‘Mr Fox, what you have to say is intensely interesting, but I’m not convinced. I dare say altruism is not entirely devoid of self-interest. No doubt individuals may derive benefit from something which is being done for the common good. In cases of greater personal sacrifice, some may derive a sense of satisfaction from the fulfilment of a duty, others may feel that they have responded to the call of the Deity. In the course of my work, I’m convinced that I frequently see examples of selflessness. You may even have seen the same in the political life you aspire to.’
‘Whoops!’ MacKenzie was helping herself to more Taittinger. She had filled her glass too quickly and there was an eruption of bubbles over the edges of the flute.
My sister giggled. ‘Frisky!’
‘Of course, I could come to you armed with arguments, charts, and statistics. But I know you already have all the facts of the case at your fingertips. And in any case, this is not ultimately a matter that can be settled with mathematical equations. Nor is it a matter of sentimentality. Rather it is a question of sentiment. You either feel it, or you do not. There are a number of people who know, love, and inhabit this island you wish to metamorphose. I ask you to sympathise with their point of view or, if you cannot, to understand that they have a point of view, and that sometimes it is worthwhile to do something merely because you are importuned.’
MacKenzie, for reasons best known to herself, broke into a voluble Joni Mitchell impersonation. Something about a yellow cab, and asphalt. The sudden change from high soprano to low contralto dissolved into laughter. The table looked at her askance. It crossed my mind she was getting tight. She glanced round, collected herself, and put on a look of mock contrition. She intoned, ‘And there was silence in heaven, for the space of half an hour … Whoa!’ She clutched the table edge. The champagne and cheroots were finally catching up with her. ‘Balance issues.’
‘And is that all?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, that’s very disappointing. If you don’t mind my saying so, doctor, that is a very loquacious way of saying you have come to the table empty-handed. You ask me to make sacrifices, but I have no sense that you are prepared to embrace risk yourself. You are going to have to do a lot better than that. Doubtless you will regard it as a compliment if I tell you that you exhibit candour, but no guile. But I have to tell you that I find your antiseptic views from above the battle both pitiful and contemptible. Dr Cameron-Strange, you have not chucked your hat into the ring. What is it Roosevelt said? Give me the man who dares to step into the heat and dust of the arena. But what is this you are doing? You inhabit my house, you receive my hospitality, you consume the finest dinner in Christendom tonight, you drink my best wine and smoke my finest cigars, and then you dare to advise me from your lofty position of the flaws in the modus operandi of my business practice.’
MacKenzie announced, ‘I think I’m going to chunder.’
I said cheerfully, ‘I won’t presume to advise you on anything. I was merely asking you to reconsider one specific business initiative. However …’ I laid down my glass and rose to my feet. ‘I can see I have overstayed my welcome.’ I attempted to embrace the group with a broad smile. ‘Gentlemen, and lady, it has been a pleasure. I wish you–’
‘Sit down.’
There was a pause. ‘Mr Fox, I don’t care to be browbeaten.’
‘It would be in your interest, doctor, to sit down.’
We stared across the table at one another. Maybe this conversation had not quite reached its natural conclusion. Maybe there was still a way of salvaging something. I slowly sank back into my chair.
‘Oh God.’ MacKenzie was hyperventilating.
‘But doctor, I see that I have exceeded my brief as your host. You accepted an invitation here in good faith, and I had no right to abuse that faith. I apologise.’ I acknowledged his apology with a brief nod of the head. ‘I feel I must make amends. I see that you have a talent for extracting information from people. It must serve you well in your profession. It’s curious. When I see you seated there, I have an odd compulsion to divulge something to you. Let it be my world view. I fear that in the eyes of the public, of the electorate, my world view must appear somewhat dark. Therefore I would remind you, doctor, that post-prandial table talk is essentially confidential. I have full confidence in your discretion. Then, if you will bear with me, I have a proposition for you.’
I picked the neglected Romeo y Julieta back up from its discarded position on the edge of the ashtray. For a moment I thought the cigar had gone out. I took a moment to resuscitate its glow. I was moving into the rich, dangerous, charged end-smoke. I looked up at Fox and smiled briefly. He continued.
‘As we progress through the third millennium of the Christian era’ – this in a discursive tone – ‘the problems which threaten the survival of the human race are so intractable as to appear virtually incapable of solution. Homo sapiens is essentially a guzzling, lecherous creature whose unfettered proclivities have resulted in an unparallelled population explosion, mainly in the poorer countries of the world. The seven billionth child was born, and has probably died, quite some time ago. Any effective population control is fortuitously and serendipitously provided us by the great scourges of the world – malnutrition, malaria, TB, and the human immunodeficiency virus which is currently threatening to turn the entire African continent into a charnel house. Are you all right, my dear?’
MacKenzie looked dubious. ‘Think so. Dunno.’
‘Against this background, the North-South divide has produced both an untermenschen of staggering dimensions and, if I may put it this way, a country club of ethereal exclusivity.
‘You and I, doctor, happen to belong to the Country Club, although it may be said that, while you are an ordinary member, I sit on the board. We on the board are faced with a problem. Are we to open up membership to the public at large and risk a decline in standards, dress code, access to amenities, and overall quality? Or are we to close the outer gates on our private world and ensure that that which we have built up and perfected is cherished and preserved?
