Gabriel's Moon, page 8
It was that simple. Mission accomplished, Gabriel thought to himself. What in God’s name was going on here? Still, not for him to reason why. He was just the go-between, the favour-bestower. He never knew exactly what he’d done for Sefton so why should it be any different for Faith Green?
Inès Montano accompanied him to his car.
‘If you want to buy more,’ she said, ‘it is very possible.’ She handed him a card. A number was scrawled on it.
‘You can always reach me. I live in Cádiz. Better than talking to Javier.’
‘Very good to know,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’ll pass the information on to my client. Maybe we’ll meet again.’
They smiled, made their farewells, shook hands and Gabriel climbed into the Simca and drove back to the Algeciras road. He decided not to head back to Madrid immediately – and to take his time. Maybe a night in Seville – then perhaps a further night in Toledo. He’d done his job, he had earned some self-indulgence.
8.
The Useful Idiot
He meandered back to Madrid, duly taking his time as he had promised himself, leaving Route IV when the mood caught him to explore the hinterland. He found dark, narrow villages that seemed still stuck in the nineteenth century – but he noticed that there were always one or two policemen lurking, in different types of uniforms, sometimes, and everywhere, in every bar, restaurant, bank or hotel, was the portrait of the Caudillo, General Franco, testifying to the bizarre egotism of autocrats, wanting their image – the pictorial reminder – absolutely everywhere.
Back in Madrid, two days later, in his shabby suite at the Hotel Florida, he made a phone call to London, to the Institute, on the number they’d given him.
‘Yes?’ said a male voice.
‘Bingo,’ Gabriel said and hung up. He was just obeying the Institute’s instructions. And his further instructions were to remain in Madrid until – he assumed – Faith Green contacted him. He waited another two days. He went to the Prado. He ate at expensive restaurants. He wandered the streets, looking about him, seeking – what? – inspiration? Becoming bored and frustrated, he rang the Institute on the other number Faith had given him. Line engaged, endlessly. What games were being played here? he wondered.
One afternoon he came back to his suite and found that the drawing, that he’d kept securely in his grip, was now on the desk by the window. It had been slightly altered. Beneath Blanco’s signature was the new message, ‘Para mi amigo del alma.’ For the friend of my soul. It was a signal – matters were under way. Gabriel relaxed somewhat – Faith Green was clearly in Madrid. He just had to wait it out.
The Florida had a decent restaurant and a well-appointed, dark bar and that evening he decided to patronize it and not wander out into the city, thinking that maybe Faith would show up. He found a corner table by the window and ordered a whisky and soda. He was bemused – his new, near-permanent state of being, he realized – but relaxed. He was in funds; his plans for Rivers had taken real shape; and the year ahead seemed almost enticing. A summer of travels to the locations he’d selected; perhaps more sessions with Dr Katerina Haas, now he could easily afford them; maybe he’d take Lorraine on that holiday he’d so rashly promised her. He lit a cigarette. Now that the Blanco drawing had been secured, all was relatively well with his world. Relax, he told himself.
‘Excuse me, sir, but are you Gabriel Dax by any chance?’
He turned.
A young woman stood there. The accent was American. She was tiny, frail and bony, in her late twenties, he guessed, with long, slightly greasy blonde hair.
‘Yes, I am, actually.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ She practically squealed.
She held out a copy of The Wine-Dark Sea.
‘I’m waiting to meet a friend and I’m reading this book and you freakin’ walk into the bar.’ She showed him the photo – his photo, shadowy monochrome, the handsome, brooding author – on the back of the book. ‘Can you imagine? I thought I was hallucinating.’
‘Well, that’s indeed me. A few years ago, I confess.’
‘Would you sign it for me? I just can’t believe this.’
Gabriel took out his pen.
‘Shall I add a name?’
‘Nancy-Jo. Nancy-Jo Berndlinger. No “e” on the Jo.’
He signed the book: ‘For Nancy-Jo, every good wish, Gabriel Dax, Hotel Florida, Madrid’.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘Isn’t life strange? The way these things happen? My God. Unbelievable.’
She went back to her table.
