“Not even if we consider Measure Nine?” said van Wyk.
“Is the public good being jeopardised? As yet, no. The public doesn’t even know about this incident yet, so its ‘good’ cannot be said to be under threat. It would be a different matter if, for some reason related to the shinju, Foreigners began deserting the city. Then, under Nine, we would have the right to take more drastic preventative steps. But the Audit Bureau hasn’t logged a sudden dramatic fall in Foreign population density, has it?”
Quesnel shook her head.
“Then there we are,” Parry said decisively. “Nine is invalid.”
And just as well. Of all the measures of the Constitution, Nine was the one with the most potential for abuse. Within its wording – its reference to the somewhat nebulous notion of the general wellbeing of the resort-city community – it had the power to undo the strictures of the other eight. Proposed by the FPP Council and ratified by the UN for addition to the Constitution as a direct consequence of the Koh Farang débacle, Nine was a classic case of a statute cobbled together in an emergency, one that had not been thoroughly thought-through, more flaw than law.
“But all this still assumes that the incident was a double suicide,” said van Wyk.
“Indeed.”
“And if it was a double murder? If the perpetrator is still lurking within the city? What about that?”
“Then we track the guilty party down using whatever means the Constitution allows, and when we find whoever it is we turn him over to the mainland authorities. They may not have any jurisdiction here, but the UN will issue a special cross-border mandate for prosecution. No one gets away with murder, even in a resort-city.”
“But you really don’t believe it was murder, do you?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“So while you prevaricate, or as you put it ‘keep an open mind’, a murderer could even as we speak be boarding an airship, getting away scot-free. Worse, he could still be here, planning his next outrage.”
“If the perpetrator were intending to leave the city, he would be long gone by now,” Parry said. “In which case we’re too late anyway.”
“And you’re content just to let this happen?”
“Like I said, there are limits. A resort-city is not a conventional city and we are not a conventional police force.”
“More’s the pity.”
“No. No.” Parry could feel his temper rising, and his voice with it. He told himself to remain calm. Van Wyk’s intention was obvious. In order to persuade Quesnel that the investigation would be better off in his hands, he was trying to provoke Parry into an irritable outburst and so make him appear unfit for the task. Parry refused to give him the satisfaction of succeeding. “On the contrary: so much the better. That is what makes a resort-city special. It’s outside the jurisdiction of any nation and it has few laws of its own. It operates on the principle of trust.” He tapped his badge. “Trust between people. Trust between humans and Foreigners. Trust between the city’s inhabitants and the FPP. And it works.”
“It works until that trust is abused.”
“And that’s what we’re here for. To make sure it isn’t abused. Not through the powers we have, which we all know are limited. Simply by our presence. People here know that, and Foreigners, I’m sure, are aware of it too. You’ve probably heard me say this before, but resort-cities seem to me to be, aside from everything else, an experiment. They’re prototypes of the way every country in the world could one day be run, watched over by a force of men and women like you and me and the commissioner whose purpose is to serve as figureheads. If that system works here and in other resort-cities, then people will see that it might work elsewhere. And one day perhaps even figureheads won’t be necessary. One day, thanks to us, police forces and armies and systems of authority will be things of the past.”
“Your idealism is highly commendable, Parry,” said van Wyk. “It is also entirely disproved by the present circumstances. And I have to disagree with you about the FPP. Where you see figureheads, I see watchdogs without teeth. We’re fine, we do the job we’re supposed to, until we need to bite. Then we’re utterly ineffective.”
“But I don’t believe that we do need to bite, or ever will. And I believe that this incident isn’t anywhere near as sinister as you seem to think it is.”
“Believe, or hope?”
Parry, to his own surprise, hesitated before answering. “Believe.”
“You’re staking quite a lot on this optimism of yours.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“Then you’re either a far better man than I, or a fool.”
Parry flashed a quick smile. “I think we both know the answer to that one, van Wyk.”
