The Thief of Time (17 page)

‘Of course I will help,' he insisted, opening his arms wide. ‘This is a great thing which is taking place. I will do everything I can. But tell me, Matthieu, why are you so concerned? You are not Greek, are you?'

‘I'm French.'

‘Yes, I thought as much. So why are you going to so much trouble to help the Greeks and de Coubertin anyway? It seems curious to me.'

I looked at the floor for a moment, wondering whether I should explain the truth to him or not. ‘Some years ago,' I said eventually,
^T
married the sister of Pierre de Fredi. We are still married, to tell you the truth. And I treated her ...' I searched for an appropriate word, ‘... badly. I spoiled what could have been a wonderful relationship and hurt her. I do not like hurting people, Georges. I am trying to make amends.'

He nodded slowly. ‘I see,' he said. ‘And are you trying to win her back?'

‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘That wasn't my original plan anyway. I simply wanted to help her in some way. Although we have, of course, been thrown together a little in this matter once again and there are some feelings which have resurfaced. When we came back into contact again, she did me a great service. I have a nephew, Thorn, who has not had an easy life. His father died in violent circumstances when he was a baby and his mother took to the bottle. He came to visit me when he was released from prison earlier this year for a minor offence and he was in desperate need of some stability. Celine very kindly agreed to give my nephew a job in her offices, helping with the administrative duties, and it has come as a godsend to him as he needed money and something to do. For some reason, the boy refuses to have anything to do with me or accept anything from me but she has been an angel to him because of our old acquaintanceship. I think that I -' I stopped short suddenly, hearing what I was saying. ‘I'm sorry,' I said quickly ‘You don't want to hear any of this. I'm sorry to make myself sound so ridiculous.'

He shrugged and gave a gentle laugh. ‘On the contrary, Matthieu,' he said. ‘It is interesting to meet a man with a conscience. Unusual, even. Where did you come across it exactly?' I looked at him in some amusement, unsure whether he was poking fun at me or not, no doubt thinking about the dispute we had had in the past. I suddenly respected him enormously and decided to tell him the truth.

‘I killed someone once,' I said. ‘The only woman I ever really loved. And after that I swore I would never hurt anyone again. The conscience, as you put it, developed from there.'

Averoff donated almost a million drachmas to the Olympic fund which was put towards the reconstruction of the Panathenaen Stadium, where the Games were to be held. The stadium had been built in 330
BC
but had gradually disintegrated and ended up being completely covered up for several centuries. The Crown Prince erected a statue to Averoff outside, created by the famous sculptor Vroutos, as a mark of gratitude for his patriotism and generosity, and this was unveiled on the eve of the first day of the Games, 5 April 1896.

I was excited by the ease with which I had persuaded Averoff to help us. I had envisioned many months of careful discussion and planning, months which would have led us ever closer to the prospect of a Budapest takeover, and the fact that I could return within the week was seen as a great victory. Pierre got to keep his job, the Games were held in Athens, and I could make amends with Celine.

‘So,' she said shortly after my return. ‘You were good for something after all. Have you seen how happy Pierre is? It would have killed him if we had lost the Games.'

‘It was the least I could do,' I said. ‘I owed you, after all'

‘You did, that's true.'

‘Perhaps -' I began, wondering whether I should wait for a more romantic setting to introduce the topic of a reconciliation but deciding against. I have always been a firm believer in grasping the moment. ‘Perhaps we could -'

‘Before you say anything,' said Celine quickly, looking slightly nervous as she interrupted me, ‘I think it's high time that we began to sort out our marital arrangements.'

‘But that's fantastic,' I said. ‘I was thinking the exact same thing.'

‘I think we should divorce,' she said firmly.

‘We should
what?'

‘Divorce, Matthieu. We haven't been together in several years, after all. It's time to move on, don't you agree?'

I looked at her, stunned. ‘But what about all I've done for your brother?' I exclaimed. ‘I've devoted so much of my energy to helping him, to getting the Games for Athens. I've been a true friend to him during my time here. What about all the money I raised from Averoff?'

‘Well, you can marry my brother if you feel so strongly about him,' she said quickly. ‘I
need
a divorce, Matthieu,' she said. ‘I've ... I've fallen in love with another and we wish to marry.'

I couldn't believe my ears. My pride was hurt. ‘Well, can't you wait awhile?' I begged. ‘See whether either of these relationships work out before deciding to -'

‘Matthieu, I
need
to marry this man. Soon. It's imperative.'

