Skios: A Novel (5 page)

And no, he was not getting excited. He was perfectly used to losing his luggage. It was an inherent part of the way of life that he seemed to have committed himself to. This is why he always carried the text of the lecture with him. Here—in his flight bag. He did his best to promote the international exchange of ideas. He spent half his life sitting on planes and the other half gazing down at the dim faces gazing up at him, knowing that most of them were unable to understand English, or were asleep with their eyes open, or were plotting hostile articles about him in obscure journals. For days on end he would be stuck in places where no reasonable person would ever want to go, in Manila or Minneapolis or Minsk, while his one clean shirt was in Manaus, or Manchester, or Murmansk. So he took the loss of his luggage very much in his stride.

On this occasion, however, his bag was probably not in Manaus or Murmansk. It was almost certainly still here on Skios, not more than a dozen or so miles away, since the island seemed to be only a dozen or so miles long. He supposed that all he had to do was to walk up and down the island calling out “Annuka Vos.”

Unless some further clue to Annuka Vos’s whereabouts could be found
inside
the bag. A possibility which could be empirically tested, since it appeared not to be locked.

The official gazed at him distrustfully. The only thing that he had understood was that Dr. Wilfred was making trouble. He went away to have a cigarette.

Dr. Wilfred leaned over the counter and undid the straps on the bag. Then zip … zap …

The first thing he took out was a batch of brightly illustrated T-shirts. For a moment his mood changed, as he suddenly saw Annuka Vos almost as clearly as if she had been standing in front of him—in her thirties, lightly tanned, with discreetly blond hair. They would meet at her hotel to exchange suitcases. Laugh about it together. She turned out to know who he was. Had read his books. They would have a drink … Dinner …

He rummaged further. There seemed to be no indication of her destination in Skios, however.

Only swimming trunks, men’s underpants, and a bottle of aftershave.

His picture burst like a soap bubble. Ms. Vos was evidently a transvestite. Which might perhaps make her easier to find. He pushed the bag back across the counter.

Though whether its owner was a man describing himself as a woman, or a woman dressed as a man, Dr. Wilfred couldn’t quite understand.

*   *   *

The air-conditioning inside the high palace of the four-by-four was discreetly chill. Oliver lowered the window and let the hot scented air of the Greek night blow over him instead.

“We’re all so excited!” said Nikki. “We’re all so looking forward to it!”

Who the others were who were so enthusiastic he couldn’t guess. But Nikki herself certainly did seem to be excited. She did seem to be looking forward to it, whatever it was. He could hear it in her voice. He could see it in her face as it was lit up by the headlights of an oncoming car.

“So am I!” said Oliver. Because yes, he was excited. What could be more wonderful than this—driving through the Mediterranean summer night with a woman who was happy to be with you, and all the possibilities of the world open in front of you? He felt intensely alive, like a mayfly with only one day to enjoy it all. And yes, he too was looking forward to it, all the more intensely because he had no idea what it was he was looking forward to, and because it was so likely to be snatched away from him again even before he had discovered.

“You’ve got all the literature I sent you,” said Nikki. “But if there’s anything else you want to know…?”

“Nothing,” he said. Always before, so far as he could recall, he had known who he was. He was an undertaker, a visiting Danish parliamentarian, the new son-in-law. Perhaps this time he was a general practitioner in a country town—but then again perhaps he wasn’t. Probably not, in fact; he was unlikely to have patients so excited to see him, or living so far from the surgery. Perhaps he wasn’t even a doctor of medicine.

Well, he would work it out for himself as he went along, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Sadly. Because for the moment he was a living metaphor of the human condition. He knew not whence he came nor whither he was bound, nor what manner of man he was, nor why he was here at all. He was being taken somewhere for some purpose, but of what that purpose was he remained in innocent ignorance.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” said Nikki. “You’re
my
idea! It was officially Christian who invited you, of course. The director. Which is why it said ‘Christian Schneck’ on the letter you got, but it actually came from Mrs. Toppler’s office, so technically it was her idea. I’m Mrs. Toppler’s PA, though, so I’m the one who suggests the ideas for her to have.”

“I see,” said Oliver, though he was not being quite as truthful as he aspired to be.

“I should perhaps just explain that there’s a bit of a power struggle going on here. As in any institution. Well, you don’t want to hear all this. But just so as you know when you meet Mrs. Toppler … And in case you run into Eric, and he says something … Eric Felt. Christian’s assistant. Christian has rather retreated into himself. As you know, it was Dieter Knopp, Christian’s predecessor, who made the foundation what it is. It’s hard for Christian to live up to someone like Dieter Knopp.”

“I can imagine,” said Oliver, though this was another untruth. The flow of incomprehensible Knopplers and Schnopplers through his head was as soothing as the flow of dark wind through his hair.

“You were a pretty obvious choice, of course,” said Nikki. “You do have a worldwide reputation. And your CV is just amazing. You seem to have done everything!”

“Have I?”

“Except get married, apparently!”

So he wasn’t married. He was as free as the warm summer wind.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “How rude of me! But women can’t help noticing the personal things.”

“Even men sometimes notice whether they’re married or not,” he said.

“Not always,” she said. “In my experience.”

The headlights fell on a pole, striped in red and white, across the road in front of them. The car stopped and a uniformed security man emerged from the shadows. “Security have taken on four extra staff for the occasion,” said Nikki to Oliver. “All for you!”

“ID,” said the security man.

“Giorgios! It’s me!”

“ID,” said Giorgios.

Nikki laughed. “If only all our staff were so thorough!” she said. She showed Giorgios her pass. Oliver watched him as he carefully studied both sides of it. It was only too clear what was coming next. Yes. Giorgios gave Nikki her pass back and held out his hand towards Oliver.

