One Way or Another(34)

“Only Mehitabel,” Marco said, and Ahmet roared with sudden laughter.

“You’re right. Mehitabel surely belongs to some strange animal world of her own making. Still, she’s efficient, she’s clever, and she’s loyal. What more can a man want in a woman?”

“Love,” Marco suggested, surprised when Ahmet sank, shocked, back in his chair.

Ahmet said, “I believe I asked you, on the plane from Istanbul, whether you were in love. You did not answer me, though I already knew of course that you were. I have not been so fortunate. But enough of that. Let us decide where you would like me to pose for the portrait. At first, I thought on the landing where the light is so beautiful from the Rossetti stained-glass windows. But now I think it’s far too romantic. You know I’m a practical man, a businessman, though I love all the arts.” He threw his arms wide, indicating the paintings, mostly very modern, that lined the corridor. “I have every artist here you’ve ever heard of, and I paid more for most of them than any man ever paid before, and maybe ever will. I’m a fool when it comes to something I really want, Marco. I don’t care what it costs, I must have it.”

Marco thought it a strangely childish philosophy for a grown man but guessed that kind of money gave you reason to believe you could have anything you wanted, all you had to do was pay for it. He remembered with sudden misgiving Ahmet saying he could name any fee he liked. Now he said quickly, “You know I never charge any sitter more than another, however rich he is. I put a price on my talent, that’s all.”

“That’s the way it goes with you artists. It’s your children and grandchildren that’ll reap the benefit. But you will paint my portrait, won’t you?”

The tough billionaire had disappeared. It was as though Ahmet had two personalities: one hard and indomitable; the other insecure and vulnerable and which usually he kept carefully hidden. Marco wondered which he would be allowed to see for the portrait, that of course he agreed to paint, though he did not like the location.

In Marco’s view, there was a darkness about the house that had nothing to do with the limited light coming from the stained-glass windows. It was more the sense that all was not right here. Yet Ghulbian was beaming at him, had welcomed him to his home, and Marco was instantly ashamed of his thought. Sure, the house was dark and its remote location off-putting, but his host was dismissing the beer and breaking out a perfect bottle of Pétrus, already opened in anticipation of his arrival, pouring it into glasses so fine Marco wondered who dared wash them.

He felt Ahmet’s anxious eyes on him as he took the first sip; knew the man wanted him to love it and liked him for that. He might be rich but he enjoyed the pleasure of giving. And when he tasted the wine, he found it smooth yet not overwhelming. “It’s so good it takes my breath away,” he told Ahmet.

“I knew you would understand it. You have good taste, my friend. Now, with it you must try this paté. It’s made for me by a woman in Aix-en-Provence, not what you might think of as paté country, that’s more to the northwest of France, but she has her own small goose farm. Ducks too. And oddly, bison, though of course they don’t end up as paté. I believe I keep her in business, which is good because she’s in her eighties and alone. I like to think I’m helping her, and with reason, because she is excellent at what she does.”

Marco found himself liking Ahmet more as he told the story; he was generous with his time, with his money, and with his compassion. Rare, in a rich man, many of whom had no time for anyone but themselves and the very public charities their PR people involved them in. Besides, the paté was excellent, served on thin triangles of crisp toast.

“Perfect with the wine,” Marco agreed. “Which, by the way, may be one of the best I ever tasted. Martha and I don’t get much beyond the usual market buys, except when we’re in France, and then it almost doesn’t matter where you get it, even in the mini-market like Casino, you always seem to end up with something good.” He rethought that. “Well, let’s say, drinkable.”

“I shall send you a case.” Ghulbian raised a hand to dismiss Marco’s polite protest. “Please, it will be my pleasure. And let’s not forget I am trying to bribe you to make the time to paint my portrait.”

“You’re making it very hard for me to say no.”

“Then, while you are considering it, why don’t you join me on my yacht, the Lady Marina. Take a few days, bring your lovely fiancée, let us all get to know each other better. I promise you the wine will be good, and I might even persuade Martha to take me on as a client.”

Softened by the good wine, the delicious paté, the generous hospitality, and the man’s charm, Marco agreed and a date was tentatively set for a few weeks later. They would fly in Ahmet’s Cessna 520 to Antibes, and be helicoptered onto the yacht anchored off the coast since it was too large for any of the local harbors. From there they would take a few days’ “stroll” as Ahmet called it, along the coast, where he said the sea was the bluest Marco would ever see, dark and deep, cool and inviting even on the hottest of days.

“I promise we shall have a good time,” he said as he saw Marco off in the helicopter. And Marco believed his promise.





25

The house on the marsh had become Mehitabel’s home and was the place she liked most in the world. She had seen most of “the world” via her excursions with Ahmet either on the Lady Marina, with its many ports of call in Europe and the Far East, or via the Cessna 520, which, though it was a few years old, remained Ahmet’s favorite plane and which he refused to change for the latest model. Ahmet could get pretty stuck in his ways and Mehitabel considered it part of her job to keep him abreast of the latest and most expensive toys available to a man like him. The “toys,” of course, included women, of which she was chief procurer.