Hand of God

18

Of course I’d never wanted Bekim Develi at the club. It had been Viktor’s idea to buy him from Dynamo St Petersburg. But Bekim had quickly impressed us all with his discipline and absolute commitment to the football club, not to mention his enormous technical ability. More importantly, he’d been lucky for us, which is to say he’d scored goals, more than a dozen goals in less than four months, important goals that had enabled us to finish fourth in the table behind Chelsea, Man City and Arsenal; if I had to single out one player who had helped us to qualify for Europe it would have been Bekim Develi. Yes, there had been times when I could have wished for him to be less outspoken but that was the red devil for you: mischief was hard-wired into his DNA. It was a part of him, like the red beard on his face.

Now that he was gone I wondered which of us — me or Viktor Sokolnikov — was going to telephone Bekim’s girlfriend, Alex, back in London and tell her the bad news. Vik had already spoken to her several times to assure her that everything that could be done was being done. The fact was Vik had known them both for longer than I had and, much to my relief, he volunteered to make the call himself. I’ll say one thing for our Ukrainian proprietor: he never shirked a difficult job.

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘she’s Russian and she ought to hear this terrible thing in her own language. Bad news is always less kind in translation.’ Vik shook his head. ‘Please, excuse me. Help yourself to a drink and make yourself comfortable. I may be a while.’

He went away and was gone for almost forty minutes.

We were on Vik’s yacht, The Lady Ruslana. His helicopter had flown me from the landing pad in front of the hotel onto the ship soon after my arrival back in Vouliagmeni from the Karaiskakis Stadium. He’d offered me dinner on-board, which I declined. I had no appetite for food although the same could not be said of his other guests on the yacht — Phil Hobday, Kojo Ironsi, flicking mosquitoes away with one of those African fly-whisks, Cooper Lybrand wearing an immaculate white linen suit that made him look like Gatsby, a couple of Greek businessmen who had lost their razors, and several pretty girls — who even now were loudly tucking in to dinner on the outside deck that would not have disgraced the table of a minor Roman emperor. Even close to the death of someone I was sure he had cared a lot about, Vik lived well; perhaps that’s the only way to be: with an eye not to the future, or the past but only on the present. Tempus fugit and all that.

The yacht’s red ensign flag at half-mast was a nice touch but I could have done without Kojo’s big, booming laugh; or the fireworks and lightshow on another yacht — bigger than the Vatican State and just as opulent — moored about a hundred metres away.

‘That’s Monsieur Croesus,’ said Vik when he came back to the stateroom where he’d left me, ‘Gustave Haak’s boat; the investor and arbitrageur,’ as if that was all the explanation needed for such a conspicuous middle finger to the cash-strapped Greeks who must have watched what was happening from the shore with something like astonishment. ‘It’s his birthday. Haak likes to enjoy his birthdays. Me, I prefer to forget them. There have been too many, and they come too often for my liking.’

‘How did she take it?’ I asked. ‘Alex?’

Vik sighed. ‘Stupid question.’

‘Sorry. Yes, it was.’

‘Actually, it so happens I’m very good at giving bad news. But then, as a Jew coming from Ukraine we’ve had generations of practice.’

‘I didn’t know you were Jewish, Viktor.’

‘So was Bekim. I don’t suppose you knew that either.’

‘No, I didn’t. Why didn’t I?’

‘Jews in football. This isn’t something to shout about like some stupid Haredi with a kolpik on his head. It’s like being gay: best kept quiet about in front of the great British public with its strong sense of sporting fair play.’

‘You got that right.’

He grimaced. ‘I’m worried about Alex. According to Bekim she’s suffering from post-natal depression. That’s normal, of course. But when I first got to know her she was addicted to cocaine. It’s at times like this that people — weaker people, such as her — reach for the wrong kind of help. I told her to leave all of the arrangements for Bekim’s funeral to me, but perhaps it would be better for her to be busy. You see, I know he wanted to be buried in Turkey, where he was born. In Izmir.’ He pointed at one of the windows. ‘Which is just across the Aegean Sea, in that direction. So it makes sense that I should do it. Don’t you think?’

‘Yes. And I, for one, am very glad you’re doing it. I’m not sure I can handle the Champions League and the local undertakers in the same day.’

‘Scott, really.’ Vik smiled and rubbed his beard. ‘You’re being a little melodramatic. What you do, you do very well, but honestly it’s nothing compared to what I have to do.’

‘No?’

‘No. You’re an intelligent man. But sometimes I wonder if you have the least idea of what it’s like to run a twelve-billion-pound business. The responsibility. The effort required. The number of things I have clamouring for my attention. I have thirty thousand people working for me. All you have to do is get eleven men to play football.’

I nodded silently. I already felt sad but now I felt small, too.

On The Lady Ruslana Vik was the master in a way he never was on land; he only had to nod to make things happen around him. The crew of the boat wore orange polo shirts and shorts and were so young they looked like a high school gym class in Australia, which was where they were from, mostly; once or twice I thought he’d nodded at me only to discover that he’d ordered himself a drink, or a snack, or sent some flowers to Alex, or summoned the launch that would take me back to the hotel.

‘I’d forgotten that helicopters make you nervous, Scott,’ he explained.

‘I don’t think I ever mentioned it, did I?’

He shrugged. ‘A man doesn’t have to say anything at all for him to be just as eloquent as Hamlet,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, his body says everything for him. Besides, I think you’ve had more than enough stress for one day, my friend. I know I have. So then. Take the launch. Go back to the hotel. Eat something. Try to get a good night’s sleep. And like I said before, leave everything other than tomorrow’s football match in my hands. But before you do all that, forgive me please. I’m sorry I put you down like that earlier. I made you feel insignificant and unimportant and that really wasn’t necessary. My apologies.’

It was perhaps a modest demonstration of omniscience; all the same it was a touching one.

And then he embraced me warmly.

When I got back to the hotel I found the police waiting for me in the lobby; they explained that there would have to be a post-mortem and that for legal reasons Bekim Develi’s possessions could not be removed from his bungalow at the hotel, which was now closed until further notice.

‘It’s the coroner’s office,’ they explained. ‘When a man of just twenty-nine drops down dead there are procedures that must be observed.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

It looked as though any funeral plans that Viktor Sokolnikov might have had for Bekim Develi to be buried in his home town of Izmir were now on hold.