In the Absence of Absalon

by Simon Okotie

  39

  Why was putting one foot in front of the other so hard for him, he wondered, as he put his left foot in front of his right, and then vice versa, repeatedly and at speed, as a means of moving, as quickly as he could, in pursuit of Isobel Absalon and the end, he hoped, of his investigation into the disappearance of Marguerite?

  He felt the need to clarify something of this relationship between his feet, as he moved down the corridor in front of me: in what sense, he wondered, could it be said that in approaching the door to the room in question he was doing so by putting one foot in front of the other? Would it not be more accurate to say that in moving to the now ominously quiet room in that house that he was doing so by a means of propulsion that involved putting one front in front of – and to one side of – the other? Would it not be much more accurate to record his evidence in that way of the moments leading up to his entry into that fateful room? If so, why had those investigators who had gone before him not used this fuller, more accurate means of recording their movements at key times such as, in his situation, the moments leading to an arrest and possibly a conviction, assuming that Marguerite’s disappearance related, in some way, to something criminal involving Harold and Isobel Absalon and perhaps even Richard Knox?29 Was it the sheer difficulty of using the means of expressing the evidence that had deterred his colleagues, he wondered, as he continued putting one foot in front of, and to the side of, the other, in rapid succession, such that he was already half-way, or thereabouts, down the corridor en route to the open door? Granted it was reasonably straightforward to record the evidence if one left out reference to right or left, as he himself had just done, in noting, in his own mind (this somehow being conveyed to our minds), that he continued his pursuit of Isobel Absalon by putting one foot in front of, and to the side of, the other. He conceded that it was a step in the right direction in that it was at least a fuller description than the one that one often saw – that is the classic ‘putting one foot in front of the other’. It had, at least, the merit of indicating that, in propelling oneself forwards in this way, that each of one’s feet, as well as moving, alternately, from a position that was behind the other foot to a position that was in advance of that other foot, also occupied a position, given the peculiarities of the human anatomy (and that of other bipeds, note) that was simultaneously to the side of that other foot. To express it in another way, whilst ‘putting one foot in front of and to the side of the other’ was a more advanced form of descriptive submission, it had the disadvantage of ambiguity in relation to which foot was in front of and to the side of which. Previously in this part of his investigation he had specified that it was his left foot that had been placed in front of a firmly planted right foot – this was at the outset of his pursuit of Isobel Absalon, remember. Whilst this earlier form of expression had the disadvantage of not being clear that the left foot, as well as being in front of the right, was also to one side of the latter, it did at least have the advantage of specifying which foot was which in the important interplay between them.

