Brazzaville Beach (11 page)

“I've been thinking,” I said. “These planes are made from aluminium and aluminium is made from bauxite. They dig bauxite out of the ground here. No wait.” He was going to interrupt me. “What if some of that bauxite is sold to the Russians, who turn it into aluminum which is made into Mig 15s. Then they sell the Migs to the air force here who bomb the people who dug the bauxite out of the ground.”

Usman, to his credit, looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It's a crazy world, you know? Anyway, they don't sell any of this bauxite to the Russians.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.” Then he ducked under the wing to see what the mechanic was doing. I touched the plane again, rubbing the palp of my finger over a seam in the metal. This Mig seemed much smaller, close to, than I had imagined, having seen them many times flying in and out of the airport. On the ground and at this proximity their machinelike quality was far more in evidence. I could see all the scratches, dents and stains, the rows of rivet heads, places where the sun had caused the paint to flake and blister. Suddenly it was like any other machine—a bus or a car—a thing of components and working parts, of tubes and wires, levers and hinges. A flying machine.

Usman reappeared.

“What do you think of it?” he said.

“What's her name?” I said facetiously.

“He, not she.”

“I thought planes and ships were female.”

“Not this one. This is Boris. Good Russian name. Big strong bastard.” He gave it a bang with his fist. “D'you want to sit inside?”

I walked up to the cockpit and peered inside. It looked grubby and very well used, the leather on the seat creased and fraying, the instrument panel chipped and scarred.

On one side of the cockpit wall hung a curious cloth pouch, like a purse, embroidered with beads.

“What's that?” I said.

Usman reached past me and opened the flap. He took out a small blue-black gun, with ebony panels set in the grip with his initials inlaid in silver.

He showed it to me like an artifact, and then offered it to me to hold.

“It was from my squadron. When I left the air force. It's Italian, the best.”

It felt heavy for such a small gun. The metal was cold.

I gave it back. “Why do you carry it in your plane?”

“Good luck.” He smiled. “My special protection. And in case I'm shot down.”

“Don't say that.”

“Here, let me help you climb in.”

“Come on, Usman. I'm hot. I don't know anything about planes. I don't care.”

“Poor Boris,” he said to the plane ruefully. “She doesn't like you.”

I had to laugh. Jesus Christ, I said, and turned and walked back to the car.

“What are those things?” I said, pointing at the silver teardrops on their little trolleys.

“Gasoline,” he said. “Drop tanks.”

IKARIOS AND ERIGONE

No Migs fly out of the airport these days. A few months ago the air force moved its main base farther south to counter the increasing EMLA threat. The Airport Hotel is even more deserted than usual as a result. I eat there once or twice a week, whenever Gunter invites me, and often we are the only diners in the entire restaurant. Which is a shame: the food has improved vastly under the new management. A new manager was appointed some months ago, a Greek, called Ikarios Panathatanos
.

Ikarios is a hefty, balding man who reminds me a little of Hauser. One evening he told me the origin of his Christian name. The source is a very minor figure in Greek mythology. The original Ikarios was a farmer who discovered how to make wine from the grapes he grew. For a while he kept the secret to himself, making his wine and drinking it alone, covertly. But he enjoyed the experience so much he decided one day that he should share the pleasure with his neighbors, and invited the entire village round to his house to partake of his marvelous discovery
.

So the villagers drank their fill. However, as the symptoms of intoxication began to overwhelm them they grew convinced that this was an elaborate plot Ikarios had concocted to poison them. So in a drunken, paranoiac panic they stoned the hapless farmer to death
.

But the tragedy did not end there. Ikarios's daughter, Erigone, overcome with grief at her father's death, decided to take her own life and hung herself from an olive tree
.

That was all Ikarios knew about his illustrious namesake. Ikarios has a pretty little three-year-old daughter whom he has naturally called Erigone. He sees nothing sinister in the connotation at all
.

