Rocks, The

by Peter Nichols

  “What rotten luck,” said Lulu, sipping her martini.

  “Yes. Not only to those places and millions of their benighted inhabitants but to their insurers. If you’re a Name at Lloyd’s—if you’re personally liable for all that insurance—right now you’re rather wishing you weren’t.”

  “I see. You’re about to make a stunning point of all this.”

  “Yes.” Cassian smiled. “If you’re a Name at Lloyd’s, this has been a bad week. The numbers for worldwide damage caused by last winter’s El Niño and the resultant liability are in.”

  “Well, darling, I’m awfully sorry for everybody, for Lloyd’s, for the whole world. Is there anything I can do?”

  “There is, in fact. You know my friend Johnny Barton.”

  “I’ve heard you speak of him.”

  “Johnny’s been calling here all day for Fergus Maitland. He’s in with Fergus on this property they’re developing on the land they’ve just bought from Gerald Rutledge.”

  “Ah,” said Lulu. She put her glass down on the coffee table. Then she picked at and rearranged the djellaba around her crossed legs.

  “You know about it?” asked Cassian.

  “Just the little I’ve heard here and there,” said Lulu. “Holiday villas. Is that it?”

  “That was it. Johnny represents the majority of Fergus’s partners. Most of them are Lloyd’s Names. They want out.”

  “He wants new partners?”

  “No. Not at all. They want to sell the land. They bought it on extremely favorable terms—just yesterday, I gather. Today, they want to dump it. They’ll probably offer it back to Gerald if they can’t get rid of it.”

  “How extraordinary. The disasters of the world come home to roost in our back garden. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m thinking of taking it off Johnny, but doing something different with it. What Fergus was planning—separate villas with gardens—underutilizes the land. Many more units could be put on it, for a lot more profit. Like those condominiums down in Porto Cristo. Do you want to come in with me?”

  “You mean build an entire village of those semidetached hovels? How revolting.”

  “It made their developers a lot of money.”

  Cassian lit a king-sized Dunhill.

  Lulu knew the small eyes behind the thick yellow lenses. “You’ve thought it through, then.”

  “Yes,” said Cassian.

  “How much?”

  “About a hundred thousand pounds. I’ll put up the same. We’ll use your lawyer, Beltran, to draw up a partnership. We’d get a couple of models up and then sell the rest to be built on contract.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got a hundred thousand pounds, darling.”

  “I think you’ll find you do, actually. More than that, with your share of Mummy’s estate.”

  “Oh. Would we make a lot of money?”

  “I reckon three to four times our outlay at the end of two years. A lot more in the following two years. We could run all the purchases through an offshore company. Use my bank, the Butterfield, in Bermuda.”

  “Who else have you asked?”

  “Nobody. This would be just you and me. I won’t bother if you’re not interested. It can go back to Gerald.”

  Lulu picked up her drink from the table.

  “What about Fergus? Does he come with it?”

  “No. He’s a shareholder only with Johnny’s group. He can’t stop the sale. He’s finished, out.”

  “Could Gerald stop us building what we want?”

  “Not a chance. But we need to move quickly. I want to tell Johnny today or tomorrow—preferably before Fergus comes back on that boat, calls Johnny, and goes home to talk it over with Gerald.”

  Lulu looked away, out over the rocks to the sea.

  Nine

  Charlie woke at seven in the evening. His afternoon nap, which in London began at one or half-past, didn’t start until three or four in Mallorca where, with all the beach-going and playing with Bianca and helping his grandfather with the lemons and olives, he slept longer hours.

  He could tell it was evening. His room was dim, the color gone out of it. Through the open window he could see the fading pale blue sky over the green leaves of the lemon trees.

  He knew where he would find everyone beyond the door of his room. Grandpa would be in the living room, smoking his smelly cigarettes, listening to the radio that called itself the BBC World Service and told Grandpa what was happening in the world. There was always a disaster somewhere and when the BBC World Service told him about it, Grandpa would blow his smoke toward the ceiling and say, “Plus ça change.” Mummy and Daddy would be on the terrace having their drinkies. Charlie liked lying in bed, knowing where everyone was and that he could go be with them as soon as he decided to get up.

