Mirage

by James Follett

  The day started like any other day. He rose at six o’clock, as he always did. He washed and shaved, and examined the pouches that were appearing under his eyes. His sharp features, wide-set brown eyes and dark complexion were a legacy from his French mother. He found some more grey hairs and wondered if he ought to start dyeing his hair. Maybe using a little more each day so that no one would notice. He was a well-built, powerful man who kept himself in shape with a regular sixty-minute weekly work-out in the firm’s gymnasium. Always on a Friday evening; never fifty-nine minutes; never sixty-one minutes; but always sixty minutes precisely. He opened the wardrobe and selected a freshly-laundered shirt and a grey tie. His suit for the day was well-cut, top-quality worsted in the latest style. Albert’s expenditure on clothes was his only luxury. He prided himself on dressing as well, if not better, than Luftech’s senior managers.

  He joined Hannah for breakfast thirty minutes after rising, as he always did. At 7.30am precisely he gave her a light kiss and set off for the office in his twenty-year-old Peugeot Berline 203: a mediocre saloon that was the same age as his marriage and about as exciting. On the seat beside him were the flask and sandwiches that Hannah prepared for him. It was a Tuesday: the sandwiches would be tuna fish.

  Albert was forty-six. A shy, private man who had worked diligently and loyally for Luftech for twenty-five years, he had started as a junior draughtsman after leaving technical college. It had taken him a quarter of a century to become manager of the tracing office. In that time he had seen younger men, and less competent in his opinion, overtake him on the promotional ladder. Albert had lacked the courage to complain and the necessary initiative to push himself forward. As the years slipped by and middle age crept up on him like a cat cornering a mouse, the feeling of resentment at his own inadequacy gradually changed to a smouldering bitterness that was directed equally at himself and his employers. Outwardly he remained good old, trustworthy, dependable Albert - a father-figure to ‘his girls’, as he liked to think of them, although he and Hannah had never had children.

  Although he fantasized about the tracers in his office, he was careful never to show his feelings by word or deed. He never stared openly at them. Only when their heads and shoulders were safely hidden behind their drawing boards would he permit himself an occasionaly furtive glance at their legs. A carelessly spread pair of thighs and a glimpse of underwear were enough to fuel his fantasies for a week. Albert was so covert - so careful to ignore the girls when they dressed more provocatively than usual - that their powder- room opinion was that he was a repressed homosexual.

  Albert’s care never to be caught looking at his girls in a suggestive manner arose not so much out of any desire to avoid being thought ill of by them, but because he genuinely liked them. After all, they were like him - underdogs. Perhaps more so because in Swiss society women had less rights than in most other European countries.

  In return the girls liked Albert. He was always patient and understanding; quick to praise their work when they did well, and slow to condemn a carelessly traced master. Latenesses were often overlooked and so were the odd days off. Provided their weekly time sheets were honestly completed, he would often alter them to show a full week worked.

  He drove through Luftech’s gates at exactly 8.15am and parked his car in his designated space. That much recognition of his twenty- five years’ service they had accorded him. But it was an open bay. The covered bays were for directors. Peter Koenig’s new Jensen FF gleamed like sculptured ebony in the morning light. Twenty-three years old and he had a Jensen. Well - he was the chairman’s son-in-law. That made it bearable. Less bearable was Leon Ziegler’s Chevrolet Caprice. Ziegler had been junior to Albert. Now he was a sales director. Albert ran his finger along the vinyl hood and wondered what it would be like to drive such a car.

  At 8.20am he switched on the Ozalid dyeline machine in the print room adjoining his tracing office and checked that it had enough ammonia for the day’s work. The big drawing printer required several minutes to warm up. By 8.25am he was standing by the entrance of the tracing office ready to greet the girls by shaking their hands when they arrived. Like many Swiss companies, Luftech had adopted a number of France’s more formal traditions.

