GEORGE (V.O.)
Everything I’d been thinking about Vereker – his themes, his stylistic motifs, his narrative patterning – it all fell magically into place. It was like – like a fog had lifted, and I saw the work whole, as if for the first time. ‘The figure in the carpet’ wasn’t a puzzle any more – maybe it wasn’t a puzzle in the first place. I could see it right there in front of me, in all its beautiful simplicity.
CUT TO: The present, the cafe at Portofino.
CHAS
Eureka.
GEORGE
Precisely. The unimagined truth. Strange to think it might never have come to me without the stimulus of … a trip.
CHAS
(after a long pause)
So …
GEORGE
So?
CHAS
For Christ’s sake, do I have to ask? All right. What is it – the figure in the carpet? The secret.
GEORGE
Chas, come on. You think after all this effort I’m simply going to tell everyone?
CHAS
No, not ‘everyone’. Me. Your friend – the person who put you on to the thing in the first place.
GEORGE
For which I’m very grateful. And when it’s finished you will have pride of place in the acknowledgements of my book.
CHAS
Fuck the acknowledgements! I want to know now. I deserve to know.
GEORGE
I’m sorry, Chas. It’s for the book – it’s the soul of the book. The definitive portrait of Hugh Vereker. I can’t let you peep under the curtain before it’s ready.
CHAS
I came here by train and bus and ferry for this –
GEORGE
I thought you came to pay your respects to a dying man.
CHAS rises from his seat, throws down some coins for his coffee.
CHAS
I can’t believe you. You must be so desperate to make your name you’ve forgotten what it is to be a friend.
GEORGE
I think we both know who the desperate one is, Chas.
CHAS turns on him a look of pure scorn and walks off. GEORGE watches him go, then calls to the waiter.
14
Freya had not visited Munich before, and perhaps of her own accord never would have done. It existed in the more blinkered reaches of her mind as a fanatical centre of sausage shops, beer halls and Nazism. This last was now allegedly in abeyance, though something about the city’s municipal orderliness and the dry obedience of pedestrians at traffic lights seemed to give the lie to its reformed ways. She had imagined the place to feel somewhat more chastened. The reception at the Marienbad Hotel had put her on guard from the off: the manner in which the unsmiling desk clerk ran his eye down the ledger and announced that he had no record of a reservation for ‘Wyley’ answered to the stereotype of all she had expected from Bavarian hospitality.
This impression was almost instantly overturned by the appearance of the dapper hotel manager, Gerhard, who welcomed Freya with a graciousness befitting ‘a friend of Miss Zertz’. Sonja, true to her word, had taken it upon herself to arrange the accommodation, and Freya could find no fault with the seigneurial suite he showed her to, or the view from her window down Maximilianstrasse. It seemed that Sonja really was a local heroine, to judge from the posters of the Kloss-fest she had spotted around the city – a dramatic black-and-white still of her face from The Private Life of Hanna K.
They had last seen one another at Richmond on the night the Thomas Bertram went up in flames. The good news was that there had been no casualties, aside from a crew member who had suffered minor injuries in making his escape. The copy of The Times she had bought at the airport carried a few column inches about the ongoing investigation. Early reports that the fire had started through an electrical fault had by now been dismissed. Police investigators examining the charred hulk of the vessel had uncovered certain ‘suspect materials’. The case for arson looked incontrovertible. ‘Whoever is responsible for destroying Harry Pulver’s yacht,’ Nat had said to her, ‘should be tracked down and shaken warmly by the hand.’
She had just unpacked her bag when a knock came at the door. A waiter stood there with his trolley: on it a bottle of Krug lolling in an ice bucket. I haven’t ordered this, she told him; but his English wasn’t good, and she had no German. She signed for it, then phoned down to Gerhard, who explained, with a smile in his voice, that the champagne had been specifically requested for the room by Miss Zertz. She caught her expression in the room’s gilt mirror, and laughed at herself.
