Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

by Helen Fielding

  Once she actually saw the police, they weren’t scary at all. They were spotty teenagers and actually rather apologetic. She sat on an upright chair, watching them search the room, trying to work out if they knew what they were looking for and where it was. Were they real police? Military? Actors? Resting actors slash lifestyle coaches?

  “Todo está bien,” said one of them finally. “Gracias. Disculpenos.”

  “No tiene importancia,” she said, which wasn’t strictly true, but then she was English and believed in the hot air of politeness, for, as the Girl Guide Handbook says, “There’s nothing but air in a tire, but it certainly makes the wheels go round more smoothly!”

  “Un cigarillo?” said the younger boy, holding out a packet.

  “Muchas gracias,” she said, taking the cigarette and leaning forward for a light. She hadn’t had a cigarette in years. It hit her as though it were a joint. She wished she had some tequila to offer the policemen. They looked as though they’d be susceptible to getting drunk and telling her who sent them.

  “Por qué están aquí?” she ventured anyway.

  The two boys looked at each other and laughed. They had, they claimed, been tipped off. They all laughed some more and finished their cigarettes, and the two boys took their leave as if they were lifelong friends of hers who’d just been round for a party.

  When she was sure they had gone, she sank down with her back against the door. Eventually, she pulled herself out of her funk of fear and confusion and asked herself, in accordance with Rules for Living number seven, Does it really matter? The answer, unfortunately, was yes. She decided to call the British Embassy in the morning. If there was a British Embassy.

  * * *

  Olivia had a terrible, hot, anxious, sleepless night. She was relieved when a rooster started crowing to signal that it was over. When the sun appeared through the glistening tops of the palm trees, it gave a disappointingly pale light, not full-on Caribbean morning sun. She opened the window, looking down on a tranquil harbor and corrugated-iron rooftops, smelling the heavy, spicy air. There was a group of local women talking and laughing in the street below. There was clumsy mariachi music coming from a radio. She realized there had been no word to the passengers as to how or when they might reach their intended destination. She wondered if they would all just stay there forever, the party continuing day after day, until they did nothing but drink tequila and sleep under trees from dawn to dusk.

  * * *

  Down at Reception, a scruffy piece of paper taped to the wall said:

  Pasajeros de ATAPA para La Ceiba. El autobús saldrá del hotel al aeropuerto a las 9 de la mañana.

  It was eight o’clock already. Olivia’s mobile, it emerged, did not work in Honduras. She asked the receptionist if she could use the phone. He said the phones weren’t working, but there was a call box outside. Down the road a dilapidated blue and yellow sign featuring what was either a telephone or a sheep’s head was hanging at an angle off a wooden shed.

  She started with Honduran directory enquiries, expecting a lengthy and frustrating round of engaged signals, nonanswers and repeated yelling and spelling of words, culminating in a dial tone. Instead, the phone was immediately answered by a charming girl who spoke perfect English, gave her the number for the British Embassy and informed her that it opened at eight-thirty.

  It was eight-fifteen. Should she wait? Or rush back and pack her bag so that she’d be in time for the bus? She decided to stay where she was. At eight-twenty-five, a woman with two small children appeared, hovering insistently. Olivia briefly attempted to ignore her, but decency got the upper hand and she ceded her position. The woman began a lengthy emotional argument. By eight-forty-five, she was yelling, and the smallest child was in tears. By eight-forty-eight, both the children were in tears, and the woman was banging the receiver against the wall of the shed.

  She was going to miss the bloody bus and the plane and be marooned in Tegucigalpa. In the end, it was quite simple, really. She opened the door, said, “You. Out,” and dialed the Embassy.

  “Hello, British Embassy.”

  “Hello, my name is”—dammit, what?—“Rachel Pixley,” she said quickly, remembering that was the name on the passport she had used when she booked the flight.

  “Yes. What can we help you with?”

  After briefly explaining her problem, she was put through to a man whose crisp English voice made her almost tearful. It was like bumping into a British daddy, or a policeman after being chased by brigands.

