“I wouldn’t venture an opinion,” said Persse, recalling one of Angelica’s remarks at Rummidge: “You have to treat these professors carefully. You have to flatter them a bit.” He asked Tardieu if he had met Angelica’s sister.
“Sister? No, is there a sister?”
“I’m pretty sure that there is.”
“This is the street.”
As they turned the corner, Persse suddenly panicked at the realization that he did not know what he was going to say to Angelica. That he loved her, of course—but she knew that already. That he had misjudged her? But she knew that as well, though he hoped she hadn’t guessed how grievously. In all the excitement of pursuing her, or her double, across Europe, he had never thought to prepare himself with an appropriate speech for the moment of meeting. He almost hoped that she was still on the streets of Lausanne with her arms full of hyacinths, so that he would have time to sit in the pension’s lounge and prepare himself before she returned.
Tardieu halted in front of a house with a small painted sign under a light over the door, “Pension Bellegarde”. “Here you are,” he said. “I wish you goodnight—and success.”
“You won’t come in?” Persse found himself absurdly nervous of meeting Angelica alone.
“No, no, my presence would be superfluous,” said Tardieu. “I have performed my narrative function for tonight.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” said Persse.
Tardieu smiled and shrugged. “If one is not a subject or an object, one must be a helper or an opponent. You I help. Professor Zapp I oppose.”
“Why do you oppose him?”
“You have perhaps heard of a UNESCO chair in literary criticism?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Au revoir.”
They shook hands, and Persse felt a small pellet-like object pressed into his palm. As the other walked away, Persse tilted his hand towards a streetlamp and discovered a solitary currant adhering to it. He nibbled the currant, turned, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell of the pension.
A middle-aged woman in a neat, dark dress opened the door. “Oui monsieur?”
“Fe cherche une jeune femme,” Persse stammered. “Miss Papps. I mean, Miss Pabst. I understand that she is staying here.”
“Ah! Mademoiselle Pabst!” The woman smiled, then frowned. “Alas, she has departed.”
“Oh, no!” Persse groaned. “You mean she’s gone for good?”
“Pardon?”
“She has checked out—left Lausanne?”
“Oui, m’sieu.”
“When did she leave?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“She asked about trains to Geneve.”
“Thanks.” Persse turned and sprinted back down the street.
He ran all the way to the station, using the middle of the road, since the pavements were still crowded, cheered on by onlookers who evidently thought he was part of the street theatre, though he couldn’t recall anyone actually running in The Waste Land—it was a rather ambulatory poem. He used such thoughts to distract himself from the stitch in his side and his chagrin at having missed Angelica by so small a margin. He dashed into the station and yelled at the first person he saw an interrogative “Geneve?” The man pointed towards a staircase and Persse leapt down the stairs three at a time. But he had been misled, or mistaken: the train was drawn up beside the opposite platform, separated from him by another line. He heard doors slamming and a whistle shrilled. There was no time to retrace his steps—his only chance of catching the train was to cross the tracks and board it from this side. He glanced up and down the line to check that it was clear, but as he made to step down, a pair of uniformed arms closed around him and dragged him back from the brink.
“Non non, m’sieu! C’est defendu de traverser!”
Persse struggled momentarily, then, as the train moved smoothly out of the station, desisted. In one of the compartments he glimpsed the back of a girl’s dark head that might have been Angelica. “Angelica!” he yelled despairingly, and futilely. The official released his grip on Persse and regarded him disapprovingly.
“When is the next train to Geneva?” Persse asked. “ quelle heure le train prochain pour Geneve?”
“Demain,” said the man with righteous satisfaction. “A six heures et demi.”
As Persse came out into the station colonnade, a taxi driver cocked an interrogative eyebrow. This time he accepted the ride. “Pension Bellegarde,” he said, and slumped back, exhausted, in the back seat.
The light over the front door of the pension was out, and the landlady took longer to answer Persse’s ring. She looked surprised to see him back again.
“I’d like a room for the night, please.”
She shook her head. “I am sorry,_m’sieu_ , we are full.”
“But you can’t be!” Persse protested. “Miss Pabst has only just left. Can’t I have the room she vacated?”
The woman pointed to her wristwatch. “It is late m’sieu. The room must be cleaned, the linen changed. That cannot be done tonight.”
“Madame,” said Persse fervently, “let me have the room exactly as it is, and I’ll pay you double.”
The landlady was clearly suspicious of this offer from a luggage-less, wild-eyed, scruffy-looking foreigner, but when he explained that the young lady who had occupied the room was the object of his sentimental attachment, she smiled rosily and said he could have the room as it stood for half-price.
The room was under the steep eaves of the house, with a small dormer window that afforded a glimpse of the lake far below. The window was shut and the air inside the room heavy with the scent of a large bunch of hyacinths, crushed and wilting in the waste basket. The room showed all the signs of a recent hasty departure. Persse picked up a still-damp towel from the floor beneath the washbasin and held it to his cheek. He swallowed the dregs of water at the bottom of a glass tumbler as reverently as if it were communion wine. He carefully unfolded a crumpled paper tissue left on the dressing table, uncovering at its core the faint impression of a pair of red lips, to which he pressed his own. He slept naked between sheets that were still creased and wrinkled from contact with Angelica’s lovely limbs, and inhaled from the pillow under his head the lingering fragrance of her shampoo. He fell asleep in a delirium of sweet sensation and poignant regret and physical exhaustion.
