Pirate King (17 page)

The scene disintegrated with Mabel jumping up to exclaim that she’d been sitting on something sharp and Bonnie complaining that Celeste had been blocking her light, and Frederic objecting that we weren’t filming his good side. He became quite upset when I made the mistake of saying I couldn’t see any difference, but Will smoothed things over by saying that he would be doing a number of close-ups from the desired side, since Fflytte would be sure to want them.

Then he pulled the girls together to do the scene again. It took a couple of hours to finish the group shots, some of which required me to act as his assistant, turning the handle as he panned the camera. He had to correct me a couple of times, telling me I was slowing my turning speed, but the takes seemed to satisfy him. Later, he shifted the camera to Daniel Marks, then to Bibi, first in their rôles as Frederic and Mabel, then in modern dress as the director of
Pirates
and his actress-fiancée. Afterwards, he had Bibi change back into her
Pirates
garb, to shoot three takes of Mabel’s expression on seeing Frederic, then an assortment of different poses—looking down in contemplation, raising a startled hand to her mouth, casting a look of mischief at a sister. He also filmed several versions of Bibi slowly drawing one stocking down a shapely ankle: with flowers in the background; dangling over the pond; with flowers and pond; with a flower floating in the pond …

“I think the sun is going,” I finally said, drawing an end to this fascination. The rest of the girls and Marks had long since retreated to the refreshments of the tent, and the wind was growing chilly. Bibi jerked up her stocking and stepped into her shoe, wrapped herself in her warm furs, and flounced away down the hill, leaving us to carry the film and equipment.

“How was that, do you think?” I asked the cameraman.

“Some of it looked very nice, although I won’t know for sure until I see it later.”

“What, tonight?”

“Have to be—can’t leave until I’m sure we got everything Mr Fflytte needs. I can give it a squint, just to see there aren’t any major boobs.”

“Do you want some help?”

“You don’t need to.”

“What can I do?”

“Come to my room tonight and give me a hand with the developing.”

It did cross my mind that Will might intend something other than film to develop within his room. However, I knocked on his door just after dinner, and although he answered in a state of relative dishabille, the stink that wafted out was in no way suggestive of romance.

Some of the odour was the film itself. But when he crossed the room again to the inner door, I could see why he had demanded the luxury of a large bath-room when we checked in: This was his developing room. I eyed the carboys of various noxious liquids, and rolled up my sleeves.

We finished shortly after midnight. My back ached, my hands were raw, my head spun from the unrelenting stench of the developing fluids. But when at last Will switched off the dim red lamp under which we had been working and held the strips of negative up to the strong light, he pronounced the film usable. He told me he would polish and pack it away in its tins after it had dried. We could return to Lisbon, triumphant.

“Want a drink?” Will offered.

“I think I’ll take myself to bed,” I told him. I said good-night, let myself out into the hallway, and came face to face with Annie and Celeste.

“What are you doing out here?” I demanded.

They looked at each other, and giggled.

It would seem the girls had discovered that Cintra did, after all, possess young males.

I sent these two to their rooms and patrolled the hallways for a couple of hours, just in case.

No catastrophes spoilt the film during the night. The hotel was not struck by lightning, earthquake, or pestilence. None of the girls disappeared from their rooms (or if they did, they had found their way back by morning). The charabanc came soon after breakfast, and we loaded ourselves and our precious film inside. We were back in Lisbon in time for a late lunch.

To be greeted by the information that the
Harlequin
would up anchor at eleven o’clock the following morning.

With everyone on board.

Sailing for Morocco.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PIRATE KING:
When your process of extermination begins, let our deaths be as swift and painless as you can conveniently make them.

“
M
OROCCO
? B
UT — BUT
I thought we were going to film on the boat for a day or two and then get on the steamer!”

“She’s a
ship
, by the way, in case you’d rather avoid a lecture from Randolph—‘boat’ from a new hand suggests derision. Randolph decided that using her as transport would be a way to recoup some of the money we’d put out for repairs.” Fflytte hadn’t the courage to tell us himself, I thought: He’d sent Hale to do the job.

“We’ll all drown.”

“Actually, I was surprised. She’s more sea-worthy than she looks.”

“A bath-tub without a plug would be more sea-worthy than that
boat
looks.”

“Believe me, my reaction was the same as yours. I went down yesterday and poked around in all the corners. Beneath the surface untidiness, she’s been maintained—the bilge is even dry. I had to have them add water to test the pumps.”