  “Hmmm,” said the chap, when she had finished. “I’ll be honest with you, this is not uncommon with the flight from Mexico City. You’re sure there isn’t anyone who could have tampered with your bag there?”

  “No. I had repacked it just before I left the room. The drugs weren’t in there. Someone came to my room when I was down in the bar. I’m worried about some people I met in LA, a guy called Pierre Feramo and some rather odd things that happened . . .” There was a slight buzz on the line.

  “Can you hold on a minute?” said the Embassy chap. “Just got to take another call. Back in a mo.”

  She glanced nervously at her watch. It was three minutes to nine. Her hope was that all the passengers would be so hungover that everyone would be late.

  “Sorry about that,” said the man, returning to the phone. “Miss Pixie, isn’t it?”

  “Pixley.”

  “Yes. Well, look. No need to worry about the drug business. We’ll let the powers that be know. Any more problems, just give us a ring. Can you give us an idea of your itinerary?”

  “Well, I was planning to get the plane today to Popayan, stay in the village for a few days, and then maybe move on to Feramo’s hotel, the Isla Bonita.”

  “Jolly good. Well, we’ll let everyone know to watch out for you. Why don’t you pop in on your way back and let us know how it all went?”

  When she put down the phone, she stared straight ahead for a moment, biting her lip in concentration. Did the phone really buzz when she mentioned Feramo, or was it just her overactive imagination?

  Back at the hotel the receptionist informed her that the bus had left ten minutes ago. Fortunately, she ran into the recipient of the Marc Jacobs tote, who said she’d get her husband to drive her to the airport in his van. He took a while to turn up. By the time they rattled up to the Departures area, it was ten twenty-two. The plane was due to leave at ten.

  * * *

  As Olivia careered across the tarmac, dragging the little case behind her and waving frantically, two men in overalls were starting to pull the stairs away from the plane. They laughed when they saw her and shoved them back again. One of them bounded up ahead of her and banged on the door until it opened. As she entered the crowded cabin, a ragged cheer went up. Her fellow passengers from the night before were pale and fragile, but still jolly. As she flopped gratefully into her seat, the pilot was making his way down the aisle greeting everyone individually. She felt quite reassured until she realized it was the drunken mariachi with the mustache from the salsa party the night before.

  At La Ceiba airport she bought a ticket to Popayan and headed desperately for the newsstand, only to find no foreign newspapers except a three-week-old copy of Time. She picked up La Ceiba’s El Diario and slumped into an orange plastic chair at the gate, waiting for the flight announcement, flicking through the paper and trying to find any update on the OceansApart. She was mildly cheered by the sight of her dancing partner from the previous night—the one with the serious expression and cropped peroxide hair. He reminded her of Eminem. He had the same combination of the grave and the subversive. He came over and sat beside her, holding out a bottle of mineral water.

  “Thanks,” she said, enjoying the slight contact as he handed it over.

  “De nada.” His face was almost expressionless, but he had compelling eyes, gray and intelligent. “Try not to puke now,” he said, getting up again and heading for the newsstand.

  Concentrate, Olivia, she said
to herself. Concentrate. We are not a skittish backpacker on our gap year. We are a top foreign journalist and possible international spy on a mission of global significance.

  27 POPAYAN, BAY ISLANDS

  The island of Popayan came into view, and soon they were descending over a crystalline turquoise sea towards white coral beaches and greenery. The little plane landed with a horrifying bounce, then veered off the unpaved airstrip and turned right over a rickety wooden bridge, quite as if it thought it was a bicycle, before coming to an abrupt halt next to a rusty red pickup truck and a wooden sign which said WELCOMETOPOPAYAN:DANIELDEFOE’S ORIGINALROBINSONCRUSOEISLAND.

  * * *

  There was a problem opening the door. The pilot was tugging at it from the outside, and inside a hippie backpacker was staring at the handle with unhurried fascination, poking at it from time to time as if it were a caterpillar. The blond guy got up, moved the hippie, gripped the handle, put his forearm against the door and opened it.

