the framed sketch of it behind her desk.
It showed a towering glass-sheathed monolith, whose facets reflected
the other buildings around it. On the lower floors were a promenade
and atrium, with expensive shops. Above were apartments and Lara's
offices.
"We'll have a big publicity promotion," Lara said. "Good idea." He frowned.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking about Steve Murchison. He wanted that
site pretty bad."
"Well, we beat him to it, didn't we?"
"Yes," Keller said slowly. "We beat him to it." Lara sent for Jerry Townsend.
"Jerry, I want to do something special for the opening of Cameron
Towers. Any ideas?"
"I have a great idea. The opening is September tenth?" "Yes."
"Doesn't that ring a bell?" "Well, it's my birthday..."
"Right." A smile lit up Jerry Townsend's face. "Why don't we give you
a big birthday party to celebrate the completion of the skyscraper?"
Lara was thoughtful for a moment. "I like it. It's a wonderful
idea.
We'll invite everybody! We'll make a noise that will be heard around
the world. Jerry, I want you to make up a guest list.
Two hundred
people. I want you to handle it personally."
Townsend grinned. "You've got it. I'll give you the guest list to
approve.
Lara slammed her fist down on the magazine again. "We're going to show them!"
"Excuse me, Mrs. Adler," Marian said. "I have the secretary of the
National Builders Association on line three. You haven't responded to
their invitation for the dinner Friday night."
"Tell them I can't make it," Lara said. "Give them my apologies."
"Yes, ma'am." Marian left the room.
Philip said, "Lara, you can't turn yourself into a hermit because of
me. It's important for you to go to those things." "Nothing is more important than my being here with you.
That funny
little man who married us in Paris said, 'For better or for worse.""
She frowned. "At least I think that's what he said. I don't speak
French."
Philip smiled. "I want you to know how much I appreciate you. I feel
like I'm putting you through hell."
Lara moved closer to him. "Wrong word," she said. "Heaven."
Philip was getting dressed. Lara was helping him with the buttons on
his shirt. Philip looked in the mirror.
"I look like a damned hippie,ú" he said. "I need a haircut."
"Do you want me to have Marian make an appointment with your barber?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, Lara. I'm just not ready to go
out."
The following morning Philip's barber and a manlcurist appeared at the
apartment. Philip was taken aback. "What's all this?"
"If Mohammed won't go to the mountain, the mountain comes to
Mohammed.
They'll be here every week for you." "You're a wonder," Philip said.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet." Lara grinned.
The following day, a tailor arrived with some sample
swatches for suits and shirts.
"What's going on?" Philip asked.
Lara said, "You're the only man I know who has six pairs of tails, four
dinner jackets, and two suits. I think it's time we got you a proper
wardrobe."
"Why?" Philip protested. "I'm not going anywhere."
But he allowed himself to be fitted for the suits and shirts.
A few days later a custom shoemaker arrived. "Now what?" Philip asked.
"It's time you had some new shoes." "I told you, I'm not going out."
"I know, baby. But when you do, your shoes will be ready."' Philip
held her close. "I don't deserve you." "That's what I keep telling you."
They were in a meeting at the office. Howard Keller was saying, "We're
losing the shopping mall in Los Angeles. The banks have decided to
call in the loans." "They can't do that."
"They're doing it," Keller said. "We're overleveraged."
"We can pay the loans off by borrowing on one of the other buildings."
Keller said, patiently, "Lara, you're already leveraged to
the hilt.
You have a sixty-million-dollar payment coming up on the skyscraper."
"I know that, but completion is only four months away now.
We can roll
the loan over. The building's on schedule, isn't it?"
"Yes." Keller was studying her thoughtfully. It was a question she
never would have asked one year ago. Then she would have known exactly
where everything stood.
"I think it might be better if you spent more time here in the office,"
Keller told her. "Too many things are becoming unraveled.
There are
some decisions that only you can make."
Lara nodded. "All right," she said reluctantly. "I'll be in tomorrow
morning.
"William Ellerbee is on the telephone for you," Marian announced.
"Tell him I can't talk to him." Philip watched her as she returned to
the phone.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ellerbee. Mr. Adler is not available just now. Can
I take a message?" She listened a moment.
"I'll tell him. Thank you." She replaced the receiver and looked up
at Philip. "He's really anxious to have lunch with you."
"He probably wants to talk about the commissions he's not getting
anymore."
"You're probably right," Marian said mildly. "I'm sure he must hate
you because you were attacked."
Philip said quietly, "Sorry. Is that the way I sounded?" "Yes."
"How do you put up with me?"
Marian smiled. "It's not that difficult."
The following day William Ellerbee called again.
Philip was out of the room. Marian spoke to Ellerbee for a few
minutes, then went to find Philip. "That was Mr. Ellerbee," Marian said. "Next time tell him to stop calling."
"Maybe you should tell him yourself," Marian said. "You're having lunch with him Thursday at one o'clock." "I'm what?"
"He suggested Le Cirque, but I thought a smaller restaurant might be
better." She looked at the pad in her hand. "He's going to meet you
at Fu's at one. I'll arrange for Max to drive you there."
Philip was staring at her, furious. "You made a lunch date for me
without asking me?"
She said calmly, "If I had asked you, you wouldn't have gone. You can
fire me if you want to."
He glared at her for a long moment, and then he broke into a slow
smile. "You know something? I haven't had Chinese food in a long
time."
* * * When Lara arrived from the office, Philip said, "I'm going out
for lunch on Thursday with Ellerbee."
"That's wonderful, darling! When did you decide that?"
"Marian decided it for me. She thought it would be a good idea for me
to get out."
"Oh, really?" But you wouldn't go out when I suggested it. "That was
very thoughtful of her." "Yes. She's quite a woman."
I've been stupid, Lana thought. I shouldn't have thrown them together
like this. And Philip is so vulnerable right now.
That was the moment when Lara knew she had to get rid of Mar,an.
When Lara arrived home the following day, Philip and Marian were
playing backgammon in the game room. Our game, Lara thought.
"How can I beat you if you keep rolling doubles?" Philip was saying, laughing.
Lara stood in the doorway watching. She had not heard Philip laugh in
a long time.
Marian looked up and saw her. "Good evening, Mrs. Adler."
Philip sprang to his feet. "Hello, darling." He kissed her. "She's
beating the pants off me."
Not if I can help it, Lara thought. "Will you need me tonight, Mrs. Adler?"
"No, Marian. You can run along. I'll see you in the morning."
"Thank you. Good night." "Good night, Marian." They watched her leave.
"She's good company," Philip said.
Lara stroked his cheek. "I'm glad, darling." "How's everything at the office?"
"Fine." She had no intention of burdening Philip with her problems.
She would have to fly to Reno and talk to the Gaming Commission
again.
If she were forced to, she would find a way to survive their cutting
off the gambling at the hotel, but it would make it a lot easier if she
could dissuade them.
"Philip, I'm afraid I'm going to have to start spending more time at
the office. Howard can't make all the decisions himself." "No problem. I'll be fine."
"I'm going to Reno in the next day or two," Lara said.
"Why don't you come with me?"
Philip shook his head. "I'm not ready yet." He looked at his crippled
left hand. "Not yet."
"All right, darling. I shouldn't be gone more than two or three
days."
Early the following morning when Marian Bell arrived for work, Lara was
waiting for her. Philip was still asleep.
