His thoughts began to drift away from the job in hand to his own affairs, and he sat and stared at the water trickling down the window of the hut and thought again about Brazel. That the guy had been honest according to his own lights there was no doubt in Abner’s mind now. A nasty piece of work, but for all that, he said what he meant. There was a man in this country who had once sold seventeen of his own people to the Gestapo, a man who was now doing very well indeed. He had to be for Brazel to be getting so much cash from him. And he thought about that for a while and to his own amazement found himself smiling. There was something so very brazen about it — and then he laughed aloud so that the cameraman looked up at him briefly with a sympathetic glint in his eye. Brazel the brazen; it had a satisfying ring to it.
Maybe he could talk to Brazel again, find out what sort of business this man was in. If he was rich he had to be making his money somewhere because he clearly hadn’t inherited any and the logical place for that surely would be The City. London’s Wall Street. Or so he imagined. He’d seen enough of British television news now to know just how powerful the City of London was, and it made sense to seek the man there. A stockbroker? A commodities dealer? Who could he ask for information about such people? He knew no real financiers here, no one whose brains he could pick.
And then he thought — the man’s a Jew. How many prominent Jews are there in the City, with the sort of money that makes it possible for them to be blackmailed of a million and still be left with ample for their own need? Wasn’t that what Brazel had said? He had a hazy notion that he’d heard somewhere that, as in the States, Jews did not fit as comfortably into the hierarchy of the Stock Exchange as they did into others, like manufacturing industry. Old-style antisemitism, he thought wryly dies hard. Just like the new kind. Perhaps he should look elsewhere.
Manufacturing industry; again he was floundering. How could he possibly know who were the really fat cats here with shadowy pasts that could just possibly be rooted in Eastern Europe during the war? He had heard of some tycoons since he’d been here, of course he had. There were Australians, he knew, who were cutting swathes through not just this country but his own as well, and he thought about the best known of them and then shook his head at himself. They had always been written about exhaustively, with their cricket interests and their television connections and their newspapers and their airlines; no, none of them. There must be others, less forthcoming in public and, therefore, better able to keep their pasts out of scrutiny.
And that, he thought bitterly, was the bind, the true catch. The visible tycoons were by their very visibility absolved of guilt in this case. They couldn’t be the Boy with the Apples unless they’d totally fabricated their stories of their origins, and to do that successfully in a country with a gutter press like the one in Britain, Abner thought grimly, was very unlikely. And any tycoon who kept his light turned low and well shielded would be by definition unknown, a hidden creature. So how could a stranger like Abner find him?
No, it had to be up to Brazel. Somehow that man had to be persuaded to disgorge his information. Because if he didn’t, there was no way Abner could get M.M. to disgorge his real money and get Postscripts on the floor.
At which point the rain stopped and the crew finished their crossword and the client woke up and began to fuss. Having to go back to work again on a dog food commercial was, Abner discovered then, not such a bad thing after all. It sure beat worrying himself sick over his film. And, of course, over Miriam.
Twenty-seven
He went back to Camden Town as full of pleasure, as he told himself gleefully, as a monkey is of nuts, glowing with the grunted approval of the cameraman (‘It makes a nice change to work with a bloke that knows what he’s doing. Hope to work with you again, mate,’) and triumphantly clutching his can of film under his arm. He’d brought the thing in in one day’s shooting, in spite of the rain, in spite of the sudden attack of fussiness on the part of the client who had decided at half-past two that he needed to talk at length in an incomprehensible babble about everything to do with his company’s precious dog food, and in spite of Magnolia’s increasingly blatant attempts to make the cameraman, and that was one hell of an achievement.
He walked from Camden Town station with his head down against the rain, which was back with a vengeance and had become the spiral sort that seemed hell bent on getting into every aperture of his clothing, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to Miriam as soon as he got her on the phone. He’d try again as soon as he got in, he promised himself. She might just have got his letter by now and be ready to answer when the phone rang and he actually ran up the steps to his flat, ignoring the humped shape of someone sitting on the bottom step just inside the dark hallway. There usually were people there, waiting out of the rain for the bus that stopped just outside, and he’d learned to behave like any Londoner and pay them no attention. It was like being back in Manhattan, really.
But as he put his key in his lock the shape came up the stairs after him, and he turned, suddenly alarmed. Maybe Camden Town was more like Manhattan than he knew, with muggers and all.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone,’ she said. ‘I got bored with it and switched it off. We had one of those silencer things fitted when Geoff was ill and I just used it and then forgot to switch it on again.’
He stared at her, dumbfounded. She looked totally different, and he couldn’t see how at first, and then realised. She had cut her hair; the cloud of dark frizz had gone and been replaced by a cap of small tight curls, and she was wearing a black and white checked coat with the collar pulled up about her ears in a way that made her look vulnerable and a little lost.
‘Miriam? Ye gods, Miriam, how the hell — what are you doing here? I thought — what have you done to yourself? I’ve never seen you looking so — hey, come on in, for God’s sake! I’ll make some coffee.’
