by Monica Ali
‘Yes,’ said Gabriel. ‘Girls from the hotel.’
‘Cleaners. The maids. New ones coming in, so no one knows them, no one misses them.’ Victor touched his cheeks. ‘Have you marked me? Did you mark my face?’
Gabriel shook his head.
‘The restaurant manager,’ said Victor, ‘he shows them photos. He says, you can earn more money there, working in this bar as a waitress or a dancer, whatever the story is. If they want to dance he shows them photos of dancers. If they want to sing he shows them, look, you can sing like her. I got that job for this girl.’
Yes, thought Gabriel, that would appeal to Gleeson, to use Charlie’s photograph like that. It would give him a kick. When had he started to use it? Right away after the staff night out? Or later, when they had begun their slide into warfare?
‘And then?’ he said. ‘What happens?’ He knew how this story would go now, but he wanted to hear Victor tell it.
‘In his smart suit, telling lies.’
‘Yes, Gleeson, a good frontman, they’d believe him. They’d be scared of Ivan. And then?’
‘That woman who’s in charge of housekeeping? I don’t know her name …’
‘Branka.’
‘Looks like one mean dude. If you saw her in a movie it’d be when they’d just checked into a hostel and the receptionist comes through the wall with a chainsaw. She’d be the receptionist, yeah.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gabe. ‘Go on.’
‘She brings them in. Selects them nice and fresh. Knows who’s legal and illegal, who’s desperate for money, who’s got friends here who’d give a shit if they go AWOL, you checking me?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Gabe. ‘And then what? What happens next?’
‘I’m not scared of that motherfucker,’ said Victor, jutting his chin. ‘I’ll tell the whole fucking world.’
‘Start with me,’ said Gabe.
‘Ivan, like, introduces them to the club, the bar, the whatever, that’s the line. He takes them, he sells them like meat, man, two dollars a kilo.’
‘He pimps them himself or he sells them to a pimp?’
Victor picked up his hat, stood and straightened himself. He ran a hand through his hair to make it stand up in cocky rows. ‘How should I know? I told you what I know.’
‘Well, you seem to know a lot,’ said Gabriel. ‘Were you in on it? Were you?’ Gabriel sprang to his feet. He punched a beef loin that lolled on a hook.
‘Fuck you, man.’
‘What makes you so sure, then?’
‘They picked the wrong girl. My friend from back home, but she didn’t tell no one she knew me. Two days before, one of the other maids told her she was taking this new job, waitressing, Ivan arranged it and the money was very good. Then they brought my friend and talked to her early in the morning, they said look at this great opportunity but you have to go now, today.’
‘So she didn’t have time to think.’
‘Yeah, but my friend she came and talked to me and I said, no, let me check it out first. I went to this place, this club, and – guess what – they weren’t hiring, they didn’t know Gleeson or Ivan.’
‘And the first girl? The one who took the job?’
Victor clicked his fingers. ‘Gone. Like that.’
‘What about your friend? Is she here? Can I talk to her? Would she talk to me?’
‘You think she hung around here? Jeez.’ Victor had recovered his self-esteem. He measured up his reflection in a glass case, coming on to himself.
‘It’s all speculation,’ said Gabriel, drifting between carcasses. ‘We don’t know anything.’
‘Think about it,’ said Victor. ‘It’s a beautiful system. You’ve got a ready-made supply of girls. None of that business about getting them away from home, smuggling them, all that shit. Less hassle, less expense, feed them through, get paid. Who’s gonna care?’
‘But there’s no proof,’ said Gabriel, shivering, finally feeling how cold it was.
Victor opened the door of the walk-in. ‘Like I told you before. First time you brought me in for interrogation.’
‘What?’
‘You’re better off not knowing. So why’d you even ask?’
He hunted Gleeson down to a meeting room in the marketing suite. He told the others to get out.
‘Oh dear,’ said Gleeson, smirking, ‘have we forgotten our medication today?’
Gabriel kicked Pierre’s chair. ‘Go on. Clear off.’ The bar manager stood up and clenched his fists.
The marketing executives drew breath audibly.