"Marian... you know the diamond bracelet that Mr. Adler gave me for my
birthday?"
"Yes, Mrs. Adler?"
"When did you see it last?"
She stopped to think. "It was on the dressing table in your
bedroom."
"So you did see it?"
"Why, yes. Is something wrong?"
"I'm afraid there is. The bracelet is missing."
Marian was staring at her. "Missing? Who could have...?"
"I've questioned the staff here. They don't know anything about it."
"Shall I call the police and...?"
"That won't be necessary. I don't want to do anything that might
embarrass you."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you? For your sake, I think it would be best if we dropped the
whole matter."
Marian was staring at Lara in shock. "You know I didn't take that
bracelet, Mrs. Adler."
"I don't know anything of the kind. You'll have to leave." And she
hated herself for what she was doing.
But no one is going to take Philip away from me. No one.
When Philip came down to breakfast, Lara said, "By the way, I'm getting
a new secretary to work here at the apartment."
Philip looked at her in surprise. "What happened to Marian?"
"She quit. She was offered a... a job in San Francisco." He looked at Lara in surprise. "Oh. That's too bad.
I thought she liked it here."
"I'm sure she did, but we wouldn't want to stand in her way, would
we?"
Forgive me, Lara thought.
"No, of course not," Philip said. "I'd like to wish her luck. Is she
" "She's gone."
Philip said, "I guess I'll have to find a new backgammon partner."
"When things settle down a bit, I'll be here for you." Philip and William Ellerbee were seated in a corner table
at Fu's restaurant.
Ellerbee said, "It's so good to see you, Philip. I've been calling
you, but "I know, I'm sorry. I haven't felt like talking to anyone,
Bill."
"I hope they catch the bastard who did this to you."
"The police have been good enough to explain to me that muggings are
not a high priority in their lives. They equate it just below lost
cats. They'll never catch him."
Ellerbee said hesitantly, "I understand that you're not going to be
able to play again.
"You understand right." Philip held up his crippled hand. "It's
dead."
Ellerbee leaned forward and said earnestly, "But you're not, Philip.
You still have your whole life ahead of you." "Doing what?"
"Teaching."
There was a wry smile on Philip's lips. "It's ironic, isn't it? I had
thought about doing that one day when I was through giving concerts."
Ellerbee said quietly, "Well, that day is here, isn't it?
I took the
liberty of talking to the head of the Eastman School of Music in
Rochester. They would give anything to have you teach
there."
Philip frowned. "That would mean my moving up there.
Lara's
headquarters are in New York." He shook his head. "I couldn't do that
to her. You don't know how wonderful she's been to me, Bill."
"I'm sure she has."
"She's practically given up her business to take care of me. She's the
most thoughtful, considerate woman I've ever known. I'm crazy about
her."
"Philip, would you at least think about the offer from Eastman?"
"Tell them I appreciate it, but I'm afraid the answer is no."
"If you change your mind, will you let me know?" Philip nodded. "You'll be the first."
When Philip returned to the penthouse, Lara had gone to the office. He
wandered around the apartment, restless. He thought about his
conversation with Ellerbee. I would love to teach, Philip thought, but
I can't ask Lara to move to Rochester, and I can't go there without
her.
He heard the front door open. "Lara?"
It was Marian. "Oh, I'm sorry, Philip. I didn't know anyone was
here.
I came to return my key."
"I thought you'd be in San Francisco by now."
She looked at him, puzzled. "San Francisco? Why?" "Isn't that where your new job is?"
"I have no new job." "But Lara said..."
Marian suddenly understood. "I see. She didn't tell you why she fired
me?"
"Fired you? She told me that you quit... that you had a better
offer."
"That's not true."
Philip said slowly, "I think you'd better sit They sat across from each
other. "What's going on here?" Philip asked.
Marian took a deep breath. "I think your wife believes that I... that
I had designs on you."
"What are you talking about?"
"She accused me of stealing the diamond bracelet you gave her, as an
excuse to fire me. I'm sure she has it put away somewhere."
"I can't believe this," Philip protested. "Lara would never do
anything like that."
"She would do anything to hold on to you."
He was studying her, bewildered. "I... I don't know what to say. Let
me talk to Lara and..."
"No. Please don't. It might be better if you didn't let her know I
was here." She rose.
"What are you going to do now?" "Don't worry. I'll find another job."
"Marian, if there's anything I can do..." "There is nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Take care of yourself, Philip." And she was gone.
Philip watched her leave, disturbed. He couldn't believe that Lara
could be guilty of such a deception, and he wondered why she hadn't
told him about it. Perhaps, he thought, Marian did steal the bracelet,
and Lara had not wanted to upset him. Marian was lying. Chapter Thirty-two.
The pawnshop was on South State Street in the heart of the Loop. When
Jesse Shaw walked through the door, the old man behind the counter
looked up.
"Good morning. Can I help you?"
Shaw laid a wristwatch on the counter. "How much will you give me for
this?"
The pawnbroker picked up the watch and studied it. "A Piaget. Nice watch."
"Yeah. I hate like hell to part with it, but I've run into a little
bad luck. You understand what I mean?"
The pawnbroker shrugged. "It's my business to understand.
You
wouldn't believe the hard-luck stories I hear."
"I'll redeem it in a few days. I'm starting a new job Monday.
Meanwhile, I need to get as much cash as I can for it."
The pawnbroker was looking at the watch more closely. On the back of
the case, some writing had been scratched off. He looked at the
customer. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll take a look at the
movement. Sometimes these watches are made in Bangkok, and they forget
to put anything inside."
He took the watch into the back room. He put a loupe to his eye and
studied the scratch marks. He could faintly make out the letters "T
Philip Wi h L v from Lara." The old man opened a drawer and took out a
police flyer. It had a description of the watch and the engraving on
the back, "To Philip with Love from Lara." He started to pick up the
telephone when the customer yelled, "Hey, I'm in a hurry.
Do you want
the watch or don't you?"
"I'm coming," the pawnbroker said. He walked back into the next
room.
"I can loan you five hundred dollars on it."
"Five hundred? This watch is worth..." "Take it or leave it."
"All right," Shaw said grudgingly. "I'll take it." "You'll have to fill out this form," the pawnbroker said. "Sure." He wrote down "John Jones, 21 Hunt Street."
As far as he knew, there was no Hunt Street in Chicago, and he sure as
hell was not John Jones. He pocketed the cash. "Much obliged. I'll
be back in a few days for it." "Right."
The pawnbroker picked up the telephone and made acall.
A detective arrived at the pawnshop twenty minutes later. "Why didn't you call while he was here?" he demanded.
"I tried. He was in a hurry, and he was jumpy."
The detective studied the form the customer had filled out.
"That won't do you no good," the pawnbroker said. "It's probably a false name and address."
The detective grunted. "No kidding. Did he fill this out himself?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll nail" At police headquarters it took the computer less than
three minutes to identify the thumbprint on the form. Jesse Shaw.
The butler came into the drawing room. "Excuse me, Mr.
Adler, there's
a gentleman on the telephone for you. A Lieutenant Mancini. Shall I.
"I'll take it." Philip picked up the telephone. "Hello?" "Philip Adler?"
"Yes...?"
"This is Lieutenant Mancini. I came to see you in the hospital."
"I remember."
