The Light of Day (2 page)

And each in youth's most beauteous bloom.

It then went on to describe what the youth and maid did together for the next half-hour—very poetically, of course, but in detail. It was really hot stuff.

I made copies and let some of the chaps at school read it. Then I charged them fourpence a time to be allowed to copy it out for themselves. I was making quite a lot of money, when some fourth-form boy left a copy in the pocket of his cricket blazer and his mother found it. Her husband sent it with a letter of complaint to The Bristle. He began questioning the boys one by one to find out who had started it, and, of course, he eventually got back to me. I said I had been .given it by a boy who had left the term before—The Bristle couldn't touch
him
—but I don't think he believed me. He sat tapping his desk with his pencil and saying 'filthy smut' over and over again. He looked very red in the face, almost as if he were embarrassed. I remember wondering if he could be a bit 'queer'. Finally, he said that as it was my last term he would not expel me, but that I was not to associate with any of the
younger boys for the rest of my time there. He did not cane me or write to the Benevolent Association, which was a relief. But it was a bad experience all the same and I was quite upset. In fact, I think that was the reason I failed my matric.

At Coram's they made a fetish out of passing your matric. Apparently, you couldn't get a respectable job in a bank or an insurance company without it I did not want a job in a bank or an insurance company—Mr
Hafiz
had died and Mum wanted me to go back and learn the restaurant business—but it was a disappointment all the same. I think that if The Bristle had been more broad-minded and understanding, not made me feel as if I had committed some sort of crime, things would have
been
different. I was a sensitive boy and I felt that Coram's had somehow let me down. That was the reason I never applied to join the Old Coramians' Club.

Now, of course, I can look back on the whole thing and smile about it. The point I am making is that persons in authority—headmasters, police officials—can do a great deal of damage simply by failing to understand the other fellow's point of view.

How could I have possibly known what kind of man this Harper was?

As I explained, I had simply driven out to the Athens airport looking for business. I spotted this man going through customs and saw that he was carrying his ticket in an American Express folder. I gave one of the porters two drachmas to get me the man's name from his customs declaration. Then I had one of the uniformed airline girls give him my card and the message: 'Car waiting outside for Mr Harper.'

It is a trick I have used lots of times and it has almost always worked. Not many Americans or British speak demotic Greek; and by the time they have been through the airport customs, especially in the hot weather, and been jostled by the porters and elbowed right and left, they are only too ready to go with someone who can understand what they're talking about and take care of the tipping. That day it was really very hot and humid.

As he came through the exit from the customs I went up to him.

‘This way, Mr Harper.'

He stopped and looked me over. I gave him a helpful smile which he did not return.

"Wait a minute,' he said curtly. 'I didn't order any car.'

I looked puzzled. ‘The American Express sent me, sir. They said you wanted an English-speaking driver.'

He stared at me again, then shrugged. 'Well, okay. I'm going to the
Hôtel
Grande
Bretagne.'
'Certainly, sir. Is this all your luggage?' Soon after we turned off the coast road by Glyfada he began to ask questions. Was I British? I side-stepped that one as usual. Was the car my own? They always want to know that It is my own car, as it happens, and I have two speeches about it. The car itself is a 1954 Plymouth. With an American I brag about how many thousands of miles it has done without any trouble. For the Britishers I have a stiff-upper-lip line about part-exchanging it, as soon as I can save enough extra cash, for an Austin Princess, or an old Rolls-Royce, or some other real quality car. Why shouldn't people be told what they want to hear?

This Harper man seemed much like the rest. He listened and grunted occasionally as I told him the tale. When you know that you are beginning to bore them, you usually know that everything is going to be all right. Then, you stop. He did not ask how I happened to live and work in Greece, as they usually do. I thought that would probably come later; that is, if there were going to be a later with him. I had to find out. 'Are you in Athens on business, sir?'

‘Could be.'

His tone as good as told me to mind my own business, but I pretended not to notice. 'I ask, sir,' I went on, 'because if you should need a car and driver while you are here I could arrange to place myself at your disposal.'

‘Yes?'

It wasn't exactly-encouraging, but I told him the daily rate and the various trips we could take if he wanted to do some sight-seeing—Delphi and the rest.

'I'll think about it,' he said. "What your name?'

I handed him one of my cards over my shoulder and watched him in the driving mirror while he read it. Then he slipped it into his pocket. 'Are you married, Arthur?’

The question took me by surprise. They
dont
usually want to know about your private
Ufe.
I told him about my first wife and how she had been killed by a bomb in the Suez troubles in 1956.1 did not mention
Nicki.
I don't know why; perhaps because I did not want to think about her just then.

'You did say you were British, didn't you?' he asked.

'My father was British, sir, and I was educated in England.' I said it a little distantly. I dislike being cross-examined in that sort of way. But he persisted just the same.

'Well, what nationality
are
you?'

'I have an Egyptian passport.' That was perfectly true, although it was none of his business.

‘Was your wife Egyptian?'

'No, French.'

'Did you have any children?'

 
'Unfortunately no,
sir,'
I was definitely cold now.

'I see.'

He sat back, staring out of the window, and I had the feeling that he had suddenly put me out of his mind altogether. I thought about Annette and how used I had become to saying that she had been killed by a bomb. I was almost beginning to believe it myself. As I stopped for the traffic lights in Omonias Square I wondered what had happened to her, and if the gallant gentlemen she had preferred to me had ever managed to give her the children she had said she wanted. I am not one to bear a grudge, but I could not help hoping that she believed now that the sterility had been hers not mine.