I frowned, wondering what she could mean by this, before my mouth fell open and I looked her up and down. ‘You're with child?' I asked and she blushed, nodding quickly. ‘Good God,' I said, amazed, as it was the last thing I would have expected from her. ‘And who's the father, might I ask?'

‘I think it's for the best if you don't.'

‘I believe I have the right!' I shouted, mortally offended by the idea of my wife being impregnated by another. ‘I shall kill whoever it is!'

‘
Why?'
she screamed. ‘You cheated on me, we split up, that was three years ago. I chose to move on. I've fallen in love. Can't you understand that?'

Over her shoulder I spied a portrait on her desk, a gilt-framed picture of her with a handsome, dark haired young man, smiling happily, their arms wrapped around each other. I walked towards it and picked it up, my face draining of blood as I realised who I was looking at. ‘It can't be ...' I said and she shrugged.

‘I'm sorry, Matthieu,' she said. ‘We became very close, that's all. We fell in love.'

‘Obviously. I don't know what to say to you, Celine. You shall have your divorce, of course.' I put the picture down and left the room. Shortly afterwards, our decree came through. Seven months later, I heard that she had given birth to a baby boy, and six months after that I saw my nephew's name listed in the dead of the Boer War for he was a British subject, and had been enlisted into the army, and wondered whether she would be able to cope once again with life on her own. I would have got in touch but by then my life had led me in a completely different and unexpected direction and, anyway, sometimes one has to leave the past where it belongs.

Things changed at work a little too quickly for my liking. For one thing, the simplicity of my life, my very solitude, was destroyed when I found myself in the position of responsibility which I had been hoping to avoid. Two of James's ex-wives turned up at the funeral in widow's weeds; neither of them shed a tear, nor did they attend the wake afterwards, but they seemed very friendly towards each other for two women who had been vying for extra money for several years and whose alimony payments had just come to an abrupt end. Some of his children were there, although the ones from whom he was estranged were notable by their absence. I spoke an oration in the church, citing his professionalism and excellence at his job as reasons why our business would suffer without him, and our own personal friendship as a reason why I would. It was brief, to the point, and I hated delivering it, knowing only too well the manner in which my former managing director had met his death and feeling like a hypocrite as I pretended otherwise. Alan put in an appearance, looking extremely agitated, but P.W. had already disappeared off to his home in the south of France, leaving his daughter Caroline with his power of attorney.

At the wake, I ended up in conversation with Lee, James's son and, within a few minutes, I wished that I could feign illness and return home immediately. He was tall, gangly lad of about twenty-two, and I had been watching him for some time, as he appeared to be working the room quite professionally, with a few words or a joke for everyone. He did not appear to be behaving like a son in mourning. He was full of jokes and cheer and was refilling everyone's glasses as he moved around.

‘It's Mr Zéla, isn't it?' he asked me when it came to my turn for an interview. ‘Thank you for coming. You said some very nice things in the church.'

‘I could hardly have stayed away,' I said quietly, looking at his straggly blond hair with distaste and wondering why he could not have shaved for this day or at least got a haircut. ‘I had a lot of respect for your father, you know. He was a very talented man.'

‘Was he?' asked Lee, as if the very idea was news to him. ‘That's good to know. I didn't really know him very well, to be honest. We weren't close. He was always too caught up with work to be interested in any of us, which is why there are only two of us here.' He spoke as if this was the most natural conversation in the world, as if this type of scenario, this very setting, was one in which he took part on a regular basis. ‘Can I get you another drink at all?'

‘No, I'm fine,' I said as he refilled my wine glass anyway. ‘It's a pity that you didn't know him better,' I added. ‘It's always sad when people die and we haven't told them how we really feel towards them.'

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so,' he said, the epitome of filial love. ‘Can't say I'm too bothered to be honest. Got to be stoical about these things. It was you who found him, wasn't it?' I nodded. ‘Tell me about it,' he said after a long pause when there appeared to be a battle of wills taking place between us to see who would give in first. Eventually I shrugged and looked over his shoulder slightly as I spoke.

‘I came into work', I began, ‘around seven, I suppose. I went to -'

‘You start work at seven?' he asked in surprise and I hesitated before saying anything.

‘A lot of people do, you know,' I told him cautiously, a friend to the working classes, and he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly. ‘I came in around seven and went to my office to go through my tray. After a few minutes, I went down to James's – to your father's – office and found him there.'

