Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘In Albania?’ Boysie trying to make it ice-box cucumber cool.

  ‘A small distance away from Albania. A few thousand miles. But in this age of extraordinary travel, what is that?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Boysie looked glumly at the armoury still hanging around in people’s hands. Breakfast, they said. If he could get someone else into the room. Even a waiter. He grinned like a toothpaste commercial. ‘You’re right, I haven’t eaten breakfast. Will you join me? I’ll ring down.’ Half a pace towards the telephone. Mr. P’ao Shou’s automatic swung in the classic back-hand pistol-whip movement, fast but without force, metal burning cold against Boysie’s cheek, the muzzle nicely positioned to take the whole of his left ear away, and probably a large portion of the occipitalis and auricularis superior muscles with it. It snapped across Boysie’s mind to try a couple of disarming moves. Instead he played at being a waxwork. Safer. Li Chi looked at him. Waxworks were on Boysie’s mind; he was sure that the expressionless face of Li Chi was done in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. Or was it in that place on Times Square, New York?

  ‘No need for the room service for breakfast, Mr. Oakes. We have brought excellent delicacy which will see you through the day. Very sustaining.’ He motioned to Pong, who clicked the briefcase open and drew out a Thermos flask, which he shook vigorously.

  Li Chi spoke again. ‘Maybe you think this strange for breakfast but I promise it is unique. Give great strength to your journey ahead.’ Pong was pouring a steaming grey-brown soup into the tin bowl.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Aghast was the only word for Boysie’s inflection.

  ‘Most invigorating. Special mushroom soup.’

  ‘Mushroom? Toadstool most likely. Not for me, Mr. Li Chi. No. If you’re going to kill me, do it quick. With a bullet. You’ve got enough hardware.’

  ‘Kill you?’ Li Chi wonderingly. ‘Who wishes to kill you?’

  ‘Okay, the pistols would be a bit noisy.’

  ‘Always silencers,’ interpolated P’ao Shou.

  ‘Fool.’ Li Chi showed emotion for the first time. Anger. ‘Where you do your training, Shou? At Western spy movies? No such things as silencers. Do not underrate, Mr. Oakes. He knows such things.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sitting here gulping down poison soup.’

  Li Chi sighed. ‘If we really wanted to kill you there are other silent methods.’ Boysie’s eye caught a movement from Comrade Ch’ing Suan. From his raincoat Ch’ing Suan took a heavy Walther LP-53 air pistol and a wooden cocking grip. With the grip he pulled down on the tightly sprung barrel. He returned the cocking grip to his pocket. The hand came out again, this time holding a clear plastic cylindrical phial between thumb and forefinger. He raised it to the level of his nose, eyes tracking in on Boysie. Through the plastic Boysie saw a blue-feathered air-gun dart, point down, resting on a circle of foam rubber.

  ‘A little old hat, but a curare-tipped dart from an air pistol is still very quiet. Induces peacefulness. Eternal,’

  ‘Old hat but it works,’ agreed Boysie. Nothing could disguise the tonal quiver. ‘Old hat? Your English is exceptional, Mr. Li Pee—’

  ‘Chi.’

  ‘Okay. Chi. For a Chinese your English is pretty collopial.’

  ‘Colloquial you mean, Mr. Oakes.’ The Chinese smiled. ‘Naturally it is good. Harrow and Trinity, old boy. Trinity, Cambridge, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sickly perplexity.

  Silence. Ch’ing Suan still held the nine-and-a-half inches of barrel that was still broken ready for loading. Li Chi and P’ao Shou gripped their automatics with a dangerous diffidence, while Pong stood gently rubbing his hands together, palm to palm, then crossed palm to back, nasty movements predicting that Pong, if called upon, could do most unattractive things to the human body.

  ‘Please drink your soup, Mr. Oakes.’ Gentle pressure on Boysie’s right arm from Li Chi, pushing towards the table.

  ‘If we wanted to kill you we could do it without any fuss, here and now. I want you to be fit for the journey, old chap. The soup is a real gourmet’s dish, made from specially cultured Mexican mushrooms. There’s a good fellow. Drink it while it’s hot, eh?’

  ‘Hobson’s choice.’ Boysie sat down like a man with inflamed haemorrhoids, took a shallow spoonful of the liquid, and sipped. It was exceptionally tasty, but Boysie was determined to remain awkward. ‘It could do with a shade more seasoning,’ he said.

  Li Chi turned to Pong. ‘Salt and pepper for Mr. Oakes.’ Pong’s briefcase came into play. ‘Black or white pepper?’ enquired Li Chi.