  The morning was just like any other morning. Christina, a pretty new trainee tracer, was having trouble copying a set of ejection seat drawings for the Mirage. Albert’s department had been working for a year now on the Mirage project sub-contracted from Sulzers. Christina’s drawings consisted of a set of A-size piece part drawings

  - each one about the size of an A4 sheet. The work involved tracing Dassasult’s prints on to new master transparencies that bore Sulzers’ pre-printed name and address. The material used was Irish linen impregnated with wax. It had a shiny film-like surface that took indian ink well, was easy to correct, and was stable - especially important with the full-size frame drawings whose dimensions were often scaled directly from the prints.

  Albert showed the girl how to correct her mistakes by removing the dried indian ink with a scalpel and electric eraser.

  ‘But it looks such a mess, Mr Heinken,’ said Christina when Albert had finished.

  Albert gave her a kindly smile. ‘I’ll show you what it looks like when it’s printed, Christina. Come.’

  He showed her into the print room. He took an A4 sheet of paper from a light proof packet, laid Christina’s master on the paper and pushed them through the Ozalid’s rollers. Ultra-violet light flared from within the machine. Both sheets emerged a few seconds later and dropped into the collection bin. Christina looked in delight at the resulting print which bore no sign of her corrections.

  ‘The light shines straight through the corrected areas,’ Albert explained. ‘Nothing will show on the prints provided you remove all the ink from your master.’

  Christina returned to her drawing board. Albert’s reappearance in the tracing office broke up a giggling huddle of girls around Sonia’s drawing board. No doubt the little minx was planning the seduction of yet another male employee. Sonia’s seemingly insatiable appetite for men was a standing joke in the office. Albert could see her legs from his desk. She always had her skirt hoisted immodestly high when it was hot. His gaze drifted to a wall calendar but his thoughts remained with Sonia and the last New Year’s office party when she had kissed him. It was something he would never forget. Of course, she had had too much to drink, otherwise she would not have ground her hips against him or pushed her tongue into his mouth. Or would she? Albert smiled to himself. Sonia was his favourite and, he suspected from the way she sometimes looked at him, she knew all about his secretive glances at the girls when they were safely tucked behind their drawing boards.

  The wall clock ticked through the warm morning. The only intrusive sound was the hum of the Ozalid machine as Heidi, the part-time print room operator, ran off copies of the previous day’s work and made the prints up into parcels.

  At 12.55pm there was a buzz of activity as the girls got ready for lunch. The usual smell of methylated spirits wafted across the office as they tried to remove the worst of the indian ink stains from their fingers. But today was different. Instead of them dashing out on the stroke of one, Sonia approached Albert’s desk as he was unwrapping his sandwiches.

  ‘Mr Heinken, I’m getting engaged tomorrow.’

  Albert was genuinely pleased. ‘You are, Sonia? Congratulations. What will you do about all these men you keep chasing?’

  ‘Oh -I shall let them go on catching me,’ Sonia replied cheerfully. ‘I’m buying everyone a drink. You included, Mr Heinken.’

  Albert was doubtful. ‘Well - I—’

  ‘I’m not taking no for an answer, Mr Heinken. Everyone means everyone. We’re going to that new place across the road. You can practise your English on the barmaid.’ To emphasize her determination, Sonia smilingly took hold of Albert’s arm.

  ‘Would you like something to eat, sir?’

  Albert looked up into the most beautiful eyes
he had ever seen. Despite the demanding crush at the bar, the way the girl spoke and looked at him suggested that she had all the time in the world to devote solely to him.

  He knew he was blushing and was angry with himself. The menu was written in four languages. In his confusion he stupidly found himself struggling with the English page simply because she had spoken in English. ‘Oh ... a toasted cheese sandwich, s’il vous plait.’ His reply in a mixture of English and French made him blush even more. She smiled at him. ‘About three minutes, sir.’

  Albert tried not to look but his eyes were drawn inexorably to the cleft outline of her pudendum that was clearly visible through the stretched material of her incredibly tight shorts. When she turned back, her sleeveless T-shirt gave him a perfect view of her left breast as she reached up to open the infra-red oven behind the bar. A friendly poke in the ribs made him turn around.

