The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (120 page)

‘Who would I speak to?’ Rike shakes her head as she peels the orange.

Isa describes how the man is kept cool, how he has to be spritzed with water and kept in a sterile environment. Seriously disgusting. Chunks of him are flaking off. ‘Mr Hamburger.’ She takes an orange segment even before it is fully peeled, then reaches behind her for a stool, for somewhere to sit. ‘No one’s managed to speak with him yet.
No lips
– I’m joking. I don’t know that. But the hospital have kept him sedated and he does need to have all of these operations now. They keep him in a tent in a room, no one sees him but doctors and nurses. She tuts playfully. ‘Henning is hopeful that no one knows about Cyprus. Once he’s here the situation
will be contained
.’ Isa deepens her voice at the last phrase. ‘Absurd. Anyway. That’s what he said. Something like that? Sometimes I can’t believe people actually talk like this. Can you imagine a room full of these people? How pompous they are. It isn’t the real world. They have no knowledge of it. No understanding. They still believe in spies and Russia. Everything is back like it was in the seventies. Iron curtain. Walls. Poison pellets, suits and guns. The good old days.’

‘And Henning.’

‘He’s loving it.’ Isa bites through half a segment, catches the juice before it runs to her chin. ‘He’s in his element. Don’t they taste amazing?’ They look to each other in agreement. ‘You know what they’ve called this whole operation?’

Rike shakes her head.

‘Guess.’

Rike takes the last piece. Her sister’s eyes follow her hand to her mouth.

‘Go on. Guess.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But guess. You’ll never guess.’

Again, Rike shakes her head.

‘Operation Lazarus. Lazarus. Honestly. Lazarus. Someone gets paid to come up with these ideas.’

They walk into the garden, and it strikes Rike that the space seems more intimate in the softer afternoon light than at any other time: a small walled arbour with orange trees, branches heavy with fruit. A deep mottled shade just broad enough for the two of them. A dry heat hits her shoulders as soon as she steps onto the patio.

‘Do me a favour and pick some more.’ Isa points at the branches. ‘They fruit so much they break their own branches. You wouldn’t think anything would do that, would you?’

Rike agrees, it does seem strange. She walks behind the fig tree, careful where she’s treading to avoid the cats or any cat mess. Except there are none. Not one cat. ‘There’s something about the sun here,’ she says. ‘It just doesn’t feel Mediterranean.’

She reaches into tree, holds the branch as she plucks the fruit, and aims to keep her voice uninflected as she asks her sister if she has seen any of the cats.

Isa holds one hand to her forehead, the other on her hip. ‘You know what? I haven’t. There’s food here as well. Do you think something’s happened?’

They look to each other, disturbed by the possibility.

‘I’ll go look.’

‘No.’ Isa waves her hand. ‘You know what? Don’t. It’s better not to know. If we think about this too much it will become something upsetting.’ And then, decisive, ‘Let’s go out instead.’

Rike tucks three oranges into the cleft of her arm. She can smell the cats, cat urine and rotting lemons, and makes her way cautiously back to the path.

4.3

Within the hour Rike sits with her sister in the quadrangle in front of the Palestinian café. In the square behind them students begin to gather. Isa doesn’t quite understand why Rike has become so agitated. Rike doesn’t quite understand herself. The conversation with Tomas has changed in her mind, and mulling through the bare facts the causal tone of the conversation has become lost to the single idea that Tomas is learning English because he doesn’t know what he wants. The man, in a word, is lost.

‘So he tells you stories about his neighbours? If you ask me it sounds boring.’

Rike shakes her head and sinks forward. That isn’t it. Not quite. ‘He does everything I ask, and that’s the problem. Everything is practised. Everything he says. He keeps a notebook and he writes everything down, word for word.’

Isa shrugs. ‘Surely that’s what you want a student to do?’

‘But
everything
. He writes out the conversations. The sessions are one long monologue.’

‘And you correct him?’

‘There’s nothing to correct. Tiny, tiny, small things,
maybe
. But he writes himself a script.’ She shakes her head. ‘I asked him why he’s taking the lessons, and what he wants from them, from me. I told him that everything he needs he could find in an advanced class with other students. But he said that he doesn’t like to go out.’

