Whit

by Iain Banks

  'Grandmother…' I said, feeling dizzy, almost overcome by surprise and Yolanda's perfume. I was so astonished I hadn't even remembered to make the Sign.

  'Oh, it's so good to see you! How you doin'? Are you okay? I mean have these bozos treated you good?' She waved at the two men in suits she'd been standing between at the counter. 'I brought some lawyers. Do you want to file a complaint or anything?' She put me down.

  'I - well, no; I'm, ah-' I said, somewhat lost for words. My grandmother Yolanda's face was less lined than I remembered; it as still painted with make-up. Her hair looked like spun gold, except harder. She was dressed in highly decorated alligator-hide cowboy boots, embroidered jeans, a silk shirt in what looked like bar-code tartan and a little suede waistcoat studded with pearls. Yolanda's two lawyers looked on, smiling insincerely; the duty sergeant she'd been talking to seemed exasperated.

  'Right,' he said. 'You two belong to each other?' He didn't wait for an answer. He pointed to the door with one hand and with the other reached down, produced my kit-bag and plonked it on the counter. 'Out,' he said.

  Yolanda took my hand firmly in hers. 'Come on, honey; we'll discuss filing a suit against these jerks over a margarita or two. They fed you yet? You had breakfast? We'll go to my hotel; get them to fix you something.' She marched me to the door, glancing back at the lawyers. 'Get the child's bag, would you, George?'

  * * *

  Grandmother Yolanda originally came to High Easter Offerance in the summer of 1954 with her first husband, Jerome. She was eighteen; he was sixty-two and suffering from cancer. He had just sold some sort of oil company (mud logging, whatever that is), and had decided to spend some of his millions travelling the world, investigating cancer clinics and indulging a recently developed interest in sects and cults in general (I suppose technically we're a cult, though at the time some people still considered us to be a Christian sect; it took a while to get that misunderstanding cleared up). When Yolanda and Jerome left after a few weeks, Yolanda was pregnant. She came back to the Community with another husband, Francis, and her first child, Alice, in 1959, for the second Festival of Love (the first had failed to produce any Leapyearians, but had otherwise been acclaimed a success by all concerned) and continued to visit us every few years, often in May, for the Festival when there was one and in any event usually with a new husband in tow.

  Yolanda's second husband, whom she divorced after a couple of years, was called Michael. She once told me Michael had made a fortune in malls and then lost it all in Las Vegas and ended up valet parking in LA. For four years, between two of her visits, I had assumed she meant gangsters' molls and that valet parking was a specialised form of landscape gardening, so had formed entirely the wrong impression of the man.

  Her third husband was Steve, who was much younger than her and something called a garage software wizard; apparently he became a multi-millionaire overnight while back-packing in Europe. He died in the Andes three years ago, while attempting to develop the sport of avalanche surfing, which seemingly - and obviously, I suppose - is every bit as dangerous as it sounds.

  Yolanda has inherited at least two fortunes, then, and leads what sounds like an energetic and restless existence; I think her daughter and her visits to High Easter Offerance were almost the only two things that introduced any stability into her antsy life.

  Due to those visits, my mother and father knew each other as children, though they used to meet only every four years. My father, Christopher, was the Elect of God, of course; the first Leapyearian to be born after the founding of our Faith, he was used to being spoiled. I'm told that Alice, my mother, grew up teasing him terribly and making fun of the arguably excessively reverent treatment he had become used to receiving from those around him in the Community. Alice was three years younger than my father, but I imagine that her US-based but globe-trotting life made her seem at least as old as he. They became sweethearts when she was fourteen and wrote lots of letters while she was alternately travelling the world with her mother and attending school in Dallas. They were married by Salvador himself in 1973, and obviously wasted no time, for Allan arrived later that year and I was born, to Order-wide rejoicing, by all accounts, on the 29th of February 1976.

  * * *

  'Television?' I said, slightly shocked.

  'Checked in, turned on to see what miserable handful of channels you had over here these days and almost the first thing I saw was you, being strong-armed into a paddy wagon shouting imprecations.'

