The Laments (8 page)

“Madam,” he said to Julia, “forgive me if I offended you when we last met.”

“Julia,” said Trixie, intrigued, “what on
earth
could Mr. Mubarez have done to offend you?”

“Nothing at all,” Julia replied. But the gentleman was clearly smitten with her. When he repeatedly offered to take her sightseeing, Trixie turned petulant:

“Really, Mr. Mubarez, you make a girl feel like an ugly duckling,” she said.

“On the contrary, madam . . .” apologized Mubarez.

“Can you tell fortunes?” she asked, extending a pale arm across the table. Thus challenged, Mubarez took her palm and wove her a silly story about fame, riches, and happiness.

“Now
her
,
” said Trixie, nodding mischievously at Julia.

“I don’t want my fortune told,” Julia protested, but Trixie insisted, and persuaded her to rest her hand in Mr. Mubarez’s. The minute their fingers touched, Julia felt her heart quicken. Mubarez also seemed at a loss for words. With an apology, he released her hand.

Trixie looked fascinated and slightly envious of their exchange. “Well?” she said impatiently. “What’s
her
future?”

The man looked abashed. “My imagination appears to have failed me,” he replied.

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Mubarez,” said Julia.

Trixie seized this moment to pepper Mr. Mubarez with questions about his life, steering his eyes back to her when they strayed to Julia. Mubarez spoke of his youth, when he sold the fish he caught to the British submarine crews in the Gulf; of how his father sent him to a school for bankers’ children in Jidda; and of how his trade had expanded from tin pots and pans to the stainless-steel equipment sold to restaurants and hotels.

When it was time to go, the women refused his offer of an escort. Julia’s last glimpse of Mr. Mubarez was of his elegant suit, a solitary figure nursing a glass of mint tea.

Trixie and Julia walked back through the medina, sharing the giddy satisfaction of an adventure concluded. “What a dreamboat,” said Trixie. Then she gave Julia a vexed glance. “I’ve never had to work so hard to get a man to look at me.”

Julia smiled at the compliment, and then shame swept over her face. “Oh God, was I flirting?”

“Not exactly,” said Trixie. “
I
was doing the flirting, not that it did me any good.”

Julia whispered a confession. “He made me tremble.”

Trixie laughed. “You made him tremble too, honey!” Then she noticed Julia’s blush. “Oh, for godsakes, don’t tell me you’re one of those married women who won’t even let herself
think
of another man!”

Julia reproached her friend. “Trixie, I adore Howard. No other man has ever interested me in the least.”

Trixie laughed. “Sure! But there’s nothing wrong with feeling your heart skip a beat, is there? Just for fun.” She linked her arm with Julia’s. “Honey, both of us know that Howard has nothing to worry about.”

“
HOW WAS YOUR DAY?
” asked Howard that evening.

“Fine,” Julia replied tersely. She was trying to coax Will to eat a few more bites of chicken, but he scampered across the tiled floor, leaving her crimson-faced in front of her husband.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

“No, we just wandered through the medina.”

Howard gave his wife a sober glance. “You know, I hear Trixie’s a bit of a flirt. She has something of a reputation in the company. Poor Chip.” Howard shrugged. “Not that he’s any saint, but his wife’s obviously a handful.”

“I don’t like Chip,” Julia said.

“Well, so much for the Howitzers,” sighed Howard, as if they were in accord, and the Americans had been put to rest.

SHE AND HOWARD HAD NEVER DISAGREED
about friends before; it was uncertain territory in their marriage. Since Trixie did not call Julia, that might well have been the end of the Howitzers, if Mrs. McCross hadn’t phoned Julia one evening.

“Julia, how are you? How’s little Willy? Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

“Sorry,” said Julia, tossing several excuses into the explanation, but Mrs. McCross wouldn’t be put off.

“I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, actually, about your
friend
. I think I speak for a number of concerned souls in saying that your American friend is not of our flock. . . .”

“Our flock?” repeated Julia.

After Mrs. McCross hung up, Julia realized that she wasn’t of the flock, either. Furthermore, her time with Trixie had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in Bahrain.

IN DEFIANCE OF HOWARD’S JUDGMENT
on the Howitzers, Julia invited Trixie to go to the beach with the boys. She revealed her plans on the day of the outing.

