Red Joker

by Michael Nicholson

  ‘That’s what dismays me most about the suckling Third World. They’re geared to the dream, locked in on it no matter what happens around them. To them, compromise is an unthinkable manoeuvre. It doesn’t matter if there’s a world recession. They couldn’t care less that the commodity price of their only export hits the floor. They push on with their Socialist experiments and their grandiose development schemes, turning tailors into ploughmen, housewives into sentries, egg-whisks into rifles or whatever the dream dictates. Then they wake up and find the international bankers won’t cough up with any more interest-free-needn’t-pay-back loans and British and French Ministers get hand cramp from signing cheques in their Ministries of Overseas Development.

  ‘Then the Socialist-Hero-Leader hears from his bureaucrats that there are no more spares for the communal farm tractors, no more diesel for the Land-Rovers, that the water in their dreamy irrigation projects is running the wrong way, that the dams are leaking, that their railways are buckling and the Chinese engineers who built them are already back in Peking washing African dust off their hands with relief.

  ‘And on the sidelines, the Russian wolf peers out from behind the curtains of his African Embassy, missing nothing, grinning, seeing it all coming his way. But Laurent knows enough about Russian ambition to be wary. I don’t think they’ll find much room here.’

  Pilger paused, leant forward to the fifth bottle of Chenin, drained it into his glass and fell back again against the wheel.

  ‘Laurent,’ he said, ‘might close the parlour with its pelvic massage, but then again, he might not if it upsets the South African tourist. He’s a pragmatist, William, whatever else he calls himself, and he knows he can accomplish almost anything he wants for this island if he can do it in his own way, which will be a long way short of the political convulsions you expected.

  ‘He has his dream but he will make it work for him. A dream, you see William, should be the inspiration of things and Laurent will pace his out slowly. After all, few of the world’s coup makers have had the kind of training in change that he’s had. It’s a cliché and I beg his pardon and yours and Christ knows how often we’ve heard it before, but I really do believe he will do what is best for his people.’ Pilger stood up, stretched and began patting his shirt and shorts looking for his pipe.

  ‘Laurent, William, is a clever man with a simple outline. He appears uncomplicated to outsiders, but he is cunning enough to know that to be simple nowadays carries a lot of weight. He quoted Einstein to me once, William. “Everything should be made as simple as possible. But not simpler! ” ’

  There seemed nothing more to say. Certainly nothing that Faraday could thing of saying. It all seemed so perfectly right, so properly human, so adequate. Explained in this way there could be no other option, no other solution and like Faraday’s own day with Elizabeth, Union too would have its happy ending.

  ‘And I must say, William,’ Pilger said, after a pause to light his pipe. ‘I’m delighted it’s worked out this way . . . for him and for his people. They’re a delightful lot, never heard them moan about the past or how they’ve been treated. There doesn’t seem to be any bitterness in them. D’you know, I get so fed up hearing about the have-nots of the Third World and the everlasting guilt we must bear. I believe poor countries have no right to expect others better off to feel more keenly about their plight than themselves, always so full of their bogus rhetoric about exploitation. I have to admit, William, that my sympathy for the futile, the abject, the idle and the have-notters who won’t shift their bums to help themselves, gets less and less the older I grow.’

  The lizard backed out towards the open window carrying the spider, manoeuvred his way tail first between the Venetian blinds, on to the window box, through the geranium forest and along the courtyard wall towards his family of young waiting in their nest in the cracked stucco.

  There was the slightest rustle of feathers and the owl caught him with its beak and swallowed him whole and the young would die waiting.

  The owl hovered for an instant outside Faraday’s window and then banked sharply away to his own nest in the hay- barn above the hotel. But Faraday was already asleep, and the mosquitoes continued their noisy night patrols for blood.

  Faraday ran all the way to the harbour and George. The message had been short and could quite easily have been an invitation to lunch. But the words had somehow seemed urgent.

