Box 88, page 31
‘I think it’s very unlikely,’ he said, pocketing the number. ‘I hardly know Mr Eskandarian. He’s friends with my hosts.’
‘Ask him,’ Bijan urged.
‘It was good to meet you,’ Kite replied, backing out of the door. ‘Thank you for the coffee. There’s really nothing I can do for you. I wish you good luck.’
41
Luc had given Jacqui money for a taxi. All the way back to the villa, Kite kept turning around to see if the same cars, the same number plates, kept repeating. If Bijan was following him, he was in trouble.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jacqui asked. It was cramped in the back seat. Xavier was in the front chatting to the driver about Mitterrand. ‘Why do you keep moving around?’
‘Sorry,’ Kite told her. ‘Got a pain in my back. Helps when I twist it out.’
Martha was beside him. She was wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt and smelled of sun cream. There were tiny flakes of dried sea salt on her tanned thighs.
‘How did you hurt it?’ she asked.
‘Frisbee.’
He realised with frustration that the lie would prevent him from going for a run when he got back to the villa. Kite stared out of the window, working out his next move. Abbas already knew that he only ever went for a jog in the morning, not after several hours of swimming and playing Frisbee on a beach. Instead he would write a note to BOX, insert it in a packet of cigarettes, go for a smoke when he got back to the house and dead drop the packet on the wall.
As the driver indicated off the autoroute, Kite again turned in the back seat. Jacqui clicked her tongue. No car had followed them up the ramp. Two miles later, on the access road to the villa, Kite looked again. For theatrical effect, he winced slightly as he twisted. Martha said: ‘Poor you.’ Again there was no sign of a following car. If Bijan, or one of his associates, had attempted to follow the cab, they had surely failed.
‘Have a swim when you get back,’ she suggested. ‘Stretch it out. You’ll feel better.’
‘There’s no time,’ Jacqui replied. ‘We’re all going out. Dinner in some fancy nightclub Dad knows in Antibes. Mum said on the phone we have to get changed before seven. Apparently it’s a famous place, Kirk Douglas goes there.’
Back at the house Kite took a shower and had time to think more clearly. Perhaps reporting the details of his conversation with Bijan was not as pressing as he first thought. It could surely wait until morning. If he walked all the way to the bottom of the garden to have a smoke, it would look suspicious. Best just to hide Bijan’s phone number among his belongings and show it to Peele in the morning.
‘What are you wearing?’ Xavier shouted.
‘Fuck knows,’ Kite replied, coming out of the bathroom.
‘Language, Lockie, please.’
Rosamund had emerged from her room wearing a brown pencil skirt, two-inch white heels and a bright pink blouse bolstered by shoulder pads. He had never encountered a woman of his mother’s generation with so much money and such good looks who dressed so disastrously. Behind her, enjoying his reflection in a floor-length mirror, was Luc, his Gekko hair oiled back, a pale blue shirt opened to the solar plexus. Kite turned around. Xavier was making the final touches to his Mud Club uniform of ripped blue jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket.
‘I see George Michael will be joining us again tonight,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Xavier replied. ‘Very funny.’
‘You gotta have faith,’ Kite sang, and went into his room singing the chorus of the song, Xavier’s protests a faint murmur behind the closing door.
Kite dressed quickly, conscious of the meagreness of his own wardrobe, tonight comprised of a pair of Levi 501s, a navy blue sports jacket and a paisley shirt which had the potential to put Martha off him for the rest of her life. Flinging it back into his suitcase, he played it safe, recycling a button-down shirt from Gap which he refreshed with a spray of Right Guard after a quick sniff of the armpits.
‘Leaving in five minutes, everyone!’ Rosamund called out from the hall. ‘Wheels turning.’
Kite heard the same clatter of ice cubes which had heralded the arrival of Eskandarian two nights earlier. He quickly dried his hair on a towel, reaching for a tub of radioactively green Boots hair gel which he applied in a dollop to the fringe. By the time he had left his room, his hairstyle could be plausibly compared to a photograph Kite had seen of River Phoenix in Arena magazine. This was suddenly all that mattered. He wanted to look good for Martha.
