Eating Air

by Pauline Melville

‘It’s over here. I was looking at it.’ He went over and collected the shawl. He gave it to her. Then he picked up the little dog in his arms.

  It irritated her to realise that he had been going through the clothes before she arrived:

  ‘That’s nice. Well thank you so much for bringing my costume. Are you coming to the show?’

  ‘I think so. It depends on my flight schedule.’ He hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve always longed to be able to dance myself. My fantasy would be to dance with you but here I am, a qualified airline pilot.’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps I could come to a rehearsal?’

  ‘I think we only have one dress rehearsal on the set.’

  ‘You have my father’s number. Johnny Caspers. Maybe you could let me know. My father is a banker with HCB. He’s made all his money out of deals with Surinam. He told me you have connections there.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just come back.’

  ‘He loves to do all this charity stuff. I suppose I have Surinam to thank for my private education and upbringing and my pilot’s training. I have to thank potty little Surinam for that.’

  Anger rose up in her like a tree. There was an odd buzzing in her ears. Tinnitus. She shook her head to try and get rid of it:

  ‘Would you thank him again from me for doing all this. I must go and find someone from wardrobe and see if it’s all right to leave my costume here.’

  She left him standing where she had found him in the middle of the room, quite still with the dog in his arms.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  All during the encounter with John Buckley, Mark Scobie stared straight ahead of him. Buckley had intercepted him quietly in Green Park near Butterfield’s Mayfair flat and presented him with his MI5 ID:

  ‘It’s all right. I just want a brief chat. Not to worry. I don’t have powers of arrest.’

  The two men sat on a bench on the south side of the park. Buckley came straight to the point:

  ‘In return for your help we guarantee your being able to return and live in England permanently with no police on your tail and all the past forgotten. The thing is you have a secret. And we know about it. We are keen to restore our credibility with the public and with the government. The best and quickest thing for us to do was to “turn” someone.’

  Mark continued to stare in front of him. High overhead a plane’s vapour trail drew a white keloid scar across the blue sky. Buckley sounded apologetic:

  ‘You don’t have much choice I’m afraid. DNA techniques are very advanced now. The Italian police let our forensics examine the knife used on Agnelli in Milan. Your DNA is all over it. We have concrete evidence against you for his murder.’

  Buckley gave Mark a sympathetic glance:

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not the first time this has happened. You don’t need to say anything. Unless you voice some objection here and now I will take it that you have agreed to work with us.’

  Buckley waited for several minutes. The drone of a plane overhead had that melancholy note which heralds autumn. Mark continued to stare ahead.

  The fall from grace is a silent event. Mark Scobie said nothing.

  A new tone of geniality entered Buckley’s voice:

  ‘Good. That’s settled then. What we want you to do is simply continue with everything you have been doing. We are not working with the Dutch secret service and so we need you to report back to us to ensure that everything is going ahead smoothly. We will find and rescue Butterfield after the kidnap. We want the attack on the bank to go ahead. We will arrest Shahid and Massoud immediately afterwards.’

  Mark took a few moments to absorb this information. Then he turned to Buckley:

  ‘How did you know about me?’

  ‘We were keeping tabs on Hector Rossi. The house in Littlestone was bugged. When you popped up on the scene it was an unexpected bonus.’

  ‘Does Hector know about any of this?’ Mark’s face registered sudden suspicion.

  ‘Oh didn’t you know?’ Buckley sounded concerned. ‘Hector Rossi is dead. Some kind of accident in Kent.’ Buckley allowed the shock to sink in and deliberately left the implications vague. ‘We have picked up Khaled.’

  ‘Khaled didn’t have anything to do with anything.’

  ‘Well. He’s useful to us in terms of the conspiracy laws. Phone calls etcetera. Which reminds me.’ Buckley’s voice was crisp and clear as he handed Mark a mobile phone: ‘Use this telephone to contact us. Everything is scrambled, encoded and screened.’

