Smokescreen

by Dick Francis

  She laughed. ‘He can’t help doing sums, then, I shouldn’t think. All Saturday at the races, he was doing it. A living computer, I called him.’ She took another orange sip. ‘I say, did you know he’s a terrific gambler? He had ten rand on one of those horses. Ten rand!’

  I thought van Huren had made a sensible job of her, if a ten-rand bet still seemed excessive.

  ‘Mind you,’ she added. ‘The horse won. I went with him to collect the winnings. Twenty-five rand, would you believe it? He says he often wins. He was all sort of gay and laughing about it.’

  ‘Everyone loses in the end,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a downpour,’ she exploded. ‘Just like Dad.’

  Her eyes suddenly opened wider, and she transferred her attention to somewhere behind me.

  Danilo joined us. White shorts, sturdy sunburned legs, light blue windcheater hanging open.

  ‘Hi,’ he said happily, including us both.

  ‘Hi,’ echoed Sally, looking smitten.

  She left me and the half finished orange juice without a backward glance, and went off with the bright boy as girls have been going off since Eve. But this girl’s father had a gold mine; and Danilo had done his sums.

  Arknold came, and the reception desk directed him to the garden. He shook hands, sat down, huffed and puffed, and agreed to a beer. Away in the distance Danilo and Sally belted the ball sporadically over the net and laughed a lot in between.

  Arknold followed my gaze, recognised Danilo, and consolidated his indecision in a heavy frown.

  ‘I didn’t know Danilo would be here,’ he said.

  ‘He can’t hear you.’

  ‘No… but… Look, Mister… Do you mind if we go indoors?’

  ‘If you like,’ I agreed; so we transferred to the lounge, where he was again too apprehensive to come to the boil, and finally up to my room. One could still see the tennis courts; but the tennis courts couldn’t see us.

  He sat, like Conrad, in the larger of the two armchairs, seeing himself as a dominant character. The slab-like features made no provision for subtle nuances of feeling to show in changing muscle tensions round eyes, mouth or jaw line, so that I found it as nearly impossible as always to guess what he was thinking. The over-all impression was of aggression and worry having a ding-dong: the result, apparent indecision about whether to attack or placate.

  ‘Look,’ he said in the end. ‘What are you going to tell Mrs Cavesey when you get back to England?’

  I considered. ‘I haven’t decided.’

  He thrust his face forward like a bulldog. ‘Don’t you go telling her to change her trainer.’

  ‘Why precisely not?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the way I train them.’

  ‘They look well,’ I agreed. ‘And they run stinking. Most owners would have sent them to someone else long ago.’

  ‘It’s not my fault they don’t win,’ he asserted heavily. ‘You tell her that. That’s what I came to say. You tell her it’s not my fault.’

  ‘You would lose their training fees, if they went,’ I said. ‘And you would lose face, perhaps. But you would gain freedom from the fear of being prosecuted for fraud.’

  ‘See here, Mister,’ he began angrily, but I interrupted him.

  ‘Alternatively, you could sack your head boy, Barty.’

  Whatever he had been going to say remained unsaid. His trap-like mouth dropped open.

  ‘Should you decide to sack Barty,’ I said conversationally, ‘I could advise Mrs Cavesey to leave the horses where they are.’

  He shut his mouth. There was a long pause while most of the aggression oozed away and a tired sort of defeatism took its place.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he said sullenly, not denying the need for it.

  ‘Because of a threat that you will be warned off?’ I suggested. ‘Or because of the profit to come?’

  ‘Look, Mister…’

  ‘See that Barty leaves before I go home,’ I said pleasantly.

  He stood heavily up, and gave me a hard stare which got him nowhere very much. Breathing loudly through his nose, he was inarticulate; and I couldn’t guess from his expression whether what hung fire on his tongue was a stream of invective, a defence in mitigation, or even a plea for help.

  He checked through the window that his buddy Danilo was still on the courts, then turned away abruptly and departed from my room without another word: a man on a three-pronged toasting fork if ever I saw one.