She was already outside, waiting to get into the Mercedes wearing an off-the-shoulder blue dress that caused Kite almost to lose his footing when he saw her. She must have been aware of the effect she was having because even Luc and Eskandarian were staring at her in barely suppressed awe. Rosamund knew it too and offered Martha a pale pink pashmina ‘to cover your shoulders, darling’. Xavier emerged from the house smoking a cigarette and holding the black leather jacket over his shoulder like a male model prowling on a catwalk.
‘Will you be my father figure, Xav?’ Martha asked. Hana came out seconds later in a vanishingly tight black miniskirt, received the gasps she had doubtless been hoping for—including a gobsmacked ‘Jesus’ from Xavier—and climbed into Eskandarian’s Audi. Within a few minutes they had all left the house, Alain waving them off with a rake in one hand and a Gitane in the other.
‘What’s the deal with Hana?’ Xavier asked his father from the back seat of the Mercedes.
Kite was in the front trying to find a decent song on French radio.
‘Which one of your hits do you want to hear tonight, George?’ he asked. ‘“Careless Whisper”? “Club Tropicana”?’
‘She’s not allowed into Iran,’ Luc replied in French, talking across Kite’s joke. ‘Not dressed like that, anyway!’ He laughed as he indicated onto the autoroute. ‘They meet up when Ali is travelling. She’s nice, no?’
‘Bit young for him?’
Kite knew that Xavier was interested in her. At the beach his friend had said that Hana kept flirting with him whenever Eskandarian’s back was turned.
‘Seriously, man. By the pool, over dinner. Always catching my eye. She’s trouble. Not getting enough attention from the ayatollah. What am I supposed to do? Ignore that?’
‘Yes!’ Kite had told him firmly, and not solely because Xavier getting off with Eskandarian’s girlfriend had the potential to jeopardise his mission. He didn’t want his friend landing on the wrong side of Ali or, come to that, for Hana to be found at the bottom of the Mediterranean wearing a pair of cement boots fitted for her by Abbas. ‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Ignore that. She’s taken. You mess with her, you’re messing with the Iranians. Look what they did to Rushdie and that was just for writing a book.’
The Antibes nightclub was another place to which the Bonnard family had taken Kite—like the Farm Club in Verbier, the Royal Opera House for a performance of Swan Lake, the dining room at Claridge’s for Xavier’s eighteenth birthday—which he would never otherwise have experienced without their generosity. Luc had reserved a table in a lavish upstairs restaurant where, for the second time that day, his guests were treated to superb wines and exquisite French cuisine. It was Kite’s habit to compare the dishes on the menu—Poitrine de Veau Confite et Farcie aux Légumes du Soleil, Poupetons de Fleurs de Courge au Saumon Nappés, L’Abricot des Vergers de Provence—with their feeble equivalents on the menu at Killantringan: Soup of the Day, ‘Skipper’s Choice’ Seafood Pancake, Apple Crumble. Spending time in the South of France, shuttling between his bedroom and the swimming pool, drinking wine at outdoor cafés and flirting with Martha in five-star restaurants—he had begun to worry that he was being offered a final glimpse of a life which would soon be torn away from him. Xavier was going on a gap year and they would likely lose touch for a while, particularly if Kite went to Edinburgh or continued to work for BOX 88. Neither of them were enthusiastic letter-writers and it had never been Kite’s style to telephone his friends when he was at home in Scotland. As for Martha, she had another year at school in London: whatever happened between them in the next few days, if anything, would likely only be a summer fling before she returned to her older men with their credit cards and Alfa Romeo Spiders, old Alfordians with trust funds who could afford to whisk her away to cosy country house hotels or to New York for a dirty weekend. He had to make some money; not just to impress Martha, but so that he could continue to enjoy the lifestyle to which the Bonnards had introduced him.
The nightclub beneath the restaurant was an even starker demonstration of a world Kite had only dreamed about or seen in Hollywood movies. Extraordinarily beautiful women were seated at tables with impeccably turned out French and Italian plutocrats treating them to flutes of champagne and bottles of Bandol rosé. Although nobody in the Bonnard group looked out of place in such an environment, Kite accepted that his button-down Gap shirt and scruffy denim jeans were the clothes of an impoverished interloper. It was Eskandarian, of all people, who seemed to sense his discomfort, approaching Kite at the bar and offering to buy him a drink while Abbas looked on.
