Ollie's Cloud (17 page)

As he stares at the poster, the jostled man’s eyes glimmer in recognition of this beautiful woman. He tosses a question to his companion. Satisfied with the response, the man in the rippling tunic moves toward the entrance of Bumble & Stryker, past the line of autograph seekers who stare incredulously at his flamboyant costume, and into the sacred chamber of book signing. There he sees Anne Chadwick at the table. She is beaming with confidence, glowing with good fortune, her eyes turned downward toward the title page of a book as she scribbles her now-famous name in purple ink.

In another minute, if he does nothing, the man’s heart will pound through his chest. He wants to approach Anne Chadwick, but as he steps forward his companion restrains him, whispers in his ear. The man nods.

Better to have a plan. The famous author will not be difficult to find again.

Chapter 20

To Ollie’s dismay,
Midnight March to Freedom
is the literary sensation of the Season. In his room at the Charterhouse, as he finishes the last page of the book, he feels ashamed and depressed. For Ollie, the book is an embarrassment, a betrayal. He can barely recognize himself in its pages. The heroine, Anisa, seems a stock character out of some idiotic Surrey melodrama. And the villain, the kelauntar, is a lustful alcoholic and drug addict who abuses the women of his harem and robs from the village that he so corruptly governs.
Unfair!
This is not the father that Ollie remembers. The story of young Ali, the progeny of England, the prodigy of Persia, is all wrong. Jalal, the true prodigy, has been erased from the story and Ali assigned his virtues.
How can there be a story about Ali without mention of his other half, Jalal?

The emotional account of Ollie’s spiritual salvation under the god-empowered hands of believers at Walter Nettleship’s house will set off shouts of
hallelujah
from the Evangelicals, but causes Ollie only pain. The written account of confession and conversion is not his experience at all, but an outsider’s. It is religious propaganda. None of the feelings attributed to him are true. He had experienced fear, guilt, humiliation and anger, not peace and joy and spirit-filled intoxication as Anne had imagined, or perhaps invented. He had not publicly spoken in the language of angels,
or had he?
He certainly had not reached toward the heavens to embrace the one true God and denounce the false god of his father’s profane religion.
Not that he can remember.

On a particularly warm day in early May, Ollie walks across the grounds of the Charterhouse. Ollie is watched closely by two men in a closed black carriage. One of these men wears a billowing turban. The lower part of his face is covered by a ruddy beard colored with henna. With a finger pointed like a pistol, the turbaned man’s companion, dressed in English attire, gestures toward Ollie. The carriage driver cannot understand the excited Farsi that the companion speaks, but it is clear that the man in the turban has been looking for this boy.

As Ollie walks, his coat hitched over his right shoulder, a faint shout in the distance makes him stop. It sounds like, “Mr. Chadwick!” Ollie turns toward the source and sees a tall, reedy man running toward him.

“Mr. Chadwick!” The shout is louder now.

Ollie waits for the man to approach. Reaching him at last, the man bends over and places his hands on his knees to catch his breath, then wheezes a hoarse, “Mr. Chadwick, I was hoping it was you.” The Englishman is about forty and, judging from his poor physical condition, better suited for sitting than running.

“I am Oliver Chadwick, if that is who you seek,” Ollie says.

“It is, indeed. May I have a word with you?”

“I’m afraid you have an advantage over me. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Forgive me. I am Eardley Pickwick. May we speak?”

“Unfortunately, I have a class shortly.”

“Yes, of course. Just a moment of your time, please.”

“I really must be going to—“

Just then Ollie is interrupted by a stream of Farsi that is so unexpected, so startling that at first he does not recognize it. The words slam against him with a force that moves him backward a step. Pickwick steps forward to make up the distance. It has been a very long time since Ollie has heard anyone speak Farsi.

The strange-sounding words buzz in Ollie’s head for a few seconds, then sort themselves out. Still confused about their source, Ollie now interprets the Farsi into English.
How odd—to be translating from his native tongue into English instead of the other way around. He really has become a true English gentleman.
The message of the translation is tantalizing: “Mr. Chadwick, a friend of mine, a gentleman from Persia, is currently visiting London. He is familiar with your book and would like to meet you.”

In Farsi, Ollie replies, “You speak the language very well for an Englishman.”

The conversation continues in Farsi.

“Yes, I was born in London of English parents,” Pickwick replies, “and I have lived here all my life, except for two years abroad. In Persia.”

“And why did you visit Persia?”

“I am an adjunct professor of middle eastern studies at Oxford, with a specialty in languages. An Orientalist, so to speak. I spent two years in Persia doing research and perfecting my Farsi. Although, I’ve been told, it is still far from perfect.”

