11 Harrowhouse Page 5

  There was Massey. Standing on the lawn about fifty feet away. A lean figure dressed in a short-sleeved, light-flannel jumpsuit of a creamy color. His slip-on shoes were the same shade of patent leather, and a pale yellow scarf made a splash of color at his throat. He was standing in profile to Maren and Chesser, who remained on the terrace. Massey didn’t acknowledge their presence but apparently knew they were there.

  Massey was observing dogs. Four braces of dogs held on leashes by four men wearing light blue laboratory smocks. The dogs were being led to run a wide circle, obviously for Massey’s benefit. They were exactly matched pairs: Labrador retrievers, Kerry Blue terriers, borzois, and whippets. At a signal from Massey their running was discontinued and they were held in place, forming an evenly spaced line. Each pair was brought to stand before Massey, who examined them all around. The whippets were the last. They were shivering. Massey pointed to the Kerry Blues. The man holding that pair smiled briefly but gratefully. Then all the dogs were led away on the run.

  Massey then approached Chesser and Maren. He was still a half-dozen steps away when he extended his hand. He said his name. Chesser introduced himself and Maren, but didn’t say Maren’s last name, merely, “This is Maren.”

  She smiled her best smile. And when Massey reciprocated Maren noticed that his teeth were too perfect, either completely false or totally capped.

  “What splendid dogs!” she said. “Are you getting them ready for a show?”

  “That was a show,” Massey told her.

  “But the dogs are all yours, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were the only judge.”

  He nodded, matter-of-fact.

  She laughed lightly. “You couldn’t lose.”

  He was quite serious. “I avoid competition as much as possible. Especially when it comes to such unimportant things.” He read her thought. “Not that I fear losing in an open competition, mind you. It’s just that losing would be my fault, not the dogs’. It would be merely because of personal resentment toward me, my money; a chance to beat me that hardly anyone would pass up.”

  “But what if you won?”

  “Then I’d consider it sycophancy. Either way, the dogs would not be judged on their merits. As it was, the Kerry Blues received the award, and they deserved it.”

  “Did they get a blue ribbon, or what?”

  “The trainer received a one-fifth increase in salary. A more tangible incentive.”

  Massey started them walking down the terrace. He was between Chesser and Maren, but favoring Maren. A servant came with a white telephone, playing out its lengthy wire from somewhere inside the house. Obviously a call for Massey, who refused it with a gesture.

  “I’m pleased you could come and share some of this lovely day with me,” said Massey, breathing deep and sounding sincere. “I seldom get up to London, except when the theater offers something special. Did you happen to see Paul Scofield in Chekov’s Uncle Vanya last year—or was it the year before?”

  Maren was annoyed. “I personally adore anything by Polanski,” she said with a mock sincerity Chesser recognized and saw through.

  “He does films, doesn’t he?” asked Massey, and again didn’t wait for an answer. “We have most of the better films sent down and shown here, of course. But the ones they’re making these days I don’t find very entertaining. They seem involved with such unpleasant little subjects.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen Polanski’s Macbeth?”

  “No, but I will now that you’ve recommended it.”

  “I haven’t,” said Maren.

  That stopped him. “It’s bad?”

  “It’s excellent,” she said, and smiled innocently.

  Chesser made no contribution to the conversation. He thought about the wealth walking beside him. Massey and Maren. He knew she’d never seen Polanski’s Macbeth. They’d never both been in the mood for it. Chesser looked up to a fluffy, isolated cloud. His stomach complained.

  By then they had reached a corner where the terrace turned around a wing of the house and continued to a more intimate area. There, in full sun, were bright-yellow and white lounging chairs, and, to one side, a table, set for four for lunch. Yellow cloth, laid with English silver and eighteenth-century Moustiers faience.

  They sat in lounge chairs, Massey opposite Maren. A servant came. Massey asked what they would have to drink. Chesser was about to say coffee, but Massey suggested champagne. Chesser liked champagne in the daytime only when he was alone with Maren, but he didn’t decline. He wondered who would be the fourth for lunch. Or perhaps he and Maren weren’t even expected and the table was set for other guests. Anything was possible.

