by Gulvin, Jeff
‘The US Ambassador’s motorcade.’
‘Brigitte Hammani and Said Rabi. In Israel,’ Boese said again.
Dubin scratched at his pad with the pen, laid it down and sat back. ‘I was there. It was during my time with the Jonathan Institute. As far as I was aware, the name did not come from the press like “the Jackal”, it was your preferred nom de guerre. Where did you get it, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings?’
Boese looked puzzled.
‘The Riders of Rohan,’ Dubin explained. ‘The wizard, Gandalf Stormcrow. He only ever showed up when he had ill-tidings to bear.’
Boese did not reply.
Dubin sighed and sat back again. ‘This all began with your parents, didn’t it. They were active with the SLA. After your parents were imprisoned, how did it feel being handed to a couple you hardly knew? That must’ve had a profound effect on your life. Has anyone ever considered that all you ever knew in your life was terrorism? SLA, IRA and then Carlos the Jackal.’
Boese stood up and turned to Chesil. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’ve finished.’
Dubin stared at him. ‘I’m sorry … I err …’
Boese stared back at him, past the glasses into his eyes. There was something about those eyes. Dubin stood up. ‘Look, perhaps we can meet again …’
Boese followed Chesil out of the room.
4
‘REMEMBER,’ VACZKA SAID, BLUE eyes moving from one upturned face to the next. ‘The Stanislavsky method.’ He held up a stiff index finger. ‘It’s why we’re here. De Niro, Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, James Dean; even Marilyn Monroe tried to learn the method. You are the character. You don’t so much act as become them. Daniel Day-Lewis, nowadays, is probably the best European exponent. Think of him in The Boxer, trained by Barry McGuigan, he could acquit himself in most rings in the country. Total dedication. Becoming that person.’ He paused, pressing the bottom of his tight black T-shirt deeper into his sweatpants. ‘Ask the question—who are you?’
Amaya Kukiel caught his eye and smiled. He ignored her, deliberately, just leaving his gaze there long enough to catch the swift change in her expression. He liked how she looked today, with her dyed blonde hair piled on her head so braids fell and danced about her ears.
‘Pieter,’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘Show me.’ He sat back on the tall stool then, one foot on the rung, the other on the floor, toes scrunched into black jazz shoes. He folded hairy forearms across his chest. Pieter Jeconec stood up and moved to the centre of the floor, while the others all eased themselves to the side. For a moment, Jeconec looked at the floor and then shifted his chin to his chest, half lifting one arm, the fingers spread out. He started speaking, weary-voiced, Miller’s Death of a Salesman—the scene where Willy tells Linda how much he loves her—looking at the studio wall as if it were her face.
Vaczka nodded to Kukiel, who stood up, smoothed hands over her flanks and moved to a mock mirror where she put on an imaginary hat. She laughed softly to herself. Jeconec continued, talking about his loneliness, his fears for the future, his desperation at not selling, having nothing to leave for his boys.
The scene ended and Vaczka stood up. ‘Good. Good, Pieter. Excellent.’ He smiled at Kukiel. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and gestured once more at Jeconec. ‘Willy Loman. He was Willy Loman.’ He paused then, hands on his hips, blue eyes scanning every pair that looked so expectantly back at him. ‘OK, that’s it till next time.’
He stood poring over his notes and heard Amaya behind him. He could smell her, the faint hint of perspiration. He half turned, reached out a hand and clasped her fingers, drawing her to him. She touched him lightly on the buttocks and nuzzled into his neck.
‘Everybody gone?’
‘Yes.’
He straightened. ‘Good. Lock the door.’
She stared at him. ‘Jorge, we can’t …’
‘Lock the door, Kukiel.’ He always called her by her last name; he liked to—it added to the feeling of power he knew he had over her. He moved towards her, aware of the hint of moisture gathered at the seamhead of her leotard, red and skin-tight over black dancing pants. He liked them free and supple for movement at this stage in their endeavours. Costumes could come later.