‘My own view is that, in the face of this rather stark dichotomy, there is indeed, to use a quaint expression of a former prime minister of the United Kingdom, a “third way”. By all means open up the membership to all – to all, at least, who are prepared to pay for it. But at the same time, I fear we need to increase our surveillance and security systems at the entrance. No matter what measures we now enact, I fear there is going to be, in the world at large, a cataclysm so vast as to make the upheavals of the century just gone seem like little local difficulties resulting in border skirmishes. Nothing can prevent it, least of all our fragile political institutions. There are simply too many rats in the laboratory. We must protect ourselves in the face of the horrific cannibalism that we are about to witness around us.’
I shook my head. ‘What a load of baloney. You sound like one of these old Boers trying to preserve an outmoded way of life behind electrified fences in Johannesburg.’
‘Not at all. I’m not prejudiced. I don’t believe in apartheid.’
‘Yes you do. You just can’t see it. You believe in an apartheid of wealth. It is the poor that you would exclude.’
‘It’s not me that chooses to exclude the poor. That happens as a result of the forces of nature. Even Jesus – an impossibly sentimental man – recognised that “the poor ye will always have”. I must admit it makes me smile when I hear governments pledge “to reduce world poverty by 50 per cent over five years”. Poverty can be neither reduced nor eradicated because it is a spiritual state. It is ultimately a choice, a way of life which people elect for themselves, and their families. Like the people on Great Barrier Island! They, like you, refuse to face up to the hard fact of life, that it is neither justice, nor altruism, nor good, and most certainly not love, that makes the world go round.’
‘What makes the world go round, Fox?’
‘Spondulix.’
The last mouth
ful of smoke was acrid and bitter. I stubbed the remnant of the Cuban out on the ashtray and watched the grey smoke of its ashes curl up towards the ceiling. I’d had enough of it.
I said, ‘I think you will find that the music of the spheres is quite indifferent to the vagaries of the stock exchange.’
Fox smiled. ‘Very prettily put, if demented. I see you have resumed your position atop your lofty perch. I fear our different world views are irreconcilable. However, I confess it has been a diversion to talk with you and I will offer you this chance.’
‘Got any Rennies?’ MacKenzie belched softly. ‘Oh, excuse me.’
‘The Great Barrier Island project could be sited elsewhere. It would cause myself and my associates a degree of inconvenience – no more. It would also lose the local community one thousand five-hundred prospective jobs, a corollary to your proposal, doctor, which you would have to accept and live with. But there it is; that’s the package. I am a gambling man and I put it down on the table, as a wager, up for grabs. I understand that you have it in mind to run the forty-eight volcanoes of Auckland in twenty-four hours.’
How the hell did he know that? It occurred to me he’d been chatting to MacKenzie, my sole confidante. He had opened a dossier on me.
‘Now that is an undertaking I wish I’d thought of as part of the Who Dares Wins programme. The ultimate wide game! If you can achieve it, then I will leave the inhabitants of Great Barrier Island to their forlorn lotus-eating pursuits. There is, however, a catch. I will put up a contestant against you. In addition to fulfilling the challenge within twenty-four hours, you must outrun my champion. It’s only fair that you should have sight of the opposition.’ He raised his voice sharply. ‘Herr Kramer!’
Well, it had to be. The tall, slim young man with the fair hair cut short on the bullet-shaped head appeared from nowhere. At least he’d taken off his disgusting uniform. He was formally dressed. Black tie. He took up a position just behind Fox’s right shoulder and came to attention. It may have been my imagination, but I thought he clicked his heels. Fox addressed him briefly in fluent German. The man named Kramer nodded once and diverted the gaze of his blue eyes in my direction. Then he was dismissed.
‘So, doctor. You must outrun my lieutenant. And, if I am to place my GBI project in jeopardy, you must wager something of similar value to yourself.’
After that, Fox’s conversation became progressively less civilised. It was as if he were undergoing his Jekyll and Hyde metamorphosis before our very eyes. He became objectionable. I don’t remember much of it. Just a few soundbites.
‘New Zealand? Waste of space. Land of the long white yawn …
‘Canada? Give it to the Inuit. It’s just a deep freeze that doesn’t store anything … Scotland? Ha! Bunch of drunks with a chip on their shoulder so big it’s surprising there’s anything left over …’
I’d had enough of Phineas Fox. He drained the last of his port, took one last contemplative puff of his cigar, and stubbed it out.
‘That’s the deal, Cameron-Strange. Put up, or shut up.’
‘I wager my viola!’
‘MacKenzie!’ There was real alarm in my voice.
Fox looked impressed. ‘This is of some interest. You make a beautiful sound my dear. Is your viola of some worth? Has it … provenance?’
‘I own a Strad. One of eleven in existence.’
‘Oh, my.’
‘MacKenzie, for God’s sake–’
‘Bloody sight more valuable than a golf resort for a bunch of rich spoiled wankers.’
‘Mac–’
‘Take you on m’self if brother won’t.’
‘Oh, God!’
