Harlequin

by Morris West

  ‘Not until they prove it, Karl.’

  ‘But do they want to, eh? I have never heard so much complicated law in my life. If you are rich in this country, you can almost rewrite the codex; and the authorities help you to do it.’

  ‘Only when it suits them, Karl – and in today’s climate it does. How do you find George?’

  He was suddenly grave and quiet. ‘I told you once there was a weakness in him. No more! He is hard as granite. He listens. He thinks. He decides. After that, nothing will budge him. Yanko is sorry he ever met him.’

  ‘But they will settle?’

  ‘Oh, yes I But they must do it with decorum. Harlequin needs that if he is to restore his place in the market. It is not enough to win. He must win magnanimously. I have told him. So has Herbert Bachmann.’

  ‘Did he agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He said: “Karl, I am a very good actor. People will believe what they think they see. Everyone will be satisfied except myself.”’

  Hilde slid off the settee, padded across the room in her stockinged feet, threw her arms round my neck and whispered, ‘Paul, for the love of God, rescue me from this klumpen!’

  Saul Wells followed her, only to be snaffled by Karl Kruger, who clapped a great hand on his wrist and commanded:

  ‘I want to talk to you, Mr Wells! I hear you are a very clever man on security. What’s that, my friend? Security for what against whom…?’

  Hilde trapped me in the comer of the bar, clutched my hand and demanded to know:

  ‘Paul, what are you going to do about Suzanne? She’s locked like a nun in that damned hotel. She hammers all day at the typewriter. She looks at George Harlequin with those big doe eyes and says, “Yes, sir. No, sir,” and he wouldn’t know if she were talking Sanskrit! God in heaven! Such a waste! I don’t like women; but she’s one of the good ones. Listen, schatz! We all go sour and get wrinkled! Don’t waste your good years. Don’t waste hers, either!’

  ‘Hilde, sweetheart, I’ve already asked her to marry me. She says she wants time.’

  ‘Paul, you’re a bigger klumpen than that one! No woman wants time. Without a man, she doesn’t know what to do with it. Look at Karl there. He’s too fat, too old and one day he’ll drop dead on the way to the office – but I love him. When he goes, I’ll shrink up like a winter apple.’

  ‘Hilde, I love you; but you’re drunk!’

  ‘I love you, schatz; but you’re too sober for your own good. When are you seeing Suzy again?’

  ‘Tonight – if I can clear you all out of here.’

  ‘Then tell her! Don’t ask! Just say, “Now or never.” And if she argues, send her home and call me. Karl! On your feet! Paul has guests. You, too, Mr Wells. Out… out…! And for you, my Paul, when it’s settled, call me, give me your pocket-book and I’ll bring you back the prettiest bride you ever saw… God! How stupid you men are! Mr Wells, bring me my shoes. Karl, you great oaf, we’re going – now l’

  They went, with a flurry of farewells, in a cloud of cigar-smoke and whisky fumes. I hurried to shave and shower and dress, while Takeshi, muttering ominously, set about airing and tidying the room. Forty minutes later, it was fresh and tranquil as a temple garden. The table was set, the cocktails were mixed, the candles were glowing, and Oistrakh was playing Beethoven, but Suzanne had still not arrived.

  She was an hour late, run ragged and near to tears. She hadn’t changed. Her hair was a mess. She had brought clothes and makeup in an overnight bag. She needed another hour to bathe and change. Takeshi, noble son of the Samurai, assured her that dinner could be served at midnight if she wanted. I made her two drinks and gloated secretly, while she poured out the woes of a horrible, horrible day.

  The morning had been filled with bank business – Larry Oliver’s severance, a long conference with Standish, cables from Geneva and the foreign branches, market reports, clients’ problems, currency movements, frantic phone calls to place orders and take commissions from Europe. In the afternoon, Milo Frohm had come, hot-foot from London; which meant she had to twiddle her thumbs while George Harlequin and he were closeted for two hours. Baby Paul had developed a colic, which meant chasing a doctor and soothing a pair of French grand-parents. Then at five-thirty – surely, this must be the most uncivilised country in the world! – at five-thirty there was a conference between Harlequin and Yanko, with their attorneys, and she had to wait again until the notes were ready, take them in shorthand, type them in rough and retype again with half an hour’s emendations… And at the end of it all, George had gone off without a word of thanks or apology. It was all too much. She could hardly wait until… until…

  I didn’t ask what would happen then. I shut her into the bedroom and left her to repair the ravages of the day, while I read a little more of Dag Hammarskjold and Takeshi sang, tunelessly, over his pots and skillets.