  ‘Black, I think.’ Boysie playing at being Robert Carrier casing a restaurant.

  Pong placed a wooden pepper mill and salt cellar on the table and Boysie camped it up—a sprinkle of salt, a grind of pepper, a sip, an additional soupcon of pepper. Another sip. A nod of pleasure. Visage serious.

  Five minutes and Boysie had spooned up the last mouthful.

  ‘Good.’ Licking lips. ‘Excellent. Magnifico.’

  The Chinese all showed signs of preoccupation with their watches.

  ‘We must go now. Quickly I’m afraid.’ Li Chi.

  There was a harsh pop from behind Boysie. Heart leap, but it was only Ch’ing Suan closing the air pistol and unloading, firing empty at the floor. Boysie had the feeling of ‘what the hell.’ He would play along. Might lead to something. The crocus foursome did not seem to be life-takers—as far as he was concerned anyway.

  In the car park Boysie caught sight of his Jensen as they edged him carefully towards the black Merc 200 SE. It was a fine day, a slight chill, but sun and no sign of clouds. Pong took the wheel with P’ao Shou beside him. Boysie sat comfortably in the back between Li Chi and. Ch’ing Suan. Feeling of mild elation and acute awareness that Li Chi was constantly glancing at his watch. The car started and they rolled out, heading on to the Kurfürstendamm.

  ‘Going by air, I suppose?’ Boysie unperturbed. Unconsciously he registered surprise at the lack of fear. Then sun became brighter and hotter. Li Chi looked at his watch once more. ‘To be fair, Mr. Oakes, I think I should give you a small warning.’

  ‘Oh?’ No sense of worry.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all, but your mushroom soup was made from a particular Mexican mushroom which contains undeniably mystic qualities. I tell you this so that you will not get frightened if you happen to experience a few odd sensations.’

  Definite interest on Boysie’s part—no anxiety. ‘Oh? What kind of sensations?’

  ‘Nothing much. You have heard the word psychedelic?’

  This time an upsurge of panic. ‘Hallucinations? Dope which brings on hallucinations? I knew that bloody soup was spiked. You’ve been feeding me—what’s it called? LSD? Lysergic acid. That damn drug. You could kill me.’ Shrieked.

  ‘Calm yourself. No one is going to kill you. And we have not given you LSD. There is a relationship, but nothing to worry about. In fact, some years ago a Dr. Hoffman ate thirty-two of these very same mushrooms. He was perfectly all right.’

  Boysie had a mental picture of some greybeard scoffing a huge platter of red, white, and blue fungi. The late Walt Disney kind of mushrooms.

  ‘You will be unharmed,’ continued Li Chi. ‘We only used thirty in your soup. The ancient Aztecs ate them all the time even though they do contain a drug—teonanacatl. It may make you lose a sense of time and place, that’s all.’

  Boysie could hardly hear the last word. He glanced out of the car window, at a white and blue sign pointing them towards Tempelhof airfield, yet something was wrong. The buildings. He was in Berlin but this was not Berlin. The glare of sun pierced like a flame thrower. Light rebounded from stucco walls. White, flat roofs. Now a church. Not German. Boysie had never been to Mexico but this was recognisably a Mex-Spanish appearance, the white and red shades, cloisters, tall oblong campanile. There were sombreros? Ponchos? Bright skirts along the pavements. Germans? Stupid? Perhaps some carnival? A parade? An office block changed dimensions. Desper
ately Boysie screwed up his eyes and shook his head. Berlin. Berlin. He was in Berlin. Yet the office block rose decorated in fantastic whirls, patterns, murals. Between the buildings he glimpsed mountains, aridity. Boysie turned towards Li Chi. The man was not the Li Chi who had been seated there a few moments before. This man’s features were visibly altering, nose straight, face broadening, skin pigmentation darkening, and the smooth Chinese hair changing into a long, coarse mane. The whole body transmogrified. Li Chi looked at Boysie. This was not a Chinese. A Mexican Indian. An Aztec. Something long gone. A high priest. The whole interior of the murk twisted, focus zooming in and out, warping. For Boysie it was as though he were watching some fantastic movie by a tricksy director. The remaining Chinese were also transmogrified, facially, bodily—even clothes. All were Mexican Indians. Even the car was not a car. They still moved smoothly enough but with a slight wavering motion. Then it was a car again. The Indian who had been Pong switched on the radio. Klemperer was whipping hell out of the Berlin Philharmonic, and the Berlin Philharmonic was bashing the blazes out of Wagner ‘The Ride of the Valkyrie.’

