by John Elliott
‘You can imagine. It didn’t end well. A man might shrug and turn away, saying there are other days and other people, things change, but in youth humiliations cut deep and for Taji it was worse because he had brought me there.
‘The place was indeed a brothel. His detective work had borne fruit. A woman dressed in black, her blonde hair fixed in a chignon, her face—surprisingly without make-up—alabaster pale, as though her cheeks and forehead had never felt the sun, opened the door. From within, we could hear the strains of a foxtrot, played in strict tempo, coming from a radio or a gramophone, its syncopation accompanied by the murmur of voices above which a woman’s rich laugh evoked the pleasures yet to come.
‘The mouth before us, however, did not laugh. Its lips parted to show two even rows of white teeth between which its tongue started out in astonishment. Taji stammered something about money and could we come in. In an idiotic gesture he handed her his coat. There was a tiny instant of stasis before rage and hysterics distorted her features and convulsed her body. It was a second of fleeting calm during which, somewhat perversely, I found her one of the most desirable Europeans I had ever seen. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Her body was stocky and wide-hipped and yet it made me want to preserve her image—an image to which I returned in my later masturbatory fantasies when I held her close to me, feeling her breath on my face, the texture of her nipples against my lips, the tip of my tongue on her pubic hair. Then the image was shattered and she was transformed into the vituperative bearer of hate and loathing, outraged that the other, the uninvited was here, daring to enter her territory.
‘Others came out quickly at the sound of her screams. Two men hurled themselves on Taji and began beating him with their fists. He raised his arm. His coat, which was poised between himself and the woman, fell to the floor. I started pulling him away. A girl’s voice yelled, “Get the police! Do the fuckers!” Despite my efforts, Taji was down. One of the men kicked him in the ribs. I didn’t feel the other one’s punches, though I saw them coming. The fear that more people in the building would rush out and overwhelm us gave me renewed strength. I managed to drag Taji back. By then, both men were breathing heavily. Slowly, they reverted to what they were—two French businessmen of a certain age and lack of fitness.
‘A dark-haired woman came to the threshold. “He’s got nice skin,” she said, looking at Taji. “Let them go. We’re wasting time.”
‘One of the men swore, but I could see for the moment it was over. A justified thrashing had been administered. Trouble among les domestiques had been put down et voilà the world was righted. Now, they could resume their interrupted dalliances and afterwards, at their club or in the corridors of the Stock Exchange, the shocking incident would make a salty interjection to leaven the boredom of exile.
‘The pale woman with the blonde hair regained her composure. They all went back inside. The door closed. I helped Taji to his feet and supported him down the stairs. The light went out. He mumbled something to me, but his swollen lips made it unintelligible. We reached the hallway. Nothing in the building stirred. With my handkerchief, I wiped the blood away from his mouth and dabbed at a cut on his cheekbone. The light came on. Someone higher up began to descend. Taji gestured that he wanted his coat. Propping him against the wall, I hurriedly retraced my steps. His coat lay where it had been jettisoned. The brothel door was tightly shut. Footsteps sounded louder. I snatched up his coat and ran. Once at the bottom, I draped it round his shoulders. Swiftly, I guided him out to the safety of the street.
‘Within minutes, a taxi dropped us off at the foot of the Medina. I extricated some of the notes from Taji’s wad and paid the driver. Ibrahim, our night school friend from Rabat, let us into his rented room in Water Seller’s Alley. He comforted Taji while I stripped more notes from the bundle.
‘When I got back, I put the kif I’d bought in a bowl. Ibrahim attended to the first pipe. As neither he nor I were musical, he asked a girl downstairs if she would sing in the courtyard, and, after a second pipe, she did, not well but adequately.’
Alakhin shut his eyes. The heat of the room was beginning to make Agnes feel drowsy. The imagined cool of the courtyard beneath Ibrahim’s room was an attractive alternative. She was about to get up and go to the loo for some water when Emmet opened the door and Sinclair entered, bearing a jug of mint tea and three glasses. Without speaking, Emmet resumed his seat on the sofa. Sinclair poured the tea and left.