There was something waif-like and needy about her, Gabriel thought. Febrile and pretty, she looked like she needed a good scrub. Ten minutes under a hot shower . . . He stopped himself. He recognized the signs of his libido stirring.
He drank his whisky, scrutinized the menu and went into the restaurant for his solitary meal, giving Nancy-Jo a wave as he passed. He ordered a fillet of pork, bastuma. A hearty stew with ham, olives and, bizarrely, he thought, a garnish of sliced hard-boiled eggs. He drank a couple of glasses of Rioja. No sign of Faith Green, he noticed.
When he returned to the bar for a nightcap brandy, Nancy-Jo was still there. Her friend never showed, she said. He asked if she’d like to join him for a drink. Sure, that’s so kind, she said, I’d be honoured. They sat together, drinking brandy and smoking, as she told him about her life. She was in Madrid studying fine art at the Universidad Complutense in the city, and trying also to perfect her Spanish. Gabriel told her a little about his plans for the Rivers book. She thought it sounded really incredibly fascinating. She knew a stretch of the Mississippi just above New Orleans. There was a town called Hattiesburg. He should go there, she said. Kinda weird town, but authentically weird, she said. Might work for your book.
They chatted away, drinking and smoking (she declined his French cigarettes – she smoked an American brand called Tareyton) but, as they talked, Gabriel was aware of the emerging subtext – intense, mutual sexual attraction. He always found it strange, this instinctive, unsought-for recognition that occurred when you met someone. Yes, you are my choice – and it was a choice acknowledged on both sides. It must be some atavistic mating drive, still lingering in our prehistoric brains, he thought, trying to tamp it down with limited success.
They finished their second brandy. Nancy-Jo said she should be getting back to her apartment. How long was he going to be in Madrid? Gabriel made up a story about writing an article for the New Interzonal Review. Post-war Fascism in Spain. Is the Caudillo’s grip slipping? He was going to mooch around for a couple more days. Maybe we could meet, he suggested. I’d like that, she said. She scribbled down her phone number on a paper napkin. Give me a call. She smiled – I can’t believe this happened, she said: The Wine-Dark Sea – who’d believe it? I keep thinking I’ll wake up from a dream.
He walked her to the door. They shook hands – didn’t kiss. That was good, he thought. I’ll call you tomorrow, he said, thinking, no, Gabriel, don’t.
He walked back up the stairs to his suite, feeling the effects of the red wine and the brandy. Maybe he’d sleep tonight.
He did sleep well, by his standards, only waking four or five times. But he felt crapulous in the morning and decided on a proper breakfast – an ‘American breakfast’ as advertised by the Florida. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes, small fritters of prawns. He had just finished and was about to embark on his first Gitanes of the day when Faith Green walked into the dining room.
She was wearing an eau-de-Nil silk dress with a matching bolero jacket fastened with a big off-centre button. Her silvery velvet Alice band held her loose hair back from her face. She looked fresh, in control – full of piss and vinegar, Gabriel thought. She sat down and ordered a coffee.
‘Well,’ Gabriel said. ‘At bloody last.’
‘Who was that young woman you were with last night?’
‘A fan, a reader,’ Gabriel said. My God, he realized, she had been watching – or informed. ‘She seemed a very nice young American. Enthusiastic about my books.’
‘Well, good for you,’ Faith said, sipping at her coffee. ‘And good work with Blanco. Now I need you to deliver the drawing, then you can go home.’
‘I noticed the additions,’ he said.
‘The additions are crucial.’
‘And I assume you won’t explain why.’
‘You assume right.’
She told him where she wanted him to go – this evening at 6 p.m. It was a famous café-bar, the Café Gijón on the Paseo de Recoletos, number 21.
‘Someone will approach you and you’ll give the drawing to him. Then you can go back to London.’
They looked at each other.
‘Please smoke your cigarette if you want to. I don’t mind,’ she said.
Gabriel lit up.
‘What exactly’s going on, Faith?’
‘I can’t tell you. You know that. Suffice to say you’ve been a very important cog in the bigger machine.’
‘A small cog. My destiny.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Gabriel. We’re all very grateful at the Institute for your work.’
