The Travelling Companion (2 page)

“A thesis about Stevenson and his ailments?”

“And how they made him the writer he was. He was trying out an experimental drug called Ergotine when he got the idea for
Jekyll and Hyde
. It gave him hallucinations. And the Edinburgh he grew up in was all science and rationalism and men who
did
things, while he felt sickly, his only real strength his imagination …” I broke off, fearing I was beginning to lecture my host.

“Interesting,” Turk said, drawing the word out. He rose to fill my glass again, emptying the decanter. My mouth felt furred and sweat was trickling down my forehead. I took out a handkerchief and began to mop at my face. “He had a nursemaid, didn't he?” Turk asked as he poured. “She told him ghost stories. Must have frightened the life out of him.”

“He called her ‘Cummy'—her real name was Alison Cunningham. She told him about the wardrobe in his room.”

“The one made by William Brodie?”

And Turk nodded to himself again, because he knew this story too. Brodie, a respectable man by day but a criminal by night, the Deacon of Wrights who led a gang, breaking into houses, thieving and terrorizing, until caught, tried and hanged on a gibbet he had previously crafted by his own hand. The lazy theory was that Stevenson had plundered this story wholesale for
Jekyll and Hyde
, but it comprised only one part of the overall puzzle.

“Maybe we should look at these books,” I said, hoping I wasn't slurring my words.

“Of course.” Turk rose slowly to his feet, and came over to help me up. I followed him into the kitchen. There was a narrow stairway I hadn't noticed and we climbed into the eaves of the building. It was hotter, gloomier and stuffier up here. Two people, no matter how emaciated, could not have passed one another in the corridor. Several doors led off. One seemed to be a bathroom. I guessed there had to be a bedroom, but the room Turk led me into was the study. Three boxes sat on an antique desk. Piles of books lined the walls, threatening to topple as our weight shifted the bare floorboards beneath. I draped my jacket over the room's only chair.

“Shall I leave you to it, then?” Turk inquired.

I looked in vain for a window to open. The sweat was stinging my eyes now and my handkerchief was drenched. Outside, bells were chiming. The scratching noises could have been pigeons on the roof-tiles immediately overhead or rats somewhere below the floor. My lips felt as if they had been glued together. More dust flew into my face as I peeled open the flaps of the first box.

“You don't look well, my boy.” Turk's words seemed to come from far off. Were we still in the attic, or had we somehow moved to that infinite entrance-hall with its books and mirror? I had a sudden vision: a cold drink, something non-alcoholic, in a tall glass filled with ice. I craved it without being able to say the words out loud. There was a book in my hand, but it seemed to weigh far more than its size would suggest, and the title on its spine seemed to be a jumble of letters or hieroglyphs of some kind.

“My boy?”

And then a darkening tunnel.

“Wait, let me …”

And then sleep.

I awoke laid out on a bed. My shirt had been unbuttoned and Benjamin Turk was dabbing at my chest with a damp towel. I sat bolt upright, a hangover pulsing behind my eyes.

It was quite obviously
his
bedroom. My jacket had been placed on a hook on the back of the door, but below it I could see a long red satin bath-robe. There was also a wardrobe whose doors wouldn't quite shut and a bedside table bearing a basin half-filled with water. When I angled my feet off the bed on to the floor, I made contact with several hardcover books lying there.

“Careful you don't faint again,” Turk cautioned as I started to rebutton my shirt.

“I just need some air,” I muttered.

“Of course. Can I help you negotiate the stairs?”

“I'll be fine.”

“I'm relieved to hear it—I had the devil's own job bringing you this far …”

I wasn't sure what he meant until I grabbed my jacket and pulled open the door. We were just inside the front door of the apartment. I must have missed the bedroom on arrival. I stared at Turk, who shrugged.

“It wasn't easy—those steps from the attic are treacherous.” He was holding something out for me to take. I unfolded the piece of paper. “A list of the books,” he explained, “so that your employer can be kept in blissful ignorance—if that's what you would like.”

