Power! Ha! He had so little really-if people only knew. In London he'd be nothing; the place was filled with cousins to dukes. But here in Tangier it was a different world. Here he could be-a king.
He'd come down, settled in, built up his garden, made his myth, and now some poor beggar who felt abused was trying to evoke God to frighten him out. He'd have none of it. Life was much too sweet. He had an evening free on the following Tuesday, and he'd give a little dinner to fill it up. A circle of his confidants and closest friends, and a few powerful personalities as well. An intimate sixteen, seated around his big table, to whom he'd hold forth with such a barbed wit that his aphorisms would be repeated for days, even to the amusement of the ones they hurt.
He went to his desk to consult his address book, but there were so many names it was a bore to keep them straight. Better to ring up Camilla Weltonwhist and get her views-she was probably frantic now, waiting for his call.
"Camilla, darling," he crooned. "You must drop everything and help me out. I'm giving a dinner next Tuesday-you're invited, of course, but I need you to help me with the list."
"Tuesday? Tuesday?" Camilla seemed stunned. "Maybe another night would be better, Peter. I think Francoise is giving a party then."
"Well, she didn't invite me, darling."
"Or me either, yet. But I know she called Percy and Vanessa. A couple of days ago at least."
"If it was a couple of days ago, darling, then we're not going to be asked."
"I suppose not. Do you think she's offended? What could we possibly have done?"
"I'm sure I don't know-we'll have to see about that. Meantime I'll ring up Percy and Vanessa. I guarantee they'll cancel and dine with us."
"It'll ruin her evening."
"Of course, darling. That's the point. If she's snubbing us, it'll be just what she deserves. And if she isn't-well, that'll be too bad too."
"She'll find others, I suppose-"
"The Manchesters? Wax?"
Camilla chuckled nastily, though nastiness was not her style. She behaved like a chameleon, altering her moods to blend with his. "You're sure you want to do this Tuesday?" she asked.
"I wouldn't change the date now, not for anything in the world. Come-let's make a list. I'm foggy this morning. You've got to help."
"You could have all the usuals, I suppose. And maybe try out someone new."
"Such as whom, Camilla dear?"
"Maybe Kelly. They say he's a decent chap."
"Kelly! You can't be serious! Face all scarred up, and so underbred. Really, Camilla, whatever goes through your mind?"
"Oh, you're right, Peter. Of course. Now let me think. What about the Lakes?"
"You mean Mr. Null and Mrs. Void?"
A pause then while Camilla collected her thoughts. She meant well, poor thing-he was sure of that-though at times she was awfully dense. She'd make an almost ideal companion, he thought, if she just wasn't so stout and didn't gobble up so many scallions at lunch.
"Hmmm," she said. "There's always Kranker."
"Ugh! Such a toad."
"Sven Lundgren?"
"You mean the dentist? He'll be staring around, looking at all our teeth."
"Well, there're the de Hoags, though I find Joop a nasty man."
"He's only got one ball, you know. Claude told me-in confidence, of course."
"One ball! Oh, dear! Can't they fish the other one out?"
"No, darling. Evidently they can't." He raised his eyebrows at her naivete. Sometimes she could be intelligent, but this morning she was not. She'd had a husband once, but she still didn't understand how the male body worked.
"Well," he said, "if Joop is out of town, I could invite Claude and ask her to bring Tassigny. He's Joop's assistant, a terrific-looking boy. He and Claude are having an affair. I watched them playing tennis the other day."
"Hmmm, interesting. But you need some Moroccans too. What about the Governor? You haven't had him in donkeys' years."
"Yes. All right. But that means two tables. His wife doesn't speak any French."
"There's Salah-"
"Good idea! I can put him with Madame Governor and Rachid El Fassi on her right. That way she's covered-she can speak Moroccan, or Hindi if she likes, and I can still use the big table the way I planned. Brilliant, darling. And Salah's such a dear. He gets my things through customs all the time. Now stop-let's take a count. There's you and me, Percy and Vanessa. I'll ask Lester too, plus the Governor, his madame, Rachid, his wife, and Salah make ten. Then there's Claude (if Joop is away), Tassigny, and maybe the Whittles. That's fourteen with six women and eight men. Not bad for Tangier. But we still have to even things up."
They talked on until they'd sketched out the party, balancing the sexes, ending with his maximum, sixteen. It was a wearisome process, and when they finished Peter set down the phone with relief.
He was fifty years old and beginning to feel his age. His hair was iron gray, he walked with a cane. The world was changing too, and he knew his power couldn't last. Nobodies with money had gotten the upper hand every place else, and now he could see the trend beginning in Tangier. It was still the last outpost of a certain style of life, but it was changing, with people like Wax and Henderson Perry, with his millions, challenging the order of aristocratic power.
If only he were Lord Barclay-that would indicate his station to all concerned. He considered listing himself that way in the next edition of the Tangier telephone book, but knew someone would tip off the London papers, and then everyone would make a stink. He shrugged. Titles were amusing. As far as Tangier went he might as well be a duke. He had, he thought, as much right as anyone else: Lord Pitt was only a life peer, and Francoise called herself "Countess" though the French monarchy had been dead a hundred years. Anyway, lord or not, he could still make the others jump. He would stop Vanessa Bolton and Percy Bainbridge from going to Francoise de Lauzon's.
Vanessa turned out to be difficult, refused to alter her plans. He was annoyed, put a little X beside her name-it would be a long time before he'd ask her again.
"What's kept you?" he demanded when he called up Percy and had to wait for him to be summoned to the phone.
"Matter of fact, Peter, I was in the garage finishing up the prototype of my new papoose."
"Papoose! What will you think of next? Never mind-don't tell me now; we can discuss it at dinner Tuesday night."
A pause then while Percy considered his dilemma: How was he going to extricate himself from his acceptance to dine with Francoise? Peter waited, delighted by the situation-the old inventor was too cowardly to refuse an English peer. Percy's inventiveness, of course, was nothing but a joke. The Australian had written a little book about his discoveries-ways to make soybeans taste like turkey, and lampshades out of old gloves. Poor Percy-he persisted, though his magnetic broom for ironmongers had failed to catch on, and after ten years of development his grapefruit juicer still ran too hot.
"Tuesday would be perfect, Peter. Just had to check my book."
A lie, of course, but touching in a way. Peter, relishing his power, decided to make Percy crawl. "You know, Percy, I've been thinking about you, and I've decided there's something in the house you simply have to change. That ghastly watercolor, the one hanging in the hall-it's time to stash it in the attic for good."
"Hmmm. Do you really think so? I never actually thought of that."