  Boysie’s auditory system was all to blazes. ‘Always liked old Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass,’ he said, tapping away with his right foot and meaning it.

  A grunt from the Mex who had been Li Chi. The car was not a car again. This time he got it. A canoe. They were riding fast over broad smooth waters in a canoe. Plains and hills on either side, and clumps of buildings in the distance, Persil clean. A bunch of charros—those incredible Mexican horsemen—galloped past, waving, the horses’ hooves billowing up clouds of red dust. Land again, and the Indians helped him from the canoe. Colours. The mind. Mind. Colours in brilliant distinction and distortion. Smiling faces suddenly pocked with deep blue circles. A wide stretch of black turning to green, then black again. Silver. Big and silver. Wings. Grotesque. A great winged silver creature ahead. The ground kept tilting. The bird’s beak flashing in the sun. Focus. No focus. Enormous bird. What? Some immense harpy eagle sprayed silver. Harpy eagles were Mexican birds. Could be. But this size? Nearer. Wasn’t there an Aztec god? Ridiculous. Read it somewhere. The Plumed Serpent, God of Learning. Really close now, nothing but pulsating stacks of feathers so bright that Boysie could not open his eyes fully. Everything shone. Blistered with silver. They were walking up into the bird, right up some orifice, a dark well which changed to red. Crimson. Only the outlines of the four Mexican Indians, and he could smell the red, a light perfume getting stronger and stronger. Actually smell colours.

  The bird was in a fury of noise. Unbearable roaring. Red changing to violet. Violet to black. Suddenly white. White and black, curving-thrusting-whirling past him. A tiny spot of purple growing larger and larger, striped with white. Forming a barrier around him so that he was being drawn into the colours, each with its own smell and noise. Electronic noise. ‘Musique Concrète’ reversed on a tape. Far away, then so loud that he had to clamp his hands over his ears. Red once more. Crimson. Gallons of blood into which he was being pulled. Terror. Hysteria within. He was not a person any more. Not an individual but a colour. Red. Blue. Gold. Gold. More gold. There was not any more gold. Red flecks in the gold. The red flecks were himself. He was a series of red flecks spreading into a Cineramic pattern, pieces of his body and mind dragged magnetically into this screen of colour. The screen altered. The colour now elliptical. Sounds changed. Colour fading. A purr. A hum. His hand on his knee in focus. Heartbeat strong. The purr louder. People. Normality and a sense of relief. He was sitting in the Jensen, only someone else was driving. A voice. Shouting.

  ‘He’s coming round, it’s okay.’

  Another voice from in front. ‘Good timing. I’m going in now.’

  Christ, thought Boysie, looking at the instrument panel, they’ve cut me bloody steering wheel in half. Eyes not yet in focus. Li Chi sat beside him. Was it still the Merc and not the Jensen? No. A low range of mountains below. The four Chinese were there with him, seated in a pattern of five as on a playing card, and it was a light aircraft not a car. Losing height, the mountains (high hills really) dipping away to the right. Below and in front, a scatter of ragged fields. A runway, short and cleaving through dirty yellow grass. Pong shifted his left foot, aligning the plane on the centre of the runway, nose angled and the motor throttle back. Lower and lower over the fields, a grey tracklike road to the left, no traffic. Nearly touching the grass. In front to the right, a long sprawl of buildings. Boysie, normally terrified by any kind of flying, particularly on take-off or landing, merely experienced extreme thankfulness at being alive. The runway threshold coming up.

  ‘You feel okay now?’ from Li Chi.

  ‘Mushroom soup.’ Boysie made the words sound vomit-ridden.

  ‘You experienced the Mexican phenomena? Everything Mexican? Then the colour symptoms?’ Li Chi speaking loudly, asking with grave. interest.

  Boysie closed his eyes and shook his head as though trying to dislodge a wasp from his ear. ‘I was a colour. Lots of colours. That stuff’s bleeding dangerous. Turn you mad.’

  Pong was a good pilot. Only a slight judder as they touched down and started their ride across the narrow piece of concrete.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Boysie.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Li Chi putting on the inscrutable style. ‘Time and space have had no meaning for you in the last hours. Like an anaesthetic. Amazing, that teonanacatl, eh?’

  ‘Where are we?’ Boysie repeating the question, hard. The dazed state passing quickly.

  ‘China.’ Li Chi blandly.