"I wanted to bring you up-to-date on what's happening. We had a bit of
luck. I told you that our chief was going to send out flyers to
pawnshops with a description of your watch?" "Yes."
"They found it. The watch was pawned in Chicago.
They're tracking down the person who pawned it. You did say that you
could identify your assailant, didn't you?" "That's right."
"Good. We'll be in touch."
Jerry Townsend came into Lara's office. He was excited. "I've worked
out the party list we talked about. The more I think about the idea,
the better I like it. We'll celebrate your fortieth birthday on the
day the tallest skyscraper in the world opens." He handed Lara the
list. "I've included the Vice President. He's a big
admirer ofyours."
Lara scanned it. It read like a who's who from Washington, Hollywood,
New York, and London. There were government officials, motion picture
celebrities, rock stars... it was impressive. "I like it," Lara said. "Let's go with it."
Townsend put the list in his pocket. "Right. I'll have the
invitations printed up and sent out. I've already called Carlos and
told him to reserve the Grand Ballroom and arrange your favorite
menu.
We're setting up for two hundred people. We can always add or subtract
a few if we have to. By the way, is there any more news on the Reno
situation?"
Lara had talked to Terry Hill that morning. "A grand jury is
investigating, Lara. There's a possibility that they'll hand down a
criminal indictment."
"How can they? The fact that I had some conversations with Paul Martin
doesn't prove anything. We could have been talking about the state of
the world, or his ulcers, or a dozen other damned things." "Lara, don't get angry with me. I'm on your side."
"Then do something. You're my lawyer. Get me the hell out of th
is."
"No. Everything's fine," Lara told Townsend.
"Good. I understand that you and Philip are going to the mayor's
dinner Saturday night."
"Yes." She had wanted to turn down the invitation at first, but Philip
had insisted.
"You need these people. You can't afford to offend them.
I want you to go."
"Not without you, darling."
He had taken a deep breath. "All right. I'll go with you. I guess
it's time I stopped being a hermit."
* * * Saturday evening Lara helped Philip get dressed.
She put his studs and cuff links in his shirt and tied his tie for
him.
He stood there, silently, cursing his helplessness. "It's like Ken and Barbie, isn't it?"
"What?" "Nothing."
"There you are, darling. You'll be the most handsome man there."
"Thanks."
"I'd better get dressed," Lara said. "The mayor doesn't like to be
kept waiting."
"I'll be in the library," Philip told her.
Thirty minutes later Lara walked into the library.
She looked ravishing. She was dressed in a beautiful white Oscar de Ia
Renta gown. On her wrist was the diamond bracelet Philip had given
her.
Philip had difficulty sleeping Saturday night. He looked across the
bed at Lara and wondered how she could have falsely accused Marian of
stealing the bracelet. He knew he had to confront her with it, but he
wanted to speak with Marian first.
Early Sunday morning, while Lara was still asleep, Philip quietly got
dressed and left the penthouse. He took a taxi to Marian's
apartment.
He rang the bell and waited.
A sleepy voice said, "Who is it?" "It's Philip. I have to talk to you."
The door opened and Marian stood there. "Philip? Is something wrong?"
"We have to talk." "Come in."
He entered the apartment. "I'm sorry if I woke you up," Philip said,
"but this is important." "What's happened?"
He took a deep breath. "You were right about the bracelet. Lara wore
it last night. I owe you an apology.
I thought... perhaps that you... I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
Marian said quietly, "Of course, you would have believed her. She's
your wife."
"I'm going to confront Lara with it this morning, but I wanted to talk
to you first."
Marian turned to him. "I'm glad you did. I don't want you to discuss
it with her."
"Why not?" Philip demanded. "And why would she do such a thing?"
"You don't know, do you?" "Frankly, no. It makes no sense."
"I think I understand her better than you do. Lara is madly in love
with you. She would do anything to hold on to you.
You're probably
the only person she has ever really loved in her life.
She needs you.
And I think you need her. You love her very much, don't you,
Philip?" "Yes."
"Then let's forget all this. If you bring it up to her, it won't do
any good, and it will only make things worse between the two of you. I
can easily find another job."
"But it's unfair to you, Marian."
She smiled wryly. "Life isn't always fair, is it?" If it were, I
would be Mrs. Philip Adler. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."
"At least let me do something for you. Let me give you some money to
make up for..." "Thank you, but no."
There was so much she wanted to say, but she knew that it was
hopeless.
He was a man in love. What she said was: "Go back to her, Philip."
* * * The construction site was on Chicago's Wabash Avenue, south of
the Loop. It was a twenty-five story office building, and it was half
finished. An unmarked police car pulled up to the corner, and two
detectives got out.
They walked over to the site and stopped one of the workers passing
by.
"Where's the foreman?"
He pointed to a huge, burly man cursing out a workman. "Over there."
The detectives went over to him. "Are you in charge here?"
He turned and said impatiently, "I'm not only in charge,
I'm very busy.
What do you want?"
"Do you have a man in your crew named Jesse Shaw?"
"Shaw? Sure. He's up there." The foreman pointed to a man working on
a steel girder a dozen stories up.
"Would you ask him to come down, please?" "Hell, no. He has work to..."
One of the detectives pulled out a badge. "Get him down here."
"What's the problem? Is Jesse in some kind of trouble?" "No, we just want to talk to him."
"Okay." The foreman turned to one of the men working nearby. "Go up
top and tell Jesse to come down here." "Right."
A few minutes later Jesse Shaw was approaching the two detectives.
"These men want to talk to you," the foreman said, and walked away.
Jesse grinned at the two men. "Thanks. I can use a break. What can I
do for you?"
One of the detectives pulled out a wristwatch. "Is this your watch?"
Shaw's grin faded. "No." "Are you sure?"
"Yeah." He pointed to his wrist. "I wear a Seiko."
"But you pawned this watch."
Shawn hesitated. "Oh, yeah. I did. The bastard only gave me five
hundred for it. It's worth at least..." "You said it wasn't your watch." "That's right. It's not."
"Where did you get it?" "I found it."
"Really? Where?"
"On the sidewalk near my apartment building." He was warming up to his
story. "It was in the grass, and I got out of my car, and there it
was. The sun hit the band and made it sparkle. That's how I happened
to see it."
"Lucky it wasn't a cloudy day." "Yeah."
"Mr. Shaw, do you like to travel?" "No."
"That's too bad. You're going to take a little trip to New York.
We'll help you pack."
When they got to Shaw's apartment, the two detectives began looking
around.
"Hold it!" Shaw said. "You guys got a search warrant?" "We don't need one. We're just helping you pack your
things."
One of the men was looking in a clothes closet. There was a shoe box
high up on a shelf. He took it down and opened it. "Jesus!" he
said.
"Look what Santa Claus left."
Lara was in her office when Kathy's voice came over the intercom. "Mr.
Tilly is on line four, Miss Cameron."
Tilly was the project manager on Cameron Towers. Lara picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"We had a little problem this morning, Miss Cameron." "Yes?"
"We had a fire. It's out now." "What happened?"
"There's was an explosion in the air-conditioning unit. A transformer
blew. There was a short circuit. It looks like someone wired it up
wrong."
"How bad is it?"
"Well, it looks like we'll lose a day or two. We should be able to
clean everything up and rewire it by then." "Stay on it. Keep me informed."
Lara came home late each evening, worried and exhausted.
