you what you do. In the morning, you pack an overnight bag and come here by cab or streetcar. Be downstairs at ten.”
“Where do I pick up the car?”
“I’ll show you in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.”
He unbolted the door. “Good deal. Now take your junk and beat it. I have to get some sleep.”
I put my belongings back in my pockets and went to the door.
“Hey!”
As I turned, something hit me in the chest and then fell at my feet.
“You’ve forgotten your pass key,” he said.
I picked it up and left. I didn’t say good night or anything. He didn’t notice. He was finishing his drink.
The worst thing at school was being caned. There was a ritual about it. The master who had lost his temper with you would stop ranting, or, if it was one of the quiet ones, stop clenching his teeth, and say: “Take a note to the Headmaster.” That meant you were for it. The note was always the same, Request permission to punish, followed by his initials; but he would always fold it twice before he gave it to you. You were not supposed to read it. I don’t know why; perhaps because they didn’t like having to ask for permission.
Well, then you had to go and find The Bristle. Sometimes, of course, he would be in his study; but more often he would be taking the sixth form in trigonometry or Latin. That meant you had to go in and stand there until he decided to notice you. You would have to wait five or ten minutes sometimes; it depended on the mood he was in. He was a tall, thick man with a lot of black hair on the backs of his hands, and a purple face. He spoke very fast while he was teaching, and after a while little flecks of white stuff would gather at the corners of his mouth. When he was in a good mood, he would break off almost as soon as you came in and start making jokes. “Ah, the good Simpson, or perhaps we should say the insufficiently good Simpson, what can we do for you?” Whatever he said, the sixth form always rocked with laughter, because the more they laughed, the longer he would go on wasting time. “And how have you transgressed, Simpson, how have you transgressed? Please tell us.” You always had to say what you’d done or not done-bad homework, lying, flicking ink pellets-and you had to be truthful, in case he asked the master later. When he had made some more jokes, he initialed the note and you went. Before that Enchantment business I think he rather liked me, because I pretended not to be able to help laughing at his jokes even though I was going to be caned. When he was in a bad mood he used to call you “sir,” which I always thought a bit stupid. “Well, sir, what is this for? Cribbing under the desk? A pauper spirit, sir, a pauper spirit! Work, for the night cometh! Now get out and stop wasting my time.”
When you returned to the form room you gave the master the initialed note. Then, he took his gown off, so that his arms were free, and got the cane out of his desk. The canes were all the same, about thirty inches long and quite thick. Some masters would take you outside into the coat lobby to do it, but others would do it in front of the form. You had to bend down and touch your toes and then he would hit you as hard as he could, as if he were trying to break the cane. It felt like a hot iron across your backside, and if he happened to hit twice in exactly the same place, like a heavy club with spikes on it. The great thing was not to cry or make a fuss. I remember a boy once who wet himself after it and had to be sent home; and there was another one who came back into the room and threw up, so that the master had to send for the school porter to clean up the mess. (They always sent for the porter when a boy threw up, and he always said the same thing when he came in with his bucket and mop-“Is this all?”-as if he were disappointed it wasn’t blood.) Most boys, though, when they were caned, just got very red in the face and tried to walk back to their places as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t pride; it was the only way to get any sympathy. When a boy cried you didn’t feel sorry for him, merely embarrassed because he was so sorry for himself, and resentful because the master would feel that he had done something effective. One of the most valuable things I learned at Coram’s was how to hate; and it was the cane that taught me. I never forgot and never began to forgive a caning until I had somehow evened the score with the master who had given it to me. If he were married, I would write an anonymous letter to his wife saying that he was a sodomite and that he had been trying to interfere with young boys. If he were a bachelor, I would send it as a warning to one of the other boys’ parents. Mostly I never heard what happened, of course; but on at least two occasions I heard that the parents had questioned their boys and then forwarded my letters to The Bristle. I never told anyone, because I did not want the others copying my idea; and as I was very good at disguising my writing, the masters never knew for certain who had done it. Just as long as they had a suspicion they could not prove, I was satisfied. It meant that they knew I could hit back, that I was a good friend but a bad enemy.
My attitude to Harper was the same. He had given me a “caning”; but instead of wallowing in self-pity, as any other man in my position might have done, I began to think of ways in which I could hit back.
Obviously, there was nothing much I could do while he had that “confession”; but I knew one thing-he was a crook. I didn’t know yet what kind of a crook-although I had some ideas-but I would find out for certain sooner or later. Then, when it was safe to do so, I would expose him to the police.
Nicki was in bed when I got back to the flat. I had hoped that she would be asleep, because one side of my face was very red where he had hit me and I didn’t want to have to do any explaining; but she had the light on and was reading some French fashion magazine.
“Hullo, papa,” she said.
I said hullo back and went to the bathroom to get rid of the handkerchief with all the blood on it. Then I went in and began to get undressed.
“You didn’t stay long at the Club,” she said.
“He wanted to go on to Irma’s.”
She did not like that, of course. “Did you find out any more about him?”
“He is a businessman-accounting machines, I think. He has a friend who owns a Lincoln. He wants me to drive it to Istanbul for him. I start tomorrow. He’s paying quite well-a hundred dollars American.”
She sat up at that. “That’s very good, isn’t it?” And then, inevitably, she saw my face. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I had a bit of an accident. Some fool in a Simca. I had to stop suddenly.”
“Did the police come?”
She had a tiresome habit of assuming that, just because I was once accused (falsely) of causing an accident through driving while drunk, every little traffic accident in which I am involved is going to result in my being prosecuted by the police.
“It wasn’t important,” I said. I turned away to hang up my suit.
“Will you be long away?” She sounded as if she had accepted the accident.
“Two or three days. I shall come back suddenly by air and surprise you with a lover.”
I thought that would amuse her, but she did not even smile. I got into bed beside her and she put the light out. After a few moments she said: “Why does a man like Mr. Harper want to go to a house?”
“Probably because he is impotent anywhere else.”
She was silent for a time. Then she put up a hand and touched my face.
“What really happened, papa?”
I considered telling her; but that would have meant admitting openly that I had lied about the accident, so I did not answer. After a while, she turned away from me and went to sleep.
She was still asleep, or pretending to be, when I left in the morning.
Harper kept me waiting ten minutes; just long enough for me to remember that I had forgotten to disconnect the battery on my car. It did not hold its charge very well anyway, and the electric clock would have run it down by the time I returned. I was wondering if I would have time to telephone Nicki and tell her to ask the concierge to disconnect the battery, when Harper came down.
“All set?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll get a cab.”
He told the driver to go to Stele Street out in the Piraeus.
As soon as we were on the way, he opened the briefcase and took out a large envelope. It had not been there the night before; of that I am certain. He gave it to me.
“There’s everything you’ll need there,” he said; “ carnet de tourisme for the car, insurance Green Card, a thousand Greek drachma, a hundred Turkish lira, and fifty American dollars for emergencies. The carnet has been
