Language in the Blood
Page 27
Chapter 15: Pavel
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I learned to speak Slovenian?’ I asked George one night as we sat in the living room of The Count Dracula watching football.
‘Let me guess. You got a Slovenian girl drunk, shagged her, drugged her and then acquired Slovenian. You’re very predictable!’ said George, getting up to pour himself another cola.
‘It’s an interesting story actually. And, for once, it isn’t about a girl.’
It was a rare occasion that the three of us spent an evening together, but football managed to get us together in front of the widescreen TV. As a Scot, it was at times difficult to follow my national team. As a Scottish vampire, I would have to suffer the ups – and the many downs – for all eternity. Amongst the three of us, winding up the person who was watching their national team had become a game in itself. For me, it was enough to have Roberto and George in England tops, but the Scottish team itself did a pretty good job of winding me up and many a cushion was destroyed in the course of watching a match. When Colombia played, we got no more inventive than Carlos Valderrama wigs and maracas.
As England was playing in the 2010 World Cup, but neither Colombia nor Scotland were, Roberto and I decided to get a wee bit more creative. Usually, a Germany or Argentina top was enough to get George worked up, but for the first round Roberto thought it would be nice to get USA tops.
Anybody who didn’t know me would have thought getting George a mascot for the world cup was a sweet gesture, but George did, and he wasn’t best pleased. I had managed to procure an English bulldog and had named him Churchill. I had found a little doggy England top and now Churchill waddled around our living room drooling and generally making a nuisance of himself.
George was in a foul mood, as the USA had just managed to equalise before half time and Churchill was trying to get into the bowl of crisps.
‘Can you not get rid of this fucking dog!’ he shouted, as he took a swipe at Churchill.
‘But George!’ whined Roberto and I. Roberto, the little wuss, had quite warmed to the huffing, puffing, drooling bulldog. I was just hoping that such a big, sturdy dog would last me for most of the World Cup.
‘Cameron, just put the thing out of its misery,’ George told me, and I could see he was fuming.
‘He seems very happy to me,’ I said amused.
‘He got into my sock drawer the other day and destroyed five pairs. You’re paying for that by the way,’ he went on.
‘I’ll take him for a walk on deck,’ said Roberto, grabbing the dog’s collar and he took him up the stairs. He didn’t mind looking after the dog and cleaning up all his mess. I would have to make it clear to him that Churchill wasn’t staying. The lad really should have learned by this time that there wasn’t much that kept me off my dinners.
When the match had ended on a 1-1 draw with the USA, George was in an even worse mood and was gunning for Churchill again. Roberto thought it best to get the dog out of harm’s way and give him a few biscuits in the kitchen.
‘Oh, you’ll like this story George,’ I said to cheer him up. ‘I once took my American friend Charley to a football game in 1927. England won rather comfortably on that occasion.’
‘Tell me more,’ he said, sitting back in his chair.
‘We saw France versus England at the old Olympic stadium in Paris. Charley was very excited as he didn’t think they played football in France,’ I continued.
‘Oh dear. He must have been disappointed to have ended up at a soccer match,’ said George looking happier already.
‘Absolutely! He wouldn’t stop moaning about them not picking the ball up and all the other stupid stuff that goes on in American football. I must say that the French and I rather wanted to forget that game as well. England thrashed them 6-0.’
Suddenly I saw George thinking deeply, a thought was forming in his head. ‘That’s utter bullshit, Cameron! They didn’t have floodlighting in 1927, so there’s no way you could have gone to that game!’ he cried, sitting up in his chair.
‘You know my motto George – never let the truth get in the way of a good story! Anyway, it was mostly true. I was annoyed at Charley so I got him a ticket and assured him this was a football game. He went by himself and was not best pleased when he came back.’ I thought back fondly to all the nasty tricks I had played on Charley when he’d annoyed me.
George was in a forgiving mood by now though, so he decided to humour me. ‘So Cameron, how did you learn Slovenian? Was she a backpacker or an au pair?’
I had not thought about Pavel or my difficult first years in Paris for a long time and I was immediately sorry I had brought it up.
‘He was a pick-pocket,’ I said.
‘Ok, go on.’
It had been in my early days in Paris, probably around 1923 or so that I’d started needing money. As I could not do a normal job, the only option was to steal. I was in love with Hélène and living with her necessitated getting my hands on some cash. One day, I was working the metro during rush hour and had spotted a well-dressed man. His side-pocket was bulging, so I went to explore said pocket to see if there was a wallet. I had my hand on the leather wallet when I suddenly felt a warm hand touching mine.
I pulled back startled. The victim didn’t turn round, yet over his shoulder I met a dark pair of eyes.
‘Oooh! Competition. Did you rip his throat out on the spot?’ interrupted George.
‘No, it was rush hour. You can’t go about doing that on a crowded Metro, it’s frowned upon! Anyway I thought he might get to be the Artful Dodger to my Oliver Twist.’
I had watched the man get off at the next stop, but then lost sight of him. I spotted him again about five days later and managed to watch him work for a while: he was skilful. I followed him off the metro where he collapsed in a coughing fit on one of the platform benches. I noticed there was some blood on his handkerchief. I sat next to him and started talking.
‘You don’t seem well, pal Do you need some help?’ He looked at me suspiciously, and then his eyes widened.
‘It’s you! What do you want?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘Listen.’ I said to him. ‘You’re obviously ill, but you’re much more skilful than I am. Teach me and I will help you.’
Pavel didn’t have much to lose by this point. Destitute and ill, he couldn’t work many hours at a time. He told me he had wanted to emigrate to America. He had fought in the Austrian-Hungarian army in World War One and suddenly found himself part of the Serbian kingdom when the empire was divided up. He told me he’d had a few cousins in America already that could set him up with work. Pavel wanted to take the boat at Le Havre to make the Atlantic crossing, but when he reached Paris he fell ill with pneumonia. He’d had to stay in hospital for several weeks and watched as his ticket money dwindled. He’d left the hospital way too soon to save some of the money, but now he was very ill indeed. His French was poor, but we managed to communicate. I looked after him for a few weeks and in exchange he taught me a few tricks and introduced me to his fence.
‘Show us then, Cameron. See if you can get my wallet,’ George challenged me.
‘It’s a lot easier on a crowded metro. You see, it’s all about diversion,’ I told George
Roberto was coming back down the stairs with Churchill. I kicked the dog so that he turned right in front of Roberto and made him trip. As I grabbed him to stop him from falling over, my other hand retrieved his wallet. He hadn’t noticed a thing.
‘Bravo,’ said George, clapping his hands as I handed the wallet back to a very surprised Roberto.
‘So what happened to Pavel?’ George asked.
‘When I felt he only had a few more days to live I had him for dinner,’ I said drily.
‘You really have no heart,’ said George in mock horror.
‘Why? He was going to die anyway and I do so hate to waste food,’ I said innocently.
The rest of the World Cup didn’t go well either for George or Churchill, but Robert
o and I enjoyed the matches until the final between Spain and Holland, which I thought was one of the worst in World Cup history: ill-tempered players and only one goal. I had my suspicions about Iniesta too. He was a bit too pale and skilful. Perhaps I should I play for Scotland? I was fiendishly fast and had the reflexes of a cat. Would it work if they had me in the team for evening matches only?