  She was sitting in the cockpit, her knees pulled up together under her chin, her arms clasped tightly around them.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ she said. ‘He’d never have done it without saying, it’s always been a part of the routine. He always tells me what he wants to do and then he asks me if I think it’s right. Involvement. . . used to be a game. . . but it’s become part of us.’

  ‘He went without telling you anything?’

  ‘He’s hardly spoken to me since last night and then he left early this morning, didn’t say a thing. He’s worried, something serious, I know it, to do with him, and me, and the island. Look. Something else.’ She pointed to a thick black polythene hose that came across the forward deck from the quay and was screwed into a brass connector by the mast.

  ‘Water,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time since we’ve been here . . . first time in over two years that we’re taking on water.’

  ‘But surely you always do? You must do.’

  ‘Only a little at a time, to wash and cook with, enough for a few days. That way it’s always fresh. But that hose has been running for hours now, it was on when I got up. The meter reads nearly full. I’ve checked. That’s over one hundred gallons.’

  She began to chew the back of her knuckles. Faraday could do nothing, say nothing. The relevance of a tank-full of fresh water meant little to him, and he couldn’t understand why she should find it so important. She stood up and took his hand. Then quickly kissed it. It was unexpected and urgent, and alarming.

  ‘Look! ’ She opened the Perspex cover of the small square control panel by the throttles, turned the ignition key, and the red ignition light glowed. She tapped a dial and its needle moved slowly to the right.

  ‘While I was with you yesterday afternoon, he must have gone across the harbour to the pumps. Our diesel tanks are now full. We’ve never had them full before, not when we’re tied up. There’s too much fire risk. Just enough for emergencies. Twenty to thirty gallons, that’s all we’ve ever carried here.’

  She held his hand tighter in both hers and began pressing it against her breasts, backwards and forwards. Faraday felt the panic rising. He knew nothing of yachts or the habits of yachtsmen and it should have seemed perfectly normal for the George to be stocked with fresh water and fuel. But she was anxious, and it was infectious and he didn’t know why.

  His open hand, still held tight by her, rested on her right breast and beneath the thin white cotton shirt he could feel the hardness of her nipple in the centre of his palm. He felt the urge to close his fingers around it. Instead held them out straight.

  ‘You know what it means,’ she said softly, but not looking. ‘He’s getting ready to sail. We’re leaving the island, William. Leaving.’

  So they sat together all afternoon waiting for him to return. They drank tea and ate treacle tart. At two o’clock water began spouting from the tank’s overflow and she turned off the supply at the hydrant on the quayside.

  They watched the doves spiral over the Governor’s Palace and saw the fishing boats empty their meagre catch of pilchards in buckets on to the scales at the market sheds. They saw private motor launches with extraordinary superstructures like Disney Fairyland castles and dead young sharks hanging from their sterns and they watched noisy, bleached, menopaused women shriek as home movie cameras caught them bravely sticking their fists into the open-mouthed, open-eyed fish before they were thrown into the harbour water to rot, or to be pecked at by the gulls at low tide and dog fish at high.
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br />   They watched as the afternoon sun moved slowly across and down the deck to evening. The small cafes along the Boulevard overlooking the boats prepared for dinner, and they saw the flash of red, yellow and blue gingham as waiters shook their tablecloths clear of the lunchtime debris.

  And they bought lemon water-ice from a one-eyed boy carrying his basket of plaited palm leaves, heavy and dripping wet.

  It was past ten o’clock and Adam Pilger had not meant to wake them so abruptly, but he had forgotten the water hose and hadn’t seen it coiled on the quay. He fell heavily into the cockpit, cut his left knee and straddled them as they slept huddled together in the corner.

  ‘Sorry Liz, William, didn’t mean to create, it’s the fat around my middle, upsets the balance. Wouldn’t have happened a few years ago.’

  Faraday stood up and felt cold. Elizabeth sat still and looked up at her father.

