“You will take some more wine?” said Feramo. “I have an ’ eighty-two Saint-Estèphe which I think will go well with the goat.”
“Perfect.” There was a large potted fig tree conveniently placed beside her. As he turned to select a bottle, she quickly shoved a spoonful of goat from her plate back into the serving dish and emptied her glass into the plant pot.
“. . . and a ’ninety-five Puligny-Montrachet for dessert.”
“My favorite,” she murmured smoothly.
“As I was saying,” he said, pouring the wine before he had even sat down, “it is the separation of the physical and the spiritual which is the source of the problem in the West.”
“Hmm,” said Olivia. “But the thing is, if you have a religious government taking its cues from a deity rather than the democratic process, what’s to stop any crackpot who takes power from saying it’s the will of God that he spend the entire country’s food money on eighteen palaces for himself?”
“Saddam Hussein’s Ba’ath party was not an example of a religious government.”
“I wasn’t saying it was. I was just plucking an example out of the air. I’m just saying who decides what the will of God is?”
“It is written in the Koran.”
“But the scriptures are open to interpretation. You know, one man’s ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is another man’s eye for an eye. You can’t really think it’s okay to kill in the name of religion.”
“You are pedantic. The truth does not require sophistry. It is as clear as the rising sun above the desert plain. The failure of Western culture is evident at every moment—in its cities, in its media, in its messages to the world: the arrogance, the stupidity, the violence, the fear, the mindless pursuit of empty materialism, the worship of celebrity. Take the people you and I have witnessed in Los Angeles—lascivious, empty, vain, swarming to feed off promises of wealth and fame like the locust on the sorghum plant.”
“You seem to be enjoying their company.”
“I despise them.”
“Then why do you employ them?”
“Why do I employ them? Ah, Olivia, you are not of their type and so you would not understand.”
“Try me. Why would you want to surround yourself with waitresses and security guards and divers and surfers who all want to be actors if you despise them?”
He leaned forward and ran a finger very slowly down one side of her neck. Her hand tightened on the hatpin.
“You are not of their type. You are not the locust, but the falcon.” He rose to his feet, moving to stand behind her. He started to stroke her hair, which made goose bumps rise on the back of her neck. “You are not of their type, and therefore you must be captured and tamed until you will want only to return to one master. You are not of their type,” he whispered into her neck, “and therefore you are not lascivious.”
Suddenly he wrapped her hair around his fist and jerked back her head. “Are you? Are you open to the advances of another man, the kisses, hidden, in the darkness?”
“Ow, get off,” she said, pulling her head away from him. “What is the matter with the men on this island? You’re all as mad as buckets. We’re in the middle of dinner. Will you please stop being so weird, sit down and tell me what you’re talking about?”
He paused, his hand still on her hair.
“Oh, come on, Pierre, we’re not in a school playground. You don’t need to pull my hair to ask me a question. Now come along, sit back on your chair and let’s have our dessert.”
There was another moment’s hesitation. He was prowling around the table like a panther.
“Why did you not come to me as you promised, my little falcon, my saqr?”
“Because I’m not a little falcon, I’m a professional journalist. I’m writing about diving off the beaten track. I can’t cover the whole of the Bay Islands by heading straight for the most luxurious hotel.”
“Is it also necessary to check out the local dive instructors?”
“Of course.”
“Actually,” he said icily, “I think you are perfectly aware of whom I speak, Olivia. I am speaking of Morton.”
“Pierre, you do realize that what Western boys do at parties, especially when they’ve had a lot of rum and free cocaine, is try to kiss girls. It isn’t a stoning offense in our countries. And at least I fought him off,” she said, risking a white lie. “How many girls have you tried to kiss since I last saw you?”
Suddenly he smiled, like a small boy who has got his toys back after a tantrum. “You are right, Olivia. Of course. Other men will admire your beauty, but you will return to your master.”
God, he was nuts. “Listen, Pierre. First, I’m a modern girl and I don’t have masters.” She was thinking very fast, working out how to get the conversation back on track. “Second, if two people are going to be together they have to have shared values, and I believe very firmly that killing is wrong. So, if you don’t, we might as well sort it out now.”
“You disappoint me. Like all Westerners you are arrogant enough to entertain only your own naïve and blinkered view. Consider the needs of the Bedouin in the harsh and unforgiving desert lands. The survival of the tribe must take precedence over the life of an individual.”
“Would you support a terrorist attack? I need to know.”
He poured himself another glass of wine. “Who in the world would prefer war to peace? But there are times when war becomes a necessity. And in the modern world the rules of engagement have changed.”
“Would you . . .” she began, but clearly he had had enough of this line of conversation.
“Olivia!” he said jovially. “You have hardly eaten at all! You did not like it?”
“I still feel a little ill from the boat ride.”
“But you must eat. You must. It is a great offense.”
“Actually, I would love a little more wine. Shall we open the Puligny-Montrachet?”
That did the trick. Feramo continued to drink and Olivia continued to tip her wine into the potted fig. He remained lucid, his movements impressively coordinated, but his passion and eloquence grew. And always she felt as though he was teetering on the precipice of some violent mood swing. It was all so bafflingly different from his controlled, dignified, public persona. She wondered if she was witnessing the effects of some psychological bruise, some wounded underbelly like her own: an early trauma, the death of a parent, perhaps?
A patchy map of his history emerged. He had studied in France. He made references which suggested the Sorbonne, but he was not specific. He was more expansive about his studies at Grasse on the Côte d’Azur where he had trained as a “nose” in the perfume industry. There had been a long period in Cairo. There was a father whom he seemed to both despise and fear. No further mention of a mother. She found it hard to draw him out on his work as a producer in French cinema. It was like trying to pin down one of the waiter slash producers in the Standard bar about his latest production. There was, clearly, a large amount of money sloshing around in his family and his life, and there had been major globe-trotting: Paris, Saint-Tropez, Monte Carlo, Anguilla, Gstaad.
