Heading South (10 page)

Moments later he is still wondering if he should get up or go back to sleep. He decides to get up.

“Becky! What are you doing?”

The children are sleeping on the floor in their blue sleeping bags. John remembers buying them on a rainy day in London. John-John looks like a little pageboy he saw a few years ago in the Prado. He glances tenderly at the two girls. They look like Siamese twins, curled up together like that in one sleeping bag. He goes downstairs, telling himself there is no need to hurry. The fat innkeeper is already calmly sipping a cup of coffee.

“Would you like a cup, monsieur?”

The smell of coffee and the weak morning light fill the tiny room with a degree of intimacy.

“I'm looking for my wife.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes,” the fat woman replies tranquilly. “She asked me to tell you.”

“Ah! I should have guessed. She's gone for a walk on the beach,” he says, feeling some colour come back to his cheeks.

“No, she went off towards the mountain . . .”

“Do you know which side?”

“Yes,” says the fat woman in a neutral tone that he finds almost alarming.

“You have the advantage of me, madame,” John says, in his British tone of voice.

He is no longer a frightened man; he is now an Englishman talking to an inferior.

“Come over here, monsieur,” says the innkeeper with a tiny smile on her lips, a smile that is all but invisible to the naked eye . . . “Do you see that little house up there?”

“Yes.”

“That's where you will find your wife.”

John blanches.

“What's she doing up there?” he cries out, then immediately regains control of himself.

“When you go up the road, turn right and take the first path you see on your left . . . Are you with me, monsieur?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice level.

“Take the first path you come to on your left . . . It will take you right up to the little house . . . You can't miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't worry about the children,” she says, her voice filled with kindness. “I'll look after them.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, monsieur,” she says, laughing discreetly. “I advise you to get going before the sun gets too hot . . . You don't have your hat?”

“Yes, I have a hat . . . But I left it back there . . .”

“I'll go get it for you.”

“I mean I left it in London.”

“I see . . . Here, take this one, otherwise the sun will cook you like a crayfish . . . It's a good hour's walk for someone like you, who isn't used to climbing.”

“What's the way again?”

“I told you, monsieur, take the road that runs past the hotel here, then turn left and keep to your right . . . There's nothing to it . . .”

THE SUN'S EFFECTS
quickly make themselves felt. John sets himself a swift pace. His eyes are glued to the little house. “It's true, it's a nice house!” he tells himself. “But what is Becky doing in it? Maybe she wants to buy the place, keep it for a vacation home. Is she planning it as a surprise for me?” He has to admit he has no idea what Becky could be thinking. “She's English, like me. We have both always lived in London. We've been sleeping in the same bed for going on fifteen years. We have had three magnificent children together. I call her ‘my sweet.' She calls me ‘John.' Funny that she's never called me anything else. Diana”—his mistress—“calls me ‘my little toad.' It's stupid, but at least she makes an effort. That's the thing, Becky never makes the least effort to create any kind of intimacy between us. At times I even get the feeling we've never made love together. The only things that really interest her are her horses. That perfectly composed expression at the height of our lovemaking (our monthly lovemaking), devoid of emotion, like the flame of a candle during a momentary lull in the wind. That's the only Becky I've ever known in bed. It's true that she takes perfectly good care of the children. But what the devil is she doing in that little house, which seems to get farther away the faster I approach it?”

SHE IS STANDING
on the balcony, leaning lightly against its centre-post.

“What are you doing here?” John asks.

“Poor you, you're completely covered in sweat! Come and sit down, I'll fetch you a glass of water.”

She disappears into the house and returns almost immediately with a glass of ice-cold water.

“But what are you doing here, Becky?”

“You're repeating yourself, John. I heard you the first time.”

“But you haven't answered me.”

“Catch your breath . . . That final slope is quite steep.”

“I don't understand, Becky.”

“He built this house for me,” she says, using a voice he has never heard from her before.

“Whom are you talking about?”

“Do you remember, John, as soon as I saw this house I felt something like a punch in my solar plexus?”

“You want to buy it, is that it?”

“From this moment on, John, this is where I live.”

“Oh, right, I get it . . . We're going to spend the rest of our time here, just so that you . . .”

“You are deliberately misunderstanding me . . . I have a man in my life now, and this is where he lives.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What about the children?”

“Mother will help out with them . . . She's always dreamed of keeping them with her.”

“You would leave the children, Becky?”

“Don't make this difficult, John, you won't get me back with such talk . . . I've done the math. I'm forty years old. In ten years, I'll be fifty, and it'll be too late for me. Whereas you, you'll just be starting to chase after girls fresh out of school.”

“I won't leave you, Becky.”

“Look, John, I have fifteen good years left in me, and I have no intention of spending them either with you or in London.”

“But the children? Do you think I'm going to look after them for you?”

“Put them in an orphanage, John. You pay enough in taxes, surely the government will allow you that privilege . . .”

And she laughs. A laugh he has not heard before, either. Does he know her at all?

“Who is it? Someone who was in the plane with us, I'll wager.”

“You've taken your time, John . . . I expected that to be your first question.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Becky. It doesn't suit you.”

“Ah, so suddenly you're an authority on what suits me . . . You've seen him, yesterday afternoon . . .”

“I didn't see anyone yesterday afternoon.”

“Good heavens, John, you not only saw him, you pointed him out to me. You said he'd been following us for some time.”

“But that was just some peasant I saw . . .”

“You are sitting in his house.”

“I don't understand. Whose house?”

