One Way or Another(65)

Martha was a little surprised that Ahmet had not sent a car to meet them, but they took a taxi to Antibes and, after some discussion with the guard, were finally admitted onto the port where massive yachts and cruise vessels towered, some as high as fourteen stories, floating hotels for the famous, or merely the well-heeled. Their prows flaunted sharply into the sky making Marco think with longing of his lowly but beautiful wooden gulet, its prow painted with the face of a woman whose eyes showed the way across the sea. He felt an urge to be back on his small slip of land with his blue-shuttered one-room cottage with the stone terrace, the bottle of arak, and the sunset lighting everything with a rose-gold glow that lingered over the darkening sea. He felt Martha’s eyes on him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, squeezing his arm.

“Mind reader,” he said again, as Em leaned over and gave Martha’s face a lush lick. “That’s exactly what I’d like to do,” he added, stooping to kiss her ear, which was the nearest bit of her.

“Oh, give it up, you two.” Lucy turned away in mock disgust. “Just look at that bloody great boat, why don’t you?”

They did. The Lady Marina towered above them. They were ferried to the yacht on a speedboat by a sailor in white shorts, polo shirt, and sneakers, and greeted on board by the captain, also in his whites with his gold-trimmed cap and a firm handshake.

He told them that Mr. Ghulbian had left instructions they were to make themselves comfortable, that Martha should inspect the boat and get some ideas about what she might like to change, that anything they wanted was theirs, all they had to do was ask. Mr. Ghulbian would let them know later when he would be there.

Martha glanced at Marco, surprised at Ahmet’s absence. He raised his brows at her, also surprised, as they followed a steward and Lucy, who was almost dancing with delight, along a spacious corridor to the suites that were to be theirs: one starboard and larger with a sitting area, wide windows, quilted silk walls and a blue-themed decor; the other port side with twin beds done out in a yellow-and-white stripe that made Martha wince.

“It’s lost all that ‘feel’ of a boat,” she said. “There’s nothing the least bit ‘nautical’ about it. I can see I’ll have my work cut out if this was Ahmet’s last foray into decoration.”

“No man decorated this,” Lucy said, astonishing them with her sudden perspicacity. “Not even a teenager would want to stay in this cabin.”

“Stateroom,” Martha corrected her automatically, then amended that. “No, you’re right, it’s only a cabin, there’s nothing grand and ‘stateroomy’ about this. We’ll have our work cut out, Lucy, I promise you that.”

Lucy beamed. “Before or after we go shopping for clothes?”

“After we’ve explored this boat,” Martha said firmly, and accompanied by Em, who sniffed every corner, searching, Marco thought, for her beloved gulet, as he himself was, in his mind, instead of this pretentious over-gilded rich man’s toy boat. The sea glimmered, flat as a pond, as though flattened by inertia and too much money.

It took Martha only ten minutes before she was on the phone to Ahmet. He did not answer and she left a message that she was taking him at his word; she would be stripping the entire boat and was getting to work right away on a more appropriate seaworthy look for what was, after all, under all that flossy decor, a quite lovely and certainly very large boat. She promised it would be magnificent, though in a more low-key way. She would complete it in three weeks’ time, which, as she closed her phone, she crossed her fingers and prayed she would be able to do.

Now she must also turn her attention to Marshmallows, where Morrie was helping, though he was still refusing to go back there. Of course he would have to if he was to be of any help at all, but Martha decided she would work that out later.

Meanwhile, she took a shower in a stall that was all beige marble and gilt fittings, and was anyhow too small, and which Marco claimed was an impossible space for anyone over six feet, so she banged her elbows.

A sullen, older steward in what seemed to be the general uniform of white shorts and polo shirt unpacked and hung their things in a too-small closet space, and turned down the bed though it was still only early evening. Drinks were ready to be served on the afterdeck by another white-uniformed steward. Several bags of different kinds of dog food stood next to the glasses, though the steward informed Marco that of course, there was also chicken and steak if required. Em did “require,” and when the steak was brought, she wolfed it in, Marco timed it, exactly one and a half minutes. Em was, he told Martha and the amazed Lucy, more used to a haunch of goat in Turkey and the occasional meat he added to her kibble at home. By then, the shops which closed in the heat of the afternoon were reopening and Martha and Lucy went off to get her something to wear, while Marco decided to take Em for a walk.

Antibes was a small town, sloping cobbled streets, a white church looming over all, still the fishermen’s cottages, some with nets drying outside, chic shops with designer labels, and a sandal maker who was doing good business with tourists waiting outside; a couple of ice-cream stores with flavors like pistachio in a true faded green that made you know it was the real thing. Marco licked his cone as he walked, taking in the scenery, wandering the way visitors did with nowhere particular in mind. Marco decided it was a nice place to be, a good state of mind to be in. What he had to concentrate on now, though, was Ahmet’s portrait. It must be completed before the ball, where it would be, Martha had informed him, “unveiled,” a phrase Marco loathed but understood. “Just remind me not to be there for the unveiling,” he warned Martha. “It’s Ahmet’s day, not mine.”