I put a hand to my forehead: The very word
bilge
made me queasy. “But, the sails?”

“There’s enough to fill the camera lens,” he answered, adding, “It does have an engine.”

Oh, this was getting better every moment: stinking fumes to add to the heave of the boat.

“Although it only goes forward, for some reason,” he added. “But we have the sweeps, as back-up.”

“Sweeps?”

“Long oars.”

“I know what sweeps are. But who do you envision pulling them? Bibi and Mrs Hatley? The girls? Oh God—has Fflytte got it into his head that the pirates would use the girls as galley slaves?” I really would shoot the man. Or brain him with one of his oars. Sweeps.

“The crew will pull them. And as I said, it’s only as back-up.”

“How many days …?”

“To Morocco? Three or four.”

Meaning five, on a small and leaky tub, shoulder to shoulder with three dozen members of Fflytte Films and sixteen pirates—plus the ship’s crew, however many that was. I may have groaned.

Hale laughed, and gave my shoulder a comradely slap. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over in no time.”

I could always go home. I was not proving very successful in my assignment, in any event, which in all probability meant not that I was failing, but that there was no case here to investigate. Secretaries flee, drugs and guns are sold: The reasons for suspecting criminality among Fflytte’s crew were so ephemeral as to be nonexistent.

But I knew I wouldn’t.

Instead, I retrieved my increasingly splayed note-pad from my pocket, unclipped the pencil, and asked, “What do you need?”

He handed me a list, a daunting list, filling a sheet to the bottom, and then some. “Oh, and I meant to add, Mr Pessoa promised to find us some traditional Portuguese clothing.”

“I suppose he’s coming with us?” My heart sank at the prospect of explaining that our translator wrote enthusiastic poems about lascivious violence—and worse, explaining
how
I knew. But to my surprise, Hale was shaking his head.

“No. When I told him that we were going to leave on Saturday, he suggested that enough of the pirates spoke a rudimentary English for us to get by without him.”

“So you didn’t fire him?”

“I didn’t have to, no. In fact, I got the impression that he was quite relieved when I didn’t beg him to stay on. However, there were one or two things left undone, and although he said he’d come by first thing tomorrow, it’s probably better not to depend on him. If he has the clothing, you could give him his final cheque.”

I agreed, somewhat distracted by Hale’s list, and by his information. If there was any villain in this piece (indeed, if there was any villainy) I had thought that Pessoa would be in some way involved. For him willingly to retire suggested either that his part was done, or there had been no part to begin with, other than acting as translator.

As for the rest, it was a very long list.

I ran Mr Pessoa to earth in an office in the Baixa district, a remarkably unremarkable setting for the would-be poet laureate of Portugal. He was one of a number of men sitting at type-writing machines, cigarettes in mouths, oblivious of the clamour of clacks and dings. I waited for a surge of distaste when I spotted him, but somehow I could not feel it. He was a poet; he wore many personalities; one of those personalities took joy in repugnant images. But I could no more dislike the man himself than I could a young boy who played at shooting Red Indians.

As I wound my way between the desks, trying not to choke on the palpable grey mist oozing into my lungs, he came to the end of his document, jerked it from the machine, tucked it into an envelope, and dropped the result into an out-tray on his desk. He looked up and saw me swim out from the smoke.

“Miss Russell! I did not expect to see you again.”

“Mr Hale asked—” He waited politely for my paroxysm of coughing to clear. After a minute, he took his cigarette and crushed it into the overflowing tray, as if that would help. Finally, I managed to get out, “Can we speak outside?”

The shock of clean air made matters worse for a time; when I finally drew an uninterrupted breath, Mr Pessoa was looking quite alarmed. He suggested that we get something to drink.

I waved away his concerns, but accepted the offer of refreshment. Which—no surprise—was only a brief walk away, a narrow room fragrant with coffee and sprinkled with student types. Pessoa was so well known there, his cup was handed to him without enquiry. I told the waiter I’d have one of the same, which turned out to be the dribble of powerful coffee essence called
bica
, similar to the Italian espresso, and just the thing for clearing the lungs. When we were settled and he had begun to roll a cigarette, I said, “Mr Hale wanted me to ask you about Portuguese fancy-dress?”

“Er, do you mean the traditional clothing?”

“Precisely.”

“That should be delivered to the wharf before evening. Do you wish me to check on it?”