‘I was reading about a man called Taji Mohammed,’ Agnes said. ‘He was a musician in the court orchestra of Rabat. Maybe he was your friend?’
‘What happened to him?’ Alakhin watched them drink, ignoring his own glass.
‘He committed suicide in Muret, a town in southern France.’
Alakhin laughed. ‘Where did you read this?’
‘In a manuscript about my father’s early life. A woman who calls herself Elizabeth Kerry, but whose real name is Evangeline Simpson, gave it to me.’
‘An impetuous young woman. She hasn’t learned to live with her money.’
‘She’s rich?’
‘Oh yes, but wealth derived from her mother’s involvement with Chance Company, to her, is tainted. She’s prey to all kinds of fads and obsessions.’
‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you don’t seem very upset if it truly was your friend who committed suicide.’
‘You’re a bearer of bad tidings, Miss Brown. One should always laugh in their face. Now, as I have nothing further of use to say, I’d prefer if you both finished your tea and took your leave. Mr Briggs is a professional. He continues in the world, unlike me. You must take the consequences if you go on making him your companion. For my part, I hope your search does not succeed. Goodbye, Miss Brown. Mr Briggs.’
When they were outside in the welcome cold air on their way to the car, Agnes said, ‘What was that all about with Sinclair?’
‘I wanted to clear up something that happened in Veldar when he and Alakhin were there. It was nothing to do with your father.’
‘And?’
‘People lie, Agnes. People lie.’
*
The chair should have been empty. The screen on the fixture in front of it unutilised. Instead, while Harvard watched with growing distaste, Sonny Ayza sat hunched over the keyboard, busy with God knows what. The man was virtually irredeemable. Everyone else looked forward to their vacations, whereas here he was ignoring leave and now returning unbidden to work.
‘A word in my office, please,’ Harvard said. Other heads swivelled round and looked up as Sonny got to his feet. Could this be my second possible mistake? Harvard thought. First randomly picking Emmet Briggs to accompany Emily, then choosing a supposedly absent operator in charge of her file.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Didn’t I make myself clear enough,’ he said wearily, when they were both seated in his room, ‘when we spoke last night? The boundaries are straightforward. Leave is leave. Work is work. This building and its resources are not an extension of your living room. I don’t want to get heavy but as your boss you give me no choice. I’m ordering you home.’
‘There’s no problem, Harvard. I’ll soon be off. I only dropped in for a little while. Something’s been puzzling me and I wanted to sort it out for the company’s sake.’
Before Harvard could reply, the telephone rang. He picked it up. ‘Yes. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be with you as scheduled. Goodbye.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry about that. I’ve got a meeting in a quarter of an hour. You were saying something about the company.’
‘It concerns a recent client. I can’t find out who authorised and set up the file, and nobody here seems to have a record. I was almost on the point of concluding she was the victim of a hoax but for the fact that she told me she was installed in one of our flats in Tara Village.’
‘She? What’s this woman’s name?’
‘Emily Brown is the file allocation.’
‘Means nothing to me. Aren’t there
the usual backup papers?’
‘The original approach was made by the company in the States. A guy called Harry Fulton wrote to her. That’s as far as I got. He, by the way, is not listed in our accreditations for the Eastern States.’
‘So, you wanted to safeguard the company. Very commendable. I’ll get Mary to dig around and cover the bases if necessary but as I said, Sonny, leave is leave. Staff relations and all that shit. But a hoax? You think somebody’s trying to misuse our name?’
Sonny looked embarrassed. ‘The truth is, Harvard. The other night, in here, there was a telephone call. You weren’t on duty and as I was the only one around, I answered it. A woman called Elizabeth Kerry dictated a strange message. That’s why I asked you about Amadeo Cresci. She said she was ringing on behalf of the Amadeo Cresci Foundation. She didn’t mention your name so I thought if it was important and it was really you she wished to speak to, well, she would phone again.’
Harvard got up from his chair and stood for a moment gazing out of the window. ‘How long have you been in Greenlea, Sonny?’