‘Why did you do that?'

‘Why did I do what?'

‘Go down to my father's office. Did you want to speak to him?'

My eyes narrowed. ‘I can't remember, to be honest with you,' I said. ‘Your father always showed up early in the mornings – I knew that he'd be there. I think I just grew weary of all those letters that were sitting on my desk in need of reply, and felt like a cup of coffee to ease me into the day. Thought your father might have some. He usually kept a pot bubbling on his sideboard, you see, throughout the day.'

‘So you
can
remember after all,' said Lee. ‘Would you like something to eat, Mr Zéla? Are you hungry at all?'

‘Matthieu, please. And I'm fine, thank you. So what do you do anyway, Lee? I'm sure James told me at some point but there are so many of you that it seems hard to keep track.'

‘I'm a writer,' he said quickly. ‘And there's only five of us actually, which probably isn't as many mouths to feed as my father pretended. He seemed to be under the delusion that he was responsible for the feeding of the five thousand. There's three different mothers though. I'm Sara's. The only child as it were. And the youngest.'

‘Right,' I said, nodding. ‘Do the other four gang up on you then?'

‘They could try,' he said doubtfully. There was a silence for a few minutes and I looked around nervously, desperate to get away from him but wondering about the etiquette of deserting one of the chief mourners during his moment in the spotlight. He was staring at me and smiling lightly and I wondered what it was that he found so amusing. I desperately wanted to think of something to say to him.

‘So what do you write?' I asked. ‘Is it journalism like your father?'

‘No, no,' he said quickly. ‘God, no. There's no money in that. No, I write scripts.'

‘Film scripts?'

‘Some day maybe. Right now, it's for television. I'm trying to break in.'

‘And are you working on something now?'

‘I'm not
employed
on anything, if that's what you mean. But I am working on something, yes. A television drama. A one-off, one-hour black comedy. It involves a crime. I'm just in the middle of it right now but I think I'm on to something good with it.'

‘Sounds interesting,' I muttered, a standard response. I am more than used to having writers approach me at parties, offering to tell me their plots and treatments, expecting me suddenly to write them out a cheque there and then for their works of genius. I half expected Lee to pull his manuscript out of his pocket and try to pitch it to me but he made no moves to continue talking about it specifically.

‘It must be great to be actually working in television all the time,' he said, ‘to know you're getting a steady paycheque from it, I mean. To be able to think up ideas and see them realised. That's what I'd love to be doing.'

‘I'm just an investor really,' I said. ‘Your father was the man who knew about the industry. I just put up some of the money and don't have to work very hard. It's a fine life.'

‘Really?' he asked, stepping a little closer to me now. ‘So why were you in your office at seven a.m. then? Should you not have been at home in bed, or off checking your investments somewhere?'

We stared at each other and I wondered why he was continuing with this line of questioning, behaving like some dogged detective off an American crime show. For a brief moment I felt as if he knew there was more to his father's demise than met the eye, but of course that was impossible as the police had gone through the place thoroughly and found no cause for suspicious comment. ‘I
was
checking my investment,' I said. ‘I have a lot of money invested in that station. I come in once a week and spend the whole day in there.'

‘The whole day? Jesus. That must be rough.'

‘Usually I ate lunch with your father on that day. I shall miss that.' He ignored the platitude as I had ignored his sarcasm and so I continued. ‘I'm afraid when it comes to the actual day to day operations of running a television station, I'm not the man to talk to. My nephew, maybe, but not me.' I bit my lip the moment those words were out of my mouth but there was no pulling them back in.

‘Your nephew?' asked Lee. ‘Why, does he work at the station too?'

‘He's an actor,' I admitted. ‘He's been in television for quite some time. He knows the business quite well, I imagine. Or so he's always telling me anyway.'

Lee's eyebrows shot up and he inched a little closer to me still, the way people generally do when they know they're talking to someone who has some connection with celebrity. ‘He was an actor?' he asked, curiously employing the past tense. ‘I mean he
is
an actor? Who is he? Would I know him? I can't think of any Zélas in television.'

‘He's not a Z-e-la,' I said quickly. ‘He's a DuMarque. Tommy DuMarqu-e-. He's in some -'

‘
Tommy DuMarque7.'
he shouted and a few people turned around to look at him in surprise. I swallowed and wished I was elsewhere. ‘Tommy DuMarque from -' He mentioned the name of Tommy's soap opera – sorry, recurring drama – and I shrugged and admitted that was the one. ‘No fucking way!' he roared now and I couldn't help but laugh. He was his father's son all right.

