Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

55

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Saturday, 15 July 2006. 12:34 p.m.

‘A white Russian, please.’

‘You surprise me, Ms Otero. I imagined you would drink a Manhattan, something more trendy and post-modern,’ Raymond Kayn said, smiling. ‘Let me mix it myself. Thank you, Jacob.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ said Russell, who didn’t seem too happy about leaving the old man alone with Andrea.

‘Relax, Jacob. I’m not going to jump on Ms Otero. That is, unless she wants me to.’

Andrea realised she was blushing like a schoolgirl. As the billionaire made the drink, she took in her surroundings. Three minutes before, when Jacob Russell had come to the infirmary to get her, she’d been so nervous her hands were shaking. After a couple of hours spent correcting, polishing, then rewriting her questions, she had ripped out the five pages from her notebook, crushed them into a ball, and stuck them in a pocket. That man wasn’t normal and she wasn’t going to ask him the normal questions.

When she entered Kayn’s tent she had begun to doubt her decision. The tent was divided into two rooms. One was a kind of foyer in which Jacob Russell obviously worked. It contained a desk, a laptop, and, as Andrea had suspected, a shortwave radio.

So that’s how you keep in touch with the ship… I thought you wouldn’t be disconnected like the rest of us.

To the right, a thin curtain separated the foyer from Kayn’s room, proof of the symbiosis between the young assistant and the old man.

I wonder how far these two take their relationship? There’s something I don’t trust about our friend Russell, with his metrosexual attitude and his self- importance. I wonder if I should hint at something like that in the interview.

As she’d come through the curtain, she’d discerned a light aroma of sandalwood. A simple bed – But definitely more comfortable than the inflatable mattresses we’re sleeping on – took up one side of the room. A smaller version of the toilet/shower that the rest of the expedition used, a small desk without papers – and no visible computer – a small bar and two chairs completed the furniture. Everything was white. A pile of books as tall as Andrea was threatening to tip over if anyone came too close. She was attempting to read the titles when Kayn appeared and came straight over to greet her.

Up close he seemed taller than when Andrea had caught a glimpse of him on the rear deck of the Behemoth. Five feet, seven inches of shrivelled-up flesh, white hair, white clothes, bare feet. Still, the overall effect was oddly youthful, until you took a closer look at his eyes, two blue holes surrounded by bags and wrinkles that put his age back in perspective.

He didn’t extend his hand, leaving Andrea’s hanging in the air as he regarded her with a smile that was more of an apology. Jacob Russell had already warned her that under no circumstances should she try touching Kayn, but she wouldn’t have been true to herself if she hadn’t tried. In any case, it gave her a certain advantage. The billionaire obviously felt a bit self-conscious as he offered Andrea the cocktail. The reporter, true to her profession, wasn’t about to turn down a drink, no matter the time of day.

‘You can learn a great deal about a person by what they drink,’ Kayn said now, handing her the glass. He kept his fingers near the top, leaving Andrea plenty of room to take it without touching him.

‘Really? And what does a White Russian say about me?’ Andrea asked as she took a seat and had her first sip.

‘Let’s see… a sweet blend, plenty of vodka, coffee liqueur, cream. It tells me that you like to drink, that you can hold your liquor, that you’ve spent a while finding what you like, that you’re attentive to your surroundings, and that you’re demanding.’

‘Excellent,’ Andrea said, with some irony, her best defence when she was unsure of herself. ‘You know what? I’d say that you had me investigated beforehand and knew perfectly well what I like to drink. You don’t find a bottle of fresh cream in just any portable bar, let alone one that belongs to an agoraphobic billionaire who rarely has visitors, especially in the middle of the Jordanian desert, and who, from what I can see, drinks Scotch and water.’

‘Well, now I’m the one who’s surprised,’ said Kayn, his back to the reporter as he poured his own drink.

‘That’s as close to the truth as the difference in our bank balances, Mr Kayn.’

The billionaire turned to her, frowning, but did not reply.

‘I would say that this has been more of a test, and I gave you the answer you expected,’ Andrea went on. ‘Now, please tell me why you’re granting me this interview.’

Kayn took the other chair but avoided Andrea’s gaze.

‘It was part of our agreement.’

‘I think I’ve asked the wrong question. Why me?’

‘Ah, the curse of the g’vir, of the rich man. Everybody wants to know his hidden motives. Everyone supposes he has an agenda, even more so when he’s Jewish.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Young lady, I’m afraid you’ll have to decide which answer you want – the answer to that question, or all the others.’

Andrea bit her lower lip, angry at herself. The old bastard was sharper than he appeared.

He’s thrown me a challenge without even ruffling his feathers. OK, old man, I’ll follow your lead. I’m going to open my heart completely, swallow your story and when you least expect it I’ll find out exactly what I want to know, even if I have to yank out your tongue with my tweezers.

‘Why do you drink if you’re on medication?’ Andrea said, her voice intentionally aggressive.

‘I suppose you have deduced that I use medication because of my agoraphobia,’ answered Kayn. ‘Yes, I take medication for anxiety and no, I shouldn’t be drinking. I do it anyway. When my great-grandfather was eighty years old, my grandfather hated seeing him shiker. That’s drunk. Please interrupt me if there is a Yiddish word that you don’t understand, Miss Otero.’

‘Then I’m going to have to interrupt you a lot, because I don’t know any.’

‘As you wish. My great-grandfather drank and drank, and my grandfather used to say: “You should take it easy, tateh”. He always replied: “Go fuck yourself, I’m eighty years old and I’ll drink if I want to.” He died at the age of ninety-eight when a mule kicked him in the gut.’

Andrea laughed. Kayn’s voice had changed as he spoke of his ancestor, enlivening his anecdote like a born storyteller and using different voices.

‘You know a lot about your family. Were you close to your elders?’

‘No, my parents died during the Second World War. Even though they told me stories I don’t remember much because of the way we spent my first years. Almost everything I know about my family has been gathered from a variety of outside sources. Let’s just say that when I was finally able to do so, I combed all of Europe in search of my roots.’

‘Talk to me about those roots. Do you mind if I record our interview?’ Andrea asked, taking her digital recorder out of her pocket. It could hold thirty-five hours of top-quality voice recording.

‘Go ahead. This story begins one harsh winter in Vienna, with a Jewish couple walking towards a Nazi hospital…’