Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination Page 16

  “Hello!” she said brightly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  In the flickering light, Feramo looked like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia when his blood was up.

  “This is a beautiful suite,” she said, attempting to look around appreciatively, “though in our country it is polite to get up when a guest enters, especially when you’ve had her kidnapped.”

  She saw the slightest flicker of confusion pass over his features, quickly replaced by a stony glare. Oh, sod him, sulky bastard, she thought. On the table in front of him was a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver ice bucket, together with two flutes and a tray of canapés. It was, she noted with interest, the same table as the one in her room, right down to the cactus embedded in the middle.

  “This looks nice,” she said, sitting down and flashing him a smile as she glanced at the champagne glasses. “Shall I be mother?” Feramo’s face softened for a second. She was, she realized, behaving like a northern housewife at the vicar’s tea party, but it seemed to be doing the trick. Then his expression changed again and he fixed her with a fierce stare, like an annoyed bird of prey. Okay, she thought, two can play at that game. She settled herself down and stared back. Unfortunately, however, something about the impromptu staring competition made her want to laugh. She could feel the giggles bubbling up from her stomach, and suddenly they burst out through her nose, so she had to put her hand over her mouth, shaking helplessly.

  “Enough!” he roared, leaping to his feet, which just made her laugh even more. Oh God, she had really done it now. She had to stop. She breathed in deeply, looked up, then collapsed in giggles again. Once something struck you as funny like that, when you really, really weren’t supposed to laugh, you were doomed. It was like giggling in church or school assembly. Even the thought of him sweeping out a sword and lopping off her head struck her as hilarious as she pictured her head bouncing across the floor, still giggling, Feramo bellowing at it.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, pulling herself together, both sets of fingers over her mouth and nose. “Okay, okay.”

  “You appear to be enjoying life.”

  “Well, so would you be if you’d narrowly escaped death three times in one day.”

  “I apologize for Alfonso’s behavior with the boat.”

  “He nearly killed a bunch of snorkelers and someone on a jet ski.”

  Feramo’s mouth twisted oddly. “It was the fault of that accursed boat. Western technology, for all its promise, is designed to make a fool of the Arab.”

  “Oh, don’t be so paranoid, Pierre,” she said lightly. “I really don’t think that’s the first priority in modern speedboat design. How are you, anyway?”

  He looked at her uncertainly. “Come, we must drink a toast!” he said, reaching to open the champagne. She watched him, fingering the hatpin hidden in the fabric of her dress, trying to assess what was going on. This was her big chance to get him drunk and find out what he was up to. She glanced around the room: there was a laptop closed on the desk.

  Feramo seemed really quite desperate to get into the Cristal, but was having trouble with the cork. Clearly he hadn’t had much practice either at opening champagne bottles or fucking things up. Olivia found herself frozen into an encouraging smile as if waiting for a man with a bad stammer to get the next word out. Suddenly the cork shot across the room and the Cristal spurted out, frothing all over his hand, the table, napkins, cactus and canapés. A strange curse burst from his lips as he started grabbing at things and knocking them over.

  “Pierre, Pierre, Pierre,” she said, starting to dab at the puddle of Cristal with a napkin. “Calm down. Everything’s fine. I’ll just take these . . .” she said, picking up the flutes and heading for the wet bar, “and . . . rinse them, so that they’re pristine. Ooh, what beautiful glasses. Are they from Prague?” She carried on babbling as she washed them in hot water, then gave them a good rinse and swilled out the bottoms.

  “You are right,” he said. “They are fine Bohemian crystal. Evidently, you are a connoisseur of beauty. As am I.” At this Olivia almost started laughing again. Clearly the Arab mind could be as corny as the shopping channel.

  She replaced the glasses on the coffee table, ensuring that what had been Feramo’s glass was now hers. She watched him carefully for the gestures of a thwarted poisoner, but instead she saw only the eagerness of an alcoholic on the verge of his first drink of the evening.

  “Let us drink a toast,” he said, handing her her glass. “To our rendezvous.” He glanced at her seriously for a moment, then downed his champagne like a Cossack in a vodka-drinking competition.

  Does he know you’re not supposed to drink champagne like that? she wondered. It reminded her of Kate’s mother, a lifelong teetotaler who, if she poured someone a G&T, would fill a tumbler almost to the top with neat gin with barely a nod in the direction of the tonic bottle.

  “Come, let us eat. We have much to discuss.”

  As he rose to lead the way out to the terrace, she emptied her glass into the cactus. Feramo pulled back her chair for her, like waiters do. She sat down, expecting him to push it forward, like waiters do, only somehow he got it wrong, and she sat down on nothing, plunging to the floor. She thought she was going to start laughing again until she looked up and saw the intensity of his humiliation and rage.

  “It’s all right, Pierre. It’s all right.”

  “But what do you mean?” As he towered over her, she imagined him commanding a mujahedin battalion in the Afghan mountains, pacing above prisoners, keeping his anger controlled, then suddenly blasting them with a machine gun.

  “I mean it’s funny,” she said firmly, starting to get to her feet, noting to her relief that he hurried to help her. “The more a situation is geared up to be perfect, the funnier it is when something goes wrong. Things aren’t supposed to be perfect.”

  “So that is good?” he said, the trace of a small-boy smile appearing.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s good. Right, I shall sit down on the chair, not under it, and we’ll start again.”

  “I do apologize. I am mortified—first the champagne and then . . .”

  “Shh,” she soothed. “Sit down. You couldn’t have found a better way to make me feel comfortable.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said, thinking: Now I don’t have to worry about being poisoned every time I take a sip. “I was intimidated when I walked in. Now we know we’re both just human beings and we don’t have to pretend to be all fancy and perfect and we can just have a good time.”

  He grasped her hand, kissing it passionately. It was as if something about her acted as a trigger for him. His mood swings made no sense. He was dangerous, clearly. But she didn’t have a lot of options here. Maybe if she just brazened it out and followed her nose she could keep control of the situation. Especially if she was sober and Feramo was drunk.

  “You are the most wonderful woman,” he said, looking at her almost wretchedly.

  “Why?” she asked. “Because I’m good at washing glasses?”

  “Because you are kind.”

  She felt terrible.

  He downed another glass of champagne, leaned back and gave a vicious tug to a thick, dark-red bellpull. Immediately, the key turned in the lock and three waiters appeared carrying steaming casseroles.

  “Leave it, leave it,” Feramo barked as they twittered around, obviously terrified. “I shall serve it myself.”

  The waiters set down the dishes and hurried out, falling over each other in their haste.

  “I hope,” said Feramo, unfolding his napkin, “that you will enjoy our dinner. It is a great delicacy in our land.”

  She gulped. “What is it?” she said.

  “It is curried goat.”

  36

  “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 pla
ced 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 se
es 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.