Jasmine Nights (30 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what happened?’

‘No.’ She felt tears come to her eyes. ‘He didn’t talk about it.’

‘It’s hard to leave your land.’ He looked at her sadly. ‘But we can talk more about this later. This is not forrr the idle chat.’ Again he purred his r’s like a cat.

She watched him crumble a sticky pastry between his fingers. He told her that he had been educated at a Jesuit school in Cairo, and also in London for one year. He said that although he was a successful businessman, ‘I am in here,’ he’d clutched his chest, ‘a musician – but one, I am sad to say, who cannot play for toffees or sing.’ What he’d most enjoyed before the war he told her, his eyes gleaming, was to go to a big city like Paris or London and listen to the best singers there. ‘Everybody thinks that people in this part of the world only like the
aaaahhhhh
,’ he twisted his wrists around and wailed like an Arab singer, ‘but I have heard Piaf and Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Jacques Brel, all of the great ones – I like them as much as Umm Kulthum.’

One of the pleasures of his life, he said, was to discover the good young singers. He mentioned a few names, none of them familiar to her, and talked tantalisingly of the tours he arranged for them across the Mediterranean in the nightclubs he owned: in Istanbul, in Cairo, Beirut and Alexandria. ‘I have learned that all great singers need practice,’ he said. ‘Not just practice to sing, but practice to perform. And we make the perfect place to learn, for many of these people,’ which he pronounced
bipple
.

‘But now,’ he gave an eloquent shrug, ‘there is a big drought on talented artistes in Egypt, so when I heard you sing, it made me very happy. I saw something in you, something exciting. In our language we would call you a Mutriba, she is one who creates
tarab
– literally enchantment – with her songs.’

The blue silk dress had made her feel all cool and sophisticated, but now she could feel herself grinning.

‘What kind of songs do you want me to sing at your parties?’ She knew she would do it now. ‘I need to practise.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ He gave a powerful snort. ‘We need tact. The parties will be in Beirut, where some of my clients dislike Western music very much indeed. They must be happy too. So two, maybe three Arabic songs. Can you do this?’

‘I’ll need to rehearse,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

‘I have arranged for Faiza to teach you at the club. She’s old now, but she is still considered one of the best singers in Egypt. It will be interesting for you.’

‘Count me in.’ She put her hand out, he shook it.

‘So, we have a deal,’ he said. When his eyes lit up like that, she saw what a sweet child he must have been.

A bottle of Bollinger appeared in an ice bucket with two exquisite champagne flutes. She’d never drunk during the day before, but the occasion felt so odd and special she let him pour her a glass.

Ozan waved; a servant appeared at almost a jog trot, setting down on the table a mass of small alabaster dishes. When the lids were whisked away, she saw a dish of tiny birds no bigger than budgies covered in herbs and oranges; some rice covered in almonds. The servant danced around them placing pickles and small salads and olives and bread in a semicircle around them.

‘It’s a picnic today.’ Mr Ozan tucked his napkin in. ‘When you come to my party, I make a proper feast for you.’

He helped Saba to a portion of the baby quail, watching her fondly while she ate a dish so delicious it was all she could do to stop herself groaning with pleasure. It was overwhelming after the ghastly food in the desert.

Mr Ozan seemed a hearty eater, sucking his fingers and chewing noisily and picking up the small bones of the bird to crunch them. While he was thus engaged, his eyes went distant and blank, and he occasionally gave a small grunt of pleasure.

He was wiping his chin with a napkin when a servant brought a telephone to him. There was the rat-tat-tat of conversation and then Mr Ozan ripped his napkin out of his shirt and started to breathe heavily and sigh. Heavy footsteps in the hall, a dark-suited man stood at the door. When Ozan saw him he stopped talking and stood up.

‘Forgive me.’ He took her hand. ‘This is unfortunate but the plane is already waiting, there is some mistake. I’ll be in touch when I get back from Beirut. Sorry for the rush. Please be my guest and stay for as long as you like.’ He bowed slightly and disappeared into the house.

A lovely woman appeared in the doorway almost as soon as he was gone. She smiled shyly at Saba. ‘I am Mr Ozan’s wife,’ she said. ‘My name is Leyla.’

