James wondered whether to say anything more to Haight about the Millenaria, or would it just make him look foolish? He didn’t have much to go on, and even if Mr Cooper-ffrench was somehow connected to the secret society, did it really matter?
Haight hadn’t been particularly interested before, so James decided that from now on he’d keep his mouth shut. He knew one thing for certain, however: coming on this trip had been a mistake. Here he was, miles from Eton, and he was still surrounded by masters and boys.
He had to get away.
He borrowed some notepaper off Perry and dashed off a letter to his cousin Victor, asking if he could come to stay with him sooner than they had arranged.
Four days later, when they arrived in the small town of Abbasanta to visit the Losa Nuraghi, yet another ruined stone tower, there was a reply waiting for James at their guest house. He ripped the envelope open and read the letter anxiously, but he needn’t have worried: it was the response he had been hoping for.
That night Haight took all the boys out to a restaurant for a treat. There was a raucous, holiday atmosphere. Haight was drinking the strong local wine and he had even persuaded the stuffy Cooper-ffrench to take a glass.
‘I can’t believe you’re jumping ship, you m-mountebank.’ Perry was sitting next to James, stuffing long coils of pasta into his mouth and talking at the same time.
‘It’s Cooper-ffrench,’ said James. ‘Ever since the other day in Sant’ Antine he’s attached himself to me like an over-protective dog. I’m sick of the sight of him; his fat, red face, his bristling little moustache –’
‘The huge black stains under his armpits,’ added Perry.
‘Exactly,’ said James.
He couldn’t get out of his mind the image of the man staring up at him from the courtyard at Sant’ Antine, with that murderous look on his face. He still had the feeling that somehow Cooper-ffrench had been trying to will him towards the edge of the tower. Was it because James had seen him with the tattooed man in Eton?
No. James had never spoken to him about that.
But he had spoken to Mr Merriot, and Mr Merriot had discussed the Millenaria with Cooper-ffrench. And it must have been shortly after that when Cooper-ffrench announced that he wanted to come on the trip to Sardinia.
Well, whatever the reason for him being here, James was very soon going to be getting away from him.
‘You can’t leave m-me with the dread Fitzpaine,’ Perry complained. ‘He gets worse every day. The chap’s a m-monster!’
‘Just ignore him,’ said James. ‘I’ve learnt not to be pushed around by boys who think they’re something more than they really are.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Perry. ‘You can look after yourself.’ He stopped eating for a moment and raised his head from his plate. ‘What does old Love-Haight think about you jumping ship?’ he said.
‘I haven’t told him yet,’ said James. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment.’
‘No time like the present,’ said Perry and, before James could stop him, he bellowed down the length of the table, ‘I say, James Bond’s had enough! He’s leaving us in the lurch.’
Cooper-ffrench’s ears pricked up. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘I’m still feeling a little odd, sir,’ James lied. ‘I’m leaving the trip early. I have a cousin in the north of the island. I shall be staying with him for the rest of the holidays.’
‘This is not acceptable,’ said Cooper-ffrench, who looked slightly panicked.
‘But it was always understood that I wouldn’t be staying on for the whole three weeks,’ said James.
Before Cooper-ffrench could respond to this, Haight interrupted. ‘That was the arrangement,’ he said.
‘I knew nothing about it,’ protested Cooper-ffrench.
‘It was decided before you joined us,’ said Haight. ‘I spoke to James’s aunt before we left.’ Haight turned to James. ‘But you’re leaving much sooner than I thought,’ he said. ‘You’ll miss out on a lot.’ He looked a little disappointed.
‘Tell me about this cousin,’ said Cooper-ffrench. ‘Is he respectable?’
‘He’s an engineer,’ said James, ‘or at least he used to be. He’s retired now, I think. He’s a lot older than me. He paints.’
‘Really?’ said Haight. ‘Is he well known?’
‘I don’t think so. He just paints for fun.’
‘We are rather straying from the point here,’ said Cooper-ffrench.
‘Oh, come on, John,’ said Haight, and he laughed. ‘I’m just trying to find out a little about Bond’s cousin.’
‘His whole house is stuffed with paintings, apparently,’ said James. ‘And a famous Italian artist lives there with him, Polly, something –’
‘Not Poliponi?’ said Haight.
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘Have you heard of him?’
‘I’ll say. Interesting chap.’ Haight smiled. ‘You are full of surprises, Bond. Imagine your cousin knowing one of the most famous artists in the world.’
‘I’ve seen some of this Poliponi man’s work,’ said Cooper-ffrench. ‘And, quite frankly, it’s disgusting. But if that was the arrangement, I shan’t interfere. I still don’t like the idea of James just flitting off like this when he was supposed to be on an educational trip, however.’
‘Well, he could always write us an essay all about it!’ said Haight, and he laughed.
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Cooper-ffrench.
‘It was supposed to be a joke, actually,’ said Haight quietly.
