One Way or Another: A Novel (25 page)

I’ve thought about the famous women who were imprisoned, left with their own thoughts, their fears for their future or their imminent demise, of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots; of Anne Boleyn, the ill-fated Queen of England; of Joan of Arc, whose captors knew no mercy. And I also thought of the women who had struggled to keep their dignity while imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps, of their terrible circumstances, so much more harrowing than mine, degraded, humiliated, and in the end murdered. Some had survived though, which is how we know their tales; they had brought honor and glory to those who had not, and disgrace and the ultimate penalties on those who had inflicted this on them. There were no SS guards here, no soldiers with machine guns in turrets ready to shoot if you made a run for it. Then why did I not make another run for it? Why? I asked myself, over and over again. It came down to whether I was more afraid of staying and taking what they would do to me, or making a run for it and taking the consequences of either being caught and killed, caught and brought back and further tortured, or getting away with it. Free.

I thought of King Henry the VIII’s doomed wives, alone in their beautiful houses, of the famous women freedom fighters in France in World War II; I racked my brains for memories of school history lessons where I’d been told about these women, how they had overcome their circumstances One way or another. It seemed to me that One Way was okay, “Another” was not what I wanted even to think about.

For me, there was only one way. I made up my mind. Freedom would be mine, I knew it. And then Mehitabel came back.

This time she was brisk, businesslike, cold as ever. Again, she had brought clothes, which she thrust at me, scarcely bothering to look.

“Get dressed,” she said. “At once.” And then she left.

It was a replay of what had happened not too long ago, only the clothing was more comfortable. I eased the gray sweatpants carefully over my lacerated limbs, pulled the gray sweater over my shorn head—noting it was cashmere as I did so, and therefore soft and did not hurt. There was a pair of red flip-flops, too big but better than bare feet, although I did not know where I was going, a long journey or short, a walk across gravel paths or grassy fields. I knew nothing and that was the way I wanted it. I preferred not to know my fate, that way I did not have to deal with it. I simply accepted the situation, did as I was told, and bided my time.

I sat quietly on the sofa, feet together in their flip-flops, hands folded meekly in my lap, head downcast, lost in a barrage of thoughts, the uncertainty, the fear. Then I heard footsteps, the familiar clack of Mehitabel’s heels on the wooden floor as she came back. The key turned in the lock. I lifted my head to look. At the vision that was Mehitabel.

She was in evening dress, long, dark green silky satin cut close to her body, lightly draped across her hips, slit to the thigh on the left. The bodice was perfectly plain, and fit her small breasts as though it belonged, exposing a little cleavage, just enough to excite a man, I thought, though why I was thinking such a thing when my life was in jeopardy I have no idea. It’s a woman thing, I suppose, being able to take in your captor, your rival, your enemy’s appearance and assess it, even though your life is in her hands. Cunt, was what I thought as well. If ever there was a woman who fitted that indecent word, it was Mehitabel.

Her hair was piled up on top and fixed with sparkly diamond combs. A necklace—a simple strip of emeralds, if matched emeralds could be called “simple,” sat perfectly on her slender neck. The color almost matched her eyes. I even took in her shoes, glimpsed under the hem of her slender skirt, delicately bejeweled cream silk with spiky heels that gave her an extra few inches of forbidding height. She wore a wide gold cuff on each arm, an emerald ring the size of a large gooseberry, and almost the same color, on the third finger of her left hand. Had she gotten engaged? To Ahmet? No, oh no, that could never happen. Ahmet would never marry, even I knew that.

“Get to your feet.” She almost snarled the command at me and I obeyed quickly, slipping on my too-large flip-flops. I stood there while she looked me up and down, in my baggy gray sweatpants, the gray sweater that hung over my diminished breasts that had once been so pretty, had tempted men, had given them and me pleasure; at my pasty skin that had once been golden; at my sunken eyes that would no longer give a man a flirty look; at the face I never again wanted to see reflected in a mirror, so hideous I knew I had now become.

She stood assessing me, so completely in control I wanted suddenly to hit her. Rage made me tremble. Mehitabel, I knew, mistook my rage for fear. And I
was
afraid. Afraid I had nowhere to take that rage, no direction. I was helpless and she knew it.