  ‘Liz,’ said Pilger, ‘we’ve a few problems to sort out. Mightn’t amount to much, but I think we should tackle them now, you know the form.’ He turned to Faraday. ‘William old lad, don’t think me a pest, but would you mind dreadfully leaving us? Tell you what, come for breakfast tomorrow early. I’ll cook some proper bacon, loads of fried bread and eggs, the lot.’

  ‘Can I help? Anything. I feel. . .’

  ‘Nice of you old lad . . . really is . . . but this is a family thing. Decisions. Hateful things. Loathe them. Always so final. But we’ll have worked it out all right by the morning, certain of it. Then we’ll have an almighty fry-up! ’ He shook Faraday’s hand, shook it hard, as if it was the final encouragement, almost pleading.

  Faraday looked back at George before he crossed the Boulevard to the pavement on the cafe’s side. The night lights that Pilger always had tied fore and aft had not been switched on, and there was no light below. Only the bow was outlined in the soft red glow from the cafe signs.

  Whatever it was Pilger had to say to Elizabeth, whatever his worry, whatever the decision they had to make together, it was secret enough to be made in the dark.

  ‘Matey, come and have a drink . . . last night . . . toasting Liberté, Fraternité and God help us! . . . Maternité!’ Faraday had hoped they hadn’t seen him. Prentice lurched forwards towards him and the tall mulatto waiter, who always seemed to be in position on these occasions, stood to one side to let him fall. But Prentice was in no mood for falling and changing the gin from the left to right hand, grabbed the barstool and held steady. Slowly he eased himself up to a standing position and held Faraday’s arm. Then, to Faraday’s surprise, he handed him his jug of gin and tonic. Prentice’s enormous jowls, sensing their loss, moved inches forward like fenders.

  ‘I was telling them. Matey, about the two Indians . . . one says to the other that his wife can’t have kids; “She’s impregnable,” he says.

  ‘“You mean she’s inconceivable,” says the other.

  ‘“Well all I know,” says the first, “is that she’s bloody unbearable.” ’

  ‘Alf,’ said Protheroe, ‘I’ve heard that a hundred bloody times and I still don’t find it funny.’

  ‘Ignore the fart-arse,’ said Prentice, ‘you’re too much an educated man to muck with bums like that. Have a drink . . . come on, have mine, lad.’

  He gripped Faraday’s arm tighter as he swayed.

  ‘Really no . . . thanks Alf . . . but I’d rather not tonight. It’s been an odd day.’

  ‘Joke didn’t upset you?’ asked Prentice kindly.

  ‘No . . . not the joke, Alf.’

  ‘Don’t be down lad . . . not on our last night. Shall I tell you some good news?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Your Oppo’s left. Our Oppo’s left. Scarpered! Up and Away, Matey, on the great silver bird. Tonight, direct to Paris.’

  ‘The Beeb?’

  ‘The Beeb no less. . . and. . . wait for it. . . Di Da! . . .’

  ‘J. J. Day-Lewis,’ said Protheroe quickly.

  ‘Can’t you bloody well keep out of even one of my stories, you . . .’

  ‘Why?’ asked Faraday.

  ‘Why? ’Cos it’s all over, me old luv. Kaput. We live that moment of history, record it and we move on. It’s home triumphant, herograms for you, champers on the flight deck, coffee and biscuits with the Editor, the lot. Tomorrow night the ghosts won’t hear a bleedin’ pin drop in this God awful bar. The story is dead. There!’

  ‘Alf,’ said Faraday, ‘I don’t think it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s probably just beginning.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really can’t say. Well, I can say, but I really don’t know. It’s the first time in two years they’ve filled up with water and the diesel tanks are full too. They’re leaving, and they’re hurrying, and they wouldn’t do that because they’ve got nowhere else to go. Something’s wrong. D’you see?’

  Prentice looked at Faraday with his drooping, bloodshot eyes. Protheroe moved quickly towards a full glass of red wine that had been left by the Washington Post.