“Oh, I hope we do, Parry, I hope we do.”
“OK, boys, that’s enough,” Quesnel said firmly. “I’m sure we all feel better for having gotten some stuff off our chests, but the problem remains. We have a dead Siren and a lost Foreigner and we’re still not entirely clear how they wound up that way in a hotel room together. Now, Jack. As you know, I spoke with the FPP Council and Mr al-Shadhuli yesterday. The conclusion we reached between us is that the FPP can’t continue to sit on this incident much longer. I know Measure Seven gives us sixty days, but the Council, the NACA Liaison and I all feel that long before then somebody – somebody who works at the Amadeus, somebody from the forensics laboratories at Tangiers, maybe even somebody within our own ranks – will have spilled the beans to the media. Measure Seven is designed to make the FPP transparent in its dealings, and that’s a good thing. Trouble is, whenever we make use of the sixty-day provision, we end up looking secretive, all the more so with an incident as disturbing as the one we have here. For which reason, the Council has instructed me to make a formal statement to the local media.”
Parry stifled a groan. “When?”
“The Council were pressing for today. I managed to get them to agree to Thursday morning, first thing. I thought you could do with the couple of extra days.”
“I could. I’m grateful.”
“Now, how sure are you about this shinju thing? Because if the idea does have some foundation, then that can only be good. Better than the alternative, anyhow.”
“I can think of a couple of people it might be useful to talk to.”
“Excellent. Then talk to them.”
“Céleste...”
Quesnel swivelled her head to fix her glittering blue gaze on van Wyk. “Yes, Ray?”
Van Wyk was on the point of lodging an objection, but then appeared to think better of it. “No. Nothing.”
“No, if you want to say something...”
“No, you’ve made your decision. Far be it from me to quibble.”
“Then that’s settled. Jack, I will of course need a full report of your findings. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. That OK?”
Parry signed ACCEPTANCE and stood up to go. As he did so, he caught van Wyk’s eye. The Afrikaner had a sullen look about him that was in marked contrast to the smugness he had been exuding earlier when Parry came in. He glared at Parry, nodding his head shallowly and rhythmically, his eyes narrowed in cool appraisal.
Parry, feeling triumphant and also feeling guilty about feeling triumphant, left the room.
10. Call and Response
BACK IN HIS office Parry obtained the number for the Conservatorio di Musica Straniera in Rome from the international directory database and dialled it. A receptionist answered in Italian but upon hearing Parry’s “Buon’ giorno, signorina” switched smoothly to English, sensing that the caller had reached the limit of his conversational ability in her language.
“How may I help you, sir?” she enquired.
“I’d like to speak to Professor Franchetti, please.”
“I am sorry, the professor is busy now. Perhaps if you could ring back another time. Or would you prefer to speak to the admissions tutor?”
“My name is Jack Parry. I’m a captain with the New Venice
FPP, and it’s a matter of Foreign Policy that I would like to discuss with Professor Franchetti.”
“Ah. A moment, sir, while I check.”
Check his credentials on her work board, or check whether Franchetti was prepared to talk to him? Probably both, Parry thought. He drummed his fingers on his desk. At least, thank God, he wasn’t being forced to listen to a selection of pop classics or classical pops while he was on hold. The aural torture of call-waiting music had been outlawed under the Fairness In Telecommunications Act, as had automated touch-tone switchboards with their prerecorded messages and their branching, seemingly interminable labyrinths of options.
The receptionist came back on the line. “I will put you through to il professore right away, captain.”
A moment later, a man’s voice said, “Massimo Franchetti here. This is Captain ... Parry? Did I get that right?”
“Quite right, professor. Jack Parry, New Venice FPP. Is this an inconvenient moment to talk?”
“No. But you must forgive if my English is not so good.”
“Your English sounds infinitely better than my Italian.”
“Ha! You are kind to say so.”
