that.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Harvey,’ I said. ‘I’m not even quite sure who the hell we are working for.’
‘Well, we’ll talk about it later,’ Harvey said. ‘And tomorrow perhaps you’ll let me have a note of your expenses to date and I’ll let you have some money. Will five hundred and fifty dollars for work to date be OK?’
‘Fine,’ I said. I wondered if Dawlish would let me keep it.
‘That’s plus expenses of course.’
‘Of course.’
As we got to Kämp Hotel on the Esplanade Harvey stopped the car and got out. ‘You two take the car and go on home,’ he said through the window.
‘Where are you going?’ Signe asked from the rear seat.
‘Never mind where I’m going. You just do as you’re told.’
‘Yes, Harvey,’ said Signe. Then I moved into the driver’s seat and we drove on. I heard her fidgeting with her handbag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m putting cream on my hands,’ she said. ‘That icy wind has made them rough, the hand-cream will soften them. I bet you can’t guess who I saw this afternoon. See how soft they are now.’
‘Don’t put your hands over my eyes while I’m driving, there’s a good girl.’
‘The one in the aeroplane. I let him pick me up at the Marski. I thought I would tell him how to spend his money.’
‘That cream,’ I said, ‘have you been putting it on your head?’
Signe laughed. ‘Do you know he pays five marks each for his cigars and if they go out he throws them away?’
‘Harvey?’ I asked in surprise.
‘No; that man. He says they taste bitter if they are relit.’
‘Does he?’ I said.
‘But the money wasn’t for him. That money we left in the taxi. He had to pay it into a blocked bank account. You have to be a foreigner to do that; I couldn’t do it.’
‘Really?’ I said. I swerved to avoid a solitary drunk who dreamily crossed the road backwards.
Signe said, ‘That man who just flew off in the aeroplane taught me some words of Latin.’
‘He does that to everyone.’
‘Don’t you want to hear them?’
‘Very much.’
‘Amo ut invenio. That means, “I love as I find.” He said that all the important things in life are said in Latin. Is that true? Do all Englishmen say the most important things in Latin?’
‘Only the ones who don’t relight five-mark cigars,’ I said.
‘Amo ut invenio. I’m going to start saying important things in Latin.’
‘If Harvey finds out, you’d better start saying “Please don’t blow your stack, Harvey” in Latin. You shouldn’t have even given a signal that you recognized that man. He hadn’t even come to rest.’ *
‘Harvey is a terrible old bear lately. I hate him.’ A taxi-cab stopped alongside us at the traffic lights. There was a small-screen TV that some Helsinki taxis fit on to the back of the driving seat. A couple were necking and smiling and glowing with blue reflected light from the TV. Signe eyed them enviously. I watched her face in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s a terrible old bear. He’s teaching me Russian and when I make a mistake with those awful adjectives he goes mad with rage. He’s a bear.’
‘Harvey’s all right,’ I said. ‘He’s not a bear, he’s not a saint; he has moods sometimes, that’s all.’
‘Just tell me one other person who has moods like him. Just tell me.’
‘There’s no one that has moods like him. That’s what makes people more interesting than machines; they’re all different.’
‘You men. You hang together.’
The lights changed and I let in the clutch. There was no arguing with Signe in her present frame of mind. ‘Who does all the cleaning and cooking and looking after?’ said Signe from the rear seat. ‘Who gets him out of trouble when the New York office is after his blood?’
‘You do,’ I said obediently.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ Her voice went up three tones on the last words, she sniffed loudly and I heard the click of her handbag.
‘And all his money goes
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Harvey,’ I said. ‘I’m not even quite sure who the hell we are working for.’
‘Well, we’ll talk about it later,’ Harvey said. ‘And tomorrow perhaps you’ll let me have a note of your expenses to date and I’ll let you have some money. Will five hundred and fifty dollars for work to date be OK?’
‘Fine,’ I said. I wondered if Dawlish would let me keep it.
‘That’s plus expenses of course.’
‘Of course.’
As we got to Kämp Hotel on the Esplanade Harvey stopped the car and got out. ‘You two take the car and go on home,’ he said through the window.
‘Where are you going?’ Signe asked from the rear seat.
‘Never mind where I’m going. You just do as you’re told.’
‘Yes, Harvey,’ said Signe. Then I moved into the driver’s seat and we drove on. I heard her fidgeting with her handbag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m putting cream on my hands,’ she said. ‘That icy wind has made them rough, the hand-cream will soften them. I bet you can’t guess who I saw this afternoon. See how soft they are now.’
‘Don’t put your hands over my eyes while I’m driving, there’s a good girl.’
‘The one in the aeroplane. I let him pick me up at the Marski. I thought I would tell him how to spend his money.’
‘That cream,’ I said, ‘have you been putting it on your head?’
Signe laughed. ‘Do you know he pays five marks each for his cigars and if they go out he throws them away?’
‘Harvey?’ I asked in surprise.
‘No; that man. He says they taste bitter if they are relit.’
‘Does he?’ I said.
‘But the money wasn’t for him. That money we left in the taxi. He had to pay it into a blocked bank account. You have to be a foreigner to do that; I couldn’t do it.’
‘Really?’ I said. I swerved to avoid a solitary drunk who dreamily crossed the road backwards.
Signe said, ‘That man who just flew off in the aeroplane taught me some words of Latin.’
‘He does that to everyone.’
‘Don’t you want to hear them?’
‘Very much.’
‘Amo ut invenio. That means, “I love as I find.” He said that all the important things in life are said in Latin. Is that true? Do all Englishmen say the most important things in Latin?’
‘Only the ones who don’t relight five-mark cigars,’ I said.
‘Amo ut invenio. I’m going to start saying important things in Latin.’
‘If Harvey finds out, you’d better start saying “Please don’t blow your stack, Harvey” in Latin. You shouldn’t have even given a signal that you recognized that man. He hadn’t even come to rest.’ *
‘Harvey is a terrible old bear lately. I hate him.’ A taxi-cab stopped alongside us at the traffic lights. There was a small-screen TV that some Helsinki taxis fit on to the back of the driving seat. A couple were necking and smiling and glowing with blue reflected light from the TV. Signe eyed them enviously. I watched her face in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s a terrible old bear. He’s teaching me Russian and when I make a mistake with those awful adjectives he goes mad with rage. He’s a bear.’
‘Harvey’s all right,’ I said. ‘He’s not a bear, he’s not a saint; he has moods sometimes, that’s all.’
‘Just tell me one other person who has moods like him. Just tell me.’
‘There’s no one that has moods like him. That’s what makes people more interesting than machines; they’re all different.’
‘You men. You hang together.’
The lights changed and I let in the clutch. There was no arguing with Signe in her present frame of mind. ‘Who does all the cleaning and cooking and looking after?’ said Signe from the rear seat. ‘Who gets him out of trouble when the New York office is after his blood?’
‘You do,’ I said obediently.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ Her voice went up three tones on the last words, she sniffed loudly and I heard the click of her handbag.
‘And all his money goes
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