Below, trams ghosted along the street as if on casters, their bells clanging; the scene reminded her of London twenty years ago. She read more of the paper, had a bath and then lay on the bed, smoking a small joint. An hour later the telephone on the nightstand woke her from an impromptu nap: she was still wrapped in a towel. It was reception calling to say that her guest had arrived. She had forgotten about this. The bedside clock informed her it was 6.30 p.m. She dressed quickly and went down to the lobby, where Gerhard, her new friend, conducted her to the bar. A petite, slightly nervous woman with short dark hair was waiting. She wore a zip-up black leather blouson and introduced herself as Veronika Braun, one of the festival organisers.
‘I spoke with your colleague at the paper,’ she reminded her. ‘Miss Frampton.’
‘Yes, it was Delphine who set this up,’ said Freya. ‘I gather you’re a friend of Reiner’s.’
‘That’s correct,’ she replied matter-of-factly. There was much excitement about the festival, she went on, in an unexcited voice. There had been a good deal of interest from newspapers and the media, not just in Europe – even the New York Times had sent along a correspondent. The director had sent the festival a message of ‘good luck’ for the occasion.
‘He’s very disappointed that he couldn’t attend in person,’ said Freya.
Veronika stared at her. ‘You know Reiner?’
‘No. But we met at a party last week, and he said it was unfortunate he had to be in Italy for filming.’
Freya sensed a little quickening of interest in the woman now the fact of her acquaintance with Reiner was out. After a drink in the bar Veronika led the way to the theatre on Müllerstrasse where one of his early plays, 29 Marks, was being staged. As they walked she opened up a little about her own history with Reiner: they had first met at acting school, where he had become a star student, writing and directing his own plays. She had been somewhat in awe of him, so when he abandoned the school (‘he was bored by the teachers’) and asked her to join a new theatre company he was setting up she didn’t think twice. It was basically a handful of them to start with. Reiner chose the plays and directed while she helped with the casting and the producing; the others handled the publicity and the fund-raising. They struggled at first, barely filling the upstairs room they had turned into a theatre. But almost by force of will Reiner made it work, first with a scabrous production of The Beggar’s Opera, then a shadow-haunted version of Faust, with himself in the title role.
Kloss productions became celebrated, and Reiner was for a time the wonder boy of Munich’s underground theatre scene. And just when he seemed likely to break into the mainstream he gave up acting and turned to film-making. Freya heard a shiver of regret as Veronika related this, but further discussion was cut short as they arrived at the Fengler Theater, where a queue was already snaking along the street. Veronika conducted her inside and showed her to a seat near the front of the auditorium; she had to hurry off, but they would meet afterwards for dinner, if she wasn’t busy. Just before the lights went down two young men, both dressed like off-duty sailors in caps and leather jackets, sidled in and settled themselves just in front of her. It took her a moment to realise that their attire was a homage to Reiner.
Gina, head back on the pillow at an angle of agonised surrender, gave out a long moan. Thank Christ, thought Nat, whose tongue ached from its super-extended probing. He squinted up at her from between her l
egs like a marksman through cross hairs. Gina’s neck and face were beginning to crimson in the way he found so exciting in a woman working her way to climax. A thin shaft of afternoon light pierced the curtains and fell across the bedroom floor; voices could be heard drifting up from the hotel swimming pool, punctuated by the occasional soft splash of a dive. He felt the sweat running off his forehead and into his eyes. His tongue, could it have spoken, would have cried for mercy. Another moan came from Gina, longer, and needier.
He felt a stiffening in her haunches, and a shiver trembled the length of her. As it did, a metallic click went off just behind his shoulder. He glanced around: Sonja, in her knickers, her face partially obscured by the camera she was holding. It was the long-lensed Nikon F he’d recently acquired, the same one what’s-his-face used in Blow-Up. She lowered it; her expression was watchful, her mouth about to crease into a smirk. She said a few words in German, which he understood from a little game they’d been playing earlier. He raised himself onto his knees and straddled Gina’s waist. He had thought this bit might be tricky, but it wasn’t. The recent memory of the caning each woman had dealt him sprang up, bobbing, and with the aid of a few swift strokes he came, ecstatically. He heard two further clicks go off before he sank down on top of her.
