Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘The mistake girls make,’ she said gravely, ‘is to think reckless hilarity is their only purpose. Stupid.’

  What can a bloke say? I wondered if priests in confession ever interrupt penitents and say, ‘Hang on a sec. Go back to where you met this bloke…’

  ‘Personality, Lovejoy, is not like water, the clearer the better.’ She shook her head, agreeing with herself. ‘No. Transparency is the quality of a herd. A woman should always hold back opaque fragments of herself unseen by men.’

  ‘OK,’ I muttered. Forgotten white tribes, though? Smethie said this. It niggled.

  ‘A woman must stay beyond analysis.’

  ‘Good old mystique again? The eternal woman?’

  ‘Does it make you uncomfortable?’

  ‘The young learn sooner or later, then older women had better watch out.’

  ‘Yes, but far too late. By then, they’ve become thirty-nine-year-old frumps wondering what’s gone wrong. Like Laura. They hanker – hanker is the right word? – for when they were all-conquering lovely belles, wondering where that happy riot has gone, when nobody comes calling.’

  ‘That’s unkind.’

  ‘It is true, Lovejoy. Tipsy tarts are vile, disgusting tramps. I could have turned out like them. Circumstances decreed otherwise.’

  ‘Maybe they mirror you, some other time, some other place?’

  ‘I like to put it another way.’ Bitterness came now. ‘They carouse from fifteen to forty, and become older women cackling inanely at TV shows and swill tequila. Your word is “chavs”, no?’

  ‘Not all.’

  ‘Not quite all,’ she amended. ‘Laura is definitely one. They wonder where the carnival has gone. Most men,’ with a sharp glance along the pillow, ‘don’t have sufficient character to forgive, Lovejoy. You do.’

  ‘Wrong.’ I spoke because I was fed up. ‘What right have I to judge? Gawd, I can’t even judge myself.’

  ‘You imply I’m wrong?’ She smiled and stretched. Loveliest sight on earth. I climbed back to reality. ‘Like your dud fairground, Lovejoy?’

  ‘I loved them,’ I said sadly, and swung off the bed, feet to the cold floor. Donna reached for me, easily evaded.

  ‘Come back. We’ve hours yet.’

  I dressed and marched out. Ten paces and I was mad at myself. Her and her meandering philosophy. Young women grow older. So what? I sat sulking in the hotel lounge because her driver was guarding the exit.

  Twenty minutes later, Donna da Silfa came and sat beside me. In that measured voice, she calmly told me about the forgotten white tribes.

  Thinking about it now, there’s no way to avoid gender differences. A woman overwhelms a man. Imagine elections, where all votes are in, yet the two candidates for president wear ghastly smiles not knowing who’s won. That’s my feeling when a woman superwhelms. I don’t understand the process. I only know it happens.

  Forgotten tribes, though? I felt like one myself.

  ‘You’ve seen those tide pools, Lovejoy. Imagine one miles inland, no longer connected to the sea. Teeming with strange creatures – crustaceans, fish, sponges – unlike any other living things. And why? Because the sea has ebbed and gone.

  ‘You know what’s truly sad? Those weird shellfish and exotic fronds, trapped in their tiny tide pool, firmly believe they are the whole world. In fact they are extinct. They just don’t know it.’

  Her smile was grievous. ‘What if one creature suddenly realised the terrible truth? I am one.’ She resumed after a pause. ‘The Dutch burghers of Ceylon are one group. People say Sri Lanka now. We Portuguese are too.’

  ‘You’re Portuguese? Whereabouts?’

  ‘I have never even seen Portugal, Lovejoy. I live in Sri Lanka.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, right.’

  ‘All the tribes in our scheme are descendants of forgotten settlers. Distinct and proud. We have…’ she hesitated, went for it ‘…class, Lovejoy. No English liberalism, please, that Germans call Manchesterturm.’

  ‘Didn’t the Dutch and Portuguese roam the globe in the olden days?’

  ‘Of course. Now, their descendants hang on, in derelict old people’s homes. And each tribe is distinct. Like we, and the Landesi.’

  ‘Where is Landesi?’

  ‘Olandesi was the Sri Lankan word for Holland. Landesi came to mean Dutch. Would you believe, darling,’ she said earnestly, ‘the old folk argue who is the most Dutch among them?’

  ‘Seems a waste of time.’

  ‘Don’t dismiss us tribes, Lovejoy. We represent untold profit.’ Her lips parted. ‘Just as you represent our survival. I see my frankness makes you uncomfortable.’

