The Blue Place

by Nicola Griffith

  I woke at six with my muscles pulled tight as guy ropes and my mind flapping like a split sail in a high wind. My hands kept flexing of their own accord, remembering hitting his face. I pulled on shorts, boots and muscle-tee, took a bottle of water from the fridge, and went out into the back. The air was still and quiet, heavy with morning damp and the scent of jasmine. The shed I had built under the deck was dark. The spade hung from the opposite wall. I took it down and unwrapped it. It took a while to locate the tarpaulins.

  Cutting flower borders through healthy sod is hard work but my body needed to sweat for a while, and I have never understood the wasteful American pastime of running. Why not direct your muscles towards something useful? After I had laid out four overlapping tarps, I set the gleaming edge of the spade against the damp turf, put my boot on the rim and pumped, taking great satisfaction from the slide and grit of steel through dirt. I turned the sod onto the tarp. Set and pumped and turned, set and pumped and turned. After half an hour, I switched feet.

  An hour later the muscles of thigh, calf and lower back were warm and supple and the tarps full. I switched to the fork, bending my knees, letting my triceps and shoulders power the tines through the topsoil. Birds were singing now, and in the distance I heard the chunk of a car door and an engine turning over. At some point the background had filled with the hum of traffic streaming down McLendon three blocks away. I worked on.

  By the time I had all the borders cut and the dirt turned, had cleaned and oiled the garden tools and put everything away, it was nine-thirty, and though my skin was slick with sweat and muscles burning, I felt calm and refreshed. I had a leisurely shower, an enjoyable breakfast of cold rice and smoked fish with hot, fragrant tea, then called my banker.

  “Laurence, it’s Aud Torvingen. Very well, thank you. And you? Catherine and the children? Good. Laurence, I wonder if I might impose upon your goodwill for a few minutes this afternoon. I find myself floundering for information on a subject far outside my area of expertise. I hoped I could persuade you to share some of your experience on these matters.”

  It was a very small branch, and my deposits were substantial. He said yes, of course, and how did one o’clock suit?

  From the Spanish consulate downtown, the drive to my Decatur bank along Piedmont and then North Avenue is about twenty minutes if you ignore the speed limit. I whipped along, letting the slipstream take care of the pollen on the Saab’s paintwork, enjoying the power under my hands, the smooth glide of the stick as I shifted into fourth. Traffic was surprisingly light and I cut through it like an otter knifing playfully through the water. I opened the windows. Nina Simone sang “Feeling Good” in her chocolate and cream voice. A wonderful morning to be alive.

  I had Beatriz del Gato’s proposed itinerary weighted open on the seat next to me. She wanted to visit a Spanish-speaking school in Duluth then go on to a community centre in Buford. Just as Philippe said: boring. Other places on her list—apart from the half dozen ad agencies downtown—included Underground Atlanta and a Catholic church. She was twenty-three, reasonably good looking if the photo was anything to go by, well educated, and all she wanted to do in the historic South was visit a mediocre mall, go to Mass, and try to get a job.

  I made it to the bank in fifteen minutes.

  Laurence is about fifty, one of those African-Americans from the North who heard that Atlanta, the City Too Busy to Hate, was a paradise of opportunity. He applied for a corporate transfer and moved his whole family, hoping for big things. He had been here nine years now, long enough to realize that the good old boy network was even stronger here than in Pittsburgh. He had managed this bank for all of those nine years. He no longer expected to be promoted out of there. Once a year I met his wife and children at the stiff Christmas function the bank held for its more important customers. We treated each other with unfailing politeness.

  Today he looked a little more formal than usual as he ushered me into his office. We sat in two comfortable easy chairs near the silk rubber plant whose leaves shivered in the hissing air-conditioning. “Perhaps you would like to tell us how we can help you.”