On waking the next morning, he made two precious discoveries underneath the hyacinths in the waste basket: a pair of nylon tights with a hole in one knee, which he tucked away into an inside pocket next to his heart, and a scrap of paper with a telephone number and “TAA 426 Dep .22.50 arr 06.20” written on it in a neat italic hand, which he took immediately to the payphone in the hail downstairs. He dialled the number and was answered by a female voice. “Transamerican Airways.”
“Can you tell me the destination of your flight 426 that left Geneva at 22.50 last night?”
“Yes sir, flight 426 to New York and Los Angeles should have left at that time last night. But due to a technical problem the flight was postponed till this morning. We had to charter another plane.”
“When did it leave?”
“It departs in one hour from now, at 09.30 hours, sir.”
“Is there a vacant seat?”
“Plenty, sir, but you’d better hurry.”
Persse thrust a generous quantity of francs into the hand of his bewildered landlady and ran down the hill to the taxi-rank in front of the station.
“Geneva airport,” he gasped, collapsing into the back seat. “As fast as you can.”
The route to the airport was mostly motorway, and the taxi passed everything on it. They arrived at the International Departures terminal at nine o’clock precisely. Persse gave all his remaining francs to the driver, who seemed well satisfied. He ran headlong at the automatic doors, which opened just in time to prevent him from crashing through their plate glass. Two Transamerican employees, a m
an and a girl, chatting idly behind the deserted checkin desk, looked up in surprise as Persse charged up to the counter.
“Do you have a passenger Pabst on Flight 426?” he demanded. “Miss Angelica Pabst?”
The man tapped on his computer terminal and confirmed that Miss Pabst had indeed checked in for the flight and was booked through to Los Angeles.
“Give me a ticket to Los Angeles, please, and a seat as near to Miss Pabst as possible.”
Though the flight had technically closed, and the passengers were already boarding, the man got permission to issue Persse with a ticket—it helped that Persse had no luggage. The pair responded eagerly to the urgency of the transaction: while the man filled out the ticket and credit-card slip, the girl allocated him a seat. “You’re in luck, sir,” she said, studying her computer screen. “There’s an empty seat right next to Miss Pabst.”
“That’s grand!” said Persse. He had a vision of himself, the last to board the plane, walking up the aisle and slipping into the seat next to Angelica while her head was turned to look out of the window, saying, quietly—saying what? “Hallo. Long time no see. Going far? Did you [holding up the laddered tights] forget these?” Or better still, saying nothing, just waiting to see how long it would take before she looked down and recognized his scuffed shoes, or the back of his hand on the seat arm between them, or simply felt the vibrations of excitement and expectancy flowing from his heart, and turned to look at him.
“Here’s your Amex card, sir,” said the man. “Could I see your passport?”
“Sure.” Persse glanced at his watch. It was 9.15.
The man flicked open the passport, frowned, and thumbed through the pages very deliberately. “I can’t find your visa, sir,” he said at length.
Persse now knew, if he did not know before, what a cold sinking feeling was like. “Oh, Jaysus! Do I need a visa?”
“You can’t fly to the United States without a visa, sir.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
The man sighed, and slowly tore Persse’s ticket and American Express slip into small pieces.
Three whhheeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The scream of jet engines rises to a crescendo on the runways of the world. Every second, somewhere or other, a plane touches down, with a puff of smoke from scorched tyre rubber, or rises into the air, leaving a smear of black fumes dissolving in its wake. From space, the earth might look to a fanciful eye like a huge carousel, with planes instead of horses spinning round its circumference, up and down, up and down. Whhheeeeeeeeeee!
It’s late July now, and schools as well as colleges and universities have begun their summer vacations. Conference-bound academics must compete for airspace with holidaymakers and package tourists. The airport lounges are congested, their floors are littered with paper cups, the ashtrays are overflowing and the bars have run out of ice. Everyone is on the move. In Europe, northerners head south for the shadeless beaches and polluted waters of the Mediterranean, while southerners flee to the chilly inlets and overcast mountains of Scotland and Scandinavia. Asians fly west and Americans fly east. Ours is a civilization of lightweight luggage, of permanent disjunction. Everybody seems to be departing or returning from somewhere. Jerusalem, Athens, Alexandria, Vienna, London. Or Ajaccio, Palma, Tenerife, Faro, Miami.
At Gatwick, pale-faced travellers in neatly pressed frocks and safari suits, anxiously clutching their passports and airtickets, hurry from the Southern Region railway station to the Air Terminal, struggling against a tide of their sunburned and crumpled counterparts flowing in the opposite direction, festooned with wickerwork baskets, dolls in folk costume, straw sombreros and lethal quantities of duty-free cigarettes and liquor.