  I glanced at the impassive driver.

  ‘Did you notice a card player who seemed American?’

  I ran her casino people through my memory. ‘That gambler bloke?’

  ‘Straight out of some American Confederacy film? Gone with the Wind?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  She laughed, clapping her hands. ‘He is native Brazilian! His tribe is literally from the USA Confederacy, after their Civil War. He has never been to the United States, as we tribes in Sri Lanka have never seen Lisbon or Amsterdam.’

  ‘Go on.’ I began to feel as if I were staring into a tide pool of extinct creatures left stranded by receding seas.

  ‘I can tell you about all of them, if you wish.’

  ‘Later, maybe.’ With any luck, never.

  She was enjoying herself. ‘And did you notice anyone who looked faintly Polish, from Warsaw perhaps?’ She was mischievous. ‘I see the penny drops, Lovejoy. Yes, a Pole born in Haiti. His ancestors were a Polish regiment sent by France’s all-conquering Napoleon. Haiti,’ she explained prettily, ‘was once French Saint Domingue.’

  ‘Are you all – no offence – remnants?’

  ‘Of course. Our saddest is Namibia’s lost white tribe. Hugo Hahn? They migrated from the Cape of Good Hope in 1868 to Namibia. The League of Nations guaranteed them a republic.’

  ‘Namibia? Hot desert with all those diamonds?’

  ‘They produce their legal documents at the drop of a hat. Think of us as Faces in our tide pool, darling. Guadeloupe’s Blancs, Jamaica’s German tribe, the Basters of Namibia, the Landesi and Burghers of Sri Lanka, the Welsh of Uruguay, all dreaming of our so-called homelands. We all grew up hoping our homelands would one day take us back. In vain.’

  ‘Can’t you just catch a plane to, well, wherever home was?’

  ‘We wish, Lovejoy.’ Her eyes filled. ‘Would they welcome us?’

  ‘There are more?’

  ‘Sixteen groups, from all over the world. We here are delegates, elected to speak for humanity’s forgotten fragments. All we have is our identity, and our ancient possessions. One is Jewish, from the Yiddish-speaking enclave of Birobidzhan, that the Soviet Union established in 1928 on the Trans-Siberian railway. It had its own oblast, a province four hundred miles north of China’s city of Harbin. So many.’ She turned her lovely eyes on me. ‘All bizarre species.’

  ‘Like younger women?’

  She nodded. ‘Except the world has changed beyond recognition. We lost tribes know we are finished. You are our instrument to bring us into the modern world, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Shouldering sixteen lost civilisations? Sorry, no.’ Moments ago, she was exquisite. Suddenly, she was a dangerous old bat. ‘Not me, love.’

  ‘Too late, Lovejoy.’ She signalled. The driver went for the car. ‘Your task is to rescue us from our rock pools so we can swim free in the world.’

  ‘Donna, I’m a scruff without a bean.’

  ‘We tribes have realised what we possess.’ She instantly became young again, the way women can. ‘Antiques, Lovejoy. Antiques like you wouldn’t believe.’

  Three limousines were drawing up the hotel drive. The gang was all here. Donna rose to go out to meet them. Casually I drifted to the loo.

  A minute later I was out the back way, escaping from lunacy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  f
iffer: a dealer who works on percentage profit

  Before day broke I was in Birmingham, courtesy of a hitchhike. A street worker who faked handies could only be Fiffo. And Ted Moon’s shop was in Brum.

  I arrived like a drowned rat in heavy rain and made my way to the Bull Ring, Brum’s shopping mall where I went, shivering, for a breakfast of everything of everything.

  From noon until dark, I washed dishes in a nosh bar, my forte. That night I slept in the campers-and-packer stores next door. My employer made me feel highly valued.

  He said wistfully, ‘I only hire drifters. Teenagers won’t work. Stay.’

  ‘Ta, Ahil,’ I told the silver-tongued tyrant. ‘I have a duty to a friend.’

  ‘Duty!’ he wept. ‘What do the young know of duty?’

  And so on. I headed for the city centre – fountains, taverns, entertainments. Fiffo’s another of life’s weirdos.

  He was in the Friday market, where street actors strove to get noticed by passing movie moguls. Droves of actors, and not a single mogul. Fiffo’s forgery skill is stupendous. He does piqué. (Say pee-kay, or buyers think you’re uneducated.) From honesty, that ultra-rare bird, Fiffo shows his talents in the open. He is kept by Camille, who sells Fiffo’s fakes and pays him in kind. She keeps the money.