  He almost always said we. I don’t think I had ever heard him say anything personal, ever use I. “The matter I wish to discuss is rather confidential.” He simply nodded. “I need to know what kind of responsibilities and authority would be expected of and given to a particular banking position. The position I am talking about is as a vice president with a very well established investment bank in this city.”

  “Do you have any additional information? It could…” He pushed his glasses up. “Well, it’s a little like you being asked by someone: What does a police lieutenant do?”

  “I take your point.” A lieutenant could be on a SWAT team, could be a PR person, in Internal Affairs, homicide…. “The banker in question may or may not have been involved in the effort to persuade a foreign automaker to build a plant in North Carolina; he flies to the Bahamas, Bermuda and the Seychelles. I could tell you what sort of authority and accountability a lieutenant in the APD would have, but I have no idea about bank VPs.”

  “Given that he is a vice president, he is to some extent legally responsible for the affairs of that company and can be held liable. To the same extent, he—depending on the decision-making policy of the company—would be able to commit the company to a certain amount on his own recognizance.”

  He wasn’t giving me anything I didn’t already know. I wondered what he would do if I leaned forward and said: Larry, I don’t belong here, either. It’s a beautiful day outside. Let’s go get a six-pack and watch the ducks on the pond. It would never happen. He had so many defenses because he needed them. No doubt he saw armour glinting around me that I was not even aware of. He probably hated being called Larry. “So he wouldn’t necessarily be checked up on a great deal?”

  “It would depend on the size of the bank. If he’s a VP of a large national organization, then it’s probable he would have considerable personal authority. The fact that he travels frequently to the Bahamas and Bermuda is interesting.” He paused. “That he travels to the Seychelles even more so.”

  “How so?”

  “The Bahamas and Bermuda are tax havens, as you probably know.”

  “Aren’t the Seychelles?”

  “Oh, yes. But they’re also eight thousand miles away. He wasn’t just taking a vacation?”

  “Not three times in one year.”

  Again, he paused, and I knew that he wanted something from me, a sign, an indication that if he offered me something he wouldn’t be rebuffed for stepping beyond the bounds of manager and client.

  “It might help if I told you something of the context for all this. You know I am no longer with the Atlanta Police Department, of course, but I have just undertaken to investigate a murder on a private basis for a third party because the police think it’s a drug case, and the third party and I don’t. It…I saw the victim’s house burn, Laurence, I felt the heat on my face, and whoever did it is going to get away with it unless I can find him. I don’t even know if this banker has anything to do with it, but he might, and I have to run every possibility, no matter how wild, to ground. So if you have any ideas, please help me.”

  “What’s the bank we’re talking about?”

  “Massut Vere.”

  He took his glasses off, leaned back in his chair, polished them awhile. There was the faint shininess of burn scar tissue at his right temple that I’d never noticed before. He stared into the middle distance. “Apart from the fact that the Seychelles are eight thousand miles away, they aren’t generally used as a haven by what I’d call respectable banks.”…what I’d call respectable banks…

  “Why’s that?” I asked obligingly.

  He put his glasses back on and this time when he looked at me I think he really saw me. “What do you know about international banking?”

  “Probably about as much as you do about tactical hostage rescue.”

  “It’s amazing what you can le
arn from watching TV.” A joke. Well, well. “It used to be that the Swiss were the people who took money, no questions asked, and held it against all comers. Then they changed their laws so that the money of any depositor who was proved to have earned it illegally was liable to be returned. A lot of unsavoury characters switched to money laundering and the tax havens off the East Coast. Then three years ago the Seychelles declared that anyone who wanted to deposit ten million dollars or more with them would be entitled to protection from extradition and from seizure of assets, as well as…Hold on.” He jumped up, looking ten years younger than when he had ushered me into his office, and pulled open a file drawer. He rifled quickly through a buff folder. “Here we are. Apart from the extradition and seizure protections, big depositors would also be entitled to ‘concessions and incentives commensurate with the investment.’” He shut the folder, put it away, slammed the drawer shut and dropped back into his chair. There was something familiar about the way he moved. “In other words, they held up a great big sign saying, ‘Welcome All Criminals.’”