With a few surreptitious keystrokes Parry summoned up a digital still of his interlocutor. No doubt Franchetti was doing the same at his end of the line. The founder and senior tutor of the Conservatorio, if his caller-ID picture was current, was perhaps ten years Parry’s senior, with a pugilist’s face, ribbed and scowly, reminiscent of a clenched fist. His eyebrows were bushy and black, and his hair was silvery and swept back in a thick, leonine mane. Parry had observed that it was common for middle-aged men who were untouched by the blight of baldness to wear their hair like this, long and bouffant, as if to drive home the point that they possessed in abundance what the majority of their peers lacked. Not that this was a sensitive topic with him or anything.
“And how may I help the FPP, captain?” Franchetti asked.
“It’s about a former pupil of yours. Daryl Henderson.”
“Daryl Henderson, Daryl Henderson... Ah, of course. Daryl. I remember. He graduate from the Conservatorio two year ago. A bass-baritone. A fine voice, perfect pitch – although he like too much the vibrato. I have to train him to use it – how do you say? – sparingly. Gli Stranieri, they like the vibrato, but it is best saved for the climax. Until then it is like too much chocolate. Too sweet.”
“He was a good student, then?”
“At the Conservatorio we take only the best,” Franchetti said, with both pride and a touch of righteousness. “This is why our fees are high, to keep away the time-wasters. We accept only Sirens who have proved they can earn much money already by singing, and we make them even better. Like a trophy, we give them a polish so that they shine.”
“Forgive me, professor. When I said ‘good’, I meant was he well-behaved?”
“Well-behaved? Daryl? I do not remember that he is not. No, a pleasant boy, Daryl. Friendly. A bit coarse, like many of his countrymen. Rough at the edges, is that not the phrase? But I like him very much. Everybody at the Conservatorio like him.”
“No psychological problems, then.”
“Why, captain? What has he done?”
Parry could see no harm in telling Franchetti a portion of the truth. “I’m sorry to say, professor, that the day before yesterday Daryl Henderson died.”
There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line. Then Franchetti said, “Poor Daryl. I am sorry to hear this.”
“We believe he may killed himself. Would that surprise you?”
“For him to kill himself? Perhaps. Daryl, he is a sensible boy. But then...”
The professor seemed in no hurry to finish the sentence.
“Signor Franchetti?”
“Captain, how much you know about singing?”
“Me personally, not a great deal. Can’t hold a tune to save my life. Voice like a cement mixer. But I imagine you’re referring to singing for Foreigners, in which case the answer is, I’ve a pretty good idea what’s involved.”
“The theory, yes, is very simple. Foreigners love the sound of the human singing voice. It arouse them to a passion. Some say the thrill for them, it is sexual, but I am of the opinion it is spiritual. They are moved by singing in the same way that you or I may be moved by a symphony or a melody. It excite them in the heart, in the soul. And there are certain phrases and techniques which, used skilfully, used judiciously” – Franchetti was satisfied to have hit on this adverb – “will enhance this pleasure for them. This is what we are teaching at the Conservatorio, along with projection from the diaphragm, breath control, the traditional skills. Sometimes my pupils have raw talent but no delicacy, no finesse. That is what they can learn here. Finesse.”
“Forgive me, but how is this relevant to Daryl Henderson?”
“A moment, captain. I come to that. For the Siren, you see, there are many things to learn, many things to remember, and so, many pressures. It is hard work, to sing like that every day. To sing for your supper. Hard on the body, hard on the mind. You must have the fire inside you, which burns in your song. The Foreigners can tell if you do not feel completely what you sing. And always there is the need for approval. Nothing is more important for a Siren than a Foreigner to appreciate your work, and nothing is worse than a Foreigner, when you have finished singing for it, to make the DISAPPOINTMENT with the hands. Many Sirens, they are sensitive. It is an intimate act, singing. Rejection can go deep, like a knife.”