  Dinner was easy. Eat, drink, listen to the music, make a compliment to Takeshi, whenever he stuck his head around the door. We didn’t talk very much, because the words got in the way of the harmony. It was simple to smile and touch hands and look at each other and smile again and raise a glass and sip the dry wine of brief contentment. Afterwards, when Takeshi was gone, and we were curled up, comfortable as cats in the half-dark, I asked:

  ‘Are you staying tonight?’

  ‘I came prepared – if you don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s what it’s about, sweetheart – not having to go home.’

  ‘I hurt you, chéri. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And I lost my head. I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘Paul, do you ever think of Julie?’

  ‘In the daytime, no. Sometimes I have nightmares, seeing her in the alley, in the hospital, and myself tied down and not being able to get to her. Why do you ask?’

  ‘The night we were at Francis Mendoza’s, we made love and you fell asleep. I was awake, a long time after. You talked in your sleep. You were calling her name, not mine. It haunted me… Then, when George asked me to stay at the Salvador, I was delighted. I had all sorts of girlish fantasies: he would wake up, lonely, in the night and come to me; I would hear him, restless and muttering in the dark and go to him… The first nights, I lay awake for hours, waiting, hoping… Nothing happened. That was why I quarrelled with you. The next night I dreamed of him, as you must have dreamed of Julie. He was there, but I couldn’t reach him. Then, I was free, but he was gone… When I woke up, it was all over – finished, done. I came here the next night very late. You were out. I pushed the note under your door. Silly, isn’t it? We dream of other people and we can’t bear to be away from each other!’

  ‘Sweetheart, we’ve done a lot of living – I more than you. We can’t wipe it out. We shouldn’t try. It’s what makes us rich for ourselves and other people. Who’s interested in a book full of blank pages? We all have phantom lovers. We all have golden dreams – and black ones, too – but, in the dreams, we’re shades chasing shadows. When we wake up…’

  ‘That’s what worries me, chéri. What happens when we wake up?’

  ‘We look for the known face, the familiar smile. We touch the known body, smell it, taste it, comfort ourselves against it. The knowing is necessary to the loving. Without it, we have no certainty even that we are ourselves. We dream might-have-beens; but we come back grateful for what is, and who is. We can’t mate with ghosts. There’s no substance in them and no warmth at all… Hell! I’m talking like a penny philosopher.’

  ‘I wish you’d said it all long ago.’

  ‘I didn’t know it then… Or perhaps I did and was too proud to say it. Suzy love, let’s not wait any longer. Tell me “yes” and let’s start making a proper life together. Time’s wasting and so are we.’

  ‘One question, Paul: the last, I promise. Can we stay close to George until this is over?’

  ‘We can and we will.’

  ‘Then, yes, my love… Yes!… Oh, chéri, it feels good to be home.’

  It was strange: there was no drama in the moment at all. It was s
imple and calm and easy, like sliding under the lee of the land, out of the wind, out of the swing of the sea. We could still hear the storm; we could see the black clouds scudding over the hill-tops; but we were safe in haven and able, at last, to spare a prayer for other poor sailormen.

  In the morning, we went to the Salvador together and told George Harlequin. He said he was happy for both of us, grateful that Suzy would wait until his affairs in New York were settled. He asked where and when we were getting married. We told him we would wait until we were all back in Geneva, to celebrate the event together. He was dubious about that. His plans were uncertain. We should make our arrangements without reference to him. If he could be with us, he would be delighted, of course.