Leyla was a classic Turkish beauty with high cheekbones, thick black eyebrows and shining hair which she wore loose. The sight of her, cool as a mountain stream in her green silk dress, made it almost impossible to believe in the harshness of the desert that surrounded them, or that Rommel’s army might be as close as forty miles away.

‘Zafer is very sorry he had to leave so quickly,’ she said. Her English, like his, was excellent. ‘If you will please wait here, the car comes in ten minutes,’ she added. She bowed and left the garden, still smiling.

The champagne and the hypnotic sounds of the fountain made Saba feel drowsy, and she closed her eyes after Leyla had gone, happy to have a few moments’ peace. Half in a dream, she heard more heavy boots walking across the marble floor. The soft voice of a woman, a door closing.

‘Madame,’ a servant stood at the door, waiting for her, ‘the car is here.’

Reluctant to leave the enchanting garden, she followed him through the heavy doors and across the marble hall. She was almost out the front door when, damn! She remembered she’d left Ellie’s blue-feathered bag on the sofa in the reception room.

‘One moment, please,’ she told the servant. ‘I have left my . . .’ She pointed towards the room which lay sombre and stately behind the carved door, its precious objects flashing and winking.

When the door opened a fraction wider she saw two men in grey uniforms sitting near the window. They were clean-shaven with very short hair. Their legs were sprawled in front of them as though they were at ease here. When the man closest to her stood up, she felt a jolting fear – she was looking into the eyes of a German officer. He was less than a foot away. He clicked his heels and bowed.

‘
Das Mädchen ist schön
,’ he said to his friend, who looked her up and down appreciatively.

Saba froze for a moment, and then smiled at them while her brain slowly began to function. She mimed a handbag, and shrugged helplessly.

The younger man stood up. He had fine intelligent eyes. He dug under a cushion and held up the handbag by its delicately feathered strap. He handed it to her with a pleasant smile.

‘
Shukran
,’ she murmured.

‘
Ellaleqa
.’

She returned his slight bow, turned and walked with her heart pounding towards the waiting car.

Chapter 24

‘Mr Cleeve’s here,’ Ellie was standing at the door when Saba got home. She looked pale. She pointed upstairs towards the bedroom. ‘He came suddenly on the Cairo train. He’s having a little rest upstairs.’ There was a warning note in her voice. ‘Don’t forget to keep schtum about our other arrangements,’ she whispered, steering her into the sitting room. ‘It could spoil everything and I have some rather good news for you.

‘A big gin or a tiddler?’ Ellie pushed her gently into a chair. She drew the blackout curtains and lit a small lamp. ‘I’m going to have a big one – it’s been quite a busy day, and I’m dying to hear,’ she added in her more social voice, ‘about yours – do tell all.’

Saba looked at her and made a rapid calculation. If Cleeve were here, it would be safer to tell him and no one else about the Germans. Ellie was still such a new friend.

Ellie took a sip of her gin. ‘Saba, I’ll say this quickly before he comes.’ She lowered her voice and glanced towards the ceiling. ‘Damn!’ The sound of a chair moving across the floorboards. ‘I’ll have to tell you later – Dermot wants to talk over songs and recordings and things with you, so I’m going to make myself scarce.’ She stood up. ‘Can’t wait to hear what the house was like,’ she resumed in a brighter tone as Cleeve loped into the room carrying a briefcase in his hand.

‘My goodness.’ Cleeve put his head on one side in mock admiration and smiled at Saba. ‘What a stunning frock. I can see Madame E has performed her usual magic.’

‘Drink, Dermot?’ Ellie said quickly. ‘Then I’ll go up and change for supper and leave you both to it.’

‘Gin and it, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Oh what heaven to be back in civilisation.’ He sank into a chair. ‘I sat on that bloody Cairo train for four hours,’ he complained. ‘They were loading all these cars for the big brass. One of the porters eventually switched on the wireless in one of them, so we could listen to some music, otherwise I would have been a mad person by now. Which reminds me.’ He gulped some gin and opened his briefcase. ‘Pressie for Saba,’ he said. ‘A Hoagy Carmichael recording. It was smuggled over from New York. Quite superb.’

The package sat in Saba’s lap.

‘Well open it,’ he said, crinkling his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said woodenly – Ellie was hovering at the door. ‘Perhaps later.’