“Excuse me, sir. Please don’t think me rude, but I am now late for my class. If you’ll excuse me, perhaps some other time—“

Pickwick urgently reverts to English, and the coarseness of the language catches Ollie’s attention. “Mr. Chadwick, the gentleman of whom I speak has come all the way from Persia to meet you. He is in the carriage over there.” Pickwick gestures toward the solemn black carriage standing perhaps a hundred yards away. “He has some news that will be of great interest to you.”

“News you say? Of what?”

“Please, Mr. Chadwick. Come and meet with him in the carriage. He will explain everything. This conversation will prove to be much more important than your class.”

Ollie stares at the carriage. Inside the closed cabin, through a window, he can just make out the shadowy figure of a man shifting in his seat. Ollie’s curiosity is piqued, but the memory of his encounter with Reginald Pennick is still fresh in his mind.
Don’t place yourself in isolation with a stranger
, he tells himself.
Be careful. Be smart.

Ollie fights his growing curiosity. Maybe there is news of his father. Or Jalal. But caution wins the battle. “If your friend would like to meet with me, then I suggest the George & Vulture at, say, six this evening.” The George & Vulture is a popular pub that is always busy at night, providing the security of a crowd.

Pickwick stares at the boy, restraining his frustration, but finally nods yes.

“Then I must be on my way. Good day, sir. I look forward to meeting you again this evening.” Ollie spins and begins to walk toward his class, aware that Eardley Pickwick—if that is his true name—stands behind him straight as a pillar, watching.

Ollie is suddenly aware that his heart is pounding and his mouth is as dry as a woolen shirt.

Chapter 21

Ollie arrives early at the George & Vulture on Lombard Street. The inn is already clogged with thick-bodied Englishmen stuffing their bellies with beef and marinating their tonsils with stout ale and ruby wine. After a few minutes, three jowly gentlemen, solicitors from the look of their blue satchels ballooned with papers, vacate a table near the front window. Ollie deftly slips in behind them, staking his claim. A weary barmaid hustles over to him, wagging a fat finger and jabbering loudly about the inappropriateness of usurping that small square space while so many others are waiting for the comfort of a seat. But Ollie has learned the art of negotiation. He holds up a guinea and the barmaid’s mouth clamps shut, her greedy eyes fixed on the gold coin.

“Thank you so much for reserving the table for me,” Ollie says, smiling coyly. “My friends will be here shortly.”

With a nod of sudden understanding, the barmaid plucks the coin from Ollie‘s hand and says, “You’re very welcome, sir. What’s your pleasure?”

“Some port, I believe.” Ollie is in the mood for wine. Herbert drinks port while he writes. It must fuel one’s powers of communication. And this evening Ollie will need all of his powers.

“Very good, sir.” The barmaid scurries off.

From the table, Ollie has a fine view of the Tower of London and the courtyard. Such a big city it is. As he waits for Eardley Pickwick and friend to arrive, he senses its ominous nature.

“You bloody well know I can’t afford a place like this!” A voice startles Ollie and he turns toward it, seeing a chum who is also interested in writing, a pasty-faced boy named Charles Dickens.

“Sit down, Charles,” Ollie says. “No, not over there. Here by me.”

Charles takes a seat next to Ollie. He looks around the room.

“I will pay for the evening, don’t worry,” Ollie explains. “You can save your money for the theatre. By the way, thank you for coming.”

“What’s this about, Ollie? I received your invitation, but I must say I’m puzzled as to the occasion.”

“I’m, uh, meeting some gentlemen here this evening, and to be truthful, I didn’t want to be alone. Or outnumbered.”

“Well, this is my first time to the George & Vulture.”

“My stepfather, Herbert, has brought me here several times. He claims the place is haunted by the ghosts of England’s most famous journalists.” Ollie points to a small table across the room. “You see, over there is where Jonathon Swift used to sit when he was editor of the
Examiner
. That was before he wrote
Gulliver’s Travels
… or perhaps during.”

Charles stares at the table, imagining the great Swift sitting there, swilling an ale and scrawling his masterpiece.

“At the far end of the bar—” Ollie gestures in another direction and Charles swivels his head—“Joseph Addison and Richard Steele of the
Tattler
used to debate their essays and, perhaps, find ample targets for their satire by merely looking about the room. Or so Herbert has told me.”

The barmaid pushes her way to Ollie’s table and sets down a glass of port. “Anything for you, sir?” she asks Charles.

“An ale, please,” Charles replies. “But tell me—is it true that Addison and Steele used to come here? And Swift?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Are they from the neighborhood?”

“
Jonathon
Swift, the author!”

“Ahh—
Gulliver’s Travels
. Aye, it’s true, sir—though I never met him m’self, bein’ as how he frequented the place a century ago. This old inn has been the home away from home for a number of gentlemen who were good with the quill, that’s true. I’ve been told that Daniel Defoe himself—
Robinson Crusoe
, you know...”

