by Nick Spill
“Should have known you’d do something like that.” Annie tried to grab Mel by stepping to her left and sweeping her leg behind Mel. Mel made a small adjustment and put Annie in a head lock that saw Annie lose her balance with Mel’s knee in her back. Annie tried to reach back but fell onto Mel, who locked her legs around her. Annie had to tap out again.
“Do you see what you’re doing?” Mel asked. “Once you commit to a technique and your opponent does something else to thwart it, you have to change. Like last time. You should have moved with me instead of against me, used your weight and balance to trip me the other way. Don’t rely on your strength and height. Here, I’ll show you, nice and slow first.”
Mel went through the routine twice then they continued sparring again until Annie called it quits. They retired to the back room, and a small bathroom with a cold-water tap that had not seen a cleaner for several years. Mel changed into her work clothes, a white shirt, black trouser suit and Doc Marten 1460 combat boots. She adjusted her hair and picked up her work out bag. “Do you think they’re getting it?” she asked.
“Yeah. They love the physical stuff and the sense they can handle themselves with a few simple techniques.”
“You don’t think I’m giving them a false sense of confidence, do you?”
“You in your Doc Martens? You couldn’t look more kick-ass!”
“Seriously. I don’t want to lead them on. Fighting someone bigger than you is very different from what we do in the dojo.”
“They understand.”
“When violence happens, it’s usually random, unexpected or just so damn fast, not like here, the way we train.”
“Yeah. But tonight’s lesson was built on last week’s, so they’re getting more used to this. Don’t overthink. It’s just fighting. So, what about Henry? You don’t seem to talk about him so much.”
“Oh, Henry,” sighed Mel. “He’s in Wellington. Applying for a job at Victoria Uni, in their physics department. He doesn’t think he’ll get it. Been out of the country too long. No connections here. You know how it is.”
Annie pushed curls from her face and started to zip her leather jacket. “No, I don’t. I thought you flew to New York to bring him back. In fact, I remember having a similar conversation like, what? Six months ago? What happened?”
“I really don’t know. After our little adventure, he went cold. He seems to think about his science problems all the time. I don’t think I know him anymore. It’s weird.”
“So, what are your plans?”
Mel shrugged. “We were like two love birds. But now he can be attentive, the next minute, remote.”
“Another woman?”
“I don’t see how. He never goes out or does anything without me. I’m thinking I’ll take him up north for a holiday. Maybe a break will do him good. He’s been very hard on himself. What about you?”
“I’m seeing someone new. Well, he’s been around forever, old student activist, but he’s charming and very attentive. A girl needs attention.”
“Yes, we do,” Mel smiled. “Do I know him?”
“Mark Rose. Been arrested umpteen times, he admits. Anti-Vietnam war protester. Runs a commune in Hokianga and comes here a lot. He makes me laugh.”
“The student with the long hair and megaphone? In that anti-Vietnam War photo? That’s who you’re dating?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. We’re almost the same age. I think.”
“Is he well behaved?”
“What have you taught me?” Annie struck a pose, her legs in an attack stance, her fists up.
When Mel laughed her curls shook.
Chapter Nine
“It’s okay to borrow the gallery van, isn’t it? I had to kit it out. I have no idea if my director knows. Does he?”
Holding a large brown envelope Alexander sat in his favorite seat in Richard Catelin’s spacious office. He wore a dark blue single-breasted suit with a plain white shirt and a narrow grey wool tie that brought out the color of his eyes, though he was unaware of the effect. He looked at his old Oxfords that needed a shine—he was still annoyed he’d had to throw away his Italian loafers—and then at the paintings and drawings borrowed from his gallery. He wondered if there were any records of them on loan. He had discovered a set of original Dürer woodcuts gifted to the gallery in the 1950s. They had been forgotten in a set of old steel drawers. He was getting them framed and ready to exhibit, but he didn’t want to tell Catelin about his find as it might reflect badly on his director. He felt he was in enough trouble proposing new shows that had nothing to do with his director’s interests or research.