He inclined his head slightly, as if accepting the compliment. But it wasn’t a compliment, he recognized, it was more of a routine acknowledgement, a casual tip of the cap to a servant who had done a job and not fouled up. He consoled himself with the thought of his generous remuneration. Faith Green called for another coffee.
The Café Gijón was busy at six o’clock. A blue fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air and the noise of garrulous conversation was high. Gabriel took in a chequer-board floor, ribbed, panelled, varnished walls and red banquettes set amongst the usual fritter of bentwood chairs and marble-topped tables. It had the confident air of all these great established grand cafés and brasseries – whether in France, Germany, Austria, Italy. The waiters were mature, solemn, unsmiling men; the food arrived promptly, served briskly without fuss; the whole enterprise had been working efficiently since the last century. They knew what they were about.
Gabriel found a seat at the back and ordered a beer. He drank it swiftly and ordered another. He felt somewhat excited. Was that good? He wondered if that was why he took on these clandestine, inexplicable jobs for Sefton and now Faith Green. It was an adventure – but an adventure with no risks, it seemed. It played to scenarios of adolescence – foreign parts, undercover operations, private eyes, continental espionage.
‘Hello. Mr Dax, I assume?’
Gabriel looked up to see a man in late middle age – with a raddled, lean, debauched face. Blotched, mottled, deep creases. He was smiling at him warmly, however. He had a Hitlerian lock of grey hair falling over his brow that he shook back with a head-flick as he sat down.
‘I can’t drink beer,’ he said. ‘Awful fizzy stuff. I warn you.’
A waiter approached and the man ordered a bottle of red wine in good Spanish but with a marked English accent. The wine arrived, the man poured two glasses. He drained his immediately and then refilled it.
‘Terrible thirst on me,’ he said, then extended his hand. ‘Christopher Caldwell. Everyone calls me Kit. Delighted to meet you.’
‘I have something for you,’ Gabriel said. And produced the drawing in its cardboard sleeve. Caldwell slid it out and looked at it.
‘Para mi amigo del alma. Ah, bless him.’ Caldwell smiled fondly. ‘Did you meet Javier?’
‘Yes. At his studio in Cádiz.’
‘Extraordinary person.’ Caldwell paused, thinking. ‘We were lovers for five years. Hence the fulsome dedication, in case you were wondering. He was, without doubt, the most handsome and alluring human being I’ve ever encountered.’
‘Right.’ Gabriel filed this information away, a little astonished at Caldwell’s blithe confession.
‘Have you any idea who I am? Did Faith Green explain?’
‘Ah. No. My job is done, Mr Caldwell. Deliver you the drawing and off I go back to London.’
‘Well, I think it would be good for you to know – in the general scheme of things – that I am the British Secret Intelligence Service’s head of station here in Madrid. Not some drunken old poofter looking for a souvenir of past glories.’
‘I see. Or rather, I don’t see.’
‘It’s complicated, true, and still has a way to run.’
Somehow, Caldwell had contrived to empty the bottle of wine as they had been talking. He called for another one.
‘And who, exactly, are you?’ he asked, pouring them both fresh glasses.
‘I’m what you might call a “useful idiot”, I suppose,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m paid to do these delivery jobs. Paid very well. But I know nothing. I’m completely in the dark.’
‘Good procedure, as they say,’ Caldwell remarked, a little mockingly. ‘What do you do in your real life?’
And so they had a conversation about Gabriel’s books and his literary ambitions. Caldwell was an excellent listener, cultured, well informed, asking cogent questions, and Gabriel began to wonder if he was as drunk as he seemed to be. Instinctively, he liked him – liked his sly, subversive nature and his disarming candour. And now he knew that Caldwell and Blanco had been lovers and that he was a significant figure in the British intelligence service. Was that wise? he wondered. Why would he tell me this? he asked himself. He saw that he was also beginning to be infected by the covert operative’s routine paranoia and standard second-guessing proclivities. Time to go home.
They chatted on for half an hour, then Caldwell rose to his feet.
