Unless some further clue to Annuka Vos’s whereabouts could be found inside the bag. A possibility which could be empirically tested, since it appeared not to be locked.
The official gazed at him distrustfully. The only thing that he had understood was that Dr. Wilfred was making trouble. He went away to have a cigarette.
Dr. Wilfred leaned over the counter and undid the straps on the bag. Then zip … zap …
The first thing he took out was a batch of brightly illustrated T-shirts. For a moment his mood changed, as he suddenly saw Annuka Vos almost as clearly as if she had been standing in front of him—in her thirties, lightly tanned, with discreetly blond hair. They would meet at her hotel to exchange suitcases. Laugh about it together. She turned out to know who he was. Had read his books. They would have a drink … Dinner …
He rummaged further. There seemed to be no indication of her destination in Skios, however.
Only swimming trunks, men’s underpants, and a bottle of aftershave.
His picture burst like a soap bubble. Ms. Vos was evidently a transvestite. Which might perhaps make her easier to find. He pushed the bag back across the counter.
Though whether its owner was a man describing himself as a woman, or a woman dressed as a man, Dr. Wilfred couldn’t quite understand.
* * *
The air-conditioning inside the high palace of the four-by-four was discreetly chill. Oliver lowered the window and let the hot scented air of the Greek night blow over him instead.
“We’re all so excited!” said Nikki. “We’re all so looking forward to it!”
Who the others were who were so enthusiastic he couldn’t guess. But Nikki herself certainly did seem to be excited. She did seem to be looking forward to it, whatever it was. He could hear it in her voice. He could see it in her face as it was lit up by the headlights of an oncoming car.
“So am I!” said Oliver. Because yes, he was excited. What could be more wonderful than this—driving through the Mediterranean summer night with a woman who was happy to be with you, and all the possibilities of the world open in front of you? He felt intensely alive, like a mayfly with only one day to enjoy it all. And yes, he too was looking forward to it, all the more intensely because he had no idea what it was he was looking forward to, and because it was so likely to be snatched away from him again even before he had discovered.
“You’ve got all the literature I sent you,” said Nikki. “But if there’s anything else you want to know…?”
“Nothing,” he said. Always before, so far as he could recall, he had known who he was. He was an undertaker, a visiting Danish parliamentarian, the new son-in-law. Perhaps this time he was a general practitioner in a country town—but then again perhaps he wasn’t. Probably not, in fact; he was unlikely to have patients so excited to see him, or living so far from the surgery. Perhaps he wasn’t even a doctor of medicine.
Well, he would work it out for himself as he went along, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Sadly. Because for the moment he was a living metaphor of the human condition. He knew not whence he came nor whither he was bound, nor what manner of man he was, nor why he was here at all. He was being taken somewhere for some purpose, but of what that purpose was he remained in innocent ignorance.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” said Nikki. “You’re my idea! It was officially Christian who invited you, of course. The director. Which is why it said ‘Christian Schneck’ on the letter you got, but it actually came from Mrs. Toppler’s office, so technically it was her idea. I’m Mrs. Toppler’s PA, though, so I’m the one who suggests the ideas for her to have.”
“I see,” said Oliver, though he was not being quite as truthful as he aspired to be.
“I should perhaps just explain that there’s a bit of a power struggle going on here. As in any institution. Well, you don’t want to hear all this. But just so as you know when you meet Mrs. Toppler … And in case you run into Eric, and he says something … Eric Felt. Christian’s assistant. Christian has rather retreated into himself. As you know, it was Dieter Knopp, Christian’s predecessor, who made the foundation what it is. It’s hard for Christian to live up to someone like Dieter Knopp.”
“I can imagine,” said Oliver, though this was another untruth. The flow of incomprehensible Knopplers and Schnopplers through his head was as soothing as the flow of dark wind through his hair.
“You were a pretty obvious choice, of course,” said Nikki. “You do have a worldwide reputation. And your CV is just amazing. You seem to have done everything!”
