‘Do you know that guy?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’ Heidrun folded her arms on the edge of the pool. ‘They must just have arrived. Maybe it’s that Canadian investor. Something with an H, Henna or Hanson. I’ve seen the redhead before, I think. But I can’t remember where.’
‘Oh, yeah! Wasn’t she a murder suspect at some point?’
‘For a while, yes.’ O’Keefe shrugged. ‘She’s quite witty, once you’ve got used to the fact that she has names for her breasts and that she’s squandering an inheritance of thirteen billion dollars pretty much at random. No idea if there was anything to those accusations. It was in all the papers. She got off in the end.’
‘Where do you meet such characters? At parties?’
‘I don’t go to parties.’
Heidrun slipped lower into the water and lay on her back. Her hair spread into a faded flower. O’Keefe couldn’t help thinking of stories about mermaids, seductive creatures who had risen from the depths and dragged mariners underwater to steal their breath with a kiss.
‘That’s right. You hate being at the centre of things, don’t you?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t really, no.’
‘Exactly. It only annoys you when there isn’t at least a screen or a barrier between you and the people who see your films. You enjoy the cult that’s organised around you, but even more than that you enjoy making people think you couldn’t care less.’
He stared at her in amazement. ‘Is that your impression?’
‘When People magazine voted you sexiest man alive, you pulled your cap over your forehead and claimed you really couldn’t understand why women cried at the sight of you.’
‘I don’t get it,’ O’Keefe said. ‘I really don’t.’
Heidrun laughed. ‘Me neither.’
She plunged under the surface of the water. Her outline fragmented into Cubist vectors as she darted away. O’Keefe wondered for a moment whether he liked her answer. The hammering of rotors reached him. He looked into the sky and found himself confronted with a single white cloud.
Lonely little cloud. Lonely little Finn.
We understand each other, you and I, he thought with amusement.
The rump of a helicopter entered his field of vision, crossed the pool and came down.
* * *
‘There are people in the water,’ Karla Kramp observed. She said it with analytical coolness, as if referring to the appearance of microbes under warm and damp conditions. It didn’t sound as if she wanted to join them. Eva Borelius looked out of the helicopter window and saw a pale-skinned woman gliding against a turquoise-coloured background.
‘Perhaps it’s finally time for you to learn to swim.’
‘I’ve already learned to ride for you,’ Karla replied expressionlessly.
‘I know.’ Borelius leaned back and stretched her bony limbs. ‘You never stop learning, my jewel.’
Facing her, Bernard Tautou was dozing with his head leaning back and his mouth half open. After spending the first half-hour of the flight giving an account of his exhausting everyday life, which seemed to play out between remote desert springs and intimate dinners at the Élysée Palace, he had fallen asleep, and was now giving them a view of his nasal cavities. He was short and slim, with wavy, probably dyed hair that was starting to lighten at the temples. His eyes, beneath their heavy lids, had something weary about them, which was further accentuated into melancholy by the long shape of his face. The impression vanished as soon as he laughed and his eyebrows rose clownishly, and Tautou laughed often. He delivered compliments and acted interested, just to use his interlocutor’s statements as a springboard for self-reflection. Every second sentence that he directed at his wife ended in a challenging n’est-ce pas?, Paulette’s sole function being to confirm what he had said. Only after he had gone to sleep did she become more lively, talked about his friendship and hers with the French president, the country’s first female head of state, and how important it was to grant humanity access to the most precious of all scarce resources. She talked about how, as head of the French water company Suez Environnement, he had contrived to take over Thames Water, which had made the resulting company a leader in global water supply and saved the world, which as good as meant her husband had saved the world. In her account plucky Bernard was tirelessly laying pipelines to the areas where the poor and wretched lived, a guardian angel in the battle against thirst.
‘Isn’t water a free human resource?’ Karla had asked.
‘Of course.’
‘So it can’t be privatised?’