‘Absolute delight to meet you, Mr Dax. Thank you for delivering the drawing. Hasta la vista.’
They shook hands and Caldwell wove his way through the Café Gijón’s crowded tables out into the night.
Gabriel sat on for a while, mentally totting up what he had now learnt, and getting nowhere. Serious secret service intelligence stuff going on was all the lame insight he could muster. Faith Green, the Institute, Kit Caldwell, Blanco. Some sort of intricate plan was clearly being enacted. What did it add up to?
A waiter brought him a menu. Yes, he was hungry. Gabriel had an idea. He went to the public telephone at the entrance and called Nancy-Jo.
They were both a bit drunk, he acknowledged. He was more drunk, thanks to the Caldwell contribution to his evening’s drinking, but who cared? They had eaten well in the Café Gijón, on the Institute’s ticket, Gabriel extracting his money’s worth. He ordered the most expensive wine. They ate a hearty huevos fritos a la andaluza – fried eggs with garlic sausage and fried potatoes – and then crema italiana. As if in mysterious response to his previous unuttered observations, Nancy-Jo had spruced herself up. She was wearing make-up, lipstick, her thick blonde hair shone; she was in an ultramarine dress with a tight bodice that emphasized her breasts. Her eyes were bright; she was enjoying herself. Gabriel was thinking, your place or mine?
As it turned out, her place was closer to the Gijón than the Hotel Florida. They wandered through the cold, dark streets of midnight Madrid, arm in arm, Gabriel towering over her, this girl-woman, as she talked about coming to London for a few weeks, now her course was nearly over, before heading back to the States.
Gabriel encouraged her. I’ve a spare room in my flat, he said. You could stay with me. I can show you around, he said: it’s a fascinating city. He gave her his Aldous Dax Fine Art Ltd card and wrote his telephone number on the back. That would be so incredibly great, she said.
They paused outside her apartment block.
‘I’m not going to ask you in,’ she said. ‘I’ve three room-mates in there. It would be all wrong. Let’s wait until London.’
He kissed her goodnight and the kiss turned into something more passionate. Tongues, saliva, breath-shortness. Kissing her cheeks, kissing her neck. Clash of teeth. He felt her thin body press hard against him.
They said their panting goodbyes. See you in London.
‘Hey, I just remembered. Can I ask you a favour?’ she said. ‘Can you take a small parcel back to London for me? And post it for me? It’s my cousin’s birthday and I’m late.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My pleasure.’
She ran inside to her apartment and he lit a cigarette, swaying slightly, aware of how much he had drunk. She was probably right, he thought: save their lovemaking for a proper, private moment, set it up correctly, under their own terms, not some swift unsatisfactory coupling with three curious room-mates listening intently to what was going on.
She reappeared with a small padded envelope.
‘It’s just some soap. She’ll love it. You must meet her. She lives in Cambridge.’
They kissed again with the same fervour.
‘I can’t believe I met you, Gabriel,’ she whispered, almost tearful. ‘It’s like some incredible karma, like it was meant to be, you know?’
‘You’re right,’ he said, drunkenly feeling the same. Karma, yes, definitely.
They parted and he wandered slowly back to his hotel, her parcel in his hand. He inhaled, exhaled, calling on sobriety. What was going on in his life? Too much happening. And now Nancy-Jo was coming to London. Switch off, he told himself. Switch off.
Gabriel parked the Simca in an empty bay and went into the Hertz office to settle his bill and return the keys. As he waited for the minibus that would transport him to the terminal, he thought back to the events of last night. Of the kiss – the kisses – he had shared with Nancy-Jo. Funny she hadn’t mentioned she was coming to London when they first met – maybe she’d forgotten or was too excited in encountering the author himself. Still, he thought now of Lorraine, thought of the duplicity involved in having Nancy-Jo stay in his flat. Perhaps that had been precipitate, not to mention disloyal . . . He opened his grip and took out Nancy-Jo’s package, heavily taped up, he noticed. Terri-Ann Berndlinger, St Magdalene’s College, Cambridge. He smiled at the error – then he remembered. Magdalene College, like most of them, was men only. He felt a little tremor of worry.