I pulled up at the Grande
Bretagne.
While the porters were getting the bags out of the car Harper turned to me.

'Okay, Arthur, it's a deal. I expect to be here three of four days.'

I was surprised and relieved. ‘Thank you, sir. Would you like to go to Delphi tomorrow? On the week-ends it gets very crowded with tourists.'

‘We'll talk about that later.' He stared at me
f
or a moment and smiled slightly. ‘Tonight I think I feet like going out on the town. You know some good places?'

As he said it there was just the suggestion of a wink. I am sure of that.

I smiled discreetly. 'I certainly do, sir.'

‘I thought you might. Pick me up at nine o'clock. All right?'

'Nine o'clock, sir. I will have the concierge telephone to your room that I am here.'

It was four-thirty then. I drove to my flat, parked the car in the courtyard and went up.

Nicki
was out, of course. She usually spent the afternoon with friends—or said she did. I did not know who the friends were and I never asked too many questions. I did not want her to lie to me, and, if she had picked up a lover at the Club, I did not want to know about it. When a middle-aged man marries an attractive girl half his age, he has to accept certain possibilities philosophically. The clothes she had changed out of were lying all over the bed and she had spilt some scent, so that the place smelt more strongly of her than usual.

There was a letter for me from a British travel magazine I had written to. They wanted me to submit samples of my work for their consideration. I tore the letter up. Practically thirty years in the magazine game and they treat you like an amateur! Send samples of your work, and the next thing you know is that they've stolen all your ideas without paying you a penny-piece. It has happened to me again and again, and I am not being caught that way any more. If they want me to write for them, let them say so with a firm offer of cash on delivery, plus expenses in advance.

I made a few telephone calls to make sure that Harper's evening out would go smoothly, and then went down to the
café
for a drink or two. When I got back
Nicki was
there, changing again to go to work at the club.

It was no wish of mine that she should go on working after our marriage. She chose to do so herself. I suppose some men would be jealous at the idea of their wives belly-
dancing
with practically no clothes on in front of other men; but I am not narrow-minded in that way. If she chooses to earn a little extra pocket money for herself, that is her affair.

While she dressed, I told her about Harper and made a joke about all his questions. She did not smile.

'He does not sound easy, Papa,' she said. When she calls me 'Papa' like that it means that she is in a friendly mood with me.

'He has money to spend.'

'How do you know? '

'I telephoned the hotel and asked for him in room two-three-two. The operator corrected me and so I got his real room number. I know it. It is a big air-conditioned suite.'

She looked at me with a slight smile and sighed. 'You do so much enjoy it, don't you?'

'Enjoy what?'

'Finding out about people.'

That is my newspaper training,
chérie,
my nose for news.'
She
looked at me doubtfully, and I wished I had given a different answer. It has always been difficult for me to explain to her why certain doors are now closed to me. Reopening old wounds is senseless as well as painful.

She shrugged and went on with her dressing. 'Will you bring him to the Club?' 'I think so.'

I poured her a glass of wine and one for myself. She drank hers while she finished dressing and then went out. She patted my cheek as she went, but did not kiss me. The 'Papa' mood was over. 'One day,' I thought, 'she will go out and not come back.'

But I am never one to mope. If that happened, I decided, then good riddance to bad rubbish. I poured myself another glass of wine, smoked a cigarette and worked out a tactful way of finding out what sort of business Harper was in. I think I must have sensed that there was something not quite right about him.

At five to nine I found a parking place on Venizelos Avenue just round the corner from the Grande
Bretagne,
and went to let Harper know that I was waiting.

He carne
down after ten minutes and I took him round the corner to the car. I explained that it was difficult for private cars to park in front of the hotel He said, rather disagreeably I thought: Who cares?' I wondered if he had been drinking. Quite a lot of tourists who, in their own countries, are used to dining early in the evening start drinking
ouzo
to pass the time. By ten o'clock when most Athenians begin to think about dinner, the tourists are sometimes too tight to care what they say or do. Harper, however, was
aü
too sober. I soon found that out.

When we reached the car I opened the rear door for him to get in. ignoring me, he opened the other door and got into the front passenger seat. Very democratic. Only I happen to prefer my passengers in the back seat where I can keep my eye on them through the mirror. I went round and got into the driving seat.

‘Well, Arthur,' he asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’

'Dinner first, sir?'

 
‘How about some sea-food?'

'I’ll take you to the best, sir.'

I drove him out to the yacht harbour at Tourcolimano. One of the restaurants there gives me a good commission. The waterfront is really very picturesque, and he nodded approvingly as he looked around. Then I took him into the restaurant and introduced him to the cook. When he had chosen his food and a bottle of dry Patras wine he looked at me. 'You eaten yet, Arthur?'

'Oh, I will have something in the kitchen, sir.' That way my dinner would go on his bill without his knowing it, as well as my commission.

'You come and eat with me.'

‘It is not necessary, sir.'

‘Who said it was? I asked you to eat with me.’

‘Thank you, sir. I would like to.’ More democracy. We sat at a table on the terrace by the water's edge and he began to ask me about the yachts anchored in the harbour. Which were privately owned, which were for charter? What were charter rates like?