  When I asked him when he thought to conclude with Yanko, he lapsed into vagueness: very soon, a week, perhaps a little longer. There were still questions to settle with Milo Frohm. He didn’t say what they were. I didn’t ask him. I decided I had the right to ask Milo Frohm myself. I called him from the lobby phone. He said he could spare me an hour before lunch and would be prepared, if not exactly happy, to meet me at my apartment. The preamble proved more awkward than I had anticipated.

  ‘…Mr Frohm, I find myself in a difficult position. As you know, I have no longer any legal status in Harlequin’s affairs. My personal position has changed, too. He has made it clear that he doesn’t want me to be further involved. However, I’m still his friend and I’m worried about him. I’d like to talk to you, off the record. Do you have any objections?’

  ‘None. Just so you understand that I have to reserve certain information.’

  ‘I understand that. I accept it.’

  ‘What’s your problem, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘If I try to define it, I’ll do it badly. Let’s start with the fact that George has lost his wife and been through a brutal experience with his child. He’s locked himself away in a kind of private hell…’

  ‘And you’d like to get him out of it.’

  ‘I’m scared of what he may do while he’s in it.’

  ‘Go on, Mr Desmond.’

  ‘I know that a settlement is being arranged with Basil Yanko. It was I who set down the first terms.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now I don’t see how it’s going to work. I fear it may be the prelude to a worse tragedy than any we have yet seen.’

  Milo Frohm lingered over the thought but did not reject it. He began a cautious, sidling explanation:

  ‘…Let’s talk about the settlement – which is not, in fact, a settlement, but a very touchy deal… I don’t like it. I’m under pressure to make it. Harlequin doesn’t like it either; but he’s under bigger pressure… Neither of us has any doubt that Yanko is behind everything that has happened. Some things we can prove, others we can’t. Some we might prove; but only after long investigation and possibly abortive legal procedures. Anything and everything we do has acute political consequences… Justice is the least of our concerns, because it is impossible to dispense. We can’t bring back the dead. What, therefore, we are trying to achieve is an illusion that justice has been done by a mutual compromise outside the courts. Now, I think that’s wrong. It discredits the law. It weakens public order, which, as of this moment, rests on a very frail apparatus of enforcement. However, I am a man under authority. I investigate, report and advise. I cannot determine action. In fact, I am being forced to bow to contrary opinion; which says that if you can’t make a charge stick, you mustn’t file it; that it’s better to tolerate a criminal in a high place, than prove, publicly, that you are impotent against him. The theory is that you erode his power but don’t confront it… The consequence of that course is that you complete the divorce between politics and morals – and in the end, you pay a hell of a price for it.’

  ‘Don’t you also pervert the law, Mr Frohm?’

  ‘That’s not quite accurate, Mr Desmond. It would be more correct to say that you use the law perversely. Example: Pedro Galvez’s confession. It’s an authentic document. Take it to court and the defence will, quite properly, attack its credibility. In our position, all we need say is that we think it won’t stand up in court. Nothing illegal in that. Harlequin and the Republic are plaintiffs. They have free choice in the evidence they present – even in a murder case. We’re not saying that Yanko is immune from prosecution now or at some further date. We’re simply writing down the value of our own evidence…’

  ‘Against a hefty cash settlement by Yanko. Which is bribery.’

  ‘It would be, if it were expressed as a consideration. It is, in fact, expressed as a voluntary reparation of damage…’

  ‘Caused by criminal conspiracy…’

  ‘…On the part of employees, whom Mr Harlequin generously declines to prosecute.’

  ‘And that’s the end of it?’

  ‘You know it isn’t, Mr Desmond. It depends on a whole combination of political attitudes, market pressures and legal manoeuvres to make it viable. It requires a conspiracy of silence to make it stick.’

  ‘Misprision of a felony, in fact.’

  ‘Which is a hell of a thing to prove. I tried once and got torn to shreds… No, Mr Desmond – if we make the deal, we have to make it stick.’

  ‘It won’t. It’s wide-open at both ends. Yanko gets a suspension of threat, not a total immunity. And George Harlequin gets money for a dead wife. I don’t believe either man can or will be satisfied.’

  ‘Yanko’s under the gun. He’ll accept.’

  ‘And George Harlequin will accept, too; but.’

  ‘But what, Mr Desmond?’