  I returned to the terrace: found Clifford Wenkins walking indecisively about peering at strangers behind their newspapers.

  ‘Mr Wenkins,’ I called.

  He looked up, nodded nervously, and scuttled around tables and chairs to reach me.

  ‘Good morning… er… Link,’ he began, and half-held out one hand, too far away for me to shake it. I sketched an equally noncommittal welcome. His best friend must have been telling him, I thought.

  We sat at one of the small tables in the shade of a yellow and white sun awning, and he agreed that… er… yes… a beer would be fine. He pulled another untidy wad of papers out of an inner pocket. Consulting them seemed to give him strength.

  ‘Er… Worldic have decided… er… they think it would be best, I mean, to hold the reception before… er… the film, you see.’

  I saw. They were afraid I would vanish during the showing, if they arranged things the other way round.

  ‘Here… er… is a list of people… er… invited by Worldic… and here… somewhere here… ah, yes, here is the Press list and… er… a list of people who have bought tickets to the reception… We limited the… er… numbers, but we have… er… had… I mean… it may be… perhaps… just a bit of a crush, if you see what I mean.’

  He sweated. Mopped up with a neatly folded white square. Waited, apparently, for me to burn. But what could I say? I’d arranged it myself; and I supposed I was grateful that people actually wanted to come.

  ‘Er… if that’s all right… I mean… well… there are still some tickets left… er… for the premiere itself, you see… er… some at twenty rand…’

  ‘Twenty rand?’ I said. ‘Surely that’s too much?’

  ‘It’s for charity,’ he said quickly. ‘Charity.’

  ‘What charity?’

  ‘Oh… er… let’s see… I’ve got it here somewhere…’ But he couldn’t find it. ‘Anyway… for charity… so Worldic want you to… I mean, because there are still some tickets, you see, to… er… well, some sort of publicity stunt…’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He looked unhappy. ‘I told them… but they said… er… well…’ He faded away like a pop song, and didn’t say that Worldic’s attitude to actors made the KGB seem paternal.

  ‘Where is the reception to be?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh… er… opposite the Wideworld Cinema, in the Klipspringer Heights Hotel. I… er… I think you will like it… I mean… it is one of the best… er… hotels in Johannesburg.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. I’ll be back here by, say, six o’clock next Tuesday evening. You could ring me here for final arrangements.’

  ‘Oh yes… er,’ he said, ‘but… er… Worldic said they would like… er… to know where you are staying… er… in the Kruger Park.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Well, er… could you find out?’ He looked unhappy. ‘Worldic said… er… on no account… should I not find out…’

  ‘Oh. Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘Now… er… well… I mean… er…’ He was working himself into a worse lather than ever over what he was trying to say next. My mind had framed one large No before the thought of Worldic on his tail had goaded him to get it out.

  ‘We… well, that is to say… Worldic… have fixed a… er… photographic… session for you… I mean… well, this afternoon, in fact.’

  ‘What photographic session?’ I asked ominously.

  He had another mop. �
�Just… well… photographs.’

  He had a terrible time explaining, and a worse time when I got it straight, that what Worldic wanted were some pictures of me reclining in bathing trunks under a sun umbrella beside a bosomy model in a bikini.

  ‘You just run along and tell Worldic that their promotion ideas are fifty years out of date, if they think cheesecake will sell twenty-rand seats.’

  He sweated.

  ‘And furthermore you can tell Worldic that one more damn fool suggestion and I’ll never again turn up at anything they handle.’

  ‘But…’ he stuttered. ‘You see… after those pics in the newspapers… of you giving Katya the kiss of life… after that… see… we were flooded… simply flooded… with enquiries… and all the cheaper seats went in a flash… and the reception tickets, too… all went…’

  ‘But that,’ I said slowly and positively, ‘was not a publicity stunt.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He gulped. ‘Oh no. Of course not. Oh no. Oh no…’ He rocked to his feet, knocking his chair over. The beads were running down his forehead and his eyes looked wild. He was on the point, the very point of panic flight, when Danilo and Sally came breezily back from the courts.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Wenkins,’ Sally said in her adolescent un-perceptive way. ‘I say, you look almost as hot and sweaty as we do.’