Paulette’s expression had remained unfathomable. With her hooded eyelids she looked like the young Charlotte Rampling, although without the actress’s class. The question just asked had been put to people in the water business with great regularity for decades.
‘Oh, you know, that debate is passing out of fashion, thank God. Without privatisation there would have been no supply networks, no treatment plants. What’s the use of free access to a resource if you have no chance of accessing it?’
Karla had nodded thoughtfully.
‘Could you actually privatise the air that we breathe?’
‘Sorry? Of course not.’
‘I’m just trying to understand. So Suez is building supply installations, for example in—’
‘Namibia.’
‘Namibia. Exactly. And are such planned constructions subsidised by development aid?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And the plant operates on a profitable basis?’
‘Yes, it has to.’
‘That means that Suez is privately registering profits that have been subsidised by development aid?’
At that point Paulette Tautou had assumed a tortured expression, and Borelius had said quietly, ‘Enough, Karla.’ Right now she didn’t feel like getting involved in disasters as she usually did when Karla deployed the scalpel of her curiosity. After that they had exchanged harmless pleasantries and admired the platform in the sea. More precisely, her gaze and Karla’s had hung spellbound on that endless line, while Paulette eyed them rather suspiciously and made no move to shake her husband awake.
‘Aren’t you going to wake him?’ Borelius had asked. ‘I’m sure he’d love to see this.’
‘Oh, no, I’m happy for him to get some sleep. You can’t imagine how hard he works.’
‘We’ll be there in a minute. Then you’ll have to wake him anyway.’
‘He needs every second. You know, I’d only wake him for something really important.’
Something really important, Borelius thought. Okay …
Now that the helicopter was lowering itself onto the landing platform, Paulette forced herself to say ‘Bernard’ several times in a quiet voice, until he opened his eyes in confusion and blinked.
‘Are we there already?’
‘We’re landing.’
‘What?’ He jerked upright. ‘Where’s the platform? I thought we were going to see the platform.’
‘You were asleep.’
‘Oh! Merde! Why didn’t you wake me, chérie? I’d have loved to see the platform!’
Borelius forebore from commenting. Before they got out, she caught a glimpse of a stately, snow-white yacht far out on the sea. Then the skids touched the ground, and the side door of the helicopter swung open.
* * *
On the yacht Rebecca Hsu left her study, crossed the huge, marble-covered drawing-room and stepped out onto the deck, while she phoned her headquarters in Taipei.
‘I don’t give a damn what the French sales manager wants,’ she said harshly. ‘We’re talking about a perfume for twelve-year-old girls. They have to like it, not him. If he starts liking the stuff, we’ve made a mistake.’
Wild arguments came crackling down the line. Rebecca walked quickly to the stern, where the first officer, the captain and the speedboat were waiting for her.
‘It’s already clear to me that you want your own campaign,’ she said. ‘I’m
not stupid, after all. You always want something of your own. These Europeans are terribly complicated. We’ve put the perfume on the market in Germany, Italy and Spain, without giving anyone special treatment, and we’ve been successful every time. I don’t see why France of all places— What? He said what?’
The information was repeated.
‘Nonsense, I love France!’ she yelled furiously. ‘Even the French! I’m just fed up with all that constant rebellion. They will have to learn to live with the fact that I’ve bought their beloved luxury company. I’ll leave them in peace as far as Dior and so on are concerned, but for our own creations I expect unconditional cooperation.’
She looked irritably across to the Isla de las Estrellas, which rose from the Pacific like a humpbacked sea serpent. No breeze stirred the air. The sea stretched like dark aluminium foil from horizon to horizon. She ended the conversation and turned to the two liveried men.
‘And? Did you ask again?’
‘I’m extraordinarily sorry, madame.’ The captain shook his head. ‘No permit.’
‘I’m absolutely mystified about what’s going on.’
‘The Isla de las Estrellas and the platform can’t be approached by private ships. The same applies to air-space. The whole area is one single high-security zone. If it wasn’t you, we would even have to wait for their helicopter. Unusually, they have given us permission to ferry you across in our own speedboat.’
