The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith (55 page)

‘This is too intense,’ she said. ‘I’m getting out of here for a while. Are you going to follow me?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want anything else?’

‘No.’ I did not look at her. I stayed sitting on the toilet, feeling foolish, waiting for the others to stop talking about me.

Malide had given Jacqui the famous addresses where she imagined a voice patch or gizmo might possibly be found.

These stores (23 Lantern Steeg, 101 Sirkus Straat) were all very close to the Baan, in the maze of little lanes between the Marco Polo and the Grand Concourse. There were hundreds of Sirkus shops, opening their doors when the last show shut and closing again around ten each morning. They clung to the edges of the Tentdorp district like mussels on to a jetty, all cheek by jowl, tucked away in basements, in courtyards filled with lumber and the refuse from blacksmiths’ shops, on the tenth floor of decaying warehouses in which unglamorous locations you could find the latest laser circuits, French and German make-up, African feathers, Japanese buttons, and any of the craft and technical aids which the Sirkus industry required.

As Jacqui left the Baan a little after five, the deskmajoor tipped his hat and wished her a polite, ‘Gaaf morning, ma’am.’

Out on Demos Platz the rubber-booted yardveegs were already hosing down the pavements in front of their respective buildings and the air was as sweet as it ever got in Saarlim, considerably sweeter than the air down in Lantern Steeg which Jacqui, swinging her arms, jutting her little round chin, turning up the white collar of her third shirt, entered at a little before half past five.

That the air here was malodorous, the pavements decaying, did not dismay her. Even the sight of a group of Misdaad Boys, with their bright red kerchiefs and their heavy boots, swaggering towards her, did not make her heart so much as skip a beat. She leaned into the air with her chest as if it were a shield, bone, muscle, and she felt, passing through their field of testosterone, invincible, free from fear, hiding the riches the Misdaad Boys could not have imagined she possessed: the Water Sirkus, the Baan, the dinner with Bill Millefleur, Peggy Kram, the doorman, the gondel, the champagne glass she had carried in the elevator; and she
wished only that someone from home – she imagined Oliver Odettes in his demi-bottes – had been there to witness her entry into such glamorous society.

As she entered 23 Lantern Steeg she had to stand astride a sleeping landloper in order to push the button for the elevator. She would have been wise to be nervous, but she thought what other small-town gens have thought since time began:
Here I am.

When the elevator came, wheezing and clanking, she pushed the button for the tenth floor, the showroom of Ny-ko Effects.

When she emerged half an hour later, the landloper was awake. He lay on his back staring at her with bloodshot eyes. She dropped some coins into his tin, and hurried out into the Steeg, heading westwards towards Marco Polo where she intended to write the first of her daily reports for Gabe Manzini.

She walked into the foyer of the Marco Polo with her hands in her pockets. She nodded familiarly to the deskmajoor who had, only a day before, pressed that money on to Tristan.

Then, looking out across the foyer down by the stained old marble fountain, she saw a man sitting in a straight-backed chair who was so like Wendell Deveau – Wendell whom she had made walk round and round the Printemps Hotel naked, crossing his legs, standing, sitting, so she could see why it was men walked the way they did, where their penis and testes flopped and fell. This man, it was the same man, now stood and walked towards her, frowning and smiling at once.

‘Wendell?’

‘Who else?’

‘Why are you here?’ she asked, already irritated by the petulant, put-upon expression on his face. ‘So?’ she said. ‘You couldn’t live without me, right?’

‘Let’s see your room,’ he said.

‘Let’s get a coffee somewhere.’

But he clamped his big white hand around her elbow and propelled her towards the elevator.

After the dinner party for Mrs Kram had ended, Bill and Malide made a fuss about their ‘Saarlim hospitality’, insisting that Wally
and Tristan stay the night, but this, Wally soon learned, was a sham like everything else had been. The guests would have to sleep on the FUCKING DINING TABLE.

When Wally had tasted the rough red wine – rot-gut, household jumbler, case-latrine, dog piss of the worst kind – the penny finally dropped. The suit and shoes were a costume. The gondel was a prop. The Mersault was a con. The so-called Sirkus Star was one more unemployed actor trying to find a part, to do an audition, someone waiting by the telephone for the call that would let them survive another month. Bill Millefleur was in no position to take back his son.