  The implications were staggering, especially the extraordinary entitlements. The Seychelles government had written a law that made it possible to issue diplomatic passports to terrorists, the mob, drug traffickers….

  “You’ve just made my life a lot more complicated,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” And he smiled. The scar tissue by his eye crinkled.

  “Laurence…” When an imago first pushes free of the binding chrysalis and unfolds its still-damp wings, anything, even something as ephemeral as breath, can deform the final, glorious insect. A crass question now could crush this fragile new understanding. I asked anyway. “Where did you serve?”

  He touched his face and sighed. “Two tours in Vietnam. The Rangers.”

  We sat silently, contemplating the ghosts we had created between us, and the difference between our world and that of most people.

  Beatriz del Gato arrived on the four forty-five flight from Madrid. I met her in the international arrivals terminal at Hartsfield Airport. Either the photograph in her dossier was a very expensive special effects shot or it had been a truly terrible flight. Beatriz del Gato was a small, ferociously plain woman. Her features were symmetrical enough, in proportion and in roughly the right places, but she seemed weighed down, pulled out of shape by a relentless dullness. Brown hair was tugged back gracelessly from a face that looked white and puffy next to the glowing tans of other passengers. Her hands hung at her sides as though she did not know where they came from or what to do with them now they were here. Her brown eyes looked very small behind thick glasses.

  “Ms. del Gato?”

  “Yes?” The way she lifted her head and looked at me sideways reminded me of an adolescent, not a woman of twenty-three.

  “Philippe Cordova asked me to drive you to your hotel this evening and get you settled in. My name is Aud Torvingen and I’ll be escorting you during your stay in Atlanta.”

  “Thank you.” So low I could hardly hear.

  I got her and her luggage—surprisingly little—to the Saab, held open the rear door for her, then got behind the wheel. As she was finding the seat belt I slid the Walther PPK from the underarm spider harness to a lap holster that I clipped to my belt, handy in case I should need it while driving. When we were both strapped in I pulled out smoothly into the streaming traffic.

  I glanced in the mirror. She had slumped like a bundle of abandoned knitting. “How was your flight?”

  “Quite pleasant, thank you.” Four whole words. Perhaps a tightly modulated contralto, it was hard to tell. Soft, gliding Castillian accent.

  “Traffic will be bad at this time of day but I hope to have you at the Hotel Nikko in forty or fifty minutes.” She nodded without looking at me. “Philippe gave me your itinerary, of course, but I’d like to go over it with you to make sure there are no errors or misunderstandings.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And I would like to know how inconspicuous you want to be.”

  A pause. “Perhaps you could explain.”

  “Philippe tells me you are interviewing at the ad agencies we’ll be visiting tomorrow. If I am obvious as a bodyguard, it might be a little off-putting for your potential employers.”

  “Yes. I see.” The knitting was straightening, just a little. “What would you suggest?”

  “That you call me Aud and I call you Beatriz, and we take the parts of strangers put in touch by a mutual acquaintance while you are visiting a foreign city.”

  “Very well. Aud.” Her trace of accent made my name longer and softer.

  “It would mean I don’t hold doors open for you or carry your things.”

  “By all means.” She seemed to be sagging and fading again. Probably exhaustion. I concentrated on driving.

  The first thing I did when I got home was take off the gun and stretch. The next four days were going to be very, very long.

  There were two messages on the machine. The first was Charlie Sweeting sounding conspiratorial.

  “Miss Torvingen? Aud. I haven’t forgotten your request. I think I might have something for you in a day or two.”

  Beep.

