by Howard Engel
“Ladies’ ready-to-wear,” I lied. “What’s your line?”
“Oh, Milt’s an anesthetist. He’s knocked out more people than Muhammad Ali. That’s what I tell everybody. He works three hospitals in the Greater Hennepin County Area. You may have heard of Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital. It’s world famous.” I nodded to be polite. “We’ve signed up to go on a trail ride up the mountain. There’s a big waterfall hidden up there. Milt, don’t forget to buy more film. I don’t want to run out again. Say, Ben, you had a nifty camera on your dive. I saw it. Have you had the pictures printed yet? No, of course not—hasn’t been time. You can get it done in our hotel. You were with that pretty Beverley Taylor. What’s she like?”
“She knows more about diving than I do.”
“That’s not what I meant! You men! Honestly!”
“She comes here for the diving and loves it.”
“There’s no young man in her life?”
“Not that I’ve met. Do you know of one?”
“Milt saw her with a handsome, dashing fellow. But he was an older man. He was in business, wasn’t he, Milt?”
“Import-export is what he said.”
“You can’t get vaguer than that! Maybe it was James Bond! Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
This friendly banter went on for another minute or so and then we exchanged addresses so that she could share her pictures with me. Now I know that there is a bed waiting for me any time I happen to find myself without a hotel room in Minneapolis. We shook hands and I watched them negotiate their way across the street, waving arms and holding up fingers to warn traffic that they were coming.
THIRTEEN
IT WASN’T UNTIL the following day that I was able to follow up the mystery of the key found in Vicky’s apartment. The locksmith’s door was now open. Sitting behind his counter, half hidden by a glass screen, he was crocheting a cap. As I approached, he gently put his hook and wool to one side and gave me his complete attention. His mustache moved so that it looked curved; I took that for a smile. I showed him the key I’d been keeping warm in my hand and he turned it over in his palm. I made up a story about its being found among the effects of a recently deceased uncle. He turned it around in his hand, still listening to my fiction. “It’s from a bank, sir. Safety deposit.”
“Can you tell which bank?”
“There are many banks in Takot, my friend.”
“But doesn’t the number stamped on it tell you which bank?”
“That is not for general knowledge. The information is restricted.”
“Yes, I know. But I am a visitor in your country. I am settling an estate. Some of your fellow citizens may benefit from the will when it is probated.”
“Are you dealing with a lawyer from Takot?”
“I will be, once I have some idea of the size of the estate. Can you recommend a good lawyer?”
“My son-in-law has just opened an office on Ex-Frédéric-Chopin Street. I’ll give you his card.” He took out a dusty printed card from a top drawer and passed it to me over the counter. He smiled as he took my hand and shook it. “Try the Inland and International Bank on Ex-Charpentier Avenue.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“But you will find them closed at this hour. You see, even I in my small shop am turning away from business for an hour.”
“When will they be open?” I asked with some anxiety.
“At two o’clock we both will open our shutters.”
Before I left him, I held up the scrap of paper on which I’d written the word on the Granges’ refrigerator: IOEOLVYU. When I asked him if it meant anything in any of the local languages, he took it in his hand and held it up to the light. At length he handed it back to me, shaking his head. “It means nothing to me, sir. I’m sorry. Speak to my son-in-law. He knows about such things.” I gave him a grin as I left the shop. Once in the street, I quickly wrote the name in my book to secure it in my “memory.”
A few minutes later, I was sitting in the Trois Magots, waiting for my stream of semi-consciousness to be interrupted by a familiar voice or face. I wasn’t particular. Foreign travel seems to be largely a matter of waiting around in cafés. When the waiter told me he didn’t know what a chopped-egg sandwich was, I ordered a local beer and began sipping it. To me it seemed like a damned good beer, and I wondered why—back home—we never saw the likes of it except in expensive Thai or similar restaurants. I let my mind become sidetracked into a reverie about the fortune I might make by introducing Canadians to beer this good. When my glass was empty, the waiter brought a second or third bottle, which was well over my temperate limit. A plate of dried shrimp mixed with nuts made me think about ordering more. I was relaxed and sleepy in the heat when a voice hailed me from behind.
