‘Hey, hey!’
‘Ho, ho!’ There were sounds of slapping of hands and shoulders, the stamping of shoe leather on stone and Patrick accompanied by another man, who at first sight appeared to be his double, barrelled through the door and into the main studio. The two of them were arm in arm – Falco’s right in Patrick’s left, while the bulge under Patrick’s blazer bobbed helplessly up and down.
The man was the same height as Patrick, identical build, had a flat nose and a thick neck. He was wearing grey worsted trousers, white shirt open at the neck but no jacket. His face was deeply tanned, and his head of short white blond curls gave him the appearance of an oversized Renaissance cherub. The two of them cavorted up and down on the boarded floor as if they were performing in a comic Italian opera, though perhaps one involving a wounded soldier.
‘Hey, hey hey!’ He caught sight of me sitting by the window. ‘What you do, what you do?’ He bounded across and peered unseeing at the drawing I was working on. His face was close to my ear and could hear him panting softly.
‘GI Group.’
‘Heyyy! You betta gettit right, utherwize it the sack for you, huh?’ The twinkle in his eye was insisting how funny he was, but his body language seethed with Sicilian malice. He turned and lumbered over to join his pal by the white laminate table. I noticed that his backside was conspicuously larger than Patrick’s, perhaps the result of carbohydrate foundations laid by his mum, and so solid that even the stress of running a restaurant for most of his adult life had never undermined them. There was something of the giant baby about his movements and I wondered if he had been breastfed long after there had been a physical need for it.
In what seemed to be an uncharacteristic gesture of solidarity Patrick had – with a great deal of difficulty – removed his jacket, tie, and had undone the top button of his white shirt. He was standing by the table holding an A3 pad of white layout paper.
‘Falco, I’ve had a few thoughts.’ His voice sounded as if it was going to go into a coughing fit.
‘Too much thinking, my friend, is bad for the head.’
Patrick laid out the A3 pad on the table, flipped open its cover with his left hand, the exposed fingers of his right struggling to unscrew the cap of the maroon Montblanc pen.
The blond curly-haired man bent over the table and studied the sketches, breathing heavily and speaking in a series of grunts while Patrick stood, feet together, his left hand touching his own left buttock each time the Sicilian spoke. It appeared that the restaurant design was quite advanced and I wondered why I was not asked to join the meeting.
‘No, no, no!’ grunted Falco as Patrick attempted to sketch with the Montblanc.
‘Like this!’ His fat fist snatched the pen and scratched away at the surface of the paper while Patrick’s good hand patted his own left buttock. Falco saw me looking.
‘Hey, hey hey! You betta get this one right utherwize I come and measure your feet for concrete shoes!’
Lauren appeared in the doorway.
‘Your table’s booked for 1.15, Patrick. You’ll need to leave the restaurant at 3.30 at the latest for your 5.00 meeting.’ The two men came out of their curious scrum, stamped out of the room and slammed the front door. Presumably Falco would be doing the driving.
Twenty-one
I’d had a feeling it wouldn’t be very long before I had my first confrontation with Shem. He’d returned from his assignment critical of Arrival Airways management, critical of me, and with the curious sixth sense he seemed to possess he’d got wind of Falco and the restaurant scheme.
When I came into the downstairs studio he was sitting at his drawing board, his legs stretched out in front of him.
‘You’ve been having secret meetings!’ His tone was accusatory, absurd, but I knew exactly what he was on about.
‘It was all news to me as well.’ Why did I sound so defensive? I was the office manager.
‘You should know what’s going on.’
‘There’s only one person here who knows what’s going on.’
‘So, you’re blaming Patrick, it’s all Patrick’s fault is it?’
‘I’m not blaming him I’m just saying that’s the way things are run here, from the top.’
‘So, you’re just helpless! Why don’t you ask him? Everything here should be more democratic.’
I knew I was lighting the blue touchpaper.