"I'm concerned about you," Philip told her. "Is there anything I can
do?"
"Nothing, darling. Thank you." She managed a smile. "Just a few
problems at the office."
He took her in his arms. "Did I ever tell you that I'm mad about
you?"
She looked up at him and smiled. "Tell me again." "I'm mad about you."
She held him close and thought, This is what I want.
This is what I need. "Darling, when my little problems are over, let's
go away somewhere. Just the two of us." "It's a deal."
Someday, Lara thought, I must tell him what I did to Marian. I know it
was wrong. But I would die if I lost him.
The following day Tilly called again. "Did you cancel the order for
the marble for the lobby floors?"
Lara said slowly, "Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. Somebody did. The marble was supposed to have been
delivered today. When I called, they said it was canceled two months
ago by your order."
Lara sat there fuming. "I see. How badly are we delayed?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Tell them to put a rush on it."
Keller came into Lara's office.
"I'm afraid the banks are getting nervous, Lara. I don't know how much
longer I can hold them off."
"Just until Cameron Towers is finished. We're almost there, Howard.
We're only three months away from completion."
"I told them that," he sighed. "All right. I'll talk to them
again."
Kathy's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Tilly's on line one."
Lara looked at Keller. "Don't go." She picked up the phone. "Yes?"
Lara said.
"We're having another problem here, Miss Cameron." "I'm listening," Lara said.
"The elevators are malfunctioning. The programs are out of sync, and
the signals are all screwed up. You press the button for down, and it
goes up. Press the eighteenth floor, and it will take you to the
basement. I've never seen anything like this before." "Do you think it was done deliberately?"
"It's hard to say. Could have been carelessness." "How long will it take to straighten it out?"
"I have some people on the way over now."
"Get back to me." She replaced the receiver. "Is everything all right?" Keller asked.
Lara evaded the question. "Howard, have you heard anything about Steve
Murchison lately?"
He looked at her, surprised. "No. Why?" "I just wondered."
* * * The consortium of bankers financing Cameron Enterprises had good
reason to be concerned. It was not only Cameron Enterprises that was
in trouble; a majority of their corporate clients had serious
problems.
The decline in junk bonds had become a full-fledged disaster, and it
was a crippling blow to the corporations that had depended on them.
There were six bankers in the room with Howard Keller, and the
atmosphere was grim.
"We're holding overdue notes for almost a hundred million dollars,"
their spokesman said. "I'm afraid we can't accommodate Cameron
Enterprises any longer."
"You're forgetting a couple of things," Keller reminded them. "Number
one, we expect the casino gambling license in Reno to be renewed any
day now. That cash flow will more than take care of any deficit.
Number two, Cameron Towers is right on schedule. It's going to be
finished in ninety days. We already have a seventy percent tenancy,
and you can be assured that the day it's finished everybody is going to
be clamoring to get in.
Gentlemen, your money couldn't be more secure. You're dealing with the
Lara Cameron magic."
The men looked at one another.
The spokesman said. "Why don't we discuss this among ourselves and
we'll get back to you?"
"Fine. I'll tell Miss Cameron." Keller reported back to Lara.
"I think they'll go along with us," he told her. "But in the meantime,
we're going to have to sell off a few more assets to stay afloat."
"Do it."
Lara was getting to the office early in the morning and leaving late at
night, fighting desperately to save her empire. She and Philip saw
very little of each other. Lara did not want him to know how much
trouble she was facing. He has enough problems, Lara thought. I can't
burden him with any more.
At six o'clock Monday morning Tilly was on the phone. "I think you'd
better get over here, Miss Cameron."
Lara felt a sharp sense of apprehension. "What's wrong?" "I'd rather you saw it for yourself."
"I'm on my way."
Lara telephoned Keller. "Howard, there's another problem at Cameron
Towers. I'll pick you up."
Half an hour later they were on their way to the construction site.
"Did Tilly say what the trouble was?" Keller asked.
"No, but I don't believe in accidents anymore. I've been thinking
about what you said. Steve Murchison wanted that property badly. I
took it away from" When they arrived at the site, they saw large sheets
of crated tinted glass lying on the ground, and more glass being
delivered by trucks. Tilly hurried over to Lara and Keller.
"I'm glad you're here." "What's the problem?"
"This isn't the glass we ordered. It's the wrong tint and the wrong
cut. There's no way it will fit the sides of our building."
Lara and Keller looked at each other. "Can we recut it here?" Keller
asked.
Tilly shook his head. "Not a chance. You'd wind up with a mountain of
silicate."
Lara said, "Who did we order this from?" "The New Jersey Panel and Glass Company."
"I'll call them," Lara said. "What's our deadline on this?"
Tilly stood there calculating. "If it got here in two weeks, we could
be back on schedule. It would be a push, but we'd be okay."
Lara turned to Keller, "Let's go."
Otto Karp was the manager of the New Jersey Panel and Glass Company.
He came on the phone almost immediately. "Yes, Miss Cameron? I
understand you have a problem."
"No," Lara snapped. "You have a problem. You shipped us the wrong
glass. If I don't get the right order in the next two weeks, I'm going
to sue your company out of business. You're holding up a three-hundred-million-dollar project."
"I don't understand. Will you hold on, please?"
He was gone almost five minutes. When he came back on the line, he
said, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Cameron, the order was written up
wrong. What happened is..."
"I don't care what happened," Lara interrupted. "All I want you to do
is to get our order filled and shipped out. "I'll be happy to do that."
Lara felt a sharp sense of relief. "How soon can we have it?"
"In two to three months."
"Two to three months! That's impossible! We need it now.
"I'd be happy to accommodate you," Karp said, "but unfortunately we're
way behind in our orders."
"You don't understand," Lara said. "This is an emergency and..."
"I certainly appreciate that. And we'll do the best we can. You'll
have the order in two to three months. I'm sorry we can't do
better..."
Lara slammed down the receiver. "I don't believe this," Lara said.
She looked over at Tilly. "Is there another company we can deal
with?"
Tilly rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Not at this late date. If
we went to anyone else, they'd be starting from scratch, and their
other customers would be ahead of us."
Keller said, "Lara, could I talk to you for a minute?" He took her aside. "I hate to suggest this, but..." "Go ahead."
..... your friend Paul Martin might have some connections over there.
Or he might know someone who knows someone." Lara nodded. "Good idea, Howard. I'll find out."
Two hours later Lara was seated in Paul Martin's office.
"You don't know how happy I am that you called," the lawyer said.
"It's been too long. God, you look beautiful, Lara." "Thank you, Paul."
"What can I do for you?"
Lara said hesitantly, "I seem to come to you whenever I'm in
trouble."
"I've always been there for you, haven't I?"
"Yes. You're a good friend." She sighed. "Right now I need a good
friend."
"What's the problem? Another strike?" "No. It's about Cameron Towers."
He frowned. "I heard that was on schedule."
"It is. Or it was. I think Steve Murchison is out to sabotage the
project. He has a vendetta against me.
Things have suddenly started to go wrong at the building.
Up to now we ve been able to handle them. Now... We have a big
problem. It could put us past our completion date. Our two biggest
tenants would pull out. I can't afford to let that happen."
She took a deep breath, trying to control her anger.
"Six months ago we ordered tinted glass from the New Jersey Panel and
Glass Company. We received our delivery this morning. It wasn't our
glass."