  “Thanks, man,” muttered the backpacker sheepishly.

  Someone had left a British newspaper on a seat. Olivia grabbed it eagerly. Outside, as they loaded themselves into the back of the pickup, she sniffed the clear air appreciatively and looked around.

  * * *

  It was fun sitting in the back of the truck with all the backpackers. They bounced along a sandy track, then hit the main street of West End. It was like a cross between a Western movie and the Deep South. The houses were clapboard, with porches. Some of them had swing seats, some of them had battered, comfy-looking sofas. An elderly lady with white permed hair and pale skin, wearing a yellow tea dress, was walking along with a parasol, a tall, extremely good-looking black guy a few paces behind.

  Olivia turned back to the truck and found the blond man looking straight at her.

  “Where are you staying?” he said.

  “Miss Ruthie’s Guest House.”

  “You’re here,” he said, leaning over and banging on the driver’s door. She saw the muscles beneath his shirt. He jumped out to help her down, unloaded her bag and carried it up the steps to the green wooden porch. “There you go,” he said and held out his hand. “Morton C.”

  “Thanks. Rachel.”

  “You’ll be all right here,” he said, shouting over his shoulder as he jumped into the back of the truck. “See you at the Bucket of Blood.”

  * * *

  Spots of rain were starting to fall as Olivia knocked on the yellow door. A warm smell of baking wafted out. The door opened and a very tiny old lady stood before her. She had fair skin and red-gold hair in curls and was wearing an apron. Olivia suddenly felt as if she were in a fairy story and she would go inside to find a wolf in a red-hooded sweatshirt, several dwarfs and a beanstalk.

  “What can I be doing for you then?” The old lady’s accent had a strong Irish lilt. Maybe it was true about the Irish pirates.

  “I was wondering if you had a room for a few nights.”

  “To be sure,” said Miss Ruthie. “Come in and sit yourself down. I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  Olivia half-expected a leprechaun to hop out and offer to help with her case.

  The kitchen was constructed entirely of wood and painted in a fifties mixture of primrose yellow and pixie green. Olivia sat at the kitchen table as the rain hammered down on the roof and thought how making a home is nothing to do with a building and everything to do with how different people make it feel. She was sure Miss Ruthie could have moved into Feramo’s minimalist Miami penthouse and still managed to turn it into Snow White’s cottage or the Little House on the Prairie.

  She ate a breakfast of refried beans and corn bread from a plate with two blue stripes, which reminded her of her childhood. Miss Ruthie said there were two rooms available, both looking out over the water. One was on the first floor and the other—which was a suite!—was on the top floor. The first room was the equivalent of five dollars a night, and the suite fifteen. She chose the suite. It had sloping ceilings, a covered deck and a view on three sides. It was like being in a little wooden house on the end of a pier. The walls were painted pink, green and blue. There was an iron bedstead and, in the bathroom, wallpaper which sported a repeat motif saying I love you I love you I love you. Most importantly, the toilet paper was folded to a faultless point.

  Miss Ruthie brought her up a cup of instant coffee and a piece of ginger cake.

  “You’ll be diving later, will you?” said Miss Ruthie.

  “I’m going straightaway,” said Olivia. “As soon as I’ve unpacked.”

  “Get yourself down to Rod’s shack. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Where is it?”

  Miss Ruthie just looked at her as if she was mad.

  Olivia took the coffee and cake on to the deck with the newspaper and lay down on a faded flowery daybed. There was a story headed AL-QAEDALINKINALGECIRASBLAST. She started to read, but fell asleep to the sound of the rain bouncing down on the calm waters of the bay.

  28

  Sixty feet below the surface, it was like being in a dream or on another planet. Olivia, dressed in a red swimsuit and diving gear, was on the edge of a precipice, a sheer cliff falling away a thousand feet into the abyss. You could simply throw yourself over and somersault and fall at your own pace. She was following an orange puffer fish. It was a lovable little thing, bright orange and shaped like a football, with huge round eyes and ginger eyelashes, like something out of a Disney cartoon. A shoal of extraordinary blue and green fish burst up around her like a design on a fifties bath towel. Drew, her diving buddy, a slight, twenty-two-year-old, longhaired hippie, banged his fists together for her to check her air. She held up the gauge. Fifty minutes had passed and it felt like five. She looked up to where the sunlight dappled the surface. It gave her a shock to realize that she was so far down; she felt utterly at home. All you had to do was remember not to panic and to breathe.