‘Look, I’m the office manager, you work for me.’ My tone was indignant and I could see him bristling with Polish umbrage.
‘You asked me to come and work here. I could have accepted a better paid job elsewhere – somewhere less autocratic.’ He stamped his foot, leapt to his feet and walked past me slamming the door as he went out into the hall. Christ! He was being difficult but I hadn’t exactly helped the situation by trying to squash him.
I followed, turned the handle as if I expected the door to fall off its hinges after the treatment it had just received. I could hear the tap tap chug coming from the butler’s pantry and tiptoed along the hall towards it. I paused at the top of the stairs to the basement and listened. Shem was downstairs talking to somebody, but it couldn’t be Patrick, he was out. I glanced across at Lauren who raised her eyebrows with a ‘you’re on your own there’ look.
Back in the studio I made a couple of phone calls to GI Group consultants and suppliers, there was no sign of Shem’s return. I was about to venture downstairs on a peace mission when he noiselessly appeared in the doorway.
‘Hockayy…’ He spoke like someone attempting a crude imitation of a Latino patois before dropping into a powerful east European accent. ‘… Let’s talk about Commoonist countrees!’ He appeared transformed in some way. ‘Lorraine says you were right!’
‘Lorraine?’
‘The Missus…’ He was back into his north London patter. That’s what he’d been up to – been on the phone for the last half hour. So, he wasn’t as decisive a character as I’d first thought, but I had to admire him for asking for advice, and particularly his wife.
‘Sorry about the outburst.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Polish people don’t consider that they’ve got to know someone until they’ve had a flaming row with them.’
‘I see.’ He walked over and patted me on the back.
‘We’re all paranoid you see – because of Martial Law.’ But from what Lauren had told me he was virtually a different species from the men of the Gdansk shipyards.
‘Do you know what they call our local north London free newspaper?’ I didn’t.
‘The Informer! You people don’t know how lucky you are.’ It was amazing how he could switch his identity from north London lad to politically conscientious expat.
I wanted to ask him about ‘the gold’ but that would do for another time.
‘When Patrick gets back…’ my voice had the tone as if I was about to come up with a really useful suggestion. ‘…Why don’t the two of us go and ask him for a proper brief on Falco’s restaurant?’
‘Yeh, okay mate.’
It was a step forward but it still didn’t solve my production problem on GI Group, I would still need another assistant.
As I crossed the hall I heard Lauren’s low voice coming from the butler’s pantry.
‘…Fancy a drink later?’
‘Yes, okay.’
Twenty-two
‘It must be half-time.’
‘What?’ I couldn’t think what Lauren was talking about.
‘Arsenal versus Newcastle at home, that’s their important meeting, hmm.’
‘Ha, ha, of course.’ I pictured the two stocky, white-shirted, grey-trousered men in the VIP stand, alternately whooping, hugging, and comforting one another… One of them with his arm in a sling.
It was the first time we’d walked up to the Stag and Rifle when it hadn’t
just finished raining so there was none of the steaming foliage of our two previous visits. The air was distinctly cooler.
Just as we were crossing the road to the pub a red Porsche Targa 911 raced past us. I’d heard it coming, mistook the sports exhaust for a Kawasaki motorcycle. I’d never seen any cars on these narrow cobbled wyndes and it gave me an odd feeling. For the first time up here, I could smell that smell, putrid water… the canal smell.
‘Where is everybody, they can’t all be at the match?’
The pub was deserted except for two early-middle-aged men sitting in the saloon wearing floppy jackets and big flat caps. They reminded me of a pair of costermongers and seemed to be sitting in silence as if they were waiting for something. I had a strange feeling that something had happened, or was about to. Both men had empty glasses in front of them.
‘Our usual seat, I suggest, yes.’
I got the feeling Lauren was urging me along, and away from the saloon bar. As we sat down on the banquette I could hear the double click of stiletto heels above my head and caught sight of two young Asian women disappearing through the door leading off the gallery. They were wearing school blazers and quite short identical plaid wool skirts.