How had this happened?
They had arrived – the cast, the crew, the screenwriter – in Portofino three days ago, tired and sweaty after the drive from Genoa airport. Their hotel was perched high on the hill overlooking the bay. From his balcony he had gazed out like a Roman emperor in his summer eyrie. The stately Mediterranean wobbled and glistened, first bands of green, then of navy, then of aquamarine. On the first day Reiner went off with Ronnie and Alec Madden to rehearse the long cafe scene between Chas and George. Nat had spent the morning wandering about the chic little harbour and its warren of boutiques; he bought a pair of playboyish swimming trunks he wasn’t sure he could get away with. While drinking an espresso at a bar he was distracted by the sight of a teenage girl languidly shimmying inside a hula hoop. As people stopped to watch, the girl displayed a few tricks, allowing the hoop to run up and down her body or over her shoulder, then speeding up her revolutions until it became a blur. The athletic grace and suppleness of her brown limbs mesmerised him. Nat picked up the Nikon and, pretending to focus on a spot out to sea, slyly snapped her.
His nose was still tender from the assault the previous weekend. His eyes were raccooned with bruises, so he wore his aviator sunglasses from morning till night. Someone from Harold Pulver’s office had sent Nat flowers by way of an apology. In the days that followed, the story of the Thomas Bertram had scorched across the papers. It had taken the fire services an hour or more to get the blaze under control. The flowers had been quite unnecessary – that smouldering wreck was the compensation. True, he’d felt sorry for Dox Walbrook and his band, who’d lost all their gear. Dox himself had looked inconsolable. What nobody could work out was who might have started it. This was no casual act of vandalism, according to the police; it looked like the work of someone who knew how to set a fire. One consequence of it, which seemed to please everyone, was that Harry would not be joining them on location in Italy. He was too busy dealing with the police and the insurance people and the alibis of underworld slags who might have done this to him.
Nat walked back up the wooded path to the hotel and found a little gathering of his colleagues on the shaded terrace. The wardrobe lady, Caro, and Joan the make-up girl were swatting some argument around like a shuttlecock while the others half listened. The subject was a notable French couturier – Brochard – and whether he was queer or not. Nat wasn’t interested in the person or the question, and sensed that the others weren’t either. Sonja was sipping a daiquiri. Gina, in her Lolita sunglasses, was painting her nails. The pretty hairdresser, Helen, and an epicene youth named Aubrey, the set designer, sat slumped in cane chairs, fanning themselves. It was a beautiful slow August afternoon.
He ordered a Martini as the talk droned on. The assembly required a tincture of mischief. He thought of a little game Jimmy Erskine had once taught him: invent a bit of gossip – the more outlandish and indefensible the better – and wait to see how long it takes to boomerang back to you as fact. He cleared his throat.
‘I dare say it won’t matter to Arthur Brochard soon whether people think he’s queer or not.’
Caro, a large, fierce lady whose monologue he had interrupted mid-flow, glared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, just that he’ll have more pressing things on his mind.’
Now the others were looking at him, curious. ‘Like what?’
Nat said, with practised nonchalance, ‘Well, from what I’ve heard, Arthur is soon to become’ – he lowered his voice – ‘Martha.’
There was a stunned pause, then Caro, chin retracted in an outraged expression of disbelief, said, ‘That is quite the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
Nat, expecting as much, shrugged his innocence. ‘I’m only reporting what was told me, dear. Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘Do you mean to say he’s having a …?’ cooed Helen, goggle-eyed. There was a stifled titter; the others looked at one another, trying to gauge precisely the credence they ought to bestow on this bombshell.
‘I believe he has begun the, um, process,’ said Nat, managing to command a straight face. There followed some mutterish debate among them as to the relative difficulty of gender-swapping. Easier to go from man to woman, it was agreed, than woman to man, what with the –
‘Who told you this?’ Caro put in sternly. It wasn’t clear to Nat if she resented his being first with the gossip or the high probability that he was spinning them a line.