Gleeson, smiling tightly, said, ‘I think the sentiment that Chef is trying to express is, would you excuse us, please?’
When they were alone, Gabriel prowled the length of the table and back again.
‘Well,’ said Gleeson, adjusting his cuffs, ‘I don’t mean to pry, but what is all this about?’
‘I know,’ said Gabe.
Gleeson cocked his head. ‘Know?’
‘I know everything,’ said Gabe fervently, extending his fingertips to the ceiling.
‘And might I enquire as to the nature of this enlightenment? Is it Damascene?’
‘I know about the photographs. I know what you do with them.’
Gleeson straightened his papers. ‘Much as I’d love to play this parlour game …’
He was about to get to his feet but in a bound Gabriel reached him and pushed him back into his chair. Gabriel swung the chair round and held the arms, trapping Gleeson, staring into his pale blue eyes.
‘Do you deny it?’ said Gabriel. ‘Do you?’
‘I neither confirm nor deny. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Neither, I suspect, do you.’
Gabriel could see nothing in Gleeson’s eyes except the sparkle of self-righteousness. It flowed through the iris like a cleaning fluid, scouring out everything else.
‘I know about the girls. I’ve seen you. Branka brings them. For fuck’s sake, I’ve seen.’
Gleeson began to hiss. ‘You are in my personal space.’
Gabriel leaned in closer. He smelt fabric conditioner, hair dye and fear. ‘I know what Ivan does with them. I know where you’re spending the next ten years.’
Gleeson raised his foot and kicked Gabriel’s knee so that the chair went spinning back on its wheels. He slithered out of his seat. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’
‘But it’s you, you evil fuck, you persuade them to go with him.’
‘If you ever, ever …’ Gleeson sprayed the words like poison over the room. He stopped, pulled back his top lip in a sneer and shook his head. ‘You are, quite clearly, mad.’ He laughed. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘I’m going to …’
‘Do go on. You’re going to what?’
Gabriel’s jaw became locked.
‘You don’t know anything,’ said Gleeson, coolly. ‘Perhaps you’ve been hallucinating, it’s quite possible.’
‘I’m going to … I’m going to …’ Gabriel’s arm jerked. He struck the table again and again. His other arm flew up to the back of his head. His whole body trembled and bucked with exertion, trying to halt his flailing arms.
‘As I was saying,’ said Gleeson, blowing a speck of dust from his sleeve, ‘I’ve had quite enough of your insane insinuations. And while the substance of your allegations remains, it must be said, somewhat hazy, they are, of course, entirely slanderous. Should you take it upon yourself to repeat them, I shall be forced to complain most vociferously to the management, although I will naturally cite the mitigating circumstances of your deteriorating mental health.’
Gabriel finally wrenched his arms out of their contortions and immediately held tightly on to one with the other so that he was more or less hugging himself.
Gleeson flicked his tongue around his lips. ‘Since you don’t seem to know, Chef, what it is that you’re going to do, permit me to make a suggestion. Take some time off, have a little break, check yourself into a clinic. You may not have noticed, but you appear to be ha
ving some sort of ghastly nervous breakdown.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, WITH THE DOOR CLOSED AND THE BLIND still lowered, Gabriel skimmed from corner to corner, failing to find purchase anywhere.
Gleeson thought he was so clever, trying to turn the tables like that, threatening him with … with something which was no longer clear in Gabriel’s mind, and which seemed, in consequence, all the more terrible. Gabriel raged silently.
Yes, he was furious. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? It was an outrage, the situation with the air-conditioning. Why hadn’t it been fixed? He was under enough stress as it was. He would not blame Lena, although of course she … He took off his chef’s coat and slung it on the chair. He missed Charlie so much, their relationship was dead and he’d had no time to grieve. But it was Gleeson, that bastard, don’t get distracted, Gleeson was the one. Gleeson would get what was coming to him. It was much too hot. He stripped off his T-shirt. Gleeson could threaten whatever he liked. Gabriel did not even care. He floated above it all because he was leaving this place soon.