  I will get out of bed very soon, he thought.

  He waited as long as he could, which was about seven seconds, and then he got up and went to the door.

  He heard the radio as he came out of his room.

  “Ah, Charlie, there you are,” said his grandfather, standing up as Charlie came into the room. “How are you?”

  “Good,” said Charlie. He walked sturdily through the room and out onto the terrace. No one there. He turned around. His grandfather was behind him.

  “Where’s Mummy and Daddy?”

  “Yes, they’re not here right now,” said Grandpa cheerfully. “Daddy went for a boat ride, and Mummy’s gone into town to see when he’ll return. She’ll be back any minute.”

  Charlie walked past his grandfather and into the kitchen. No one there either.

  “Would you like some TriNaranjus, Charlie? Orange drinky?” Grandpa was smiling in a very big way at him.

  “Where’s my mummy and daddy?” Charlie’s voice rose to a squeak and he began to cry.

  “Now, don’t worry,” said Grandpa. He picked Charlie up. “They’ll all be back soon. It’s all right, Charlie boy.” Grandpa kissed his forehead.

  Charlie bawled and pushed away from the stinky cigarette smell.

  Grandpa carried him into the living room and put him down on the sofa. “Shall we play a game, Charlie? What about noughts and crosses?” They’d been playing that recently and Charlie had won all the games. “Or shall I read you a story?”

  Charlie jumped to the floor and ran out to the terrace. He reached the rail and cried out over the drive below. “Mum-myyyy!”

  Grandpa caught him and lifted Charlie into the air and they moved away from the rail and back into the living room. “Everyone’ll be back soon, Charlie, don’t you worry,” said Grandpa, bouncing him up and down and pretending to laugh. Charlie didn’t want to hear it. He placed his hands on his grandfather’s chest and pushed strongly. He wailed.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Grandpa held him out and looked into Charlie’s face. “Shall we go look for them?”

  “Yes,” said Charlie. He stopped crying and was still.

  “Right. We’ll go into town. I know where they’ll be. One of two places. We’ll go look at both, shall we?”

  Charlie nodded. This made sense.

  “All right, then. Well, let’s get something on your feet.”

  Grandpa carried Charlie back into his room, where they found his little blue espadrilles. He slipped them onto Charlie’s feet and said, “Mummy’s got my car, and your daddy’s got his car, so we’ll go on Grandpa’s moped. Okay?”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” said Charlie.

  Now it was almost dark outside. Down on the drive, Grandpa started the moped and sat on it. Charlie was suddenly afraid Grandpa was going to leave without him and his face began to crumple, but Grandpa lifted him up and set him down on the seat in front of him, almost in his lap, with Charlie’s legs out either side between Grandpa’s legs. The machine throbbed beneath them.

  �
�Now you hold on, with your hands on my arms, like that. Hold on tight to my arms or my shirt. Got it? That’s it. Hold on tight, Charlie. This way you can’t fall sideways or go forward and I’m right behind you. All right? Off we go.”

  The moped whined, wobbled, and plunged down the steep drive. They appeared to be falling. Charlie shrieked. Somehow they didn’t fall, but continued swooping down the drive like a bird.

  At the bottom of the hill where the drive met the road, they stopped. Grandpa looked around and said, “Off we go. Hold on tight!” The moped buzzed loudly and trembled beneath Charlie’s legs and then it leapt ahead. Charlie laughed a squeal of delight. The stone walls at the sides of the road blurred. A small patch of yellow light bounced in front of them as they tore through the dark beneath an indigo sky. The warm air buffeted Charlie’s face, his thick dark hair flew around his head.

  “This is fun!” he shouted.

  “It is, isn’t it!” agreed Grandpa.