‘Six years. You know that.’
‘I liked it when my wife and I came here. Greenlea wasn’t the most brilliant posting I could have hoped for, but the place held an individual allure. I used to enjoy getting lost in some of its old areas. Now it’s much of a muchness like everywhere else. The company’s right—we need an added inner frisson before we’re stimulated by our surroundings.’ He returned to his seat. ‘I’m glad you told me about this. It’s a private thing, but there’s no harm in me telling you that this woman is a menace. She’s been hounding my wife, who you know is not always in the best of health, and myself with crazy stuff about Cresci and others she claims were deliberately ruined by the company.’ He sighed. ‘Well, god knows we all run into sad cases and weirdos, and I guess you’ve had your share.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now I mustn’t miss my meeting, and you really shouldn’t be here. By the way, can you remember what it was she said?’
Sonny nodded. ‘The strange thing is I found it’s connected with the Emily Brown file I was telling you about. I ran into her last night, Emily Brown that is, and she asked me if I knew of a man called Fernando Cheto Simon. I said no, but his name was also mentioned by Elizabeth Kerry, and, you’ll find this laughable, I actually met him this morning. His name these days is Andrew Guthrie and he claims he owns an interest in the Sunrise Tea & Coffee stalls.’
‘Never heard of him. He’s not one of our clients is he? No. Well, thanks again for telling me. If this woman keeps on pestering I may have to inform the police. Let me see you down part of the way. I’ve got a marketing pitch I need to sit in on.’
After they had said their ciaos and Sonny had promised not to come back to the building until his leave ended, Harvard looked in briefly on the publicity team then returned by lift to his own floor. In his office, he swallowed two indigestion tablets and waited for the acid burn to abate in his stomach before consulting the Greenlea and District telephone directory. Four Andrew Guthries were listed. None of them were likely to be the man he sought. He jotted down Sunrise’s head office number and leant back in his chair. ‘You’ll find this laughable,’ Sonny had said, but he was not laughing. Instead he was beginning to feel physically sick. Another story we tell ourselves, he thought wryly, but this one hopefully would never find its way onto a cassette tape. He still had time not to act. He could continue to let Evangeline make the running and watch que sera sera unfold.
His finger punched out the number. After all, it was not the final step. There were still plenty of details needed before his choice was irrevocable.
‘Sunrise Tea & Coffee. How may I help you?’
‘Jack Sherman here from Weintraub and Ellis. I’ve just arrived from New York on a flying visit. Would you put me through to Andrew Guthrie?’
‘Mr Guthrie is not available, Mr Sherman. Could you tell me the nature of your business? I’m afraid we don’t know Weintraub and Ellis.’
‘We import and roast coffee beans. Andrew and I met in the States a couple of times. We have a new line of Costa Rican single estates I’m certain Andrew would be very interested in at the price I’d be able to offer. I’d call him at home, but it appears I’ve mislaid his number and I know he’s ex-directory.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you. May I suggest you contact Lisa Martin, our head buyer.’
‘No, it’s Andrew I need to talk to. Will he be in later today? Perhaps his secretary can help.’
‘Putting you through.’
Harvard stared at the words he had quickly scrawled while Guthrie’s secretary had politely corrected his stab at a previous address. She had shown no surprise at his tale of past encounters in the States. Guthrie, it seemed, was a constant traveller. The level of security at his house in Massard was someone else’s problem. A recent photograph was, however, a direct necessity, either that or a verified sighting.
Choices within choices, he reflected. An emitted belch gave him some hope that his burning pain might relent. Crunch time was approaching. His feet were dangling in the Rubicon, its waters as icy as he had imagined. Leaking parts of Evangeline’s grotesque manuscript, highlighting the passages she claimed to have heard from the oracle’s mouth as an autobiography, then upping the ante by saying the Joe May revelations were due to appear, had progressed his strategy. His timing had been great. Important and influential people had long memories. These solutions were not entirely uncommon. After all, money could not solve everything. A long-standing nuisance finally removed and advancement switched to the fast track were mutual benefits.
