The Tailor of Panama
Page 40
Definitely he no longer cared about suits, his own or anyone else’s. The line, the form, the rock of eye, the silhouette, were of no concern to him anymore. People must wear what they liked, and the best people didn’t have a choice, he noticed. A lot of them got by perfectly well with a pair of jeans and a white shirt, or a flowered dress that they washed and rotated all their lives. A lot of them had not the least idea of what “rock of eye” meant. Like these people running past him, for instance, with bleeding feet and wide-open mouths, shoving him out of the way and shouting “Fire!” and screaming like their own children. Screaming “Mickie!” and “You bastard, Pendel!” He looked for Marta among them but didn’t see her, and probably she had decided he was too sullied for her, too disgusting. He looked for the Mendozas’ metallic-blue Mercedes in case it had decided to change sides and join the terrified mob, but he saw no sign of it. He saw a fire hydrant that had been amputated at the waist. It was gushing black blood all over the street. He saw Mickie a couple of times but didn’t get so much as a nod of recognition out of him.
He kept walking and he realised that he was quite far into the valley and it must be the valley into town. But when you are walking alone in the middle of a road that you drive every day, it becomes difficult to recognise familiar landmarks, specially when they are lit with flares and you are being jostled by frightened people running away. But his destination was not a problem to him. It was Mickie, it was Marta. It was the centre of the orange fireball that kept its eye firmly on him while he walked, ordering him forward, talking to him in the voices of all the new good Panamanian neighbours it was not too late for him to get to know. And certainly in the place that he was headed for, nobody would ever again ask him to improve on life’s appearance, neither would they mistake his dreaming for their terrible reality.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nobody who helped me with this novel is responsible for its failings.
In Panama I must first thank the distinguished American novelist Richard Koster, who with great generosity of spirit went out of his way to open doors for me, and provided me with much wise counsel. Alberto Calvo gave handsomely of his time and support. Roberto Reichard was ever helpful, and hospitable to a fault. And when the book was done he revealed the eye of a natural editor. The lionhearted Guillermo Sánchez, scourge of Noriega and to this day La Prensa’s vigilant champion of the decent Panama, did me the honour of reading the finished manuscript and gave it his nod, as did Richard Wainio of the Panama Canal Commission, who was able to laugh where lesser men would have blanched.
Andrew and Diana Hyde sacrificed hours of their precious time, despite the twins, never sought to know my purposes and saved me from some embarrassing bloopers. Dr. Liborio García-Correa and his family took me to their collective bosom and guided me to places and people I would not otherwise have reached. I shall always be grateful for Dr. García-Correa’s tireless researches on my behalf and for the splendid trips we made together—notably to Barro Colorado. Sarah Simpson, manager and owner of the Pavo Real restaurant, provided me with much good nourishment. Hélène Breebart, who makes beautiful clothes for beautiful Panamanian ladies, kindly advised me on how I might set up my gentlemen’s tailoring establishment. And the staff of the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute gave me two unforgettable days.
My portrait of the staff of the British Embassy in Panama is the sheerest fantasy. The British diplomats and their wives whom I met in Panama were uniformly able, diligent and honourable. They are the last people on earth to hatch wicked conspiracies or steal gold bars, and they have nothing in common, thank heaven, with the imaginary characters described in this book.
Back in London, my thanks go to Rex Cowan and Gordon Smith for their advice on Pendel’s partly Jewish background, and to Doug Hayward of Mount Street W who allowed me my first misty glimpse of Harry Pendel the tailor. Doug, if you ever drop by to be measured for a suit, is likely to receive you sitting in his armchair beside the front door. There’s a cosy old sofa to sit on, and a coffee table strewn with books and magazines. No portrait of the great Arthur Braithwaite hangs, alas, on his wall, neither does he tolerate much in the way of chit-chat in his fitting room, where the mood is brisk and businesslike. But if you close your eyes one quiet summer’s evening in his shop, you may just hear the distant echo of Harry Pendel’s voice extolling the virtues of alpaca cloth or buttons made of tagua nut.
For Harry Pendel’s music I am indebted to another great tailor, Dennis Wilkinson of L. G. Wilkinson of St. George Street. Dennis, when he cuts, likes nothing better than to turn his key upon the world and play his favourite classics. Alex Rudelhof admitted me to the intimate mysteries of measuring.
And lastly, without Graham Greene this book would never have come about. After Greene’s Our Man in Havana, the notion of an intelligence fabricator would not leave me alone.
JOHN LE CARRÉ