“My man's house.”

“What are you saying? That peasant is your man? Since when?”

“Since last night. Don't force me to supply you with details, John. In any case, here he comes . . .”

“Where?”

“Turn around, you'll see him.”

The man is climbing the final steep approach to the house. He moves with a certain agility. As he comes up he removes his jacket and greets John with a smile that is both timid and proud. The farmers in northern Haiti are known for their extreme politeness. John shakes his hand. Becky smiles.

Harry at Large

FOR ONCE, CHARLIE
is on time. Fanfan has been waiting for him in the Rex Café, reading a Carter Brown.

“Sorry, old chum,” Charlie says when he arrives. “But the damn streets are impossible this morning. There's a traffic jam stretching from the Au Beurre Chaud bakery all the way down to Firestone.”

“That's not the way you come . . .”

“I'm telling you what it's like out there. Don't you listen to the radio?”

“Never. In any case, you're not late.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's eleven o'clock. I told you to be here at nine just to make sure you'd be here at eleven.”

“But it's not even eleven yet, Fanfan . . .”

“Exactly . . . It's five to eleven. So you see, you're on time.”

Charlie sits down and signals the waiter to bring him his usual (a sandwich and a glass of papaya juice).

“I can't believe you would do that to me . . .” he says. “I cancelled quite a few meetings to be here . . .”

“I don't know what you're going on about . . . We were supposed to meet here at eleven, and you got here at five to. What time were you planning to get here?”

Charlie shakes his head sadly.

“You've just screwed up my entire schedule.”

“Since when have you had a schedule?”

“It's all written down in here,” he says, pointing his index finger to his temple.

The waiter arrives with a cup of steaming coffee and sets it down in front of Fanfan, who takes three large sips from it at the risk of burning his tongue.

“What are we doing now?” Charlie asks.

“We're waiting . . . That's what happens when you arrive someplace early.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake . . .”

Fanfan laughs quietly.

“What does this guy want, anyway?”

“What do you think he wants?”

“Sex?”

“Are you gassed up?”

“Good, when is he supposed to get here?”

“Don't worry, he's an American . . . He'll be on time. Here he is now!”

The man walks into the narrow café and heads straight towards the only two customers sitting at a table. He sits down without introducing himself.

“A friend told me about you.”

“About who?”

“Which one of you is Fanfan?”

“Bingo! I win! Am I allowed to know who my publicist is?”

“A woman you've been seeing.”

“So what do you want,” Charlie asks dryly.

“I gather you know a lot of girls . . .”

“What makes you think that?”

“I've been watching you since . . .”

The waiter comes over with a plate that he sets down in front of Charlie.

“Man, I'm starved.”

Harry watches him literally gulp his sandwich and wash it down with long swallows of papaya juice.

“I've bought a small house down by the sea,” Harry finally says, “and I want to invite a few friends over.”

“Well, what do you know!” Fanfan says sarcastically. “Who'd have thought you'd come all the way down here to invite us to your little beach party?”

“No,” Harry says deliberately. “I only want girls.”

“So?” Charlie yelps.

“So, if you agree to lend us some of your little friends . . .”

“I don't get it,” Charlie says.

“What don't you get, Charlie? This gentleman wants us to lend him some girls for his friends. That's not so hard to understand, is it? Sometimes you lend me your motorbike, don't you . . .”

“That's not the same thing!”

“Well, we're not talking about a motorbike, that's true. We're talking about that big, black car outside, which I suppose is his.”

“So what do we get in return?”

“I don't know, Charlie. Why don't you ask the man yourself . . .”

“Right . . . So what do we get in return?”

A long silence.

“You're not about to tell me that you have a little present for us, I hope?” says Charlie.

“You might take that as an insult.”

“Yes, an insult,” Charlie nods. “We might feel deeply offended . . .”

“Listen,” says Harry. “I could see that you both get an American visa.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Harry smiles thinly.

“Don't you worry about that. I have some friends who could look after it . . .”

“Hey, I don't even know who you are,” says Charlie. “Getting an American visa isn't easy.”

“Don't mistake us for a couple of imbeciles,” Fanfan adds.

Harry gives his characteristic laugh once more.

“There won't be any problem . . .”

“Okay,” says Fanfan, “we believe you . . . Give us the visas, and we'll get you the girls . . .”

“Now who's taking who for an imbecile?” Harry slips in.

They all laugh this time.

“Good, okay then . . .” says Fanfan.

“Can I ask you a question?” Charlie says.

“Shoot.”

“With your loot you could buy all the girls you want . . . Why do you want us to find them for you?”

“I'm not interested in whores! I'm asking only for normal girls . . . girls who come from normal families, neither rich nor poor . . . Normal girls.”

“What do you mean, normal girls?”

“Your sister, for example! He wants you to bring him your sister, Fanfan.”

Harry's face clouds over.

“No, no, nothing like that . . .” he says quickly.

“I was just joking,” Charlie says. They know what Harry wants.

All the same, Harry finds himself on slippery ground.

“Okay, I've got to go . . . I'll let you know as soon as I've organized one of my little parties . . .”

“What about our visas?” Fanfan asks.

“You'll get them after there've been a few parties . . .”

“How many parties?”

“Let's just say when everyone's satisfied,” Harry says in parting, heading for the door.

“DOES THAT IDIOT
think we fell for his story?” Fanfan says after a while.

“I think he's serious . . .”

“Why do you think that?”

“He works at the American Embassy.”

“Ah, does he?”