leather Bible from her purse and read until Julia accepted the merchant’s deal for a vase. Then she lectured Julia on the bargaining ritual, and admonished the merchant until he lowered his price.
“Remember, dear,” she said, “we mustn’t allow the locals to take advantage of us.”
“Why not?” replied Julia. “We divvied up their land after the Ottomans, we’re stealing their oil, and we slaughtered them during the Crusades.”
“Don’t confuse politics with commerce, dear. We’re not responsible for the Ottomans, the oil companies, or King Richard, though he was a
very
good king!”
Suddenly Julia saw an opportunity to get through to Mrs. McCross.
“Isn’t it Christian to be fair?”
Mrs. McCross’s breast heaved in indignation. “Fair? My dear, that vase was worth precisely what you paid for it!”
“Yes, but I’d pay ten times that in London.”
“But we’re not
in
London, dear,” replied Mrs. McCross with a triumphant smile. “No use being generous with these people, they won’t treat you any differently. Rob you blind, they will. Mark my words!”
THOUGH ROSE WAS thousands of miles away, Mrs. McCross echoed her sentiments with shrill precision. And then there were the messages typed in single-spaced airmail letters:
Remember my warnings about the Arabs. And let’s not forget Omar Sharif—isn’t he from the Middle East? Such a beautiful man, especially in
Lawrence of Arabia,
but a compulsive gambler according to those silly magazines (which I never read).
By the way, had a
wonderful
stay in Geneva overlooking the quai du Mont-Blanc; the Swiss run a hotel to gratify the guest, while the British run a hotel to spite him. There was an American couple there who drove Alfred and me to tears with their mangled French.
“Alfred?” said Howard, reading over her shoulder.
“Her new husband,” explained Julia.
“What happened to the old one?”
“Dismissed, I imagine.”
How is my grandson? I do hope to see him soon. It occurred to me that his small size might have something to do with the part of our family that is Irish, the ones who never ate but could drink anybody under the table. Do send me a picture!
How is your delightful husband? Feed him lavishly at home or he’ll stray! Lust is everywhere in the East!
“Why does she never use Will’s name?” Howard wondered. “It’s always ‘my grandson’ this and ‘my grandson’ that.”
“Because she considers it a French name, and the French killed Harold in 1066. My mother,” Julia continued, “has never forgiven the Norman Conquest. The only Frenchman she approves of is one wearing an apron and offering a menu.”
“Well,” said Howard, patting his stomach, “you’d better feed me lavishly now or I’ll stray.”
Julia laughed, then struck an anxious note.
“Howard? Have you ever seen an Arabian woman who filled you with desire?”
“Not a one, darling,” he replied, glancing at her shyly. “How about you?”
“A man? Of course not,” she replied, blushing as she suppressed the image of the white-suited man.
If Julia had described her marriage, she might well have compared it to a medina: though some of its passages were unexplored, its walls were cemented in trust. Ironically, the beauty that breached these walls first wasn’t Arabian at all. Rose managed to predict it, in her own inimitable way.
I hear there are a lot of Americans in the oil business. Beware! Not only do they have bad manners, and drink like sailors, but they have no memory for history!
“Ah,” said Howard, “people who won’t be upset by Will’s name, then? Where can we meet some?”
Trixie Howitzer
Christmas in the Persian Gulf was an oddity practiced with fierce determination by the English. Though it was ninety-nine degrees in the shade, the windows of the Club were frosted with fake snow and a few hardy fools even wore woolen sweaters. Mrs. McCross knitted her own; it featured a grinning Saint Nick, but she’d
“Remember, dear,” she said, “we mustn’t allow the locals to take advantage of us.”
“Why not?” replied Julia. “We divvied up their land after the Ottomans, we’re stealing their oil, and we slaughtered them during the Crusades.”
“Don’t confuse politics with commerce, dear. We’re not responsible for the Ottomans, the oil companies, or King Richard, though he was a
very
good king!”
Suddenly Julia saw an opportunity to get through to Mrs. McCross.
“Isn’t it Christian to be fair?”
Mrs. McCross’s breast heaved in indignation. “Fair? My dear, that vase was worth precisely what you paid for it!”
“Yes, but I’d pay ten times that in London.”
“But we’re not
in
London, dear,” replied Mrs. McCross with a triumphant smile. “No use being generous with these people, they won’t treat you any differently. Rob you blind, they will. Mark my words!”
THOUGH ROSE WAS thousands of miles away, Mrs. McCross echoed her sentiments with shrill precision. And then there were the messages typed in single-spaced airmail letters:
Remember my warnings about the Arabs. And let’s not forget Omar Sharif—isn’t he from the Middle East? Such a beautiful man, especially in
Lawrence of Arabia,
but a compulsive gambler according to those silly magazines (which I never read).
By the way, had a
wonderful
stay in Geneva overlooking the quai du Mont-Blanc; the Swiss run a hotel to gratify the guest, while the British run a hotel to spite him. There was an American couple there who drove Alfred and me to tears with their mangled French.
“Alfred?” said Howard, reading over her shoulder.
“Her new husband,” explained Julia.
“What happened to the old one?”
“Dismissed, I imagine.”
How is my grandson? I do hope to see him soon. It occurred to me that his small size might have something to do with the part of our family that is Irish, the ones who never ate but could drink anybody under the table. Do send me a picture!
How is your delightful husband? Feed him lavishly at home or he’ll stray! Lust is everywhere in the East!
“Why does she never use Will’s name?” Howard wondered. “It’s always ‘my grandson’ this and ‘my grandson’ that.”
“Because she considers it a French name, and the French killed Harold in 1066. My mother,” Julia continued, “has never forgiven the Norman Conquest. The only Frenchman she approves of is one wearing an apron and offering a menu.”
“Well,” said Howard, patting his stomach, “you’d better feed me lavishly now or I’ll stray.”
Julia laughed, then struck an anxious note.
“Howard? Have you ever seen an Arabian woman who filled you with desire?”
“Not a one, darling,” he replied, glancing at her shyly. “How about you?”
“A man? Of course not,” she replied, blushing as she suppressed the image of the white-suited man.
If Julia had described her marriage, she might well have compared it to a medina: though some of its passages were unexplored, its walls were cemented in trust. Ironically, the beauty that breached these walls first wasn’t Arabian at all. Rose managed to predict it, in her own inimitable way.
I hear there are a lot of Americans in the oil business. Beware! Not only do they have bad manners, and drink like sailors, but they have no memory for history!
“Ah,” said Howard, “people who won’t be upset by Will’s name, then? Where can we meet some?”
Trixie Howitzer
Christmas in the Persian Gulf was an oddity practiced with fierce determination by the English. Though it was ninety-nine degrees in the shade, the windows of the Club were frosted with fake snow and a few hardy fools even wore woolen sweaters. Mrs. McCross knitted her own; it featured a grinning Saint Nick, but she’d
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