Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

Bing was an impish, curly-haired Lothario distantly related to the royal family. He knew little of world affairs, being mainly interested in gambling and drinking in the capital cities of Europe. He frowned and said in puzzlement: “What do the Germans care about Mexico?”

“Good question,” Fitz said. “If they think they can win colonies in South America, they’re deceiving themselves-the United States will never allow it.”

Maud left the box and went down the grand staircase, nodding and smiling to acquaintances. She knew something like half the people there: London society was a surprisingly small set. On the red-carpeted landing she encountered a group surrounding the slight, dapper figure of David Lloyd George, the chancellor of the Exchequer. “Good evening, Lady Maud,” he said with the twinkle that appeared in his bright blue eyes whenever he spoke to an attractive woman. “I hear your royal house party went well.” He had the nasal accent of North Wales, less musical than the South Wales lilt. “But what a tragedy in the Aberowen pit.”

“The bereaved families were much comforted by the king’s condolences,” Maud said. Among the group was an attractive woman in her twenties. Maud said: “Good evening, Miss Stevenson, how nice to see you again.” Lloyd George’s political secretary and mistress was a rebel, and Maud felt drawn to her. In addition, a man was always grateful to people who were polite to his mistress.

Lloyd George spoke to the group. “That German ship delivered the guns to Mexico after all. It simply went to another port and quietly unloaded. So nineteen American troops died for nothing. It’s a terrible humiliation for Woodrow Wilson.”

Maud smiled and touched Lloyd George’s arm. “Would you explain something to me, Chancellor?”

“If I can, my dear,” he said indulgently. Most men were pleased to be asked to explain things, especially to attractive young women, Maud found.

She said: “Why does anyone care what happens in Mexico?”

“Oil, dear lady,” Lloyd George replied. “Oil.”

Someone else spoke to him, and he turned away.

Maud spotted Walter. They met at the foot of the staircase. He bowed over her gloved hand, and she had to resist the temptation to touch his fair hair. Her love for Walter had awakened within her a sleeping lion of physical desire, a beast that was both stimulated and tormented by their stolen kisses and furtive fumbles.

“How are you enjoying the opera, Lady Maud?” he said formally, but his hazel eyes said I wish we were alone.

“Very much-the Don has a wonderful voice.”

“For me the conductor goes a little too fast.”

He was the only person she had ever met who took music as seriously as she did. “I disagree,” she said. “It’s a comedy, so the melodies need to bounce along.”

“But not just a comedy.”

“That’s true.”

“Perhaps he will slow down when things turn nasty in act two.”

“You seem to have won some kind of diplomatic coup in Mexico,” she said, changing the subject.

“My father is… ” He searched for words, something that was unusual for him. “Cock-a-hoop,” he said after a pause.

“And you are not?”

He frowned. “I worry that the American president may want to get his own back one day.”

At that moment Fitz walked past and said: “Hello, von Ulrich, come and join us in our box, we’ve got a spare seat.”

“With pleasure!” said Walter.

Maud was delighted. Fitz was just being hospitable: he did not know his sister was in love with Walter. She would have to bring him up to date soon. She was not sure how he would take the news. Their countries were at odds, and although Fitz regarded Walter as a friend, that was a long step from welcoming him as a brother-in-law.

She and Walter walked up the stairs and along the corridor. The back row in Fitz’s box had only two seats with a poor view. Without discussion, Maud and Walter took those seats.

A few minutes later the house lights went down. In the half dark, Maud could almost imagine herself alone with Walter. The second act began with the duet between the Don and Leporello. Maud liked the way Mozart made masters and servants sing together, showing the complex and intimate relationships between upper and lower orders. Many dramas dealt only with the upper classes, and portrayed servants as part of the furniture-as many people wished they were.

Bea and the duchess returned to the box during the trio “Ah! Taci, ingiusto core.” Everyone seemed to have exhausted the available topics of conversation, for they talked less and listened more. No one spoke to Maud or Walter, or even turned to look at them, and Maud wondered excitedly whether she might take advantage of the situation. Feeling daring, she reached out and furtively took Walter’s hand. He smiled, and stroked her fingers with the ball of his thumb. She wished she could kiss him, but that would be foolhardy.

When Zelina sang her aria “Vedrai, carino” in sentimental three-eight time, an irresistible impulse tempted Maud, and as Zerlina pressed Masetto’s hand to her heart, Maud laid Walter’s hand on her breast. He gave an involuntary gasp, but no one noticed because Masetto was making similar noises, having just been beaten up by the Don.

She turned his hand so that he could feel her nipple with his palm. He loved her breasts, and touched them whenever he could, which was seldom. She wished it were oftener: she loved it. This was another discovery. Other people had stroked them-a doctor, an Anglican priest, an older girl at dancing class, a man in a crowd-and she had been disturbed and at the same time flattered at the thought that she could arouse people’s lust, but she had never enjoyed it until now. She glanced at Walter’s face and saw that he was staring at the stage, but there was a glint of perspiration on his forehead. She wondered if she was wrong to excite him in this way, when she could not give him satisfaction; but he made no move to withdraw his hand, so she concluded that he liked what she was doing. So did she. But, as always, she wanted more.

What had changed her? She had never been like this. It was him, of course, and the connection she felt with him, an intimacy so intense that she felt she could say anything, do whatever she liked, suppress nothing. What made him so different from every other man who had ever taken a fancy to her? A man such as Lowthie, or even Bing, expected a woman to act like a well-behaved child: to listen respectfully when he was being ponderous, to laugh appreciatively at his wit, to obey when he was masterful, and to give him a kiss whenever he asked. Walter treated her as a grown-up. He did not flirt, or condescend, or show off, and he listened at least as much as he talked.

The music turned sinister as the statue came to life, and the Commendatore stalked into the Don’s dining room to a discord that Maud recognized as a diminished seventh. This was the dramatic high point of the opera, and Maud was almost certain no one would look around. Perhaps she could give Walter satisfaction after all, she thought; and the idea made her breathless.

As the trombones blared over the deep bass voice of the Commendatore, she placed her hand on Walter’s thigh. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fine wool of his dress trousers. Still he did not look at her, but she could see that his mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. She slid her hand up his thigh and, as the Don bravely took the Commendatore’s hand, she found Walter’s stiff penis and grasped it.

She was excited and, at the same time, curious. She had never done this before. She explored it through the fabric of his trousers. It was bigger than she expected and harder, too, more like a piece of wood than a part of the body. How strange, she thought, that such a remarkable physical change should occur just because of a woman’s touch. When she was aroused it showed in tiny changes: that almost imperceptible feeling of puffiness, and the dampness inside. For men it was like raising a flag.