  Now, the more astute amongst us may have identified a way through this impasse: could one not combine the two models, meaning that, in theory, one could have the specificity of the earlier model at the same time as the lengthier descriptiveness of the later model; in combining, in this way, the two means of recording the evidence, the hope would be that the greater length of the latter would dispel the crude linear dimensionality of the former, and that the specifics of the former would rectify the latter’s lateral vagueness. He explored this, as he came to a position, through putting his left foot in front of and to the side of his right, and vice versa, repeatedly, of starting to be able to see into the room in question, not that his field of vision yet contained anything that he felt could be used to bring about any sort of final conviction in the Marguerite case; all he could see was the back of a dining room chair illuminated by weak sunlight from a barred window to the left. The way in which he explored the amalgamation of the two modes, or manners, of expression, as he continued propelling himself in the manner described, was by rehearsing the amalgamation in his mind, thus: in moving towards the open doorway and into the room on the other side of it that he suspected contained the final shreds, if one can call them that, of evidence leading to the resolution of the mystery of the disappearance of Marguerite, his investigative colleague, last seen on the trail of Harold Absalon, the Mayor’s transport advisor, who had been missing, he would put his right foot (note) in front of, and to the side of his left foot, and vice versa, repeatedly, and in so doing would propel himself forwards. As he continued moving forwards in this manner, he reflected, as more and more of the room came into view and he saw paper and pen, on an uncovered edge of a dining table, that his documentary evidence, even amalgamating the two modes or manners of expression as it now did, still lacked something of the clarity towards which he always strove. Whilst overcoming both linear and lateral limitations of previous models, the added complication of the new mode of expression had imported with it further ambiguity. To what, for instance, did the ‘vice versa’ now refer? There were, he noted, four variables, namely, left and right, in front of and to the side. When he had used the more straightforward ‘putting his left foot in front of his right, and vice versa, repeatedly’ to describe his means of progression it had been clear to what the vice versa referred; but the amalgamation of the two modes or manners of expression had brought with it a further two variables – namely ‘in front of’ and ‘to the side of’ – such that it was no longer clear to which set of variables the ‘vice versa’ referred. Nor did the combination of the two systems resolve an ambiguity previously referred to in his evidence,30 namely, in referring to putting the right foot in front of, and to the side of, the left, to what side of the left foot should the right foot be taken to momentarily reside – the left or the right? When there was only one step to refer to, as in the previous case, this issue could quite easily and satisfactorily be resolved by simply referring to the correct side: thus, as previously, when he had placed his right foot to the side of his left he could simply specify that he had placed the right foot to the right-hand side of that left foot (though he regretted the emergence of the word ‘hand’ in his evidence at this point – he thought it only served to confuse matters further and resolved to refrain from using it henceforth when working on this part of his inquiry). What he was finding, as he passed through the doorway and I lost sight of him, was just how difficult it was really to express how he was feeling at that moment. As for me, I must have put my right foot in front of, and to the right of, my left foot, and my left foot in front of, and to the left of, my right foot; I put my right foot in front of, and to the right of, my left foot, and my left foot in front of, and to the left of, my right foot; again, I put my right foot in front of, and to the right of, my left foot, and my left foot in front of, and to the left of, my right foot; and that is how I find myself inside this room, determined, once again, to understand the circumstances of his disappearance.

  I took the opportunity, in Absalon’s absence, of insinuating myself into Knox’s company. I thought it wouldn’t do my prospects any harm, although this didn’t mean I now trusted him.

  Obviously I would need to keep the affair with Absalon’s wife from Knox, and not just because of his own reputation. It would, of course, cause ructions within the project office, were it to become widely known, and that would surely impede my progress.

  My misjudgment came on one of those rare social occasions attended by both Knox and myself. I would not, of course, have brought Isobel with me on that or any other such occasion. I hoped that, over time, my relationship with the wife of their former colleague would normalise within the project office; even if some may never condone it, I hoped that all, with time, would come to accept it.

  This, though, was at the stage where, as far as I knew, no-one knew. So it was with great alarm that, as I was standi
ng my round – something that Harold Absalon had always been known for and which, for that reason, it behove me to do – the picture that I kept in my wallet of her wearing that favourite old sun hat next to the lake fell right at Knox’s feet.

  His expression changed as soon as he saw her. I had not believed, until then, that one could fall for someone just from seeing a picture of them. But that is what I thought I witnessed on that occasion in that public bar around the corner from the project office. It was only a small photograph, but one in which certainly her figure was outlined to pleasing effect. And she wore that mysterious, seductive smile that one saw, from time to time, never quite knowing what to make of it.

  Knox was suave, attractive – one never saw any cracks in his charming façade (although we all knew how decisive and unsentimental he could be). This, then, was the only moment I had seen him momentarily surprised.

  What was it that he saw in her that made him act in the way that he did? For now, having composed himself, he handed the photo back to me with an air of nonchalance, and simply asked, presumptuously, ‘Any children?’ I must have blurted out something about us trying, without success, despite myself. But he had regained his composure to the extent that my response provoked barely a flicker in his unusually smooth countenance.

  I pondered his question afterwards. Did he know, even then, that he would have her – just on the basis of a view of her in a small, dog-eared photograph? Was that really how he operated?

  It would seem so, with this question about offspring being, to my mind, a preliminary assessment of the likely extent of the collateral damage that would be caused by his actions.

  Let’s just say he had a reputation. Perhaps that was why I had never mentioned him to Isobel, despite the growing professional closeness between him and me.

  Why did I think her unlikely to cheat on me? After all, she was, with me, already cheating on her husband. Was it simply conceit, a sense that, unlike Absalon, I was truly giving her what she wanted, was so conscientiously fulfilling her every need – and not just in the bedroom?

  I think it was something to do with us having been an item – and Harold having been absent – for so long by that stage. I never got a sense that she felt she was cheating on him.