She followed him into the flat and suddenly he felt as awkward as a schoolboy on a first date, and dropping the film can on his desk with a little clatter rushed around the room to tidy it, thrusting discarded shirts and socks into drawers and ineffectually pulling at the covers of the bed he hadn’t bothered to make and stow away before he left that morning. She watched him for a few moments and then laughed and untied the belt of her coat and pulled it off.
‘For pity’s sake, Abner, will you stop coming on like Chicken Licken and settle down. Make the coffee. I’ll straighten up here.’ And she pushed him aside with a friendly roughness that pleased him enormously, and set to work on the bed, converting it back into a sofa, with the covers and the pillow neatly stowed in its bottom, in a matter of moments. And then went about the room moving odd things, tidying papers and generally making it look agreeable as he made the coffee, taking the time to use real coffee and a hot jug.
‘No dust and water for us,’ he said and grinned at her. ‘Real Colombian stuff. There’s a place over the road roasts its own and grinds it fresh for me.’
They sipped in a companionable silence as he sat perched on the edge of the big pine table and she sat composedly in the typing chair he had in front of it, until he couldn’t keep it back another moment.
‘You look incredible. What have you done to yourself? It’s — well, incredible.’
‘You mean I looked like a dog before?’
He flushed crimson. ‘Jesus, no! You can be so — listen, you walk in here wearing a whole set of new clothes, as smart as goddamm paint, and with your hair cut to the scalp and a fancy make-up on — I make films, for Christ’s sake, so I notice things like that! — and you don’t expect me to react? You looked fine to me before. Now you look great. All right? Not that it matters either way, of course. I guess I forgot myself there for a moment. I’ve been around enough modern women to know it’s the greatest insult to say good things about their appearance. So, I’m sorry, forgive me, grovel, grovel, I take it all back. Happy?’
She smiled up at him then and shook her head. ‘Not in the least. I don’t want y
ou to take it back. I want to be told I looked fine before, but now I’ve spent some money I look fantastic. I wasn’t being fair to tease you. So I take it back. It’s my turn. Have I done a good job?’ And she put down her cup and stood up and went pirouetting across the room and he watched her, delighted.
‘The dress I got in a sale so I don’t feel quite so wicked,’ she said gaily. ‘I never wore a red like this before, but it cheered me up.’
‘Me too,’ he said fervently, because indeed it was a splendid dress, in vivid scarlet that was enough to make anyone laugh aloud at the sight of it. She was wearing red shoes too, and above them very sheer black tights that made her long legs look even longer, and which seemed to go on for ever since her skirt was remarkably short, well above the knee.
But it was the haircut that had done it. Her neck looked long and beautifully curved and above it her chin made a perfect line with her throat; her ears were small and well set back and the make-up she had on — put on by an expert he judged — gave her a whole new glow. He knew then that he was past redemption and so far involved with this girl there was to be no way out, ever, and laughed aloud at the joy of it.
‘The mother lode,’ he said. ‘Oh, are you ever the mother lode!’
‘I’m what?’
‘It doesn’t matter. One of these days I’ll explain. If you give me the chance. We’ll see. You look a million dollars, Miriam, you really do.’
‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘A fistful of forints, is all. I told you, I got money from Hungary — ’
‘And you couldn’t have spent it better,’ he said and held out both hands to her. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you on your brilliant business sense. I never saw money better spent.’
‘I’m going to spend some more of it too,’ she said and there was defiance in her voice now. ‘I know I ought to be sensible and put it into fixing up the house to make it a better proposition for buyers, but it’s been so long since I spent anything on myself I thought — the hell with it. It’s my turn.’
‘Is it ever! What are you going to do?’
‘Travel,’ she said and glowed. ‘I’m going to buy a ticket and get in a plane and go somewhere — ’
He laughed, caught up in her joy. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Paris, maybe. Or Rome? Not Rome. Too ugly, Rome. Anyway it’s a place for the summer time. Amsterdam, maybe, to look at the pictures or — ’
‘Amsterdam?’ he said and lifted his chin almost exultantly. ‘I have to go there next week. I’ve got a job there. Making a commercial — ’
She had stopped her twirl around the room and was standing staring at him. ‘You have? Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I told you. Making a commercial.’
‘What for?’ She was looking suspicious now.
He grinned from ear to ear. ‘Condoms. What is it he said you call ’em here? French letters.’
Her face cracked. ‘God, that has to be true! You could never have invented it.’
‘Why should I invent it? I’m telling you. The job I did today was for dog food. Another commercial — ’ He flicked his forefinger at the can of film on the table beside him. ‘The same man I made this for wants me to go to Amsterdam to do this other job. All expenses paid as well as a fee. And it’s the chance for me to do some research, too. May I come with you, Miriam? Please may I? It’d make one hell of a difference to me.’
‘Why?’ she said then, still standing there and staring at him. ‘Why should it make such a difference?’