‘He doesn’t like going out?’ Confused, Isa shakes her head. ‘I don’t follow. He’s uncomfortable going out? Or he doesn’t like speaking English in front of other people?’

‘He said he doesn’t go out – he avoids going out. He gets his food downstairs at the café. Otherwise he stays in, he watches people from his balcony early in the morning, then works on what he wants to say until the lesson.’

‘I don’t get it. What’s he doing in Cyprus?’

Rike shifts uneasily in her seat. ‘He works for the UN.’

‘But where? What does he do?’

Rike shrugs. ‘That’s the other thing. I don’t think this is a holiday exactly. He’s learning a language because he’s taking time off work.’

‘But what’s he doing here? And what’s the problem?’

Rike looks to Isa with an expression meaning
take this seriously
.

‘So, why is he taking time off work?’

‘Stress.’

‘Stress?’

‘Stress. I think it’s stress.’

‘He’s suffering from stress?’ Isa pulls a face and turns away, actively uninterested.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. People have trouble with work all the time. But stress? It’s a little unimaginative. Why would you learn a language if you’re stressed? If you’re stressed you take a holiday, you get away from everything.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t have a choice?’

‘It still doesn’t make sense.’

‘Maybe,’ Rike breathes in to summon patience, ‘he doesn’t know how to relax? Maybe that’s why he’s so stressed?’

‘Seriously? Rike, everybody knows how to relax. Men especially.’

Rike gives a small groan of frustration.

Isa looks hard at her sister. ‘I’m just asking questions. Is he comfortable when he’s talking with you?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m just asking. I’m making conversation.’

‘He can be funny. He notices things. He has a good eye. He’s sympathetic. He isn’t like most men, he doesn’t have an instant opinion on everything.’

‘So he isn’t shy?’

‘Not especially, after three lessons he seems very confident. And he talks with his neighbours.’

Isa nods. ‘But he’s been here for a month already so maybe he feels they are familiar.’

‘Are you going to tell me he’s crazy and that I shouldn’t be alone with him?’

‘No. I don’t understand really why he’s here? You said he works for the UN?’

Now Rike has doubts. ‘He said he isn’t sure he wants to do this kind of work now.’

‘Maybe it isn’t
stress
per se, maybe it’s
anxiety
, and maybe he wants to work on this. People tend to develop coping mechanisms for anxiety. With stress people shut down. Perhaps this is why he’s having lessons, so that for at least part of the day he’s forced to socialize.’ Isa looks out across the road, caught on a thought.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re frowning. Why?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘But nothing about what?’

‘Seriously, nothing. I’m just wondering how you got him to talk so much?’

‘It’s a language lesson. You
talk
.’

‘But yesterday I asked about the lesson and how he was and you knew nothing. Today you know everything. Why is he talking so much about this? In one day?’

‘I asked him why he was learning English and it all came out.’ Rike is suddenly upset. Frustrated, she leans forward and covers her face. She shakes her head, a little surprised at her reaction. ‘I don’t know why it’s so complicated. I don’t understand why anyone would learn a language they are already fluent in, and I don’t understand why they would stay only in one room. And I feel stupid because I should know what to do.’ Rike wipes her eyes and sits back in her chair. ‘That’s it,’ she says, sweeping her hands out. ‘I will never make a good teacher.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re upset. It sounds like you’re helping him. It’s not going to help if you’re getting upset.’

‘Because it shouldn’t be so difficult. It should be easy. And straightforward. And simple.’

‘But you’re the best person he could be working with.’ Isa says this as an inarguable fact. ‘I’m serious. He needs to talk with someone he can trust. You did a good thing challenging him today. Now he has to consider the next step. Isn’t this more interesting than a boring language lesson? Anyway.’ Isa pushes forward her glass. ‘You can probably really help him. You know what’s good for anxiety? Sex.’

Isa laughs and Rike laughs with her.

‘I gave him an assignment. He said he would go out if I gave him a reason.’

‘I’m serious. Tell him you’re going to teach him something French. You both need it. See. You can help each other.’

Rike draws her hands in a line and closes the subject. She asks Isa if she is going to eat.

‘I was sick this morning. Twice. I told you this? Then yoghurt, then I ate those oranges. So now I have an acid stomach.’