  'Good heavens,' I said. I thought about it, taking time off from tearing into my breakfast. 'Well, I suppose the Creator can use the works of the Benighted to tip the hand of Providence should They so desire; who are we to question?' I shrugged and tucked back into my smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, pancakes and syrup.

  We were in Grandmother Yolanda's suite on the top floor of her hotel, a Sybaritically luxurious former mansion on a hill overlooking the city. I had just stepped out of the shower in the marble and mahogany bathroom and now sat on the floor of the sitting room, wrapped in a huge white fluffy robe, my back resting against a beautiful floral-patterned couch. Yolanda had dried my hair and then wrapped the towel round my head. In front of me on the coffee table sat a huge silver tray loaded with food. I slurped coffee and chomped salmon, looking out over Bath, visible beyond the tall windows and between the sweeping vertical folds of sumptuous green velvet curtains. I felt clean, fresh, wickedly perfumed from the soap in the shower and just generally submerged in heady opulence; meanwhile my stomach gradually filled with food. It will not have escaped the more alert reader that my maternal grandmother has never really gone wholeheartedly for the more ascetic aspects of our faith and probably never will, even if - in her own words - we show her a hair-shirt designed by Gootchy.

  I will confess to feeling a little awkward, surrounded by all this luxury, but reckoned that it merely balanced out the effects of my night sleeping rough and my night in the cells, not to mention my unseemly treatment at the hands of the police.

  Yolanda had flown into Glasgow on the Friday, hired a car and driven straight to High Easter Offerance on her way to Gleneagles. She had been told I was staying with Brother Zebediah in London and so drove to Edinburgh and flew from there to Heathrow and hired another car, been unable to work out where the squat was so flagged down a taxi and followed it to the address in Kilburn, where Zeb told her I had left for Dudgeon Magna. Yesterday she had taken a train from London to Bath and hired yet another car - 'Scorpion or something; looks more like a dead cod. Why can't you people build cars? Supposed to be big but it feels more like a sub-compact to me…' - and driven to Dudgeon Magna.

  I now silently cursed myself for not telling Zeb exactly where I'd been heading; whatever instinct had led me not to mention Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club to him had obviously been a product of Unsaved contamination polluting my soul. Anyway, Yolanda had turned up no sign of me in Dudgeon Magna, and so had returned to her hotel to work out what to do next when she'd seen me being unjustly apprehended on the local television news; it had taken until this morning to find out where I was and to hire some lawyers with whom to browbeat the police.

  After dismissing the lawyers and lambasting them for not accepting payment by American Express card on the spot, she'd spent the blurringly fast drive from Bristol to Bath regaling me with what she'd been up to since I'd seen her last. An athletic young swimming pool cleaner from Los Angeles called Gerald seemed to figure rather prominently, as did a running battle with whatever authority supervises the waiting list for rafting expeditions down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon; Grandmother seemed to find the idea of a five-year queue for anything in the United States to be not just criminally obscene but tantamount to treason to the American Dream; a hanging matter ('I mean, are these people communists, for God's sakes?'). With that out of her system she was then free to concentrate on giving me her itinerary over the last few days with particular attention to detailed critical notes on the various ins
titutional inefficiencies and organisational absurdities she had encountered along the way while trying to catch up with me ('You can't even make a right - well, a left - on a red light here; I did it this morning and the goddamn attorneys nearly bailed out on me. What's wrong with you people?').

  While my grandmother held forth I checked my kit-bag to make sure everything was there ('My vials have been interfered with!' I'd wailed. 'Great. We'll sue their asses!' Yolanda had said, flinging the car into another distinctly adventurous overtaking manoeuvre).

  'Are you in a rush, then, Granny?' I asked, wiping the plate with a pancake.

  'Child,' Yolanda said throatily, putting one hand heavy with precious metals and stones onto my towellinged shoulder, 'never call me your "Granny".'

  'Sorry, Grandmother,' I said, twisting my head to grin cheekily up at her. This is something of a ritual with us, each time we meet. I went back to my pancakes and syrup.

  'As it happens, yes, I am,' Yolanda said, crossing her legs and resting her alligator-hide boots on the coffee table. 'Leaving for Prague on Wednesday to look at a red diamond. Heard there's one there might be for sale.'

  'A red diamond,' I said, in a pause that seemed to require some response.

