Even books.”
“Got it. You want copies if I can get them?”
Why not? “Whatever you can get hold of.”
“Why the interest, Daniel?”
He made up some story about admiring her painting and wanting to know more. “I’ll ring back same time tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Fine by me,” Pryce said. “And how’s the latest coming along?”
“It’ll be on your desk in December, Pryce.”
He rang off and remained seated, feeling guilty at what he had done, as if the kiosk were truly a confessional and he had withheld a sin from the priest.
He took his table beneath the awning and ordered lamb with butter beans basted in olive oil and tomatoes, with a big chunk of white bread.
He ate slowly, considering Caroline Platt. If she turned out to be another hack after his story, then his disappointment would be colossal. She had taken him in, made him believe that her interest in him, her friendliness, had been genuine - not prompted by the need to muck-rake for profit.
And yet, if she turned out to be what she said she was, and her friendship genuine... then that eventuality was almost as troubling. He was not prepared to admit anyone into his life: it was doomed to failure, tragedy and regret. He took out his note-book and wrote: The process of living seems to me to be nothing but a gradual accretion of sadness . The line would find its way into the mouth of one of his characters, sooner or later.
He had given occasional thought to the fat Englishman over the past few days, since seeing him at the exhibition. The fact that he was researching a biography on him surfaced in his mind from time to time like a recurrent headache.
It came back to him now, in a rush, because approaching the taverna from along the waterfront was the overweight hack himself.
Langham watched him with a mixture of loathing and trepidation. There was something obnoxious about every aspect of the man. Even the way he walked managed to annoy. He slumped along, marinating in his own sweat, weighed down by his hold-all which hung from his shoulder and gave him a decided list to starboard.
Langham slipped a hand into his pocket and rubbed the smooth surface of the mereth.
The man reached the taverna and stood beside a table, placing his hold-all on a chair but making no effort to seat himself. He did not acknowledge Langham, but gestured to Georgiou and ordered a beer. As Langham watched, the man rooted through his hold-all and pulled out a book - Langham’s In Khartoum , which he had been reading a week ago.
He then surprised Langham by approaching him and holding out the book. “Daniel Langham? I wonder if you’d sign this for me?”
His manner was abrupt, peremptory, but his tone more educated than Langham had supposed it would be. He took the book and leafed through it. The man supplied a cheap biro, slick with his sweat.
Seen at close quarters, Langham noticed how the man oozed perspiration. It popped from every pore and trickled, soaking the collar of his white shirt and creating dark patches beneath the arms of his beige polyester suit.
“Who is it to?”
“Just the signature will do fine.”
Langham looked up. “I like to know the name of the person I’m talking to.”
“Then call me Nick.”
Langham scribbled his signature in the front of the book, taking his time, while the man waited, mopping his brow.
He passed the book back to the man and said, “I understand you intend to write my biography?”
The man - Langham could not bring himself to think of him as Nick - pulled out a chair at Langham’s table and seated himself with one arm on the table-top and the other resting on his knee. Langham wondered if the performance was designed to intimidate.
“I’d like to talk to you about that.”
“I also understand that I’ve given you permission, which is news to me.”
The man maintained a blank expression. It was as if he had decided, long ago, that he should give nothing away facially. Instead, he used body
“Got it. You want copies if I can get them?”
Why not? “Whatever you can get hold of.”
“Why the interest, Daniel?”
He made up some story about admiring her painting and wanting to know more. “I’ll ring back same time tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Fine by me,” Pryce said. “And how’s the latest coming along?”
“It’ll be on your desk in December, Pryce.”
He rang off and remained seated, feeling guilty at what he had done, as if the kiosk were truly a confessional and he had withheld a sin from the priest.
He took his table beneath the awning and ordered lamb with butter beans basted in olive oil and tomatoes, with a big chunk of white bread.
He ate slowly, considering Caroline Platt. If she turned out to be another hack after his story, then his disappointment would be colossal. She had taken him in, made him believe that her interest in him, her friendliness, had been genuine - not prompted by the need to muck-rake for profit.
And yet, if she turned out to be what she said she was, and her friendship genuine... then that eventuality was almost as troubling. He was not prepared to admit anyone into his life: it was doomed to failure, tragedy and regret. He took out his note-book and wrote: The process of living seems to me to be nothing but a gradual accretion of sadness . The line would find its way into the mouth of one of his characters, sooner or later.
He had given occasional thought to the fat Englishman over the past few days, since seeing him at the exhibition. The fact that he was researching a biography on him surfaced in his mind from time to time like a recurrent headache.
It came back to him now, in a rush, because approaching the taverna from along the waterfront was the overweight hack himself.
Langham watched him with a mixture of loathing and trepidation. There was something obnoxious about every aspect of the man. Even the way he walked managed to annoy. He slumped along, marinating in his own sweat, weighed down by his hold-all which hung from his shoulder and gave him a decided list to starboard.
Langham slipped a hand into his pocket and rubbed the smooth surface of the mereth.
The man reached the taverna and stood beside a table, placing his hold-all on a chair but making no effort to seat himself. He did not acknowledge Langham, but gestured to Georgiou and ordered a beer. As Langham watched, the man rooted through his hold-all and pulled out a book - Langham’s In Khartoum , which he had been reading a week ago.
He then surprised Langham by approaching him and holding out the book. “Daniel Langham? I wonder if you’d sign this for me?”
His manner was abrupt, peremptory, but his tone more educated than Langham had supposed it would be. He took the book and leafed through it. The man supplied a cheap biro, slick with his sweat.
Seen at close quarters, Langham noticed how the man oozed perspiration. It popped from every pore and trickled, soaking the collar of his white shirt and creating dark patches beneath the arms of his beige polyester suit.
“Who is it to?”
“Just the signature will do fine.”
Langham looked up. “I like to know the name of the person I’m talking to.”
“Then call me Nick.”
Langham scribbled his signature in the front of the book, taking his time, while the man waited, mopping his brow.
He passed the book back to the man and said, “I understand you intend to write my biography?”
The man - Langham could not bring himself to think of him as Nick - pulled out a chair at Langham’s table and seated himself with one arm on the table-top and the other resting on his knee. Langham wondered if the performance was designed to intimidate.
“I’d like to talk to you about that.”
“I also understand that I’ve given you permission, which is news to me.”
The man maintained a blank expression. It was as if he had decided, long ago, that he should give nothing away facially. Instead, he used body
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