  “Hey, Aud, it’s Mick. Are you there? Oh. Well, listen, we got a call an hour ago from Helen’s father. Her mother’s in the hospital. I don’t know if it’s serious or not. Well, it’s got to be fairly serious or she wouldn’t be in the hospital so suddenly.” Get to the point, Mick. “Anyway, we’ll be flying to St. Louis first thing tomorrow, so we won’t make the performance tonight. Sorry about that. I think it’ll be wild. Tell you what, let’s go out for a beer when we get back and you can tell us all about it. We’ll call you. Bye. Oh, forgot. The thing tonight? It’s been moved from King Plow to the Masquerade. Same time. Bye.”

  Helen’s mother had been ill for a while. At least she had Mick with her.

  The last time I’d seen my mother had been the three days I had spent in London on my way to Kirov. We had both been busy—she with embassy functions, me trying to get in touch with the guide who was supposed to be travelling with me to the steppes—too busy to spend much time together. Story of our lives. Not always unintentional. She’s never really forgiven me for choosing to live in my father’s country. “You’ve no one there, Aud. No family. No job. Nothing to keep you.”

  On impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” Clear and sharp, so unlike Beatriz del Gato.

  “Julia? It’s Aud.”

  “Have you found out something?”

  “Yes and no. That is, nothing spectacular, and that’s not why I was calling. How broad is your definition of art?”

  “Why do I get the feeling I shouldn’t answer that one?”

  “There’s a performance tonight that you might find interesting.”

  “What kind of performance?”

  “You’ve got me there. She’s a performance artist into body modification. That’s all I know.”

  “Okay…. Hello? Aud, are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes. I was just trying to remember what time it starts,” I lied. “How about if I pick you up around nine-thirty?”

  “Why don’t I pick you up? After all, I know where you live.”

  “Fine. And don’t dress up. It’s at the Masquerade.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Wear something casual. And if the CD player in your car has one of those removable face plates, remove it.”

  She must have got the message. She arrived at nine-thirty wearing just the right clothes: wide-legged jeans with a big belt, tight low-cut button tee that exposed her flat, tanned belly, and big boots. She’d even done something with her hair, wearing it casually upswept with thick wings hanging at each side so that it didn’t look quite so sleek and moneyed. Two silver studs gleamed from her left ear and her fingernails were painted a red so dark it was almost black. The effect was to make her seem both younger and more worldly. I slung my leather jacket in the back and got in th
e passenger seat. It had been a long time since I had been driven anywhere; door locks and seat belts all seemed the wrong way around.

  “North Avenue,” I said, and after a while I began to relax. The hands on the wheel were competent.

  We drove in silence. The only things we knew about each other revolved around the death of a man who had been her friend and I didn’t want to talk about that, didn’t want to think about murder and men with money.

  “So. What am I letting myself in for tonight?” Orange streetlight glided across her right cheek and disappeared through the back window.

  “Diane Pescatore has spent the last eleven years of her life surgically and cosmetically altering herself to look like a Barbie doll.”

  “Barbie? Those shoulders and hips and legs aren’t physically possible!”

  “I believe that’s the point. According to a book I got from the library this week, Pescatore is one of several well-known artists and/or body sculptors who try to draw attention to the way women’s bodies have been objectified by the patriarchy et cetera, et cetera.”

  “You mean she actually does this stuff on stage?”

  “Please watch the road. No. At least I hope not. I think she’s put together some kind of multimedia…thing.”

  “Thing?” She sounded amused.

  “Performance, then.”

  The car passed under a railway bridge and slowed down by a garishly lit, dilapidated warehouse. “Is this it?” She swung into the lot, parked automatically under a light. It was strange, being with a woman who thought about these things, who remembered to take corners wide, even when she was running.

  The Masquerade is an odd venue in the middle of an industrial wasteland. It looks a bit like a cross between a castle and a wooden fort from the Old West, with huge, chained freight doors on the third story and a massive iron-bound front entrance. We showed ID, paid, and walked into the gloom. Julia had her hands out of her pockets and all senses on red alert.