Moroccan Traffic (13 page)

‘She’s Jimmy Auld’s daughter, much more important,’ said Johnson. ‘Muriel is a very young/old family friend, whom we’ve forgiven for marrying a financier. She and Danny spared me two nights from the Football Cup, but alas, they’ll have to go back tomorrow. So what do you plan to do now? Test the markets?’

Colonel Sullivan, after a second’s hesitation, said that he thought we would indeed tour the markets.

‘Do,’ said Johnson. ‘Everything from a cure for the common cold to spells against evil. Though the aphrodisiacs are unreliable, they tell me. What do they tell you, Mr. Pymm?’

‘Ellwood, please. They tell me plenty, but I’m a believer in test trials,’ said Ellwood Pymm from the quayside. ‘I sure admire a guy with your track record. What’s the trade like around here?’

Johnson looked at him. Then he said, ‘It depends on the day of the week. I’m afraid I’m all tuckered out, but your guide would advise you.’

‘Sure,’ said Ellwood Pymm with dissatisfaction. ‘But so far their advice has been crap. I’ll maybe go on ahead?’

‘You do that,’ said Johnson quite amiably. We watched the other man turn and hurry after his party. The calves of his legs were red with sunburn. Johnson said, ‘Now, who do you think is paying his lawyers?’

‘Anyone he can get,’ Colonel Sullivan said. ‘Whatever you happen to be up to, I wouldn’t let Ellwood Pymm know.’

‘Why ever not?’ Johnson said. ‘You’re having a rest then, from your pals? I don’t blame you. Fancy finding Miss Helmann in Marrakesh.’

I said, ‘My mother was ill. Sir Robert has been very kind.’

‘Wonderful what twenty-four hours in the sun will effect. Look at Ellwood,’ Johnson said. ‘Do you really want to explore the sights with French-speaking Canada? If not, stay and have a bite with us first. Daniel’s delayed; Lenny’s bought far too much and it’s spoiling.’

Seb Sullivan said, ‘That’s amazingly kind of you, now. I must say it’s tempting.’

‘Then do,’ Johnson said. ‘And when the Voice of Canada makes its way back, it can photograph Muriel and Daniel together. It would, perhaps, help to de-mist Mr. Pymm’s camera lenses. Now, what can Lenny bring you to drink?’

We sat in the cockpit and sipped, and I listened while Mrs. Oppenheim and Johnson and Sullivan argued about the Atlas Lions, the Abiola Babes and the Pharaons of Egypt, who had been trained by a chap called John Michael Smith. Mrs. Oppenheim knew him. Mrs. Oppenheim knew everything about CAF, which stands for the Coupe d’Afrique de Football, for which eight African countries for fifteen days would be playing each other.

I was furious. I remembered Mo Morgan abandoning me in the Place Jemaa-el-Fna. Sullivan, who ought to be catching out Johnson, was talking at the top of his voice and demonstrating moves with his feet, while Johnson appeared to have committed to memory the entire sports edition of every Moroccan-French newspaper. ‘
L’ailier droit!’
he exclaimed, joining Sullivan’s excited exposition.
‘Vif comme l’éclair et dribbleur infatigable!’
Mrs. Oppenheim kept breaking into laughter and Sullivan kicked me by accident twice. It went on through the meal, which was extremely good. Towards the end, Johnson said, ‘Do you miss it, Muriel? Can’t get to all the big games now.’

She had put on her bikini top and a jacket, and her style fitted in well, somehow, with Johnson’s linen and silver and cushions. Her hair had a natural sweep, and where it tapered, was white as Seb’s eyelashes. Oliver, in a fresh shirt, smiled at her as he poured the wine and took the dishes away, and she gave him a warm smile in return. The saloon was cool, and fitted with smooth, mellow wood, and there was an assortment of books behind latticework.

Muriel Oppenheim said, ‘I do, of course. Dad doesn’t get any younger. But Daniel is good. He’ll up sticks and come if he can. He couldn’t really afford to come to Casa just now but he just did, and brought us.’ She smiled at me and Sullivan. ‘I was Daniel’s secretary before he persuaded me to marry him. He didn’t know he was marrying a football pitch.’

I didn’t know what to say. Seb Sullivan said, ‘He knew a good thing when he saw it.’

She was amused. ‘Loyalty, sex and good staffwork. That’s what a high flyer wants from his partner. Yes, Miss Helmann? And someone to check out his spelling.’

Sullivan saved me from answering. He said suddenly, ‘Makes you wonder about Miss Rita Geddes. Who provides the sex and the staffwork and the spelling? Mr. Roland Reed, I suppose.’

