Gabriel's Moon, page 26
‘May I continue, Mr Dax?’
‘Yes, of course. This is fascinating and disturbing. It’s all coming back to me, Mr Dryden. Like a film playing in my head.’
‘It’s extraordinary how we can make ourselves forget . . .’ Dryden searched for a neutral word. ‘Unpleasantness. How we banish the bad memories. Cancel them.’
‘To our detriment, sometimes.’
‘Of course. We’re not as strong as we think. As a species.’
‘As I know too well. I feel suddenly liberated, however. Thank God you found that piece of paper.’
‘Well, now that you’ve confirmed this, the thing that most annoys me is that it proves I was correct in my analysis. The fire was not caused by your night light. It did not begin on the first floor, it began on the ground floor, and was probably deliberate. You came down from the first floor and escaped through the kitchen window. QED.’
Gabriel could sense Dryden’s mounting, retrospective anger. He was almost shaking with supressed rage, his voice shrill.
‘That’s how I’m now recalling it, Mr Dryden, in almost total clarity. Mists have cleared. You’ve unleashed a flood of memories. It’s almost unbelievable.’
‘So much for the better, Mr Dax. But my point is this – my loss adjustment on the Yeomanswood fire was absolutely on the nail.’ Dryden calmed himself, visibly, picking up his pipe and putting it down, moderating his voice to its usual monotone. ‘However, the insurance company paid me no heed – they listened to the firemen with their nonsense about your moon, your night light. It’s a grotesque injustice. No monies should have been paid out on this fire. Not a penny. Absolutely not.’
EXTRACTS FROM THE TRANSCRIPTION OF SESSION 7
DR HAAS: So you can now recall most of the details of that night?
GABRIEL DAX: Yes, I can, now – it’s pretty extraordinary. I just needed that catalyst. Some evidence from someone else. The telephone and the kitchen window. That’s what did it. And then I remembered. All the fragments have joined up, all the gaps mostly filled in. I feel I now know what happened, that night of the fire. I’ve reclaimed the experience as part of my history. That may sound a bit grandiose, I realize, but my memories seem right, true, for the first time.
DR HAAS: Memory, my God. Memory is the most fickle of human attributes and capacities. The most mendacious and cunning. The most disastrous, sometimes. Our false memories are like fictions – they can destroy us.
GABRIEL DAX: I know that. Anamnesis. Facts before memories. Facts stimulating memories – memories we’ve forgotten we have. I thank you for that insight, Dr Haas. Sincerely, I mean it.
DR HAAS: Well, we do our best. This is the value of psychoanalysis – though we’re much mocked – we do actually help people, sometimes. Are you sleeping better?
GABRIEL DAX: I am, in fact – these last few days, now that I seem able to remember what happened. I still dream of small fires burning but they don’t disturb me in the same way, don’t terrorize me. I don’t wake up all the time as I used to. If I do wake, I find I can go back to sleep. Quite amazing progress.
DR HAAS: Well, I feel, then, that we’ve arrived at a kind of cure, of sorts. It’s been an interesting journey.
GABRIEL DAX: And I don’t want it to end, if you don’t mind. I’d like to continue our conversations, from time to time. I have to say I find it very easy to speak to you, Dr Haas.
DR HAAS: Thank you. I may seem to have an unorthodox approach – we’ve had our difficulties, our ups and downs, I know – but the connection between analysand and analyst is at the heart of everything we do. It’s fundamental. And, you must admit, we’ve established that – a good connection, I feel.
GABRIEL DAX: I certainly do. Oh, yes, indeed.
DR HAAS: And if that relationship isn’t there, then you might as well speak to . . . speak to the wall, or a table lamp, or your cat. Or shout your troubles out in the street.
GABRIEL DAX [laughs]: Yes, it’s very good to have a neutral but sympathetic ear. I feel – I don’t know – I feel some chapter in my life has come to an end. It’s as though I’ve changed – that I’m a different person than the one you met all those months ago.
DR HAAS: In a good way?
