One Way or Another(70)

“Thank you, lovely Martha,” he said. Then, “That woman is here.”

Mehitabel, glamorous and frozen faced, was standing with other guests, emeralds gleaming at her neck, her gaze seeming to look inward as though she had other things than a party on her mind.

“There’s no doubt she’s a beautiful woman,” Martha said to Marco.

“Sargent would have painted her exactly like that, the way he painted all those dead-eyed beauties,” Marco said. “He saw what lay beneath.”

Mehitabel caught their glance and walked toward them. Champagne glass in hand, she said, “Welcome aboard the Lady Marina, Marco, Miss Patron.” She lifted her glass toward Martha. “I assume you chose these crude glasses for tonight’s party? I should have thought you understood by now that Ahmet is used to only the best. You’ll find the Tiffany flutes in the cupboard behind the bar. I suggest you change them. Our guests prefer the better things in life,” she added, with that smile that lifted only the corners of her mouth and certainly never reached her eyes.

“Allow me to get one for you,” Marco said, unsmiling. “I believe everyone else, including Ahmet, is very happy with the ones they already have, but of course, you are different.”

Their eyes locked. “In what way am I different?”

Marco didn’t understand why, only knew she was, and that in some way she was dangerous. It might be jealousy. Could she be jealous of Ahmet? It certainly was not jealousy of another woman, somehow he knew Mehitabel would not care about that; she would simply dismiss other women as of no account, mere hurdles in the stumbling block of the life of a woman on the make. He realized Mehitabel was ambitious, recognized she was ruthless and that he badly wanted to paint her portrait, capture all that lay behind that lovely face.





50

Of course, the party’s finale was a fireworks display, bigger and better than the ones seen before, thirty minutes of glorious light and color and explosions, set off by the amplified music of Tchaikovsky’s rowdy 1812 Overture, then, so gently, so perfectly when it was over, to Chopin piano études played on two white grand pianos on deck by a pair of music students to whom Ahmet had awarded scholarships; the girl lovely and composed in a long silvery dress, the young man intense and concentrated in black tie.

“The perfect ending,” Marco said to Martha. “However did you dream it up?”

“But I didn’t, it was Ahmet’s idea. He’s a surprising man under that powerful fa?ade. Sometimes I could believe there’s even a heart there.”

Marco was still wondering if he would be able to capture all facets of Ahmet’s personality, of his true being, on canvas. He knew he would have his work cut out for him because Ahmet was already calling the shots, about where he should pose, the chair he wanted to use, the jacket he would wear, even the lighting, something Marco considered his sole privilege to decide.

The next afternoon when Marco arrived for his appointment the yacht looked completely different; the flags and pennants were reduced to only what was necessary to identify the craft, and instead of expensively clad and bejeweled guests, a work crew was slung over the side sluicing down the ship. The lovely scent of orange blossom had been replaced by that of window cleaner and the buckets of flowers were massed in the stern ready to be sent to the local hospitals and old people’s homes. The leftover food had already been donated to homeless shelters and the wines and champagnes returned to their air-cooled storage. Martha’s work had not ended with the party; she was also the one who organized the cleanup. She was, Marco realized, very good at her job.

“Well, so there you are.” Ahmet glanced impatiently at his watch.

Marco had not thought he was late or that there was any urgency about being spot on time, though mostly he was, because after all he was “the hired help”; he was being paid for what he did and he owed the buyer respect. Still, five minutes here or there could not be deemed “late.” Irritated, he followed Ahmet into the long, light-filled salon where Ahmet had the chair arranged.

“I’ll sit here,” Ahmet told him, “with the light coming over my left shoulder from the window. I think it’s best to have a full portrait of me seated rather than from only the waist up; it’ll give people a better sense of who I am.”

Marco raised his brow ever so slightly as he went to inspect the chair, a lovely mellow old piece in walnut, which he thought perfect. “A man of good taste,” he said, softening toward Ahmet.

Ahmet agreed, immodestly, Marco thought as he set up his palette, then adjusted the already impatient Ahmet in his chair, the better to catch the light he saw, not Ahmet’s choice, which made him even more testy and irritable, until Marco finally lost patience.

“Sir, we could replan this sitting if it would suit you better. Make it next week, next month perhaps, when you are less preoccupied.”

“And what does my being ‘preoccupied,’ as you call it, matter to a painter? Can you not see the man I am, not what I’m thinking about?”

Marco eyed him steadily. “Usually, but this time, I’m not sure. I’m not certain I’m seeing what I’m looking for, only what you want to show me.”

Ahmet looked silently back. Of course what Marco had said was true, not only of now, but always. “It’s who I am,” he said, giving Marco that genial smile. “As they say, what you see is what you get.”