Paid and Loving Eyes

The night passed. No cars arrived, except one that seemed to be Monique’s. No passengers, no visitors.

Odd to think that Paul Anstruther had been Katta’s sex focus (sorry, no pun intended) all these years. How on earth had Cissie put up with her? Except I’d learned that Cissie adored Philippe Troude. I began to think about seeing Katta’s huge form writhing on the ecstatic Paul. God, but that would be bliss, some bird so vast you could hardly see over her. Would you want to?

But hadn’t her reaction been strange, that night I’d unexpectedly eavesdropped on them? When the car doors slammed, Katta’d been really terrified. She’d leapt off Paul, not pausing to wipe her mouth until she’d been reassured—by hearing Almira. Then, and only then, Katta had relaxed, paused to tease Paul by giving him that erotic moue. Question: Who’d she thought was coming? Answer: Somebody she was truly scared of.

If I had a permanent bird, I’d know the answer straight off. I knew I would. It’s as if a woman is your missing half. Happen I should get one, some day. Except it never works. I suppose in a way I’m like Dicko Chave, perennial failure. Except I nearly get enough, and Dicko simply lacks any. And settling down for good is impossible. I mean, what if you draw a Cissie? I knew the answer to that for sure.

Which raised the question why my mind kept coming back to her. Ambition unlimited, ferocity unleashed, anything for wealth, status. She’d married us—there seemed to’ve been no negotiations, just Cissie’s determination—because she aimed to harness my divvying skills and gross a trillion. She said as much. She stormed off because I was uncontrollable, and her scheme didn’t work.

My head jerked upright. I was stiff from leaning on the log sill. Mostly blackness out there. I occasionally tried standing up, stretching, swivelling like Olympic atheletes do after gulping their anabolic steroids before track events, but you get fed up with fitness so I sat down again. I sometimes looked at Pascal. He was a good watcher. I’d never met anybody quite like him before. Gallic equivalent of Lilian Sweet? If so, I’d seriously underestimated Lilian’s talent.

Once, in early daylight of next morning, I woke to find him passing me photographs. Two children, both girls, one smiling doubtfully in a small garden pool, the other standing on the bank throwing a scoop of water, laughing. What, eight and fourteen? Yours? I asked with a pointing finger. He nodded, smiling, asked did I carry any photos? I shook my head, pretending rue. He shrugged, stood again at the slit window staring through his binoculars. And that was that, entertainment for the day.

We had stewed tea and coffee from our row of thermos flasks. One every five hours, our ration. Cold sandwiches of cardboard material. Sausages, well congealed in thickening grease, sliced ham. Couldn’t Paris have raised its frigging culinary game? I wanted to demand, but caught Pascal’s shrug and made do, trying to prove that I too could be a stoic.

No snow, but pretty cold weather, especially at night. I guessed Pascal’s police’d not set up a rota. Rotas work well when sussing a possible place for a rip, until you actually need to replace the old watchers with fresh invigorated new. Then there’s trouble. If it isn’t a give-away from banging car doors, it’s obvious that something changes in the street’s pattern. I wasn’t too sure about things in the countryside, even though that’s where I live, but I knew the French had gamekeepers too. And those miserable sods can spot reeds misbehaving miles off.

Doing nothing’s really weird. How do Trappist monks manage? Though I suppose they’re allowed to read. Once, this bird actually hired me to do utter nothing. Honest, true. She was really flash, very chic. Wed, of course, she had a lad at boarding school, husband in mortgages. She truly hired me to just be there. And “there” was simply nearby wherever she was. She even introduced me to her husband, Who okayed the whole thing. For quite three days I thought I was a bodyguard, and went in fear of my life, scared stiff, until it dawned on me that I was mere decoration. I even asked Doc Lancaster if it might be one of those afraid-of-loneliness things. He sent me packing, the swine. Really odd. Can you imagine, a woman just wanting a bloke dancing attendance? They’re strange. I overheard her being teased by her posh friends, chinless wonders, about her “bit of rough”, meaning me. I was deeply narked. On the way home we made smiles, me like a gorilla, she thunderstruck that her figment had suddenly become bestially real. I resigned that night. You won’t believe this, but she thought a lifelong loveship had been sealed, whereas I’d thought I’d been punishing her. See how women insist on misunderstanding? Like Cissie, like Almira, like Jodie Danglass, like Lysette, like Lilian Sweet. They have the advantage of being underhanded. It’s not fair. We’ve got to be honest and upright. Women can do what they want. It should be the other way round.

“Sssss!”

“Ssss!” I went irritably back. Okay, so I might have muttered aloud. No need to go berserk. Pascal settled. He’d only given me one small set of binoculars, but collared four pairs for himself. He was forever stealthily changing lenses, looking for some bloody attachment or other, getting right on my nerves.

Lately, I’d been trying to get my teeth right. Toothpicks always seem one of civilization’s good ideas that never quite comes off, though the Romans used them. It doesn’t bother me that Juliet only had (honest) four teeth in her head when, aged fourteen, she romped with Romeo. So I’d acquired toothpicks. For something to do I started digging. The best teeth gadgets are those electric rotary brushes you charge up on the mains, but I always lose the little things that go round and round on the end… Pascal nudged me. I mouthed an irritable I’m awake, I’m awake! and roused blearily to more misery.

The day seemed to have turned itself inside out far more than twice when finally Pascal tapped my shoulder. Something happening. I hope I hadn’t snored. It was early afternoon. I looked out, fumbled for the binoculars. He pointed to my pair hanging round my neck. I peered, focused, got it blurred, tried again.

A big Merc. Whatever colour they paint them, a Merc always looks black. Ever noticed? Grandeur, I suppose. Even Hannover taxis look black, and most aren’t. A bonny girl, slender as an arrow, arriving down there with a bloke. Servant out to say hello, show them inside. The motor retired, pomp in every line. I ticked the air to Pascal. He nodded. I’d seen them at that party, or in the hotel meeting at that security room. He nodded okay, keep looking. Irritably I nodded back that I was, for God’s sake, don’t keep on.

They arrived faster, increasing numbers. I started a pattern of gestures. Thumbs up, yes I recognized the couple from Madagascar, the bloke who looked something artistic, the slightly plump woman with too-young dress sense, her besuited banker husband. The German moneybags who’d asked the wrong question of the Colonel in Zurich. Then Almira, her husband. Philippe Troude with—heart in my mouth—a popsie having difficulties in stilt-like high heels on the drive surface. Definitely not Jodie Danglass, multo definitely. But yes, she’d been at the party.

Then, astonishment showing me how astonishment should be really felt, Sandy, in splendiferous garb, gold cloak, what looked like electric Christmas-tree lights flickering along the rim, ostrich feathers in an absurd halo. He looked ridiculous. Still no Jodie Danglass. But Corse the roller, last seen abusing me and the rest of the known world at Josh Sparrow’s barn. I grunted with satisfaction.

Pascal was looking at me oddly. I smiled, indicated that all was going quite well. The numbers began to dwindle. Then ceased.