One Damn Thing After Another (29 page)

“I hope for his sake that he doesn't.”

“That is succinct. And you call a spade a spade. So few people do so. I do, myself. You've heard of me. I'm the police chief, for the city. Ah, you think, the Chief Executioner. Nice fellow, big clean office. Goes down in the cellar, and Tortures people.”

“I have no information about this.”

“No, but you've read all about Amnesty International. Splendid people. Very necessary. They don't of course know everything. So let's not frig about. I have an English name, but I am not English. Look at this.” At the edge of the huge desk
was an enormous globe. He switched on the lamp inside it, spun it, stopped it, took a desk pointer and tapped it.

“You see all this? Northern hemisphere. North America, Europe, Asia, Soviets, China, Japan. India. Great bulk of Africa. All the resources. All the history, all the economic progress, all the manpower. Now down here. Southern hemisphere. What's there? Nothing. Small tail end of Africa. Scrawny little scrag end of America. Australia. New Zealand. Piffling, huh? All empty, no population, nothing. Look at Argentina. Five times the size of France, population less than one half, and France is the emptiest country in Central Europe. Why? Because this was an unimportant little place. In the colonial time, not even a vice-royalty, B.A. was founded a century after Lima, after Quito, after Ascencion – obscure provincial governorship.

“Now it has perhaps struck you that the northern hemisphere, after all these centuries of power and empire, is in something of a decline. Indeed in very considerable trouble. Rivalries, political, economic, the lot. And then at last people start casting an eye down here, saying Hey, that's a pissy little corner, nothing but cows and sheep, but perhaps strategically important, if we get there before the others. Everybody with that idea, and not just Russians, not just Americans. Japanese, Germans. French too sleepy and selfsatisfied, if you'll forgive. English too complacent and lazy. Yack about the Lycée Français or the Islas Malvinas, yoy. But the United States – they would be mighty interested. So all these people who get off the bus here, what are they after? It's my job to know, and it's a tough job, and it's not always a nice job. And these people, sometimes they aren't nice, either.

“We've got everything: space, food, minerals, water, electricity. Compare that to the other land masses in the hemisphere. Something like seven-tenths of Australia is desert. Southern Africa, magnificent land, but they can't get over the conflict between owners and occupiers.

“So that we are very greatly privileged. But we're too poor, too feeble to handle it. And they arrive, with arms outstretched, to help us. Kind of them!”

Arlette thought that perhaps he did protest too much, but kept her mouth shut. She was here to learn, to conjugate the verb
‘aprender
' – very well.

“However,” ripping his glasses off as though he hated them and throwing them on the blotter, “let's see if we can throw a loop over this problem of yours. Christian name?”

“Gilles.”

“Gilles,” writing on a small piece of paper with neat small handwriting, “and you've a photograph? Good,” stapling it all together, “and a heroin rap in Paris. Let us see what we know,” pressing a buzzer. A girl secretary came in through the door on the far side: he handed her the paper and said, “Any form?” exactly like the Scotland Yard Inspector of Arlette's imagination.

“Let nobody impose upon you,” taking the glasses off again and staring at her with the bright blue eyes, “I'm here to keep the young plants free of weeds. All the trash of the northern hemisphere gets vomited up here, from antiquated English colonialism to every barbarity ever born of industrial slums.” There must be something about the southern hemisphere, thought Arlette, that makes them sound like John Buchan characters. The wildly skidding wheels of her imagination threw her up the phrase from Ray Chandler, ‘breezy as a Britisher just in from a tiger-hunt'. His phone buzzed. The computer had come up with the O, because he said “No? Very well,” and put it down again. He relit his pipe, said, “Not within my scope. Concerns the intendencia.” He thought, and said, “There used – it's thirty years ago, when I was a pipsqueak sublieutenant on a course in England – to be two comedians. Radford and Wayne, they had a sort of elderly civil servant act, very funny. At one moment they were respectively the Ministers for Foreign Affairs and the Home Office, and were dealing with people who had Seceded From the Crown. One says to the other ‘Aliens; that's your department' and the other replies ‘No no, they're undesirable aliens, that's your department'. The Governor might be able to help you: I'll give you a chitty.” This old-fashioned expression, reminding her of Arthur, made her giggle. Colonel Palmer caught the giggle, and was pleased
with it. Gave a touch to his picture of an extremely efficient Brigadier, of a crack commando outfit, putting up with no nonsense from Basil Seal. They were not so much Buchan as Evelyn Waugh characters. Colonel Palmer belonged in Bellamy's Club.

