Paid and Loving Eyes

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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There was a lunatic survey not long since. I read it in Doc Lancaster’s waiting room midst ponging infants and wheezing geriatrics. Two things Make the Heart Sink, the magazine shrieked, “Parting After Sex” and “Meeting Somebody You Want to Avoid”. Well I’m sure the first is wrong; parting after sex is a pretty good idea. But the second is dead on. Bingo-time.

I entered this little nooky room above the cafe. The Heart Sank as I recognized the bloke seated at a polished table. That is to say, I’d never clapped eyes on him before in my life, but I recognized him all right. He was Superior Officer, fresh from military command of the most exacting kind. I hated him instantly, his ideals, his purity of vision. Nothing wrong with being a soldier, but there’s one sort that chills the blood. They have the light of eagles in their eyes, and smell cannonfire sipping yoghurt with the bishop. They are patriotic, loyal, unyielding. They cost lives—hundreds, thousands of lives. And I’d only one—none to spare for the likes of him.

“This is Lovejoy, Monsieur.”

Troude was pleasant as ever—in fact, I instantly saw Troude in a kindlier light. Beside Monique’s lacquered delectable hardness and the colonel’s crew-cut ramrod stiffness, Troude was almost pally.

“Monsieur Marimee will control the process,” Monique said, ex cathedra.

Marimee fixed me with a gimlet eye. Clean-shaven, steel-grey hair, slightly sallow, lean as a whippet, he looked ready to jump from the plane at a cool eight thousand feet. Odd, but the table—a humdrum modern folding job straight from the nosh bar below —instantly took on a desperate polishy appearance, like it was on parade. It’s the effect these blokes have. Of course he had a file. He opened it, threatening me with his eyeballs.

“You are a criminal.” The English was a bit slidey, but clear with meaning.

“Not much of one.”

“You are an ineffectual criminal.” He flipped a page, gave it no glance. I was getting the treatment. Authority ruled; his, nobody else’s. My silence riled him. He rapped, “Answer!”

“The question…?” I wanted to obey in the meekest manner possible, do his job and exit smiling. Not much to ask.

Stupid to needle him but I couldn’t help it. He appraised me from under eyebrows borrowed off an albino beetle. Troude fidgeted. He wanted us all to go forward in harmony. Monique was impatient with the entire world. Some women give the impression that an execution is the only way out.

“Insubordination will not be permitted, Lovejoy.” He got the name right, so his English was wellnigh perfect. “This project requires absolute compliance. No discretion is permitted.”

He’d nearly said or else. I slipped it in to complete his meaning. Or else he’d shoot me? Then they’d lack a divvy, and they needed one.

“Very well.” And I added, “Sir.” I saw he said it inwardly with me, satisfaction easing his stalwart frame for a second. His military mind wanted only to talk to chalk, like a superannuated teacher. “What project?”

“Recovery of items from a location to be specified.”

“Very well.” The scent of fraud trickled in about here, ponging the nostrils. For recovery read robbery. “Sir.”

“You are not curious about the items? The location?”

“I know you will inform me when the time comes, sir.”

His eye glinted. “You have served?”

“In an army? Once. I was a famous coward. And ineffectual.”

No curled lip, but he hated the levity. “Ineffectual criminal and soldier!”

Troude’s sudden agitation warned me not to reply that maybe the two occupations shared lifestyles. I swallowed it.

“Is it the Commandant’s wish for me to leave the project?”

Monique started. Troude almost fainted. Marimee found himself in a quandary. Gratified at the title, narked by having to admit I was valuable, he found refuge in an order.

“You will continue until the mission is completed.”

His project had become a mission in half a breath. I sighed. My famous instinct was yowling for me to get the hell out, run like a hare, swim back across the Channel. Cissie was dying in the hospital, believing in my promise.

“Very well, Commandant.”

“There will be two phases. The first will be in Paris and possibly London. The second will take place in a certain location to be notified. Time-scale: immediate, and within three weeks respectively.” He leaned back. The room relaxed slightly. He looked at me hard, hands behind his head. Immediate did not mean instant, it seemed. “Questions are permitted.”

“I work alone?”