  'Yep; ordinary diamonds are common as cow-shit, just DeBeers keeps the prices artificially high; anybody who buys an ordinary diamond is a damned fool, but red diamonds are scarcer than honest politicians; only about six in the whole damn world and I want at least to see one of them and hold it in my hand, just once, even if I don't get to buy it.'

  'Blimey,' I said. 'Prague.'

  'Prague, Chekland, or whatever the hell they call it these days. You wanna come?'

  'I can't; I have to look for my cousin Morag.'

  'Yeah, what is all this shit about her? Your grandaddy gone soft on her or somethin'? What's goin' on up there anyway? They seemed real frosty to me when I was there. You done something wrong? They angry with you?'

  'What? Eh?' I said, turning to frown up at her.

  'No shittin', honey,' she said. 'I didn't get to see the Dear Leader but I talked to your brother Allan and Erin; they acted like Salvador was angry with you or somethin'.'

  'Angry with me?' I gasped, wiping my fingers on a starched white napkin and sitting up on the couch with my grandmother. I was so shocked it was some minutes before I realised I hadn't used my Sitting Board. I think the carpet had been so soft there was little sensation of change. 'What are they angry about?'

  'Beats me,' Yolanda said. 'I asked but I wasn't told.'

  'There must be some mistake,' I said, feeling funny in my insides all of a sudden. 'I haven't done anything wrong. My mission was going fine until yesterday; I was very pleased with it…'

  'Well, hey, maybe I picked them up wrong,' Yolanda said, drawing her feet up underneath her, turning to me and starting to towel my hair again. 'Don't you listen to your crazy old grandma.'

  I stared towards the window. 'But what can have happened?' I could hear my own voice faltering.

  'Maybe nuthin'. Don't worry about it. Hey, come on; what's happenin' with Morag?'

  I explained about my cousin's importance to the Community's missionary work and her letter informing us she was leaving our Faith and would not be returning to us for the Festival.

  'Okay, so you haven't been able to find her,' Yolanda said. 'We'll hire a detective.'

  'I'm not sure that would really be appropriate, Grandmother,' I said, sighing. 'I was personally charged with the task.'

  'Does it matter, as long as you find her?'

  'I suspect so, yes.'

  Yolanda shook her head. 'Boy, you people,' she breathed.

  'There is another problem,' I said.

  'Yeah?'

  I explained about the video and my discovery Morag worked under the name Fusillada DeBauch as a pornographic film artiste.

  'What?' Yolanda yelled. 'You're shittin' me!' She slapped both her designer-jeaned thighs at once. I think that had she been wearing a Stetson or a ten-gallon hat or something she'd have thrown it in the air. 'Whoo; that girl! Oh boy.' She laughed towards the ceiling.

  'You don't think Salvador could have found out about Morag being Fusillada from Zeb or somebody, do you?' I asked, wondering if that might account for his displeasure.

  'No,' Yolanda said. 'It didn't seem like it was anything to do with her.'

  'Hmm. Oh dear,' I said, frowning and putting my hands to my lips.

  'Don't worry about it, honey,' my grandmother said. 'You going to keep looking for Morag?'

  'Yes, of course,' I said.

  'Okay. So, am I allowed to help you?'

  'Oh, I'd think so,' I said.

  'Good. We'll see what we can do together. Maybe Morag will turn up yet.' She sat forward, reaching for the telephone on the coffee table. 'Let's have a margarita.'

  'Yes,' I said absently, still troubled by what might be wrong at High Easter Offerance. 'God has a way of providing when one most needs.'

  'Yeah, hi; I need a pitcher of margarita and two glasses. And don't forget the salt, okay? In a saucer, or whatever. That's right. And a fresh, repeat, fresh lime and a sharp knife. That's all. Thank you.' She put down the telephone.

  'You really didn't get any idea what might be wrong at the Community?' I asked my grandmother.

  'None at all, honey. I just thought they seemed a bit pissed at you.' She held my hand. 'But I could have been wrong.'

  'Oh dear,' I said, biting my lip.

  Yolanda hugged me. 'Don't you worry now. Hey, come on; what do you want to do? Want me to call this health farm place and get… Fusillada?' she said, grinning and wiggling her head from side to side.