"Did you call them?"
"Yes, but they're talking about two or three months.
I need that glass in four weeks. Until it's in, there's nothing for
the men to do. They've stopped working. If that building isn't
completed on schedule, I'll lose everything I have."
Paul Martin looked at her and said quietly, "No, you won't. Let me see
what I can do."
Lara felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Paul, I..."
It was
difficult to put into words. "Thank you."
He took her hand in his and smiled. "The dinosaur isn't dead yet," he
said. "I should have some word for you by tomorrow."
The following morning Lara's private phone rang for the first time in
months. She picked it up eagerly. "Paul?"
"Hello, Lara. I had a little talk with some of my friends. It's not
going to be easy, but it can be done. They promised a delivery a week
from Monday."
On the day the glass shipment was scheduled to arrive, Lara telephoned
Paul Martin again.
"The glass hasn't come yet, Paul," Lara said.
"Oh?" There was a silence. "I'll look into it." His voice
softened.
"You know, the only good thing about this, baby, is that I get to talk
to you again."
"Yes. I...Paul... if I don't get that glass on time... "You'll have it. Don't give up."
By the end of the week there was still no word.
Keller came into Lara's office. "I just talked to Tilly.
Our deadline is Friday. If the glass arrives by then, we'll be okay.
Otherwise we're dead."
By Thursday nothing had changed.
Lara went to visit Cameron Towers. There were no workmen there. The
skyscraper rose majestically into the sky, overshadowing everything
around it. It was going to be a beautiful building. Her monument.
I'm not going to let it fail, Lara thought fiercely. Lara telephoned Paul Martin again.
"I'm sorry," his secretary said. "Mr. Martin is out of the office.
Is there any message?"
"Please ask him to call me," Lara said. She turned to Keller, "I have
a hunch I'd like you to check out. See if the owner of that glass
factory happens to be Steve Murchison."
Thirty minutes later Keller returned to Lara's office. His face was pale.
"Well? Did you find out who owns the glass company?" "Yes," he said slowly. "It's registered in Delaware. It's owned by Etna Enterprises."
"Etna Enterprises?"
"Right. They bought it a year ago. Etna Enterprises is Paul" Chapter
Thirty-three.
The bad publicity about Cameron Enterprises continued.
The reporters
who had been so eager to praise Lara before now turned on her.
Jerry Townsend went in to see Howard Keller. "I'm worried," Townsend said.
"What's the problem?"
"Have you been reading the press?" "Yeah. They're having a field day."
"I'm worried about the birthday party, Howard. I've sent out the
invitations. Since all this bad publicity, I've been getting nothing
but turndowns. The bastards are afraid they might be contaminated.
It's a fiasco."
"What do you suggest?"
"That we cancel the party. I'll make up some excuse."
"I think you're right. I don't want anything to embarrass her."
"Good. I'll go ahead and cancel it. Will you tell Lara?" "Yes."
* * * Terry Hill called.
"I just received notice that you're being subpoenaed to testify before
the grand jury in Reno day after tomorrow. I'll go with you."
Transcript of Interrogation of Jesse Shaw by Detective Lieutenant Sal
Mancini.
M: Good morning, Mr. Shaw. I'm Lieutenant Mancini.
You're aware that
a stenographer is taking down our conversation? S: Sure.
M: And you've waived the right to an attorney?
S: I don't need no attorney. All I did was find a watch, for Christ's
sake, and they drug me all the way up here like I'm some kind of
animal.
M: Mr. Shaw, do you know who Philip Adler is? S: No. Should I?
M: No one paid you to attack him? S: I told you-I never heard of him.
M: The police in Chicago found fifty thousand dollars in cash in your
apartment. Where did that money come from? S: [No response] M: Mr. Shaw...?
S: I won it gambling.
M: Where?
S: At the track... football bets... you know. M: You're a lucky man, aren't you?
S: Yeah. I guess so.
M: At present, you have a job in Chicago. Is that right? S: Yes.
M: Did you ever work in New York? S: Well, one time, yeah.
M: I have a police report here that says you were operating a crane at
a development in Queens that killed a construction foreman named Bill
Whitman. Is that correct?
S: Yeah. It was an accident.
M: How long had you been on that job? S: I don't remember.
M: Let me refresh your memory. You were on thatjob seventy-two
hours.
You flew in from Chicago the day before the accident with the crane,
and flew back to Chicago two days later. Is that correct? S: I guess so.
M: According to American Airlines' records, you flew from Chicago to
New York again two days before Philip Adler was attacked, and you
returned to Chicago the following day. What was the
purpose of such a short trip?
S: I wanted to see some plays.
M: Do you remember the names of the plays you saw? S: No. That was awhile ago.
M: At the time of the accident with the crane, who was your employer?
S: Cameron Enterprises.
M: And who is your employer on the construction job you're working on
in Chicago?
S: Cameron Enterprises.
Howard Keller was in a meeting with Lara. For the past hour they had
been talking about damage control to offset the bad publicity the
company was receiving. As the meeting was about to break up, Lara
said, "Anything else?"
Howard frowned. Someone had told him to tell Lara something, but he
could not remember what it was. Oh, well, it's probably not
important.
Simms, the butler, said, "There's a telephone call for you, Mr.
Adler.
A Lieutenant Mancini."
Philip picked up the telephone. "Lieutenant. What can I do for
you?"
"I have some news for you, Mr. Adler." "What is it? Did you find the man?"
"I'd prefer to come up and discuss it with you in person.
Would that
be all right?" "Of course."
"I'll be there in half an hour."
Philip replaced the receiver, wondering what it was that the detective
did not want to talk about on the telephone.
When Mancini arrived, Simms showed him into the library. "Afternoon, Mr. Adler."
"Good afternoon. What's going on?" "We caught the man who attacked you."
"You did? I'm surprised," Philip said. "I thought you said it was
impossible to catch muggers." "He's not an ordinary mugger."
Philip frowned. "I don't understand."
"He's a construction worker. He works out of Chicago and New York. He
has a police record-assault, breaking and entering. He pawned your
watch, and we got his prints." Mancini held up a wrist watch. "This
is your watch, isn't it?"
Philip stared at it, not wanting to touch it. The sight of it brought
back the horrible moment when the man had grabbed his wrist and slashed
it. Reluctantly, he reached out and took the watch. He looked at the
back of the case where some of the letters had been scratched off.
"Yes. It's mine."
Lieutenant Mancini took the watch back. "We'll keep this for the
moment, as evidence. I'd like you to come downtown tomorrow morning to
identify the man in a police lineup."
The thought of seeing his attacker again, face-to-face, filled Philip
with a sudden fury. "I'll be there."
"The address is One Police Plaza, Room Two-twelve. Ten o'clock?"
"Fine." He frowned. "What did you mean when you said he wasn't an
ordinary mugger?"
Lieutenant Mancini hesitated. "He was paid to attack you."
Philip was staring at him, bewildered. "What?"
"What happened to you wasn't an accident. He got paid fifty thousand
dollars to cut you up."
"I don't believe it," Philip said slowly. "Who would pay anyone fifty
thousand dollars to cripple me?" "He was hired by your wife."
\chapter Thirty-four.
He was hired by your wife!
Philip was stunned. Lara? Could Lara have done such a terrible
thing?
What reason would she have?
"I don't understand why you practice every day.
