One Damn Thing After Another (28 page)

Quite, thought Arlette. Including the having nothing to do with the occasionally-amiable Captain Barton, who knows the telephone number of the French Embassy, and gets invited to their parties.

She now felt very tired, and took a taxi home. These days that the jet doubles, the artificial stimulus of Speed, one has to pay for them. She had an unexpectedly amiable, and flirtatious taxi-driver. But not the male goat. A family man. Affectionate to his wife. It is not enough, to be affectionate towards your wife.

She had a shower, and a brief kip. And went and had dinner in the hotel restaurant. She'd had worse meals. There was nothing even remotely Argentinian about it, save the spelling on the menu. It all tasted exactly like the equivalent in New Delhi and Melbourne. But she didn't care. She only wanted calories. She studied the torn-apart pieces of her street map, and would have picked the brains of her head-waiter if he had had any.

She went out after supper, for a breath of fresh air, or to walk the dog, or whatever it is called. And what were these buenos aires they went on about? – place was as smelly as Strasbourg and with a good deal less excuse. Trade Winds? – or no, not
perhaps trade winds; she didn't know what they were called, but there ought to be healthful sea breezes.

Better though at night, and a clear night, and blazing moreover with stars: such stars as she had heard of and never seen, and now was the moment. She didn't know really where she was, but was clear that it was a long way south. South!

Once on a marvellous winter night in the Vosges, with the whole heaven crackling and snapping, Piet had tried to explain the principle of celestial navigation, and failed utterly. She had never got beyond the stage of the child being taken in the garden by its father, and there is the Bear, quite right, not the least like a bear; a saucepan. And Orion. And the Dog Star.

And now she was truly, truly South, and none of these things were there any more, helpful guides to navigation. She could be anywhere, and probably somewhere like Toronto. But no! because there by gum was the Southern Cross.

Arthur Davidson, who was not a university professor, did not lecture. He was, however, a deft enough lecturer and last winter had been called upon to address the Literary and Historical Society, and had chosen one of his favourites, or rather two: Rudyard Kipling, and Phony Attitudes.

With a good piece of rhetoric you can make people do anything. Repeat a slogan like Delenda est Carthago and nobody bothers whether it makes any sense. Kipling invented a superbly cadenced line about the Long Trail, our own trail, the out trail, and made a whole generation burst out blubbering. ‘The old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, and the Southern Cross rides high', and everyone thought, ‘Oh yes, that's right, India'. Whereas of course Kipling's India is twenty degrees north latitude and his one sight of all this had been on a boat going to Australia, but luckily none of the English knew North Latitude from Greenwich Mean Time.

Arlette missed Arthur badly, felt sadly alone in this horrible South, and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she was doing there.

Entering, bright and early next morning, one of these large official buildings mentally ticketed as ‘that stinking pink
palazzo', she was stopped by the concierge and a spirited dialogue in kitchen Spanish ensued.

“I wish to see the general.”

“What general?”

“The commanding general.”

“Commanding what?”

“The department.”

“Oh, the Commander.”

“That's right.” Saying, ‘Tell him it's Don Juan' was tempting, but would not help matters.

“On what subject?”

“A personal subject.”

“With what object?”

“With the object of explaining myself to the Commander.”

“You have a complaint?”

“No.”

“You have been badly treated?”

“No.”

“You are
estranjera
? You are not domiciled here?”

“No.”

“You make this complaint on behalf of another person?”

“I have no complaint.”

“How is it then that you wish to see the Commander?”

“The things that I say will be of interest to the Commander.”

“That is easy to say.”

“It can however be proved to the satisfaction of the Commander.”

“The Commander is not here.”

“He works, however, here.”

“Where else?”

“Then I shall wait for his arrival.”

“You may have to wait long.”

“Not so.”

“How so, not so?”

“Because the Commander works hard and has much conscience.”

“It is necessary to make an appointment.”

“Then we shall make one.”

“It is obligatory to fill in certain forms.”

“You shall be very kind and help me in this task.”

“You have the documentación?”

Half an hour later they were quite close friends.

“Your request is being dealt with.”

“Most kind. I should like the favour of a glass of water.”

“There is no water.”

“What do you do when you have thirst?”

“In the service of the State it is necessary to control oneself.”

“It happens from time to time that one is thirsty.”

“One drinks a cup of coffee, upon payment.”

“Then may I have some coffee? But I should prefer water.”'

“There is the machine. For those who pay, there is coffee. There is also coca-cola.”

“I dislike coca-cola. But I should like the pleasure of offering you a cup of coffee.”

“That is polite. I shall accept. That is more money than the machine admits.”

“It will serve to buy flowers, to put upon your desk.”

“There is water. But it is reserved for the personnel of the administration.”

“I do not wish to infringe the regulations of the administration. But I have hope that the Commander will allow me to drink water.”

“I will take the responsibility upon myself. But you observe; it is imprudent to set a precedent. If all the public entered here to demand water …”

“That is very true.”

Half an hour later.

“Mount the stairway. Arrive at the third gallery. Room 332. Knock and demand permission. The Commander has been informed of your request.”

“There is the elevator?”

“There is the elevator, but it is reserved for the mutilated and the infirm. One must not waste the resources of the State.”

“That is very true.”

Room 332 was small, and contained a table and a middle-aged personage. His cap was on the table, and bore a captain's
insignia. She never learned whether this was Captain Barton, but on the whole she doubted it. This person was less diplomatic.

“State your business.”

“I would like to see the Commander.”

“That won't do, you know.”

“Captain, it is my pleasure to meet you, and my misfortune that I can only state my business to the General.”

“I am his aide. You understand, one does not enter here as into a mill to buy flour.”

