Wings of the Morning

by Julian Beale

  ‘Just relax while I explain a few things to you,’ and as David froze in anticipation she went on, ‘it’s true. Alves and I are married. We have just celebrated our first anniversary and we’re in Lisbon for me to meet some of his friends and family members. We return to Luanda next week and soon after I will go south to spend time in Mocamedes at my father’s house which you may remember kindly.’

  She said this with arched eyebrows and heavy meaning. You little minx, the thought raced across David’s mind as he struggled to find a suitable reply, but he was still speechless as she waved her forefinger gently at him and continued,

  ‘David, things are not so straightforward. Alves Gomes is a person of substance in Luanda. He’s a a man of some wealth and status. He’s a good friend of my father, although that’s a relationship which remains discreet. But he is also over twice my age and while I enjoy his company, he’s not what you could call a romantic figure for me.’

  She paused long enough for David to interrupt and he spoke stiffly.

  ‘That may well be, Aischa, but he is now also my business partner in Angola. It’s really not proper for me to be squiring his wife around town on the quiet.’

  Aischa burst out laughing, holding a hand to her mouth and shaking her head.

  She said, ‘Oh Lord, what an Englishman you are and what a marvellous, old fashioned expression. How lucky am I being — squired around!’

  There was flirtation in her voice as she laughed at him.

  ‘It’s a fair comment I reckon’, David said huffily, ‘but go on then. I’m all ears.’

  ‘OK. Well when Alves proposed marriage to me, he was really putting forward a business proposition. You see, he wants to maintain his position in the Colony, but also to become better established here in the home country. Alves could’ve been a politician. He’s a perceptive man and keeps himself very well informed. Also, he is ... well conscious of his position and what people expect of him. So his proposition to me was that we could share his money and possessions, but also the connections which both of us enjoy although they span different generations and different centres in Angola — mine in the south as you know, whilst his base has always been in Luanda. Neither of us is well known in Lisbon, but we are a socially acceptable couple and we’ll get there in time. Then of course, there’s my father. Right now, he’s a renegade and his friends are damned alongside him. But that would change overnight if he achieves his ambitions and Alves believes that his time is coming. So basically, Alves approached me with the idea of a partnership, an idea which he had discussed with my father and received his blessing. And to be quite fair to Alves, he did include in his little talk with Papa the proposition that we would lead a married life which would be ‘fulfilled in its temporary separations’ as he put it.’

  David paused with his glass at his lips and narrowed his eyes to pose the question.

  ‘Alves meant that we should have what they refer to these days as an “open marriage”, in which both parties are free to make their own romantic liaisons provided that such are conducted discreetly and without damage to the marriage contract.’

  David was profoundly shocked. Of course he had heard of such arrangements, had even known of a couple, but it seemed weird to him that Aischa, with all she had to offer, should settle for such second best. He didn’t say that. Instead, he asked a much more obvious question and felt himself a fool when he heard the answer.

  ‘I don’t understand, Aischa. Why would you be prepared to let your husband to go off chasing other girls?’

  ‘Not girls, David. Boys.’

  ‘And for your next question,’ said Aischa, ‘what’s in the bargain to attract me? Well there are two things. The first is that Alves has Portuguese citizenship. He was born and baptised in Lisbon and went out to Angola as a baby with his parents. His father died a long time ago, but he used to be a big land owner in the southern highlands. It was while Alves was growing up in the bush that he met my Papa. Anyway, this means that as his wife, I have equal rights and a Portuguese passport, so I can move and live here in Lisbon if I choose to. There may come the day when I’ll need to do that. Secondly, I was not quite the free agent that I might have been in the suitable marriage stakes, because ...’ she broke off and looked at him with a different sort of appeal in her eyes, ‘well because I have a child, you see. And she needs me.’

  This was indeed an evening for surprises David thought as he watched two waiters threading their way over. There was a lengthy pause as they were served and by unspoken agreement, they didn’t speak again until they were half way through the excellent food and David was refilling their glasses.

  Then he said, ‘Thank you for telling me all this, Aischa. You were always deliciously frank.’ They both laughed as he went on, ‘tell me about your child. A girl, you say. How old is she and what’s her name? Don’t talk to me about her father or you’ll make me jealous.’

  ‘She’s called Anna and she’s nearly eighteen months old: a beautiful baby although I say so myself, and I adore her. Don’t worry yourself about her father. He’s an admirable man but he can’t to be part of her life. It’s complicated.’

  Aischa pushed away her plate and pressed her napkin briefly to her lips. He thought he could see tears in her eyes as she looked at him.

  ‘Please give me a cigarette, David.’ She pressed her hand over his as he held a flame for her and then they sat back and looked at each other. They maintained a warm silence as their plates were cleared and a simple dessert placed before them. They ate it to the friendly accompaniment of the fountain, content just to murmur to each other about the quiet beauty of this peaceful garden in the heart of the bustling city. It was not until they had coffee and a liqueur that they returned to serious conversation.