“Ah, Mr Cooperman! You have already become a landmark along the street.” It was my friend the priest. I have forgotten his name for the moment.
“Ah, Father! Sit down. Please join me.” He gathered up his skirts and placed himself carefully into a wicker chair. The priest’s girth was such that he attended to the business of sitting down with elaborate care. He breathed out an audible sigh as he settled up to the table.
“Not off climbing to see the Golden Temple? Or are you newly returned from the statue of the Black Virgin? I’m surprised at you, Mr Cooperman. I should have thought that you’d be weighted down with souvenirs by now, gifties for the folks back home. I am amazed. Where are your battle scars, your trophies of war?”
“I paid those dues this morning long before the bird racket started outside my hotel window. Later today, with a cool drink in my grip, I’ll take in, absorb, and inwardly ruminate this morning’s experience.”
“You borrowed that from Henry V, my boy. You show good taste.”
“Did I? The ‘ruminating’ bit? Anna, a friend of mine, is always saying that.”
“A notion and practice I approve, although I may carry it a bit too far. To be honest, there are several of the regular tourist destinations I have never seen. I may never see them at all. Originally, dear boy, I put them aside so that I might enjoy seeing them when called upon to entertain a dozen visiting sisters or a bishop on his travels. But they never come and I have not seen two-thirds of the items in your guidebook there.”
“I think I approve of that sort of sightseeing.”
“You think! Then your mind floats in a half-made-up state?”
“No. I’m sure you’re exaggerating. I have to weigh in the modesty factor. Nobody knows this place better than you do. But, be that as it may, I’m just learning to be careless, to be imprecise. In short, to relax.”
“Dickens himself couldn’t have expressed it better. In fact it was Thackeray. No matter. What are you drinking?”
He waved aside my suggestion of a local beer and ordered Black Bush, straight up, which he told me the manager kept for him specially. From what he said, I gathered that this was Irish, rare, and very desirable. When I put down my beer glass, he poured a half-inch of the Black Bush into it. I had to agree; he was right. It seemed to me that there had been others in recent years who had recommended this drink, but now I couldn’t remember who they were.
“Yesterday, Father, I went out to the reef.”
“On one of those tour boats? You must be daft. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect me from such insanity!”
“I thought you were an enthusiast for this place.”
“I confess that most of what I know about Takot comes from reading books and listening to the exaggerated stories of active people like yourself. When I hear about their exploits in climbing to the golden dome of the Golden Temple or standing in line to see the reclining Buddha, I take to my bed with exhaustion. Were you that desperate for adventure, Mr Cooperman?”
“Ben, Father.”
“You should have been here during the great flood. That would have whetted your appetite for excitement. Thousands washed out to sea. We were burying corpses for days afterwards. You can still see where big ships were w
ashed inland. Terrible! Terrible! Are you still avid for reckless adventure?”
“If I was out of my mind on the rocks, there were a dozen others out there equally demented. Men, women, and couples. They came from all over.”
“And what is the world coming to then? I suppose you saw all the fishes, great and small, staring back at you?”
“We looked our fill. It’s beautiful down there.”
“For balance, one day you must let me take you to see a baker friend of mine. Just for balance. He’ll give you some loaves to put with your fishes. If you catch the allusion.”
“They were Jewish loaves and Jewish fishes, I seem to remember.”
“Touché! An excellent retort!”
“Is there just the one reef out there,” I asked, waving a hand off in the direction of the ocean, which neither of us could see from where we were sitting, “or is there an island that goes with it? I couldn’t see much in my rubber swimming suit.”
“The reef is exposed only at low water. There’s a light at one end to warn navigation, and there’s a wreck out there as well. So I’ve been told. I forget the name. There are two of them, actually. The Lady Frances Frazer was a tour ship which foundered on the reef in 1938. But it rolled into deep water later on. Nobody goes there because of the current. The popular wreck is called O’Brien or Sullivan or Murphy. Something ethnic. I forget.”