Without Sir Robert’s sanction, he was directly challenging Johnson Johnson. The Great Man, patting his pockets, failed to notice the challenge. ‘Rita? She told me she’d met you. Don’t ask me for any answers; Ellwood Pymm is the expert on sex. As for writing and staffwork, they all use an excellent secretary called Ella. So far as I know, she isn’t a lesbian. Does anyone mind if I smoke? We’ll have coffee on deck.’ He had a pipe in his hand, and his glasses were milky.

Smoking is not allowed in Kingsley’s Boardroom. I supposed that pipes were much like my mother’s Gaulloises: worst when first lighted. Colonel Sullivan, after hesitating, had risen to go up on deck with the others. I asked to be excused.

Instead of leading me to the front, where I had seen others going, Mrs. Oppenheim showed me to the master cabin that Johnson seemed to have given her. The washroom off it was clinical, and equipped with everything man or woman could want, neatly packaged. In all that economical space, the largest item was a medicine cabinet, surprisingly locked. I came out, and made up while she chatted. From what she said, Johnson and her husband didn’t see all that much of each other.

I remembered Johnson saying that the invitation to Daniel Oppenheim’s party in London hadn’t been his; it had come from Muriel. At the same time, there was no doubt that Daniel Oppenheim had slept here last night: his things were all over the place. And he was coming back to share the cabin tonight. ‘Without JJ,’ she said. ‘It’s so silly: he works so hard, and he doesn’t need to. He has to go back tonight to be ready for painting tomorrow. They cancelled today.’

I said, ‘But you and your husband are both staying on? It must be lovely.’

She said, ‘It is, but no – we have to get back to my father tomorrow. We’ve taken a house in Marrakesh for the days between games. Dad has so many people to see. We did take him to Asni, and met one of your company men, Mr. Morgan. He’s coming to see Dad. I liked him.’

Rita Geddes had mentioned the Oppenheims, and Morgan had said nothing at all about meeting them. Maybe, like me, he thought that Sir Robert had sufficient to worry about. Maybe he didn’t. Muriel Oppenheim said, rather abruptly, ‘Miss Helmann?’

‘Yes?’ I said. I waited, fortified by my courses. How to Recognise Signals. How to Define the Purpose, Style and Goal of your Communication. I was still afraid of what she was going to ask me.

She said, ‘My family and Johnson’s have known each other for a long time. They’re lovely people. He’s given them a lot of worry, because of the kind of person he is. I hope you get on with him.’

She had let me use her mirror to tidy my hair. I pleated the bandanna round it again. Like my mother, I tan very quickly. The dark glasses were leaving pale circles. I said, ‘I’m only Sir Robert’s secretary, Mrs. Oppenheim. I think he’s a wonderful painter.’

She said, ‘He’s also a very good friend. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that he’s Rita’s chief backer, but I expect you’ve guessed from what he was saying. He tells me that Kingley’s are making a bid for her company?’

‘I can’t say,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Oppenheim, company information is confidential.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But I wanted you to know that he’ll play it perfectly straight. I’m sure you know him by now. Has he tried to pump you? Exploit his advantage?’

He hadn’t, of course. He’d lied, intrigued and tried to pinch our figures instead. I remembered she’d been a secretary too. I said, ‘No. Our association, of course, is purely formal. But it seemed strange that he actually came to Morocco without admitting the connection.’

‘Oh?’ said Muriel Oppenheim. ‘I rather thought he mentioned it just now.’

‘Because he knew that we knew. We very much want to help the MCG company,’ I said. ‘I know he doesn’t want Miss Geddes to sell, but it really would be best for her and her Board if they did.’

She had very clear blue eyes. She said, ‘I don’t know if this has any bearing. But I know and like Charity Kingsley. And Jay has been Rita’s friend for ten years without at any point becoming anything closer.’

‘We heard rumours,’ I said. I kept it as friendly as she did.

She said, ‘They won’t be the last. And if that smear doesn’t stick, others will. But remember that dirty tricks, once they start, work both ways. It’s up to you and the Board to protect Kingsley’s.’

Loyalty, sex and good staffwork. She was of real executive calibre.
I know and like Charity Kingsley,
she had said. I wondered quite why. I wondered if Daniel Oppenheim had his weaknesses too, and she covered up for him. I thought, even if he had, she must have a wonderful life. I thought, as I’d thought all along, that the mess MCG had got themselves into wasn’t surprising, however good the competent Ella might be. It was led by a rough-spoken ill-groomed illiterate, and if Rita Geddes wasn’t one of the harem, then Johnson must have backed her for some other reason.