‘Bond,’ said Cooper-ffrench, ignoring the other master, ‘I will need all your cousin’s details: his full name and address, and so on and so forth. You will write me a letter as soon as you get there, letting us know that you have safely arrived. Then you will send us a thousand- word essay telling us all about that part of the island, your cousin’s villa and so on. You can send it to us in Cagliari. Then we’ll know that you won’t have been idle.’
James and Haight exchanged looks and Haight raised his eyebrows before quickly disguising his expression as Cooper-ffrench looked up at him.
James smiled, glad that he had an ally.
He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, pulling his right ankle up on to his left thigh, the position he always adopted when he felt at his most relaxed. He was getting away from all this. And he could stop worrying about Cooper-ffrench and his possible connections to the Millenaria. From now on the summer would be his to enjoy.
James’s cousin Victor lived in the far north of Sardinia, where the Straits of Bonifacio separated the island from Corsica. The nearest town was Palau, and the journey there by train and bus took the best part of a day.
James arrived in Palau with a splitting headache, hot and tired and in need of a wash. There was dust everywhere; on his clothes, under his clothes, in his mouth and ears. Even his eyes felt gritty.
Palau seemed to consist of little more than a miserable, dusty street of single-storeyed houses washed a grubby pink. There was a dilapidated, dirty inn where a group of local men were eating octopus, and nearby two other old men slept on stone benches. It felt like the end of the world.
James waited in the shade of a tree for over an hour, and it felt as if time was standing still. A lizard darted out from under a stone and ran over his shoe. The men in the inn stared at him. The two old peasants snored on their benches. Flies buzzed. The sun shone.
James put his head in his hands and let out a long slow breath, feeling it burning down the front of his shirt.
He waited for a few minutes longer, then took his suitcase and walked to the edge of town. He looked up the road. He could see nothing. He wiped sweat from his face. His throat was dry. His clothes stuck to him and he was sore where they had been rubbing. The heated air felt solid, pressing down on him.
Gradually he became aware of a sound, a far-off engine noise, as of a motor car approaching. He didn’t dare raise his hopes and imagine that it might be Victor. He
stood, squinting into the fierce sunlight, and at last saw, coming down the hillside, the black shape of a car.
He smiled. It must be Victor. The car looked big and expensive. But as it grew nearer his heart sank. It was being driven by a boy, a local boy by the look of him, with olive skin and thick black hair. He appeared to be about sixteen and was wearing sunglasses that completely hid his eyes.
This couldn’t be Victor, who was at least fifty, with fair hair.
The car was a Hispano-Suiza cabriolet, long and powerful, with wide running boards. It was a deep maroon colour but was so covered in dust it looked almost white. This was a rich man’s car and seemed totally out of place in this squalid, flyblown little town. When it drew level with James it stopped, and the boy sat staring at him with a sullen, bored look.
James looked back, holding his stare, unblinking, and after a while the boy turned his head and spat into the road. Then he said something in a thick Italian accent.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said James and the boy repeated what he had said. James suddenly realised that he was saying his name.
‘James Bond? Yes,’ said James. ‘Has Victor sent you? Victor Delacroix?’
The boy nodded and jerked his head back, indicating that James should put his luggage on the tiny back seat. James tossed it in.
‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.’
The boy just shrugged and threw the passenger door open without looking round.
James climbed in and with a crunch of gears the boy turned the car around and set off back up the road.
‘Well, better late than never, I suppose,’ said James, trying to break the ice, but the boy didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry,’ said James irritably. ‘Maybe you don’t speak English.’
‘Little,’ the boy grunted.
‘And do you have a name? A name…? What – is – your – name?’
‘Mauro.’
‘Well, Mauro, I’m pleased to meet you… I suppose.’
Mauro muttered something but kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, driving with one hand on the wheel. His other hand draped nonchalantly over the side of the car.
They left town and veered off the road on to a rutted dirt track that followed the cliffs around the coast to the east. It was wild scenery here, with outcrops of twisted, honey-coloured granite that had been carved by the winds into dramatic shapes. James kept a lookout for the landmark that gave this area its name. After ten minutes of uncomfortable jostling and shaking, he spotted, high up on top of a promontory, a wind-eroded rock which must surely be it.
‘Is that Bear Rock?’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, but Mauro said nothing. ‘Orso,’ said James. ‘Bear.’
‘Sì,’ said Mauro without looking up. James peered at the rock and, with a little imagination, he found that it did indeed resemble a huge bear on all fours peering out to sea.
This, then, was Capo d’Orso, the Cape of the Bear.
Mauro steered the Hispano-Suiza off the dirt track on to an even more primitive trail, which wound its way over rocks and stones between the scrubby vegetation down the side of the hill towards the sea. The car swayed wildly from side to side and James was bounced out of his seat. He began to wonder whether they would make it at all, but Mauro must have driven this way many times before and didn’t seem at all fazed, although James noticed that he now had both hands on the wheel.
When they at last arrived James felt like they had been driving for hours. He was stiff and bruised and caked with dust, and the back of his neck felt burnt.