  The dark fell away as they came into town. Shops liquid with light pouring out of them and car headlights streaked past. Charlie was thrown backward into Grandpa’s chest, and forward, grabbing onto Grandpa’s arms, with the moped’s sudden fits of fast and slow. They flew through town, weaving miraculously through traffic, down dusty side streets, turning, slowing, and zooming through the dark. It felt dangerous but Charlie knew he was safe, so it was fun. The moped whined louder and picked up speed and they were racing through the port with the lights of the town streaming across the water beside them. Charlie suddenly heard another moped beside them, but it was only the breakwater wall close by as they sped down the long quay toward the blinking white light at the end. They slowed and stopped, the moped puttering softly beneath them.

  “There’s Daddy’s car, you see?” said Grandpa. And so it was: the familiar boxy Range Rover shape all by itself on the long quay. “Well, he’s not back yet. He went for a boat ride and they’re late.”

  Charlie started to worry about this, until Grandpa said, “I expect they’ll be back shortly. Shall we go find Mummy, then?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes.”

  The engine grumbled beneath Charlie, Grandpa turned the moped, and they sped back down the quay. They whizzed around the port until Charlie found he could tell where Grandpa was going.

  “The Rocks, Grandpa!” he shouted. His father had taken him there a few times, to have a TriNaranjus while his father had drinkies with his friends. Charlie liked the Rocks.

  “That’s right,” said Grandpa.

  They slowed and stopped outside a large house beside the sea. Grandpa turned off the moped and carried Charlie through the gate into the open area inside where all the grown-ups had their drinkies. People turned and looked at them.

  “Any news from the yacht?” Grandpa asked.

  “No,” several people said.

  A man with red hair and yellow glasses approached them. He spoke to Grandpa in a very quiet grown-up voice: “Gerald, I think it would be better if you go home. We’ve heard nothing. If we hear anything, we’ll send someone up.”

  Charlie could see that Grandpa was looking around everywhere for Mummy and Daddy, but the red-haired man put his hand on Grandpa’s shoulder and led them back outside. “We’ll let you know,” he said again.

  “But then where’s Mummy?” Charlie asked as Grandpa started the moped again. He began to cry. “Where’s Mummy?” he wailed.

  “She’ll probably be back home by the time we get there, Charlie boy,” said Grandpa.

  The moped leapt ahead and trundled on down the bumpy road. Soon they were grinding slowly up the long driveway. Eventually they reached the top, and, the best thing in the world, Grandpa’s car was there. She’d heard them coming and was waiting for them on the steps.

  “Mummy!” Charlie yelled.

  She took him in her arms and hugged him. Over Charlie’s head, she looked at her father.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  Ten

  When twilight was quite gone, the sea and the sky became fathomlessly dark. There was no moon, the stars were faint, the air opaque with humidity. Mallorca lay below the horizon to the north beneath patches of sulfurous loom. Closer, at indeterminate distances, hovered the lights of fishing boats hung with incandescent lamps to attract fish, each surrounded by a diffuse glow on the black vinyl sea. Low on the water, the fishing boats disappeared and reappeared like fireflies.

  The guests aboard Dolphin were stunned into quiescence. Fergus and Sarah sat in the intimate light of the electric brass lanterns that the young crewmen, Tim and Ian, had fixed above them in the cockpit. Sarah had been mumbling to herself for some time, and Fergus—after a few polite, unanswered assays of “I’m sorry?” and “What did you say?”—ignored her. Inside the saloon, Dominick sprawled on a settee, leafing through copies of Paris Match, Vogue, L’Express, his eyes following whoever was moving through the yacht. Now and then Véronique thudded barefoot quickly back and forth across the saloon carpet, between the galley and the master suite aft where Szabó had retired and remained cloistered since shortly after the engine had conked out and the first mutterings of dismay and complaint had arisen.

  Véronique was resolutely disinterested in the situation and condition of the luncheon guests who had—she didn’t care whose fault it was—long overstayed their welcome. She shot resentful glances at Dominick as she passed, and he smiled imperturbably back at her. When the mood on deck had become too unpleasant and boring, Mireille too had vanished below somewhere.