“Yes, one of my favorites,” Charles interjects.

“…had a table in the back room. But that was a long time ago, too. And this table you’re at—” the barmaid thumps the surface with her knuckles—“was the favorite of the great Samuel Johnson himself. I’ll be back with yer ale, sir. Will there be others?”

“Two more,” Ollie says, then watches the barmaid whirl and slice through the crowded room.

“It’s a wonderful place!” Charles says, smiling for the first time. “A place for authors.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling the ghostly smell of drying ink and famous prose.

“Yes, I agree. Quite wonderful,” Ollie says. “But let me tell you about our guests before they arrive. I don’t know much about them, but they will be here shortly and—”

Ollie is startled by the sudden appearance of the man from the carriage.

“I hope I’m not too early,” the man says. “I thought it would take longer to get here.” He turns to Charles, extends a hand and introduces himself. “I am Eardley Pickwick.”

Charles takes his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Charles Dickens, pleased to meet you.”

Eardley sits down, turns to Ollie, and utters a string of Farsi, expressing his dismay that Ollie has brought a companion to the meeting. Ollie lies, saying that he and Charles meet every Wednesday evening at the George & Vulture to discuss literary matters, so it is Eardley and his mysterious companion who are the interlopers, not Charles.

Charles listens quietly. He doesn’t understand Farsi, but he senses the tension in this exchange, and it makes him uneasy. “Something to drink?” he asks Eardley, hoping to lighten the moment.

Eardley ignores Charles—or maybe not, for he switches back to English. “We have only a few moments alone, so let me be candid.”

“Please do,” Ollie replies.

“The real reason I came early was to explain my desperate circumstances. I hope this will remain confidential?” Eardley glances at Charles, who stares back for a moment before realizing the question was directed at him. Charles nods his agreement.

“During the past two years it was my misfortune to fall upon hard times,” Eardley continues. “My debts mounted quickly, and fearing that my creditors might plunge me into debtor’s prison, I tried to solve my dilemma by gambling. As you might guess, this misguided strategy produced—well, let’s just say
unsatisfactory results
.” Eardley nervously looks over his shoulder, ensuring that the second man has not yet arrived.

“Why are you telling us this?” Ollie asks.

“Because I must implore you to cooperate with my companion. You see, he came to England seeking an English tutor and translator who could help him in his diplomatic work. But I sensed from the beginning that his true mission was something else entirely. While I don’t pretend to know his goal, it is clear that you are an important part of its achievement.”

Charles is lost. He speaks up: “Is this other man from Persia, like Ali?”

“Yes. And he has promised me a substantial amount of money to help locate Ollie, the bulk of which will be paid if and when his mission can be accomplished. The sum is enough to satisfy my creditors! And he has promised me continued employment as well—if his objective is attained. The truth is, you see, while I told Ollie that I was an adjunct professor at Oxford, I have not been employed there for several years. I was dismissed for—well, that’s quite another story. Unfortunately, there are not many employment opportunities at the moment for an expert in oriental history and languages, especially when one is shut out of academia. This, I’m afraid, is at the root of my financial dilemma. So you see, in a large sense, my fate is in your hands.”

“And what would you have Ollie do?” Charles asks.

Eardley lowers his eyes sadly and mutters, “I don’t know.” Then he lifts his gaze to stare directly into Ollie’s eyes. “But I beg of you, please give him a chance to explain, and keep an open mind. He seems like a very nice gentleman, and he’s very rich.”

The barmaid interrupts with a mug of ale. “Here ya go, sir,” she says to Charles, spilling the foam as she pushes the pewter mug toward the boy. Then she turns to Eardley and says, “There’s a gentleman wants a word with ya, sir, in the back room. Says you’ll know what it’s about. Anything in the meantime, sir?”

Eardley stands, nodding no. The barmaid departs and Eardley sighs deeply, the stress of the moment pinching his entire face into a pucker. Ollie can see perspiration on the man’s brow. “I beg of you…” Eardley says to Ollie. And then he disappears into the crowd.

Ollie is afraid of the revelation that is only moments away. But
what
does he fear? Here, in the George & Vulture, he is surrounded by civilized humanity. Still, since the episode with Reginald Pennick, any eccentric or secretive behavior by an older man—particularly one in a position of power—arouses Ollie’s suspicions. Ollie has vowed never to be in such a vulnerable position again. He gulps the remainder of his wine and motions for the barmaid.

“Yes sir, another wine?” the matron asks.

Ollie produces another bright, shiny guinea, holding it up for the woman to see. “Yes, one more, please. And
this
is for you—if you’ll keep an eye on our table. We may require your service at a moment’s notice.”