Rebecca sighed. She was used to rules not applying to her. On the other hand the prospect of a trip on the speedboat was too much fun for her to insist.
‘Is the luggage on board?’
‘Of course, madame. I hope you have a pleasant holiday.’
‘Thank you. How do I look?’
‘Perfect, as ever.’
That would be lovely, she thought. Since she had turned fifty, she had been fighting a losing battle. It was played out on various piece of fitness equipment, in swimming-pools with cross-current features, on private jogging paths and her 140-metre yacht, which she had had built in such a way that you could perform a circuit of it unimpeded. Since leaving Taiwan she ran there every day. With iron discipline she had even managed to get her extreme hunger under control, but still her body went on expanding. At least the dress emphasised what was left of her waist, and was appropriately extravagant. Her trademark bird’s-nest hairdo was characteristically chaotic, and her make-up was impeccable.
As soon as the speedboat cast off, she was back on the phone again.
* * *
‘Rebecca Hsu is heading this way,’ Norrington said on the walkie-talkie.
Lynn left the kitchen of Stellar Island Hotel, gave the canapés a quick examination, issued instructions to her little group of waiters and waitresses and stepped out into the sunlight.
‘Has she brought bodyguards?’ she asked.
‘No. On the other hand she has checked several times to ask if we seriously intend to refuse her docking permission.’
‘Excuse me? Rebecca wants to park her damned yacht here?’
‘Calm down. We refused to budge. Now she’s coming in the speedboat.’
‘That’s okay. When does she get here?’
‘In about ten minutes. As long as she doesn’t fall overboard on the way.’ An idea that Norrington seemed to find cheering. ‘There must be some pretty good sharks around here, don’t you think? When I last saw our little darling she was fit for a banquet.’
‘If Rebecca Hsu gets eaten, you’re dessert.’
‘Funny and relaxed as ever,’ Norrington sighed and ended the conversation.
She followed the coastal path at a walking pace, as her mind split into pieces and thousands of concerned and disembodied Lynns haunted the hotel grounds. Was there something she’d overlooked? Each of the booked suites gleamed immaculately. Even in terms of furniture the personal preferences of the guests had been taken into account: lilies, mountains of lychees and passion fruit for Rebecca Hsu, Momoka Omura’s favourite champagne, a luxury volume about the history of car-racing on Warren Locatelli’s pillow, reproductions of Asian and Russian art on the Ögis’ walls, old tin toys for Marc Edwards, the biography of Muhammad Ali with photographs never before published for the edification of good old Chucky, chocolate-scented bath oils for Miranda Winter. Even the menu reflected likes and dislikes. Lynn’s worried ghosts sighed in the saunas and jacuzzis of the spa area, prowled icily over the golf course, streamed damply into Stellar Island Dome, the underground multimedia centre, and found nothing to complain about.
Everything that was supposed to work, worked.
And besides, no one would see that they hadn’t been ready in time. Unless the guests opened doors they had no business opening.
Tools were still lying around in most of the rooms, bags of cement were stacked up, the paintwork was only half finished. In the knowledge that she couldn’t keep the official opening deadline, Lynn had put all her energy into getting the booked suites ready. Only part of the kitchen was operational, enough to spoil the group, but certainly not the three hundred visitors for whom the hotel had actually been conceived.
She stopped for a moment and looked at the gleaming ocean steamer that grew out of the basalt. As if her pause were a signal, hundreds of seabirds scattered from a nearby cliff and formed a swarming cloud that drifted inland. Lynn gave a start. She imagined the creatures swooping down on the hotel grounds, shitting all over it, hacking and scratching it to pieces and chasing the few people into the sea. She saw bodies drifting in the pool, blood mixing with water. The survivors ran up to her and screamed at her for not preventing the attack. Loudest of all was Julian.
The hotel staff were frozen. Their eyes wandered back and forth between Lynn and the hotel, visibly unsettled, since their boss suddenly gave every appearance of witnessing the Day of Judgement.