“Have I?”
“Except get married, apparently!”
So he wasn’t married. He was as free as the warm summer wind.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “How rude of me! But women can’t help noticing the personal things.”
“Even men sometimes notice whether they’re married or not,” he said.
“Not always,” she said. “In my experience.”
The headlights fell on a pole, striped in red and white, across the road in front of them. The car stopped and a uniformed security man emerged from the shadows. “Security have taken on four extra staff for the occasion,” said Nikki to Oliver. “All for you!”
“ID,” said the security man.
“Giorgios! It’s me!”
“ID,” said Giorgios.
Nikki laughed. “If only all our staff were so thorough!” she said. She showed Giorgios her pass. Oliver watched him as he carefully studied both sides of it. It was only too clear what was coming next. Yes. Giorgios gave Nikki her pass back and held out his hand towards Oliver.
“It’s all right,” said Nikki. “He’s with me. Just open the barrier.”
Giorgios went on holding out his hand. “No one come in,” he said, “only he have ID.”
“This gentleman doesn’t need ID. He’s a guest.”
“Guest? So—he got a invitation? No staff, only he have ID. No guest, only he have invitation. Mr. Bolt tell me. ‘No one,’ he tell me. ‘No one but no one.’”
Nikki spoke to him in Greek.
“No one,” he replied in Greek. “No one,” he repeated in English.
“I’m so sorry,” said Nikki to Oliver. “Just show him your passport. That’ll keep him happy.”
Oliver made a performance of feeling his trouser pockets. “Oh my God!” he said. “I think I’ve lost it!” Even the flimsiest twig was worth clutching at, if you were falling off a cliff.
“It’s in your shirt pocket,” said Nikki. “I can see it.”
“Oh, yes.” He took it out and looked at it, still reluctant to bring his little adventure to its inevitable end quite so soon. It had lasted rather longer than he had originally expected, but he had begun to build up considerable hopes for it … Also he needed a moment to prepare a variant of his usual exit speech, adjusted to local circumstances. Most beautiful woman he had ever, of course. Also confused by the time change. Overcome by the heat. New medication. Recent bereavement.
But already she had taken the passport out of his hands and was turning to the page with the name and photograph.
Was it too much to hope that she would at any rate drive him back to the airport?
She was laughing again. “I shouldn’t have recognized you!” she said. “But then of course in the photograph you’re not allowed to smile.”
She handed the passport to Giorgios. “Fox,” he read out slowly. “Oliver.” But just at that moment a hand emerged from the darkness beside him and took the passport out of his hand. “I’ll look after this,” said a British voice. “You ask Elli to get the bar up, lad.”
A red British face appeared in the open window of the car. “Sorry, Nikki. I tell him not to let anyone in without ID, and bugger me, he goes and does what I tell him! So this is the great man himself, is it?” He leaned across Nikki to shake Oliver’s hand and give him his passport back. “Reg Bolt, director of security. Welcome to the Fred Toppler Foundation, sir! Nice to see a British passport do
ing the honors for once!”
The barrier swung up into the night and they drove in. “You see what good care we take of you?” said Nikki. “You wouldn’t believe how many crooks and lunatics a place like this attracts. Though actually all this security is really not just to protect you but all the people who are coming to hear you. Various VIPs from Athens, of course. Also Mr. Papadopoulou. Our great patron.”
She looked sideways at him. “Mr. Vassilis Papadopoulou? I don’t have to tell you who he is!”
“You certainly don’t,” said Oliver, as he put the passport back into his shirt pocket. “He’s Mr. Vassilis Papadopoulou.”
“Exactly. And he’s invited a number of his business associates. So you can see why they might all need a little extra security.”
Oliver laughed. Koffler Schnoffler. Papadopoulou Schnapadopoulou. And he was still on the tightrope!
* * *
At the sight of Dr. Wilfred emerging from the baggage hall the solitary driver still waiting raised his little placard. , it said, SKIOS TAXI.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said Dr. Wilfred. “Someone took my bag.”
