Moroccan Traffic (25 page)

‘And yours,’ Morgan said. ‘And Wendy’s.’

‘I don’t mind if Wendy doesn’t,’ Johnson said. ‘And lastly, there’s a strong possibility, I should say, that someone will come and sing you a sweet song to the effect that, if only you agree to stay on at Kingsley’s—’

‘I’ll be buried a K,’ Morgan said.

There was a pause. Then Johnson’s voice, wholly fascinated, said, ‘Did someone say that?’

‘Sir Robert,’ Morgan said. He began laughing at the same moment as Johnson. When I met them outside, he was looking cheered-up and almost respectable in a check shirt outside a pair of fresh pants and a pair of Mafia dark glasses. He said, ‘Wendy. My God, how did you ever give birth to your mother? Turn round.’ And as I did so he added, ‘Just had my first naval briefing. Always look at the print under the small print. That’s really pretty fetching.’

‘I’m fetched,’ said Johnson surveying me. He put a calm, steering hand on my back. ‘Come on. Into the circus.’ And they kept up the joshing, in between talking football, all the way to the Oppenheims’.

Thirty years before, when African Cup games began, Jimmy Auld had been flown out to coach in Morocco: a married man with a toddler. He was a widower now, and the same toddler was thirty-five, and married to Daniel Oppenheim the investment adviser, and had been photographed semi-nude in several postures on Johnson’s yacht
Dolly.

None of us could have avoided that thought, driving into the sweeping courtyard before the Oppenheims’ rented pad in the French quarter. Even Johnson broke off as we crawled through the crowds in the driveway. The mansion was large, and the ground full of flowering bushes and people and palm trees. Mixed up with the guests on the lawns were quite a lot of Desert Song extras on horseback, and groups of tinkling women, and people with drums. Everybody, including the folk-performers, had come to show how much they loved Jimmy.

We climbed the steps and were welcomed by Muriel inside the large marble hallway. Tanned and expensively unadorned in a silk toga dress, she kissed Johnson and shook hands with Morgan whom, of course, she’d met climbing in Asni, and greeted me with the same friendly warmth she’d shown on the yacht at Essaouira. Her gaze had lingered a fraction on Johnson. She knew about the cannabis, I suddenly thought. Then she cried, ‘Father! Danny! Look who’s arrived!’

In size, Daniel Oppenheim fitted my recollection of the pyjamas I’d seen on his bunk. He was above average height; a well-fed man with fine, dark hair and a trace of a jowl. His eyes were strikingly brown, and his mouth took its shape from a double set of prominent, very white teeth. He said, ‘JJ? We drank all your brandy, did Lenny tell you? And I’m not at all penitent. Nothing here as grand as a yacht except Jimmy. He’s longing to see you. And Mo Morgan, the intrepid inventor and climber, of course. Welcome, welcome. And—?’

‘Miss Wendy Helmann of Kingsley’s,’ said Morgan. ‘Mrs. Oppenheim knows her; she was on
Dolly
yesterday. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I brought her. She’s on holiday in Marrakesh with her mother.’

‘She’s
Mrs. Helmann’s
daughter?’ said Daniel Oppenheim. A familiar cry which, nevertheless, still makes me shiver. He continued with hardly a pause. ‘Your mother came quite early, Miss Helmann. I think she’s over there, with the Canadians.’

He must have been surprised by the effect of his words. Morgan whipped his head round, Johnson’s spectacles flashed and I took one violent step forward. I was pulled up by four fingers and a thumb on my arm, taking the blood-numbing grip that starts gangrene. ‘No, you don’t,’ said a bright, nasal voice. ‘Not before you’ve given wee Jimmy Auld a good cuddle. Where’ve you been hiding this one, you two?’

Holding me was a short, broad-chested man with a shock of corrugated grey hair over a raspberry nose. His eyes, round as snooker balls, shifted from Johnson to Morgan. He said, ‘JJ? See the legs on that fellow! He climbs.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ Johnson said. ‘Hello, Jimmy, you dirty old man. Come on, let her go; she’ll need massage. What makes you think he can climb?’

Jimmy Auld released me, pinched me painlessly and feinted at Johnson with a small, speckled fist. He said, ‘And you look your usual. Only painter I know who goes about like a doggie chew toy. I know he’s a climber, my boy, because I saw him at Asni, and he’s in with the tigers. Alan, Roger, Dykie, the lot. Nearly as crazy as you. Climbed Anrehemer east face a week ago. You infect him?’

‘We’ve only just met,’ Johnson said. ‘Getting my pigtail delivered tomorrow. What the hell are the Green Eagles up to? You saw the second goal there?’