GABRIEL DAX: I hope so. Who can say?
DR HAAS: What do you really want, Gabriel, in your life? What do you seek?
[LONG PAUSE]
GABRIEL DAX: I know exactly what I want. I want to love someone – a woman – unreservedly, totally, with my whole being. And, of course, I’d like her to love me back in the same way. And if that happened I’d feel my life was complete. That my life had meaning. I think that because I lost my mother when I was so young, this . . . what? Absence, this huge empty hole in my life, is something I need to resolve – to fill, if you like. I feel I’ve a lot of love inside me and I want to give it to a person – freely, with no strings attached. But it has to be the right person. I think it would help me, enormously – I don’t know why – but it’s come to be something of an obsession.
DR HAAS: Why?
GABRIEL DAX: Because I think I’ve found that person. A woman. But . . . [Pause] It’s complicated.
DR HAAS: Is this the woman you’ve spoken about before?
GABRIEL DAX: Yes. Faith Green. She’s the one I feel would be right for me.
DR HAAS: Does she feel anything similar towards you?
GABRIEL DAX: I haven’t the faintest idea.
12.
The Dilemma
Gabriel was walking up Tite Street toward Tedworth Square on a darkening November evening when he heard a car toot. It was a ‘hello’ toot. A soft ‘toot-toot’. He had always found it extraordinary how a car’s simple, monotone horn-call could convey so many meanings: death wishes, extreme rage, sneering abuse, thanks, warnings, encouragements, wake-ups, greetings. This one was definitely a ‘Hello! It’s me!’
Of course. There it was – the silver Mercedes 190.
Faith wound down the window.
‘Gabriel. Lovely to see you.’
‘I thought I was retired.’
‘One last job. Pretty please. We’ll pay your usual fee. And you don’t have to travel.’
He knew he should say ‘No, thanks’ and at the same time he was wholly aware that his free-agency as an individual was over, as far as Faith Green was concerned. For ever. Somehow, he didn’t care. He had proved himself to himself in Warsaw and thereafter. He felt in a strange way that he was Faith’s equal, now – and, immediately undermining that confidence, recognized that this assertion might have been an indulgent, self-deluding fantasy.
They went back to his flat. She complimented him again on its style and ambience.
‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘You can’t have too many books in a home. The more the merrier. I’m going to have some bookshelves built.’
He handed her a Glenfeshan, one ice cube.
‘In Great Missenden?’ he said, not thinking.
‘How do you know I live in Great Missenden?’
‘You told me.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember if I ever did.’
‘Then I think Harrison must have told me.’
‘He had no bloody right, if he did so.’
‘It’s not the end of the world, is it? You know where I live, for Christ’s sake. Here you are, in my flat.’
‘It’s not the same, Gabriel. Not at all. I shall have to have a word with Harrison.’
They sat down and sipped at their whiskies.
She was wearing a navy blue, multi-buttoned high-collared jacket, Indian-style, and a pencil skirt to just below her knees. Sheer stockings; her pointed shoes looked like they were made from crocodile skin. She’d returned to her old look – tousled girlish hair, held with a tortoiseshell band. He liked to note and store these details about her appearance, on their rare meetings, so he could brood and fantasize about her, later. Was he becoming just a little bit unhinged? he wondered.
‘So,’ he said, wanting to re-configure his thoughts. ‘What’s the new job for the messenger boy?’
‘Don’t denigrate yourself, Gabriel – you know how important you’ve been to us.’
‘Yeah, well. That’s your side of the story.’
‘Don’t be bitter. Doesn’t suit you.’
‘I’m not bitter – just realistic.’
She sighed, as if he were a hopeless case, and drank some of her whisky, then set the glass down and looked fixedly at him. He felt the shiver, the frisson, of sexual desire. Yes – she was the one for him. Yet she had chosen Vivian, the chartered surveyor. She had his ring on her finger – he could see the amber diamond-spangle, the tiny dazzle of the gas fire in the faceted stone.