“No problem,” said Skios Taxi. “Fox Oliver?”
“What?”
“Fox Oliver?”
Phoksoliva? Dr. Wilfred was too tired to start struggling with a strange language at this time of night. Surely they could have found someone to meet him who spoke English! And who was a little more personable than this. Skios Taxi’s belly hung over the top of his trousers. His bald head was gleaming with sweat. He had a black wart like a fly on the end of his nose. Dr. Wilfred found him quite disrespectfully unprepossessing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you would be kind enough simply to take me where I’m going.”
The man didn’t move.
“You Fox Oliver?” he said.
Dr. Wilfred make a great effort to accommodate him. Euphoksoliva … The first syllable was familiar, anyway. Good something, as in “euphemism” or “euphoria.” “Good day,” perhaps. “Good evening.” Except it sounded like a question. “Good flight?” perhaps.
“No,” he said.
“No?” said Skios Taxi.
“No. Someone took my bag.”
Skios Taxi gazed at him. “Eunophoksoliva?” he said.
Dr. Wilfred surprised himself by how patient and polite he managed to remain.
“I’m extremely sorry,” he said. “I have had a very bad day, which has culminated in discovering that my suitcase has been taken by someone else. So, until they find it and send it on to me, I have no clean clothes, no pajamas, not even a toothbrush. And tomorrow I have to give a rather important lecture. Here, look. Lecture, yes? Lecture! So I think that what I should now like most to do is simply to get to my destination and go to bed and have a good night’s sleep and hope that when I wake up everything will seem a little less horrible than it does just at the moment. All right? Am I making myself clear?”
“No problem.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“So—Fox Oliver?”
Dr. Wilfred gave in.
“All right,” he said. “Phoksoliva. Certainly. Phoksoliva. Why not? Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva!”
Skios Taxi smiled and held out his hand.
“Spiros,” he said. “OK. No problem. You got a bag?”
“No,” said Dr. Wilfred. “I have not got a bag. Someone has taken my bag. And before you say ‘No problem’ again, please don’t, because there is a problem, and the problem is that I don’t have my bag!”
Spiros made a calming gesture and ushered Dr. Wilfred towards the car park.
“No problem,” he said.
10
“You’re not allergic to lilies, are you?” said Nikki as she moved about Parmenides, turning on lights and putting Oliver’s bag on the rack. “Though I did already check with your PA person, because of the onions. I’ll close the windows, though I don’t think we’ve got any mosquitoes here.”
She stood looking round the room for any imperfections she had missed, and glanced at her watch.
“Supper in the taverna? Or shall I ask the kitchens to send something up?”
He shook his head and stood looking at her. She continued looking round the room.
“Well,” she said. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”
Still she lingered, though.
“You can just shut yourself away here and work if you want to … Of course, we hope you’ll mingle … Or swim, or just sit somewhere … We like to think that the keynote here is civilization. Civilized conversation in civilized surroundings … I think you’ll find most of the people here pretty receptive. Though not, of course, specialists…”
She adjusted a cushion on the sofa.
“You’re having lunch with Mrs. Fred Toppler tomorrow, as you know. She likes to talk. I should just let her…”
She readjusted the cushion.
“And then of course there’s your lecture. In the morning I’ll show you where you’ll be speaking. We can discuss all your requirements then. Just phone me if there’s anything you need in the meanwhile. I’ve put my card on the desk. Or you can find me very easily. I’m in Democritus. Straight along the path and first on the left. The veranda on the right. There’s champagne in the fridge, by the way.”
And she had gone. She had left clear enough directions, though. Champagne. Then straight along the path, first left, and …
She had come back.
“Not the veranda on the left! That’s Mrs. Toppler’s part of the house!”
This time she really had gone. Oliver looked at himself in the mirror. The man in the mirror laughed. “So,” he said to Oliver, “you’re at a foundation. And you’re giving a lecture. I wonder what it’s about.”