  ‘You’re joking. China!’ Shouted. ‘How long have I been—’

  ‘In the psychedelic state? For many hours. Three long aircraft rides.’

  ‘Where in China?’ Still disbelief.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter, but not far from Peking.’

  ‘Peking? I don’t sweating well believe it.’

  ‘As you prefer.’ Li Chi indifferent.

  They were slowing to a halt, taxiing over the grass. Boysie began to take in the surroundings. The low hills, trees, unfamiliar architecture of the buildings—even those obviously prefabricated. All had an alien atmosphere. Bumping over the grass towards the sleek black car. It had a hint of the large version of the Peugeot 404, certainly the body work was inspired by Farina, but the whole thing was bigger, heavier, four doors, roomy. Boysie’s memory index pinpointed—it was a Chinese-built Red Flag. The aircraft stopped. Edging off. Two more Chinese climbed out of the car—blue denim uniforms, cheap peaked caps. Boysie was helped from the aircraft, and as soon as his feet touched the grass the quiet politeness of Li Chi and his associates vanished. The pair from the car, one either side of him, gripped in effective come-along armlocks. Four arms twisted expertly and painfully hard up behind his back.

  ‘Now you meet General Kuan Hsi Shi, Oakes.’ Li Chi aggressive. ‘A pleasant surprise. Into the car.’ He added a few words to the guards, and Boysie found himself, still held tightly, in the rear of the automobile. The ride was fast—the interior of the car tinny and utilitarian ending at the entrance to a three-story building surmounted by a typically ornate hexagonal roof, emblazoned with Chinese characters in blood-red. Boysie got the big hustle again. A long corridor, short flight of steps, and a door from behind which came the sound of non-harmonic music echoed in stereo.

  Li Chi opened the door: He spoke in English. ‘The prisoner Oakes, Comrade General.’

  ‘Enter.’ The voice was familiar, and Boysie was jostled through the door into a spacious office. The trappings were a blend of East and West: one wall completely decorated with weapons juxtaposed with two large crudely painted pictures. Boysie’s quick glance picked out a 38 Special, a Colt 45, and a Japanese 8-mm. Nambu. The music came from stereo speakers set at right angles on opposite sides of the long wall facing the door. In the centre of the room a big ornate oblong desk, minutely tidy, complete with coloured telephones, intercom, and a small television.

  The man at the desk had his back to the
door, sitting in a swivel chair swung round to face the rear wall and a five-by-seven-foot green board on which were pinned photographs. LBJ, Harold Wilson, Mr. Kosygin, and. Bobby Kennedy were recognisable. So, to Boysie’s amazement, was a clear copy of Mostyn’s face, Warren’s, and his own. The man at the desk raised his right arm. The hand held an air pistol. Thunk, and a small red dart smacked into the board, placed accurately between the eyes on Boysie’s photograph.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ said General Kuan Hsi Shi, swinging round after the manner of tycoons on television. For a moment Boysie did not recognise him. The drooping moustache had gone, revealing a partly Oriental face, not fully Chinese.

  ‘Sit down,’ said the General, smiling. ‘I look different? Ja, Herr Oakes?’

  General Kuan Hsi Shi was Boysie’s Berlin contact. The erratic, amusing Warbler.

  A movement behind Boysie to the left. A hand touching his shoulder. A voice whispering, ‘Now I can get even about that foot, buddy.’

  ‘You remember our friend Gazpacho?’ General Warbler Kuan Hsi Shi looked past Boysie at the American sergeant. ‘He is my chief aide: American born, but we know him as Shi T’ung K’u. And that, Oakes, L, Boysie, Brian Ian, Number 267953, Major of the British Department of Special Security—that can be translated in one English word—Tormentor.’

  Chapter Six: Cat

  Helter skelter, hang sorrow, care’ll kill a cat, up-tails all, and a louse for the hangman.

  Jonson, Every Man in His Humour

  ‘I demand to see the British Consul.’ It was the only thing Boysie could think of, and it sounded flat and preposterous against this bizarre situation—his Department contact, as German as sauerkraut, turning out to be a Chinese Intelligence officer. A general. And then this son-of-a-bitch American, Gazpacho, the Tormentor. The People’s Liberation Army, Red Guards, hallucinatory drugs, a rubble of confusion. The whole party, started from the Chief’s office in Whitehall, had turned into the biggest con game since the gullible tourist had been sold the Tower of London. Boysie dizzily faced the flood of facts. He was the patsy, the universal fall guy of all time.