  Sonia was looking hurt and a little unsteady. ‘You never look at me like that, Mr Heinken,’ she complained.

  Albert laughed to hide his embarrassment. ‘Her accent surprised me. American I think.’ He raised his glass. ‘To your future, Sonia. And the lucky man, whoever he is.’

  Sonia caught hold of Albert’s raised hand and took a sip from his glass, her fingers over his, light and cool. He found it a surprisingly erotic gesture. She tottered slightly and would have fallen had not Albert held her elbow.

  ‘Don’t you drink too much, young lady. You’ve got those gyroscope drawings to finish this afternoon.’

  Sonia pulled a face at him. She turned and melted willingly into the arms of a male well-wisher. Albert’s eyes went back to the girl working behind the bar. Her shorts rode tantalizingly over her deliciously rounded buttocks as she reached up to a shelf. His gaze followed her across the bar to one of the booths. On the way back she spoke briefly to the manager. She looked at him the way she had looked at Albert. Then she was back at the griddle, turning the sizzling hamburgers, occasionally mopping her forehead and pulling at her T-shirt to prevent it clinging to her breasts. Her movements possessed an unconscious sensual grace and charm. Albert drank them in like a thirsty buffalo at a waterhole. He was distracted by Christina wanting to thank him for being so helpful in her first job. He smilingly dismissed her thanks and turned back to the bar to meet those heavenly eyes again and the dazzling accompanying smile. Perfect teeth and full lips that Albert could not help seeing closing over him and then drawing back, leaving his organ wet and gleaming.

  ‘Your sandwich, sir.’

  He was confused. The fleeting mental picture had been so vivid that he foolishly thought that the girl must have seen it. ‘So soon?’ he stammered.

  ‘An infra-red grill.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He felt stupid and embarrassed. Of course it was an infra-red grill; the damn thing was less than a metre away. She must be thinking what an idiot he was. She set the toasted sandwich before him together with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin.

  By 2.15pm, when the bar was a little less crowded, Albert had drunk a litre of lager when all he usually drank at lunchtime was Hannah’s soup and coffee from the office vending machine. The tracers were leaving. Unwilling to leave when there was still fifteen minutes of the lunch break left, and unwilling to surrender his stool, he ordered a rum and coffee. The girl poured them for him. She seemed to have a little more time now that the main rush for cooked meals was over.

  ‘You seem to be doing well here,’ he blurted out. He could hardly believe he had spoken. He - Albert Heinken - deliberately trying to make small talk with this divine creature.

  She paused in her task of emptying ashtrays to smile warmly at him. ‘It’s crazy really. We do forty per cent of our trade each day during these two hours.’

  ‘Crazy,’ Albert agreed. He raised his glass and caught sight of himself in the mirror. Forty-six years old and here he was trying to be sophisticated with a girl half his age. She was laughing a him. She had to be. Suddenly his confidence evaporated like a summer morning’s mist. While the girl was talking to the manager, he hurriedly finished his drink and left a handful of coins on the bar.

  All that afternoon he silently cursed his stupidity. What would she think of him, rushing out like that without saying goodbye? His thoughts were disturbed by one of the girls approaching his desk. She had a problem reading a faint print. It was an E-size drawing of a main spar section - too big for her to spread out on his desk so he went to her drawing board. Beyond the chain link fencing he could see the girl from the bar wiping down the outside tables. Once the problem had been sorted out, he returned to his desk and the lonely eroticism of his dreams. He kept seeing a beautiful brown-tipped breast beneath the T-shirt. He saw himself standing behind her - one hand sliding under the T-shirt, gently cupping a warm, full breast while his fingers made little circles before closing on their target and teasing her nipple erect.... His other hand sliding under the waistband of her shorts. There was very little room, they were so tight, but she sucked in her stomach, creating a hollow between her hips for his questing fingers to reach down ... parting her ... caressing her with little delicate, tinkling little circular motions like the warm touch of the sun encouraging a spring bud to swell and burst. Then there was her lovely warm smile and those rich, full lips doing to him what he had begged Hannah to do but she had always steadfastly refused. That had been when they were first married. He never asked her any more. He bundled Hannah from his dream like an unwanted neighbour being evicted from a party. Most important of all were the girl’s eyes: almond-shaped like a cat’s eyes. Black, alluring pools of promise.

