“What sort o’ times?”
“Well, sir, there was the occasion when the General was invited to deliver a celebrated speech at Harvard University, you may remember, even if Harvard would prefer you didn’t. Quite a challenge he was. Very restless when it came to his fittings.”
“Won’t be needing suits where he is now, I dare say, will he?”
“Indeed not, Mr. Osnard. It’s all provided, I’m told. There was also the occasion when France awarded him its highest honour and appointed him a Légionnaire.”
“Hell did they give him that for?”
The lighting in the corridor was all overhead, making bullet holes of Osnard’s eyes.
“A number of explanations come to mind, Mr. Osnard. The most favoured is that, for a cash consideration, the General permitted the French air force to use Panama as a staging point when they were causing their unpopular nuclear explosions in the South Pacific.”
“Who says?”
“There was a lot of loose talk around the General sometimes. Not all his hangers-on were as discreet as he was.”
“Dress the hangers-on too?”
“And still do, sir, still do,” Pendel replied, once more his cheerful self. “We did endure what you might call a slight low directly after the American invasion when some of the General’s higher officials felt obliged to take the air abroad for a time, but they soon came back. Nobody loses his reputation in Panama, not for long, and Panamanian gentlemen don’t care to spend their own money in exile. The tendency is more to recycle your politician rather than disgrace him. That way, nobody gets left out too long.”
“Weren’t branded a collaborator or whatever?”
“There weren’t a lot left to point the finger, frankly, Mr. Osnard. I dressed the General a few times, it’s true. Most of my customers did slightly more than that, didn’t they?”
“What about the protest strikes? Join in?”
Another nervous glance towards the kitchen, where Marta was by now presumably back at her studies.
“I’ll put it this way, Mr. Osnard. We closed the front of the shop. We didn’t always close the back.”
“Wise man.”
Pendel grabbed the nearest door handle and shoved it. Two elderly Italian trouser makers in white aprons and gold-rimmed spectacles peered up from their labours. Osnard bestowed a royal wave on them and stepped back into the corridor. Pendel followed him.
“Dress the new chap too, don’t you?” Osnard asked carelessly.
“Yes, sir, I’m proud to say, the President of the Republic of Panama numbers today among our customers. And a more agreeable gentleman you couldn’t wish to meet.”
“Where d’you do it?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“He come here, you go there?”
Pendel adopted a slightly superior manner. “The summons is always to the palace, Mr. Osnard. People go to the President. He doesn’t go to them.”
“Know your way around up there, do you?”
“Well, sir, he’s my third president. Bonds are formed.”
“With his flunkeys?”
“Yes. Them too.”
“How about Himself? Pres?”
Pendel again paused, as he had done before when rules of professional confidence came under strain.
“Your great statesman of today, sir, he’s under stress, he’s a lonely man, cut off from what I call the common pleasures that make our lives worth living. A few minutes alone with his tailor can be a blessed truce amid the fray.”
“So you chat away?”
“I would prefer the term ‘soothing interlude.’ He’ll ask me what my customers are saying about him. I respond—not naming names, naturally. Occasionally, if he has something on his chest, he may favour me with a small confidence in return. I do have a certain reputation for discretion, as I have no doubt his highly vigilant advisors have informed him. Now, sir. If you please.”
“What does he call you?”
“One-to-one or in the presence of others?”
“Harry, then,” said Osnard.
“Correct.”
“And you?”
“I never presume, Mr. Osnard. I’ve had the chance, I’ve been invited. But it’s Mr. President, and it always will be.”
“How about Fidel?”
Pendel laughed gaily. He had been wanting a laugh for some time. “Well, sir, the Comandante does like a suit these days, and so he should, given the advance of corpulence. There’s not a tailor in the region wouldn’t give his eye-teeth to dress him, whatever those Yanquis think of him. But he will adhere to his Cuban tailor, as I dare say you have noticed to your embarrassment on the television. Oh dear. I’ll say no more. We’re here, we’re standing by. If the call comes, P & B will answer it.”
“Quite an intelligence service you run, then.”
“It’s a cut-throat world, Mr. Osnard. There’s a lot of competition out there. I’d be a fool if I didn’t keep an ear to the ground, wouldn’t I?”