‘I feel as amazed as you look, Lockie!’ he said. ‘Can you believe this club? In Tehran we do not have such places.’
Kite thought of Bijan’s words—If you were a young man living in Iran today, you would be forbidden to attend such parties—and tried to hide his disquiet. He could not square what Bijan had told him with the ebullient, liberal, westernised man now buying him a vodka and tonic in an exclusive Antibes nightclub. Surely if he was seen in this place—if Abbas, for example, reported him to whoever it was that policed the moral behaviour of Iran’s citizens back home—he would be denounced by Rafsanjani and the new regime? Or was it simply a case of rank hypocrisy, that Eskandarian was part of an elite who behaved as they pleased, creaming off the top of a corrupt society while millions of others existed in miserable poverty?
‘Are you enjoying your holiday, Lockie?’
It was hard to hear Eskandarian’s question over Grace Jones singing ‘La Vie En Rose’, but Kite nodded enthusiastically and said: ‘Yeah, oui, yeah’, telling himself that this was his first proper opportunity to make an impression on Eskandarian. ‘It’s my first time in Antibes. Yours? Luc said you’ve travelled quite a lot . . .’
‘You are right, Lockie. This is correct. I have travelled widely. I was living in France twelve years ago. I still get to go to a lot of places because of my work.’
Kite wanted to say, or if necessary shout: ‘What work exactly?’ but it was too direct. Instead he allowed Eskandarian to question him about his own background, describing life at the hotel and his mother’s career as a model in the 1960s.
‘And your father? What does he do?’
Eskandarian was standing with his back to the dance floor holding a glass of champagne. Kite was leaning against the bar with his vodka and tonic. He had no hesitation in using his father’s death to win Eskandarian’s sympathy and told him that he had died several years earlier. His words had an immediate impact on the Iranian, who placed a hand on Kite’s shoulder and offered his sincerest condolences.
‘I also lost my father some time ago,’ he said. ‘To the SAVAK, the shah’s secret police. But we will not talk of this now, not on this happier occasion. All that I will say is that you seem to be a very polite, very intelligent young man and that your father would be proud of you.’
Kite was buoyed by the compliment and felt his fondness for Eskandarian growing ever stronger, even as he made a mental note to tell Peele that the SAVAK had killed his father. I am not who you think I am, he thought. You shouldn’t trust me or compliment me. He was surprised to feel exhilarated, rather than ashamed of his own duplicity, and thanked Eskandarian for his kind words.
‘So you don’t go dancing in Tehran?’ he asked.
The Iranian cast his eyes out onto the packed dance floor. Jacqui and Hana were standing opposite one another, drunkenly miming the playing of trumpets at the start of ‘Sledgehammer’.
‘It is a religious society,’ he replied, turning back to face Kite. ‘Or rather, I should say it has become a religious society. The government does not tolerate western music like this, however much some of us may enjoy it.’
Eskandarian conveyed with an expression of wry amusement that he counted himself among this group of people. Out of the corner of his eye, Kite saw Xavier sidling onto the dance floor.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, shouting over the song.
‘Let’s discuss it another time,’ Eskandarian replied, placing the same hand on the same part of Kite’s shoulder. Kite was worried that he was being brushed off. ‘These things are too complicated for nightclubs. Isn’t this the Peter Gabriel song with the famous video? On MTV?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he replied, intrigued that Eskandarian should know such a thing. ‘Brilliant video. So are you going to dance?’
Eskandarian shook his head, stepped across Kite and tried to attract the barman’s attention. As he did so, Kite saw to his horror that Xavier had put his arm around Hana’s waist and was pulling her close. They looked sensational together: the handsome young man in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, the beautiful Vietnamese woman moving sinuously beside him. Kite could lip-read both of them singing ‘I wanna be your sledgehammer’ and noted the delight in Hana’s face as Xavier spun her around. If Eskandarian turned from the bar, he would see them. Doubtless Abbas, sitting alone in a booth by the entrance, was clocking the whole thing. With Eskandarian ordering another bottle of champagne, Kite somehow managed to catch Xavier’s attention and warned him with a glance. His friend instantly moved towards his sister, leaving Hana dancing alone. She waved towards Eskandarian, shouting ‘Join me, baby!’ as the Iranian at last turned to face her. The disc jockey eased into ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ and Kite tapped Eskandarian on the shoulder.