‘A well-connected friend of mine. He knows the surgeon.’ He waited a beat, then said, ‘Or rather, should I say, she knows the surgeon.’
Gina, whose poor hearing Nat could tell had just caught up with the story, drew in her breath sharply. ‘You mean you – no!’
Nat nodded solemnly, enjoying himself now. He resisted their importuning him for a name, on the grounds he couldn’t betray a confidence. Only Caro continued to look unimpressed. Eventually she said, to no one in particular, ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me letting someone fiddle with my parts.’
‘You wait until you’re arsked, cheeky,’ Nat shot back in his camp voice, and the table collapsed in mirth, apart from Caro who gave a cross little pout and fell silent. Emboldened by the shockwaves his fib had caused, Nat considered his next move. He should try the Garment Game on them.
‘Anyone fancy a bit of fun?’ he said with a genial grin.
He explained the rules: everyone had to count the number of clothes they were wearing and secretly note it on a piece of paper, which they would hand to the scorer. Items such as a piece of jewellery counted as one, shoes counted as one each, and so on. Everyone would take turns guessing the total number of garments worn by all present. The winner would be the one who scored the highest tally of correct guesses – which of course depended on one’s skill at judging who would be wearing underpants, corsets, whatever. Caro didn’t want to play, but after some persuasion she agreed to be score master.
‘Is a pair of trousers one or two?’ asked Helen.
‘A nice distinction, my dear,’ said Nat. ‘Trousers, pants, bloomers if you will, count as one.’ Pity Alec Madden isn’t here, he thought – I could finally determine whether he wears a codpiece or not.
Amid much giggling they settled, each of them turning appraising glances upon their companions, quietly parsing the exact constitution of their outer – and under – wear. He watched Helen lean over to check if he was wearing socks with his loafers. They scribbled their estimates down on paper. Joan was elected to have first go, and went through her guesses with a shy glance at each of them.
‘Sonja: ten. Helen: eleven. Aubrey: really not sure – eight? Gina: ten. Nat: ooh … eleven.’
They each followed. Nat occasionally challenged one of them to explain �
��the accounting’. How, for instance, had Helen come to decide that Sonja was sporting only six items? Well, she began, after seeking Sonja’s permission (‘Don’t mind at all, darling’), she had counted her jumpsuit, sunglasses, two sandals, that beaded necklace, and the vintage deco ring on her finger.
‘And … underwear?’ Nat queried.
Helen made a comic face. ‘I don’t think she’s wearing any.’
Even Caro, who’d been sulking, gave a seagull shriek of laughter. At the end of the round she totted up how many correct guesses each had got, without revealing specifics, so that the game could continue. The estimate none of them could seem to agree on was Nat’s. Gina counted off his outfit item by item on her fingers, with encouraging nods and yeahs from the others.
‘Jacket, trousers, shirt, loafers – two, socks – two, belt, ring, wristwatch, undies?’ – laughter, again – ‘and those very nice sunglasses. I make that twelve.’
After Aubrey, Helen and Joan had dropped out; it left a three-way contest between Gina, Sonja and Nat. Following more revisions and inquisitive stares Nat delivered his final verdict.
‘Sonja: seven, I think. Pace Helen’s surmise of earlier, but intuition tells me that our Miss Zertz is wearing knickers.’
Sonja returned a gracious but non-committal nod.
‘As for Gina,’ he continued, ‘let’s go again from the top. Sun hat, sunglasses, necklace, bra, top, three rings, trousers – sorry, “palazzo pants” – sandals (two). Which by my count is eleven.’
Aubrey piped up. ‘You forgot knickers!’
Nat arched his eyebrows. ‘I think not. Rien ne va plus.’
A volley of oohs and aahs and even blimeys burst forth. They all turned to the score master. Caro, having made a great ceremony of tallying the figures, announced, ‘I’m afraid, ladies, that Nat here has got you both spot on, but neither of you got his. The correct answer for Nat is thirteen.’
Eureka Page 24