They were in a classroom on the top floor of the POSK, the Polish university complex on King Street in West London. The floor was deserted, the theatre auditorium was being renovated and this studio was the only room in use. Vaczka moved past her to the door, locked it with a twist of the key and pulled the blind down over the reinforced glass. Amaya giggled. Vaczka leaned against the stool once more, a quiet smile on his lips. She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m due in the cafeteria.’
‘Not for fifteen minutes.’ Again he smiled. ‘That’s enough time to fuck me.’
He moved towards her, reaching out with a finger to tug at the top of the leotard. Her breasts were swollen against the Lycra, nipples suddenly erect under his gaze. He stirred in the loose-fitting sweatpants he wore. She reached up, wrapping both arms about his neck, mouth puckered towards his. He kissed her softly at first, then pressing down he could feel her teeth edged against his. Her lips were full and very red; they always were after class. She could not act, but she was keen and that was all that mattered to him.
He eased fingers inside her leotard and it came away, down the line of her shoulders, exposing the fullness of her breasts and high-pointed nipples, that lifted with a covering of gooseflesh. Vaczka bent to them, tugging each one in turn with his teeth, while she moaned in her throat and rubbed herself against him. He pressed her, walking her back against the wall, and hoisted his T-shirt over his head.
‘What if someone comes …’ He crushed the rest of the words from her mouth with his. He took her against the wall; sweats round his ankles, her tights off, and dark pubic hair under his fingers. And then inside her, pushing up and in until she gasped so loudly he had to put his free hand over her mouth.
Afterwards, he dressed again and watched her, still half-naked, slumped on the floor, looking at him dull-eyed, with her legs splayed and the mound of pubic hair pushing up at him. He always hated her afterwards and could never understand why. ‘Get dressed.’ He looked at the clock. ‘You’ll be late.’ Then he laughed as he pulled on his T-shirt, and added, ‘And I’m hungry.’
‘Bastard,’ she said.
Vaczka looked down at her. ‘If you don’t want it hard, you shouldn’t pout at me in class.’
She was on her feet now, fiddling with her knickers and pushing the fallen hair from her eyes. ‘I don’t pout at you,’ she said.
She was late, and Carmen, the manageress, a big woman in her forties with blonde hair and too much lipstick, tutted at her as she fastened her apron. Amaya’s face was flushed, sweat still glistened on her brow, and Carmen could smell the sex on her. Vaczka was already seated at one of the green and white tables, drinking thick black coffee and flicking through the newspapers. Carmen looked at him with lust in her eyes; he must be nearing her age and his body was still firm. Jeconec came and sat next to him.
‘Good?’
Vaczka did not acknowledge the comment, leafed through a few more pages until Amaya came over with a plate of bigos for him. He spooned meat and cabbage into his mouth, dripping gravy on to his chin. He glanced at Jeconec. ‘You know, you were not bad in there just now.’
Jeconec lifted an eyebrow. ‘How the fuck would you know?’
Vaczka laughed through his gravy. ‘Exactly. But I’m Polish. I talk a good game and I have the right certificates. What more do they want?’ He glanced over at the counter to where Amaya was dishing dark, jammed doughnuts on to a plate for the one-legged man who always came in on Tuesdays. ‘Besides, the students love me.’
He spooned more stew into his mouth and spoke while he chewed. ‘Any word?’
‘None.’
‘What about Blunski?’
‘Nothing.’
Vaczka frowned. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while now.’
&nbs
p; Jeconec looked at Amaya’s breasts through her shirt.
‘Go and have a look in the window,’ Vaczka told him.
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Now. We need to look every day.’
For a second, Jeconec squinted at him as if he were about to protest, but he did not. Instead he got up and walked outside, down the steps on to King Street. He glanced at the kids milling about the entrance to Latymer High School and walked the short distance to the corner of Ravenscourt Road. A few people wandered down from the tube station and a few more were gathered outside the newsagent’s window, scanning the hundreds of little postcards which all but filled the glass. Everything you could think of was advertised there, from lawnmowers to piano lessons; and all of it was in Polish. Two men, whom Jeconec recognized but did not know, eagerly scanned the cards. Jeconec looked for a wholly different reason, picking out each card in turn and carefully reading the contents. It took him twenty minutes, then he sighed and walked back to the POSK.