“You mean Henderson could have been failing at his job? Losing his touch?”
“A number of times I have former pupils come back to me and tell me they have no more the ability to sing. Sometimes it is the physical difficulties – the nodules on the throat, that sort of thing. But sometimes it is the mental difficulties. For some reason they cannot delight Foreigners any more. They have no more the feeling for it. The fire is gone. They cannot project any more how they feel into how they sing. They are devastated. Some of them I can help, some I cannot. It is like any artistic talent, you know? Sometimes it will just go away and never return.”
“That’s interesting, professor,” said Parry, “although I have to say that, from all appearances, Daryl Henderson was doing perfectly well as a Siren. If he was losing his knack for singing, his financial circumstances certainly wouldn’t seem to indicate it.”
He could almost hear Franchetti’s shrug. “I simply suggest a reason why a Siren may kill himself, captain. Many Sirens start out well-balanced, but the singing can make them – what is the word? Highly-strung.”
“I understand. Fair enough. Let’s try another tack, then. Do you think that a Siren, in the course of his job, could become inordinately attached to Foreigners? Maybe to one Foreigner in particular?”
“Yes, yes, it has happened. You must know that.”
“Actually, yes, I do. But would you have any idea how it might come about?”
“Hmmmm.”
Parry pictured il professore, half the length of the Mediterranean away, running his fingers ruminatively through his luxuriant silvery locks.
“It is a strange business, singing,” Franchetti said, eventually. “As I told you earlier, it is intimate. Maybe more intimate even than the sexual intercourse. It is the giving, not of body, but of soul. I am a Siren once myself, in the early days. One of the first, as you must know. A pioneer.”
Parry did not know this but said, “Of course,” as if he did.
“I see how Foreigners respond to a good voice and the right techniques, how they twitch, they tremble, they sway. Watching this, making them do this, I feel almost embarrassed, as if I see more than I should. As if I see them bare. Not nude, not like that. As if I see inside them to who they really are. When they listen to singing, the Foreigners show much of themselves, and when you see a creature revealed in that way, exposed in that way, you feel either compassion or contempt. The more gentle Siren, the more sensitive, he will feel compassion. And compassion may develop to some
thing stronger, who knows? The Foreigners are not human, captain. This is an obvious thing to say, but it is important. They are not human – but sometimes we may mistake them for human. I am not sure I make myself clear with this.”
“We see them in human terms, is that what you mean? Anthropomorphise them.”
“Yes, that is the word. A complicated word with a simple meaning. We do it to animals, we do it to Foreigners – interpret their actions according to our own behaving. We cannot help it. This is the way our brains work. And so it is possible that a Siren can think he or she is more deeply involved with a Straniero than is true. It is a question of reading signs, or rather misreading them.”
“Interesting. And might it not be possible for a Foreigner to fall for a human in the same way? As we anthropomorphise them, could they not ... ‘Foreignerise’ us?”
“A good question, and of course one I cannot answer. Can Foreigners deceive themselves just as we humans can? I do not know. Somehow, speculating on such things, it seem to reduce the Foreigners.”
“I agree. It seems to demean them.”
“Demean them, yes! Demean them.” Franchetti chuckled. “I am discovering, Captain Parry, that you are charmed by the Foreigners.”
“I’m afraid I am, a bit,” Parry confessed.
“No! Do not be afraid to be charmed. Never be afraid of that. I giganti aurei have brought back magic to the world. This is a good thing and must be preserved at all costs.”
“And preserving it is what the FPP’s here for, professor.”
Parry was not sure whether Franchetti heard this remark (which, even to his own ears, sounded somewhat glib). Someone at the other end of the line had started talking to the professor in Italian and Franchetti had moved his mouth away from the telephone receiver in order to reply in the same language. A moment later his voice returned, loud and clear again, speaking English. “Captain? I regret that I must go. I have a pupil waiting. Please, I hope that I have been of some help to you.”
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