Again the conversation was interrupted by the hunch-backed servant, who this time appeared with a large wooden box and a smaller silver one. He opened the silver box and offered its contents to Lena; Sharon could see slightly that the interior was of scarlet velvet and the contents a brownish type of cigarette. Lena took one and Wafto bent forward and lit the oddly colored cigarette with a large butane gas lighter of the same design as the silver box.
"The Minister," Mark went on to say, "as well as the whole new government are limited by ignorance, in other words."
"Then how can decisions be made?" Sharon asked. The box was passed to her. "Oh, no thank you, Wafto. I prefer my own brand."
"No, do take one my dear," Mark urged. "They're something special, a grade of foreign tobacco much better than our English Virginia which yours are no doubt made of. I insist; it's as much an after dinner ritual at Marlowe Manor as Grand Marnier, or my Cuban cigars."
Sharon selected one, feeling its course paper in her fingers as she put its cork-wrap tip in her mouth. Wafto applied the fire; she inhaled. It was strange, an entirely different kind of taste than her brand — an odd sour-sweet flavor which seemed to go deeper in her lungs, imbibing an entirely new sensation than she had ever experienced while smoking since… since she first began! She inhaled again, smelling the pungency of the tobacco. It wasn't rough, like a coarse American cigarette might be, just edifying, giving her that same euphoria as had happened when she had snuck a Camel from her father's package and smoked it secretly behind the garage many years ago. A simple matter of getting used to, she supposed…
"Certainly strong," she commented, blinking.
Mark had clipped the end of the Partagas cigar, which he had selected from the large wooden humidor Wafto had brought to him. "Yes, aren't they? Very tasty, I'd say. A mixture of Latakia, Turkish, Burley, and Cannabis," he winked knowingly at Lena, who seemed to have a silly smirk on her face as though she was sharing some kind of secret with him. "Mostly the latter," he added.
"Can — cana…?" she tried to pronounce the last named tobacco. Somehow she was having a hard time focusing her mind on the word; things were getting a little woozy, in fact.
"Cannabis," Mark repeated. "Sometimes referred to as grifti, when it comes from Morocco as this particular batch did."
"Oh." It really didn't seem to matter. She continued to smoke, letting the lethargy she felt after the meal, the liqueur, and, peculiarly, the cigarette, take over her body.
"To get back to what I was saying," Mark continued, "the information the Minister receives has been filtered many times by who? By the same bureaucracy, by the same civil servants who have been there before him, before his predecessor no doubt. The Minister has no way of knowing what was discarded, what was emphasized. He may think he has a choice of three or four courses of action, but each of those courses has been plotted by his top civil servants, and they leave him little doubt about which course they think to be the best. Theoretically the Minister is in power, is free to reject that advice, but the fact is that he must always be dependent."
"That's a very cynical approach, Mark," Lena was saying.
To Sharon, her hearing was fading, for Lena seemed to be further away, as if speaking from the end of some long, narrow, echoing hall. She frowned and shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but it didn't seem to do any good. Moreover, she didn't really care. Everything was too pleasant, too relaxing to get excited over. She sunk still further in the feather-like softness of the couch and kicked off her shoes. Yes; it was too much trouble to keep up the pretense of correctness — she hiked her stockinged feet up and tucked them under her buttocks. Her dress bunched around her waist… she should pull it down, stay modest, if informal… but again, it was too much trouble. So much nicer just to stay as she was and drink her Grand Marnier and smoke the odd cigarette with the Moroccan grifti.
"Not cynical, Lena," Mark replied. "Just practical."
"Practical," Sharon repeated soporifically. She thought the word was fun and tripped it lightly over her tongue a few times, even humming a little tune along with it. There was a small, faint warning in the back of her head, saying: what's wrong? Why are you acting like this? But she didn't pay any heed to it. The room was so beautiful, more beautiful than she had realized, so full of colors and that tapestry hanging over the credenza seemed almost alive with hues and shades. She stared at the tapestry, soaking in every detail and thread of its woven Hunter-and-Stag design.
"Practical," Lena was saying from far, far away. "Practical like smoking marijuana, Mark?"
Marijuana… that was bad… very naughty to smoke marijuana… did things to people. Sharon smiled at Lena vaguely, not once relating the reference to the drug to her own condition.
"I'm always practical, my love," Mark said. "That way I get what I want."
"You always get what you want, don't you?" Lena stood up and crossed to the wide leather chair in which Mark was seated. She seemed to take a century to walk to him, or so Sharon thought; such a slow walker… and now what was she doing? Leaning over, also in slow motion, I can see her lips puckered as though she was going to kiss him… how nice… kissing is a sign of love… I kiss Neal all the time… I'd like to have Neal with me right now, to kiss me hard as Mark is kissing Lena, to fondle my breasts as he is…
"And you want her, don't you?" Lena asked nibbling his ear. "You want to fuck her as you have fucked me and all the other girls, don't you?"
Fuck… fuck, that's a bad word, isn't it? Fuck, fuck… mustn't use the word fuck. Why is Lena using the word fuck? Who is this other "her" that she is talking about? Sharon saw then that Wafto was bending over her, his wicked grin making his face a contorted mask of lechery. She allowed him to remove the stub of the cigarette from her fingers, place another tube of Cannabis — of marijuana — in her mouth and light it. She sucked in the smoke as he refilled her liqueur glass…
"To my mind," Mark said, "the only thing wrong with the system is that we pretend that the civil servants, that the bureaucracy isn't running the show. I think that they should be recognized for what they are — professional managers."
Mark Marlowe seemed to be talking to Lena, to continue explaining about the true happenings behind the scenes at Whitehall, to be exposing the workings of the inner circle of the British government — of, in actuality, any elective government. What he had to say was as important to understanding Washington, DC as is was the Conservative government in England, and perhaps at another time, another place, it would have been appreciated for the insight that it was.
But Marlowe was continuing for other reasons. His eyes were beadily fixed on the ever-more drugged young American wife near him, greedily watching her as she fell more and more under the hypnotic powers of the potent cigarettes… yes, he wanted to fuck her something fierce… his penis and testicles ached to slip inside the tender, palpitating cunt of the innocent beauty and spew his hot white seed deep, deep inside her proud womb. That, and other, more intensely exciting defilations of her body and soul. And Lena would help him, he knew, just as she always had, for she got tremendous enjoyment out of bringing lovely haughty young wives to their knees and seeing their helpless subjugation, their eventual change into debauched women of the flesh, and her own joining in the fun and games.
All in time. In good time, he realized, for he was, as the harlot wife of his best friend, Rodney Alvaro, had said, a totally practical man. Planning… that was the key, and so he droned on, making sure that Sharon Court was lulled into an unguarded position in which it would be easier to strike her.