“Thank you,” I said, pocketing the note. He had unlocked the door. The stairwell was a few degrees cooler, but I could still feel sweat clinging to my hair.

“Safe descent,” Benjamin Turk said, giving a little wave of one hand before disappearing behind the closing door. Holding on to the banister, I made my way slowly to the street, pausing outside and filling my lungs with air. A young woman on the pavement opposite seemed to be watching me. She wore a full-length floral-print dress, almost identical to one Charlotte owned. I did a double-take and my jacket slid to the ground. By the time I'd picked it up, she had gone. I began walking back to the shop, aware that my headache was going nowhere. Passing a bar, I headed in and ordered a Perrier with plenty of ice and lemon. Having finished it in two long draughts, I ordered another. I doubted the place would sell painkillers, but then remembered the old saying about the hair of the dog. Kill or cure, I thought to myself, adding a glass of red wine to my order.

And it worked—I could feel the pain easing after just one small measure. It was thin, vinegary stuff, too, the very antithesis of the contents of Turk's decanter, but I felt better for it, and ordered one final glass. While sipping this, I removed the list of books from my pocket and went through it. A solid line had been drawn across the sheet two thirds of the way down. Underneath was a message from Turk:

Not for sale, but possibly of interest: The Travelling Companion

I blinked a few times and furrowed my brow. I knew that title, but couldn't immediately place it. The books listed above it could probably find buyers. Historical non-fiction and philosophy titles mostly, with Balzac, Zola and Mann thrown in. Turk omitted to say whether they were first editions, or what condition they were in, and I had only the most fleeting memory of opening the first box. I felt I had let Mr. Whitman down somehow—not that he need ever know, unless Turk decided to tell him. But that didn't stop me feeling bad. Preoccupied, I was halfway to the doorway before the barman reminded me I hadn't yet paid. I mumbled an apology and rooted in my pockets for change. Curiously, there seemed a couple of hundred-franc notes there that I thought I'd spent earlier in the week. There would be cous-cous again that evening, rather than a tin of cheap tuna from the supermarket. Heartened, I added a small tip to the bill.

An Australian backpacker called Mike was minding the store on my return. He told me, to my relief, that Mr. Whitman would be gone the rest of the day. I resented Mike his broad-shouldered height, perfect teeth and mahogany tan. His hair was blond and curly and he had already made his mark on a couple of female students who liked to hang about the place, reading but never buying. When he ended his shift and I took over, I found that there was a letter for me next to the till. Typical of him not to have mentioned it. It was from my father and I opened it as respectfully as possible. Two small sheets of thin blue airmail. He had news of my mother, my aunt and uncle, my clever cousins—clever in that they both had good jobs in the City of London—and the neighbors on our street. His tone was clipped and precise, much like his sermons, not a word wasted. My mother had added a couple of lines towards the foot of the last page, but seemed to feel that nothing really need be added to my father's update. The return address had been added to the back of the envelope, lest it be lost in transit somehow. As I reread it, I caught a glimpse of someone on the pavement outside, someone wearing the same floral dress as before. I sauntered to the open doorway and looked up and down the street, but she had done her vanishing act again—if it had been her in the first place. What I did see, however, was Australian Mike, stepping briskly in the direction of Notre Dame with an arm draped across the shoulders of a couple of giggling students.

Two hours before closing, Mike and his entourage were back. He had promised the girls a lesson in retail, and informed me with a wink and a salute that I was “relieved of all duties.” That was fine by me. I slipped into my black almost-velvet jacket and headed out for a late dinner. The staff in the cous-cous restaurant knew me by now, and there were smiles and bows as I was escorted to one of the quieter tables. I had lifted a book from the shelves at Shakespeare and Company—an American paperback of Conrad's
Heart of Darkness
. There was too much food and I half-wished I had thought to pack an empty flask. Instead of which, I refilled my bowl for a third time. The house wine was thinner than anything I had yet tasted, but I nodded my appreciation of it when invited to do so by my waiter. And at meal's end, this same waiter, who had told me a couple of visits back to call him Harry, signaled that he would meet me at the restaurant's kitchen door in five minutes. Having paid the bill, my curiosity piqued, I wound my way down the alley behind the restaurant and its neighbors. The bins were overflowing and there was a strong smell of urine. I skidded once or twice, not daring to look down at whatever was beneath my feet. Eventually I reached Harry. He stood at the open door of the kitchen while vocal mayhem ensued within, accompanied by the clanging of cooking-pots. He was holding a thin cigarette, which he proceeded to light, sucking deeply on it before offering it to me.