And to return from the kitchen and discover Bill and Malide laying a mattress on the table where they had previously spread their ostentatious dinner sparked a powerful storm of outrage inside Wally’s shining skull.

He squinted his eyes, pushed his fists into his kidneys, jutted his chin in the direction of his host, following all the sheet-spreading and smoothing with an increasingly agitated air which Bill and Malide stubbornly refused to notice.

‘I was the one who was meant to be the con,’ he cried at last. He tucked his dress shirt into his black trousers and tightened his belt. ‘All that stuff about the Baudelaire book you used to tell everyone. But here you are.’ He nodded at the mattress. ‘You always made us think you were the big baloohey, arriving in your limousines. The thing is, mo-ami, I believed you. I brought this son of yours across the world. The pathetic truth is, I thought you were a better man than me.’

‘He
is
successful,’ Malide said. ‘But he’s a Sirkus man. One show has finished. Soon he’ll have another.’

‘I know what the circus is, young lady. I grew up in the circus. I was the Human Ball.’

‘No,’ Bill said, ‘I was very young when I said those things to you.’

But Wally had turned his back and was staring out across the park at the grey and allen dawn. ‘We lost our money coming here,’ he said. ‘We had money. We lost our money. I didn’t even care. I thought you had so much. When we were robbed, I thought, that’s perfect – now he’ll have to see Bill.’ He turned. ‘We’re down to lint and cake crumbs, just like you.’

‘It’s the Sirkus,’ Malide began.

‘He should have been with you all the time,’ Wally said to Bill. ‘You should never have left him behind. You could have taught him things I never could. All this behaviour tonight, it should never have happened. You don’t know how he pined for you. He did his exercises, the same ones you taught him, year after year. Even when he was making a stack on the Bourse, he would do his exercises in the afternoons. You were very important to him. You were the one who let him imagine he could be an actor.’

He sat down on the sofa, looking up at Bill from under his nicotine-stained brows.

‘No,’ Bill said. ‘We never discussed acting. How could he ever be an actor?’

‘Oh yes. It was you. You had an idea for some character in the
Sad Sack Sirkus.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bill said, his face now very pale. ‘I wouldn’t have.’

‘These things are nothing to you. You forget them. But the things you forget, mo-frere – those things are the centre of his life. You can say, “I don’t think so,” but he did those exercises for ten rucking years.’

‘I wrote to him,’ Bill said. ‘I know what I wrote. Now he is here, we’ll be fine. Whatever has been wrong, we’ll fix it. It’s not too late.’

‘I always thought he would be better with you, but you’ve got no job, no bedroom. Do you have any idea of what we’ve risked to do this? I must tell you, mo-ami, I’m shocked.’

Bill wiped his hands across his face. ‘He got my letters, though. You say he read my letters. How could he be surprised?’

‘You made him love you,’ Wally said. ‘You came and you got him eating out of your hand. He gave me up. He took up with you, and then you just dropped him. It was very cruel, mo-ami.’

‘Bill cares,’ Malide said. ‘He is tortured by it. He writes letters every week.’

Wally did not comment. He wiped his face.

‘He got them?’ Bill asked.

‘Yes, yes, they arrived.’

‘But he didn’t get them?’

‘I didn’t say that I was perfect,’ Wally said.

There was a long silence.

‘I thought you were rich and famous,’ Wally said at last. ‘I thought you had everything. He was all I had. No matter what was wrong with me, I knew I would never let him down.

‘It was wrong of me.’ He picked white specks from the black trousers of his rumpled dress suit. ‘I admit it was very wrong.’

Bill gave a small laugh, and then threw the pillow on the bed.

‘I was a prick,’ Wally said. ‘I’m sorry.’

The lift button was cracked and the light inside it flickered. Wendell pushed it without releasing his hold on Jacqui’s elbow.

‘What a dump,’ he said, and the mouth which Jacqui had once thought of as his best feature now looked spoiled and sulky.

The DoS had sent Wendell here – obviously. They had approved the expenditure, signed the forms, issued the air tickets, which meant that the whole case had now moved three or four levels higher than Section Head.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.