You're not giving a concert now "You don't have to go. I want a
husband. Not a parttime... It's not as though you were some kind of
traveling salesman...
"She accused me of stealing the diamond bracelet you gave her. She
would do anything to hold on to you. "
And Ellerbee: "Are you thinking of cutting back on your concerts?.. I
had a talk with Lara." Lara.
At 1 Police Plaza a meeting was in progress with the district attorney,
the police commissioner, and Lieutenant Mancini.
The district attorney was saying, "We're not dealing here with Jane
Doe. The lady has a lot of clout. How much solid evidence do you
have, Lieutenant?"
Mancini said, "I checked with personnel at Cameron Enterprises. Jesse
Shaw was hired at the request of Lara Cameron. I asked them if she had
ever personally hired anyone on the construction crew before. The
answer was 'no."" "What else?"
"There was a rumor that a construction boss named Bill Whitman was
bragging to his buddies that he had something on Lara Cameron that was
going to make him a rich man. Shortly after that he was killed by a
crane operated by Jesse Shaw. Shaw had been pulled off his job in
Chicago to go to New York. After the accident he went right back to
Chicago. There's no question but that it was a hit.
Incidentally, his
airline ticket was paid for by Cameron Enterprises." "What about the attack on Adler?"
"Same MO. Shaw flew in from Chicago two days before the attack and
left the next day. If he hadn't gotten greedy and decided to pick up a
little extra money by pawning the watch, instead of throwing it away,
we never would have caught him."
The police commissioner asked, "What about motive? Why would she do that to her husband?"
"I talked to some of the servants. Lara Cameron was crazy about her
husband. The only thing they ever quarreled about was his going away
on concert tours. She wanted him to stay home." "And now he's staying home."
"Exactly."
The district attorney asked, "What's her story? Does she deny it?"
"We haven't confronted her yet. We wanted to talk to you first to see
if we have a case."
"You say that Philip Adler can identify Shaw?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Why don't you send one of your men over to question Lara Cameron? See
what she has to say."
Lara was in a meeting with Howard Keller when the intercom buzzed.
"There's a Lieutenant Mancini here to see you." Lara frowned. "What about?"
"He didn't say." "Send him in."
Lieutenant Mancini was treading on delicate ground.
Without hard evidence, it was going to be difficult to get anything out
of Lara Cameron. But I've got to give it a try, he thought. He had
not expected to see Howard Keller there. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant." "Afternoon."
"You've met Howard Keller."
"I certainly have. Best pitching arm in Chicago." "What can I do for you?" Lara asked.
This was the tricky part. First establish that she knew Jesse Shaw and
then lead her on from there.
"We've arrested the man who attacked your husband." He was watching
her face.
"You have? What...?"
Howard Keller interrupted. "How did you catch him?"
"He pawned a watch that Miss Cameron gave her husband."
Mancini looked
at Lara again. "The man's name is Jesse Shaw." There was not the faintest change of expression.
She's good, Mancini thought. The lady is really good. "Do you know him?"
Lara frowned. "No. Should I?"
That's her first slip, Mancini thought. I've got her.
"He worked on the construction crew of one of your buildings in
Chicago. He also worked for you on a project in Queens.
He was
operating a crane that killed a man."
He pretended to consult his notebook. "A Bill Whitman. The medical examiner put it down as an accident."
Lara swallowed. "Yes..."
Before she could go on, Keller spoke up. "Look,
Lieutenant, we have
hundreds of people working for this company. You can't expect us to
know them all."
"You don't know Jesse Shaw?" "No. And sure Miss Cameron .
"I'd rather hear it from her, if you don't mind."
Lara said, "I've never heard of the man."
"He was paid fifty thousand dollars to attack your husband."
"I... I can't believe it!" Her face was suddenly drained of color.
Now I'm getting to her, Mancini thought. "You don't know anything
about it?"
Lara was staring at him, her eyes suddenly blazing.
"Are you suggesting...? How dare you! If someone put him up to that,
I want to know who it was!"
"So does your husband, Miss Cameron." "You discussed this with Philip?" "Yes. I..."
A moment later Lara was flying out of the office.
When Lara reached the penthouse, Philip was in the bedroom packing,
clumsily because of his crippled hand. "Philip... what are you doing?"
He turned to face her, and it was as though he were seeing her for the
first time. "I'm leaving."
"Why? You can't believe that... that terrible story?" "No more lies, Lara."
"But I'm not lying. You've got to listen to me. I had nothing to do
with what happened to you. I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the
world. I love you, Philip."
He turned to face her. "The police say that the man worked for you.
That he was paid fifty thousand dollars to... to do what he did."
She shook her head. "I don't know anything about it. I only know that
I had nothing to do with it. Do you believe me?" He stared at her, silent.
Lara stood there for a long moment, then turned and blindly walked out
of the room.
Philip spent a sleepless night at a downtown hotel.
Visions of Lara kept coming to his mind. "I'm interested in knowing
more about the foundation. Perhaps we could get together and discuss
it..."
"Are you married?... Tell me about yourself..."
"When I listen to your Scarlatti, I'm in Naples "I dream a dream of
bricks and concrete and steel, and make it come true "I came to
Amsterdam to see you .
"Would you like me to go with you to Milan "You're going to spoil me,
lady. "
"I intend to. "
And Lara's warmth, compassion, and caring. Could I have been that
wrong about her?
When Philip arrived at police headquarters, Lieutenant Mancini was
waiting for him. He led Philip into a small auditorium with a raised
platform at the far end.
"All we need is for you to identify him in the lineup." So they can tie him in with Lara, Philip thought.
There were six men in the lineup, all roughly the same build and age.
Jesse Shaw was in the middle. When Philip saw him, his head began to
pound suddenly. He could hear his voice saying, "Give me your
wallet."
He could feel the terrible pain of the knife slashing across his
wrist.
Could Lara have done that to me? "You're the only man I've ever
loved."
Lieutenant Mancini was speaking. "Take a good look, Mr. Adler."
"I'm going to be working at home from now on. Philip needs me..."
"Mr. Adler..."
"We're going to get you the best doctors in the world..."
She had been
there for him every moment, nurturing him, caring for him. "If
Mohammed won't go to the mountain..." "Would you point him out to me?"
"I married you because I was wildly head over heels in
love with you.
I still am. If we never make love again, it will be fine with me. All
I want is for you to hold me and love me..." And she had meant it.
And then the last scene in the apartment. "I had nothing to do with
what happened to you. I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world
"Mr. Adler..."
The police must have made a mistake, Philip thought. By God, I believe her. She couldn't have done it!
Mancini was speaking again. "Which one is he?"
And Philip turned to him and said, "I don't know." "What?"
"I don't see him."
"You told us you got a good look at him." "That's right."
"Then tell me which one he is."
"I can't," Philip said. "He's not up there."
Lieutenant Mancini's face was grim. "You're sure about that?"
Philip stood up. "I'm positive."
"Then I guess that's all, Mr. Adler. Thanks a lot for your
cooperation."
I've got to find Lara, Philip thought. I've got to find Lara.
She was seated at her desk, staring out the window.
Philip had not believed her. That was what hurt so terribly. And Paul
Martin. Of course, he was behind it. But why did he do it? "Do you
remember what I said about your husband taking care of you? He doesn't
seem to be doing a very good job. Someone should have a talk with
him!" Was it because he loved her? Or was it an act of vengeance
because he hated her?