Vaczka was flirting with Carmen while she loitered over clearing his table. His mobile phone rang and she moved off, allowing Jeconec to resume his seat. Vaczka spoke softly in Polish, then switched the phone off and laid it on the table. He sucked at the strings of meat between his teeth.
‘Well?’
Jeconec shook his head. ‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Herbisch.’
‘Anything?’
‘Not a word.’
Behind the counter Amaya watched them carefully, but she could not tell what they were saying. She had seen Jeconec go outside and watched him from the window as he made his way to King Street. She knew what he would be doing. He had done the same thing every day for two weeks now. Vaczka was agitated (or as agitated as she had seen him) over something, but she did not know what it was. He must have felt her gaze for he looked up and stared into her eyes. There was something about those eyes that disturbed her, a cruelty deep within them that she had experienced from time to time. He studied the newspaper once more and then he yawned and sat back.
‘How much time shall we give it?’ Jeconec asked him.
Vaczka looked witheringly at him. ‘What sort of a question is that? We wait. Tell the others. We just sit and wait.’
Jeconec scraped his chair back and got up. ‘See you later, then.’
‘Tonight, yes.’ Vaczka was looking towards the counter again. ‘I think I’ll fuck Carmen,’ he said. ‘See if it pisses off Kukiel.’
‘Carmen’s fat,’ Jeconec said.
Vaczka looked up at him with a glint in his eye. ‘You know what they say about fat women.’
Amaya finished work at four and, collecting her bag, she wandered outside. It was raining now and almost dark. She hated this time of year—damp, cold and dark, the streets of London smelling of garbage and too many people in too many cars; even the wind had the resinous tang of the river. She walked towards the tube station, passing the boarded-up offices, which had still not been let. She only lived a couple of streets away, but she wanted to look in the newsagent’s window. Vaczka was long gone, back to his flat or his friends or whatever other jobs he did. His work at the college was only part-time, and she knew now he did not have the appropriate qualifications. There was no problem with looking in the window of the newsagent’s; everybody did, every Pole in the neighbourhood; seeking work, buying, selling, whatever. Mini-crowds would gather all day long, with bits of paper and stubs of pencil, jotting down what it was they thought they needed to know.
Amaya looked hard, but she did not know what it was she was looking for exactly. She had seen Jeconec looking day after day, not just him but Blunski too, and on one occasion, the blond-haired silent one called Stahl. As she was scanning the window, she was suddenly aware of somebody watching her and for a moment she thought it was Vaczka. She turned with a start, but none of those near her was taking more than a cursory interest. She shook the feeling away, then glanced further afield at the buildings across the road. Then she turned towards Ravenscourt Park tube station and saw Julian leaning in the doorway, watching her. He was not alone. The woman, Christine, was walking down the road towards her. Amaya felt her heart sink. It was a month since she had seen either of them and she was just beginning to hope. That hope faded now, and, glancing at her watch, she turned back along King Street and made her way towards the park. A train thundered above the arches as she got there, heading back into central London. There was nobody sitting on the benches, no children playing in the sandpit or the playground. It was too cold and too dark to do anything other than cross the park purposefully on your way somewhere, Amaya thought about pausing under the arches, but a glance over her shoulder told her to keep walking. Christine was following her.
Four months ago they had approached her. She was working as a barmaid then, in the Stonemason’s Arms, just off Hammersmith Broadway. First it was just him; Julian, he had said his name was. He used to come in and chat to her, ask lots of questions. She was free and easy with her conversation; over here doing an academic course. She had been born in Gdansk and her father was one of those who fought with Lech Walesa for freedom. She was not studying at the POSK, no, but at the University of London, eighteen months into a three-year degree course. When she was qualified, she hoped to go back to Poland and teach.