“No. You will have two assistants in Phase One. Phase Two is not for your ears until One is accomplished.”

“I will receive enough, ah, tools to carry it out?”

“Planning has been exemplary for both phases.” He shot to his feet, abruptly showing a non-punitive emotion for the first time. Troude looked wary, Monique irritated at some coming digression. I shrugged mentally. Okay, so I was not to query the perfection of his military mind. I’d not argue.

“Your nation, Lovejoy, is despicable!” he shouted.

Eh? Another mental shrug got me through that, but he was boss and implacable threats lay thick all about. I know when to bend with the gale. Marimee marched to the window, clear eyes seeking snipers out there on some distant hill. My whole nation! Maybe France’d just lost to us at cricket, whatever.

“Your tabloids speak of losing your empire, as if it was mislaid on your London buses! The truth?” He swivelled, fixed me, swivelled back, an animaloid gun turret. “The truth is you gave it away! You proved spineless in the crunch!”

This sort of stuff bores me to tears. Who the hell cares? So obsessional historians score points off one another. It’s no big deal.

“Your immigrants retain their national identities, n’est-ce-pas? Each group as distinctive as they were in Hong Kong, Kenya, India. Like,” he sneered without showing whether his lip was really curled or not, “the so-wonderful Americans.”

“I think it’s what they want to do,” I said lamely. He’d seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“It is behaviour without soul, Lovejoy! In France, we blend immigrants! They become French. We fight for principle! As we fight for our language. English is barbaric, a degraded hybrid! India alone claims six thousand of your ”English“ words. Your music is bastardized, assimilating Trinidadian…” I won’t give the rest, if that’s all right. It’s a real yawn. For God’s sake, I thought as my mind switched off his claptrap, if a tune’s nice, sing. If it’s not, don’t. It’s not exactly a proposition by Wittgenstein, for Christ’s sake.

His assault when it came frightened me off my chair. He leaned at me, yelling, “And you don’t care!”

“Er,” I said, returning. I’d almost shot out of the door. “Well, I know some folk do. There’s a lot of interest in ethnic dances and whatnot…”

“You surrender your national heritage!”

What the hell was he on about? I was here to shift some antique silver, and the nutter earaches me over reggae and steel bands? Troude caught my despair, shot Monique an appealing glance. She intervened. Her luscious mouth moved.

“Lovejoy. You will receive daily orders from the assistants of whom Monsieur Marimee spoke. Depart for Paris immediately.”

“Very well.” Assistants who rule? If her mouth said so. I’d do anything for it.

Marimee controlled himself. His outburst done, he sat with fixed calm. I didn’t like this. Serenity’s not that sudden. It comes like a slow glow from a candle. His tranquillity burned up like an epidemic. Wrong, wrong. The bugger was barmy. “Immediately now or eventually now?”

She almost smiled, but didn’t. “Maintenant, Lovejoy.”

“Very well. Good day, Commandant.”

As I reached the door Marimee spoke with clipped precision. “I regret to inform you that Madame Anstruther died at twenty-three hours precisely.”

“Eh?” I halted. I didn’t know any Anstruthers. Except I did. Paul Anstruther. And of course Mrs. Cissie Anstruther. I looked back at them, hand on the knob. Waiting stupidly for some sort of qualification, perhaps. Like, well, Lovejoy, not quite as in dead dead.

Troude was looking at the threadbare carpet. Marimee’s eyes were opaque, done this a thousand times before along established lines, no need for any kind of display. Monique was looking at me curiously. Every time she stared it was as if I was seeing her for the very first time, a kaleidoscopic woman. This time’s look was quizzical: how will you react?

“Very well, mon commandant,” I said, and left. Useful old phrase, very well. Stands for a million different things. I’ve often found that.

When I got to the car park, Almira’s motor had gone, of course. And Troude, Marimee, Monique Delebarre, were already motoring away from the cafe into the thin traffic. I’d lost an ex-wife, my wealthy mistress, any means of transport, finance, and I was alone in a strange land. I felt a desperate need of two assistants, with orders. They were to be here immediatement, for Phase One had begun, according to Colonel Marimee.

They arrived about ten minutes later. Life went downhill, with variations.