  Chesser stayed on the perimeter of the conversation, which was pure trivia. Now their subject was flowers. Chesser remembered when Maren had put an avocado pit in a jar of water and had been astonished when it sprouted. She barely knew daisies from violets. However, she seemed to be holding her own now by letting Massey do most of the talking.

  Chesser contrived a politely interested look while he studied Massey. The famous billionaire was past seventy. His complexion was well tanned, but that did not hide the different pigmentation of many age spots. Massey’s nose: narrow, long, and slightly irregular; perhaps it had once been trimmed. Massey’s eyes: pale green irises, as though faded with time; the whites were as creamy as his jumpsuit. Despite his age, he transmitted a surprising virility. There was nothing cautious or strained about his movements. No doubt the man was still quite active sexually. That impression was also supported by his voice, which did not sound old. An energetic voice that demonstrated the enduring acuity of his brain. Chesser thought of Massey’s brain and all that was recorded and stored in it. The only true history of Massey was in Massey’s brain, including how it felt as a young man to out-maneuver Supreme Oil, to cunningly victimize that great power. Massey had been just a salaried employee of Supreme. His job was to travel around and buy up land after it had been secretly surveyed by Supreme’s geologists. Based on the geologists’ findings and using Supreme’s capital, Massey would make the purchases on behalf of the company. Massey had some capital of his own. Not much, a few thousand he’d saved and twenty-five thousand he’d inherited from his grandfather. He waited until he received a geological report that was an absolutely sure thing. Highly confidential information regarding a section of apparently worthless, cheap land in Oklahoma. Then he went in and bought the land for himself. Of course, the oil was there, and that was the big start. He was a millionaire in less than a week. Mighty Supreme could only shout with anger. Massey only grinned and counted. Now there were fleets of Massey tankers, six Massey refineries, thousands of Massey service stations, and solid agreements with the honorable sheiks of Kuwait.

  Chesser knew the facts regarding Massey’s beginning because Massey himself had made them public knowledge. Nearly every time he was interviewed, the subject would come up and Massey would tell the story with complete candor. Premeditated strategy to avoid the criticism that he’d been devious, which of course was the truth. What better way to evade an expose? Besides, that he’d managed to put one over on Supreme was something most people considered admirable.

  Chesser gulped the champagne. He thought perhaps this might be the longest day of his life. He noticed that each time Massey wanted to emphasize a point in the conversation he turned his palm up, as though expecting one’s concurrence to be placed in it.

  “Evidently you’re not interested in roses, Mr. Chesser.”

  “He’s unusually quiet,” said Maren.

  “I’m hungry,” said Chesser. It just came out.

  Maren consoled him, her hand found the back of his neck for a few possessive strokes.

  “We’ll have lunch soon,” Massey promised. “I must say I’m enjoying myself immensely with your Maren. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” lied Chesser, and thought, my Maren.

  “Women and roses,” announced Massey. “According to
Thackeray, ‘if a woman is beautiful who shall demand more of her? You don’t want a rose to sing?’” Massey sat up higher, obviously feeling he’d just made the go-ahead point.

  Chesser imagined how many women Massey had bought during the past ten years. He also wondered how much the price of admission had increased.

  “I like better what Oscar Wilde said,” contributed Maren, hesitating for effect. “‘The only way to behave toward a woman is to make love to her if she’s pretty and to someone else if she’s plain.’”

  “Marvelous!” exclaimed Massey.

  Chesser remembered an old country cart road near Chantilly in the middle of last summer, in the middle of a day, when they’d been walking and Maren had read quotations aloud. He particularly recalled that one by Wilde which she’d just repeated. He resented having to share it now, as though that reduced its value. Christ, Chesser thought, we’ve been into dogs, movies, flowers, and quotes. Next will come acquaintances and risque stories. Massey’s summons had said business. Why the hell didn’t he get to it?

  “Do you golf, Mr. Chesser?”

  “No.” Chesser was tempted to say he didn’t hunt either.

  “Nor do I any more. I don’t go around. But I usually take a few swings before lunch. To stretch the body.”