  Wenkins gave her a glazed, mesmerised look and fumbled around with his handkerchief. Danilo looked at him piercingly and thoughtfully and made no remark at all.

  ‘Well… I’ll… er, tell them… but they won’t… like it.’

  ‘You tell them.’ I agreed. ‘No stunts.’

  ‘No stunts,’ he echoed weakly; but I doubted whether he would ever have the nerve to pass on the message.

  Sally watched his backview weave unsteadily into the club, as she sprawled exhaustedly in her garden chair.

  ‘I say, he does get himself into a fuss, don’t you think? Were you bullying the poor lamb, Link?’

  ‘He’s a sheep, not a lamb.’

  ‘A silly sheep,’ Danilo said vaguely, as if his thoughts were somewhere else.

  ‘Could I have some orange juice?’ Sally said.

  Evan and Conrad arrived before the waiter, and the drinks order expanded. Evan was at his most insistent, waving his arms about and laying down the law to Conrad in the usual dominating I-am-the-director-and-the-rest of-you-are-scum manner. Conrad looked half patient, half irritated: lighting cameramen were outranked by directors, but they didn’t have to like it.

  ‘Symbolism,’ Evan was saying fiercely. ‘Symbolism is what the film is all about. And Post Office Towers are the new phallic symbol of national strength. Every virile country has to have its revolving restaurant…’

  ‘It might be just because every country has one, that the one in Johannesburg is not news,’ Conrad murmured, in a tone a little too carefully unargumentative.

  ‘The tower is in,’ stated Evan with finality.

  ‘Even if you can’t find an elephant that shape,’ I said, nodding.

  Conrad choked and Evan glared.

  Sally said, ‘What is a phallic symbol?’ And Danilo told her kindly to look it up in the dictionary.

  I asked Evan where exactly we would be staying in the Kruger Park, so that I could be found if necessary.

  ‘Don’t expect me to help,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘The production department made the bookings months ago. Several different camps, starting in the south and working north, I believe.’

  Conrad added casually, ‘We do have a list, back at the hotel… I could copy it out for you, dear boy.’

  ‘It isn’t important,’ I said. ‘It was only Worldic who wanted it.’

  ‘Not important!’ Evan exclaimed. ‘If Worldic want it, of course they must have it.’ Evan had no reservations towards companies that might screen his masterpieces. ‘Conrad can copy the list and send it to them direct.’

  I looked at Conrad in amusement. ‘To Clifford Wenkins, then,’ I suggested. ‘It was he who asked.’

  Conrad nodded shortly. Copying the list from friendliness was one thing and on Evan’s orders another: I knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘I don’t suppose you are intending to bring the chauffeur Worldic gave you,’ Evan said bossily to me. ‘There won’t be any rooms for him.’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said mildly. ‘I’m hiring a car to drive myself.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  Even on a fine Tuesday morning with a healthy gin half drunk and no pressure on him at all, he still flourished the hot eyes like lances and curled his fingers so that the tendons showed tight. The unruly curly hair sprang out vigorously like Medusa’s snakes, and the very air around him seemed to quiver from his energy output.

  Sally thought him fascinating. ‘You’ll love it in the game park,’ she told him earnestly. ‘The animals are so sweet.’

  Evan only knew how to deal with girls that young if he could bully them in front of a camera: and the idea that animals could be sweet instead of symbolic seemed to nonplus him.

  ‘Er…’ he said uncertainly, and sounded exactly like Wenkins.

  Conrad cheered up perceptibly: smoothed his moustache and looked on Sally benignly. She gave him an uncomplicated smile and turned to Danilo.

  ‘You’d love it too,’ she said. ‘Next time you come to South Africa, we must take you down there.’

  Danilo could scarcely wait. Conrad asked him how much longer he was staying this time, and Danilo said a week or so, he guessed, and Sally insisted anxiously that he was staying until after Link’s premiere, surely he remembered he was going to the reception with the van Hurens. Danilo remembered: he sure was.