“Sure would. Don’t want to go old Braithwaite’s route, do we?”
Pendel had climbed a stepladder. He was balanced on the folding platform that he normally stopped short of, and he was busying himself with a bolt of best grey alpaca that he had coaxed from the top shelf, brandishing it aloft for Osnard’s inspection. How he had got up there, what had impelled him, were mysteries he was no more disposed to contemplate than a cat that finds itself at the top of a tree. What mattered was escape.
“The important thing, sir, I always say, is hang them while they’re still warm and never fail to rotate them,” he announced in a loud voice to a shelf of midnight-blue worsteds six inches from his nose. “Now here’s the one we thought might be to our liking, Mr. Osnard. An excellent choice if I may say so, and your grey suit in Panama is practically de rigger. I’ll bring you down the bolt and you can have a look and a feel. Marta! Shop, please, dear.”
“Hell’s rotate?” asked Osnard from below, where he was standing with his hands in his pockets, examining ties.
“No suit should be worn two days running, least of all your lightweight, Mr. Osnard. As I’m sure your good father will have told you many a time and oft.”
“Learned it from Arthur, did ’e?”
“It’s your chemical dry cleaner that kills the real suit, I always say. Once you’ve got the grime and sweat embedded in it, which is what happens if you overwork it, you’re on your way to the chemical cleaner, and that’s the beginning of the end. A suit that isn’t rotated is a suit halved, I say. Marta! Where is that girl?”
Osnard remained intent upon the ties.
“Mr. Braithwaite even went so far as to advise his customers to abstain from cleaners altogether,” Pendel ran on, his voice rising slightly. “Brush their suits only, the sponge if necessary, and bring them to the shop once a year to be washed in the River Dee.”
Osnard had ceased to examine the ties and was staring up at him.
“Owing to that river’s highly prized cleansing powers,” Pendel explained. “The Dee being to our suit somewhat of your true Jordan to the pilgrim.”
“Thought that was Huntsman’s,” Osnard said, his eyes steadfastly on Pendel’s.
Pendel did hesitate. And it did show. And Osnard did watch him while it showed.
“Mr. Huntsman is a very fine tailor, sir. One of the Row’s greatest. But in this case, he followed in the footprints of Arthur Braithwaite.”
He probably meant footsteps, but under the intensity of Osnard’s gaze he had formed a clear image of the great Mr. Huntsman, like King Wenceslas’ page, obediently tracing Braithwaite’s pugmarks across the black Scottish mud. Desperate to break the spell, he grabbed the bolt of cloth and, with one hand for the ship and the other clutching the bolt like a baby to his breast, he groped his way down the stepladder.
“Here we are, sir. Our mid-grey alpaca in all its glory. Thank you, Marta,” as she belatedly appeared below him.
Her face averted, Marta grasped her end of th
e cloth in both hands and marched backwards towards the door, at the same time tilting it for Osnard to inspect. And somehow she caught Pendel’s eye, and somehow he caught hers, and there was both question and reproach in her expression. But Osnard was mercifully unaware of this. He was studying the cloth. He had stooped over it, hands behind his back like visiting royalty. He was sniffing it. He pinched an edge, sampling the texture between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. The ponderousness of his movements spurred Pendel to greater efforts, and Marta to greater disapproval.
“Grey not right for us, Mr. Osnard? I see you favour brown yourself! It becomes you very well, if I may say so, brown. There’s not a lot of brown being worn in Panama today, to be frank. Your average Panamanian gentleman seems to consider brown unmanly, I don’t know why.” He was already halfway up the ladder again, leaving Marta clutching her end of the cloth, and the grey bolt lying at her feet. “There’s a mid-brown up here I could see you in, not too much red. Here we go. I always say it’s the too-much-red that spoils a good brown, I don’t know if I’m right. What’s our preference today, sir?”
Osnard took a very long time to reply. First the grey cloth continued to hold his attention, then Marta did, for she was studying him with a kind of medical distaste. Then he raised his head and stared at Pendel up his ladder. And Pendel might as well have been a trapeze artist stuck in the big top without his pole, and the world beneath him a whole life away, to judge by the cold dispassion that was displayed in Osnard’s upturned face.