‘Darlings, I’m off,’ said Ellie quickly. ‘See you at dinner. I’m glad you like the dress, Dermot.’ They could hear her scampering footsteps going upstairs.

‘She doesn’t know anything,’ Dermot said when the door had closed. ‘She’s only your dresser, and I would have arranged to meet you somewhere else tonight, but it was impossible to arrange transport. Are you hungry?’ he added in his conversational voice. ‘I’m starving. I could call for something.’

‘No,’ she said. She pulled her chair so that it faced him and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to talk about dresses, and I don’t want to talk about Hoagy Carmichael. What I want to know is why you let me go to Zafer Ozan’s house on my own when you knew what was going on there.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You must know,’ Saba exploded. ‘There were two German officers there.’ She wanted to spit with fury. ‘One of them was trying to speak to me. I could have been captured, I could have been raped. Why didn’t anyone warn me?’

‘Darling.’ Cleeve was almost pleading with her. ‘What a nasty fright, I’m so sorry about it. Hang on . . .’ He stood up, placed his finger on his lips and put Hoagy Carmichael’s ‘Stardust’ on the Pattersons’ gramophone. ‘I do so love this man,’ he said mildly, lowering the needle. ‘He knows the notes, he knows the melody, but best of all he knows how to make a tune swing. She thinks we’re rehearsing,’ he whispered.

‘Now listen.’ He leaned towards Saba. ‘It’s important you understand this: someone like Ozan doesn’t see the Germans as the great bogymen that we do. Half the shopkeepers in Alexandria now have signs in German underneath their counters saying “
wilkommen
” in case it goes the other way. It’s human nature, darling. Point the second,’ there was a signet ring on his little finger, ‘Ozan is Turkish, or most of him is. Turkey is neutral. He is an international businessman, he can ask who the hell he likes to his house. If you’re a guest of his, you are perfectly safe.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I do.’

‘How?’

‘I just do.’ Cleeve took a long sip of gin and rattled the ice.

‘Now listen, settle down and talk to me, because I’m leaving shortly – what did these Germans say to you?’

‘I don’t know – I don’t speak the language.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘To whom?’ She glared at him still.

‘To the man who talked to you. The German.’

‘Nothing, I answered him in Arabic.’

He blew out air.

‘Good girl. Quick thinking. How well do you actually speak Arabic?’

‘Hardly at all,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘that’s the point – only the few words a friend taught me at school. If that man had spoken the language he would have been on to me in a flash. I could have been killed or captured.’

‘Darling, darling.’ He held up his hand to stop her. ‘I think we’ve gone right off into the realms of melodrama here. There are several things I need to explain to you.’

He steepled his hands under his chin. Pashas like Ozan, he said, were largely oblivious to the war; they ducked and dived, their lifeblood was business and they would sell to the highest bidder. ‘And a lovely man, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘Passionate about music. But having said all that,’ he opened his cigarette case and seemed to select his words as carefully as he did his cigarette, ‘I’m somewhat surprised to hear that our German friends are so blatantly there at the moment. I’m going to have to discuss this with my superior. We need to work out a careful strategy.’

‘Who is your superior?’

‘I can’t tell you that just yet.’ A fly caught in the lampshade momentarily distracted him. He picked up a
Parade
magazine, rolled it, and whacked the insect dead. ‘I’m not trying to be deliberately evasive, it’s just that I need time to brief him on the situation. What did Ozan ask you to do?’

‘If you tell me more about why I was there, I’ll tell you about today.’ This seemed her only bargaining chip.

He sighed and placed the dead fly in the ashtray.

‘We have a strong suspicion that Ozan has changed the location of his party from Alexandria to either Beirut or Istanbul; it’s important for us to know, as soon as possible, which place he decides on. If it’s Istanbul we may have a little job for you to do there that could turn into rather an important job. I won’t waste time by discussing it now.’

‘And the parties are important because . . .?’ She was not going to let him off the hook now.

‘Some of the key people in the Middle East go to them, and you might just pick up something of vital importance. The point is,’ he leaned forward, his face sweating, ‘his lot hold the keys to victory.’

‘What lot?’

‘The suppliers. Ozan – thanks to the parties and the nightclubs – has a large network of friends and business acquaintances, some of whom control the supplies of oil and now water, and without oil and water, we may as well all go home now.’