“Don’t worry,” said Oliver to the man in the mirror, “we’ll both find out when I give it. If by any chance we ever get that far.”
First things first, though, since the lecture was tomorrow and tonight was tonight, and might never become tomorrow. Have a bath, put on a clean shirt, take the champagne out of the refrigerator, and then—Democritus. The veranda on the right.
* * *
The swaying of the taxi on the bends in the dark and the thumping over the potholes suddenly ceased. After a moment the unaccustomed stillness and quietness penetrated Dr. Wilfred’s consciousness and he opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. He had a feeling it was Malaysia, or Costa Rica. There was nothing to be seen but the narrow tunnel of bushes and unmade-up road created by the headlights, and the back of a head silhouetted against it.
“Thirty-two euros,” said the head.
Oh, yes. The taxi. No bag. Phoksoliva. Skios … Dr. Wilfred opened the car door and struggled stiffly out into the blackness. He felt automatically for his wallet and then stopped. Thirty-two euros? But all expenses were paid! All expenses were always paid! Before he could protest, though, he realized that his getting out of the taxi had changed everything. The night had been transfigured. He turned round. A fairy palace of light had come magically into being. Olive trees with delicate silver undersides. Wavering reflections on ancient stone walls. A flickering of bats. At the same moment, now he no longer needed it, the name of the establishment that all this was part of lit up inside his head: the Fred Toppler Foundation. Of course. For a moment he just stood and gazed. The foundation’s reputation for its treatment of visiting speakers was more than justified; never in all his travels had he ever come across guest quarters quite like these. His own swing-seat … and parallel bars … and weather station … Around the side of the house he could just see what appeared to be his own pool … It all looked like a tastefully converted and very expensive holiday let.
He gave Spiros forty euros and waved the change aside. As the occupier of premises like these he could scarcely do less.
“Have a good evening,” said Spiros.
“Even without my bag,” said Dr. Wilfred genially.
> “No worries. They find it. I bring it.”
Bag, though! Flight bag! Still in the taxi…! No, here, hung round his neck before he went to sleep just in case he did exactly what he for a moment thought he had done.
The luxury of the accommodation made up even for the appearance of the man they had sent to meet him, not to mention all the “No problems” and “No worries.” He rewarded him, as he turned to go, by repeating the man’s own demotic salutation. “Yes, and … what was it…? Phoksoliva!”
The front door key was in the lock. As he pushed the door open the interior of the house sprang softly into being.
No, never before had he been in guest quarters like these! Dark traditional furniture, peasant pots, and earthenware plates. Everywhere there were little civilizing touches that made it seem more like a family home. Dolls, amateur watercolors, scattered books and magazines. The almost inaudible reassurance of the air-conditioning. On the counter in the spacious kitchen a handwritten note: “Help yourself to anything you can find. Pool towels etc. in the changing rooms outside.”
The foundation had more than made up for the shabbiness of its welcome at the airport. He felt as if he had wandered into the enchanted castle in a fairy story. The bed was hung about with swagged white mosquito netting, like the curtains around a sleeping princess. Many of the cupboards and presses were locked. Perhaps the bodies of earlier lecturers who had been lured here were hidden inside them.
Now what, though? He should probably stroll along to wherever it was that the guests of the foundation gathered and introduce himself. But when he got to the edge of the silver world at the end of the garden path the blackness beyond looked impenetrable, and the soft, welcoming nest behind him even more enticing. He went back and ran a bath, with purple crystals from an old-fashioned pharmacist’s jar. He found a bottle of local white wine in the refrigerator and a corkscrew waiting with glasses on the worktop. He undressed and folded his clothes carefully—he was going to have to put them on again in the morning—on top of the flight bag beside the bed … Lecture! Yes.
He lay back in the foam and sipped the wine. It was good. The day had gone some considerable way towards redeeming itself.
Skios: A Novel Page 4