He had been busy with his buzzer again; there was another girl secretary, with a shorthand pad.

“Take a letter. General Maurizio Renard. The lady who will identify herself by presentation of this note has approached me in a matter upon which I have at present no relevant word. You may be able to suggest to her some suitable course. Yours with respect. Give it me for signature, envelope for bearer; the lady here.

“I'm sending you to the top,” said Colonel Palmer with a schoolboyish sort of amusement. “It will be interesting what you make of General Renard. Or what General Renard makes of you – let us hope it isn't hamburger,” with a gleam of teeth.

The girl came in with a sheet of heavily embossed paper. He looked at it, put ‘Palmer' in the small neat writing, and handed it to be slipped in the long stiff envelope.

“I am greatly in, your debt, Colonel.”

“Honoured to be of service, Madame,” standing up formally, and then dropping the formality suddenly. “It's nothing – amused me, the way you talked yourself in. Don't forget what I've told you,” warning forefinger. And changing lightning-quick back to Bellamy's Club, “Off you go, girl, twitch your mantle blue.” This was a password which to her great good fortune she recognized. Yet another debt owed to Arthur, who often said the same thing. The gentlemen known to Colonel Palmer, and of course the ladies too, not of course that they are allowed into Bellamy's, have all learned Milton's
Lycidas
in school.

“Is General Renard wood, or pasture?”

“Hohoho. You'll find out. Ask him!” The girl had waited, to show her politely out, the way she had come.

“You can find your road, Señora?”

“He aprendido,” said Arlette, meaning it.

She walked quickly. Con mala persona el remedio – mucha
tierra en medio. Put as much distance as you can between yourself and a bad person. But was he a bad person? It is also said: the devil stands at the foot of the cross.

She felt extremely tired, which she put down to acute hunger.

An easy one in English, sartén being a frying pan, and brasas being coals-of-fire. She had leisure to fabricate culinary metaphors, because she had been so hungry that she overate. Restaurants in governmental quarters as always tend to alternate between grand and very expensive places smelling of silence, panelled wood, and corpse-like head-waiters, and scruffy places where the help eats, smelling of fish and frying-fat: nothing in between, and the lorn lady didn't fancy either much; uncomfortable all on her ownio.

She had great good fortune: turning corners to get away quick from the stinking pink palazzo, she fell upon a sort of spaghetti joint where she felt quite at home: porteno-napolitana accents, illegible menu with things like lionfish and roast lungs: everything nice and dirty and lashings of extremely good wine. Being rather drunk after clams, she had to eat the roast lung too – at least she didn't know what it was: something asado with lots of salad. They thought her accent killingly funny and kept pressing her to eat more. She resisted both patatas and cake and could still walk, she was glad to find out. Nothing but a tiny fishy and a salad tonight, and yoghurt for breakfast. If, that is, I'm not in jail.

The new palazzo was in a terrible Teutonic style, reminding her strongly of the Rhinepalace back at home on the Place de la République. The corridors were dark and dracula-haunted, the concierge had black teeth and had had blood and raw
garlic for lunch. But her grand letter earned her instant consideration: she was brought up only one flight of stairs and inserted in a little waitingroom made inside a large landing, a version of her own, in the Rue de l'Observatoire, but much grander, with moquette, and tweedy chairs, and a lovely lavatory where she brushed her teeth.

Waiting for her was a very polite young man, with a nice suit and rather long hair, who guided her. All the vast gloomy rusticated stonework had been covered in blonde wood, very pretty. The furniture was modern, fresh, clean. The police sneers at things like the Governorship of the Province as vaguely ‘Intendencia', but this was higher altogether in the social scale. Where gloomy daylight struggled through neogothic stained-glass, there were large bright chromium lamps in great numbers. Almost a Dutch look: courtesy of Philips in Eindhoven. Nobody pounced upon her and stripped her to the skin, although the nice young man looked willing to try in a polite sort of way.