“Me too. Is it extensive? The reef, I mean. We saw only a small part, the northern end, I think.”
“Well then you missed the south, where the light is. The whole thing isn’t very long, only about two hundred and fifty meters or so. And you’ve seen the width for yourself: not more than a few dozen meters from the calm water of the lagoon to the outer wildness of the Andaman Current.” His description was so accurate that I found it hard to believe he’d never made the trip out there himself.
“You know more than most people who dive the reef regularly.”
“Don’t try to budge me from my armchair status, sir. I enjoy being an amateur of these shores. As you can see, this fat noncombatant thrives on talk, Ben. I have to be a good listener; it’s my profession and my calling. So I sit here, like one of those fish out there, and conversations float around me. Whole life stories. Ah, if only I could write!”
“Who said you can’t? Where is it written?”
“Oh, I’ve done a bit of scribbling in my time, dear boy. Of it, the less said, the better. But I should really like to make a book of the secret life in a town like this.” Here he treated me again to his analogy of ants crawling around a piece of rotting fruit. Then he went on: “Would there be an interest in such a thing back in the world of E pluribus unum?”
“What? Oh! The Wizard of Oz. It took me a moment. My memory is in a shambles, Father. I was in an accident a few months ago and what’s left of my memory isn’t worth the rent.”
“I haven’t noticed any disability. Did you ever read Waugh?”
“I can hardly read at all now. And I don’t know any Chinese writers.”
“Waugh Chinese? I suppose it sounds Chinese, doesn’t it? He wouldn’t have liked that. I meant Evelyn Waugh, the English writer.”
“Oh, Brideshead Revisited. I saw it on television and read one or two of his funny books. My girlfriend at home has them. Why?”
“I just wondered.” His eyes were following the trim lines of a woman’s figure as she worked her way through the busy unrelenting traffic.
“Watching Brideshead made me feel very Jewish and un-English. I don’t remember Dickens doing that to me.”
“That’s funny, because he makes me feel as though I’m not Roman Catholic enough. Rather than have him in my confessional, I’d rather like to be on the bench when he’s in the dock. I have an urge to judge him. Know what I mean?” I must have looked vapid just then. “No matter.”
“I wish I knew him better.”
“Tell me, Ben, in your pursuit of athlete’s foot and cramp, did you encounter the young woman I was telling you about? Fiona Calaghan?”
“I met her on dry land. We talked, made a date to see each other again, and she stood me up. I did see her friend Beverley Taylor, though. Underwater, I mean. She’s as attractive as Fiona, but lacks her confidence. She was on the reef with me.”
“I know the girl. She’s not much more than a girl, surely? Very well-spoken. I forget where she comes from.”
“She told me, but you know about my bad memory.”
“What a pair of informative old codgers we are, Cooperman!”
“Are they bitter rivals, the women, or was I seeing the theatrical bickering of friends? I haven’t seen them together yet, Father.”
“I dare say they’d die for one another, but they put on a warlike front.”
“They mentioned a woman who lives here: Victoria Something. I have yet to meet her on the waterfront or on the reef.”
“And you won’t meet her at all. She’s gone ahead, as they say. Poor girl. I knew her quite well when she and her young husband first arrived.”
“What happened to her?”
“Another unfortunate accident out on the reef. She got herself tangled in some nasty weeds and couldn’t cut herself free before her air tank ran out. Terrible way to die.”
“And her husband?”
“Steve, his name was. No, it was Jake! He left here and has never been traced. One suspects the tainted hand of the authorities. But don’t say I told you.”
“A load of bad luck for one poor family.”