  Aischa told him more about Anna, the stage of development she had reached, the old and devoted nanny to Aischa herself and to Ouye who had come out of retirement to help care for her. They moved onto politics and the developments in Angola, the frustrations of the people, the actions and inactions of the colonial power, the aspirations and lifestyle of her father and his surprising obsession for his granddaughter for all that he been able to visit her only once or twice. This brought them back to matters of family and the one question which had been hovering on David’s mind. Again, Aischa seemed to divine his thought and her answer came from her unbidden tears even before she could articulate the words.

  ‘Ouye,’ she said, ‘you want to know about Ouye, don’t you David. She’s dead, you see, dead and gone and I believe I’ll never stop crying over her.’

  Suddenly she was quite cross with herself, moving brusquely to find a tissue in her handbag to dash away the tears on her face. As gently as he could, David probed for a little more detail.

  ‘What happened ... an accident?’

  ‘Even more stupid and avoidable. It was a purely feminine problem, much bleeding and pain. It shouldn’t have been fatal, but it happened when we were out in the bush camp visiting our father. That place is remote as you know. It’s also pretty basic with a small female population and they’re all very simple women. My father himself did the best he could for her, then we decided to make a dash for Mocamedes, but we were too late. She died on the journey there. So we returned to the camp where poor Ouye is buried. Papa was completely distraught and I don’t think he’ll ever get over her death. And as for me, well she was my twin, my sister, my irreplaceable friend.’

  David took in the ravaging pain on Aischa’s face. Instinctively, he rose and pulled his own chair around the table so he could put an arm around her. He said nothing whilst she sobbed. Soon, she pulled herself upright and smiled at him.

  ‘You do bring out the worst in me, Mr Englishman. I’m making an exhibition of myself and ruining my makeup. Ouye would be furious. She always was a great one for keeping up appearances.’

  With that, she disengaged herself from him, rose and vanished into the restaurant. David was left to order another coffee and to ponder on t
he cruelties of life and a persistent feeling that there was more to come.

  When Aischa reappeared, she was revitalised and looked entrancing. She seemed to glide over the garden towards him, moving from sorrow to seduction with each stride of her long legs as the faint lighting caught their golden sheen. She dropped a kiss on the top of his head as she regained her chair and she sat forward in a thrusting pose of invitation.

  ‘Well then,’ was all she said.

  David took his cue, ‘and where will my friend, your husband, Mr Alves Gomes be right now?’, he asked smiling at her.

  ‘He informed me earlier that he will be entertaining this evening ... and all night’.

  ‘And where does he expect you to be?’

  ‘Well sleeping with his friend of course. I do hope you’re not going to let me down?’

  David’s answer was a barely muffled growl as he called for their bill.

  THIERRY CESTAC — 1974

  Cestac had prospered during the last few years and was well pleased with his circumstances as he sat out the quiet month of August in Paris. He had made an exit from both the sex game and the drugs business. The first was dying its own death at the turn of the decade. He still regretted that his final foray had ended with only partial success. Even so, he had pocketed half a million US and managed to keep a client on side. Late in 1970, the redoubtable Mr Riaz had got back in contact. He reported that the last girl — and how supreme she would have been — had somehow made her escape. It was assumed that M. Eboli helped her and they questioned him so severely that he expired.

  ‘Not my responsibility’ was Cestac’s response and Riaz agreed, confirming that it was an episode behind them and enquiring if they could now agree on a fresh contract for similar merchandise to be located and groomed in advance. Cestac declined, but he did pick up a rough and brazen type, a girl from Tunisia who went eagerly and without an escort. Cestac collected grateful thanks and a further hundred thousand. He heard no more from either Riaz or the girl.

  More satisfying still had been the denouement to the drugs affair and his perilous relationship with the Brothers Grimm. As Victor Sollange had prophesied to King Offenbach, the Paris gendarmes pulled the remains of the young blond Russian from the bank of the Seine during the third week of January 1970. He had been dead awhile from unpleasant injuries, but not long in the water. The police could not identify him; however they could manage a just less than gruesome photo of the face which was circulated to invite public response, hoping for help in locating a missing person. This came to Cestac’s attention. The fate of the Blond was of no surprise or concern to him, but he did recognise an opportunity.

  Cestac had good connections into the Paris police and he chose his interlocutor carefully. Between them, they set up a cut out for Cestac and selected as intermediary a lowlife, inadequate con artist who was persuaded by a few hundred francs to make a signed deposition to the police. He said he had seen the Blond early on New Year’s Day getting into a car in Rue de Constantine. He happened to have noted the make and the number. This fingered the Grimms and the police moved in on their apartment in a squalid northern suburb of the city. The Brothers were unconcerned to be taken in for questioning. There were no forensics to be found and their heroin house was miles away. They told the police that they had parked in Constantine for a party at a nearby club and had given the Blond a lift on their way home. God knows who he was, but he seemed pleasant enough and was grateful for the ride. Fair enough, the detective told them, but to finish matters please come with us to the morgue and confirm ID. The Grimms piled willingly back into the Black Maria which had brought them in for interview.