I was forgotten. Twenty people converged on our group from which Mr. Daniel Oppenheim had discreetly melted, leaving Jimmy Auld and Johnson in the middle, with Mo Morgan in a light trance beside them. The names of the Enugu Rangers and the Harambee Stars came and went.

Muriel Oppenheim said, ‘I do apologise. That’s Dad all over. It’s just like Jay to start him off, but he does love it. Look, are you all right? I mean, you look perfectly edible, but I heard horrible things happened after you left us on
Dolly.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘I owe the way I look to Miss Geddes. There wasn’t time to go back to my hotel.’

Muriel Oppenheim smiled. ‘I recognised Rita’s invisible touch. If she did that, she’s adopted you, and you’re lucky. Only never, never say a word against Jay. He’s God. You’ll have realised.’

I said, ‘You mean they
are
more than friends?’

For a moment her eyes widened, then she smiled again. She said, ‘Oh, my dear, no. He is just God. Unattainable to everybody. On the other hand, there are lots of extremely attainable people right here. Come and meet them.’

She was nice. She was exactly the proper wife for someone like Daniel Oppenheim. She had filled the room with all the right people; the kind who needed to be referred to merely by initials. The President and Secretary-General of FIFA. The President of CSSA. The top officials of CAF and the chiefs of APOTM. The Canadian Ambassador, the French and British Consuls General, the Deputy Ambassador of the Low Countries and the President of the Jewish Community of Africa. We were down to the National Tea and Sugar Office when the sound of many Canadian voices near at hand told me I was getting near my private goal. And there, handsome and bearded, was the Toronto Star, accompanied by CHOM, the lady from Radio-TV Toronto and the man from CFCF along with all the other familiar faces from Essaouira. And Mr. Ellwood Pymm. And my mother.

My mother said, ‘And this, I think, is Wendy my daughter. That, of course, is not your dress. What have you done to receive such a dress with Mr. Morgan in Asni?’ She had encased the dome of her torso in an assortment of brightly coloured and glittering wraps, above which her brisk hair and strong, dark features emerged like a thief from a jar. Over her arm was a shopping bag.

Mr. Ellwood Pymm, in a white linen suit and bow tie, shook my hand with both of his and said, ‘Is she something, this lady your mother? You know what we’ve seen today?’

‘La perle noire, le champion du monde de kwik-boxing,’
said my mother. Her cassettes had left her accent intact. ‘The dress?’

‘A loan from a woman friend,’ I said. ‘Where else did you go?’

‘The Hassan II Tennis Trophy,’ said my mother. ‘It was passable. Lecture at the Faculty of Letters on Think Europe. I was critical. A swimming contest. The
200
metres
dos
was reasonably competed for. The tournament of
mini-basket—
’

‘What?’ I said. The Canadians were standing in a silly circle, grinning at her. Muriel Oppenheim had slipped away.

‘De petits basketteurs
,’ said my mother. ‘You need a revision course on the Sony? And
la projection du film Annie Hall.
Ellwood says he’s exhausted. Is this New World vigour?’

‘Isn’t that something?’ said Ellwood Pymm proudly. He didn’t look as if he could kidnap himself and force me to hand out Kingsley figures at knife-point. He looked like a footman from Toad of Toad Hall. By natural association, I was reminded of all the Matchbox cars, and of Gerry and Sullivan, and I was thankful that the Matchboxes and Gerry were at Asni and Sullivan was in jail. Pymm said, ‘Wendy angel, you know what I owe you, and all the boys and girls here who raised the alarm at Essaouira. And Johnson. You and Johnson an item? You don’t plan to come home at night, you should tell your mother.’

I had told my mother. I fixed her with one eye and said, ‘No, we are not an item.’

‘An item of what?’ said Mo Morgan, crashing into our Canadian circle. He looked round. ‘Hello, Doris. What’s in the bag?’

‘Your socks,’ said my mother, delving in and bringing out a ball of wool, three pins and a toe. She stared at Morgan’s feet, and Morgan stepped rapidly backwards. ‘You trying to indicate you don’t need socks?’ said my mother. ‘And inside your shoes at this moment are butterfly nets? All I ask is to try them on before I am turning the heel. Come with me.’

She turned and rolled off between the pillars and the flowering bushes in tubs and the whitecoated servants with drinks trays. I didn’t know where she was going. I excused myself and followed, aware that Morgan was dragging behind. He said ‘Sssst!’

It was like the time with Johnson Johnson in Essaouira. I almost looked around to see if the American–Arab phrasebook was lying about. I said, ‘I can’t stop her. Go away if you want to.’