  One of Fiffo’s pieces had been on the Faces’ card table. If I wasn’t so thick, I’d have maybe reached Fiffo earlier and saved Smethie, but I am so I didn’t and I hadn’t so I couldn’t. Fiffo had included, in the Chinese fighting cock piqué design, a florid curlicue. To me it was like a flag day. It was the outline of a Queen Anne flintlock pistol plate, with a single M and L, for Mortimer and Lovejoy. Immersed in the exotic flourishes, they would go unnoticed except by another forger.

  Fiffo was saying to bored spectators, ‘Piqué is beautiful. Ladies love it. My design is about 1690, but China did it earlier.’

  He works on a tray. Minuscule silver dots, a spirit lamp, and tortoiseshell, ivory, or even deer horn. Fiffo scorns plastics, Ivorine and the like, though heaven knows I’ve used enough synthetics.

  ‘Is that real ivory?’ a man demanded, an aggressive do-gooder bent on wrecking the world.

  ‘Yes.’ Fiffo smiled. ‘And it’s older than your great-great-great-grandad. Why?’ He paused, a dot of silver in his tweezers. ‘Will you bring the elephant back to life if I stop working?’

  ‘An elephant had to die for that!’

  ‘Like the cow that provided your shoe leather? And the animals they tested your hair dye on? And the dogs they tested your aftershave on? And the pigeons they tortured to check your aspirin?’ Fiffo eyed the man. ‘Or your wife’s cosmetics?’

  The man strode off in anger. Other watchers faded. ‘I’d hoped you’d be shaving some piqué posé, Fiff.’

  ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy. About bloody time.’ He waited as a toddler came over, oooohing, wanting a piece of the action. Its mother hauled it off. ‘Nar, son. I’ve no money to buy silver.’

  ‘Didn’t Camille get a fair screw from them foreigners? You did a lovely piece, Fiff.’ Camille was obsessed with money. The age-old problem in loving relationships is who keeps whom.

  Fiffo is the only jewellery faker-maker who does perfect ancient piqué. He’s a rough-looking bloke who’s worn the same jacket as long as I’ve known him. He used spectacles now. No dandy, Fiffo.

  It was his turn to sigh. ‘She’s taken up with a city councillor.’

  Camille uses politics like stepping-stones, meaning she makes progress and colleagues stay immersed in the cold effluvium. She’s beautiful so it’s OK. The wind veered. Returning rain touched my nape. People began crowding into shopping centres.

  ‘Still together, though?’

  ‘For a while.’ He set the spirit lamp under the miniature metal pot, plopped the ivory in and closed the lid. In a few minutes the ivory would grow soft. I’d often wondered if he used a design or worked from flair. I’d be copying him as soon as I got a minute. ‘Only Fridays. Don’t know how much longer I can thwole it.’

  Thwole is to endure. To explain, Camille and Fiffo were lovers. She recognised his unique talent and started marketing it, for herself. She was a councillor, and met other political scroungers. Her relationship with Fiffo waned. Fiffo gave her an ultimatum: all or none. After all, he slogged while she whooped it up with other corrupt politicos. She offered him a deal. Cohabit once a week, and Fiffo worked in the salt mines. From there, one full night shrank to half a day. When last I’d heard, it was a fleeting hour, Fiffo being slotted in, as it were, between better offers.

  ‘See, Lovejoy,’ said this sad genius, ‘she’s always out clubbing. She even bollocks me for not having stuff ready. She exports to the Continong. She forgets to come, then she’s on the news with some bloke.’

  There’s a horrid expression for a bloke who is completely in thrall to a woman’s body. I won’t write it here. It’s multo crude, and Gentle Reader of Tunbridge Wells will write more angry letters. I felt a terrible sympathy. Drizzly rain glistened on his face. The little spirit burner fizzed its raindrops.

  ‘You once told me that any woman can have any man, Lovejoy. I laughed. I know now it’s true.’

  I hadn’t realised back then that Camille was his bird. It was at a Weller and Dufty auction, where I’d been hoping for a Queen Anne flintlock. I’d just learnt that Mortimer was my son, and Fiffo said, ‘Bless the lad.’ Hence the M and L in his design, to warn me.

  ‘Safe here?’ When Fiffo nodded, I started, ‘Them foreign geezers.’