“Stick with grey, if you don’t mind, ol’ boy,” he said. “ ‘Grey for town, brown for country.’ Isn’t that what he used to say?”
“Who?”
“Braithwaite. Hell d’you think?”
Pendel slowly descended the ladder. He seemed about to speak but didn’t. He had run out of words: Pendel, for whom words were his safety and comfort. So instead he smiled while Marta brought her end of the cloth to him and he reeled it in, smiling till his smile hurt, and Marta scowling, partly because of Osnard and partly because that was the way her face had set after the doctor had done his terrified best.
4
“Now, sir. Your vital statistics if I may.”
Pendel had removed Osnard’s jacket for him, observing as he did so a fat brown envelope slotted between the two halves of his wallet. The heat rose from Osnard’s heavy body like heat from a wet spaniel. His nipples, shaded by chaste curls, showed clearly through his sweat-soaked shirt. Pendel placed himself behind him and measured back collar to waist. Neither man spoke. Panamanians in Pendel’s experience enjoyed being measured. Englishmen did not. It had to do with being touched. From the collar again, he took the full length of the back, careful as ever to avoid contact with the rump. Still neither man spoke. He took the centre back seam, then centre back to elbow, then centre back to cuff. He placed himself at Osnard’s side, touched his elbows to raise them, and passed the tape beneath his arms and across his nipples. Sometimes with his bachelor gentlemen he navigated a less sensitive route, but with Osnard he felt no misgivings. From the shop downstairs they heard the bell ring out and the front door slam accusingly.
“That Marta?”
“It was indeed, sir. Going home, no doubt.”
“She got something on you?”
“Certainly not. Whatever made you ask that?”
“Vibe, that’s all.”
“Well I’m blessed,” said Pendel, recovering.
“Thought she had something on me, too.”
“Good heavens, sir. What could that possibly be?”
“Don’t owe her money. Never screwed her. Your guess as good as mine.”
The fitting room was a wooden cell about the regulation twelve by nine, built at one end of the Sportsman’s Corner on the upper floor. A cheval mirror, three wall mirrors and a small gilt chair provided the only furnishings. A heavy green curtain did duty for a door. But the Sportsman’s Corner was not a corner at all. It was a long, low timbered attic hideaway with a suggestion of lost childhood about it. Nowhere in the shop had Pendel worked harder to achieve his effect. From brass rails mounted along the wall hung a small army of half-finished suits awaiting the final bugle. Golf shoes, hats and green weatherproofs gleamed from ancient mahogany shelves. Riding boots, whips, spurs, a pair of fine English shotguns, ammunition belts and golf clubs lay about in artful confusion. And in the foreground, in pride of place, loomed a stately hide mounting horse, like a horse in a gymnasium but with a tail and head, on which a sporting gentleman could test the comfort of his breeches, confident that his mount would not disgrace him.
Pendel was racking his brains for a topic. In the fitting room it was his habit to chatter incessantly as a means of dispelling intimacy, but for some reason his customary material eluded him. He resorted to reminiscences of My Early Struggle.
“Oh my, did we have to get up early in those days! The freezing dark mornings in Whitechapel, the dew on the cobble—I can feel the cold now. Different today, of course. Hardly a young one going into the trade, I’m told. Not in the East End. Not real tailoring. Too hard for them, I expect. Quite right.”
He was taking the cape measurement, across the back again but this time with Osnard’s arms hanging straight down and the tape going round the outside of them. It was not a measurement he would normally have taken, but Osnard was not a normal customer.
“East End to West End,” Osnard remarked. “Quite a shift.”
“It was indeed, sir, and I never had cause to rue the day.”
They were face-to-face and very close. But whereas Osnard’s tight brown eyes seemed to pursue Pendel from every angle, Pendel’s were fixed on the sweat-puckered waistband of the gabardine trousers. He placed the tape round Osnard’s girth and tugged at it.
“What’s the damage?” Osnard asked.
“Let’s say a modest thirty-six plus, sir.”
“Plus what?”
