Free The Pirate by Harold Robbins Page B

monarch. Feiyad brushed Samir’s arms aside with a smile. “Is that a way for cousins to meet after they had not seen each other for a long time?” He put his arms on Samir’s shoulders and kissed him on each cheek, then turned, still smiling, to Baydr. “And this is the little boy who cried when he went away to school?”
    Baydr felt himself flushing. “That was a long time ago, your excellency.”
    “Not too long,” the Prince said and laughed. “I think you were six then.”
    “He’s eighteen now,” Samir said. “And a grown man, praise be to Allah.”
    “Al-hamdu il-llah,” the Prince echoed. He looked up at Baydr, who stood a head taller than either of them. “He is tall, your son. Taller than anyone I remember in our family.
    “It is the diet, your excellency,” Samir said. “The food in America is enriched with many vitamins and minerals. The entire younger generation is growing taller than their parents.”
    “What miracles you scientists perform,” the Prince said.
    “The miracles are Allah’s,” Samir said. “We are nothing but His instruments.”
    The Prince nodded. “We have much to talk about, my cousin,” he said. “But we can do that in the morning. Tonight we must enjoy the pleasure of our reunion and each other’s company.” He clapped his hands. “I have had a suite made ready for you so that you may freshen yourselves after your journey. At midnight we will gather in the cafe below, where a feast has been prepared for us.”
    Samir bowed. “We are most grateful for the kindness of your hospitality.”
    The young boy appeared again. “Show my cousins to their apartments,” the Prince commanded.
    The boy bowed. “It will be my pleathure, your exthellenthy.”
    Baydr’s room was separated from his father’s by a large living room. He left his father and went into his bedroom, which was luxuriously furnished in rich silks and satins. The couches were covered with velour cushions. No sooner than he had entered, a soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” he called.
    A young maidservant came into the room. She bowed her head respectfully. “May I be of service to the master?” she asked in a soft voice, her eyes properly averted.
    “There is nothing I can think of.”
    “Perhaps I can draw the master a hot bath so that he may wash away the fatigue of his journey?” she suggested.
    “That would be nice,” he said.
    “Thank you, master,” she said and crossed the room to the bathroom.
    Baydr looked after her thoughtfully. Now he knew he was home. Service was not like this in America.
    ***
    The noise of the kanoon and the drums flooded the cafe. On the small stage a dancer whirled, her multi-colored scarves floating around her, the silver metal of her brassiere reflecting the sparkling lights. At a horseshoe-shaped table at the front of the stage, the Prince’s party watched intently.
    The Prince was seated at the center of the table, Samir in the place of honor on his right, Baydr on his left. Behind the Prince, on small stools, were several young boys, all wearing the same elaborate makeup as the young boy who had greeted them in the Prince’s suite. Standing behind them was the major-domo, who supervised the service of the waiters and other members of the staff. There were bottles of champagne in buckets near each guest and their glasses were constantly filled. The table was covered with more than fifty varieties of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies of the region. The guests ate with their fingers, and a servant delicately wiped their hands after each mouthful with a fresh warm damp cloth. At the door and against the wall stood a dozen of Feiyad’s personal guards, who never took their eyes from the Prince.
    The music reached a crescendo and the dancer sank to her knees in finale. The Prince led the applause. At a gesture from him, the waiters snatched bottles of champagne from their buckets and kneeling before the stage popped the corks from bottle after bottle,