They Do the Same Things Different There (28 page)

Marklew knew the names of his rivals, and over the years had learned something of their reputations. Most were reserved to the point of fanaticism and would not speak to one another at all—it was as if the auction were some grand poker game, and revealing any part of themselves would be a strategic weakness. Marklew could understand the sense of that, although he didn’t take it so very seriously. He wouldn’t talk to the other bidders either, but mostly because he didn’t like them very much.

None of the lots were ever announced in advance; it was accepted that any expert in the room should understand their significance without preparation. And Marklew preferred that. He enjoyed the palpable excitement it lent the proceedings; there were usually a few real surprises to look forward to. He had learned one golden rule: whenever a fresh lot was introduced, he made a snap judgment upon whether it would enhance his collection or not. If it wouldn’t, no matter how interesting a piece it might be on its own terms, no matter whether it might be a bargain, he would let it go. And if he
did
want it, he would automatically decide upon an upper limit he would be prepared to pay. That, and not a penny more. It wasn’t a question of what he could
afford
—he could afford so very many things. It was instead what he would be
seen
to pay. People mustn’t think he overestimated the value of anything, offering ten thousand pounds for an Etruscan skeleton when it was really worth no more than eight. He had a reputation to uphold.

The auction at Bogota offered, it must be said, slim pickings. Lots usually came from deceased members, collections lovingly assembled over a lifetime now broken up and divvied out piecemeal; or, maybe, new discoveries would be presented from fresh archaeological excavations. In the year before Bogota no one had died—or no one, at least, of any great significance; there had been excavations aplenty, but little of interest had been found. There had evidently been lots to tell us about how the Sumerians had lived, but precious little about how they’d died.

So, Richard Marklew bid upon a pair of guillotine blades used in the French Revolution, and an entire coffin lacquered with real bone—and he did indeed actively want them for his collection, and won them both at a reasonable price—but moments after the bidding was over he felt a tinge of regret that he’d even bothered, he knew that they already bored him. Not every year could be successful. It didn’t matter. Marklew resigned himself to classifying Bogota as an honourable failure. And then the auctioneer announced the final lot.

There was some laughter, naturally—from the younger members, probably, who knew no better. Mostly there were tuts of exasperation, angry mutterings. The auction was not a joke; a sense of humour was not appreciated. But the auctioneer remained deadpan, there was not even the hint of a smile upon his face.

Some wag asked about the lot’s provenance, and still the man refused to smile. He stood tall, presented himself proud. “The provenance is me,” he said. “Self-evidently. I cannot talk of the mother, I did not know her well. But the boy has my looks. Now,” he said again, louder, “may we start the bidding, please, upon the skull of my son?”

For the first time Marklew looked at the auctioneer, properly examined him. He’d never really thought to look at any of the auctioneers over the years, what they were presenting was far more important. The man was some Colombian, Marklew thought, with some surprise—he’d have assumed the convention would have flown some expert in, that they wouldn’t have got some local. The man spoke well enough, it was true. He even looked quite dapper in his suit. But Marklew could now see something too dark in the man’s face, too swarthy, too foreign.

Another voice—cooler, stiffer: “May we see the lot?”

At this the auctioneer gave a nod. And onto the stage stepped a little boy, no more than four feet tall. Marklew had never spent much time around children, but he supposed the specimen might be about six or seven years old. There was indeed, as the auctioneer had said, a family resemblance: a thick-set swarthiness that made the boy’s face hang heavy and look older than it was.

If the boy seemed alarmed or surprised that his father was preparing to sell him, he did not show it—Marklew wondered whether he might have been drugged. “I say once more, gentlemen, I offer this boy’s skull. After he is dead, the flesh will be stripped, and the skull boiled and bleached, and it will be packed up nicely in a box and sent to you. I cannot tell when that death may occur exactly, but if you look at him, you can see he doesn’t look well, it cannot be long.”

That cool, stiff voice once more: “Just the skull?”

“The skull alone, down to the top of his cervical vertebrae. Everything beneath, that belongs to me. May I start the bidding? Do I hear five hundred pounds?”

For a moment, silence. The threat of renewed laughter, even. And then, that stiff voice: “Five hundred then.”

“Six hundred,” said Marklew.

He hadn’t intended to make a bid. Maybe he was intrigued. Maybe there was something about that little child’s face he imagined would fit neatly into his collection at Richmond Park. Or maybe it was something about the voice of his rival bidder, something in it that felt out of place at the convention and that he wanted to challenge.

If the auctioneer were surprised he’d attracted a single bid at all he didn’t show it; he waited expectantly to see if there would be a counter offer. And at Marklew’s bid the little boy’s face had come to life. He beamed happily out at the audience, at Marklew specifically. He clapped his hands, just the once, in joy.

“Any more bids?” asked the auctioneer, at length. “For this fine piece by my side.” And the little boy loved that, he clapped his hands again, he began to jiggle about in excitement.

“Seven hundred pounds,” said the stiff man.

“One thousand,” said Marklew, and right then and there he decided that he’d reached the upper limit he’d pay; what was this anyway, what was it for, he collected skulls of antiquity, not skulls of dago stock, this was just an anecdote to impress the ladies at dinner—no, one thousand pounds, and no more, no more surely?

“One thousand five hundred,” returned the stiff man promptly, and at last Marklew turned in his seat to find him. There he was, to the side, a few rows behind; as Marklew had suspected, he didn’t recognize him, he must be one of those new members, those nouveau riche upstarts who didn’t yet know there were rules to this place, that a certain respect should be accorded the practice of auction, a certain respect should be accorded
him
; but no, he didn’t look like a young man at all—no, pale, thin, with a face so bland it seemed that all expression had been smoothed out deliberately, and wearing a suit, an undistinguished sort of suit, the suit a solicitor might wear—this man wasn’t even a member Marklew realized, he was here as an
agent
for someone else, and didn’t that contravene the rules of the convention? If not, it should! If not, it was at least highly irregular!