“Plus lunch, put it that way, sir,” said Pendel, and won a much needed laugh.
“Ever pine for the old country at all?” Osnard enquired, while Pendel discreetly recorded thirty-eight in his notebook.
“Not really, sir. No, I don’t think so. Not so’s you’d notice. No,” he replied, slipping the notebook into his hip pocket.
“Bet you hanker for the Row now and then.”
“Ah well, the Row,” Pendel agreed heartily, succumbing to a wistful vision of himself safely consigned to an earlier century, measuring for tailcoats and breeches. “Yes, the Row’s a different thing again, isn’t it? If we had more of Savile Row as it used to be and less of some of the other things we’ve got today, England would be a lot better off. A happier country altogether we’d be, if you’ll pardon me.”
But if Pendel thought that by mouthing platitudes he could divert the thrust of Osnard’s inquisition, he was wasting his breath.
“Tell us about it.”
“About what, sir?”
“Old Braithwaite took you on as an apprentice, right?”
“Right.”
“Aspiring young Pendel sat on his doorstep day after day. Every morning when the old boy clocked in, there you were. ‘Good morning, Mr. Braithwaite, sir, how are we today? My name’s Harry Pendel and I’m your new apprentice.’ Love it. Love that sort o’ chutzpah.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” Pendel replied uncertainly as he tried to shake off the experience of having his own anecdote retold to him in one of its many versions.
“So you wear him down and you become his favourite apprentice, just like in the fairy tale,” Osnard went on. He didn’t say which fairy tale, and Pendel didn’t ask him. “And one day—how many years is it?—old Braithwaite turns round to you and says, ‘All right, Pendel. Tired o’ having you as an apprentice. From now on, you’re crown prince.’ Or words to that effect. Give us the scene. Mustard for it.”
A frown of ferocious concentration settled over Pendel’s normally untroubled brow. Placing himself at Osnard’s left flank, he looped the tape ro
und his rump, coaxed it to the amplest point, and again jotted in his notebook. He stooped for the outside leg measurement, straightened and, like a failing swimmer, sank again until his head was at the height of Osnard’s right knee.
“And we dress, sir—?” he murmured, feeling Osnard’s gaze burning the nape of his neck. “Most of my gentlemen seem to favour left these days. I don’t think it’s political.”
This was his standard joke, calculated to raise a laugh even with the most sedate of his customers. Not with Osnard apparently.
“Never know where the bloody thing is. Bobs about like a wind sock,” he replied dismissively. “Morning, was it? Evening? What time o’ day did ’e pay you the royal visit?”
“Evening,” Pendel muttered after an age. And like an admission of defeat: “A Friday like today.”
Assuming left but taking no chances, he conveyed the brass end of his tape into the right side of Osnard’s fly, studiously avoiding contact with whatever lay within. Then with his left hand he drew the tape downward as far as the upper sole of Osnard’s shoe, which was of the heavy, officer-off-duty type and much repaired. And having subtracted an inch and written down his finding, he bravely stood his full height, only to discover the dark round eyes so tightly upon him that he had the illusion of having walked into the enemy’s guns.
“Winter or summer?” Osnard asked.
“Summer.” Pendel’s voice was running out of power. He took a brave breath and started again. “Not many of us young ones fancied working Friday evenings in the summertime. I suppose I was the exception, which was one of the things about me that commended me to Mr. Braithwaite’s attention.”
“Year?”
“Well, yes, my goodness, the year.” Rallying, he shook his head and tried to smile. “Oh dear me. A whole generation ago. Still, you can’t sweep back the tide, can you? King Canute tried it, and look where he ended up,” he added, not at all sure where Canute did end up, if anywhere.
All the same, he was feeling the artistry coming back to him, what Uncle Benny called his fluence.
“He was standing in the doorway,” he resumed, striking a lyrical note. “I must have been absorbed in a pair of trousers I’d been entrusted with, which is what happens to me when I’m cutting, because it gave me a start. I looked up and there he was, watching me, not saying anything. He was a big man. People forget that about him. The big bald head, big eyebrows—he was imposing. A force. A fact of life—”
The Tailor of Panama Page 5