‘It’s very simple,’ she said. ‘We want you to meet a certain person. You’ll have a conversation and, during this conversation, this person will use the word “refulgent”.’
‘Refulgent?’
‘Exactly. Do you know the word?’
‘I’m a writer – please. I’ve actually used the word from time to time, you may be astonished to learn.’
‘Ah, yes. The full plum-pudding.’
‘What will this person’s use of “refulgent” signify?’
‘It signifies something very important to us.’
‘All right. Don’t tell me. What happens next?’
‘When or if this person uses this word – it may not be used, of course, and its non-use is just as significant – then you should remove and re-tie your scarf. Make sure you’re wearing a scarf. That will alert us. We’ll be watching you both. Covertly.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. Then you go your separate ways.’
‘When will this happen?’
‘In the next week. You’ll be telephoned with the details.’
She took an envelope out of her handbag and gave it to him.
‘Your usual remuneration.’
‘Very generous. Thank you.’
He thought how his entire new book was being funded by his MI6 emoluments. The Orinoco, here I come. The knowledge helped, somehow.
She stood, said she had to leave and he showed her to the door.
Their proximity in his narrow, dark hallway stimulated him, as it always did. The sense of their bodies so close together and the scent of her lavender perfume.
‘May I kiss you, Faith?’
He always asked. A shy bairn gets nowt, was one of Uncle Aldous’s favourite sayings.
She looked at him in her particular way, head cocked, thinking.
‘Yes. All right. Un baiser nostalgique.’
He rested his hands on her shoulders and their lips touched, gently, softly. He pressed harder and his tongue flickered against her teeth. She opened her mouth a little and their tongues met. He felt her hands on his back, holding him closer. She broke off, suddenly, pushing him away. He thought she was a little flustered. Good. Maybe there was some hope. If you couldn’t make love then a meaningful kiss was no bad substitute, he thought.
‘I’ll wait for the instructions,’ he said, opening the door.
‘Right. Thank you.’ She was flustered, definitely.
‘You can stay. If you want. The bed is freshly made.’
‘I have to go.’
‘I’m your spy, Faith. You know that.’
She left without a word. Gabriel closed the door and stood there, quietly taking in what had happened. His declaration had been loaded, deliberate. He wondered if, for the first time in their two years of close and mystifying association, he had briefly gained the upper hand . . .
Three days later he received the call from the Institute. A man’s voice that he didn’t recognize.
‘Battersea Park. The esplanade by the main car park. Four p.m. Tuesday next week. The subject will be driving a Humber Hawk.’
‘Right.’
‘You know what to do?’
‘Yes, yes. “Refulgent”, untie scarf, re-tie.’
Click. Gabriel replaced the receiver on its cradle. Once again, he felt himself being drawn in to this secret, strange world, deeper than he had ever wanted to go. What could he do? How could he extricate himself? There seemed to be always ‘one last job’ – and the money offered, of course, was alluring. The money was the glue in the trap, he thought: and he was in danger of being permanently stuck.
On the following Tuesday, he crossed the Thames over Albert Bridge. The tide was in and high, and the Thames looked like a real, virile river, brimming close to the walls of its embankments, threatening floods.
He wandered into Battersea Park. The big London plane trees had shed almost all their leaves, revealing their complex geometries of heavy boughs, lighter branches and feathery laciness of twigs. Sometimes, he thought, he preferred trees in winter, rather than their full-leaf summer version – in winter you saw their mighty skeletons, registered their astounding engineering, their random, propulsive growth patterns better; you understood what amazing vegetable beings they were, how ancient, strong and enduring – and how complacently taken for granted they were. An eighty-foot London plane tree was a wonder, a marvel. People should take more note of these everyday giants in their lives, he thought, acknowledge them. Was there a book there? he wondered. Great trees of the world? A baobab in Africa, an oak in England, a redwood in California, a eucalyptus in Australia, an olive in Spain . . .