“It’s all right,” said Nikki. “He’s with me. Just open the barrier.”

Giorgios went on holding out his hand. “No one come in,” he said, “only he have ID.”

“This gentleman doesn’t need ID. He’s a guest.”

“Guest? So—he got a invitation? No staff, only he have ID. No guest, only he have invitation. Mr. Bolt tell me. ‘No one,’ he tell me. ‘No one but no one.’”

Nikki spoke to him in Greek.

“No one,” he replied in Greek. “No one,” he repeated in English.

“I’m so sorry,” said Nikki to Oliver. “Just show him your passport. That’ll keep him happy.”

Oliver made a performance of feeling his trouser pockets. “Oh my God!” he said. “I think I’ve lost it!” Even the flimsiest twig was worth clutching at, if you were falling off a cliff.

“It’s in your shirt pocket,” said Nikki. “I can see it.”

“Oh, yes.” He took it out and looked at it, still reluctant to bring his little adventure to its inevitable end quite so soon. It had lasted rather longer than he had originally expected, but he had begun to build up considerable hopes for it … Also he needed a moment to prepare a variant of his usual exit speech, adjusted to local circumstances. Most beautiful woman he had ever, of course. Also confused by the time change. Overcome by the heat. New medication. Recent bereavement.

But already she had taken the passport out of his hands and was turning to the page with the name and photograph.

Was it too much to hope that she would at any rate drive him back to the airport?

She was laughing again. “I shouldn’t have recognized you!” she said. “But then of course in the photograph you’re not allowed to smile.”

She handed the passport to Giorgios. “Fox,” he read out slowly. “Oliver.” But just at that moment a hand emerged from the darkness beside him and took the passport out of his hand. “I’ll look after this,” said a British voice. “You ask Elli to get the bar up, lad.”

A red British face appeared in the open window of the car. “Sorry, Nikki. I tell him not to let anyone in without ID, and bugger me, he goes and does what I tell him! So this is the great man himself, is it?” He leaned across Nikki to shake Oliver’s hand and give him his passport back. “Reg Bolt, director of security. Welcome to the Fred Toppler Foundation, sir! Nice to see a British passport doing the honors for once!”

The barrier swung up into the night and they drove in. “You see what good care we take of you?” said Nikki. “You wouldn’t believe how many crooks and lunatics a place like this attracts. Though actually all this security is really not just to protect you but all the people who are coming to hear you. Various VIPs from Athens, of course. Also Mr. Papadopoulou. Our great patron.”

She looked sideways at him. “Mr. Vassilis Papadopoulou? I don’t have to tell you who
he
is!”

“You certainly don’t,” said Oliver, as he put the passport back into his shirt pocket. “He’s Mr. Vassilis Papadopoulou.”

“Exactly. And he’s invited a number of his business associates. So you can see why they might all need a little extra security.”

Oliver laughed. Koffler Schnoffler. Papadopoulou Schnapadopoulou. And he was still on the tightrope!

*   *   *

At the sight of Dr. Wilfred emerging from the baggage hall the solitary driver still waiting raised his little placard.
, it said, SKIOS TAXI.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said Dr. Wilfred. “Someone took my bag.”

“No problem,” said Skios Taxi. “Fox Oliver?”

“What?”

“Fox Oliver?”

Phoksoliva?
Dr. Wilfred was too tired to start struggling with a strange language at this time of night. Surely they could have found someone to meet him who spoke English! And who was a little more personable than this. Skios Taxi’s belly hung over the top of his trousers. His bald head was gleaming with sweat. He had a black wart like a fly on the end of his nose. Dr. Wilfred found him quite disrespectfully unprepossessing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you would be kind enough simply to take me where I’m going.”

The man didn’t move.

“You Fox Oliver?” he said.

Dr. Wilfred make a great effort to accommodate him.
Euphoksoliva
 … The first syllable was familiar, anyway.
Good
something, as in “euphemism” or “euphoria.” “Good day,” perhaps. “Good evening.” Except it sounded like a question. “Good flight?” perhaps.

“No,” he said.

“No?” said Skios Taxi.

“No. Someone took my bag.”

Skios Taxi gazed at him. “
Eunophoksoliva?
” he said.

Dr. Wilfred surprised himself by how patient and polite he managed to remain.

“I’m extremely sorry,” he said. “I have had a very bad day, which has culminated in discovering that my suitcase has been taken by someone else. So, until they find it and send it on to me, I have no clean clothes, no pajamas, not even a toothbrush. And tomorrow I have to give a rather important lecture. Here, look. Lecture, yes? Lecture! So I think that what I should now like most to do is simply to get to my destination and go to bed and have a good night’s sleep and hope that when I wake up everything will seem a little less horrible than it does just at the moment. All right? Am I making myself clear?”

“No problem.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“So—Fox Oliver?”

Dr. Wilfred gave in.

“All right,” he said. “
Phoksoliva
. Certainly.
Phoksoliva
. Why not?
Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva
!”

Skios Taxi smiled and held out his hand.

“Spiros,” he said. “OK. No problem. You got a bag?”

“No,” said Dr. Wilfred. “I have
not
got a bag. Someone has
taken
my bag. And before you say ‘No problem’ again, please don’t, because there
is
a problem, and the problem is
that I don’t have my bag
!”

Spiros made a calming gesture and ushered Dr. Wilfred towards the car park.

“No problem,” he said.

10

“You’re not allergic to lilies, are you?” said Nikki as she moved about Parmenides, turning on lights and putting Oliver’s bag on the rack. “Though I did already check with your PA person, because of the onions. I’ll close the windows, though I don’t
think
we’ve got any mosquitoes here.”

She stood looking round the room for any imperfections she had missed, and glanced at her watch.