‘Scottish band!’ he shouted.
‘What’s that, Lockie?’
‘Simple Minds. The band playing this song. They’re Scottish. You should dance.’
‘You should too!’
They clinked glasses. Kite caught sight of Martha standing close to the stairs at the entrance to the nightclub. He gestured towards the dance floor and mouthed, ‘Dance?’ She shook her head and pointed upstairs, miming with her fingers that she wanted to go for a walk.
‘You go ahead!’ he shouted at Eskandarian. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
The Iranian looked up and saw Martha, understanding instantly what was going on.
‘Good luck!’ he said and sashayed towards Hana without rhythm or skill as Kite made his way to the entrance.
‘Having a good time?’ Martha asked him. ‘Ros has gone home. Told me to tell you she says goodnight.’
‘Why did she leave?’
‘Had an argument with Luc. He’s such a wanker. You notice how he’s always putting her down? Criticised her outfit, they had a blazing row upstairs, she went off in a taxi.’
‘Jesus.’ Kite turned and saw Luc talking to Jacqui. ‘He seems to have got over it.’
‘He doesn’t care. Only thinks about himself. Vain prat.’
Kite was startled by Martha’s outburst, but impressed that she had spoken her mind. He told her that he had his own reservations where Luc was concerned, not least because Xavier often seemed so angered and frustrated by him.
‘I don’t know as much about Xav as I do Jacqui. Daddy spoils her, so she can’t see it. You ask me, Ros is a saint for putting up with him. Classic bully. Puts people down so he can feel superior.’
Kite realised what it was about Luc that had always irked him: he took Ros for granted, taking little potshots at her background and class, needlessly picking fights and contradicting her when it would have been easier simply to let things go. Why had he never admitted this to himself? Was it because Luc’s behaviour sometimes reminded him of his own mother?
‘You going for some fresh air?’ he asked.
‘Nah,’ Martha replied. ‘Changed my mind. Let’s dance.’
Abbas and Luc drove them back. They reached the villa just before three o’clock in the morning. Luc and Jacqui went straight to bed. To Kite’s surprise and pleasure, Eskandarian announced that he was in the mood to keep drinking and encouraged the others to join him on the terrace.
‘We need music!’ Xavier shouted.
Hana put a finger to her lips and ushered him away from the stairs. As Eskandarian led them through the sitting room he agreed that it would be a good idea to ‘play some ABBA’ as long as they kept the volume down.
‘ABBA?’ said Martha contemptuously, as if Eskandarian had suggested putting on Mozart or Perry Como. ‘Who listens to ABBA? You must be joking.’
‘I’ll go and get the stereo from the pool,’ said Kite, miraculously provided with an excuse finally to bring the ghetto blaster up to the house and to plug it in behind the sofa.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Martha replied.
Leaving Xavier with Eskandarian, Hana and a bottle of Johnnie Walker, Kite led Martha away from the terrace into the darkened garden, following the twisting, narrow route to the pool by the light of the moon. As they approached the branches of the palm tree which had fallen across the path, it felt like the most natural thing in the world for Kite to reach back and take Martha’s hand. They ducked beneath the fronds and emerged in front of the swimming pool. Kite pulled her towards him and kissed her. To his amazement it was not like the kisses he had known at parties back home—mouths wide open, tongues moving furiously with lust—but a slow, tender contact, almost motionless at first, so intense and pleasurable that Kite never wanted it to end.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You took your time. I’ve been waiting ages for you to do that.’
‘More,’ he said, and they were soon lying on the grass near the pool. It was still warm from a hundred summer days. Kite’s hands were on Martha’s waist, her hips, the small of her back, his mouth tasting the skin on her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. He unzipped her dress. They became reckless in the warmth of the night. Martha loosened the belt on Kite’s trousers and unbuttoned his shirt as the cicadas continued their ceaseless chatter. Her lips and hands were everywhere at once, so quick and experienced, taking him into her mouth then rolling onto her back and urging him to be inside her. Kite lost all track of time, of place, of any sense that he should be on the terrace with Eskandarian doing his duty for Queen and country. He had never known passion like this, an experience at once so new and so intimate that it took him a long time afterwards to come to his senses.
