Veronique opened, let the door swing while she returned to the bed. Guy was sprawled out of his skull, warbling incomprehensibly. She was already naked, reeling. On the bedside table, a couple of tinfoils, spilled white powder, a tiny mirror, a syringe. A smarting pong filled the air. She was giggling as she tumbled spread-eagle over Guy, whose hands moved over her. I swallowed, backed out.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “
“Come back, Lovejoy!” Veronique carolled. They erupted in laughter as I meekly crept away. “I can handle two!”
Aye, I thought, shaken. I’d only gone to see if they’d mind if I went for a stroll. Druggies. I had two crazed junkies on my hands. The charming skyline of roofs, all colours and textures, was still there. It was coming dusk. I stood at my window to watch it. The distant roar of traffic reassured me that this aerial stillness was founded on the brisk bustling life of a stunning city below. Just my frigging luck, I thought bitterly. My exquisite assistants were zooming deranged through some stratosphere powered by illegal chemical toxins. The gentle “antique silver” job had become a major scam, with loony political overtones, and I was no longer a mere courier. I was the main player. Which told me what Colonel Marimee’s logic would be if the enterprise plunged to failure—I’d cop it. Guy and Veronique would blame me, of course. The pattern was already established by the Sweet episode. Marimee had promised me sanctions and penalties, all because that golden pair had been late. Hindsight, blindsight.
This scam had a bad odour. I needed a friendly face, the sort I was used to. The kind, in fact, I could depend on for absolute unreliability. I went for a walk on my own authority, to clear the cobwebs and mentally pick my way through a selection of friends back in East Anglia.
Paris has it. Really, honestly has it. Oh, I’d slowly become aware that France looks with a vague—sometimes not so vague—mistrust at its capital, same as Italians regard Rome. But she has a quality to life, and quality’s rare. And never cheap.
Bravely risking all, I had a coffee in a small nosh bar. The people chatted, smoked. The traffic snarled away outside. Lights were showing. Rain was coming on. You get a kind of osmosis in such places. Even before you know the layout, nostalgia seeps in and you start remembering things you never even knew, about streets, names of squares, statues and buildings. That you’ve never seen them before hardly matters. They stroll alive out of your subconscious. God knows how they got there in the first place, but that’s unimportant. It’s the way civilization is. It pervades, doesn’t need highlighting.
With some surprise, I noticed how mixed a folk the Parisians were. And the accents! Becoming attuned to cadence, I was now able to pick out some differences. And the garb! There seemed a number of North Africans about—or was I wrong, and they were older inhabitants than most? I definitely heard a snatch of Arabic. The serving lad sounded Greek, and two artisans covered in a fine dust were Italians. A cosmopolitan city.
Grinning like an ape—smiles are never wasted, when you’re a stranger in a strange land—I left, walked down to the corner. Greatly daring, I returned and walked to the other corner. Quite a large square, two trees barely managing, some seats, a couple of cafes. Starry Starry Night, with some minuscule motors occasionally racing through and vehicles parked in improbable spots. I stood a minute, rehearsing school words, then went for it and triumphantly bought some notepaper and envelopes. I was really narked that the serving lady served me without noticing my huge cultural achievement. I sat and scribbled a letter home. A wave of homesickness swamped me, but I stayed firm and finished it.
Then I went out, found a pay phone, painstakingly followed the directory-enquiries saga. The phones are quite good in France, unlike everywhere else except Big Am. I got through the trunk dialling in one, to my utter astonishment. Even phoning the next village is enough to dine out on in East Anglia, and here I was
“Hello? Can I speak to Jan Fotheringay, please?”
“Who is it?” The same bird, Lysette.
“Lovejoy. It’s very urgent. Hurry, please.”
“He’s resting.” God, she was on the defensive. I might have been… well, whoever.
“Listen, Lysette. I’m on Jan’s side. He knows that.”
By the time he came on I was frantic, seconds ticking away. “Jan? Lovejoy. Jan, if I ask for you to come to France, as translator, adviser, whatever, will you?”
“I’m still not mobile, Lovejoy.” He sounded worn out. Just when I needed the lazy self-pitying malingering sod. Aren’t folk selfish?
“Jan. It’s serious. You know it is, and getting worse by the hour. You won’t be allowed to survive. I won’t either. Mania stalks out here, mate.” I gave him a second, and yelled for a decision. The pillock, buggering about when I was… “Eh?”
“You’re right, Lovejoy. Where?”
The hotel, I told him, but he’d have to come immediately because I’d probably be there for only a day or two more. I’d leave some message if he didn’t quite make it in time. Like a fool, I babbled profuse thanks as the line cut. For God’s sake, I was trying to save him too, wasn’t I? I seethed indignation thinking about it.
My second call took longer, but fewer words. I said there was a letter in the post, containing my best guesses. “Positively no obligation,” I finished lamely, the salesman’s lying assurance. “Help me, pal.” I tried to limit the pause, but it went on and on until my voice got it together. “Please,” it managed. What a lousy rotten word that is.
Hoteltime. Maybe by now my golden pair would be unstoned. Did people say destoned, or is that what you do to plums? How long did junkies take to come down? I really needed Mercy Mallock, sort these sods out with her karate.
There are occasional non-French motors around in Paris. So I wasn’t at all concerned when a car bearing a striking resemblance to Gerald Sweet’s motor trundled out of the square as I moved away from the phone by the two trees. I mean, a car is a car, right? I was so definitely unconcerned that I made a long detour, just proving how casual I was.
Back in the hotel, I showed me and the world that Lovejoy was cool by peering down from the window at the passing cars for at least three hours before turning in. I didn’t switch the light off, because I’d not switched it on. Good heavens, can’t tourists tour? I’d known the Sweets were heading for Paris, hadn’t I? So they were here, exactly as expected. So what? God, but my mind’s ridiculous. Sometimes it gets on my nerves, bothering me hour after hour with inessentials. I didn’t sleep that night.