 

Hope needed a job and Professor Hobbes found her one. He telephoned her one day and suggested she come and see him. Months had gone by since her doctorate had been awarded and she could not satisfactorily explain her lethargy, even to herself. She had published one article and done some reading, but little more. It
was as if she wanted someone else to initiate the next stage of her professional career, as if she hadn't the courage to take the next step unguided, of her own volition.

Hobbes was an elderly looking man in his early sixties, potbellied and mustachioed, who could have auditioned successfully for the role of old codger or benign granddad in a television commercial. The affable looks, however, belied a shrewd and often malicious nature. He was a powerful and influential figure in his field and the various scientific societies he was active in. Each year, from amongst his students, he selected one or two as special favorites and spoiled them blatantly, securing grants, better laboratory facilities and, eventually, jobs, almost as a demonstration of the efficacy of patronage.

In her first year Hope had been chosen as one of the elect. And it was understood too that if Hobbes took an interest in you it extended well beyond the walls of his department and was of no fixed duration, to be terminated unilaterally by him, as and when he felt like it. There were eminent academics around the world who were reminded periodically that the markers were still out and yet to be called in. Hope was well aware, as she first did little, and then nothing, to find a job that her inertia would not pass unnoticed. When she heard Hobbes's surprisingly soft voice on the telephone, it was with sly relief rather than guilt that she gladly agreed to meet to “discuss her future.”

 

“What is going on, Hope?” Hobbes said. “I mean just what the hell is going on?” He poured her a glass of wine. It was white and fragrant and perfectly cold. Hobbes had a fridge in his office. He smiled at her as she drank.

“Why didn't you apply for that lectureship in York? I could've rung Frank.”

“I got married.”

“So what?”

“Having got married, I rather wanted to spend more time with my husband.”

“How sentimental.”

“I need a job in London.”

“You should have taken the York job and commuted. Doesn't everyone do that sort of thing now?”

She let him berate her for her naïveté for the allotted time, and then said she wouldn't mind something short term. John was planning to go back to the States, she lied spontaneously, and said that she would not want to commit to anything that would last more than a year. Hobbes grudgingly said he would see what was around.

He called her again within a week. He had two jobs for her, he said, and she had better take one of them. Both were to start as soon as she was ready, both were a one-year contract. Neither was exactly in her area but she was well qualified to do them, and, in any event, he was “old friends” with both the men in charge. The best one was in Africa, he said, studying wild chimpanzees.

“No, I don't think—”

“Don't interrupt. They're desperate. It's American-funded so you'll be very well paid. And it'll open all sorts of doors for you.”

No, she said, she couldn't go to Africa now. Out of the question.

He told her about the other job. “One tenth the money,” he said, disgustedly. The advantage, as she saw it, though, was that she could do it part time. It was a survey of an ancient and historic estate in South Dorset, near the coast. A historian, an archaeologist and a geographer had been studying the landscape's history, and they needed an ecologist to complete the picture. “Dating woodlands and hedgerows, that sort of thing,” Hobbes said. “Not wildly exciting, but I told them you could handle that. No problem. Don't let me down.”

She duly met the project director, a former student of Hobbes, it turned out, and she was automatically approved. Graham Munro was a gaunt, mild man who was very unlikely, she realized, to challenge Hobbes's estimation of her ability. She would start in a month, they agreed, and she would spend two to three days a week working on location. Munro told her there was a farm cottage on the estate that she could bunk down in.

Being employed cheered her up, she discovered. She wondered if it had been her joblessness that had made her fractious and worried, rather than John. He was pleased for her too, he said. They made plans for him to come down with her some weeks, if his own work permitted.

In her final month of idleness she suggested they both take a holiday. They decided to go back to Scotland, and rented a small house on an island off the west coast, reached by ferry from Mallaig.