General Renard got up.

“Ah, la rubia francesa, who can quote Milton.” He kissed her hand. A glowing reputation had apparently preceded her. Perhaps she'd been Polaroided, too, without a stitch on through that awful great mirror, but here they were going to be chic about it.

General Renard spoke French, with a slight Castilian accent. Not Sandhurst, more Spahi, one could see him in that lovely cape. In any case velly cavallery. Uniform, cut by Lanvin. On his bare desk, a good still-life composed of cap, stick, and gloves. He sat on a hard chair, quiet, upright. Nothing foxy about him, though his hair, which was going greyish, was still reddish, and he had remarkable red-brown eyes. He appeared to be contemplating her with pleasure. He also appeared to be a thought reader.

“Also Lanvin,” he said.

“It's my very best suit: I wanted to look nice. But only off the peg, I'm afraid.”

“The bag with the knife is an especially nice touch.” Whatever the police was, its telephone wagged a tongue.

“There's hardly anything left to know about me,” complained Arlette.

“Yes,” he assented, “I also know what you want. We shall see, about that.”

“Will you help me, General?”

“I am the Governor: that is to say my responsibility is for the several million people inhabiting this province, the most populous, as you are aware, in the country. Yes; in the circumstances I will help you, if as is after all quite probable your young man is here. But it will take a little time. We don't remake the world in a day. Whatever you may believe to the contrary, we do not attempt to have policemen and soldiers breathing down everyone's necks. This is not Eastern Germany. People come – and go – as they please. They read – and say – what they please. Colonel Palmer has a very up-to-date computer. We can, if we so desire, construct an atomic weapon. I do not so desire. I do not believe this to be the future of this country.” He suddenly did his thought-reading act again. “You are thinking how boring, how primitive they all are, and all apologizing for their beastly behaviour, as though that made it any more excusable. Well well; in many ways, perhaps in most, we are anything between fifty and a hundred years behind the times. This, as you will perhaps learn, is not altogether the disadvantage the technicians would have us believe.” Hm, this was a brighter person than Colonel Oswaldo Suarez Palmer.

Afterwards she was to say ‘But what possessed me?'; to ask herself even, for a dotty moment, whether anything had possessed her, some hallucinogenic plant; needing excuses for having been so talkative, and so indiscreet. Fatally so?

Perhaps she had been drunk? She'd had a good deal of natural, undoctored, excellent local wine: even if this was enough to make one reckless, it was no excuse. She had been brought up on stuff like this; could be forgiven for feeling at home, making herself at home: no more.

Vanity? General Renard had encouraged her in as many words to make herself at home. Plainly he liked women and enjoyed her company. Just as she enjoyed the local air, the
flavour of this magnificent country. Charming, courteous, intelligent, witty; it wasn't often that one was so privileged by the company kept. Much better company than Colonel Palmer.

Speaking French had something to do with it. However well one comes to handle a language there is something about the native tongue, the paths found for expression – the jokes, the absurd puns. She was after all a Frenchwoman from the south, born into and steeped in the Latin world, the world of maleness, of ‘Sois belle et tais-toi'. Twenty years of Piet van der Valk had taught her the absurdity and futility of this world. She understood it; knew that she could never quite escape from it (the way Ruth had, her – adopted – daughter), never quite find total equilibrium. When one is born a serf, one will never altogether shake off serf mentality.

Thus – flattery: she had felt flattered at being listened to, and even to some extent understood by a general, an important general, whose power in the land was great. Power in the land; you said it.

Remaking the world; that was where it had begun.

“The confusion in this benighted land,” said General Renard. “Are we using the tools and thoughts of 1980 – or as generally seems by our rate of progress, those of 1880?

“Is the one any better than the other? – mm, we've managed to stamp out smallpox while discovering chemical warfare and biological manipulation. Is electric torture more hygienic than the whip? If sixteenth-century Russia looks awfully familiar, especially to Russians, the Inquisition seems to be flourishing, and not just here. What would Ben Franklin have to say about Mr Zbig?” It had started her off. Renaissance? What Renaissance? The fate of female children in sixth-century B.C. Attica …