‘You stay here, what fucking choice have I got?’ His lower lip was droopy, almost pendulous.

‘What floor are you on?’

‘Come on, professor, you’re meant to be an
operative.’
He slammed the button with his fist. ‘Use your
head.
What floor do you think?’

The elevator arrived. They rode up together in silence, Jacqui looking earnestly at the numbers while Wendell stared at her malevolently.

‘Anybody thinks you’re an homme,’ he said, ‘must be blind.’

She led the way to the room, very conscious of her walk.

She opened the door, and Wendell, having hesitated a moment, went first. He was a big man and overweight, and inelegant in his clothes: and yet when he moved around the room now he did it with a certain dangerous grace: checking for people or bugs or bombs, who could guess. It gave Jacqui a small ambivalent chill at the back of her neck.

When Wendell had finished with the bathroom, he took from his briefcase a small electronic device – a little black box with a series of tiny amber and red lights flashing on it. She knew what it was: a
brand new bug-blocker. He placed this in the middle of the room, but the device would not arm itself. The lights, which should have switched to green, remained stubbornly on amber. Wendell stood over it, staring down at it like a golfer at a golfball. Then he kicked it.

The device slid across the floor, fast as a hockey puck, and slammed into the skirting board.

‘Fuck
you
,’ he said.

He took off his suit jacket, folded it, and laid it on Wally’s bed. He went back to the bug-blocker, picked it up, turned it off, threw it on the bed. Then he opened the briefcase and removed the faked-up numbers (a photocopy, not the original) which Jacqui had printed out from Tristan’s fax machine.

Jacqui sat on the edge of the other bed.

Wendell held the photocopy in front of her.

‘You’re a fucking
child
,’ he whispered.

She took the paper from his hand. She noted the small green stamp and date which showed it had already been through Analysis. There was also a small black key number which indicated it had been to CRYPT-IT. So, she thought, the game is up.

Wendell took the photocopy back from her fingers and replaced it in his briefcase. She was surprised to see how carefully he handled it, how he slid the photocopy softly into its red plastic folder. He turned, his face frozen in anger.

‘Christ, Jacqui, what are you trying to do to us? Do you know what it takes to set up an action like this? The Efican Department sent someone to Neu Zwolfe to meet you. Not some rucking baby-sitter. A real Voorstandish operative. That’s VIP treatment, do you realize that?’

He picked up his suit jacket. She felt alert, in danger, but then he turned to the closet and she realized he merely wished to place it on a hanger. Once he had done this he seemed a little calmer.

‘You’ve now got Gabe Manzini on your case. Aren’t you even smart enough to be afraid? You know who Manzini is?’

‘Wendell, I know who he is.’

Wendell sat down beside his briefcase. ‘This fax printout links the mutant with the Zawba’a.’

‘I know.’

‘I know you know, you stupid bitch. You retrieved those
numbers from your dedicated terminal and you fed them into Tristan Smith’s fax machine and then you printed out the call report. We know exactly what you did. But what you did not know is that the VIA has a major operation on to round up Zawba’a. Gabe Manzini is very interested in your case. Mr Manzini is a good friend of Efica’s. We’d really hate to have him as our enemy.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

Their knees were almost touching. ‘Do you know how many years it took for us to persuade the VIA to take us seriously? They’re New World people like us, but you would never know it from their patronizing attitude. They’re worse than the English or even the French. Do you know what it took, the things we did for them so they would trust us? The shit we ate? Friends of mine got killed just so these fuckers would share information with us. So when some little spin drier …’

‘Don’t call me that …’

‘I thought you were smart. Doctor, right? Am I right? Doctor of fucking Philosophy?’

She knew that she should not be so near him, but it was equally dangerous to move away.

‘We can’t trust you, Jacqui. You’re acting like the enemy.’

He took her face in his hand. She tried to push the hand away, but he was too big, too strong. Her face was small, his hand large, and he held the jaw so hard, pressed his thumb so cruelly, she thought it would break through the skin, and she was frightened, not just of the pain now, but what the pain would grow to, of his size, his bulk, his pale, pale eyes, the level of resentment she saw there. But then his face softened, his hand loosened.