He was silent for a long moment. This was, he knew, important. It was like being at an exam and facing the last question, the one which would either pass him or fail him. He had to get it right. And he took a deep breath and stared at her as directly as he knew how and said simply, ‘Because I’d rather be with you than anywhere in the world.’
They ate dinner in a small Greek restaurant around the corner, and he let her pay for it. She had said with an air of studied casualness that she would give him dinner this time and he knew better than to argue, though he wanted to; but, at least, he could steer her towards a place he knew wouldn’t cost too much, well aware of how furious she would be if she realised it. But she didn’t, because the food was plentiful and good and she enjoyed it. They ate quantities of houmous and grilled halloumi cheese and salad and a massive kleftiko, fragrant with herbs and as tender as butter and drank a good deal of the rough Cypriot wine. There was some music, too; a boy with a bazouki which he played with great panache if small skill, and that made them laugh a lot. The whole evening made them laugh a lot and he sat opposite her in the soft light, watching the way her head was set on her neck and the movement of the muscles of her cheeks, which he found particularly beguiling, and tried not to think of what the feelings he was battening down might lead him to.
It could be hell, he knew; at present she was being wonderful, approachable, even affectionate and enormous fun, but at any moment she could be plunged back into her depths again. Could he handle that for always? At this second he knew he wanted her company for always, but that was as she was now. How long could always last when she went back into her miserable mode again? He simply didn’t know.
They were eating sticky Turkish delight with their almost equally sticky Turkish coffee, when he started to tell her of what he’d been told by Brazel and she listened, her eyes bright in the soft light but a little distracted as though she were watching him more than listening to him and that pleased him, for it meant she was as happy being with him as he was with her, he thought. That’s why she looks like that. But he pretended he hadn’t noticed and talked on about Brazel.
‘…whoever the man is now, or wherever he is, I’ve got to find him,’ he was saying. ‘Because without that information Mayer won’t part with the rest of the money for the film. It really is like playing craps with loaded dice.’
Her eyes sharpened suddenly and she was staring at him. ‘I’ve remembered,’ she said abruptly. ‘I was thinking about Amsterdam while you were talking about Brazel and I remembered. He wrote to me — ’
‘He wrote to you? Are you sure?’
‘I told you I knew the name. I tend to remember silly things and I remember that one. It was the signature and such pompous prose, you know? And then he signed it Harry Brazel, so casual and — it just seemed odd. Not Harold or Henry or Harvey, a proper name, but the diminutive. It didn’t seem to go with the sort of careful English of the letter.’
‘He’s European, Polish. I didn’t ask him what — but he had a different first language. That’s why he now speaks — and obviously writes — perfect English. What did he want?’
‘Hell, I can’t remember.’ She frowned hard, staring at him blankly as she dug down into her memory. ‘I just know I came across the name. But what did he want? Oh, damn it all, why can’t I remember?’
‘Close your eyes,’ he said with some urgency. ‘Maybe you can do what I do and — well, close your eyes. See yourself opening the letter. Look at the signature, Harry Brazel…’
She had obeyed him and now her lips curled, and she sat there very upright with her eyes tightly closed, and smiling. He could have leaned across and kissed her. He almost did.
‘How odd!’ she said. ‘I can see it, you know? All very flowery — easy to read but lots of curly bits on the letters.’
‘Now read what’s over the signature,’ he said softly. ‘Just look at the page and read it. It’s only a trick — you can do it.’
‘Typewritten,’ she said. ‘It’s typewritten.’
Inside his head he swore. He knew how much harder it was to remember a typeface; he didn’t know why but it was. ‘Try, Miriam. Try to see what it is he wants from the letter.’
There was a silence as she sat there with her eyes closed and he sat opposite her with both hands curled into fists on the table, watching eagerly. And then she sighed and shook her head and opened her eyes.
&nbs
p; ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It was odd, though. I was sitting at the kitchen table and there was a pile of letters in front of me and this one was in a thick white envelope. I saw it — isn’t that odd? But I can’t manage anything else. I’ll tell you this much, though — whatever it was, I didn’t do it. I mean, he wanted something and I didn’t want to do it so I sent him one of the cards.’
‘What cards?’
‘Oh, the ones we had printed: “Professor Geoffrey Hinchelsea regrets he is unable to accede to your request. His documentation is available only to historians. The information you require should be available elsewhere in established libraries.” I use them a lot.’
‘Then what he wanted wasn’t to do with your father’s period or research?’
‘It could have been that. Or just that it wasn’t real history.’
He flashed a grin at her. ‘Like me?’
‘Like you,’ she said and grinned back and again he had to stop himself leaning across the table to touch her. She looked wonderful. Goddammed wonderful.
‘Or it could have been something you didn’t want to let him know about?’
‘It’s no use trying to wheedle me, Abner. Honestly, I can’t remember. He wanted something that I knew wasn’t what Geoff’s stuff is for so I said no. That’s all I can tell you. Why not ask him?’
He was struck by that. ‘I suppose I could — ’
‘Well, do it. And let me know what it was. And now, it’s time we went — I’ve got a long drive home.’
Postscripts Page 30