Morgan said, ‘No. I have to go to Mr. Oppenheim’s room for this meeting. You said you wanted to come.’

I stopped. We were both employees of Kingsley Conglomerates. I ought to want to. Ahead, my mother pushed open a door, turned, and beckoned. As we arrived we heard her saying, ‘Well, now, I do beg your pardon. We was just looking for somewhere to try on some socks.’

She had found Mr. Oppenheim’s study.

It took a little sorting out. In the event, my mother left her socks and allowed herself to be escorted back to the party by Mr. Oppenheim while Morgan and I sat down and waited. My mother, in her incomprehensible way had evidently accepted that Mr. Oppenheim had invited Morgan and me to his own little special party of three.

Mr. Oppenheim, when he returned, was not at all sure he had invited me to anything, and was visibly put out when told that it didn’t greatly matter whether or not Mr. Morgan was seduced privately here or in Kingsley’s Boardroom, as Sir Robert knew all about the attempt.

‘Through you, Mr. Morgan?’ asked Muriel Oppenheim’s husband. His face, when only part of it was smiling, was symmetrically folded and formidable. I was surprised that he had to ask: I thought his shipmate Johnson would have told him. Then I thought back to the naval briefing, and it occurred to me that Johnson had perhaps changed his mind about a management buyout being a good thing. And that the Aulds, after all, were his friends, not Mr. Oppenheim. I thought I would do the decent thing.

‘I guessed. I told Sir Robert,’ I said. ‘These things have to be above-board, Mr. Oppenheim.’

‘Of course,’ he said, his brown eyes on Morgan. ‘And have you come to tell me, then, that you are no longer interested?’

Mr. Mohammed Mirghani sat with his tough, bony fingers relaxed on the arms of his chair and said, ‘I came because I thought you might have more you wanted to say to me. And I found I had some things I wanted to ask. As they say, without prejudice.’

‘I see,’ said Daniel Oppenheim slowly. He rose, and crossing to a table, began lifting decanters and asking silent questions. He said, handing me a cowardly sherry, ‘Sir Robert is not the most patient of men. I am sorry if he received the news badly.’

‘Not to the extent of throwing me on the street, Mr. Oppenheim,’ Morgan said. ‘Any wish of mine to leave Kingsley’s would be powerfully blocked. I wondered, in that case, if it were worth my while attempting it.’

I sat and drank my sherry while Mr. Oppenheim explained why it was worth his attempting it, both in terms of technical viability and financial and social rewards at least the equivalent of being buried a K. His voice was deep and peculiarly attractive. And as he spoke, it became clear that there were indeed advantages in Morgan retrieving the company that had been his before he joined forces with Kingsley’s. At Kingsley’s at present, as I knew, he was neither happy nor secure.

I supposed Morgan wouldn’t be sitting here even pretending to listen if he hadn’t suspected Sir Robert’s candour with figures. Or if he hadn’t heard that childish, ill-judged and nasty attempt to put pressure on Rita and Rolly. Except for my tape, Morgan would never have known of it. Nor should I.

In the event, of course, Morgan was doing more than pretending to hear Mr. Oppenheim’s case. As it drew to a close, he asked questions. He was neither a financier nor an accountant, but they were sensible. The briefing hadn’t been wasted. To me, it seemed that he received frank answers, with which he might well be satisfied. Only on one subject did Mr. Oppenheim refuse to be drawn. However much pressed, he wouldn’t outline his plans for raising finance for the buyout. It would be spread, he said, over many sources. Mr. Morgan had no need to fear over-dependency. He had no need to fear loss of sovereignty. But, naturally, until a final agreement was signed, it would hardly be ethical for Mr. Oppenheim to reveal which companies, which institutions had this kind of money to offer.

Again, it seemed reasonable; but Morgan received this reply, and the others, with all the enthusiasm of a totem pole. In his dark narrow face his mouth opened and closed, short as the slit in a whistle. At the end, Mr. Daniel Oppenheim said, ‘I think I have told you all I can. Mr. Morgan, it is for you to make the decision.’

And Mo Morgan said, ‘I wish it were.’

Daniel Oppenheim frowned. He said, ‘You are concerned with the strength of Sir Robert’s position. It is against my own interests to say so, but you know, of course, that if Sir Robert proves to be in any way an undesirable Chairman he may be removed, and the company may continue with another, perhaps more compliant?’

‘I know that,’ said Morgan. ‘But meanwhile, Sir Robert is Chairman.’

There was a silence. ‘And so?’ said Oppenheim.