In front of the café runs a low and cropped hibiscus bush behind which a photographer poses a young couple. The woman straddles a parked motorbike, the man stands beside her with an idiot grin, like a man who can’t believe his luck. The photographer arranges the woman’s hair over her shoulder. The pictures are for an album that will show how and where the couple met, a picture book of recreated memories.

Isa scowls at the couple. ‘She’s so out of his league. Look at that hair.’

They return to the apartment by taxi. Isa sober, Rike a little woozy on beer. Rike drops her purse getting out of the cab, then her keys in the lobby and laughs as she tries to pick them up.

‘Are you expecting a delivery or something?’

Isa says no and asks her to hurry.

‘There’s something in the hallway.’ Rike finds the key and manages to open the door with Isa giggling beside her telling her to hurry. ‘It’s Henning.’

Isa rushes through as soon as the door is open. ‘Henning? Henning!’ She hurries to the front room in quick short steps. ‘Oh, oh, oh. Rike, go see where he is.’ Then slips into the bathroom without closing the door.

Rike comes slowly into the apartment, feeling happy – because she likes Henning, and because her sister has missed her husband so much – but also a little excluded, because this is not her reunion, and her time with her sister is now effectively over.

‘Where is he?’ Isa calls from the bathroom. ‘Henning?’

Rike walks through the apartment but can’t find him. His bags are in the hallway, but the man is not in the apartment. And now, confusingly, she feels disappointed at having to explain this to Isa. On the table, in a large vase, stands a bouquet of roses. Small pink heads. The colour and the quantity are extravagant. The pink buzzes against the white walls.

The situation resolves quickly. As Isa comes out of the bathroom, adjusting her clothes, Henning comes to the front door, a shopping bag in one hand, hooked on one finger. Isa is upon him before he can close the door. Arms up then locked about his neck.

Henning stoops to receive his wife’s embrace. They rock together, eyes, at first, closed. And then, because this is looking to become drawn out, he opens his eyes, sees Rike and offers her the shopping bag – the same finger that is holding the bag wiggles to call her forward. As Rike takes the bag Henning gives her a smile, a wink, then wraps both arms about his wife.

Rike doesn’t know what to do with herself. It’s awkward, the two of them in the hallway holding tight, so she walks into the garden and startles the black cat. While she dearly loves her brother-in-law, his return, unannounced, points out that she has no one who will return to her.

If Henning is here, then so is the man from the desert. Mr Crispy. Sutler Number Three.

The cat scampers then freezes at the wall, mid-stride, ready to disappear. Rike holds herself still, and the woman and cat eye each other, the cat won’t look her in the eyes, and then suddenly, after a moment shoots up the wall, its tail flicks as it disappears.

4.4

Gibson waits in the lobby of Laura’s hotel on via Miano, opposite the Parco di Capodimonte. The walk has left him hot, and he is sweating through his shirt. While it is a bright day, the sun holds little heat.

Instead of Laura another woman comes down the stairs, and explains, with an apology, that Laura is sleeping. She introduces herself as Sarah. ‘I know everything,’ she says. ‘I can answer any questions you might have.’ Gibson doesn’t catch if she is a friend or someone from the family. She asks if Gibson would prefer to walk or find somewhere else to go. Gibson looks about the lobby. He has no idea where they should go. Hasn’t considered the mechanics of the day in any way.

Sarah walks ahead to the door, then pauses. The papers Gibson asked for, she’s left them in the room.

‘The day he left,’ she explains, ‘Laura moved hotels. They agreed to stay near the park.’ She points to the city to their right. ‘There’s an observatory. He liked the view. You can see the Albergo di Poveri, the Duomo, Vesuvius. Capri, I think. When she arrived he brought her here. Made the taxi drive by and wait.’ Sarah steers Gibson across the road. ‘The park,’ she says.

They walk through the gates, kept lawns lousy with dogs spill out from the museum. ‘It’s probably easier if I describe everything. I think that’s easier. If I show you his papers you’ll think less of him. You’ll find out anyway. You’ll need to consider what you want do with this. With what I’m going to tell you.’ They come to an avenue, trees on either side with mast-like trunks. They agree it’s surprising in such a crowded city to have such a vast and private park.