“Oh no. As long as you return it in the morning.” Catelin eyed Alexander. “Has anyone been asking questions about the van?”
“Just the carpenter, who’s wondering what I’m doing. He’s an old trade unionist and suspicious of anyone in a suit.”
“The director specifically was told to let you use the van whenever you needed it, even overnight, no questions asked.”
“Here they are, negatives and all.” Alexander handed over the envelope with both hands. Catelin pulled out the 8 x 10 black-and-white prints and scrutinized each one. He counted the negatives versus the prints he had in hand.
“A few were too dark to see anything. They’re all there.” Alexander watched Catelin compare the prints to the negatives. “The white negatives couldn’t be printed.” He scratched his head and checked for dandruff on his jacket. He had been so consumed with this new project he hadn’t had time to shop for shampoo lately—or anything else.
As a precaution, he had printed an extra set of photos. He had no idea if or when he would need them. He couldn’t imagine giving them to a newspaper. He thought he could not trust anyone, let alone Catelin, with these secrets. He had hidden the prints in a sealed plastic bag under a floorboard in his bedroom.
Today Catelin was all business: no coffee or stronger drinks were offered. “How many times did you go out there?”
“Since our last meeting, five times. SIS were there as well. Tried to break into the van.”
“Did they see you?”
“No, but they would’ve run the plates on the van and traced it to the gallery.”
Catelin looked up and smiled. “Don’t overestimate them. It’s why the minister wanted you, to have a fresh set of eyes.”
Alexander should have challenged that last comment. Had the minister specifically asked for him? How did the minister even know he existed? Looking back later at what happened, he realized he should have asked questions, not been so willing to believe. Catelin’s comment about the SIS’s inability to check license plates should have been a red flag.
Catelin lit his pipe then held it in his left hand. In his other hand he held the grainy photographs and scrutinized them one at a time. Alexander waited for him to come to the last set.
Two nights ago, he had parked the van earlier than usual in what had become his regular parking place, across from Winter’s front gate but between two lamp posts. He was not sure if the black paper he had stuck on the side and rear windows would be as effective. He walked around to check for any gaps. To anyone spying on him, it would appear he was checking the tires and the panel work for any scratches. He had previously driven up and down the street and had not spotted any surveillance cars. He had the side door open when he spotted a full-figured woman with a mass of red hair walking towards him, carrying a large shopping bag. He couldn’t remember where or when he had last seen her, but she recognized him.
“What a surprise, Alexander! What are you doing here?” Her scarlet wool coat was open to reveal a low-cut red cotton outfit with buttons about to burst.
Alexander tried not to stare at her chest. “I’m working on something, actually. Do you live nearby?”
“Right there.” She pointed to the next house, across from the doctor’s.
His head started to spin. “I’m doing a sort of performance piece with photos, but I was looking for a better vantage po
int.” He lifted his head to the windows of the semi-detached house, and she followed his cue.
“It’s a flat, but you’d have a perfect view of the street.”
“Do you think I could set my camera there?”
“Sounds exciting. I’ve just bought a bottle. Do you like cab sav?”
“I’d love anything you’re offering.”
Her wicked grin told Alexander he had underestimated his mystery acquaintance. Then he remembered her name. “Look, Deborah, let me bring my bag of stuff inside and my tripod. Can I help you with your shopping?” He was trying to be gallant, but she had already opened her front door. Alexander noted the street was still deserted. He locked the van and followed her, mesmerized by her swaying hips as she climbed the stairs.
“I’ll show you the view of the street. You must tell me all about your project, it sounds radical.” She dropped her shopping bag and showed him the bedroom. He walked over to the windows and saw he had a perfect angle to observe Winter’s gate and the walkway to his front door. He wondered if he would be able to see across to Winter’s bedroom or whatever it was used for opposite Deborah’s.
“I’ll get the wine while you, oh, help yourself.”