  It could have been a deliberate cue, for at that moment the huge man in black who’d driven the Rolls appeared with a golf bag and clubs. Natural-antelope bag with calf trim. The shafts and faces of the clubs were of a gold alloy.

  Massey said the huge man’s name was Hickey. My man, was how Massey categorized him. Hickey smiled at Maren and Chesser.

  Massey got up. Hickey set a genuine ivory tee into the grass, placed a pale blue ball upon it, and handed Massey a driver. Massey didn’t take any practice swings. In practically one motion he took his stance and hit the ball solidly.

  The pale blue sphere shot away straight, was lifted by the clear afternoon air and became a speck of blue as it fell far down the hill. Massey remained in follow-through position, watching it. An excellent shot for a man Massey’s age.

  Three more balls were teed by Hickey. Massey hit each straight to about the same spot. Then he came back to his seat and took a sip of champagne, glancing over his glass at Chesser and Maren. They didn’t compliment him as he expected. He liked them more for it.

  Maren requested more champagne, but a servant, standing aside, remained in place until Massey instructed him.

  “Such singular loyalty,” remarked Maren.

  “Not really,” said Massey. “He didn’t hear you.”

  Maren was sure she’d spoken loud enough. She said so.

  “He’s deaf and mute,” explained Massey. “As are all my servants. You’d be amazed what a difference it makes in efficiency. They rely on reading lips and gestures, so they must always be attentive. And there are other advantages, of course. Such as peace and quiet. Nothing worse than a lot of babbling help around.”

  It occurred to Chesser that such an arrangement was also fine for secrecy. No overheard phone calls or ears against doors of rooms where private conferences were taking place. And perhaps just as important, personal sounds could be as uninhibited as desired, day or night.

  Massey glanced up at the sun. “We’ll wait a while longer for her,” he said.

  Maren and Chesser wondered who her was.

  Massey answered their minds. He had a way of doing that. Making a statement to create a question he could answer. He told them, “Lady Gaye Bolding is joining us for lunch.”

  “Is she a neighbor?”

  “An associate,” said Massey. Another of those suspended statements. He waited for the inquiry in their eyes. Then he explained that Lady Bolding’s husband was an executive in the legal branch of one of his companies. “Spends most of his time in the Middle East,” Massey informed. “Speaks fluent Arabic and practically all the dialects. But what makes him most valuable is he thinks like an Arab.” Massey paused and forced a small smile in tribute to Lord Bolding. “He thoroughly enjoys his … work.”

  “And what does Lady Bolding do besides be a Lady?” asked Maren.

  “For one thing, she helped me acquire this house and most of its furnishings. She’s excellent at finding things.”

  Chesser pictured Lady Bolding. The image that came with the name was a dropped-breasted, stick-legged older woman, resentfully past her prime because she’d made such poor use of her earlier opportunities. She’d be English stuffy and over-consciously correct. Chesser hoped she didn’t show up.

  “She functions more or less as my personal assistant,” said Massey. “You’ll find her quite interesting.” He directed that remark more to Maren than Chesser. He looked up at the sun again. As though it told him the exact time, he decided, “We won’t wait any longer.”

  They took their places at the luncheon table. At last, grumbled Chesser’s stomach, as the hand of a servant snapped a napkin and placed it across Chesser’s lap.

  Caviar came first. Two pounds of largest gray Beluga in a silver bowl in a bed of shaved ice. Maren and Chesser heaped large portions onto their plates. They ate it the way they liked it—by the spoonful without garnish of any sort.

  Now Massey’s subject was food. He referred to it as gastronomy, which made Maren realize it was astronomy with a g in front of it.

  According to Massey, the earliest gods and goddesses were invented as a direct result of food. Primitive man required someone to thank when the harvest was good and someone to appease when it was bad. Food civilized man. Not until food became available in quantity did the family table come into existence. Before that there was little more than selfish, individual, animal grubbing.

  What a boring old bastard, thought Chesser, devouring caviar and nodding politely just often enough. He resented being a captive audience. Massey or no Massey, he decided, they’d leave. Right after lunch.

  “Do you play backgammon?” Maren asked Massey. An attempt to detour.