“Have you ever been to India?” she said. “I’d love to go to the Himalayas, Tibet, Bhutan”—don’t hesitate—“Afghanistan. Those places seem so untouched and mysterious. Have you ever been up there?”
“Actually, Afghanistan, yes, of course. And it is wild and beautiful and raw and fierce. I should take you there, and we will ride, and you will see the life of a nomad, the life of my childhood and my ancestors.”
“What were you doing there?”
“As a young man I liked to travel, just as you did, Olivia.”
“I’m sure you weren’t traveling just as I did.” She laughed, thinking: Come on, come on: dish. Were you training in the camps? Were you training for the OceansApart, for something else? Now? Soon? Are you trying to make me a part of it?
“Oh, but I was. We lived as poor men in tents. My homeland is the land of the nomad.”
“The Sudan?”
“Arabia. The land of the Bedouin: the gracious, the hospitable, the simple and the spiritual.” He took another large gulp of Montrachet. “The Western man with his lust for progress sees nothing but the future, destroying the world in his blind pursuit of novelty and wealth. My people see that the truth lies in the wisdom of the past, and that wealth lies in the strength of the tribe.” He poured more wine, leaning forward and grasping her hand. “And that is why I must take you there. And, of course, it will be perfect for your diving article.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “No. I would have to get the magazine to send me.”
“But it is the finest diving in the world. There are cliffs and drop-offs plunging to seven hundred meters, coral pinnacle formations rising like ancient towers from the ocean floor, caves and tunnels. The visibility is unsurpassed. It is pristine! Pristine! You will not see another diver for the duration of your stay.”
Something in the latest bottle of wine appeared to release the travel writer in Feramo.
“The pinnacle formations arise from great depths, attracting marine life in unbelievable numbers, including large pelagic species. It is an extraordinary Technicolor experience: sharks, mantas, barracuda, dog-toothed tuna, dog lips, jewfish.”
“So, lots of fish then!” she said brightly.
“And tomorrow we will dive à deux.”
Not with your hangover, we won’t. “And are there nice places to stay?”
“Actually, the majority of the divers stay on the live-aboards. I have several residential boats myself. But you, of course, shall have the full Bedouin experience.”
“That sounds wonderful. But I can only really write about what the readers can do themselves.”
“Let me tell you about Suakin,” he said. “Suakin, the Venice of the Red Sea. A crumbling coral city, the greatest Red Sea port of the sixteenth century.”
After listening to a further twenty minutes of unbroken eulogy, she began to think Feramo’s role in al-Qaeda might be boring his victims to death. She watched his drooping eyelids like a mother watches a child, trying to judge the moment when she could safely transport him to his cot.
“Let’s go back inside,” she whispered, helping him to a low sofa, where he slumped with his chin on his chest. Holding her breath, wondering if she really dared do this, she kicked off her shoes and tiptoed over to the desk and the laptop. She opened it up and pressed a key to see if it was merely sleeping like its owner. Dammit. It was shut down. If she started it up, would it make a sound: a chord or, God forbid, a quack?
Olivia froze as Feramo gave a shuddering sigh and shifted position, rubbing the tip of his tongue against his lips like a lizard. She waited until his breathing steadied again, then decided to go for it. She pressed the start-up button and prepared to cough. There was a slight whirring, then, before she got the cough out, a female voice from the computer said, “Uh-oh.”
Feramo opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. Olivia grabbed a bottle of water and hurried over. “Uh-oh,” she said, “uh-oh, you’re going to have a terrible hangover if you don’t drink some water.”
She held the bottle to his lips. He shook his head and pushed it away. “Well, don’t blame me if you have a horrible headache in the morning,” she said, making her way back to the computer. “You should drink a whole liter of water at least and have an aspirin.” She kept up a steady stream of mumsy chatter as she sat down at the computer and checked out the desktop, trying to keep her cool. There was nothing there except icons and applications. She glanced over her shoulder. Feramo was sleeping soundly. She clicked on AOL, then went immediately to “Favorites.”
She clocked the first two:
Hydroweld: for welding in the wet.
Cut-price nose-hair and nail clippers.
“Olivia!” She literally jumped an inch out of the seat. “What are you doing?”
Calm, calm. Remember, he’s had the best part of four bottles of wine.
“I’m trying to check my e-mail,” she said without looking up, still clicking away at the computer. “Is this on a wireless network, or are you meant to plug it into the phone socket?”
“Come away from there.”
“Well, not if you’re just going to be asleep,” she said, trying her best to sound sulky.
“Olivia!” He sounded scary again.
“Oh, okay, hang on. I’ll just shut it down,” she said hurriedly, quitting AOL as she heard him get to his feet. She put on an innocent expression and turned to face him, but he was heading for the bathroom. She darted across the room, opened a cabinet and saw a bunch of videotapes, some with handwritten labels: Lawrence of Arabia, Academy Awards 2003, Miss Watson’s Academy of Passion, Scenic Glories of the Bay Area.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for the mini-bar.”
“There is no mini-bar. This is not a hotel.”
“I thought it was a hotel.”
“I think it is time for you to return to your room.” He looked like a man who is just starting to realize how drunk he is. His clothes were crumpled, his eyes bloodshot.
“You’re right. I’m very tired,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
But he was crashing around the room, looking for something, and merely waved her good-night.
He was a ruin of the dignified, mesmerizing man she had been so struck by at the hotel in Miami. Drink is the urine of Satan, she thought as she let herself back into her room. I wonder how long before they start the al-Qaeda branch of AA?