He sauntered up and down the empty esplanade, encouraging his mind to explore the possibilities, in an attempt to control his inevitable, mounting nervousness. Maybe Trees could follow Rivers ? He glanced back at the car park, almost empty, night coming in – any new arrival would be very visible.
He shook a cigarette out of his soft-pack of Gitanes and lit it, inhaling deeply, welcoming the heady buzz of the nicotine, trying not to think of Faith Green’s team watching him through binoculars or powerful telescopes from the Chelsea shore, or wherever they were hiding. He was wearing his navy blue overcoat and a dull, brick red scarf – still, he should be very visible, even as the light was fading.
He heard the sound of a motor car entering the park from the Chelsea Bridge gate and moments later saw a racing green Humber Hawk pull in to the parking area. He threw away his cigarette and headed towards it – not too briskly, everything was meant to look casual. The door opened and a man stepped out.
It was Sefton.
For a second, Gabriel thought of turning around and walking away, but Sefton had seen him and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Hello, hello. What’re you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Out for a stroll. I live just over there, as you bloody well know.’ He pointed towards Chelsea. ‘I’m always in this park. My back garden. My country estate.’
Sefton chuckled. They were now crossing the esplanade towards the river, side by side. Sefton rested his hands on the wall and looked out over the water. Gabriel asked him about Victoria and the boys, how they were. All well, Sefton said, looking forward to Christmas and the holidays.
‘Splendid view,’ he said. ‘Chelsea’s grandest and most expensive houses and the refulgent Thames as a bonus.’
He turned and looked squarely at Gabriel.
‘That’s the word, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Refulgent. Le mot juste.’
Gabriel kept his hands in his pockets.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Exactly.’ Then, quietly, ‘I think they’re on to you, Sefton.’
Sefton smiled. He said nothing. They looked at each other, the brothers.
‘Always lovely to see you, Gabriel. I’d better get home.’ He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder. ‘Come and have lunch on Sunday. No excuses, mind.’
He wandered back to his car. Unperturbed, it seemed. Calmness personified.
Gabriel watched him drive away, feeling his throat dry as pumice, trying to coax saliva into his mouth. What had Sefton done? Why hadn’t Faith Green warned him that the meeting would be with Sefton? What new game was this that she was playing? He felt a flutter of panic in his chest, sensing instantly that it was too risky to go back to his flat. She’d be waiting for him, he felt sure, parked outside in her silver car. Fight or flee? Flee.
13.
The Eternal City
Gabriel sat outside on the terrace of a little trattoria on the Piazza Navona. It was cold and drizzling but he didn’t care; he was perfectly dry under the canopy, warm in his coat and scarf. He was smoking a Gitanes and had a Campari-soda in front of him. Rome was quiet, with very few tourists, he’d noticed, the city caught in that tranquil lull between Ognissanti and Natale. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Smoking too much, of course – nerves, worried about what was happening in London, what effect his sudden disappearance would have had, what was being discussed in the Institute, what Faith Green was thinking about him.
After Sefton had left, Gabriel had walked briskly to Chelsea Bridge Road, hailed a passing taxi and gone straight to his bank where he told the taxi to wait. There, he’d withdrawn £200 from his account and was then driven to London airport. Once again, he congratulated himself for always having his passport in his pocket. He looked at the various destinations available and plumped for Rome. He bought a ticket, went into the departure lounge and two hours later was en route.
He found a small pensione near the Piazza di Spagna – astonishingly cheap – and decided to wait things out. Let some days pass, let the dust settle, let Sefton sort his life out, whatever he had done. It was Sefton’s problem and penitence, not his. He was glad to be spared the wrath of Faith Green.
He was not idle in Rome over the next few days. He walked miles about the city, ate well, drank well, visited innumerable churches, wandered through art galleries, stood in ancient ruins. He found he was sleeping fairly soundly too, by his standards, only waking up once or twice a night – though he conceded that might be partly accounted for by the amount of alcohol he was consuming during the day and evening. Maybe Katerina Haas had cured his insomnia after all, he thought – and maybe his life would change.