  From this point, I was walking on eggs; and we both knew it.

  I said, carefully, ‘I am suggesting or dreaming or inventing the next step – another deal, under which Yanko is removed and George Harlequin gets immunity.’

  Again the thought was familiar to him. This time he stepped round it. ‘And that would worry you, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘It would destroy the man who has been my friend for twenty years.’

  ‘But, according to your invention, he would be immune.’

  ‘Never from himself, Mr Frohm… Now, we’re alone and off the record. In your view, is it possible the dream might come true?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And you, as an officer of the law, would agree to it?’

  ‘No. I have said only that it may happen.’

  ‘If Harlequin were your friend…’

  ‘He is, Mr Desmond. We have become very close. I have the greatest admiration for him.’

  ‘Have you attempted to dissuade him from this next step?’

  ‘I have pointed out the risks of it.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘We have agreed on a principle. It was enunciated by one George Mason, delegate of Virginia, at the drafting of the United States Constitution: “Shall any man be above justice? Above all, shall that man be above it who can commit the most extensive injustice…?”’

  ‘George Harlequin has talked murder.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Milo Frohm evenly. ‘And to you – if you have properly understood him – in private and in the heat of passion… You’ve been very frank. I take that as a compliment. I’ll try to return it. I’ll convey your concern to George Harlequin.’

  ‘That’s a very careful phrase, Mr Frohm.’

  ‘I’m a careful man,’ said Milo Frohm, with a grin. ‘I have to be. I’m walking on the high-wire. I’d like to be an instrument of justice. I’m paid as an agent of the law – which isn’t the same thing at all, at all…’

  He left me puzzling on that sinister riddle and searching vainly for clues to solve it. In New York it was midday. In California, it was nine in the morning. I called Francis Xavier Mendoza and told him the good news about Suzanne and myself. He was cheered beyond words. He would be in New York on Saturday and he would organise a dinner to celebrate our betrothal. I laughed at the old-fashioned word. He said he liked it even better in Spanish – esponsales – espousal. He might even be moved
to make a song about it to be sung at the dinner. He would telephone his New York distributor to reserve the wines. The menu he would design, personally, and with great joy…

  …And how was my friend? He had seen the whole horror of the kidnapping. He had prayed every night for a merciful solution… He understood my present fears. Perhaps, when he came to New York, he could meet George Harlequin. I thought it would be a fruitful idea… I, myself, had run out of strategy and he had no grace at all to lend or spend. Mendoza reproved me and told me I was the most blessed of men. I should stay close to Harlequin and continue to ask questions. I should hold Suzanne like a precious jewel and ask no questions at all… He was sure we would soon share that one precious bottle.

  I wished I had a grain of his faith. I was convinced that George Harlequin was hell-bent on self-destruction.

  On the Wednesday of that week, Basil Yanko issued a statement which was published, verbatim, in the financial press:

  …The offer made by Creative Systems Incorporated to purchase Harlequin et Cie is now withdrawn. Recent newspaper comment, and a series of tragic events involving Mr George Harlequin and his family, have created a climate unfavourable to the proposed merger and damaging to the interests of all parties. Investigations by law-enforcement agencies in various countries have revealed grave defects in the security of the computer services supplied by Creative Systems to Harlequin et Cie. These defects have now been remedied and Creative Systems have accepted liability for the loss and the damage sustained by their valued clients. An agreement to discharge this liability by a substantial cash payment will be signed by Mr Basil Yanko and Mr George Harlequin at the end of this week. The agreement will terminate all litigation pending between the two parties.

  The statement was followed by a careful editorial comment. It praised the good sense of both men and the restraint with which they had conducted a difficult negotiation. It commended ‘the frankness with which mistakes had been recognised and the promptness with which legitimate claims had been settled’. It stressed the value of ‘co-operation between law-enforcement agencies and all those concerned for the integrity of business practice’. It predicted ‘an immediate rise in the share value of Creative Systems and a new respect for Harlequin et Cie in the field of international investment’. When you wiped off the eyewash, you read it as a profound sigh of relief and a plea not to foul up a market which was already in a hell of a mess.