He had been very nice to her, tipping her occasionally and buying her drinks. She thought that he had just been chatting her up, as so many punters did. She ignored most of them and always refused when they asked her out on a date. Julian never asked her out, however, and he never talked about himself. It was always her, what she was doing, who she was seeing, how her family were, how her studies were progressing. Then one night he came in with a woman. They sat at a table and talked together and Amaya got the strangest feeling that their conversation was about her in some way. Julian did not say much to her that night, polite enough when he ordered drinks, but said very little. Three nights in a row the two of them came in and then one night they approached her.
She was leaving work and a car was squatting on double yellow lines a little further along the road, close to the UPi building. She thought nothing of it, but as she made her way down towards the Broadway, the car suddenly drove up alongside her. Julian was driving.
‘Let me give you a lift,’ he said. ‘I’m going your way.’
‘Have you been waiting for me?’
‘No.’ His face was open and smiling.
It was late and she was tired. ‘OK, then.’
Reaching behind, he opened the back door and she got in. The woman he had been in the pub with was sitting there.
‘Hello, Amaya,’ she said. ‘My name’s Christine.’
They drove her back to Ravenscourt Park and her converted bedsit off Ravenscourt Road. They were careful about being seen, but insisted she invite them inside. The room was small, a tiny kitchenette off it and a shared bathroom upstairs. Julian sat on the bed.
‘What is this about?’ Amaya could feel the nerves in her lower belly fluttering like the wings of butterflies. Christine was pretty, but cold-faced. Julian was still all smiles. He sighed before he spoke.
‘Your visa runs out at the end of the year, Amaya.’
‘I know. I must get it renewed.’
He nodded slowly. ‘So you can finish your course?’
‘Yes. It’s very important to me.’
‘Teaching.’ Christine spoke to her.
‘The course first, but then teaching.’
‘Make a lot of money in Poland, do they, teachers, I mean?’ she asked her.
‘Quite good, yes.’ Amaya had her hands in her lap, knees drawn up, rubbing the sweat with her fingers. She looked at Julian. ‘What is this about? I haven’t done anything wrong.’
He smiled at her in an almost fatherly manner and reached out to pat her knee. ‘Of course you haven’t. Don’t worry.’
She looked at them then, each face in turn, tugging at her lip with her teeth. ‘Who exactly are you?’ she said.
&n
bsp; ‘We work for the government, Amaya,’ Christine told her. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
She stood up then and picked up a set of family photographs that were standing on the mantelpiece, and pointed to a man in his late forties with a shock of grey curling hair. ‘Father?’ she said.
Amaya nodded. ‘Please, what is this about? I’m very tired and I have to work tomorrow.’
‘Pleased with you, is he—your father?’ Christine replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Glad you have this opportunity to study in England?’
‘Yes, he is. Very. It’s a chance he never had.’
‘I’m sure.’ Christine sat down again and laid a hand on her arm. ‘You know a man called Jorge Vaczka, Amaya?’
Amaya squinted at her. ‘I know who he is. I see him sometimes at the POSK.’
‘Your other job.’
‘In the cafeteria, yes.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘He’s OK to talk to.’
‘Fun?’
‘I suppose.’ Amaya was aware of her need to go to the toilet. She crossed her legs, intertwining fingers in her lap.
Christine sat back on the bed and rested a fist on her knee. Her clothes were dark, expensive. Amaya could smell the scent of her perfume.
‘Jorge Vaczka teaches drama,’ Julian said. ‘Small classes, the Stanislavsky method.’ He paused for a moment, as if considering whether to broach a subject or not. He glanced at Christine.
‘Amaya,’ she said. ‘We need you to help us.’ She smiled then for the first time. ‘You’re a pretty girl. Has Jorge ever asked you out?’
‘For a date? Yes. I said, no.’
Julian laid a hand on her arm. ‘We’ve watched you, Amaya, for a long time now. We’ve watched Jorge. He’d like to take you out. He’d like to take you out very much.’ He paused momentarily. ‘We’d like you to give him some encouragement. We’d like you to go out with him.’
Amaya was looking from one to the other now, incomprehension on her face.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why should I go out with him? Why are you interested in him?’