‘Shall I order?’
‘I suggest you wait a moment or two, yes.’
There was something unusual in the air, something going on which I hadn’t understood.
‘You’re getting the hang of Patrick I see?’
‘Oh, yes…’
‘He’s got an amazing ability to keep his nerve, hmm…To watch, wait, and most important to listen – you wouldn’t think it but he does listen. Lions lie in wait until the moment is ready to strike; bulls intimidate by rushing straight in. He knows exactly when to do which, yes.’
From where I was sitting I had a view straight through to the saloon and could see the polished wooden curve of the bar. It was just out of Lauren’s sight line. A strange scene was being enacted.
‘What you’re always guaranteed with Patrick is originality. He never uses clichés, never copies, only reinterprets…’
One of the two costermongers had approached the bar and was standing there staring solemnly at the barman – who was the young untrendy moustachioed man with the white shirt and shiny black trousers. I could see that the costermonger had placed his empty glass on the bar top, upside down.
‘Have you noticed how he’ll never lead off in a conversation? That’s what I mean about him listening, hmm. He always makes sure he gets your view first…’
The moustachioed young man lifted up the hatch of the bar counter, and I assumed he would be coming to take our order. Instead he strode up to the first costermonger, gripped the man’s left shoulder with his left hand, and with his right twisted the man’s arm behind his back and frogmarched him across the floor, through the front door and out into the street where I lost sight of the two of them.
‘…Then he’ll find something wrong with it. Even if – for the hell of it – you decide to play devil’s advocate and come up with a view which isn’t really your own, yes. He’ll always contradict you…But beware of saying that you don’t like something because even if you give him a well-argued reason for thinking so he’ll find things that disadvantage you… you know the kind of thing – “Oh Pulse, I would never be so arrogant as to think that!” It leaves you feeling like you’re the one who’s been arrogant, makes you feel like you’re the aggressor, and defiled in someway. He’ll never settle on the simplicity of agreeing with somebody… To Patrick that would look like being weak.’
The barman had returned, dusting his hands. I must say I was impressed with the way he’d manhandled the costermonger, I wouldn’t have expected that from someone so slim and youthful. He installed himself behind the bar just as the second costermonger appeared at the bar and slammed down his empty glass upside down. He was saying something – I could just hear it. He had a powerful Northern Irish accent.
‘I want you to chockme oat, jusslike ya did to’im!’
‘…He really is frightened of losing his virility, yes. Has he told you about the dreams he keeps having about all his teeth dropping out?’
‘Er… no.’ I was trying to concentrate on watching the development in the saloon bar. After a moment’s stand-off between barman and costermonger I saw the bar top hatch rise for a second time and the moustachioed barman swung himself through the gap in the bar, this time with considerably more force, left hand to the coster’s left shoulder, right hand twisting his arm behind his back and quick march out onto the pavement. The barman returned almost immediately, dusting his hands as he walked from the door.
‘Was he dancing to Falco’s tune?’
‘Er… yes.’
‘He gets sooo nervous when Falco’s around, yes. Not that he’s scared of losing the job; it’s that Falco might think he’s not being laddish enough. Patrick’s like a schoolboy, so desperate to be liked, trying so hard, and that in the end he blows it and ends up getting bullied. Was he touching his bum? I mean Patrick – touching his own bum, not Falco’s?’
‘Er… yes.’ I was straining to follow the small drama in the saloon bar. The second costermonger had reappeared in the front doorway.
‘You’re a marrked mon barrmon!’ He disappeared before the barman could pursue him.
‘Oh, Patrick’s so clever. “Lauren, you’re a star” he says, “you’re a wonderful novelist but we’re designers. All Mrs Umberachi needs to know is what, we can tell her why later.” He never overtly reprimands, that would sully him, would turn him into what he might call an “old woman,” yes…But it’s still a lecture, subtly disguised. He’s the master, you’re the pupil. Don’t you ever want to tell him to fuck off?’
