Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell Page B

your lab into the sunny Essex afternoon to post it yourself? Ayrs invited our “Mr. Cummings” to see me at Zedelghem, but you’d written time was v. tight, so Mrs. Crommelynck said Hendrick’ll drive me into town to sign the documents there. Ayrs grumbled about losing a day’s work, but he’s only happy when he’s grumbling.
    Hendrick and I set off this dewy morning down the same roads I cycled from Bruges half a summertime ago. Wore a smart jacket of Ayrs’s—much of his wardrobe is gravitating into mine, now my few items rescued from the Imperial’s grasp are beginning to wear out. The Enfield was roped to the rear fender so I could honor my promise to return said bicycle to the good constable. Our vellum-bound loot I had camouflaged in MS paper, which everyone at Zedelghem knows I am never without, and stowed out of casual sight in a mucky satchel I’ve appropriated. Hendrick had the Cowley’s top down so there was too much wind for conversation. Taciturn chap, as is appropriate to his station. Peculiar to admit it, but since I’ve started servicing Mrs. Crommelynck I feel edgier with the husband’s valet than I do with the husband. (Jocasta continues to bestow her favor on me, every third or fourth night, though never when Eva is at home, which is v. wise. Anyway, one mustn’t gobble one’s birthday chocolates all at once.) My unease stems from the probability that Hendrick knows. Oh, we above the stairs like to congratulate ourselves on our cleverness, but there are no secrets to those who strip the sheets. Not too worried. Don’t place unreasonable demands on the servants, and Hendrick is canny enough to lay his bets on a strident mistress with many years ahead of her, not on an invalid master of Ayrs’s prospects. Hendrick’s an odd one, really. Hard to guess his tastes. Would make an excellent croupier.
    He dropped me outside the Guildhall, untied the Enfield, and left me to run various errands and pay his respects, he said, to an ailing great-aunt. Rode my two wheels through crowds of sightseers, schoolchildren, and burghers and only got lost a few times. At the police station, the musical inspector made a great fuss of me and sent out for coffee and pastries. He was delighted my position with Ayrs has worked out so well. By the time I got away it was ten o’clock and time for my appointment. Didn’t hurry. Good form to let tradesmen wait a little.
    Jansch was propping up the bar of Le Royal and greeted me with an “Aha, as I live and breathe, the Invisible Man, back by popular demand!” I swear, Sixsmith, that warty old Shylock looks more repulsive every time I clap eyes on him. Has he got a magical portrait of himself stashed in his attic, getting more beautiful by the year? Couldn’t fathom why he seemed so pleased to see me. Looked around the lounge for tipped-off creditors—one beetly glare and I would have bolted. Jansch read my mind. “So suspicious, Roberto? I ’m hardly going to make trouble for a naughty goose who lays such illuminated eggs, am I? Come now”—he indicated the bar—”what’s your poison?”
    Replied that sharing a building with Jansch, even such a large one, was poisonous enough, so I’d rather get down to business straightaway. He chuckled, clapped me on the shoulder, and led me up to the room he’d reserved for our transaction. Nobody followed us, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Was now wishing I’d had you arrange a more public rendezvous, so Tam Brewer’s thugs couldn’t clap a sack over my head, throw me in a trunk, and haul me back to London. Got the books out of the satchel, and he got his pince-nez out of his jacket pocket. Jansch examined ’em at a desk by the window. He tried to knock the price down, claiming the condition of the volumes was more “fair” than “good.” Calmly, I wrapped the books up, put ’em in my satchel, and made the stingy Jew chase me down the corridor until he admitted the volumes were indeed “good.” Let