  ‘That’s why I clued you with the piqué posé, see? Camille’s taken up with the tall South African. She’s in deep there, Lovejoy.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Half-dozen and tarts. They’ve got too many antiques to shake a stick at. Their lawyer’s called Laura, Ted Moon’s missus.’

  ‘What about Ted, Fiff? Topped a lass and got off scotage free?’

  ‘Ted? Don’t believe it. Hang on.’

  Fiffo felt the metal pot, and with tweezers lifted out the ivory sliver. He pressed each silver dot into the soft ivory. In minutes, a silver chrysanthemum grew, his thick ungainly mitts creating a work of genius. I almost filled up. A true artist, aping the work of ancient craftsmen simply to keep his lady love. Didn’t seem fair.

  ‘I like the piqué point,’ he said as he worked. ‘I keep going as long as the ivory stays soft. Some forgers use dilute acid, so bloody sloppy. It always shows.’ He grew indignant. ‘What if it was a piece for a pretty woman’s necklet?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘Everything for cheapness. It’s not right.’

  A uniformed plod came up. ‘What you two doing? Planning a robbery, are we?’ He harf-harfed like in children’s TV.

  ‘I’m demonstrating, Constable.’ Fiffo showed his plastic permit, Camille council issue.

  ‘OK, lads.’ The ploddite wandered off chuckling at his merry quip. The ivory had gone hard, gripping each silver dot. It would take a lovely polish.

  ‘I’ve got to do four by tomorrow, piqué posé strips. Fancy some grub?’ He gave a sad grin. ‘Or a job?’

  * * *

  We had fish and chips in newspaper – the only way. Not a patch on Woody’s.

  Fiffo’s house was a small terraced place with a shed in the yard. A dozen photographs of Camille adorned the walls, one lit by a blue votive light. A shrine.

  He spoke with pride. ‘She’s a beauty, eh?’

  And he was right. Photography isn’t art. Point a camera and click, end of message. With Camille you were already there. Not like painting a portrait. Suddenly guilty, I looked about while Fiffo brewed up.

  ‘Your portrait’s in the other room.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I went casual.

  This is my trouble. I went through. She truly was exquisite. I felt my heart lurch. Not a patch on Gainsborough’s portrait of his missus, the greatest portrait since the world began. I’d posed Camille as if she were startled, and caught the beginning of a smile, in a cerulean blu
e shawl.

  ‘Good, eh?’

  ‘Oh, aye, Fiff.’ We sat. He gazed at the portrait.

  ‘I’ve had it, Lovejoy. This order is her last. Then she’ll scarper.’

  ‘How come? You’re a gold mine.’

  ‘She’s coming into a fortune from these strangers.’ He was choked.

  We all have a serious problem called love. It’s deadly. My question is, can you paint a woman’s portrait without falling for her? Some artists claim they stay remote, and answer yes.

  I’m in the no group. You can’t paint a woman’s portrait without falling head over heels. You just can’t. No, nein, la, non, and nay verily. It is impossible not to fall. I ahemed.

  ‘Look, Fiff, mate. Those piqué posé clues on the ivory to tip me off. Why didn’t you just send word by some night haulier, as usual?’

  ‘I couldn’t risk Camille finding out.’ He never took his eyes from her portrait. ‘She’s mad for a tall cowboy bloke.’

  Hugo Hahn. My face must have betrayed me. Fiffo grimaced.

  ‘She’ll leave soon as she gets the gelt.’

  ‘Gelt from what, your forgeries?’ He looked shifty. I got narked. He’d sent for me, by his Chinese You Shi design, and I’d trogged up here. ‘Tell me, Fiffo. What d’you want me here for?’

  ‘I’m scared they’ll top me.’

  That made me stare. ‘Kill, Fiff?’

  Now, Fiff is not given to exaggeration. I know I go over the top, things I say, things I do. It’s my way. But Fiffo’s your true plodder. The finest forger you’d meet in a long march, but still your mundane slogger who had perfected his talent. Camille was just bad – or good – luck, depending on how you looked at it. Like, is it better never to have loved and lost than, etc, etc?

  ‘Aye. Kill.’

  A super headache began, my vision flickering zigzags. I couldn’t stand another of my mates getting snuffed.

  ‘She’s sold this house. It was my dad’s.’

  ‘How can she? Doesn’t it take weeks?’ In Germany, I’ve heard, you can buy a house in a single day, so efficient are they, and I daresay the Yanks do it over coffee, but our creaking old kingdom takes literally months.