 

Their house was on the edge of the island's only village. It was a low, single-story, thick-walled cottage with deep-set windows with a view of the harbor and the bay. Inside it was plainly and functionally decorated: white distemper on the walls, brown linoleum on every floor and minimally furnished. There were two armchairs facing the fire and a dining table with four chairs in the main room. The bedroom had an oak cupboard and a high, iron double bed. There was a chilly lavatory but no bath; all washing had to be done at the sink in the kitchen, a small room at the back of the cottage that contained a gas stove but no refrigerator. There were working fireplaces in the bedroom and sitting room, both of which heated the water. The whole place was lit by gas lamps. There was no phone, no television, no radio.

John said it was like living in a D. H. Lawrence novel, but he liked it, and so did Hope. It was austere but it worked. The fires kept the place warm, the hissing gas mantles provided adequate light for reading. The bed was big and hard and there were plenty of gray, prickly blankets. It was curious, but she found that the rigors of keeping the little house functioning imposed a similar discipline on them. They washed up after meals for the first time in their married life, and they never allowed the baskets of peat and logs to empty. They ate solid, simple meals bought from the village store: tinned stew and potatoes, corned beef and baked beans, freshly caught herring and cabbage. After their meal they would sit in their respective armchairs in front of the fire and read for two or three hours, or play chess. Hope had brought a sketchbook with her and a quiver of new pencils. She started drawing again.

The older houses of the village were clustered around the simple harbor. The newer and remarkably ugly buildings—the post office, the Mini-Market, the primary school and the village hall—were set widely apart on the land behind, placed apparently randomly, facing different directions as if they were ashamed of each other. On a small promontory that jutted out into the bay was a hotel, the Lord of the Isles, that contained the island's only licensed bar. Elsewhere, throughout the island's eight-by-two-mile area, were a handful of crofts—one or two derelict—another semivillage on the north shore and one grand house, surrounded by a small copse of leaning, wind-battered scotch pines, that served its current owner, a Dutch industrialist, as a fifth home. He owned great tracts of the island—hence the derelict crofts—and occasionally helicoptered in with his houseguests for a summer weekend. Nobody on the island could understand why he had bought the place.

Very quickly, Hope and John established a routine. They awoke early, after eight hours of sound and dreamless sleep. John lit the fire in the sitting room while Hope prepared the breakfast. Then they did their chores—replenishing fuel, buying food, preparing a packed lunch. This completed, they set off on their bicycles (hired from the Lord of the Isles) and cycled off—rain or shine—until they found a beach or cove that appealed to them. John was reading nothing but detective novels—he had three dozen paperbacks with him—and he would recount, with astonishing recall and detail, the story of the latest one he had read as they cycled along. Once they had found their beach and had settled themselves, they prowled around, searching the tideline for flotsam and jetsam. Hope sketched, John read or went for walks. They never saw another soul.

They might cycle on after their lunch—their aim was to have covered the entire shoreline of the island by the end of their stay—and they usually returned home about four in the afternoon for tea, and sometimes a siesta. At opening time they would stroll up to the Lord of the Isles for a drink and would linger there until they felt hungry. Then followed their prosaic meal and an evening's reading and drawing. They went to bed when they felt tired, normally before eleven. They made love every night of that
holiday, almost as a reflex. The slab, marmoreal cold of their bed had them squirming into each other's arms for warmth and their arousal was immediate and simultaneous. Their sex was as efficient and unpretentious as their surroundings—no foreplay, no experimentation, no undue prolongation of climax—and they were both asleep within minutes of it ending.

On the edge of the village was a hairy, sloping soccer field and behind one of the goalposts was a rusting bin that was the repository of all the village's “hard” rubbish, as the notice on its side proclaimed. Newspapers, boxes, tins and bottles—anything that the earth could not break down. All the “soft” rubbish, their landlady, the postmistress, informed them, was to be buried. There was a spade in the wee shed by the back door for this very purpose, she told them, and she would be much obliged if they interred their refuse at least twenty yards from the house. On their third day on the island Hope volunteered to dispose of two plastic bags of hard rubbish if John would take care of the soft.