And he turned back, and he realized that all eyes were upon him, waiting to see whether he would make a higher bid. The auctioneer waited patiently; less patiently, the son, he was now almost frenzied with anticipation, he was shaking and jumping about on the spot. He was sticking out his tongue. He was
stretching
out his tongue, and licking at his face, he was sliding great gobs of saliva over his chin as if to make it look shinier.

“Two thousand,” said Marklew. He didn’t dare turn to look behind at the solicitor—somehow he didn’t want to see that man angry, somehow he couldn’t bear the idea of that, what such anger might be. But when the rival bid came, seconds later, it was done without emotion, nothing but cool calculating self-assurance: “Three thousand.”

And at this the boy could no longer contain himself. He broke rank altogether, he began to
dance
, he waved his arms high above his head, fingers pointing downwards—it’s me, this is me, hear how much I’m worth! If the auctioneer was annoyed by his son’s antics he didn’t show it. And then, so suddenly, the boy was off the stage—he jumped high, higher than should have been possible, and Marklew could only think in that moment of a frog, or maybe a grasshopper—and the boy landed nimbly and soundlessly upon his feet.

Then rushing toward Marklew, as if to a new prospective father, so eager he was clambering over chairs to get to him—and he was squealing with excitement, the squeals so shrill, and the tongue was still out, and still licking away, but it was so fast now, and so
long
—it stretched down past the chin, it reached up high to tickle his nose, and higher—slathering away, with spit as thick as soup, and with such force it seemed as if he were trying to strip the flesh off to expose what was beneath, and where he slathered it did indeed seem to leave a sheen behind, it did indeed allow Marklew to picture that head as a skull with all the skin removed, just white gleaming bone, just bone, displayed in pride of place in his collection.

“Fifty thousand,” said Marklew. He spoke softly—for a wonderful moment he thought it was so soft no one had heard him—but it was out of his mouth, and at the sound of it the hushed room fell more hushed still. It was done now, it was done. “Fifty thousand pounds,” he said again, louder now, because why not? If he’d already made the bid, do it with pride! Trying to put into his quavering voice the self-confidence for which he was renowned.

The hush held. And the solicitor stirred. Marklew could see him out of the corner of his eye, he half-turned in his seat—and he didn’t want him to make a rival bid, but oh, he so wanted him to make a rival bid—this cool stiff man could win the living skull and Marklew would bid no higher, and there would be an end to this nonsense, Marklew would be off scot free with his integrity intact. He thought he saw the solicitor open his mouth. But no, maybe he was just setting his jaw. The solicitor got to his feet, carelessly smoothed down his cheap suit; he turned, and unhurriedly walked out of the hall.

Marklew turned back to the auctioneer. There he was, banging down his gavel. And there, next to him, stood his son—calm, as if he’d never left the stage—still, slumped, as if he were already close to death.

In the bar afterwards Richard Marklew was the centre of attention. All the young men gathering around, pressing drinks into his hand, even slapping him on the back as if he’d given them the most wonderful sport. As if he’d perpetrated a joke—and all for their especial amusement! Not one of them asked about the guillotine blades he had bought. He soon made his excuses, and retired for the night.

He did not sleep well. He usually found the hardness of a bed reassuring, but now it jabbed and prodded at him accusingly. It seemed to him he woke every other hour or so. One time he awoke and became convinced there was a figure sitting in the chair by the dressing table. His heart lurched terribly at that, and then he realized he’d left his clothes there, his jacket and waistcoat on the chair back, the trouser legs drooping down toward the floor. He even laughed at himself.

Then the figure said, “If you’re awake, Mr. Marklew, then may we discuss business?”

Marklew was at the bedside lamp in an instant. The solicitor was still cool, still stiff. There was not even the pretence of apology in that too bland face for breaking into Marklew’s room and watching him as he’d slept.

Marklew wanted to shout at him, demand to know what the hell the man was playing at—and yet the self-composure that had defined him for so long kicked into play. Forcing down the fear in his stomach, forcing his face into a mask of non-committal reserve, Marklew heard himself ask, “What may I do for you?”

The man said, “That last item you won. My client has instructed me to make you a further offer.”

Over the years many buyers had approached him once he’d made a win. Sometimes the money they offered was fully twice what Marklew himself had just paid. He always refused to negotiate. He’d say that he was a collector, not a shopkeeper. And even now, with this strange man in his bedroom, making him feel suddenly so very vulnerable and defenceless, Marklew had to consider the principle of the matter. But the truth was, he didn’t
want
the boy’s skull. Fifty thousand pounds was by no means the most expensive purchase he had ever made at auction, but this was surely the most unjustifiable. He had heard tell of stories of even the shrewdest collectors who had made, at some points in their careers, hideous misjudgements—their honed instincts deserting them momentarily, buying fakes, damaged goods, art of no skill or value, even in one apocryphal anecdote a Dark Ages skeleton fashioned largely from plastic. Marklew did not think he had made as much a fool of himself as all that—not quite—no, not nearly. But he regretted the whole enterprise and wanted to put it behind him. If his rival was prepared to buy the skull, then he felt he could move on with his dignity intact. He might even make a little profit.

Marklew said, ironically, “If we are to talk business, may I at least get dressed?” And the solicitor gestured slightly with his hand that Marklew may do as he liked. But the solicitor made no movement to leave, and Marklew stayed exactly where he was.