“I understand.”

“You may rely upon my discretion.”

“I am convinced of it. I am unhappily obliged to see the General.”

“One word – no.”

“I am a very patient person.”

“And you will find the door behind you.”

“And utterly harmless. But quite interesting.”

“And obstinate. And you try my patience.”

“It causes me pain,” humbly.

“You're a journalist.”

“No.”

“Your documentación. All of it.” Humbly, she produced her identity papers.

“Perhaps you would not object to giving me your handbag.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

He opened the handbag, discovered the Laguiole knife, and raised his eyebrows. He spread papers out across his desk. Driving licences and the like.

“I speak no French. I can read it.”

“It is my regret that my Spanish is primitive.”

“What's this for?” It was her card, signed by the former PJ Commissaire in Strasbourg, stating his knowledge of her activities. Unofficial, but useful. She always carried it.

“I have a small bureau, for advice and where possible help to those in perplexity or misery.”

“It says,” returning to other papers, “here that you are a housewife.”

“That is true, and I am proud of it.”

“Good! But people who meddle in the affairs of others are not necessarily welcome, wherever they go.”

“I am so well aware of this, Captain, that I refuse to meddle in any affairs of this country.”

“Good.” He pressed a bellpush and shuffled the papers in a heap. A clerk came in and stood.

“Take a look at these under the lamp, and tell me whether they are genuine.” He lit a cigarette, without offering her one. “And you think that we can help you?”

“It is a very simple matter that brings me here. I have no connection with the press. Or with any other body, official or unofficial. I am just me.”

“And what is your viewpoint, upon our administration?”

“Captain, if I manage to do the job I came for I shall be paid, I hope, a fee. So far I have been given an advance upon my expenses, of travel here, and a day or so's stay. But I am certainly not going to be paid by anyone to hold viewpoints concerning any administration. Yours, or mine.”

“And you refuse to explain yourself to me.”

“That would be a foolish error. I have to say that a confidence was revealed to me, which I have not the right to break. For the same reason, I have nothing to say to the Embassy here, or the Consulate. I promised, you see.”

The clerk came back, laid her little heap of paper on the desk, said nothing, and went out again. The captain knocked ash off his cigarette and seemed to meditate.

“Señora, without wishing to be insulting – are you aware that you are ridiculous?”

“Oh yes,” said Arlette. “All honest people are ridiculous.”

He gave a short laugh, half cough. He picked up his telephone, and pressed buttons on it.

“I will give you your wish. You may regret my doing so.”

“But one does what one has to.”

“That is true. Señora Walther? I have a customer for you.” He put the phone down. There was a silence. He pointed to the handbag. “That stays here.” She nodded.

Señora Walther was a small, thin woman. She had coarse
black hair with grey threads in it, a slight moustache, steel-rimmed spectacles.

“Will you accompany me, please?” she said politely.

They went to the end of the passage, where there was a large double-folding door of heavy tropical hardwood, much scuffed and scratched. Inside there was a very large room. Arlette looked around in surprise. Nobody lived in it, nor did it look used for anything. There was a lot of marble, and gilt. There was a huge chandelier. There were immense pier looking-glasses, and a large sunburst clock saying a quarter to three, with cherubs holding it up. There were stiff Empire chairs ranged along the walls, and an ornate Savonnerie carpet in the middle, like all the rest faded and spotted.

“Strip to the skin, please,” said Señora Walther in her polite monotone.

One does what one has to do. Arlette said nothing, avoided making a face, and undressed. Each thing she took off she handed to Señora Walther standing there for this purpose, who looked at things and laid them neatly on faded grey-green satin.

“Lift your arms, please. Turn around. Straddle your legs. Face me please, again.” Arlette caught sight of herself in the big mirror and could not stop making a face at it. The little woman smiled, very slightly. “You may dress. I am sorry. It is the rule.”

“Arms?”

“More likely, tape recorders. Anything at all.” She waited till Arlette was dressed, and said, “Please sit down. And wait for me.” She went through the set of double-doors at the far side. Arlette sat on an Empire chair which afforded no comfort, and rearranged her hair with her fingers.

The little woman came back, held the door, and said, “Please.” She closed the door behind Arlette and was no more seen.

She was in a room the same size as the one she had left, en suite with it, with three big windows looking out upon a courtyard, a formal garden and a fountain. The room was furnished as a comfortable private office, with leather sofas, bookshelves, a big desk set to catch the best of the light. A big man was standing,
moving with the rapidity and quietness of many big men. He had a pipe between his teeth and was wearing an English tweed hacking-jacket. High forehead, higher by being a bit bald in front, healthily tanned. Bright blue eyes, set far apart. Pleasant expression. Looked, on the whole, like a retired footballer, who is now training the under-fifteens; schoolmasterly, severe look under the smiling, easy exterior.

Maybe Commissaire Maigret looked like this, but his office was not as large. On the desk was one of those angled plaques of clear plastic, with black lettering. It said ‘Colonel Oswaldo Suarez Palmer'.

“Good morning, Colonel Palmer.”

He smiled with the strong teeth that held the pipe, and said pleasantly,

“¡Pa que aprenda!”
Expression translatable by, “That'll teach you!”

‘Yes, I see.”

“Your Spanish I hear is very good. You might prefer to talk English?” in an English virtually unaccented: if anything, Cambridge University. She might have guessed Sandhurst, if she'd ever heard of it. English like Arthur's.

“It's true,” gratefully, “I've just about exhausted my Spanish.”

“Very well. You've asked to see me. Here I am. I must beg of you not to waste my time or your own. You have not, hitherto, been succinct. Be so now.”

“And this young man – does he engage in political activities?”