  Massey merely shook his head and went on. It was a lecture. A soliloquy. The memorized ramblings of a self-proclaimed expert. Early gastronomy, Massey said, might have been the primary cause of the polarity of the genders, particularly responsible for woman’s inherent hostility toward man, which is so manifest today. When prehistoric woman became burdened with advanced pregnancy, she was unable to participate in the hunt. Therefore, in keeping with atavistic rule, she did not deserve equal share of the food. All she could do was huddle in a corner of the cave and snarl and hope that man might be generous enough to toss her a bone. She had to be grateful for whatever she got. She was dependent. But dependent with a vengeance. Soon, of course, she learned to get her share by using her own more personal weapons. Anyway, it was quite possible that was how it all began. Said Massey.

  Maren growled at Chesser and stole some caviar from his plate.

  Massey continued. He hurdled millenniums in mere sentences. He went from the eating habits of the Pharoahs to the culinary genius of Curnonsky and Escoffier.

  Maren was on her third portion of the Beluga.

  “Apparently you enjoy caviar,” remarked Massey.

  He’d caught her with a mouthful but she didn’t hurry her chewing. When she finally swallowed, she told him, “I’m addicted.”

  “They claim it has aphrodisiac qualities,” said Massey.

  “So that’s your secret,” exclaimed Maren, aiming her words at Chesser, who felt them ricochet and find Massey.

  “In that respect it’s much like Burgundy,” said Massey. “They say the women of Burgundy enjoy that wine most when their men have drunk it.”

  Next came Tournedos Rossini. Filets of beef set on sautéed bread, capped with fresh foie gras, crowned generously with truffles, and covered with Périgueux sauce. As an accompaniment, there were artichokes à la Baligoure.

  Chesser was encouraged, feeling better now that his appetite was being so luxuriously pacified. Also, as a consequence, his patience was being restored. Maren pilfered some of his truffles and be
gged forgiveness with a smile. Chesser pretended he hadn’t noticed and forked a bite of filet into his mouth.

  Chesser’s position at the table gave him first sight of Lady Bolding’s arrival.

  She was definitely not the lady that Chesser had pictured. She was under thirty. A blonde with a tan that announced leisure. She was the perfect English example of the difference between being merely bred and, as they say, having breeding. During introductions, she offered a languid hand to Chesser. That same hand became more resolute when she offered it to Maren, who examined it a moment before accepting it. Lady Bolding apologized for being late, said she was glad they hadn’t waited lunch and explained she’d been playing tennis. The game had been at match point for a maddening number of times, she said. She declined the caviar in a way that made one feel it represented expiation for her tardiness. She was served the tournedos, so they were all on the same course.

  “I’ve seen you in fashion magazines,” she told Maren. Her tone so obviously admiring that Maren nearly said thank you.

  Massey placed his hand upon the hand of Lady Bolding. His way of letting Chesser know. Chesser thought it was like an old leaf covering a flower.

  Lady Bolding brought up Wimbledon. She advised Massey that a box had been arranged for the tournament. The same as last year, she told him.

  Perhaps, thought Chesser, the reason he felt the lady was so attractive was that he had expected much less. He told himself that was it, while he appraised her and realized it wasn’t. Lady Bolding’s features were fine and ideally distributed. She wore a minimum of make-up. There was a trace of petulance to her mouth, and her large, brown eyes suggested they had something delightful to reveal. She was, altogether, very well finished. Her gestures were delicate, extremely feminine, but without affectation. She knew exactly what she was doing. What she was wearing, for example. Full-length silk chiffon, Bianchini in a floral pattern that was see-through enough to say she was proud of her bare breasts. The way she was sitting, nearly profile to Chesser, he could make out the perfect underline of her right one. The calculated transparency of the fabric invited eyes to steal and Chesser, that moment, was very much a thief. He projected the intimate experience her body conveyed in its movements and attitudes. Her voice, as well, multiplied that impression. At least it did for Chesser. She had the sort of voice most serious actresses achieve only after years of training. Resonance without effort, a quality that was both mellifluous and pure. Chesser imagined her saying something erotic. In this house of Massey’s she could scream it. There was no one to hear. Chesser glanced to Maren and found her eyes fixed on him. She created a little mouth expression that said jealous.