Alexander screwed his camera into the tripod. He had focused the lens on the doctor’s entrance when Deborah returned with two full goblets. She had curtains and lace over the windows. He could not be seen from the street provided she kept her lights off. He would have to change the timing as it grew darker, but the aperture was as wide as he could get. He had his extended release in his hand as she handed him his wine.
“Delicious, Deborah. And you look wonderful as well. We’ve never had a chance to get to know each other.” He took another sip. “I know it sounds contrived, but it’s true. Amazing, bumping into you. I’m doing a piece on the gentleman across the road. Do you know who he is?”
Deborah bent over and looked through the viewfinder then back at Alexander who was staring at her bottom. “Should I?” she asked.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. The entire piece is based on randomness. You know, indeterminate images taken at different times and locations. It’s rather complicated, really.”
Alexander thought she had not grasped what he said. He was making it up as he went along. And where was he going? He was already in her bedroom, drinking wine. He threw his heavy rain jacket on the floor next to his camera bag. “You know I’m on my own again.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“You did? It’s not like I’ve told anyone.”
She smiled. “Small town. Word travels fast. Especially a man like you on the market again.”
Alexander did not know if another button popped open on her dress, but she looked more accessible, more enticing. “Moved out from my ex-girlfriend.” He shrugged, hoping his shyness would not show.
“You do have a reputation about town. Did you know?”
“I have?”
“Alexander A. Newton. Everyone knows you put together hot new exhibitions at the National. There’s that article about you in the paper. And you’re always being seen with beautiful young women. But I don’t care,” she sighed. “I can’t resist those cheekbones and those deep grey eyes.”
“What beautiful women? How about beautiful woman.” He was still trying to process what she had said.
Deborah took a step nearer. “You make me smile. I feel very lucky.”
Alexander breathed in through closed teeth. He should have leaned over and kissed her, but he was confused about the idea of having a reputation. Wellington, being the political capitol, did thrive on rumors. But he was the subject of gossip? Was he so isolated? So ignorant of what was going on around him? Seen with beautiful young women? Who were they? He would like to know, as he never went out. And if he thought about himself at all, it would be as a spy with a camera who worked alone.
He rummaged around in his bag. “Here, I have to check my meter and make adjustments.” He had a light meter but rarely used it. He had an instinctive feel for Tri-X film, setting it at 400 ASA, but pushing the negatives in the dark room to 1600. He toyed with the idea of taking photos of Deborah. Get her to undress and pose. But he had three rolls of Tri-X with him and didn’t want to waste sensitive black-and-white film on a woman who screamed for deep rich colors. Oh god, I bet she’s a screamer, Alexander fantasized, although he was still disturbed by his reputation as a ladies’ man. How did he get such a title? Was it a good thing or a bad thing? He did not want to ask Deborah.
Alexander had his extended shutter release hang beside the Chesterfield loveseat draped in crimson velvet fabric. He focused on the bedroom for the first time and saw Gustav Klimt posters. There was The Kiss on one side of her bed and Danaë above her bed. The resemblance to Deborah was striking. There were gold and red fabrics draped over furniture. Her bedroom was lush and sensuous, as was Deborah, as she sipped her wine, eyeing him.
“Alexander Arkadyevich Newton,” she said after she emptied her glass.
“You know my middle name?”
“I’m a librarian. I know everything. Oh, it was in the Listener. I suppose they were being thorough. How did you get a Russian patronymic?”
He chugged the rest of his wine, let out a sigh and sat down. “Ironic, that article. They fired me months ago over one word, and now they write about me. It was embarrassing.”
“They made you out as a cultural hero. You mean you never got any dates out of that article?”
“No. Why would I? Really?”
“The patronymic?” Deborah eyed him over the rim of her empty glass.
He hesitated. “Oh boy. The wine has gone to my head. But here goes. I’ve never told anyone.” He sighed and looked over at the window and his camera set up. He did not want to miss anything on the street. “My grandfather won an English passport in a poker game in the Crimea in 1918, during the Revolution. He became David Newton. He escaped to England, married my grandmother. He was a gambler, she was rich, but died in childbirth. My father, Arkadi Davidovich Newton, married a Kiwi nurse in London and after the war they moved here. End of story.”
