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1One stupid moment had marred an otherwise brilliant production of Macbeth at Nuits de Fourvière. As was the custom, theatergoers tossed their seat cushions in the air to mark the conclusion of the performance. However, one cushion struck the side of Ahmed Al-Malmasi’s face, drawing a thin line of crimson he permitted to find the collar of his white Brioni shirt. It was not lost on him that the play’s reflection of the corrupting power of political ambition had been presented at the Ancient Theatre of Fourvière, a Roman city built before Christ, the remnants of which had been converted to a contemporary attraction near his home in Lyon.
Al-Malmasi closed his eyes in the back of his black Bentley and let Shakespeare’s insight to mankind’s proclivity that so often resulted in bloodshed merge with his own perception of history and humanity’s fate—a fate he was pleased to hasten toward its final catechism. Unlike the bard’s three witches who foretold a brave general’s ascension to become King of Scotland, Al-Malmasi aligned his role with that of Lady Macbeth to encourage fruition of prophecy. He instructed his driver to play Mozart’s Requiem. It helped him think while reminding him that the composer perished before the piece was complete. Despite the prognosis of numerous doctors, Al-Malmasi did not intend to expire before his work was finished, coveting their equivocation of his longevity like the Holy Grail. As the road rushed beneath his car Al-Malmasi considered the journey toward his own finale, unyielding in his intention to remain on stage until his coup de grâce, a crescendo that would resound through posterity.
Spotlights of Al-Malmasi’s estate appeared as his cell phone chimed from his pocket. The man at the other end of the call was a longstanding operative entrusted with the surreptitious distribution of large sums of money. Thanks to the Americans, it was getting harder to move funds without detection and Al-Malmasi valued his agent’s skill at keeping his activities secret. In this instance, his agent’s situation report cited a delay in an operation’s execution.
“Patience is a dream, gone with the morning.” Al-Malmasi spoke with a trace of a British accept developed while studying at Cambridge University. “You know the price of failure,” he cautioned before disconnecting.
The automobile came to a stop along the east wall of his home, offering Al-Malmasi a direct path to a lap pool behind the house. He observed the sky clutching the last of the evening’s light as clouds brushed the tips of the distant Alps. A servant brought a glass of Pinot Noir and activated the pool lights, casting a supernal aura on its surface. Al-Malmasi inhaled the sense of home; a home he adopted in lieu of his birthplace on the Arabian Peninsula, a birthright he begrudgingly acknowledged once a year to ensure the continued flow of funds from a family trust. He was the royal second nephew of a third cousin or maybe it was the other way around; he did not know and did not care, detesting when some referred to him as The Saudi. Al-Malmasi picked a bloom of blue moon wisteria from a pergola and placed it in his lapel as he raised the glass skyward to toast his plan.
“Jusque-là.”1