He left the building. On the corner, he rang the Salonika Street number from a public phone. ‘Get your operative to stand ready,’ he told Walter, after he had supplied the name and address. ‘Identification will follow. I’ll see to it myself.’
*
‘Tell me about Llomera.’
Sonny and Agnes walked together across the grassy bank that descended from the balustrade of the Belvedere to the road winding through the small wood below. The ground was lumpy and uneven. The earth beneath it hard. Street lamps came on in the now enveloping dusk, creating a bracelet of light around the park. Agnes stumbled slightly and leant against him for support.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but there are worse things. Let’s keep on walking.’ She looked down at the trees ahead. ‘As there’s a Belvedere, presumably there’s a famous view.’
‘Over the estuary and the ships. You can see Panalquin, Massard, the upland beyond. As far as the hills round Veldar on a good day.’
She fell silent, as though she had forgotten her earlier injunction about Llomera, while they shifted leftwards in order to bypass a clump of whins. Knee-high mushroom-style lights at broken intervals on either side lit their progress when they gained the pathway. Up ahead, a small clearing was visible among the bushes and trees. Ivo and his companions would have been about here, Sonny reckoned, when they caught sight of the family group, which consisted of Monica Randell, her son and her husband. Of course, the whole thing might have been pure fiction. After all, Sylvia had described it as a story she had been told. In which case, the clearing existed alone.
‘I was born in Llomera.’
‘I know. At least, I figured out you might have been.’
‘Why are you interested in it? It’s a very small place. Not many people have heard of it, even inside Miranda.’
‘Humour me, Roberto. Tell me about it and the people there.’
‘It’s in the east. Inland from the coastal plain among the mountains they call the Master’s Domain. Llomera lies on one of the foothills. It’s somewhere between a large village and a small town. I guess the population would be around three and a half thousand. We moved away during the war when I was still very young. I expect it’s changed greatly.’
‘You knew people though. Tell me about some of them.’
‘Most would be dead. People of my generation would mostly have
left to seek work. Some, no doubt, will still be there.’ He refrained from telling her that most days he wandered its streets and talked to its inhabitants through the revivified image of his father. ‘There was Paca Ceret. She used to keep one of the little wine shops where the men of the place congregated and played cards. They had a weekly market in the main square. The stallholders went to Paca’s as well. In the old days, there was a nightwatchman who patrolled the streets ostensibly to keep the place quiet and do communal repairs. He was known as My Son by everyone because he called every man he knew My Son, and there was Tony Pigeon. Again that wasn’t his real name. He worked on the roads when there was work. Sebastian Marva, my stepfather, you could say was Llomera’s most famous son. He was a composer, one of the foremost in Miranda at one time. There wasn’t much history about, but there were a few Romanesque chapels in the area and a meadow they called the heretics’ field because Cathar shepherds from France had once grazed their flocks there. The war affected it, of course. Less than a lot of Miranda, but people were dragged into it, or in some cases threw themselves into it. No one escaped unscathed.’
‘Batiste Cheto. Did you meet Batiste Cheto?’
Sonny looked at her. She walked at his side calmly taking in, like himself, the swirls of moths above the mushroom-stalk lights. They passed a couple of young lovers wrapped in a passionate embrace. ‘From what my mother told me, I used to be his inseparable companion when I was little. I dogged his footsteps, by her account. She said he took me places I shouldn’t have gone to. He was a famous skirt-chaser and had a local reputation as a philanderer. He took me all over in his father’s tractor or in a broken-down pick-up truck he used to drive. My mother claimed the reason he put up with my attention so much was because he hoped to use me as bait to get himself in the good books of his intended victims. We went on all sorts of jaunts to see the miller’s wife at St Mateo and he let the girls at The Crystals in Ligac make a fuss of me. I met him again when I was older and we were living in Orias. Sebastian Marva was a professor there. Batiste’s hair, which I had thought of as very blond, was darker then. He brought us some things from my father who had died in France near the end of the war.’