  In fact, even she had taken to calling me Harold. The first time she had done so I felt euphoric; each time afterwards felt like a blessed relief. Our relationship – what I had started to think of as a marriage – had normalized, then, to that extent.

  I could never shake off the prospect of Absalon’s return, however, even if she could.

  She had told me that she would never tolerate unfaithfulness. This, she said, was what had caused her mother’s death: the behaviour of her father. She’d cut off all ties with him. I was left in no doubt that the same would happen to me, in the same circumstance.

  I knew that, in the absence of Absalon, I was all that she had: estranged from her father, her mother dead.

  It was, perhaps, the suddenness with which it happened that had taken me aback.

  I returned home one evening some time later – and not long after she’d told me the good news – to find the house deserted.

  That Knox took an extended leave of absence around this time was not, I knew, a coincidence. What I was faced with was finding a way to track him down so as to find her again.

  Strange to say my career continued to progress during this time, despite – perhaps even because of – Knox’s absence. Some spoke of me as a potential successor, even though he was much better connected than I could ever dream to be. They asked me to take on his job, though, temporarily, as I continued to fulfil Harold Absalon’s functions. In fact – bizarrely – it was Knox himself, apparently, who, in absentia, had nominated me to fill his shoes whilst he was away doing whatever it was that he was doing.

  This was the first time that I’d had my own office – in the corner of the block looking out over the little public square with the traffic, and the grids of government offices, beyond. I tried hard to hide how much this affected me.

  I also acquired Knox’s secretary, Hazel, whose desk was located, guardian-like, outside the door of what I had taken to calling my office. She was conscientious, encouraging, although I got an inkling, from time to time, of her continued loyalties to him. Still, she was an asset. She knew so much about how to run things that I sometimes wondered, in running the project, who was really administering and supporting whom.

  There was no suggestion of any sort of impropriety with Hazel, by the way. I was on the brink of something momentous, career-wise, after all. People perhaps already suspected me of an involvement in the disappearances of both Richard Knox and Harold Absalon, not to mention an entanglement with the latter’s wife, en route to this corner office-with-a-view, a space within which I was seemingly making myself at home.

  No, I didn’t want to fuel further speculation by anything untoward with Hazel. I did, though, want to find an early opportunity to probe her, subtly, on Richard Knox’s whereabouts. There was still some unfinished business there, after all.

  The decisive lead came to me one morning when, for whatever reason, I followed a different routine. Ordinarily I would leave the empty Absalon house early, there being nothing there to keep me. On this occasion I was somewhat later and I approached my office via a different route: instead of passing through reception, saying good morning to Sophie, the receptionist, who had taken to calling me ‘Sir’, I entered through the door in the opposite wall of the lift lobby – this so as to be able to walk through the whole open plan section of the office (a) to see who was in at that time of morning (not many) and (b) to greet those who were in early, this to help with morale and to show my face to the people, to encourage them – what’s known as the human touch.

  What this meant was that I approached my office from the opposite corridor leading to that corner. It was for this reason that Hazel did not apprehend my approach, even though, ordinarily, she was so vigilant, on my behalf. I caught her unawares, momentarily. She was with an administrative colleague – someone from accounts whose name I should have known – and they were looking at one of the glossies that report tittle-tattle about the nonentities that, in this country, pass for what we call celebrities. As I passed them, and they closed the magazine in embarrassed silence, I was sure I saw a picture of Isobel with Richard Knox getting out of a very plush-looking motor car in ball gown and dinner jacket, looking very pleased with themselves indeed.

  My research – at the National Newspaper Library – led me to a most disturbing place. It appeared that the societal outings of Richard Knox and Isobel Absalon had commenced much earlier. It would seem (and I found this particularly sobering – chilling, really) that their relationship had started long before Harold, even.

  I found, as I scanned the microfiche, photo after photo, column after column (mostly of the gossip variety, I would add) linking Knox with Isobel Absalon.

  The first report I found, which is not to say it is the first there is of course, had them at a polo match. Isobel, beautiful even then, in the first flush of youth, was wearing that sun hat.

  What most disturbed me – appalled me, really – was the fact that he was old enough to be her father.

 

 

 
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