After a minute of complete stillness she pulled herself together and continued down the coastal path to the harbour.
* * *
Andrew Norrington saw her walking on. From the hill above the pool where he had taken up his post, he could look out over large sections of the eastern shore. In the harbour, a natural inlet extended by blasting, several small ships lay at anchor, most of them patrol boats and some Zodiacs, marked with the familiar O of Orley Enterprises. He could have provided plenty of room for Rebecca Hsu’s yacht, but not even in his wildest dreams did Norrington imagine giving the Taiwanese woman special treatment. All the others had, as agreed, flown in on Orley’s company helicopters, why not her? Rebecca could be glad that she’d been allowed to travel in by water at all.
As he walked down to the pool, he thought about Julian’s daughter. Even though he didn’t particularly like Lynn, he respected her authority and competence. Even at a young age she had had to shoulder a huge amount of responsibility, and in spite of all the naysayers she had put Orley Travel at the top of all tourist companies. Without a doubt, Stellar Island Hotel was one of her pièces de résistance, even though there was still much to be done, but it paled into insignificance next to the OSS Grand and the Gaia! No one had ever built anything comparable. In her late thirties, Lynn was a star in the company, and those two hotels had been finished.
Norrington threw his head back and blinked into the sun. He absently flicked a saucer-sized spider from his shoulder, entered the pool landscape via a path overgrown with ferns and conifers, and gazed forensically around the area. By now the whole travelling party had met up by the pool. Drinks and snacks were being handed out, people were noisily introducing themselves. Julian had selected the participants very cleverly. The diverse group there was worth several hundred billion dollars: world-improvers like Mukesh Nair, oligarchs along the lines of Rogachev, and people like Miranda Winter, who had, for the first time, found her pea-brain faced with the task of spending money sensibly. Orley planned to relieve them all of part of their fortunes. At that moment Evelyn Chambers joined them, and smiled radiantly around. Still remarkably good-looking, Norrington thought. Perhaps
she’d become a bit plump over time, but nothing compared to the progressive spherification of Rebecca Hsu.
He walked on, ready for anything.
* * *
‘Mimi! Marc! How lovely to see you.’
Evelyn had overcome her revulsion, and was once again capable of communicating. She was almost on friendly terms with Mimi Parker, and Marc was a nice guy. She waved to Momoka Omura and exchanged kisses on the cheek with Miranda Winter, who greeted every new arrival with a ‘Wooouuuuhhw’ that sounded like a burglar alarm, followed by a saucy, ‘Oh yeah!’ Evelyn had last seen Winter with long, steel-blue hair, and now she wore it short and bright red, which made you think of fire alarms. The ex-model’s forehead was decorated with a filigree pattern. Her breasts squeezed themselves reluctantly into a dress that only just covered the planetary curve of her bottom and was so tight at the waist that it made one fear that Ms Miranda might at any moment split in two. The youngest here, at the age of twenty-eight, she had undergone so many surgical interventions that the mere documentation of her operations kept hundreds of society reporters in employment, not to mention her extravagances, her excesses and the aftershocks of her trial.
Evelyn pointed at the pattern on her brow.
‘Pretty,’ she said, trying frantically to escape the massive double constellation of the Miranda cleavage, which seemed to be drawing her gaze powerfully downwards. Everyone knew that Evelyn’s sexual appetite was equally divided between men and women. The revelation of her private life, namely the fact that she lived with her husband and her lover in a ménage à trois, had cost her the candidacy in New York.
‘It’s Indian,’ Miranda replied gleefully. ‘Because India is in the stars, you know?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! Just imagine! The stars say we’re heading for an Indian age. Quite wonderful. The transformation will begin in India. Humanity will change. First India, then the whole world. There will never be war again.’
‘Who says that, darling?’
‘Olinda Brannigan.’
Olinda Brannigan was an ancient, dried-up Hollywood actress from Beverly Hills who looked like a codfish. Miranda went to her to have her cards read and her future predicted.
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