Howard looked dismayed. “But I thought we didn’t like them.” It was an artful challenge, a matter not of the Howitzers’ character but of Julia’s loyalty. But she had prepared a reply:

“I was thinking of Will, darling. Wayne is the only boy his age. Wouldn’t it be nice for Will to have a friend?”

Howard had to agree.

Will and Wayne took to each other this time. They echoed each other’s demands for cheese, or apple slices; and when sated, they trotted across the sand stark naked and set about building a castle. This task was periodically interrupted as the three-year-olds traded the rude words they knew. Will offered a few toilet expressions, but Wayne had a stunning supply of epithets; when he got to “bastard” and “son of a bitch,” Trixie sprang up and whispered something in his ear. The boys quickly returned to their construction effort.

“He’s not yours, is he?” said Trixie, watching Will.

“What?” said Julia.

“He’s not your son. He’s adopted.”

Astonished at Trixie’s percipience, Julia waited until the boys ran out of earshot before replying. “Yes, he is adopted.”

“Wayne’s adopted,” Trixie continued. “Chip and I tried for years. After two stillbirths, I figured that something was wrong in here.” She rested her hand on her belly.

“I’m so sorry,” said Julia.

When Trixie said nothing, Julia wondered if her friend’s hard edge had to do with these losses.

“When I first saw Will at your house,” said Trixie, “I knew we had something special in common.”

Julia barely had time to discuss this bond with her friend before the boys let out shrieks of alarm.

An oncoming wave crashed near their castle with a hollow roar, and the surf breached its walls, tearing down the tower they had draped with seaweed and fortified with mussel shells. Will looked to Wayne with tearful dismay, but his companion merely giggled and threw himself onto the ruins, leaving the perfect indent of his bare bottom in the sand. This provoked Will’s first real laugh—a high, cascading gurgle of joy—so surprising to Julia that she bolted upright.

“What’s wrong?” asked Trixie.

“He’s never laughed before,” cried Julia.

Soon, both boys were leaving impressions of their bottoms all over the beach, and howling in delight.

That evening, as Julia told Howard about the day, Howard realized just how strong Julia’s attachment to Trixie had become. Soon the women were spending every day together. What most astonished Julia were the similarities in their teenage years: Trixie’s parents divorced at about the same time and sent her to a rigid girls’ academy. Yet both of them sought escape in romance—for Julia, it was the idealized sort, in Shakespeare; for Trixie, it was a succession of flawed men.

THEY TOOK THE BOYS
to the ornamental gardens of the guest palace in Manama. The three-year-olds chased each other around the palms as Trixie made a confession.

“I’ve already told Wayne that he’s adopted.”

“Good heavens, Trixie, why would you do that? How could he possibly understand? A child needs certainty at this age; if he knows he’s lost his parents once, he might worry that he’ll lose you!”

“He needs to know the truth,” Trixie replied. “There is enough lying in my life, Julia. I’m not going to lie to my son.”

Julia said sharply, “Do you mean you lie to Chip?”

Trixie paused. “Yes—Chip prefers it that way. So I don’t tell him he bores me. And I don’t tell him that Wayne is the only thing keeping us together.” She hesitated, dabbing the shadow of her black eye. “Actually, I
did
once tell him that, but he seems to have gotten over it. Let’s face it: marriage is a compromise.”

“A compromise?” Julia frowned. “I think of it more as a bond, an alliance. Howard and I love each other. We share a trust, and we share an adventure.”

“Well, honey, you’re a helluva lucky woman,” Trixie replied.

Julia might have related Trixie’s compliment to Howard if he had ever shown a hint of respect for Trixie, but the company gossip had hardened his opinion of her. For months he resisted any suggestion of a gathering between the families. Then, one evening, Chip appeared at the door to make a personal appeal; Wayne’s fourth birthday was coming up, and they wanted to host a small dinner. This time Howard accepted—he couldn’t deny Will’s happy kinship with Wayne.

AS DUTCH OIL’S MIDDLE EAST MARKETING MANAGER
, Chip Howitzer was entitled to a spacious pink villa with a dazzling view of the old city. At sunset, the dusty orange minarets turned golden and the city seemed magically suspended just beyond the windows.

But when the Laments arrived, the air had a chill to it. Chip opened the door, dabbing his nose with a bloody tissue.

“Good God, what happened?” asked Howard.

“I’ll tell you later. Can I get you a bourbon? That’s all I have—bourbon.”

