I loathe talking about money. I don’t know. Whatever she’s worth. Say … oh, heavens … twenty thousand?”
“I couldn’t possibly. Not at that price.”
“What were you thinking of?” The wing commander’s baby pinkness was draining from his face.
“I did try asking around. Toms said eleven. Someone else said twelve. Rupert Walpole said he thought about ten. That seemed the general range.”
“Could we–perhaps–do you think?–say … eleven?” “Hadn’t you better call in some second opinions for yourself?”
“No, no, no–this is an arrangement between gentlemen—”
The Peerage, the Baronetage, the Knightage and the Landed Gentry crowded in as witnesses to the deal.
“Well, if you’re sure about that, Wing Commander—”
“Oh …” Dunnett said, disclosing his dentures, “do call me Roy.”
George was woken by a slanting beam of watery sunlight. Lying spreadeagled in his parents’ lumpy bed, he felt weightless and hyper-alert, like a cosmonaut on a spacewalk. His first thought was that this must be an attack of the mild, rather enjoyable tropical fever that sometimes visited him as a reminder of his luck in dodging the crazy shakes of malaria. George’s fevers took the form of extended bursts of elation. They lasted for forty-eight hours at most. He sweated a lot. Writing, he found his hands skidding out of control across the page. Simple things struck him as vivid and particular.
He reached for the plastic bottle of Evian water on the bedside table and took a long swig from it. He touched his forehead. It was dry and cool. So it wasn’t fever. George blinked, stretched, wriggled his toes; content in himself for the first time in many weeks. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d last felt his spirits rise with the sun.
In the narrow gap between the flowered curtains, he could see the mouth of the estuary—the colour of bronze, as smooth as treacle. The depression, which had come swirling in from Iceland, had turned north and headed up to the Baltic, leaving Cornwall rinsed and shining. Much the same sort of thing seemed to have happened to George’s depression. It was, to his amazement, gone.
Well?
And wasn’t it a liberating notion—as exciting in its way as a perfectly planned burglary, or one of those insurance rackets that tantalized old Dunnett? Buying the boat would be an exchange … a transfusion. Good blood for bad.
Calliope
for
Figuera
. Just being able to phrase the name to himself was new. Pleased and surprised, George toasted himself in Evian water.
Figuera
.
It was a name attached to a locked room on the attic floor of George’s head. He always did his best to avoid passing it. Occasionally, on an incautious and forgetful ramble, he came face to face with the room, and averted his eyes from the door. Sometimes the room’s contents appeared to him, in disguise, in bad dreams.
How extraordinary to be able to think it this morning.
Figuera. Figuera
. Just like that.
The curfew had begun, and George had hurried home through streets empty except for the Portuguese soldiers in their armoured cars. When he reached his apartment, the phone was ringing. Its querulous, scolding note made it sound as if it had been pealing unanswered for a very long time.
“George?”
The line was terrible.
“Is that …
Teddy?”
“Sure is, baby.”
“Teddy! You old bastard—how are you?
Where
are you? Still in Angola?”
“George …”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I’m fine. I’m in a bar.”
George thought he could hear the whooping laughter of the drinkers through the crackle.
“Listen, George … We may get cut off … One question. You know that Pan-African shipping convention in Lagos next month?”
“Yes. I’m going there.”
“You are? That’s great, George. Great—”
“Will
you
be there?”
“Me? No, I’m not going. But you’re sure you can make it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Fantastic. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Shall I …
“I couldn’t possibly. Not at that price.”
“What were you thinking of?” The wing commander’s baby pinkness was draining from his face.
“I did try asking around. Toms said eleven. Someone else said twelve. Rupert Walpole said he thought about ten. That seemed the general range.”
“Could we–perhaps–do you think?–say … eleven?” “Hadn’t you better call in some second opinions for yourself?”
“No, no, no–this is an arrangement between gentlemen—”
The Peerage, the Baronetage, the Knightage and the Landed Gentry crowded in as witnesses to the deal.
“Well, if you’re sure about that, Wing Commander—”
“Oh …” Dunnett said, disclosing his dentures, “do call me Roy.”
George was woken by a slanting beam of watery sunlight. Lying spreadeagled in his parents’ lumpy bed, he felt weightless and hyper-alert, like a cosmonaut on a spacewalk. His first thought was that this must be an attack of the mild, rather enjoyable tropical fever that sometimes visited him as a reminder of his luck in dodging the crazy shakes of malaria. George’s fevers took the form of extended bursts of elation. They lasted for forty-eight hours at most. He sweated a lot. Writing, he found his hands skidding out of control across the page. Simple things struck him as vivid and particular.
He reached for the plastic bottle of Evian water on the bedside table and took a long swig from it. He touched his forehead. It was dry and cool. So it wasn’t fever. George blinked, stretched, wriggled his toes; content in himself for the first time in many weeks. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d last felt his spirits rise with the sun.
In the narrow gap between the flowered curtains, he could see the mouth of the estuary—the colour of bronze, as smooth as treacle. The depression, which had come swirling in from Iceland, had turned north and headed up to the Baltic, leaving Cornwall rinsed and shining. Much the same sort of thing seemed to have happened to George’s depression. It was, to his amazement, gone.
Well?
And wasn’t it a liberating notion—as exciting in its way as a perfectly planned burglary, or one of those insurance rackets that tantalized old Dunnett? Buying the boat would be an exchange … a transfusion. Good blood for bad.
Calliope
for
Figuera
. Just being able to phrase the name to himself was new. Pleased and surprised, George toasted himself in Evian water.
Figuera
.
It was a name attached to a locked room on the attic floor of George’s head. He always did his best to avoid passing it. Occasionally, on an incautious and forgetful ramble, he came face to face with the room, and averted his eyes from the door. Sometimes the room’s contents appeared to him, in disguise, in bad dreams.
How extraordinary to be able to think it this morning.
Figuera. Figuera
. Just like that.
The curfew had begun, and George had hurried home through streets empty except for the Portuguese soldiers in their armoured cars. When he reached his apartment, the phone was ringing. Its querulous, scolding note made it sound as if it had been pealing unanswered for a very long time.
“George?”
The line was terrible.
“Is that …
Teddy?”
“Sure is, baby.”
“Teddy! You old bastard—how are you?
Where
are you? Still in Angola?”
“George …”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I’m fine. I’m in a bar.”
George thought he could hear the whooping laughter of the drinkers through the crackle.
“Listen, George … We may get cut off … One question. You know that Pan-African shipping convention in Lagos next month?”
“Yes. I’m going there.”
“You are? That’s great, George. Great—”
“Will
you
be there?”
“Me? No, I’m not going. But you’re sure you can make it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Fantastic. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Shall I …
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