Fox gazed down the table at my sister, gave her a brief smile, and nodded. ‘I accept the wager.’
Mr Ishimoto who, since the departure of his geisha, had been wrapped in inscrutable silence, suddenly became animated and embraced me with a dazzling smile.
‘Banzai, Dokta Camellon-Stlange, banzai!’
Damn it, MacKenzie. …
I made my excuses and slipped back to the pastel tranquillity of Myrtle, shut the door behind me, leaned back against it, took a deep breath, and then let out a long sigh. It was 2.15am. Abstractedly I ran a hand through my hair. I kicked off my shoes and socks, tossed my tie, jacket, and trousers on to a sedan chair, and wandered upstairs towards the bathroom, grappling with cuff links as I went. I took a long hot shower to dispel the sweat and tension. Then I walked naked back downstairs into my private bar. I found two miniatures of the Macallan and emptied them into a chunky glass and, without adding anything, swallowed a mouthful.
I wondered about MacKenzie’s crazy wager. Of course she knew Fox would not be able to resist it. He was the archetypal conspicuous consumer. The Phoenix.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Probably MacKenzie, come to apologise, or congratulate, or exculpate or, more likely, join me in a single malt. I searched vaguely round for a towel, tied it round my waist, and opened the door.
She was very tall, waif-like, biting a fingernail.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’
Saskia stepped across the threshold. She surveyed the room in one scanning glance and, ignoring the pile of discarded clothes on the sedan, walked across to the plush four-seater sofa. There was a hint of the self-conscious model’s runway gait. She loped with the intent of a leopard. She dropped her bag on the carpet and sank backwards into the pillows of the sofa. She was positioned low so that, her chin sunk into her chest and her long legs splayed on to the floor, she was almost supine.
She sighed. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I agree with you there.’
There was a silence.
I said, ‘I’ll just put something on.’
She smiled slowly. ‘Not on my account.’
I slipped upstairs to the dressing room and found my long white dressing gown. I put it on. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and gave myself a cautionary glance. I went back downstairs.
She hadn’t moved.
The long black hair splayed crazily across the floral patterns of the couch’s upholstery. She glanced at the drink in my hand and then directly into my eyes, so that her long lashes batted, once. ‘Can I have one of these?’
‘Saskia, I don’t know …’
‘Please. This is difficult for me.’
I fixed the drink and brought it over to her. With her long limbs she could reach up and take it without adjusting her pose. I noticed she had long, slim fingers with exquisitely manicured long nails, and no varnish. She was dressed like a hotel receptionist or a secretary. She slipped her arms out of a short navy jacket. She didn’t bother to put the jacket aside and it lay behind her, negligently crushed. She wore a white blouse with sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. There was the faintest glimpse of a brassiere, black. The skirt was navy and pleated, knee-length, and with her abandoned posture had ridden half way up her thighs. The tights – or were they stockings? – were flesh-coloured, the shoes black, square-toed, rather severe. She sipped the whisky appreciatively. She didn’t wince.
‘Nice.’
There was only the faintest trace of make-up, light blue on the upper eyelids. She wore no accessories with the exception of a very expensive-looking Cartier wristwatch. I tilted my head to read the time off it.
‘So. What can I do for you?’
She looked puzzled for a second, and then remembered she’d come for a reason.
‘I’ve got a mole.’
‘Saskia. It’s two-thirty in the morning.’
She giggled. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But I saw your light was on. You know how sometimes you get an idea into your head and you can’t sleep. I just need to know it’s not malignant. Reassure me.’
I sighed. ‘Show me.’
Without any preamble and without a trace of self-consciousness she lifted the hem of the pleated navy skirt to reveal the top of her right thigh. They were, after all, stockings, held by suspenders. She pul
led the right side of the skimpy black panties up an inch to reveal the inguinal crease.
‘See it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
There was a silence.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s benign.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘It’s a birth mark.’
‘I know, but I think it has changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s become raised.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How can you tell without feeling it?’
I stroked the tiny café-au-lait blemish with my right middle finger.
‘Not raised.’
‘Can’t you feel a nodule?’
‘No.’
‘Here.’ She took my hand in hers and guided it back towards the birth mark.
‘There. Just stroke it gently.’
She had opened her lips. She was panting slightly. ‘A little further over to the midline … Ah – tender. Be gentle … Would you like me to show you where it is on you?’
I gave a hollow cough. ‘Saskia. I think it’s bedtime.’
She stirred and moved on to her right side. An arm snaked round my neck. ‘I think so too.’
I got up abruptly, stepped to the door, opened it, and turned to her. ‘It’s benign. Goodnight.’
She reached up a long arm languidly into mid-air and looked at me through half-closed lids.
‘I can tell just by looking at you that you’re pleased to see me.’
‘Saskia – out!’
She swooned theatrically, face forward on to the sofa, buried her face in its cushions, and gave a muffled giggle. Then she pushed herself up on to her feet and picked up her jacket. She was wide-eyed and tousled. ‘I’m dying for a pee. Can I use your facility?’
‘Saskia – your own en suite can’t be more than a minute away – even in this … this Xanadu.’
The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange Page 16