Howard Keller walked in. His face looked white and drawn. "I just got
off the phone. We lost Cameron Towers, Lara. Both Southern Insurance
and Mutual Overseas Investment are pulling out because we can't meet
our completion date. There's no way we can handle our mortgage
payments. We almost made it, didn't we? The biggest skyscraper in the
world. I'm... I'm sorry. I know how much it meant to you."
Lara turned to face him, and Keller was shocked by her appearance. Her
face was pale, and there were black circles under her eyes. She seemed
dazed, as though the energy had been drained from her.
"Lara... did you hear what I said? We've lost Cameron Towers."
When she spoke, her voice was unnaturally calm. "I heard you. Don't
worry, Howard. We'll borrow on some of the other buildings and pay
everything off."
She was frightening him. "Lara, there's nothing more to
borrow on.
You're going to have to file for bankruptcy and..." "Howard...?"
"Yes?"
"Can a woman love a man too much?" "What?"
Her voice was dead. "Philip has left me."
It suddenly explained a lot. "I... I'm sorry, Lara."
She had a strange smile on her face. "It's funny, isn't it? I'm
losing everything at once. First Philip, now my buildings. Do you
know what it is, Howard? It's the Fates.
They're against me. You can't fight the Fates, can you?" He had never seen her in such pain. It tore at him. "Lara..."
"They're not through with me yet. I have to fly to Reno this
afternoon. There's a grand jury hearing. If..."
The intercom buzzed. "There's a Lieutenant Mancini here." "Send him in."
Howard Keller looked at Lara quizzically. "Mancini? What does he want?"
Lara took a deep breath. "He's here to arrest me, Howard."
"Arrest you? What are you talking about?"
Her voice was very quiet. "They think I arranged the attack on
Philip."
"That's ridiculous! They can't..."
The door opened, and Lieutenant Mancini walked in.
He stood there, looking at the two of them for a moment, then moved
forward.
"I have a warrant here for your arrest."
Howard Keller's face was pale. He moved in front of Lara protectively
and said hoarsely, "You can't do that. She hasn't done anything."
"You're right, Mr. Keller. I'm not arresting her. The warrant is for
you."
Chapter Thirty-five.
ranscript of Interrogation of Howard Keller by Detective Lieutenant Sal
Manclnl.
M: You have been read your rights, Mr. Keller? K: Yes.
M: And you have waived the right to have an attorney present?
K: I don't need an attorney. I was going to come in anyway. I
couldn't let anything happen to Lara.
M: You paid Jesse Shaw $50,000 to attack Philip Adler?
K: Yes.
M: Why?
K: He was making her miserable. She begged him to stay home with her,
but he kept leaving her.
M: So you arranged to have him crippled.
K: It wasn't like that. I never meant for Jesse to go so far. He got
carried away.
M: Tell me about Bill Whitman.
K: He was a bastard. He was trying to blackmail Lara. I couldn't let
him do that. He could have ruined her. M: So you had him killed?
K: For Lara's sake, yes.
M: Was she aware of what you were doing?
K: Of course not. She never would have allowed it. No.
I was there
to protect her, you see. Anything I did, I did for her.
I would die for her.
M: Or kill for her.
K: Can I ask you a question? How did you know I was involved in
this?
End of Interrogation.
At 1 Police Plaza, Captain Bronson said to Mancini, "How did you know
he was behind it?"
"He left a loose thread, and I unraveled it. I almost missed it. In
Jesse Shaw's rap sheet, it mentioned that he took a fall when he was
seventeen for stealing some baseball equipment from a Chicago Cubs
minor league team. I checked it out, and sure enough, they were
teammates. That's where Keller slipped up. When I asked him, he told
me he had never heard of Jesse Shaw. I called a friend of mine who
used to be a sports editor for the Chicago Sun Times. He remembered
them both. They were buddies. I figured it was Keller who got Shaw
the job with Cameron Enterprises. Lara Cameron hired Jesse Shaw
because Howard Keller asked her to. She probably never even saw
Shaw."
"Nice work, Sal."
Mancini shook his head. "You know something? In the end it really
didn't matter. If I hadn't caught him, and if we had gone after Lara
Cameron, Howard Keller would have come in and confessed."
Her world was collapsing. It was unbelievable to Lara that Howard
Keller, of all people, could have been responsible for the terrible
things that had happened. He did it for me, Lara thought.
I have to
try to help him.
Kathy buzzed her. "The car is here, Miss Cameron. Are you ready?"
"Yes." She was on her way to Reno to testify before the grand jury.
Five minutes after Lara left, Philip telephoned the office.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Adler. You just missed her. She's on her way to
Reno."
He felt a sharp pang of disappointment. He was desperately eager to
see her, to ask her forgiveness.
"When you speak to her, tell her I'll be waiting for her." "I'll tell her."
He made a second phone call, spoke for ten minutes, and then telephoned
William Ellerbee.
"Bill... I'm going to stay in New York. I'm going to teach at
Juilliard."
"What can they do to me?" Lara asked.
Terry Hill said, "That depends. They'll listen to your testimony.
They can either decide that you're innocent, in which case you'll get
your casino back, or they can recommend that there's enough evidence
against you to indict you. If that's their verdict, you'll be tried on
criminal charges and face prison." Lara mumbled something.
"I'm sorry?"
"I said Papa was right. It's the Fates."
The grand jury hearing lasted for four hours. Lara was
questioned
about the acquisition of the Cameron Palace Hotel & Casino. When they
came out of the hearing room, Terry Hill squeezed Lara's hand. "You
did very well, Lara. I think you really impressed them.
They have no
hard evidence against you, so there's a good chance that..
." He
broke off, stunned. Lara turned. Paul Martin had come into the
anteroom. He was dressed in an oldfashioned double-breasted suit with
a vest, and his white hair was combed in the same style as when Lara
had first met him.
Terry Hill said, "Oh, God! He's here to testify." He turned to
Lara.
"How much does he hate you?" "What do you mean?"
"Lara, if they've offered him leniency to testify against you, you're
finished. You'll go to prison."
Lara was looking across the room at Paul Martin. "But... then he would destroy himself, too." "That's why I asked you how much he hates you.
Would he do that to himself to destroy you?" Lara said numbly, "I don't know."
Paul Martin was walking toward them. "Hello, Lara.
I hear things have been going badly for you." His eyes revealed
nothing. so y) Lara remembered Howard Keller's words.
"He's Sicilian.
They never forgive, and they never forget." He had been carrying this
burning thirst for vengeance inside him, and she had had no idea.
Paul Martin started to move away. "Paul..."
He stopped. "Yes?"
"I need to talk to you."
He hesitated a moment. "All right."
He nodded toward an empty office down the corridor. "We can talk in there."
Terry Hill watched as the two of them went into the office. The door
closed behind them. He would have given anything to have heard their
conversation.
She did not know how to begin. "What is it you want, Lara?"
It was much more difficult than she had anticipated.
When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "I want you to let me go."
His eyebrows were raised. "How can I? I don't have you."
He was mocking her.
She was finding it hard to breathe.
"Don't you think you've punished me enough?"
Paul Martin stood there, stone, his expression unreadable.
"The time we had together was wonderful, Paul. Outside of Philip,
you've meant more to me than anyone in my life. I owe you more than I
could ever repay. I never meant to hurt you. You must believe
that."