Persse McGarrigle is carried along by the departing current. It is nearly a week since the debâcle at Geneva airport, during which time he has flown home to Ireland, found a substitute for himself on the Celtic Twilight Summer School and got himself a visa to the United States. Now he is on his way to Los Angeles, to look for Angelica, by Skytrain, the walk-on, no-reservation service that posters all over London inform him is the cheapest way to travel to the States. But the Laker checkin counters are ominously deserted. Has he made a mistake about the departure time? No. Alas, the Skytrain has been suspended owing to the grounding of the DC-10, the Laker staff explain to Persse with regret, sympathy and a certain incredulity. Is it possible that there is anyone left in the entire world who hasn’t heard about the grounding of the DC-10? I haven’t been reading the papers lately, he says apologetically, I’ve been living in a cottage in Connemara, writing poetry. What’s the quickest way for me to get to Los Angeles? Well, they say, you could take the helicopter to Heathrow, though it will cost you, and try the big nationals. Or you could go from here by Braniff to Dallas/Fort Worth, they have onward connections to LA. Persse gets the last standby seat on a Boeing 747 painted bright orange, which takes him to an airport so immense you cannot see its perimeter at under two thousand feet, baking like an enormous biscuit in a temperature of 104° Farenheit; shivers for three hours in a smoked-glass terminal building air-conditioned to the temperature of iced Coke; and flies on to California in a Western Airlines Boeing 707.
It is dark by the time they begin their descent to Los Angeles, and the city is an awe-inspiring sight from the air—a glimmering gridiron of light from horizon to horizon—but Persse, who has been travelling continuously for twenty-two hours, is too tired to appreciate it. He has tried to sleep on the two planes, but they kept waking him up to give him meals. Long-distance flying, he decides, is rather like being in hospital in that respect, and it wouldn’t have surprised him unduly if one of the hostesses had slipped a thermometer into his mouth between meals. He had scarcely had the strength to rip open the plastic envelope containing his cutlery for the last dinner he was offered.
He staggers out of the terminal into the warm Californian night, and stands dazedly on the pavement as cars and buses sweep by in an endless procession. A man strides to the edge of the kerb and waves down a minibus with “Beverly Hills Hotel” emblazoned on its side, which promptly swerves to a halt and springs open its door with a hiss of compressed air. The man gets in and Persse follows. The ride is free, the hotel room staggeringly expensive—clearly way out of Persse’s usual class of accommodation, but he is too tired to quibble or to contemplate searching for a cheaper alternative. A porter insists on taking his ridiculously small sports grip, which is all the luggage he has, and leading him down long, carpeted corridors decorated with a design of huge, slightly sinister green leaves above the dado, and shows him into a handsome suite with a bed as big as a football pitch. Persse takes off his clothes and crawls into the bed, falls asleep instantly, wakes up only three hours later, 2 a.m. local time but 10 a.m. by his body clock, and tries to make himself drowsy again by studying the entries under “Pabst” in the Los Angeles telephone directory. There are twenty-seven of them altogether and none of them is called Hermann.
But where is Morris Zapp? His non-appearance at Vienna excited little interest—people often fail to show up at conferences they have provisionally applied for. But at Bellagio there is considerable concern. Morris Zapp never returned from his jog in the woods that afternoon, after writing his letter to Arthur Kingfisher. The letter is recovered from the outgoing mailbox in the villa’s lobby and confiscated by the police as a possible source of clues to his disappearance; it is opened and perused and puzzled over and filed away and forgotten; it is never mailed and Arthur Kingfisher never knows that he was invited to the Jerusalem conference. Search parties are sent into the woods, and there is talk of dragging the lake.
A few days later, Desiree, vacationing at Nice, gets a telephone call in her hotel room from the Paris Herald-Tribune. A young, rather breathless American male voice.
“Is that Mrs Desiree Zapp?”
“Not any longer.”
“I beg your pardon ma’am?”
“I used to be Mrs Desiree Zapp. Now I’m Ms Desiree Byrd.”
“The wife of Professor Morris Zapp?”
“The ex-wife.”
“The author of Difficult Days?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“We just had a telephone call, Mrs Zapp—”
“Ms Byrd.”
“Sorry, Ms Byrd. We just had an anonymous telephone call to say that your husband has been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?”
“That’s right ma’am. We’ve checked it out with the Italian police and it seems to be true. Professor Zapp went out jogging from a villa in Bellagio three days ago and never returned.”
“But why in God’s name would anybody want to kidnap Morris?”
“Well, the kidnappers are demanding half a million dollars in ransom.”
“What? Who do they think is going to pay that sort of money?”
“Well, you I guess, ma’am.”
“They can go fuck themselves,” says Desiree, putting down the phone.
Soon the young man is back on the line. “But isn’t it true, Mrs Zapp—Ms Byrd—that you received half a million dollars for the film rights alone of Difficult Days?”
“Yeah, but I earned that money and I sure as hell didn’t earn it to buy back a husband I said good riddance to years ago.”
Desiree bangs down the phone. Almost immediately it rings again. “I have nothing further to say,” she snaps.
David Lodge - Small World Page 33