  Mark weighed the phone in his hand. It was heavier than most mobile phones. Buckley flicked him a sidelong look:

  ‘I’d better be off now. Thank you for your help. All you need to do is carry on as you have been doing – but keep in touch. It’s the best way forward for you, I think.’

  Mark looked emasculated as he watched Buckley make his way towards Piccadilly and hail a taxi.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  ‘Ellaaaaaaa.’

  Two weeks later Ella was walking towards her dressing room when a matronly woman she did not recognise, raincoat flapping and clutching several bags, started to run down the corridor towards her.

  ‘It’s Manuela. Don’t you remember me?’

  Ella reconfigured the chubby features until she could discern in them the face of the young dancer she used to know. She shrieked in recognition and they fell into each other’s arms. Ella unlocked the door of her dressing room:

  ‘Come in. I’ve been given a room to myself.’

  The dressing room was decorated in pastel colours. There was a rack for costumes; a table for refreshments and drinks; two armchairs upholstered in pink and blue and the usual counter and mirrors surrounded by bare light-bulbs for make-up. From the room next door came the sound of a tenor practising his scales.

  ‘Oh my god.’ Manuela flung her bags on a chair. ‘I’ve been following your progress in Latin America. Look at me. I’ve gone to seed. I’ve got three grown-up daughters now and one of them is in the corps de ballet here. They’re doing the opening of Les Sylphides for this benefit and she’s in that. I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘Do you remember the rat?’ Ella’s eyes were sparkling with laughter.

  Manuela screamed:

  ‘Of course I remember the rat. It was The Sleeping Beauty wasn’t it? I certainly remember that bloody set. There was this terrible creaking noise when the flats were flown in and out. All the trees wobbled and we used to catch our tulle skirts on the cut-out branches. What happened again?’

  ‘It was the garlands. There was this pile of horseshoe shaped garlands for the Garland Waltz. They were made of dried flowers and miniature sheaves of wheat, rye and barley all woven round this wire frame. They were stacked in a pile on the floor and the assistant stage manager stood in the wings and handed us each one as we went on stage. Just as I was given mine this huge brown rat that had made its nest in one of the sheaves shot out and ran into the wings. And then I looked down and saw that it had either given birth or miscarried or something. There were four tiny bald pink rats the shape of haricot beans curled round each other on the floor.’

  ‘Oh my god. I remember. And then the music started and we all went on in that long chain, smiling, dipping and winding with the garlands held over our heads. And you and I didn’t dare look at each other because we were laughing so much. I was waiting to see what would happen if another rat fell out of the garlands and into somebody’s hair. I nearly died.’

  The two women sat there with tears of laughter rolling down their faces. Ella wiped her eyes with a tissue. She undressed and pulled on her black woollen leg-warmers and a leotard:

  ‘I’m going to the studio to limber up a bit. Are you coming? We only get this one dress rehearsal.’

  They went upstairs. There was a buzz of excitement in the studio which was full of dancers warming up. The clip-clopping of so many pairs of pointe shoes on the floor made it sound as if a troop of horses had assembled. Ella joined them. People introduced themselves. She relaxed into feeling par
t of a group again. The rim of gloom that had been around her stomach since Hector’s death dissolved. Her spirits rose and she began to enjoy the physical pleasure of the workout which the other young dancers conducted in turn.

  Chapter Sixty

  The Covent Garden Theatre was full for the gala matinee. Johannes Caspers and his wife Lillian sat in the plush red front row seats of the dress circle. Caspers smiled and gave little waves of acknowledgement to other friends in the audience. Felix sat in the row behind with two white-haired acquaintances of his father, a writer and an actor who looked indistinguishable from one another. Felix was in a sulk. Michael Feynite had let him down by not coming and using a hangover as an excuse. Downstairs in the stalls Donny kept his black coat on and looked uncomfortable seated at the end of a row where he could stretch his legs and make a quick getaway if necessary.

  Ella’s piece was third in the running order after the corps de ballet had performed some excerpts from Les Sylphides and two of the opera singers had sung a duet from The Pearl Fishers.