“Not exactly. Lots of holes.”
“My father died of liver disease and I never got the details. My mother had left him earlier. Apparently, he liked the horses and vodka. I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen.”
“Oh, you poor thing. And you are a descendant of Russian aristocracy?” Deborah placed her glass on the dressing table and went to console him. Alexander stood and held her around the waist with his left hand. With his right he lifted her face to his. He lightly touched her full lips. Instead of kissing him with equal gentleness, she grabbed his lips with her teeth and sucked them and his tongue into her mouth. Her arms wrapped around his neck and their bodies became locked together. When she opened her eyes, Alexander looked deep into her dark green irises. Her pupils were a burning red, on fire.
He remembered that Deborah was a librarian, she did something important at the Turnbull. He had thought librarians were shy and introverted, even older plump redheads. He was wrong about her, just as he had been wrong about how others viewed him.
Later, when she had collapsed in his arms, Alexander kept her fine hair away from her pert nose as her lips blew out little puffs. He kissed her forehead and adjusted his left arm as he held her to his chest.
He found it strange that others would talk about him, as he never gossiped. Perhaps he never talked about other people because he had nothing to say. Was his life that boring? Not now, with a naked librarian beside him.
Chapter Ten
“Now the last photos are interesting. You took them from inside a house?”
“Er, yes.” Alexander could feel his cheeks turn red.
“And what is the Russian handing the doctor?”
Alexander recalled how in the morning Deborah had woken him at five. He wondered why she had wound her alarm clock before they slept. He had not realized she wanted another session before going to work. If they hadn’t done it ove
r the loveseat he would not have seen the milkman. When he spotted the Russian, on the street with a milk bottle, approach the doctor, he squeezed the shutter until he ran out of film. He didn’t think Deborah could hear the loud motor drive, with her face buried in a pillow, her moans kept time to his rhythm.
“God, I’m going to be late for work. Do you want coffee?” she asked.
“I’ll have whatever you’re offering.”
“You’ve already had it.” She hobbled to the bathroom. Alexander, naked, his legs quivering, started to put his equipment away.
“Looks like a bottle of milk,” he told Catelin. “There is a milk van goes by at about six in the morning. The Russian or the Soviet, or whatever you want to call him, gave his bottle to the doctor, as you can see. It’s just a bottle of milk.”
“What do you think is going on, Alexander?” Catelin had never used his first name before. He did not know whether to be flattered at the more intimate tone, or wary of being led into a trap.
“I don’t think there’s much spying going on. The Russian knows he’s being watched by SIS. They are not too subtle, you know. He’s playing them.”
Catelin blew out a huge cloud of smoke from his pipe and smiled. Alexander felt compelled to continue. “The photos don’t tell the whole story. It’s all in the body language. The Russian is courting him. It’s like a seduction. But they’re not passing secrets one way or the other. I mean, what secrets does New Zealand have? What do the Russians need for their security? The number of sheep born last month? The bank rate next month? What Mr. Muldoon said to someone last night? What the minister thinks of his wife?” Catelin was still puffing away on his pipe, content to listen. “He’s keeping his hand in. Maybe the doctor was a spy once and they are keeping him close, but the Russian has his hand in.”
“How can you be sure?”
Alexander Arkadyevich Newton took in a deep breath and let it out. He decided not to explain his family origins to the Under-Secretary. “First, I’ve been watching them for three weeks. Second, I know how Russians think. I was almost seduced by a gorgeous Russian woman called Natasha. She was more aggressive than a Kiwi girl, a little on the plump side but she had amazing intense blue eyes. She tried to seduce me right in front of my girlfriend. She did it to keep her hand in. It’s what she does. She couldn’t care less about my girlfriend or about me. It was about the conquest. She was practicing. The Russian is doing the same. And we’re falling for it.”