  'I don't know,' I said, playing with the cord of my dressing-gown. 'I got the impression she might be trying to avoid me. Maybe… oh, goodness knows!' I threw up my hands and then stuffed them under my armpits.

  'Well, let's just head on down there, what do you say?'

  'What, now?'

  'Soon as we've had our margaritas; and soon as we can find some clothes for you; suppose it'll take the hotel laundry at least overnight to clean that stuff of yours.'

  I had already used my one change of clothes - things seem to get dirty very fast in London - and had not managed to get the others washed, I thought there was still a couple of days' wear in what I'd been wearing but my grandmother disagreed, and is not the sort of person to argue with in such circumstances. So I needed new clothes. Yolanda's method of shopping was to bring the shop to us; she rang a clothes boutique in town and ordered them to bring the articles I'd asked for; socks, undergarments, white shirts, black trousers and black jackets (my hat, though battered, would do as it was). As I wasn't sure what size I was, she made them bring a selection.

  An hour or two later, my head buzzing slightly from the three margaritas I'd had, I was dressed. I don't think either of us were really happy; I felt the clothes were too fine and dressy while my grandmother thought they were far too severe on the grounds of colour alone.

  'The boots, then,' she said, tramping through the piles of discarded clothes, boxes and voluminous wrapping material strewn about the floor as she looked me up and down. The shop assistant she'd had come out to us kneeled on the floor looking tired. 'Don't you think those boots are just awful, Sam?' Yolanda asked the assistant.

  'They are a bit sort of…'

  'Agricultural,' Yolanda supplied.

  'Yah. Agricultural. Yah.'

  'I count that as praise,' I said.

  'Ain't meant as such, honey,' Yolanda said, shaking her head. 'Why don't we find somewhere that does proper boots; like these!' She lifted up one foot to show me her alligator hides.

  'Cowboy boots?' I exclaimed. (Even Sam looked shocked, I thought.)

  'Well, sure!' Yolanda said. 'Real boots; with a heel. I don't know how you can wear those things; must feel like you're walking uphill all the time.'

  'Excuse me,' I said primly. 'These boots are fine. These boots and I are used to each other. I will not part with th
em.'

  'Stubborn child. Sure you won't try on the red velvet jacket?'

  'Positive.'

  'The black skirt?'

  'Certainly not.'

  'The Gaultier dress.'

  'It's horrible.'

  'It's black.'

  'It's black and horrible.'

  'It's black and beautiful.'

  'Nonsense.'

  'It is too, and he's a lovely guy. I've met him; Jean-Paul; a cuddly bear. You'd like him. Wears a kilt.'

  'I don't care.'

  'The leather trousers then.'

  'Oh… !' I said, exasperated.

  'Go on; just try them. They're you, honey; really.'

  'Well…'

  * * *

  'These trousers creak,' I said, shifting my bottom on the Sitting Board. We were in Yolanda's latest hire car, heading south for Dudgeon Magna at high speed.

  'They're fine; you look great in them. Hell, you smell great in them, honey!'

  We hurtled round a corner. The car lurched and I had a strange sense that it was pivoting. Yolanda swore and chuckled at the same time and did something fancy with the steering wheel.

  'What was that?' I asked, glancing at her.

  'Bad camber, tightening bend,' she said tersely. 'When will you people learn to build roads properly?'

  'At least,' I said, 'these trousers don't let me slip around so much on the Sitting Board when you go round corners.'

  'Yeah,' my grandmother chuckled, sounding like she was enjoying herself, 'keep those buns well anchored. Haw haw haw.'

  I gripped the sides of the seat as we went round another bend. I looked down. 'What are these buttons for?'

  Yolanda glanced over. 'Seat adjustment. Electric.'

  I nodded, impressed that disabled people were so well catered for in ordinary automobiles. I grabbed the sides of the seat again for the next bend, and duly found myself rising and tipping back in my seat. I giggled, then gasped as we just missed an oncoming car.

  'Ah; this bit isn't dual carriageway, Grandma.'

  'I know that!… Why are these people flashing their lights at me?'

  'Well, I don't think it's because they know you.'