‘…Often.’
The second costermonger had reappeared in the front doorway.
‘It’s an IRA bomb for yew barrmon!’
‘…He’s got a disgust of anybody over the age of thirty-five who doesn’t have children and he’s as worried as hell that Al’s gay – he isn’t, he’s quietly hetero, but that’s not good enough for Patrick, he wants on stage showtime-shagging.’
‘Hello, what can I get you?’ It was the moustachioed barman.
‘Hello! How are you?’ I felt suddenly friendly towards him, partly impressed with his recent performance but more so from the coincidence of being served by him in the dining room at Patrick’s club. I expected a warm response and perhaps I would learn something, but the man’s gaze was deadpan, there was no acknowledgement of recognition whatsoever. It seemed that down there and up here were two separate worlds.
‘Two ESP – on me.’ Lauren was quick off the mark.
I’d noticed that the pub was starting to fill up and was conscious of a man walking past me and up the stairs. I caught his eye and he looked away abruptly. He seemed familiar – of course, it was one of the two men with big noses and black curly hair. He was the one who’d emerged from the gallery room looking as if he’d been about to burst into tears. He walked up the stairs, turned along the gallery, knocked at the door and disappeared inside.
‘You know Patrick’s children are a kind of revenge for his personality. Al’s okay, Patrick’s hang-ups about him are his fault, not Al’s. No, it’s the terrible twins that are the double nemesis. Have you ever noticed how he never refers to any of his children by name? He’s got a psychological fear of Bea and Jen, almost as if they were one being, one übermensch which has acquired four arms, four legs, two heads, and two terrifyingly conflicting personalities intent on achieving greater ends. He’s frightened of Freia’s free spirit, the spirit that’s locked away inside Bea – even though everybody thinks that Bea must be more like Patrick cos she looks more like him, yes.’
The barman returned with the ESP and Lauren paid. The man with the big nose and curly black hair emerged from the gallery room, walked briskly down the stairs. I got the feeling that
he was making sure he did not catch my eye. A moment later another man carrying a Samsonite briefcase, and glancing at his watch walked past and jogged up the stairs so hastily that the briefcase banged into the wooden newel post as he turned the corner onto the gallery. He tapped lightly on the door and disappeared inside.
‘…That’s why he’s so keen to impregnate Martinique. You’ve noticed how skilfully she parries his brickbats. He thinks that if she’s carrying his child then he’ll have more control over her, hmm. My God how he hated Freia’s free spirit; she gave him the three – no two – children but… Martinique will eventually leave him you realize… he’s wasting her time.’
As I leant forward slightly I noticed that there was a fireplace on an internal wall facing the stairwell. It had a deep muscular oak surround and tall mirrored overmantle. On the mantelpiece was an oversized wooden cuckoo clock which I’d have sworn wasn’t there before. I could see its reflection in the mirror and felt a small wave of nausea pass over me.
‘…Laurie’s the worry, yes.’
So far during the evening Lauren had been looking into her glass. For the first time she turned to look at me with her thousand-year-old eyes – the way she’d done when she’d said ‘you could make a difference!’ ‘…Something happened… in France when they were all there – oh I know Laurie’s been here a lot as well, but when he hasn’t been here he’s been there with Martinique and something happened. Laurie hit Patrick. Patrick implies that Laurie’s got a violent streak, he’s not violent he’s emotional. The two characteristics may go together but they’re not the same thing. An incoming male lion always kills the cubs of the previous male you know, hmm.’
She tapped her ring on the rim of her empty glass. Outwardly its amber reflected the crinkly glass light fitting behind her head. Inwardly lurked its shady prisoner, its legs and antennae held fast, just as they had been without change for millions of years.
The Gilded Ones Page 16