“It might be a good idea, thank you. Which reminds me—
your
cheque.”

He received the slip of paper and tucked it away in his billfold. “It has been an interesting experience, Miss Russell.”

Interesting. Yes. “I understand you won’t be coming on the
Harlequin
with us.”

“I find I have neither desire nor need to leave my city. Although I will admit, were I to do so, your enterprise might be the one to prise me away.”

I took a cautious sip from my cup, and reached for the sugar. “I don’t think I ever heard how you came to be involved in the first place.”

“A connexion through that office you just saw. They arrange for translations of business documents. I have skills in English and French, and I can work the hours I like. Poetry feeds the soul, but does little to nourish the body or keep out the rain.”

“So Mr Hale contacted you through the translation service?”

Pessoa struck a match, squinted at me through the resulting smoke-cloud. “Indirectly, I believe. He has a friend in London, a solicitor for whom I have translated any number of documents. The friend gave him my name and, when I received his enquiry, I decided that I could as easily do vocal translation as written.”

“Was it Mr Hale himself who wrote to you, or his secretary, Miss Johns?”

“I should imagine it was she, although I don’t remember precisely. I have exchanged letters and telegrams with both.”

“Would you have the letters?”

“Undoubtedly. Although they may have a poem or notes for a story on their reverse side by now. I tend to make full use of all the scraps of paper that come into my possession,” he explained. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, my predecessor in the job quit rather unexpectedly, leaving one or two tasks unfinished. I’d like to ask her about them, if I could only find her.”

“Yes, I did wonder at the abrupt stylistic changes in the last communications I had from Mr Hale. That would explain it. But if you’re asking, no, she gave no indication that she was leaving, much less where.”

“Ah well, we’ll make do. Perhaps I shall see you on our return to Lisbon, Mr Pessoa.”

“I should enjoy another of our discussions, Miss Russell. Although I don’t imagine I shall be accepting a position as live translator again. Once was an experience; twice would be somewhat … disruptive.”

“Well, I shouldn’t think most translating positions would be as innately disruptive as working for a film crew.”

“You certainly have your work cut out for you, Miss Russell,” he agreed, with a definite twinkle coming from behind those spectacles.

The twinkle nearly loosed my tongue: I was hit by a powerful urge to tell the man who I was. Knowing that he was sitting knee to knee with the real-life wife of the storybook Sherlock Holmes would send Fernando Pessoa/Álvaro de Campos/Ricardo Reis/etc. into throes of intellectual and poetic ecstasy, and give him a lifetime of material for his theories of deliberate pretence and personal identity. But however much I liked the fellow, I did not know that I could trust him.

And so we ended, with Fernando Pessoa taking out his pouch to fashion another cigarette, every bit as enigmatic as he’d been when I’d first met him, eight days before.

I did not get to bed that night, and as a result, drew a line through the final item on Hale’s list—“check hotel rooms for items left behind”—at ten minutes after nine on Saturday morning. I’d even managed to scribble a brief letter to Holmes, telling him of the change in plans and reminding him that if the
Harlequin
went down at sea, my most recent Will was at the solicitor’s.

Of course, absolute chaos seethed at the wharf. Edith’s mother was frantic because her diabolical child had contrived to leave their passports in a drawer: I handed her the documents (which had, rather, been thrust into the farthest reaches of the bed). Bibi was in a fury because someone had stolen her pearl hair-clasp that the Duke of Edinburgh had given her: I assured her it had merely worked its way into a chair’s cushions, and held out the bag in which I had placed it, along with three frilly undergarments, an ivory-handled hair-brush, a pair of belts left on a hook in the bath-room, one red patent-leather shoe, five silk stockings, and a number of objects from the drawer of the bed-side table, which I took care not to examine too closely. Hale spoke in my ear—shouted, near enough—that he’d forgot to tell me that Major-General Stanley had drunk himself into a near-coma the other night and was in no shape to go anywhere, so he’d hired a replacement; that Will-the-Camera was going to need to take over one of the cabins to develop any film shot on board; that Will’s assistant, Artie, had another nervous collapse and was currently in a Lisboan sanatorium; and that he’d brought on board two sail-makers, who would also be available for sewing costumes if Sally needed them.

A dozen similar near-catastrophes and pieces of news assaulted me. Most of the problems I could deal with then and there, sending the complainants up the gangway onto the boat.