‘Afraid so,' I said.

‘Jesus, that's unbelievable. You're his uncle. That was ...' He trailed off as he thought about it.

‘So to speak.'

‘That's mad!' he said, running his hand through his hair, incredibly energised by the news, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets in his excitement. ‘Everyone knows him. He's like one of the most famous -'

‘Actually, I'm sorry but I have to use the bathroom,' I said suddenly, seeing an escape route. ‘You don't mind if I leave you for a moment, do you?'

‘OK,' he said, deflated now as his speech proclaiming my nephew's level of fame was prematurely ended. ‘But don't leave without saying goodbye, all right? I still want to hear about how you found my father. You haven't told me that bit yet.'

I frowned and disappeared upstairs to throw some water on my face, knowing full well that my next move would be to take my coat and hat from the hall stand and disappear through the front door without having to see him again.

May and June turned out to be stressful months. With the death of James, there was a vacancy for the position of managing director at our station and, since P.W. had all but vanished from our lives, we were suddenly left in a state of some disorder. Alan came in and out to meet with me, usually unable to offer anything constructive by way of advice, constantly repeating the fact that he had most of his money invested in the station until it became something of a mantra for him, much as P.W. had been inclined to do before his disappearance. I returned to work on a daily basis, each day growing longer and longer until I began to think that, if I wasn't careful, it would start to age me. I couldn't remember working quite so hard since just after the Boer War, when I had a brief involvement with a hospital for soldiers who had returned from the front unable to cope with civilian life again. As I owned the place and was chiefly responsible for the employment of doctors who could help these boys, I became almost ill with worry myself and came close to ending up as a patient there before I hired the right person to lessen my workload and gradually wean me away from the quotidian business. That was what I had in mind as I was thinking about James's replacement: someone who could do the job, lessen the workload and turn up before I went quite mad.

In the second week of May, I received a phone call from Caroline Davison, P.W.'s daughter, who arranged an appointment to meet with me. I suggested dinner in my club but she declined, preferring to meet in my office during the daytime. It wasn't a social visit, she said, but a professional one and her crisp, imperturbable tone on the phone intrigued me. I didn't think too much about it, however, and only remembered that she was actually coming in a few hours before she arrived when I noticed her name written in my desk diary.

She arrived at precisely 2 p.m., a well-dressed young woman sporting a simple black bob, a few strands of which fell down gently over her forehead. She had a very pretty face, with pale brown eyes and a small nose, her cheekbones emerging delicately through a thin layer of makeup. I guessed she was in her late twenties – although if anyone should know that you can't judge someone's age by their appearance then it should be me. For all I knew, she could have been 550; she could have narrowly missed out on being the seventh wife to Henry VIII.

‘So,' I said as we sat opposite each other, drinking tea and sizing each other up through polite conversation, ‘have you heard from your father lately?'

‘Apparently he's somewhere in the Caribbean,' she told me. ‘I got a phone call from him last week and he was doing some serious island hopping.'

‘Lucky him.'

‘I know. I haven't had a holiday in two years. I wish
I
could go to the Caribbean. It seems that he's met a woman there too, although from the sound of her she's more of a girl than a woman. Some nineteen-year-old bimbo with a lei, probably.'

‘That's Hawaii,' I said.

‘Pardon?'

‘Hawaii. It's Hawaii where you get leis. The garlands you hang around your neck. It's not the Caribbean. I'm not sure what traditions they have there.'

She stared at me for a moment. ‘Well, whatever,' she said eventually. ‘He's obviously having some sort of mid-life crisis, which is extremely predictable. Did you ever have one of those?'

I laughed. ‘Yes, but it was years ago,' I said. ‘I can hardly remember it. And to call it “mid-life” would be stretching a point.'

‘Anyway, I doubt if we're going to be seeing him returning to this miserable city any time soon. Who needs tubes and smog and millions of people and Richard fucking Branson mugging away on the telly every night when you can have tropical beaches, sunshine and cocktails all day and all of the night? Lucky for him that he can afford it. I can't on my money.'

She was being remarkably forthright but settled back in her chair after this mild outburst. I stroked my chin as I attempted to size her up. ‘What
do
you do?' I asked her, wondering why P.W. had never spoken to me before about this self-assured daughter of his. She was the kind of girl whom most fathers would be proud to call their own.