Trixie appeared behind her husband. “Chip never met a bourbon he didn’t like.”

“And you never met a
man
you didn’t like!” Chip shouted in reply.

Julia quickly steered Will to Wayne’s room, with Trixie following. They found Wayne wearing a pressed sailor suit and white patent-leather shoes; he looked pretty miserable, too. “Can I take it off now?” he asked.

“But you’re the birthday boy,” insisted Trixie, with a strained smile. Nevertheless, Wayne kicked off his shoes, and urged Will to join him in destroying the wood-block city he had built.

Trixie led Julia back into a spacious living room, where a number of large canvases hung on the walls. Julia recognized several flaccid nudes by an emerging English painter, and some small contemporary sculptures of walking figures.

“Trixie collects that stuff whenever she goes to London or New York,” said Chip.

“Art keeps me
happ
y
!” Trixie shouted back at him.

“Oh, is
that
what keeps you happy?” Chip gestured for Howard to join him in his den, a small alcove with leather chairs and a zebra skin hanging on one wall.

Alone with Julia, Trixie whispered: “Chip found out.”

“About what?”

“That dreamboat in the medina, remember? The one who tried to read your palm?”

“Mr. Mubarez?”

Trixie gave Julia the particulars of her affair with Mr. Mubarez, which began with an encounter in a hotel swimming pool. “But then the dope called the house when Chip was home. Chip said he would kill him and me,” she said.

Julia gasped. “Well, did you apologize to Chip?”

“Apologize?” Trixie looked startled. “I have never apologized for anything in my life.”

As the two women contemplated the ethical chasm between them, Howard came stalking out of Chip’s den.

“Julia, where’s Will?” he asked sharply.

Julia turned to indicate Wayne’s room. Moments later Howard was heading out of the house, with Will squirming in his arms.

As Julia followed, Trixie gave her a tender peck on the cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick that remained until Julia discovered it in the mirror much later.

Will sensed the tension between his parents, and put up a struggle at bedtime. Howard and Julia bore his demands for water and an extra kiss with unusual patience—anything was preferable to the discussion that lay ahead.

“Julia?” said Howard as he lay in bed, fingers pressed to his temples.

“Yes, darling?” replied Julia.

“What do you know about that man?”

“What man?”

“You know,” said Howard, turning to face her in the darkness, “the one she’s been sleeping with.”

Julia held her breath for a moment. “Nothing, darling,” she replied. And waited.

“I
thought
so,” said Howard. “Trixie told Chip that the man who called was some fool who had a crush on
you
. I told him it was nonsense. Not only is that woman a slut but she’s a liar, too.”

It seemed wiser for Julia not to reply. In explaining her own encounters with Mr. Mubarez, she might risk the loss of Howard’s trust forever.

Suddenly, Howard sat up in bed. “Julia, this has turned out to be a godawful place. I want to move. Get away from these people.”

Julia remained silent. There was no point in defending her friendship with Trixie. But she took her husband’s hand to show him that she loved him, and to prove that nothing Trixie said or did could change that. Perhaps things would settle down and Howard’s fury would dissipate.

Howard took his wife’s gesture as a concession that moving was, indeed, the right thing to do.

THOUGH TRIXIE TRIED TO END
her affair with Mr. Mubarez, the poor fellow couldn’t accept it. Trixie had pursued him, and he couldn’t understand how she had the right to discard him, too. In a desperate attempt to understand his American siren, he bought a copy of
The Postman Always Rings Twice
. It posited a simple solution to his dilemma: murder.

Mr. Mubarez planned his solution using stealth, professional influence, and the resources of the local medina. His plans, however, went horribly awry, and the victim was an innocent bystander.

He had learned that Chip ate lunch at the Royal Oasis Hotel’s four-star restaurant every Wednesday; Chip was particularly fond of the chef’s carrot soup. Since Mr. Mubarez had supplied the Royal Oasis with all of its pots, pans, and baking trays, it was not unusual for him to pay the kitchen a visit. One Wednesday he brought with him a packet of powder, white in appearance, smelling vaguely of almonds, and slipped the contents into the soup. His plan would have worked perfectly if not for Mrs. McCross. She was served the first bowl and, after the third spoonful, complained of dizziness. A moment later, she pitched over onto the floor like a dead canary and the restaurant was closed.