Oh! Halcyon Days – Now wars are ending!
You shall find where’er you sail
Tritons all the while attending
With a kind and gentle gale
On the urging of Mr. Handouchi, a merchant banker, Avocado Cassa had flown, at his own expense, to a reception given by the Prince of Q. When he arrived at the reception, all primed to discuss the Niger project, the prince of Q was not in the room. Through the course of the evening, he did not meet the prince, let alone catch sight of him. Instead, he was introduced to a number of his guests, including an American, who was in planes, various people in real estate, a civil engineer and a French academic doing a study on the Bedouins. Mr. Handouchi also wanted to introduce him to a Swiss lady living in Milan whose name was Celine, but she had disappeared over the other side of the room. “I really wanted you to meet her,” he said.
They were making their way around the back of the American in planes when a small brown man in a brown suit buttonholed Mr. Handouchi. It was Mr. Handal from Beirut. Mr. Handal from Beirut had something urgent to communicate to Mr. Handouchi. “I am sorry,” he said. “If I speak in my own language, I was forgetting my manners.”
“Mr. Handal is developing a headset,” said Mr. Handouchi.
“You mean, a handset, Mr. Handouchi,” said Mr. Handal
“Forgive me,” said Mr. Handouchi. “I’m not technical at the best times. At any rate, why don’t you explain your handset to Avocado Cassa?”
Smiling, Mr. Handouchi made his excuses. The Prince of Q beckoned.
The gist of it was that, with the aid of a chip, calls everywhere in the Middle East would soon cost a tenth of what they did now. Avocado Cassa was just beginning to persuade himself that he could become Mr. Handal’s European representative when the major domo called them to dinner.
Avocado Cassa said goodbye to the brown man in the brown suit.
On the table was a fabulous array of delicacies. There was couscous salad in little edible baskets, scallops and king prawns, and bowls of exotic fruits, passion fruit and papayas.
Avocado Cassa’s eye wandered over the gold finger curled Q in the middle of the bone china. Though not a novice of such occasions, his nose twitched at the sight of the well-known but aging pop star whose six-figure fee – to be paid by the Prince of Q to a charity of his choice seemed to ring out of the well-modulated claps.
After a brief flirtation with late seventies and eighties pop, Avocado Cassa liked to boast he knew next to nothing about music. Although he recognised some of the songs, they did not mean that much to him. The man on his left, a Mr. Hannay, another of Mr. Handouchi’s clients and therefore he assumed the Prince of Q’s seemed to be familiar with all of them. From time to time he would tap his foot or mouth the words. “I’ve seen him several times including Madison Square Gardens,” he said, “but nowhere quite like this.”
Avocado Cassa could not deny it. Watching the ageing diminutive pop star soft-peddle the Steinway was a strangely unsettling experience. There was almost no conversation in the room. He was used to conversation – loud conversation. It was in loud, almost deafening conversation he thrived.
Perhaps it was for this reason he made hard work of his conversation with Mr. Hannay until he realised he had no wish to talk about the Niger project. Instead, they found common ground over the baby mozzarellas soaking in their own milk. Mr. Hannay also liked an Italian cheese the name of which he couldn’t remember. After several misunderstandings Avocado Cassa realised Mr. Hannay was talking about the soft cream cheese, burrata…
The conversation moved lightly now through cheeses: French v Italian cheeses. Avocado Cassa had to concede French cheeses were generally superior to Italian ones. They discussed wines. Although Mr. Hannay was not a connoisseur of wine, he tried in vain to convince him about southern Italian wines. “I know of a small vineyard,” he said. “It would give me great pleasure to send you a case.”
“You are very kind,” said Mr. Hannay. In spite of his loving depiction of the hillside vines near his hometown, Avocado Cassa knew he had not convinced Mr. Hannay.
Amid polite but deafening applause, the ageing and diminutive pop star finished his set. Soon after, the party broke up; each guest was given a present by the Prince of Q of a cut glass bowl, exquisitely made by Murano.
Avocado Cassa said goodnight to Mr. Handouchi and Mr. Hannay. He went back up to his room with his present and got undressed.
The girl who knocked at his door was quite short; she had a young, brown face with big, brown eyes. The girl looked away when he looked at her. If she was embarrassed, so was Avocado Cassa.
He invited her in; the girl hesitated before stepping over the threshold.
Where was she from? he asked.
“India.”
Where was her family?
“At home.”
“Where was home?”
“India.”
He asked her how old she was.
The girl told him she was eighteen.
Although he did not believe her, Avocado Cassa lay on the bed with a towel around his middle. As she worked the oils into his back, he began to feel incredibly relaxed. The songs from the evening’s entertainment wafted back to him through the muslin drapes around the bed in a strange, but not unpleasant way.
Before the girl left, he got up to find his wallet and give her a tip. The girl shook her head.
Insisting, he handed her the note.
“By the way,” he asked, “did she know the prince of Q?”
“No,” she said, “she didn’t. She had never met him.”
The following morning, Avocado Cassa met Mr. Hannay for a working breakfast to discuss the Niger Project. While they were waiting for Mr. Handouchi, he could not help but ask about the young masseuse. Mr. Hannay was amused. The girls were supposed to be virgins, he said. Every night they became virgins again.
“The Prince of Q is a lucky man,” he added. “But I wouldn’t have his life for all the tea in China.”
“I thought it was India.”
Mr. Hannay chuckled at his joke.
“Talking of this Niger Project of yours,” he said, “now all it needs is the rubber stamp from The Prince of Q.”
On the way to the airport he phoned his wife and told her about the party. He told her about Mr. Handal and his handsets, and Mr. Handouchi’s client, Mr. Hannay.
“I think you would like him,” he said. “He’s one of those ironic Englishman…”
His wife asked him if he had met the prince of Q. He told her about the present, the cut glass bowl, exquisitely made by Murano.
“Well, you must be careful with it,” she said. “It would be unfortunate if it got broken on the way home.”
When he got to the airport, Avocado Cassa put a lot of thought into the cut glass bowl. Should it go in his hand luggage, or should he have it put in the hold, or even sent by post? – On second, indeed third thoughts he decided to take it in his hand luggage.
In Rome, as regular fliers will know, it can be something of bother to get a connecting flight. As he passed through customs, Avocado Cassa was in a hurry and failed to notice the customs officers, since, confusingly, he was wearing a tweed jacket and not the uniform of the dogana.
The customs officer hauled him over, opened up his bag and took out the box with the cut glass bowl. Avocado Cassa’s heart leapt.
“Please handle with care,” he said. “That is a present from the prince of Q.”