She stepped closer, stood, relaxed, her face in mine, our eyes locked. A smile lifted the corners of that thin red mouth, then she took a step back, surveyed me again, held out both hands, palms up, showing me what she had. A collar. Made of leather. Encrusted with stones that to me looked like rubies and sapphires, a few diamonds marking the clasp. I looked at it, lifted my head, looked at her.

“Stand up straight,” she commanded. I stood straighter.

“Lift your chin higher.” I lifted it.

And felt the chill of the leather collar as she wound it around my neck, the slight pull as she latched it, the softness of her hands as she patted it into place. I knew this was my final humiliation. Mehitabel had won. Ahmet had won. Though why I was so important when he could have had any girl, any woman, anyone at all, still bewildered me. Had I just happened to be the one handy for his sadistic sexual practices? The amenable girl with no background, no family, no one who cared? The woman who wanted to be loved and was glad to be with him.
The bastard.

Mehitabel tightened the collar. She took another step back to admire her handiwork, then, before I knew it she had a leash in her hand, was clipping it to the collar, jerking my neck, tightening it.

I groaned in pain. In fear. In degradation. I was Mehitabel’s bitch, on a leash, to be taken wherever she wished. Somehow, I knew it would be to Ahmet.

43

Morris Sorris made a habit of leaving his work behind him when his long day was over. It had often started at six
A.M.
in his car, heading out to some house in the boonies, or else to a freezing cold warehouse where unimaginable antique treasures might be found, if he got lucky, that is. Morrie figured that if he was getting out of bed for anyone before six
A.M.
he deserved to be lucky, and today he was. Of course the “warehouse” he was visiting that morning was no simple secondhand or “vintage” joint; it was an ex-garage in South London made over into a veritable fortress with the addition of spiked iron rails, crosshatched iron grills over the windows, and barbed-wire fences with a security guard day and night, protecting the valuable items stored there. Today, for instance, Morrie was to take a look at a set of ten dining room chairs, walnut with curved legs and lion’s paw feet. Were they Sheraton? Morrie’s trained eye, plus his instinct honed over the years for the false, would guide him on that decision.

He got lucky, the chairs he was certain, he later told Martha over the phone, were authentic though in a pretty bad state: the webbing, of course, was gone, there were chips in places though nothing that could not be fixed by an expert like himself, and they were still the original soft shade of good walnut, a wood which was becoming rare and costly. Morrie’s father had been an expert carpenter, a worker in wood, and he’d trained his son well. There wasn’t much Morrie could not do with wood, and for him, today was a bonanza. How often did a man get to work with the real thing, after all?

“I just wish they were not going to that house,” he found himself saying to Martha, voicing a thought he had kept in his head for some time now.

“You mean Marshmallows? Why ever not?” Martha was surprised.

Morrie thought about why for a minute, then said, “I guess it’s because they are so delicate, so beautifully made, it’s rare to find a set like this, and that ugly house does not deserve them. I’ve seen Ahmet at home. They’ll never be shown off to advantage in that massive bloody dining room with the captain’s chair presiding over everything. And no doubt now, with the Captain himself, our Mr. Ahmet—probably soon to become Sir Ahmet if the rumors are to be believed—acting as the host with the most.”

“I haven’t heard those rumors, and Morrie, you’d better remember that Ahmet
is
‘the host with the most.’ That’s how he can pay us.”

Morrie rang off and stared gloomily out the car window, his mind still on the Sheraton chairs he had just agreed to pay a king’s ransom for on behalf of the billionaire “host with the most,” who he despised for some reason he could not yet describe. As the saying went, he could not put a finger on it. The man was affable, reasonable, never arrogant as so many monied folks he had worked with had been. Money seemed like a second skin to Ahmet Ghulbian; only a problem if something itched, got at his secrets. Morrie didn’t quite know, either, why he suddenly thought that Ahmet was a man who kept his secrets well hidden behind that very pleasant face, the firm handshake, the I’m-one-of-you friendliness that rang so true. Or did it? And if it did, then why was Morrie so uneasy about him? It was, he guessed, because he was dealing with a secretive man. Ahmet kept his cards close to his chest, told you exactly what you wanted to hear. And Morrie knew that was dangerous. When you heard what you wanted to hear you felt safe, only you were not. You were in the power of the man telling you that.