  Sollange and his team stood off to observe all this. Geslin, his assistant, was again on the streets and watching. His boss did not want to move until they could place the Brothers and Cestac together. They never got that chance. The Black Maria moved sedately until it reached the Peripherique, at which point the driver switched on his lights and siren, losing Geslin’s old Peugeot within a minute. The police vehicle moved at speed and unchecked until it halted an hour later in the forest of Montorency, North West of Paris. The Grimms remained locked inside for the duration. They were concerned but unscathed. Not for long. Waiting for them was a small party from Soviet Russia, tough men and known to the late Blond, who had been powerfully connected in his home city of Moscow. He must have been so, in order to have gained funds and exit permission for a holiday trip to France, to say nothing of his introduction to Thierry Cestac. It was Cestac who had provided him with entertainment and more recently obtained the information to enable his death to be avenged. The driver unlocked the doors of the van and the burly men moved in. They removed the Brothers without difficulty and tied them to separate trees. They started their chain saws and cut the Grimms into small pieces, without troubling to kill them first. They left the pieces behind and abandoned the van. Its driver had long departed. Cestac’s chauffeur, Olivier, knew when to make himself scarce.

  This violent end left Cestac free from the threat of the Grimms, and it gave him the keys to their kingdom. He sold their remaining stock to his smart clientele at enormous profit. Afterwards he left the drugs trade, sooner and better rewarded than he had planned. Sollange was apoplectic and devoted himself to finding the mole in the gendarmerie. King Offenbach was merely disappointed. Both knew it was the end of only one battle in their war.

  Cestac returned to the Dordogne and gave himself a few months break. Later that year, he started to move in the new direction. He made an extended trip through Francophone Africa, observing conditions, taking in the local politics, building his first contacts on the continent. It was twelve months later before he engineered his first deal, but he didn’t mind the delay. He had plenty of money. He looked for much more, but with interest in every meaning of the word. It all looked very promising. The arrangements which he made for some senior army officers in Uganda with assets grabbed from the Asians kicked out by Idi Amin made a good start for him, but they were nothing compared with the influence which he was now wielding to cater for the weird demands of President Bokassa of the Central African Republic. There was real power here as well as unlimited money. In addition, there was the allure of high quality villainy, his ultimate aphrodisiac. Cestac sipped his coffee as he sat at a table outside a favourite Bar and let the August sun beat down on him. He was well content.

  CONRAD AVELING — 1975

  He climbed into his car and drove slowly towards the main gates of the Regimental headquarters. He was going home, but also leaving another, and doing so with a heavy heart. Conrad had resigned his Commission at the required time before this June day. He was sure he had made the right decision but that didn’t make the point of departure easier. He returned a last salute at the guardroom, and swung his car out onto the main road. He felt better. The challenge was awesome, but it was good to be underway.

  He had a forty minute drive ahead, a meander through the country roads of Hampshire to the thatched house which he and Tepee had been excited to find within their budget. They were settled there with the three children: Peter and Oscar, the twin boys of ten and their young sister Camilla, Conrad and Tepee’s child, rising three and spoiled by her two big brothers.

  The journey provided him with a chance to reflect. He was happy with his memories, of which the best were of the two years spent in the Far East. He’d been anxious when his Qantas flight had left him in Singapore, nervous at his first meeting with his fellow officers and soldiers, still more worried that his bloody actions in Bahrain would be revealed. But no word had ever been spoken and he relaxed further when he got news that Alexa was safely in Sydney.

  The work during those two years was always varied, always demanding, bloody at times and boring at others. The British Naval flag still flew and there were skirmishes and clandestine operations in which the specially trained forces were involved: some tough soldiering and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

  The day which had changed his life c
ame in early June 1971. Conrad and his team had just finished an assignment in East Timor, attached to an Australian force, and they returned for a few days leave in Singapore. Connie was trying to develop his watercolour painting. He was less than brilliant, but he did enjoy it and it was good for relaxation. That day, he took his box of brushes, his easel and canvass and paints, and he set up a position at the edge of a small flower market just off Marine Parade. It was a pretty enough spot, always bustling with activity which actually made for more privacy. If you wanted to be inconspicuous, it was best to get in amongst a crowd of people who had more pressing things to do than gawp.

  He was working on a couple of outline sketches when he noticed a girl standing a few yards away. She was holding up her bicycle which had an enormous wicker basket attached to its front forks and a sort of trailer hooked up through a gooseneck attachment to the saddle post. There were two small boys squatting in the little cart. The girl was giving him a quizzical look with the touch of a smile playing around her mouth. He could see that she was slim and unusually tall for an Asian. She was very beautiful indeed. She was also a pain and a distraction. Conrad steeled himself to start preparing his paints and palette. He knew she would be gone when he turned to look again. She was not. She was unmoved. But now she did brush a lock of her long black hair from her eye and spoke to him across the small distance that separated them.

  ‘Good morning, Sir. You must think me very rude to be staring, and I am interrupting you which is even worse. I paint myself and it’s not a help to have onlookers. I’ll leave you in peace, now. You’ve picked a good spot.’

  She flashed a full smile at him and gathered her skirts as she prepared to mount her bike. Then Conrad committed a cardinal error: he talked back.

  ‘Ah well, if you’re a fellow artist, you better come and have a look.’