He’d promised Rolly a revised spreadsheet now that the final building costs were in. There was a fuck of a lot to do and he’d get down to it right away. Was it Wednesday today? The PanCont charity gala was on Saturday night and he’d barely begun to make plans. He took his trousers off and sat down.
Now he was ready to work. He opened up the spreadsheet. His mobile rang. He saw from the screen it was Jenny but he would have to call her back later or he’d never get anything done.
Lightfoot’s would be the place to go. He’d have his own place, finally. Nothing better than making a place your own, chef patron, stamp your own personality, just like Fairweather said.
He whittled at the figures. That was realistic. Or maybe not. Who knew? Who could tell? What was his personality, anyway? And if he didn’t know what it was, how could he stamp it anywhere?
But he was wasting time. He jumped up, away from his desk, almost falling over in his haste. He had to get to the pastry kitchen, had to see Chef Albert and brief him about the gala now, this instant, straight away.
‘Bienvenu,’ said Chef Albert, wrapping an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders. ‘No formalities – bravo! We are all friends, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Listen,’ said Gabriel, urgently. It appeared to be bedlam in here. He might have to sort it out himself. He picked up a tray of choux pastry puffs and began tipping them into the bin.
‘Sit down,’ said Chef Albert, positioning a stool and pushing Gabriel down on to it. ‘Sit down, my friend. You are tired, no?’
Gabriel admitted as much with a sigh.
‘Energy drink,’ said Chef Albert, handing Gabe a can. He opened another for himself. ‘Gives you wings, like zis.’ He flapped his elbows and ran around in a tight circle. ‘Heh, heh, don’t drink more than three. Four at the most. If you are very sleepy have another one or two.’
Albert’s assistant giggled behind his hand.
Chef Albert brandished a rolling pin. ‘In ze anus,’ he promised gleefully.
The assistant retreated behind a barricade of ciabatta rolls and sourdough baguettes.
Chef Albert pulled up another stool and sat with Gabriel at the marble counter. ‘I too feel zis exhaustion,’ he declared. ‘My new girlfriend, she is thirty years old. Mon dieu!’
Gabriel finished his drink. Chef Albert handed him another can. At these close quarters Chef Albert’s skin was biscuity, his nose was iced with pink, and his eyes, which once had been deep and sorrowful, were only two burnt currants embedded in his head.
‘Well, I’m sure,’ said Gabriel. ‘But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about food.’
‘Our first love,’ cried Chef Albert. ‘We will talk of nothing else. My maman, God rest ’er soul, was from Dordogne and she ’ave teach me what she love – confit, truffle, fois gras. And my papa, God rest ’is soul, was from Brittany, and from ’im I ’ave learn about ze seafood. One time we went to the river and – zis will make you laugh – ’ He slapped the counter and laughed helplessly.
‘What we need …’ began Gabriel.
‘Yes, yes,’ roared Chef Albert. ‘What we need – to relax, to laugh … You are always welcome in my kitchen. One time we went to the river …’ He broke off as the assistant approached, a question on his lips. ‘Get back!’ shouted Chef Albert, waving his arms. ‘Men are talking. Go back.
‘I was twenty-three and twenty-four,’ he continued, ‘when I was in military service in Africa. Two years in Ivory Coast and Senegal. I ’ave learn so much. In Senegal, they ’ave a dish with rice and vegetables and fried fish, and you eat from a big pot on the floor and you roll your sleeve, like zis, and when ze oil runs down to ze elbow it is – ’ He smacked his lips. ‘Perfect. And – zis is very funny – one day zey gave me some hot chilli chutney and I ’ave dip a prawn and – incroyable – like fire on my tongue and this mama comes …’ He broke off once more to throw a wholegrain roll at the assistant who again had wandered too close. ‘She says, I ’elp you, and we went to ze coconut tree and then … but you need another drink.’ He jumped up. When he sat back down he began another story, about Corsica, which he did not complete before moving off into another anecdote.
The assistant looked on from a safe distance. Every time Gabriel glanced over he caught him staring. Gabriel frowned back.