He turned onto the motorway, heading back to Brixton and home; anxious suddenly for the simple reality of his own place, maybe for a pint in the pub with the lads to take his uneasy mind off Ahmet Ghulbian and Marshmallows. He decided against the Sheraton chairs. He would not even tell Ghulbian about them, would tell Martha they were fake after all. Marshmallows did not deserve the supreme quality, the craftsman detailing, the care and love that had gone into making them. He’d get Ghulbian some tricky Italian pieces with a little more flash, a touch more arresting, more of a talking point. After all, not too many would recognize an original Sheraton chair when they saw it, would they now?

His phone rang just as he was changing lanes. He moved into the slower lane before glancing down, saw it was Martha calling him back. He pressed Answer, twitched his earpiece into place, said “Hi.”

“Morrie, I’ve got to have those chairs” was her opening line. It made him laugh.

“What are you, a mind reader?”

“No, just anxious. I already sent Ahmet the pics, told him how great they are, you can’t tell me now they are not available, I’ll never be able to explain it away. I mean, Morrie, this man is like the Bank of England, he’ll pay whatever it costs, just make it right for him.”

“Fuck him,” Morrie said. And he meant it.

Martha’s shocked gasp rattled in his ear. “Why? What’s up with Ahmet?”

The answer to all Morrie’s uneasiness about Ahmet came suddenly into his head. “I don’t like the way he looks at Lucy,” he said, recalling the man’s eyes fixed on the seventeen-year-old; hot eyes, a predator’s eyes.

Martha was silent for a minute, then she said, “Morrie, I know exactly what you mean, and I feel the same way. But we have to work with this man, he’s planning the party on his yacht for next week, and the grand ball when the house is finished, hopefully three weeks from now. How can I tell him to fuck off? I promised him.”

Morrie sighed too. “I know. And I have your plans for the yacht party, I love them, and also for the house. Two parties in three weeks, Martha, that makes it tough on you.”

“Remember, I have my new assistant, Lucy, to help. She’s actually getting her act together, beginning to come out of the stupor which, I have to tell you, was certainly not about Ahmet, who she calls a boring old man, but a pizza delivery guy, blond, blue eyed, and Oxford bound. I’m hoping the least it will do is give her enough spirit to go to college, learn something instead of lounging in that scruffy flat of hers.”

“She’s lazy, then?”

“Not lazy, exactly; more unmotivated, though now she tells me Ahmet has given her a script of some movie he wants her to star in. And trust me, Morrie, she believes him.”

“Jesus. It’s time she grew up, got a bit more worldly wise, I mean at seventeen these days, Martha, girls are on the ball, know how to handle themselves and men. Lucy’s not daft, she’s just delusional.”

“Please tell her that, why don’t you. I’d appreciate the input. Meanwhile, how’s the lovely Marshmallows?”

“As lovely as can be expected. In truth though, Martha, it is getting better, you’ve worked quite a miracle on it, brought light into those somber rooms, though I’m still reluctant about the Sheraton walnut dining chairs.”

“Me too. Now I think about it, I don’t believe Ahmet deserves them, and anyhow he’s much more the glossy, custom-Italian type. In fact, I’m heading out right now to that Italian decorator showroom and I’ll bet I find exactly what I want.”

“Or hopefully what you think he will want.”

“You got it.” Martha sounded happier now that it was resolved and she could get back to the parties. “See you on the yacht, Morrie, in a few days’ time,” she said as she rang off.

You bet she would, thought Morrie, if he could get his act together and chase up every supplier, every worker, the caterer, the electrician, the rental supplier of cushy cream sofas and chairs, all the workmen involved. It was, he decided, sighing again, though more happily this time, a hard life being a designer, decorator, dog’s-body to the rich man who paid you well for it.

It was then he remembered he’d left his design portfolio on the stairs at Marshmallows, the same stairs he had never so far been allowed up, and neither had Martha or even little Lucy. Nobody was to be, in fact, until they had finished downstairs. That was what that witch Mehitabel had told them.

Morrie agonized for a minute but knew he had no choice but to go back and get it.