“Dope?” I said.

“Very good.”

After four years of an arts degree at the University of Edinburgh, I was no stranger to drugs. I had been to several parties where a room—usually an underlit bedroom—had been set aside for use by drug-takers. I'd even watched as joints were rolled, enjoying the ritual while refusing to partake.

“I'm not sure,” I told Harry, whose real name was more like Ahmed. “It's been a strange enough day already.” When he persisted, however, I lifted the cigarette from him and took a couple of puffs without inhaling. This wasn't good enough for Harry, who used further gestures to instruct me until he was happy that I had sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. Another waiter joined us and it was soon his turn. Then Harry. Then me again. I had expected to feel queasy, but that didn't happen. My cares seemed to melt away, or at least take on a manageable perspective. Once we had finished the joint, Harry produced a small cellophane wrap, inside which was a lump of something brown. He wanted two hundred francs for it, but I shrugged to signal that I didn't have that kind of money about my person. So then he shoved the tiny parcel into my jacket pocket and patted it, gesturing to indicate that I could pay him later.

We then fell silent as two new arrivals entered the alley. They either hadn't noticed that they had an audience, or else they simply weren't bothered. The woman squatted in front of the man and unzipped his trousers. I had seen more than a few prostitutes on my nighttime walks through the city—some of whom had tried tempting me—and here was another, hard at work while the woozy client tipped a bottle of vodka to his mouth.

And suddenly I knew.

The Travelling Companion…

I lifted a hand to my forehead with the shock of it, while my companions took a step back towards their kitchen, perhaps fearing I was about to be sick.

“No,” I whispered to myself. “That can't be right.” Harry was looking at me, and I returned his stare. “It doesn't exist,” I told him. “It doesn't exist.”

Having said which, I weaved my way back towards the mouth of the alley, almost stumbling into the woman and her client. He swore at me, and I swore back, almost pausing to take a swing at him. It wasn't the alcohol or the dope making my head reel as I sought the relative calm of the darkened Shakespeare and Company.

It was Benjamin Turk's message to me …

I was unlocking the doors next morning when Mr. Whitman called down to tell me I had a phone call.

“And by the way, how did you get on with Ben Turk?”

“I have a note of the books he wants to sell,” I replied, not meeting his eyes.

“He's an interesting character. Anyway, go talk to your woman friend … ”

It was Charlotte. She had found work at a theater box office and was using their phone.

“I need to pass the time somehow. It's so
boring
here without you.”

I was leaning down to rub at the fresh insect-bites above my ankles. The list from Turk was folded up in the back pocket of my trousers. I knew I had to tear a strip from it before showing it to my employer.

“Are you there?” Charlotte was asking into the silence.

“I'm here.”

“Is everything okay? You sound …”

“I'm fine. A glass of wine too many last night.”

I heard her laugh. “Paris is leading you astray.”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Well, that can be a good thing.” She paused. “You remember our little chat, the night before you left?”

“Yes.”

“I meant it, you know. I'm ready to take things a bit further.
More
than ready.”

She meant sex. Until now, we had kissed, and gone from fumbling above clothes to rummaging beneath them, but nothing more.

“It's what you want, too, isn't it?” she asked.

“Doesn't everyone?” I was able to answer, my cheeks coloring.

“So when you come back … we'll do something about it, yes?”

“If you're sure. I mean, I don't want to push you into anything.”

More laughter. “I seem to be the one doing the pushing. I'm thinking of you right now, you know. Thinking of
us
lying together, joined together—tell me you don't think about that, too.”