  Albert knew that he had to see those beautiful eyes again that day. He came to a decision and surprised himself at how easy it was to carry it out - the first stage at least. He telephoned Hannah and told her he would be working late that night and that he would have something to eat on the way home. He cut short her queries by saying he was wanted on the internal telephone. He thought that lying to Hannah would be difficult. He had never lied to her before. But then he had never seen eyes like that before ....

  At 6.00pm he said ‘goodnight’ to the girls and shook their hands as they left, as he always did. At 6.15pm he drove out through the main gates, as he always did. At 6.18pm he ended the habit of a lifetime by parking his car outside Cinderella’s instead of driving home.

  The mould that was Albert Heinken was irrevocably smashed.

  5

  ‘Daniel, do aircraft have gyroscopes?’

  Daniel paused in his task of filling crates with empty bottles. It was 1.30am. After two exhausting weeks of running Cinderella’s, they had both learned the importance of clearing up before going to bed no matter how tired they were. He looked across the bar at Raquel. She was sitting in one of the booths, counting the day’s takings into piles of coins and banknotes.

  ‘Yes - of course. Several. Why?’

  ‘Even jet fighters?’

  Daniel continued filling the crate. ‘Yes, Rac. Why?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. That big guy who came in earlier this evening.’

  ‘I saw the way he was looking at you. What about him?’

  ‘He came in at lunchtime with some girls. Walking so they had to be from Sulzers or Luftech. My German’s lousy but he seemed concerned about one of the girls drinking too much. He said something to her about her having to do some gyroscope drawings.’

  Daniel frowned. ‘A woman draughtsman? It would be unusual. Maybe you misheard him.’

  ‘Maybe. But I think we should add him to the list.’

  Daniel unlocked the till cover and removed a folded sheet of paper bearing a list of ten names. They were members of Sulzers’ and Luftech’s middle management. By keeping their ears open and listening for the use of first names and surnames, Daniel and Raquel had compiled a list of Sulzers’ executives who had become frequent customers.

  Daniel sat opposite Raquel. ‘Did you get his name?’

  ‘The girls at lunchtime called him Mr Hei
nken. This evening he told me that his name was Albert and that he worked at Luftech.’

  Daniel added Albert Heinken’s name to the list. ‘Anything else about him?’

  Raquel shook her head. ‘Except that he spent an hour at the bar this evening just staring at me.’

  Daniel smiled. ‘They all do that, Rac.’

  Raquel rubbed her bare arms. It was a warm evening but she

  suddenly felt chilly. ‘He was different, Daniel. I don’t think he noticed the mirror behind the bar. He didn’t know I could see him.’

  ‘Do we know anything else about him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about his girls at lunchtime?’

  Raquel thought for a moment. ‘There was something odd about them. They were all beautifully dressed and made up but they had ink stains on their fingers.’

  Daniel stared at her for some seconds. He suddenly banged the table, making Raquel jump. ‘Tracers! They were tracers, Rac!’ ‘What?’

  He seized Raquel by the chin and kissed her. ‘They were tracers! They’re usually girls. Any company making a product under licence has to create secondary masters of the original drawings by tracing them on to translucents so that they can print their own copies whenever they need them. It’s normal production practice.’

  ‘So?’

  Daniel spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to assure himself of the full import of his words. ‘If this Albert Heinken is the manager of Luftech’s tracing office and he’s working on the Mirage project, it means that he’s the one man who has all the Mirage drawings passing through his hands.’

  ‘But surely Sulzers’ design office would have them?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘Not if they’ve contracted out the conversion of the Dassault masters to Luftech. And even then they’d only handle those drawings that would need alteration for the Swiss version of the Mirage. But Luftech’s tracing office would produce tracings of all of Dassault’s original drawings right down to piece part drawings of all the special nuts and bolts.’