It was difficult to go on.
"You have the power to destroy me. Is that really what you want? Will
sending me to prison make you happy?" She was fighting to hold back
her tears. "I'm begging you, Paul. Give me back my life. Please,
stop treating me like an enemy..."
Paul Martin stood there, his black eyes giving away nothing.
"I'm asking for your forgiveness. I... I'm too tired to fight anymore,
Paul. You've won..." Her voice broke.
There was a knock on the door, and the bailiff peered into the room.
"The grand jury is ready for you, Mr. Martin."
He stood there, looking at Lara for a long time; then he turned and
left without a word.
It's all over, Lara thought. It's finished.
Terry Hill came hurrying into the office. "I wish to God I knew how he
was going to testify in there. There's nothing to do now but wait."
They waited. It seemed an eternity. When Paul Martin finally emerged
from the hearing room, he looked tired and drawn. He's become old,
Lara thought. He blames me for that. He was watching her. He
hesitated a moment, then walked over to her.
"I can never forgive you. You made a fool of me. But you were the
best thing that ever happened to me. I guess I owe you something for
that. I didn't tell them anything in there, Lara."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Paul. I don't know how to..."
"Call it my birthday present to you. Happy birthday, baby."
She watched him walk away, and his words suddenly hit her.
It was her
birthday! So many events had been piling on top of one another that
she had completely forgotten about it. And the party.
Two hundred
guests were going to be waiting for her at the Manhattan Cameron
Plaza!
Lara turned to Terry Hill. "I've got to get back to New York
tonight.
There's a big party for me. Will they let me go?"
"Just a minute," Terry Hill said. He disappeared inside the hearing
room, and when he came out five minutes later, he said, "You can go to
New York. The grand jury will give its verdict in the morning, but
it's just a formality now. You can return here tonight. By the way,
your friend told you the truth. He didn't talk in there."
* * * Thirty minutes later Lara was headed for New York. "Are you going to be all right?" Terry Hill asked.
She looked at him and said, "Of course I am." There would be hundreds
of important people at the party to honor her that night.
She would
hold her head high. She was Lara Cameron...
She stood in the center of the deserted Grand Ballroom and looked
around. I created this. I created monuments that towered into the
sky, that changed the lives of thousands of people all over America.
And now it's all going to belong to the faceless bankers.
She could
hear her father's voice so clearly. "The Fates. They've always been
agin me." She thought of Glace Bay and the little boardinghouse where
she had grown up. She remembered how terrified she had been on her
first day at school: "Can anyone think of a word beginning with f?"
She remembered the boarders. Bill Rogers... "The first rule in real
estate is 0PM. Never forget that." And Charles Colin: "I eat only
kosher food, and I'm afraid Glace Bay doesnt have any."...
"If I could acquire this land... would you give me a five-year
lease?"...
"No, Lara. It would have to be a ten-year lease....
And Sean MacAllister... "I would need a very special reason to make
this loan to you!... have you ever had a lover?"...
And Howard Keller: .... you're going about this all wrong."...
"I want you to come to work for me."...
And then the successes. The wonderful, brilliant successes. And
Philip. Her Lochinvar. The man she adored. That was the greatest loss of all.
* * * A voice called, "Lara..." She turned.
It was Jerry Townsend. "Carlos told me you were here."
He walked up
to her. "I'm sorry about the birthday party." She looked at him. "What... what happened?"
He was staring at her. "Didn't Howard tell you?" "Tell me what?"
"There were so many cancellations because of the bad publicity that we
decided it would be best to call it off. I asked Howard to tell
you."
"To tell you the truth, I've been having some problems with my
memory."
Lara said softly, "It doesn't matter." She took one last look at the
beautiful room. "I had my fifteen minutes, didn't I?" "What?"
"Nothing." She started to walk toward the door.
"Lara, let's go up to the office. There are some things that have to
be wound up."
"All right." I'll probably never be in this building again, Lara
thought.
In the elevator on the way up to the executive offices,
Jerry said, "I
heard about Keller. It's hard to believe he was responsible for what
happened."
Lara shook her head. "I was responsible, Jerry. I'll never forgive
myself."
"It's not your fault."
She felt a sudden wave of loneliness. "Jerry, if you haven't had your
dinner yet..."
"I'm sorry, Lara. I'm busy tonight." "Oh. That's all right."
The elevator door opened, and the two of them stepped out.
"The papers that you have to sign are on the conference room table,"
Jerry said. "Fine."
The door to the conference room was closed. He let Lara open the door
and as she did, forty voices started to sing out, "Happy birthday to
you, Happy birthday to you..."
Lara stood there, stunned. The room was filled with
people she had
worked with over the years-the architects and contractors and
construction managers. Charles Colin was there, and Professor
Meyers.
Horace Guttman and Kathy and Jerry Townsend's father. But the only one
that Lara saw was Philip. He was moving toward her, his arms
outstretched, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
"Lara..." It was a caress.
And she was in his arms, fighting to hold back the tears, and she
thought, I'm home. This is where I belong, and it was a healing, a
blessed feeling of peace. Lara felt a warm glow as she held him. This
is all that matters, Lara thought.
People were crowding around her, and everyone seemed to be talking at
once.
"Happy birthday,..." "You look wonderful..." "Were you surprised...?"
Lara turned to Jerry Townsend. "Jerry, how did you.... He shook his head. "Philip arranged it."
"Oh, darling!"
Waiters were coming in now with hors d'oeuvres and drinks.
Charles Colin said, "No matter what happens, I'm proud of you, Lara.
You said you wanted to make a difference, and you did."
Jerry Townsend's father was saying, "I owe my life to this woman."
"So do I." Kathy smiled.
"Let's drink a toast," Jerry Townsend said, "to the best boss I ever
had, or ever will have!"
Charles Colin raised his glass. "To a wonderful little girl who became
a wonderful woman!"
The toasts went on, and finally, it was Philip's turn.
There was too much to say, and he put it in five words: "To the woman I
love."
Lara's eyes were brimming with tears. She found it difficult to
speak.
"I... I owe so much to all of you," Lara said. "There's no way I can
ever repay you. I just want to say"-she choked up, unable to go
on-"thank you.
Lara turned to Philip. "Thank you for this, darling.
It's the nicest birthday I've ever had." She suddenly remembered. "I
have to fly back to Reno tonight!"
Philip looked at her and grinned. "I've never been to Reno..."
Half an hour later they were in the limousine on their way to the
airport. Lara was holding Philip's hand, and thinking, I
haven't lost
everything after all. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to
him. Nothing else matters. The only important thing is being with him
and taking care of him. I don't need anything else. "Lara.
She was looking out the window. "Stop, Max!" The limousine braked to a quick stop.
Philip looked at her, puzzled. They had stopped in front of a huge
empty lot, covered with weeds. Lara was staring at it. "Lara..."
"Look, Philip! Look!"
He turned his head. "What?" "Don't you see it?"
"See what?"
"Oh, it's beautiful! A shopping mall over there, in the far corner!
In the middle we'll put up luxury apartment houses.
There's room
enough for four buildings. You see it now, don't you?" He was staring at Lara, mesmerized.
She turned to him, her voice charged with excitement. "Now, here's my
plan. the end
http://www.esnips.com/web/eb00ks