  ‘Casa Azul’, the short piece that she was to dance, had been specially choreographed for her in Brazil. The steps were not too athletic for a dancer of her age and allowed her to show off the qualities of simplicity and passion for which she was best known. The ballet was commissioned after the company director visited the graves of those murdered during the military regime in Brazil. This was its first showing in England.

  The lights went down and the curtain went up on Ella’s performance. The piece was set in a graveyard. It was only ten minutes long. She danced the part of a stunning ghost, all whitened, of a woman whose husband was murdered by the secret police. Her costume consisted of a simple white skirt and white blouse both edged with white brocade. She wore a huge black Brazilian hat with a red rose fastened to one side. Her face and arms were streaked with water-based white make-up. The ghost of this woman lived in the graveyard and lamented being exiled from the ordinary human world. She danced with an urn containing her husband’s ashes which magically turned into flower petals as she scattered them over the stage. The ghost then returned to sit outside and watch a family through the window of their house which bordered on the graveyard and which had vines and strands of ivy swarming down its walls. The family were watching a Brazilian soap opera shown on a huge silent television screen. As she sat there another window opened over the screen and the sound of singing poured out over her head.

  As soon as the lights went down before the next piece Donny slipped out of the auditorium.

  *

  ‘Well done. Well done.’

  Johnny Caspers and his wife Lillian made their way into Ella’s dressing room. Ella had been in the shower taking off the body make-up when they knocked. She quickly threw on an old pink and green cotton dressing-gown and pinned up her hair. Felix, accompanied by the elderly writer and actor, along with Manuela and her daughter crowded into the room with them.

  Ella did not recognise Felix, who wore a sober grey suit and had slicked his hair back, until he congratulated her:

  ‘The costume was all in order then.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She pointed to where the costume had been thrown higgledy-piggledy over the rack. He went over to straighten it and hang it up properly.

  Johnny poured out the champagne he had brought and served everybody in the room:

  ‘Ella, I’ve brought you a special bottle of wine from my cellar. I’ll put it on this table. I’ve been round saying thank you to all the performers.’

  ‘Great. Has anyone seen Donny, my husband?’ asked Ella. ‘He was supposed to be coming.’

  No-one had. Manuela, in a mist of Jo Malone scent, bustled over to Ella and embraced her:

  ‘That was great. Listen, we’ve all arranged to go to that place you suggested. Mambo Racine’s. We’ve made a private booking for a Ladies’ Night in two weeks’ time. In the dance-hall venue. It’ll start late, after that night’s show. Everybody’s coming – all the corps de ballet, some of the other girls, dancers and singers from the English National Opera. It’s going to be fun – a leggings, lust and leotard night. You have to wear mad dance gear.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Ella. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I know Mambo Racine’s,’ said Felix.

  ‘Sorry. This is ladies only,’ said Manuela.

  About twenty minutes later voices were heard coming down the corridor. One of the voices had an unmistakably rough timbre, different from the well-modulated tones of the people in the dressing room. Conversation faltered as Donny McLeod came into the room. He was saying something to someone who remained outside. He glanced around as he came in. His silver snow hair and black coat swinging open created a theatrical presence which imposed itself on the rest of the room. Ella noticed that he was a little unsteady on his feet.

  ‘Very good. Very good.’ He addressed Ella ignoring everybody else. Then he headed straight for the drinks table. Ella jumped up and gave him a kiss. Conversation in the room regained its momentum. A minute later a man’s voice, high and garbled like a record played fast and at the wrong speed, was calling Donny’s name from the corridor outside. Donny went to the door:

  ‘Did you find the toilets OK?’

  An ancient wizened man with wispy hair and the unmistakable air of a thief stood in the doorway. He stepped inside bringing with him the boiled cabbage smell of the penal system into the powder-scented room.

  ‘Do you remember Sil, Ella? I found him sitting in exactly the same spot in the same pub where I left him thirty years ago. Go and help yourself to a drink, Sil.’