The barmaid stares at the coin, her eyes gleaming.
Two guineas in one night!
Of course she will give the young man her special attention. She reaches out to seize the guinea, but as her hand nears it, Ollie flicks his wrist and the coin moves just beyond her reach.

“Remember, now. I need your attention.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Ollie flips the coin to the woman, who bobbles it. The guinea falls with a clank to the floor. She stoops to retrieve it, then stands up with a grin. “If you should need
anything
, sir—“ she says. And then she is gone.

“That’s quite a lot of money to be throwing away,” Charles says.

“It’s nothing. My grandmother was rich.”

“And now you are.”

“In time, perhaps. Right now I’m just a school boy with a pocket full of guineas.”

Ollie’s eyes are drawn to the back room. The smoke and a forest of standing bodies hide the entrance to this room, but suddenly a gold and brown turban emerges from it, hovering above the freshly ironed hats and balding heads of the chattering Englishmen who obscure the wearer. The turban hesitates for a moment, then begins to float through the crowd.

Ollie’s heart hammers his chest. He is terrified! How could he ever have believed that a public place could protect him? What a stupid idea it was to meet this man. Ollie presses his fingers against his chest, feeling the silver charm beneath his shirt and praying for protection.

The turban continues to float menacingly above the crowd, weaving in and out, left and right, making its way toward Ollie. But the face beneath it remains hidden in shadows, veiled in smoke, blocked by the other men.

Ollie shuts his eyes. He wishes he were safely at home in his Belgravia mansion. Yes,
his
mansion. He is the heir, the master. He is no longer a child. He must gain control of himself, take charge of this situation. This is his country, his London, his tavern, his barmaid—
he has seen to that!
—and his meeting. The gentleman in the turban should be the nervous one.

With great resolve, Ollie opens his eyes. The turbaned man is hidden behind the body of Eardley Pickwick who stands at the table and says, “Mr. Chadwick, I would like to introduce my employer.”

Eardley steps aside. The turbaned man approaches the table and his face becomes fully illuminated. In a thick accent, the man says, “Good evening, Ali.”

Ollie stares at the man in disbelief. His brain swirls, his body shivers, his heart clenches into a fist. This cannot be! Not in London! Not after his long escape across the Persian desert.

Ollie replies at last. There are so many things that he could say, but only three words come to him: “Good evening, father.”

Startled, Charles turns to Ollie.
What a delicious twist! Who could invent such a plot?

Eardley, too, is astonished.

But not as surprised as Ollie, who manages to control himself like a proper English gentleman. “Please join us. I’m eager to hear about your travels.”

Ollie gestures and the barmaid appears almost instantly. “My friends would like something to drink,” Ollie says. “Mr. Pickwick?”

“An ale please, dark.”

Ollie turns to his father, Mirza Hasan Qasim. In Farsi he says, “Father? Perhaps you wish to abstain from alcohol.”

Hasan replies in Farsi: “I’ll have whatever you are drinking. Wine? Perfect. I find the wine in London not up to the standards of Shiraz, but sufficient.”

“My apologies, Charles, if we speak for a few minutes in our native tongue,” Ollie says, then coolly turns back to his father, again speaking in Farsi. “How did you find me?”

“Your mother’s portrait on a book caught my eye. Such a beautiful woman. Mr. Pickwick contacted the publisher and the rest was quite simple. How do you find public life?”

“Intrusive,” Ollie says. “Tell me about Bushruyih. I haven’t seen it in over three years.”

“Neither have I.”

“You don’t live there?”

“Shortly after you left, there was an unfortunate event involving the provincial vizier, who was attacked and slaughtered outside the village. I led a small, brave band of Bushruyih citizens into the desert where we found the Turkoman murderers and annihilated them, despite their superior force. I was so distressed at the death of the great vizier that I took news of the tragedy—and the justice we administered—directly to the shah. As a show of gratitude, the shah named me to fill the vizier’s vacant position.”

“So now you’re the vizier of Khurasan?”

“No longer. About a year later, Persia found itself at war with the Russians. Perhaps you heard. No? Well, it suddenly seemed wise for our country to court the English as allies, even though Persians distrust Englishmen almost as much as Russians. I made another journey to Tehran and gained an audience with my uncle, the shah, suggesting that I might be useful in a diplomatic position. As you may recall, I had learned a few words of English from that traitor, Gordon Cranston, and I demonstrated my ability. The shah could not judge my lack of fluency, of course, and so my meager abilities must have been magnified in his estimation. At any rate, I gained my new post as a diplomat to England and began consulting with the British Attaché in Tehran, who helped me improve my English—in exchange, of course, for favors that I was now in a position to grant.”