  She made her way reluctantly upwards, following the wisplike figure of Drew with his lankly flowing mane, keeping the pace slow, feeling the air expand in her BCD, letting it escape in short bursts. She broke the surface and stared, startled, at the other world: brilliant sunshine, blue sky, the cheerful line of clapboard houses on the shoreline deflatingly close. She had felt as though they were five fathoms deep, a million miles from civilization, and now the water was so shallow they could almost stand up.

  She and Drew swam to Rod’s Dive Shack jetty, where, holding onto the edge of the ladder, they took off their masks, euphoric from the dive. They swung their weight belts up onto the wooden platform, unfastened their tanks and waited for help to hand them up. A small group was huddled on the benches outside the shack, deep in conversation. No one had noticed them.

  “Dudes! What’s up?” Drew called over. He pulled himself onto the jetty, then helped Olivia up.

  “Hey, Drew,” one of them replied. “You see anything uncool down there?”

  “No, man. It’s beautiful. Blue water.”

  Olivia’s legs felt a little shaky as they walked along the warm wooden slats of the jetty. It had been a long dive. Drew was rinsing out the gear in a barrel of fresh water. He handed her a bottle of cold water. “You’ve gone blond,” he said.

  She put her hand to her hair. It felt thick with the salt.

  “Suits you better than red.”

  “So much for six to eight washes,” she said, starting to dunk her gear in the barrel.

  “Hey, Rod. What’s up? Something happened?” said Drew, as he and Olivia moved over to the group.

  Rod, a stocky Canadian with a mustache, was older than the rest. He had the air of a college lecturer about him.

  “They’ve started on the marker buoys above Morgan’s Cave,” said Rod, making a space for Olivia, then reaching into a cold box and handing her a soda. “Frederic went down there with a bunch of clients and met a party of Arturo’s from a Roatán boat in the tunnel coming the other way. Arturo said he’d left a marker buoy, but it wasn’t there when Frederic went down. I
t has to be Feramo’s lot.”

  Olivia stiffened at the name but tried to act normally.

  Another of the guys joined in. “Saturday someone put a buoy there when no one was down. Arturo saw it and went down to check it out, and no one was in there. The only way to stop it is to sit on top of the dive sites all day with a boat.”

  “Yeah, well, we might just have to do that and not just with a boat,” said Drew in a dark, threatening voice.

  The party started to break up. Drew wanted to walk her back to Miss Ruthie’s.

  “Who were they talking about back there?” she asked innocently.

  “Guys from the hotel over Pumpkin Hill. They’ve got this luxury ecoresort thing going. Some people say it’s owned by an oil sheikh. They’re trying to clear out all the other dive operations and take over the caves and tunnels for their own clients. It’s a pile of shit.”

  “Is it a dive hotel?”

  “Well, yeah, but I think that’s bullshit. He’s got all these commercial divers and welders down there. He’s got this fucking huge pier. I mean, what does he need a pier like that for on Popayan?”

  Olivia’s mind was racing.

  “Welding? Can they do that underwater? What do they use for the blowtorches?”

  “Acetylene.”

  “Is it explosive?”

  “It is if you mix it with oxygen.”

  “Even underwater?”

  “Oh sure. Anyway, here we are. You coming to the Bucket of Blood tonight?”

  “Er, yes, okay,” she said vaguely. “See you later.”

  She hurried back to her room and leafed through the newspaper, looking for the Algeciras bomb story she had seen earlier. There had been a blast in a tourist complex, and it was being attributed to al-Qaeda.

  “Preliminary investigations suggest that the device was acetylene-based. Acetylene is readily available and routinely used by divers in the field of commercial welding.”