The two men were dining alone this night in one of the smaller restaurants at Beauchamps, in some eyes the most exclusive of London’s tiny coterie of truly first-rate hotels. They were enjoying an evening in the Reading Room, breathing the same rarefied air one might find at Claridge’s or the Connaught; air consisting of fairly equal proportions of oxygen, nitrogen, and money.
To say the room was grand would be an understatement. Satin-wood and burr wood furnishings covered in pale pink and grey brocaded satin filled the room and bronzed statuary stood atop the nickel-plated bar. Above all, a huge chandelier of crystal shimmered within a gilded dome in the ceiling.
Snay cracked open his gold cigarette case and extracted one of his trademark cigarettes. Long, slender, with yellow wrappers, they produced a distinctive odor that some people found distinctly unpleasant. Snay bin Wazir touched his gold Dunhill to the tip and lit up.
“Most unusual, those cigarettes,” al-Nassar said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you; what are they?”
“I buy them from a dealer in Iraq,” Snay said, sending a thin stream of smoke upwards. “They’re called Baghdaddies.”
“Baghdaddies?” al-Nassar said, smiling. “The name, at least, is quite marvelous.”
Snay turned to offer a cigarette to the mysterious woman in the veiled magenta chador who accompanied al-Nassar everywhere. They said she was a great beauty, from Paris, but Snay had never seen her face. Nor heard her utter a word.
“She doesn’t smoke,” al-Nassar said.
“She doesn’t speak,” Snay replied.
“No.”
“What does she do?”
Al-Nassar regarded his friend with a satyr’s smile and picked up his wine. “Whatever you wish,” he said, caressing her hand.
“What is her name, may I ask?” Snay said.
“Aubergine.”
Taking a swig of the ’48 Lafitte in his goblet, bin Wazir leaned forward in his chair and said to the arms dealer, “My dear Attar, now I must ask you a question. I must say I still don’t understand how these bloody Brits get ‘Beechums’ out of ‘Beauchamps.’ ” In five short years, Snay bin Wazir had managed to acquire a passable British accent and his daily conversation was always liberally salted and peppered with newly acquired turns of phrase.
Bin Wazir had recently learned, painfully, that one never pronounced the name of the hotel, ‘Beauchamps,’ as ‘Boshamps.’ It was always pronounced ‘Beech-ums.’
“I don’t know either, to be honest,” Attar replied in a rare admission of ignorance, “but you’re missing the point entirely. The point is, you know that ‘Beech-ums’ is how it is properly pronounced.”
Eschewing the toast points, Attar spooned some caviar directly into his mouth and added, “I’ve told you a thousand times, my friend, there are far more people in this world who get by on style than on substance. Style, not substance, my dear Snay, is your most reliable passe-partout into London society.”
“You, Attar, have always possessed an abundance of both.”
Al-Nassar laughed and took a deep draught of his claret. “You see? This is why I keep you around! Shameless! Absolutely shameless! I have always adored that quality in anyone; man, woman, or child.”
Snay, studying his menu, which was printed entirely in French, had been trying unsuccessfully for some minutes to get the headwaiter’s attention.
“Who does this little prick think he is, ignoring me? I love this restaurant, but every time I come here that little French poofter over there always acts as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen me.”
“What do you want? I’ll get him over here.”
“I have a question or two.”
“Perhaps I can help. What is it?”
“Pardon my fucking French, but what, exactly, is Canard du Norfolk Roti a l’Anglais?”
“It is Roast Norfolk Duck with some applesauce on the side. Applesauce, according to Escoffier, translates to a l’Anglais. Absolutely delicious with a fine Burgundy like the Nuits-Saint-Georges ’62.”
“I’m thinking of the salmon…”
“Poached, no doubt?”
They smiled and raised their goblets to each other. It was their private joke.
“Your second question?” al-Nassar asked.
“That one I’d like to ask the little shit personally.”
“Watch me closely,” al-Nassar said.
He nodded to one of four huge men he had stationed at tables in each corner of the room. When he had the man’s attention, he nodded his head in the direction of the headwaiter. His man immediately rose from his seat, walked over to the waiter, bent down and put his lips near to the fellow’s ear and had a short, whispered conversation with him. Then he squared his shoulders, turned his great bulk around, and returned to his table.
The headwaiter, looking like a man who was experiencing a most unpleasant coronary event, came immediately to Mr. al-Nassar’s table, bowing and scraping when he was still twenty feet away.
“Monsieur al-Nassar,” he said, unable to hide the tremor in his voice, “My deepest apologies. I’m so very sorry that I did not see that you required my presence. Oh, mon Dieu! Please forgive me. However may I be of service?”
Al-Nassar looked up and favored the man with a dark, heavily-lidded look that would wither kings.
“It seems, monsieur, that my business associate here, Mr. bin Wazir, has a question for you. He has been trying to gain your attention for some time without success. You have caused him some embarrassment.”
“Mais non! But I did not notice!” the man said, turning and bowing now to Snay. “What can I do for you, sir? Besides beg your forgiveness?”
Snay turned to Attar and said, “I begin to like this groveling little toad, don’t you? Even though his words ring false?”
“Apart from this chap’s cheap perfume, he’s probably a decent enough little frog.”
The waiter smiled and bobbed his head, as if acknowledging the most generous of compliments. “How may I serve you, monsieur?” he asked Snay.
“See that bus stop?” Snay said, pointing at one across the road. “The next bus leaves in ten minutes. Be under it.”
“Ah, a most excellent suggestion, monsieur. I will do all within my power to…to…I’m sorry—”
Snay waved the waiter away with the back of his hand and smiled at al-Nassar. “No style. No substance,” he said.
“Shoot him.”
“And waste a perfectly good bullet? No, I have a far better idea, with your permission.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking on this for some time, Attar. I’m going to buy this hotel.”
“An interesting notion. To what end?”
“Real estate has been very profitable for me, as you well know, Attar. Every one of my clubs and casinos is posting spectacular numbers. Especially my new hotel, the Bambah in Indonesia. Fabulous resort. But it is time again to expand my holdings. I will create within these walls a sumptuous palace where eminent men of the world like you and I do not have to suffer these miserable insufferables. And this silly English decor.”
“It’s French, actually. Art Deco. Created by a chap named Basil Ionides sometime in the late twenties.”
“All the more reason to fix it up.”
And that is precisely what Snay did. He bought the old Victorian brick hotel in the heart of Mayfair. Snay bin Wazir could not know this—his history was too short—but this was not merely a fashionable hotel. It was a cultural icon, one of London’s most revered architectural symbols for a century or more. Queen Victoria had visited Empress Eugenie of France when she was in residence here in 1860. The present queen had come here for balls when she was still a princess. Even to this day, the hotel catered to the Royal Family, hosting innumerable teas, state visits, and receptions.