  ‘Lad,’ said Prentice, and he put his arm around Faraday’s shoulder and gave him a paternal squeeze. ‘Let me give you some sound advice. From an old campaigner. Twenty- seven years on the road. Tooting to Taipei. Never, and I mean never, sit in the sun without a hat. It dries your blood. Dehydrates you. Frizzles you up. Now, promise me in future you’ll wear a hat. Get to bed lad and I’ll send you up some lime juice.’

  The telegram from the Foreign Desk, London, was pinned to his room key on the porter’s desk. It read simply: ‘CUT LOSSES IMMEDIATELY STOP RETURN SOONEST STOP TWO PREVIOUS STORIES UNUSED INTEREST NIL REGARDS JAYEM.’

  Faraday walked slowly up the stairs, happy to leave the noise and banter. He looked again at the piece of paper. It was not unexpected but no less welcome for that. He was leaving. Elizabeth was leaving. Union and each other. How easily, he thought, it all passes. Hardly a paragraph written but every word precious and then the page turns, and already it’s past tense. How he hated the abruptness. Where was the composition? The start, the middle and the end. This wasn’t an ending, not a proper one. Not Pilger’s cut knee, not the promise of breakfast or the silence as he’d left the yacht, not sterile Indians and lime juice.

  He turned into the corridor just as a mulatto girl closed Doubleday’s door. She pulled at her bra, young and pretty but she’d made up in a hurry and she had two sets of lips. She pushed her sweat and sickly sweet scent ahead of her.

  She smiled as she passed him but there was no invitation in the tired, cold eyes.

  ‘Impregnable, unbearable and a bargain,’ Faraday said aloud and really to himself, but she spoke no English and still less interested she went off to the downstairs lavatories to wash her private parts before going out on to the Boulevard to charm all over again.

  Faraday closed the bedroom door behind him. He didn’t know why but he locked it too.

  It was hardly a tent. Simply a square of black plastic sheeting stretched across two poles and held to the sand by stones. But the high radio antennae swaying in the breeze that came across the night shore gave its purpose away.

  The aerial was the telescopic type, thirty feet high and supported by three wires pegged to the ground at triangular points, positioned on the highest sand-dune which gave it an elevation of nearly sixty feet and an obstructed sweep east across the Mozambique Channel to the Indian Ocean.

  No sound came from the transmitter-receiver inside the plastic cover. Nor from the two men sitting in the darkness, cross-legged either side of it. Occasionally, as they inhaled, the cigarette glow would underlight their faces red, and they would glance at each other but say nothing and return quickly to shadow.

  The only noise outside were the cicadas, the large brown crickets in their endless frantic mating calls, and beyond them, in the swamps and trapped seawater lagoons behind
the dunes were the frogs. Hundreds impersonating thousands.

  Some minutes earlier, with the moon directly overhead giving no shadow, but a dull flat light that took away the eye’s perspective, the two men had suddenly stiffened in alert. They had heard another sound, edging between the crickets and the frogs but not of them, something larger moving through the long grass that fringed the top of the dunes. And then the snap of something brittle. And they had watched, through the opening in the plastic cover facing out to sea, a jackal move slowly down to the beach and begin nosing at the piles of seaweed, looking for crabs and jelly-fish at the high water mark. And the men relaxed, sat back and thumbed on again the safety catch of their light Czechoslovak-made rifles.

  The man nearest the radio pressed its night light and in the green glow he looked at his wristwatch and held up a forefinger. The other, watching, stubbed his cigarette into the sand and knelt on his knees directly in front of the set. He connected two wires to a small separate Nicad battery pack, adjusted a pair of lightweight headphones and switched on.

  His right hand pressed the headphones tighter to his head and his left hand began turning the shortwave tuner slowly and carefully across the arc of the band dial. In the green of the tuner’s light the other man began a countdown on the outstretched fingers of one hand. He had touched his little finger for the second time when the signal was spotted. Contact had been made. And on time.

  The man with the headphones held one of the padded cups out from his head for the other to hear. The voice from it was faint but perfectly clear and the message, repeated twice, from call-sign in to call-sign out, lasted only eighteen seconds.