  Donny made an expansive gesture towards the table. Within seconds Sil had located the bottle of expensive wine and handed it to Donny. Ella was smiling with sheer delight. She introduced Donny to Felix:

  ‘Donny, this is Felix Caspers. He’s a pilot.’ Donny opened the bottle and waved it at Felix, offering him a drink. Felix sounded prim:

  ‘No thanks, I’m flying in the morning. I’d lose my licence.’

  ‘Christ. A pilot, eh?’ Donny narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s something I’d never do. Get in a plane.’

  ‘You’re phobic are you?’ Felix’s expression had a trace of condescension.

  ‘It’s not fear,’ shot back Donny. ‘It’s logic. Why should I get into anything that’s not attached to the ground? Without wheels or anything. If a plane had very tall wheels I’d get in it. Besides I know that if I get into a plane it will fall down. I reckon I save several hundred people a day by not flying.’

  Felix frowned:

  ‘As a matter of fact there are other things that are dangerous for us pilots. I’ve been getting terribly swollen ankles recently on long-haul flights. I should really wear some of those elasticated stockings that stop you getting deep vein thrombosis. I’ve already got high blood pressure. I get headaches too.’

  ‘High blood pressure? Puffy ankles? Well that’s the end of the high heels then,’ mocked Donny.

  Felix cast an anxious look in the direction of his mother.

  ‘And while you’re at it,’ said Donny, ‘why don’t you cut out the middle bit? Death is the next step. Don’t bother with all that intermediary stuff – the limping and groaning and moaning “Oh my puffy ankles”.’

  Conversation in the rest of the room ground to a halt. Ella was looking on with amused anticipation. To cover the strained silence one of Johnny Caspers’ white-haired friends came over:

  ‘Hello. I’m a friend of Johnny’s. I’m a writer.’

  Donny swayed as he studied the man who had a sweet face and a benign smile:

  ‘You’re a writer, are you?’ He turned away looking for a glass. ‘I love being alive. Write that down somewhere.’

  ‘Here, Sil. Some cunt here is calling himself a writer.’ The people in the room had retreated to leave an empty space around Sil who blinked his watery eyes and emitted a high silly giggle.

  Felix stepped forward, his lips tight with disapproval, and confronted Donny:

  ‘I don’
t think you should use that sort of language in front of my mother. It’s boorish and objectionable. I think you should apologise.’

  ‘What language?’ Donny asked, gleefully. ‘Cunt? But I thought this was the age of equality. We’ve had Moby Dick. Now it’s time for Moby Cunt. CUNT.’

  Felix looked at Donny with scorn.

  ‘I don’t even begin to find you funny.’

  ‘Oh dear. Have I made you glum?’ said Donny with a hint of menace.

  To Felix’s irritation his father shouldered him out of the way and intervened:

  ‘How do you do? You’re Ella’s husband. I’m Johnny Caspers. I’m the banker who helped fund this event, for my sins. At least there’s one banker who can be said to have done something good. We’re not popular at the moment, I know. I think it all went very well, don’t you?’

  Donny looked at him with humour, sizing him up:

  ‘You’re a banker, are you? Oh well. You might need some of this.’ Donny pulled some five-pound notes out of his pocket and let them flutter to the ground. Then he added in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘If you must know, my friend Sil here and I are boracic. We’re going to have to get a donkey and paint it black and ride it to the poor-house at night so that no-one will see us.’

  Felix turned on his heel and left the room.

  Donny grasped Ella by the waist and lifted her high into the air so that her head nearly knocked the shade of the overhanging light and the other people in the room staggered back to get out of the way. Ella gave a gasp of laughter as he lowered her to the ground.

  Johnny Caspers was indicating to his wife with his eyes and a slight gesture of his head that they should leave:

  ‘We must be going. The people here will be wanting to get ready for the evening show. And Lillian and I are just off to see Antony and Cleopatra.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Donny. ‘Say hello to them from me.’

  ‘Donny. You’re terrible.’ Ella said after they’d left. Donny gave a theatrical sigh and poured himself an enormous helping of wine.