  He grinned at her. She blossomed. I hoped that the sun kid dealt in compassion alongside the mathematics.

  Evan and Conrad stayed for lunch, endlessly discussing the locations they had picked throughout the city. They were, it appeared, going to incorporate a lot of cinéma vérité, with Conrad humping around a hand-held Arriflex to film life as it was lived. By the end of the cheese, the whole film, symbolism, elephants, and all, seemed to me doomed to be a crashing bore.

  Conrad’s interest was principally technical. Mine was non-existent. Evan’s, as usual, inexhaustible.

  ‘So we’ll take the Arriflex with us, of course,’ he was telling Conrad. ‘We may see unrepeatable shots… it would be stupid not to be equipped.’

  Conrad agreed. They also discussed sound-recording equipment and decided to take that too. The production department had fixed up for a park ranger to show them round in a Land Rover, so there would be room to use everything comfortably.

  Anything which they could not cram into their hired station wagon for the journey down, they said, could go in my car, couldn’t it? It could. I agreed to drive to their hotel first thing in the morning to embark the surplus.

  When they had gone I paid off the car and chauffeur Worldic had arranged, and hired a modest self-drive saloon instead. A man from the hiring company brought it to the Iguana showed me the gear system, said it was a new car only just run-in and that I should have no trouble with it, and departed with the chauffeur.

  I went for a practice drive, got lost, bought a map, and found my way back. The car was short on power uphill, but very stable on corners; a car for Sunday afternoons, airing Grandma in a hat.

  Chapter Twelve

  The map and the car took me to Roderick’s flat just as it was getting dark.

  I tested the brakes before I set off, the car having stood alone in the car park for hours. Nothing wrong with them, of course. I sneered inwardly at myself for being so silly.

  Roderick’s flat was on the sixth floor.

  It had a balcony.

  Roderick invited me out first thing to look at the view.

  ‘It looks marvellous at this time of night,’ he said, ‘with the lights springing up in every direction. In the daytime there are too many factories and roads and mining tips, unless of course you find the sinews of trade stimulating… and so
on it will be too dark to see the shapes of things in the dusk…’

  I hovered, despite myself, on the threshold.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Are you afraid of heights?’

  ‘No.’

  I stepped out there, and the view lived up to his commercial. The balcony faced south, with the kite-shaped Southern Cross flying on its side in the sky straight ahead; and orange lights stretching like a chain away towards Durban down the motorway.

  Roderick was not leaning on the pierced ironwork which edged the balcony. With part of my mind shivering and the rest telling me not to be such an ass, I kept my weight nearer the building than his: I felt guilty of mistrust and yet couldn’t trust, and saw that suspicion was a wrecker.

  We went in. Of course, we went in. Safely. I could feel muscles relax in my jaw and abdomen that I hadn’t known were tense. Silly fool, I thought: and tried to shut out the fact that for both mike and mine, Roderick had been there.

  His flat was small but predictably full of impact. A black sack chair flopped on a pale olive carpet: khaki-coloured walls sprouted huge brass lamp brackets between large canvasses of ultra simple abstracts in brash challenging colours: a low glass-topped table stood before an imitation tiger skin sofa of stark square construction; and an Andy Warholish imitation can of beer stood waist high in one corner. Desperately trendy, the whole thing; giving, like its incumbent, the impression that way out was where it was all at, man, and if you weren’t out there as far as you could go you might as well be dead. It seemed a foregone conclusion that he smoked pot.

  Naturally, he had expensive stereo. The music he chose was less underground than could be got in London, but the mix of anarchy and self-pity still came across strongly in the nasal voices. I wondered whether it was just part of the image, or whether he sincerely enjoyed it.

  ‘Drink?’ he offered, and I said yes, please.

  Campari and soda, bitter-sweet pink stuff. He took it for granted I would like it.

  ‘Katya won’t be long. She had some recording session or other.’

  ‘Is she all right now?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘A hundred per cent.’ He underplayed the relief, but I remembered his tormented tears: real emotions still lived down there under the with-it front.