I said, ‘Perhaps, when you’re rich, you don’t mind losing cash for the sake of a hobby. But if Mr. Johnson won’t let Sir Robert rescue them, the other MCG shareholders will lose even the poor returns that they’re getting. I don’t think that’s very fair.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Muriel Oppenheim. ‘Perhaps he’s heard rumours as well. But you’ll know more about that than I do, and as you said, you mustn’t talk about company problems. Let’s go up, shall we?’ And she picked up her book and her oil.

There was no one this time in the cockpit. Johnson and Sullivan were sitting on the harbour wall swinging their legs and discussing a boat, and the men asleep on the nets were now stirring. Sullivan stood, saying, ‘Well, the markets ought to be open. Shall we see if the great Canadian wave was receded?’

Johnson, his pipe in his mouth, was watching Mrs. Oppenheim step to the deck from the cockpit, and bestow herself on the coach roof once more. He watched her quite objectively. I wondered where the crewmen had gone. I wondered about the young crewman, Oliver.

I said, ‘Right, I’m ready.’ We thanked Johnson and when we left, he was back on board and swinging below, his pipe cocked between two unused fingers. Colonel Sullivan and I passed the car, and the Customs house, and made our way to the triple stone arches that lead through the walls to the town. I said, ‘I didn’t find anything. Mrs. Oppenheim says Miss Geddes and Johnson are just friends.’

‘She volunteered that?’ said Sullivan. ‘Why?’

I had been wondering that. ‘To put us off the scent?’ I said reluctantly. ‘She sounded as if she believed it.’

Seb Sullivan laughed. ‘Where have you been? People are never just friends. No. She didn’t want Johnson’s liaison with Rita Geddes made public. Why? Is
she
a mistress of Johnson’s?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘She likes Johnson, I’d say, but that’s all.’

‘Likes him enough to want to block Sir Robert’s takeover?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Her husband once belonged to the firm that advised Kingsley’s. Perhaps he was opposed to a bid for MCG, and was overruled. Perhaps he and his wife still have some sympathy for Miss Geddes and Johnson. Sir Robert would know.’ I kept cool, as my mother would have expected. It was nothing to me if Johnson had a harem, and Seb Sullivan had only invited me here for company purposes.
Preventing Job Burn-Out
was the tape my mother bought first and played most.
Maximising Return on Time Invested
was the second.

A long rectangle opened before us, displaying arched walls, and hotels, and palm trees. There were people, but not all that many. Beyond were the porticoed courtyards of the markets, fitted with cells crammed with unpackaged goods in sacks, bowls and dishes. There were trays of crabs in the fishmarket, and aproned men wielding hoses. Mid-piazza, men sat among papers loaded with lemons and eggs, and cast handfuls of water on baskets of anonymous greenery. A barrow of mint trundled past.

The sun was still high. No one hurried too much. As we passed, I read the labels stuck on the spice stalls.
Pour la chute des cheveux. Pour la rhume. Pour I’estomac. Pour la toux.
And beyond that, in alleys lined with blue tiles and awnings, the silversmiths’ shops, which didn’t cure anything. Next, a street of grimy, everyday shops, selling plastic bowls and dirty cassettes and thick rolls and pastries. A street of cedarwood boxes and tables inlaid with mother of pearl. Dirt-paved lanes. Passages with carved, ornate doorways; a buzzing alley of sewing machines. Roofs with untidy storks, and windows hung with bird cages and carpets. Shutters opening, and children wandering into the street, and the sound, in all this indolence, of feet pounding down some distant street and voices shouting. A cat, backing out of an upper window, peed gracefully into the street and I stopped.

Sullivan had stopped already. The voices we heard were Canadian. Sullivan said, ‘They’re going towards the harbour.’

He started to hurry. I followed. My jacket stuck to my arms, and Sullivan’s tunic was marked with sweat down the spine, and under the arms, and round the glistening Afghan silver belt. All the same, he ran on the balls of his feet as if made of rubber. Beyond the fish market and under the palm trees we found the whole Canadian party, face to face with a pair of disbelieving bifocals.

The Toronto Star was making the running, followed closely by Chom. The Toronto Star, who was handsome, bearded and hot, said, ‘Did he come back to you?’

Johnson Johnson, his pipe in his mouth, gazed back at them all. He said, ‘Who?’

The lady from Radio-TV Toronto said, ‘Ellwood Pymm. Have you seen him since he left the harbour?’

‘No. Why?’ said Johnson. The bifocals registered that I had joined the party, with Sullivan.

The man from CFCF said, ‘Because he was assaulted, that’s why. A group of men started to hustle him on the Portuguese battery. He ran down the steps. We ran after, but by the time we got down, he’d disappeared. He didn’t come back to you?’