Mauro parked the car under the shade of some umbrella pines, switched off the engine and got out. Then he grabbed James’s suitcase and strode off without saying anything. James shook his head and followed him down a flight of winding steps cut into the rock. As they came round a corner they arrived at a large open doorway set into a short white wall. James could see little more of the building, which nestled, hidden, among the rocks. He could see enough, though, to tell him that it didn’t follow the lines of an ordinary house and appeared almost to have grown out of the landscape.
Through the door was a long snaking corridor, which twisted and turned as it led deeper into the villa.
They came out into an unexpectedly large room with an undulating curved roof and a wide sweep of floor-to-ceiling windows that led out on to a terrace.
The room was neither square nor circular; like the rest of the building it was organic in design, with odd little hidden corners and holes cut into the walls of all shapes and sizes, some leading to the outside, others to rooms within the villa itself.
If the room was unusual, what was in it was extraordinary. It was filled with paintings and statues and odd, incongruous objects. The paintings were unsettling and nightmarish. One gigantic canvas took up almost all of one wall – it showed an octopus floating in the air, crushing various objects in its tentacles; naked women; an animal that looked like a hairless cow; and a car that seemed somehow fleshy and alive. Then there was a bronze statue that consisted of nothing more than the lower half of a man, wearing trousers, and standing next to it was a stuffed giraffe whose neck went up through a hole in the ceiling. Another painting showed a woman with no face stabbing a crucifix into a human-sized beetle. The largest fish tank James had ever seen held a variety of exotic fish swimming in and out of a pile of animal skulls.
James suddenly realised that he had lost sight of Mauro, who had gone off with his suitcase down one of the several corridors that radiated from the room. He tried one but it opened into a small inner courtyard, where a semi-naked young man with a shaved head was posing in front of a mirror. James wasn’t sure if this was real at first, and wondered whether it might not be another of the strange art objects that filled the place. But then the man moved. He picked up an iron bar with weights on either end. He looked at James without saying anything as he lifted the bar above his head, his sharply defined muscles bulging.
‘Sorry,’ James mumbled and backed out. Not knowing which way to go and feeling slightly unnerved, he wandered outside on to the terrace.
The view from here was stunning. Past the polished granite rocks, dotted with prickly pear, he could see the sparkling turquoise ocean and a group of nearby islands.
‘Hello.’
James heard a soft voice and turned round. Standing there was a man wearing a long, loose Moroccan robe and curly, pointed gold slippers. He was small and slight, his skin tanned a deep nut brown and he had a curly moustache and pointed beard. His oily hair had been teased into what looked like two horns on either side of his head so that he resembled some sort of devil.
This was not cousin Victor.
9
La Casa Polipo
The man was staring at James intently with gleaming, brown eyes.
‘James Bond…?’ he said in a thick Italian accent.
‘Yes,’ said James and the man advanced on him and fixed him with his gaze, looking deep into his eyes.
‘James Bond. Such an English name. Such a boring name. A dull, blunt name. Like a stone. But you,’ he said, ‘you hide behind your name. You are not boring. You are interesting.’ He paused, then said quickly, ‘Imagine a number, James Bond.’
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Close your eyes and think of nothing else,’ said the little man. ‘Only a number. Not higher than ten. Do not tell me what it is. Hold it in your mind, deep in your mind. This is your special number. Do you have it?’
‘Yes,’ said James.
‘I know it,’ said the man, widening his eyes.
‘OK,’ said James. ‘What is it?’
‘It is seven.’
James smiled. ‘That’s right. How did you guess?’
‘I did not guess… I know you. Seven is your number; it will be a very important number for you in your life. Seven is the luckiest of numbers. There are seven deadly sins. Seven wonders of the world. Seven archangels –’
‘Seven dwarfs,’ said J
ames.
‘What?’
‘In the fairy tale. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Or the number seven bus. In Kent where I live.’
‘Ah…’ the man thought for a while, studying James with an unnervingly steady gaze. Finally he spoke. ‘You fascinate me, James Bond. You have the mark of death upon you.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I can see it. Seven is also the number of Death. I see you and I see the number seven and the figure of Death. Death will walk by your side through your life.’
‘If you say so.’ James smiled politely and wondered how he could get away from this strange little man.
‘I do say so,’ the man murmured. ‘But there is more… Death is following you. Somebody is trying to kill you; he wants you dead. I see a tower. I see –’
‘Stop that, Poliponi!’
There was a shout from the house and James turned to see his cousin Victor coming out. He also was dressed in a Moroccan robe, which looked incongruous, matched, as it was, with a battered old straw hat perched on his head. He was smoking a long yellow cigarette, and was almost as tanned as the satanic artist. He had grown his hair long and it was tied behind his neck, where it hung down in a loose mane, the blond locks streaked with grey.
‘James, welcome!’ he cried and gave him a startling hug. ‘Forgive me. I am so sorry that I was not able to meet you myself at Palau.’ Victor spoke English impeccably with only a slight Swiss accent. ‘I trust Mauro looked after you well.’
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘He was a little late, but it didn’t matter.’
‘We have had some problems with the car. It was not designed for these rough conditions. I really ought to get something different, or go back to using a donkey!’ He smiled. ‘Is your room all right?’
Blood Fever Page 9