For another twenty minutes he sat there half listening to Chef Albert’s half-told tales. He drank another two cans. At the back of his mind there was a notion, increasingly dim, that he had come here to discuss something in particular. When his legs finally stirred themselves and he stood up he tried once more to rake up what that particular matter might be. He could not remember but about this he felt no sense of failure. On the contrary, his load was lightened, as if he had accomplished something. If anyone was going bonkers around here it was not Gabriel, it was Chef Albert.
‘We are free spirits, no?’ cried Chef Albert, grabbing Gabriel as he rose.
Gabriel, at the clammy feel of the hand on his skin, looked down.
‘Liberté, égalité, nudité,’ shouted Chef Albert, removing his white coat as Gabriel, in his socks and boxer shorts, padded swiftly out of range.
The main kitchen, between shifts, was deserted and Gabriel made it back to his cubicle without being seen. He dressed himself. At least he wasn’t sweating now. At least he had cooled down. In fact it had been a good idea to sit chilling in pastry for a while. Was he ever one for following petty conventions? No, he had always gone his own way. He scratched the back of his head with both hands. He scratched until it hurt. He looked at his fingernails. They were covered in blood.
Damn it, why was everything turning against him? Why? What had he done to deserve it? He hadn’t done anything. He was a good man. Basically, in his heart, where it counted, he was good. All he had ever done in his entire life was work hard, stay on the straight and narrow, and be as decent as he could. Well, fuck it, fuck them, and fuck it all. Gabriel leaned against the wall so that his arm was trapped. He felt the blood trickle down the back of his neck.
He worked himself into the space between the filing cabinet and the wall. This was a good place to think. Ha! He was resourceful. He was resilient. He was disciplined. He’d show everyone.
Strength of character, that was what it took. He had it, and in spades. He stared at the cracked plaster in the corner. Pins and needles in his arms.
Was he disciplined? Was he resourceful? What evidence did he have?
He pushed his weight on to the filing cabinet until it budged a millimetre or two.
If there were one, just one way he’d describe himself, it would be thoughtful. He never rushed into things.
Although with Lena, he had to admit, events had overtaken him.
Something surged and sucked back inside him, like a tide that was going out. He needed to know now, and he needed to know urgently, what he was. He grabbed at words. Fair. He was fair, oh yes, everyo
ne said so, everyone knew it. He was fair and he was reasonable. That was him. A perfect description. Above all, he was a reasonable man. Maybe not this morning with Oona, no, that was out of character. He wasn’t really like that.
What he was … though it was hard to think with the pain in his arm and the pain in his head … he was really … to everyone close to him … and he included … the main thing about him … loyal … oh, damn it … fun, funny … for Christ’s sake … he knew what he was.
He was empty. The tide was far from shore.
For a few minutes he hung his head, his legs felt loose, and the only thing keeping him upright was being wedged between the filing cabinet and the wall.
What am I? he thought. What am I? The question pinged round and round plaintively until, firing faster and faster, it took on a sharper edge. What am I? What am I? A nobody? A nothing? A zero? Am I a hollow man? He was angry. He was furious. He backed out of the hole into which he had forced himself. He rubbed his arms to get the circulation started again.
Gabriel paced the office floor. What was he? Was he a man without qualities? A man about whom nothing could be said? No, he was somebody. He knew who he was.
He had cooked in a two-star restaurant in Paris. At the age of only twenty-four he had run a London restaurant with a friend. He had cooked in Austria, in Switzerland, in Brighton and Lyon. He had worked at the Savoy. He was somebody. He pulled up the blind and sat at his desk to survey his domain. He was somebody. He lacked only the right words. With a shaking hand he pressed the message button on the telephone. He listened and then played it again and once again. You are through to the office of Gabriel Lightfoot, executive chef of the Imperial Hotel.
‘That’s me,’ said Gabe, out loud. ‘That’s my telephone, this is my office and that is me.’
The next moment he was seized by a new idea. It seemed to enter not so much his mind as his body, making him jump up and run out.
He couldn’t describe himself. He couldn’t see his own face. He would have to ask someone else.
‘Suleiman,’ he said, panting with excitement. ‘Suleiman, if you had to describe me in three words, what would you say?’