  In Szabó’s absence and Véronique’s dismissal of the tedious passengers, Luc had felt obliged, for a time, to play host to the Rocks contingent—his mother’s friends, after all, and he the connection that had resulted in Szabó’s invitation. He’d brought them more drinks, olives, tried chatting encouragingly with amusing stories of the boats full of Rocks guests that had been late or presumed missing or even sunk, over the years, but all of which had eventually reappeared with no more harm than excessive sunburn and the odd pregnancy—

  “Are these stories of yours supposed to help?” Sarah snapped at him.

  “I dunno,” said Luc. “I thought they might. I mean, it could be worse. There are certainly less comfortable boats—”

  “Are you saying this happens all the time?”

  “Well, not all the time, but it happens. People are always getting into trouble on boats—”

  “As Lulu bloody well knew! She might have told us!”

  “You can’t say she didn’t give us a hint,” said Dominick with a malicious grin.

  “Oh shut up!” Sarah threw an olive across the cockpit table at Dominick. That was when he went into the saloon and started reading magazines.

  • • •

  At nine o’clock, Szabó appeared at the door of the engine room. He had bathed and appeared fresh in billowing white linen shirt and trousers, at some counterpoint to the greasy disassembled chunks of engine and the oil-smeared hands and features of Tony and Roger, who were laughing.

  “You are having fun, Tony, yes?” said Szabó.

  “Oh, yes. Happy in my work, always.”

  “Good. We are about to have dinner, so get the other boys to bring you in something if you want to eat.”

  “Thank you, sir, we’ll do that,” said Tony.

  “And how is it coming, the engine?”

  “Splendidly. I’ve got the heat exchanger off and the lines—”

  “No, no, no.” Szabó waved a fat hand. “Means nothing to me, engines. Just tell me how long you think it takes.”

  “We’ll have you all back ashore by breakfast, Mr. Szabó.”

  “Very good.”

  Szabó climbed the few steps to the saloon, where Dominick smiled cheerfully at him from the settee.

  “How are you?” asked Szabó.

  “Marvelous, thank you so much. I wouldn’t want to be a
nywhere else in the world,” said Dominick.

  “Good. We are eating dinner soon. You’ll join us?”

  “Oh absolutely. Very good of you to look after us so well.”

  “Of course. You are my guest.”

  Szabó went out on deck.

  Mireille had reappeared, wearing an oversized faded blue T-shirt with the white words GO HIKE THE CANYON across the back. She and Fergus were helping Tim and Ian set the cockpit table. Luc was saying something to Sarah, who was staring dully at the table.

  “Good evening,” said Szabó. “How is everyone?”

  “All right, thank you,” said Fergus. “Any news on the engine?”

  “It’s coming along,” said Szabó. “Luc, let’s have a little chat.”

  Szabó walked forward along the deck with legs splayed sturdily against the slight motion of the boat. Luc followed. He’d heard everything in that “let’s have a little chat.”

  Szabó stopped on the foredeck where they usually worked. Their deck chairs were gone. He held on to the bar-taut forestay and looked out across the dark sea at the few bobbing lights. Then he turned to Luc.

  “We’ve done wonderful work together, Luc.”

  As bad as that.

  “You have integrity, Luc,” Szabó went on. He put a hand on Luc’s shoulder. “You have taught me something about that. All the time I am seeing this Roy Scheider movie. Roy does this, Roy does that. Until I realize”—his face beaming with sincere epiphany—“you didn’t write a Roy Scheider movie!”

  “Well, I mean, it could—”

  “No, no. It’s true. Perhaps an Albert Finney movie, I don’t know—but a work of art. Of psychology, deep meanings. What I loved—immediately, when I first read it—was your story—your story—of this man, this nothing man—a guy who takes a bus! My God, when do you ever see this? And then he enters this crazy world, and he finds in himself, this nothing little guy, character! It’s fantastic. He’s not Roy Scheider. I see him now—”

  “Well, he could be—”

  “No, no, no—you are right. Albert Finney, Alan Bates, Tom Courtenay. An actor. Someone we forget he’s a movie star and we see this man that you write. And the world he discovers for himself. It’s a character piece, not a thriller.”