“It was indeed. The Canadian consul came over to try to make some sense of it, but he left after talking to a few policemen and friends. I sometimes wonder what they’re good for. They seem to be incapable of getting under the skin of a tomato. Oh, well.” The priest puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape with an audible sound. I put it down to a sign of mental process. “My friend,” he said at length, “I’m having some friends to dinner tonight. I wonder if you’d be free to join us? I apologize for the scant notice, but there you are. You’re not the only one with a fragile memory. I’m an incompetent. No, I’m not! I’m hungry. Setting final examinations makes me hungry.”
“I’m always free, Father; I’m on holiday, and I got your invitation at my hotel.” Were we competing to see which of us had the poorer memory?
“By the mass, the sun is melting my brains! I’ll forget the Credo next.” The priest and I fumbled for the check. I lost. Soon we were sitting in another of his hideaway places slurping cold soup. I shocked myself each time I lifted my spoon. It had a fish and yam base. We didn’t talk right away, but after the soup we got back into it.
“Tonight, should I come round to the manse, or whatever you call it?”
“I call it the fadders’ fort, you remember? But the college I’m staying in is not equipped for proper company. I was thinking of a very good restaurant, where the owner owes me a few favors. Nine o’clock. The dining room honors that fascinating figure of the past, Raffles.”
“Who was Raffles? Did he discover this place? I keep running into his name.”
“Dear boy, Raffles came here on his way to Singapore; Lieutenant-governor of Bengkulu, around 1820. Now every place he visited has a Raffles Hotel or Raffles Bar. There’s a bar near the gate, the big gate, where you can buy Raffles Whiskey. I don’t recommend it.”
“Was he—?”
“Don’t interrupt me while I’m giving instructions, dear boy, or you’ll miss the dinner. Raffles is to be found in a hotel on Ex-Macmahon Avenue: The Hôtel de Nancy. Did you get that?” I scribbled down the information, thinking that I already had it somewhere. I repeated the name under my breath while writing. Then I had a thought:
“Macmahon! At least he wasn’t French.”
“He’d run you through if he heard you say that. He was a marshal of France. He became president, tried a coup, but got out before anyone noticed.”
“Well! At least I’m certain that my memory’s not to blame this time. I’m sure I never knew that.”
“Knowing your problem, Ben, you must make sure I don’t take advantage of you one day. I like having my little jokes. Perhaps I can tell you all the stories I can’t tell around here anymore. I can empty a room with some of them. Do you think you might come tonight?”
“I’ll be glad to. I’m on a vacation and I don’t know a soul in this town.” The old priest moved off, leaving me and our empty plates, and an obscure smell of marijuana.
Twenty minutes later, I was staring at a metal box in a curtained alcove in the basement of the Inland and International Bank. The place was smaller than its name, but it was doing a brisk business when I came in. I was whisked away below stairs. Here, inside a steel enclosure, I was given my box. The key I provided opened one of the two locks on the box. The second lock was opened by the bank’s key.
Inside I found some legal papers: a lease on the waterfront property, the lease on the apartment I’d tossed yesterday, a sandwich wrapper, half a Crispy-Crunch chocolate bar, and a familiar-looking tin of loose tea, fitted with a tight metal lid. I don’t know what I had expected to find when I opened the long metal lid of the bank box, but it wasn’t tea. I had to laugh at the letdown. It was like dipping into a gold mine and coming up with chopped liver. It wasn’t what I’d expected. Still, finding things out of place was always intriguing. Mystery stories doted on it. And, back at the apartment, hadn’t I found loose tea in a duffel bag? If tea was dumped there, what was in the tin now? I didn’t even hold my breath as I tugged off the lid.
Tea! Loose and smelling of wet hay. What did I expect, ballroom dancers, the Spanish Inquisition, tinkling chimes?
Thinking of the tea spilled out in the duffel bag, I poured the tea out into the box. I think there was a modicum of malice in the act. If you won’t play by the rules, then take that! There was something mixed in with the dark leaves. Something bright and hard. Something that made prisms under the light. I shook the contents, rattled them, made them dance for me. It took a moment to register.
Diamonds!
Diamonds! They had to be diamonds. Who would make such a fuss about rhinestones? Now I was out of breath. Now I needed to sit down.
