Die Rich Die Happy

'I talk like a married man,' Naxos said. T can't help it. I am married.'

The starlet sighed very softly.

'Where are we going?' asked Craig.

The starlet tried a laugh this time, a low-pitched, husky trill.

'Don't you know?' she asked.

Somehow the three words conveyed to Craig that she thought him an eccentric, and therefore sexy.

'Craig just likes traveling,' said Naxos.

'Destinations don't interest you?' said the Honorable.

'I've retired,' said Craig.

'I never started,' said the count.

The starlet gave a very Italianate shrug. It kept her torso in motion for three seconds.

'We're going to Venice,' she said.

'That will be nice,' said Craig.

'You know Venice?' asked the count.

'A bit.'

'Very lush,' said the Honorable, 'but terribly overdone. All those vistas. Like a film set.'

'It is a film set,' said the starlet. 'I've worked there myself.'

And I, Craig remembered. I was nineteen. We went to stop some Germans blowing up that bridge by the Piazzale Roma. We succeeded—that time. Their lieutenant looked younger than me. He had an iron cross. Rutter took it for his scrapbook.

'I'd like to see that clock,' said Craig. 'The one where the two Moors come out and belt it with hammers.'

'The best thing is the Carpaccios. And there are one or two Mantegnas of course,' said the Honorable.

He began to talk about the Carpaccios and Mantegnas as the moon came up. Naxos watched out for his wife. The Honorable had got on to comparative color values when Naxos roared, 'Honey. There you are.' There was a woman at the top of the companionway, and Naxos seemed to reach her in one great push, but that one moment alone was the one Craig remembered.

She wore silver; a straight, clinging sheath of embroidered silk that glowed cold in the moonlight. Her hair was so blonde as to be almost white, and it too was silver when the moonlight touched it. Her body was sleek, graceful, her legs and ankles perfect. She walked like the sort of queen who is rescued from robber barons in a Hollywood TV series. She looked beautiful and innocent. Craig heard the Honorable whisper to the count, 'How clever of her to wait until the moon came out.' Then she and Naxos moved beneath the deck lights and the innocence had gone, and in its place was a wary alertness that reminded Craig of Tessa. Loomis had been right about that: this woman had been hurt.

Naxos came with her into the group: Craig thought of Bottom and Titania as he watched the man's face. The fact that he worshipped her was obvious: what Craig hadn't allowed for was that she felt the same way about him, and that this was equally apparent.

'Honey,' said Naxos, 'I want you to meet John Craig.'

She held her hand out to him at once. The palm was cool, slightly moist, the bones delicate, but not fragile. There was a toughness about her for all her beauty. Anyone who can conquer heroin has to be tough, with a toughness of mind that will see the body destroyed before it will let go.

'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Craig,' she said.

Another shock. Her voice was soft, low-pitched, the accent almost English.

'My pleasure, Mrs. Naxos,' said Craig.

Naxos bellowed with laughter, a bull with a sense of

humor.

'Mr. Craig, Mrs. Naxos,' he said. 'You're John and Philippa.'

His massive arms came round them both, forcing them into friendship.

'I'd like that,' said Philippa. 'So would I,' said Craig.

A waiter came up with drinks then, and again Naxos picked hers from the tray. They moved round their guests together, a duo who functioned only as a duo. Once they were separated they would be lost.

'Gorgeous, isn't she?' said the Honorable.

'I didn't believe it till I saw it,' said the count.

The starlet tried another sigh, but the competition was too great.

'We were talking about Venice,' said the count.

'Ah, yes, the Carpaccios. Do let me go on about the Carpaccios,' said the Honorable.

'Anyone can see that Craig is an art lover,' said the

count

'Well of course. It's written all over him. I noticed it at once; there's a man who wants to know about Carpaccios, I said to myself.'

'Did you now?' said Craig. The Honorable looked up quickly. There was nothing wrong with the words, but the way he used them made him wary.

'My dear fellow, just our boyish fun,' said the Honorable.

Craig said: 'I'd sooner hear about Hephaistos and Aphrodite. Try your boyish fun on them.'

'Aphrodite is the Greek name for Venus, the goddess of love,' said the Honorable. 'She was the wife of Hephaistos—he's Vulcan in Latin—a lame god, the smith who made weapons for heroes, and so on. Aphrodite was loved by Ares, god of war—called Mars by the Romans.'

'Is there something about a net?'

'A net? Oh yes. Hephaistos found Aphrodite and Ares together in a rather too basic sort of way. He trapped them in a net. . . . May I ask why you're interested?'

'It was something a feller said to me once,' said Craig. 'I think he was trying to show off. Talking about things he knew I know nothing about.'

He left the group, walked to the rail, and looked at the moon-washed whiteness of the harbor. Silk rustled beside him, and the starlet said: 'I think you will like Venice now. It is not only pictures, Mr. Craig.'

'John, Miss Busoni,' said Craig.

'Pia Busoni,' said the starlet, 'call me Pia, please.'

In England, Craig reminded himself, girls had been christened Faith, Hope, Charity, even Chastity. Why shouldn't an Italian call his daughter Pious? How was a father to know his daughter would grow into a body like hers?

'I know Venice very well,' Pia said. 'I'd be happy to show you around.'

'No Carpaccios?'

'Only a very few. He painted an awful lot of pictures,' said Pia.

Craig said: 'It's a deal,' and they went in to dinner.

The dining room was blue and silver, and the perfect setting for Philippa. It was only when they sat down that Craig noticed something that should have been obvious from the start: every other woman there was a brunette. Naxos worked hard to keep his wife unique.

The meal drifted by, a poem in five verses, accompanied by wine from the finest private cellar in Europe. Naxos drank German beer, and his wife had one glass of wine right through the meal. Craig drank a Latour '47, and wished to God Naxos had forgotten he liked whiskey. There were seventeen guests besides himself, and they looked, every one of them, what Naxos believed they were, and Naxos would know. Yet he suspected some of them, and there might be others he knew nothing about. It wasn't going to be easy to keep him alive if someone was really determined that he should die. And yet killing him wasn't the ideal solution; Zaarb would want him alive, and voting their way. That would mean attacking what he valued most, and that could only mean his wife.

The meal ended at last, and the brandy appeared, and Craig settled down to hear about the splendors and miseries of Cinecitta; and to speculate on how long it would take Pia, other things being equal, to shrug herself right out of her dress. She'd have to be standing up of course, and the zipper unloosed say the first inch and a half. . . . On his right, the count was telling the Honorable how Putzi had come a terrible purler on the beginners' slope at Cortina last year. It had something to do with champagne, and Putzi's conviction that he could ski backwards. Suddenly Naxos appeared, leered at Pia and said: 'I'm taking him away for a bit, sweetie. Dreary old business.'