From somewhere in the ceiling came the stereophonic PING PING! and the seductive purr of a girl’s voice: ‘Air France regrette d’annoncer qu’aucun depart est prévu pour Paris’. The words floated down among the lozenge lamps, past the cases of perfume and silks and over-priced Kabyle jewellery, to the dove-grey couches and parquet flooring packed with scared, crumpled people: women weeping and children spewing and shrieking, squatting nerve-racked and exhausted over the pitiful litter of refugees — bundles wrapped in newspaper, and prams and dolls and strapped-up trunks too heavy to carry.
Airhostesses, in trim tailored blue with sharply shelved hips, tapped across the floors carrying flight schedules. Only there were no flights. It was now 4.15 and no plane had left since the airport reopened shortly after midday.
As soon as the barricades had fallen, the flight of the Europeans had begun. There were now more than two thousand of them inside the airport; and another five thousand waited along the roads outside, where threads of barbed wire and columns of CRS troops guarded the queues of cars and crowds.
The Secret Army had broadcast an order that any European — man, woman or child — who tried to flee the country would be punished with death. The threat had now been extended to crews and ground staff who attempted to man a refugee flight. Shortly after one o’clock most of the airport staff had gone on strike; they had been followed by several of the Caravelle crews who came from France. Each plane was now being searched for bombs; crews, staff and airport officials were being questioned; and everywhere there was slow spreading chaos and panic.
Neil watched the Caravelles and thought of boiled sweets before take-off, hostesses smiling like nurses, frozen lunches, orange streetlamps down the Great West Road. In his pocket next to his passport he had a white card with the number 57. Pol had at least managed to do that much for him. No air tickets were being sold or accepted; instead, everyone who arrived at the airport was given a numbered card, against a list kept by the CRS. Only five hundred numbers had so far been issued, and the list was now closed. The lucky ones might be able to get away that night. Neil’s number guaranteed him a place on the first flight.
Mallory was explaining, almost inaudibly, his theory of expenses. As the day had drawn on his voice bad sunk from a croak to a whisper, punctuated by bursts of bronchial laughter that showed a few isolated teeth, like rusted nails at the back of his mouth.
‘Always stick to the small items,’ he was saying, in a low hiss, ‘confuse ’em with little things — thousands of ’em. They mount up. In Leopoldville I got away with “Five pounds, sending bananas to Congolese Parliamentarians”.’ He opened his mouth wide and laughed with a sound like toast being scraped, ‘Never try to make a big coup. I was chasing old Fuchs round the Antarctic. Bought myself a great fur coat — had to, I wasn’t going to freeze in a bloody sports jacket. Charged ’em almost what it cost — a hundred and fifty quid from Fortnum’s. I also went to town on the little items. You know, “hire of sleigh, hire of huskies, purchase of food to feed the huskies, fee for interpreter to give orders to the huskies, petrol for motorized sleigh when the huskies died”. Got most of it through, but the sods in the office wouldn’t pass the coat. Said the office never pays for reporters’ clothes. So they sent all the expense sheets back — exactly eight hundred and seventy-nine pounds six shillings’ worth, and I started all over again — sleighs, huskies, husky meat, interpreter’s fee, with purchase of radio transmitting equipment thrown in, adding a few quid to every item. Got it up to exactly eight hundred and seventy-nine pounds, six shillings.’ He paused, grinning vilely with his empty gums. ‘Then I put a little note at the bottom,’ he hissed, ‘I wrote: “Find the fur coat in this!”’
His laugh broke into a hacking cough which almost shook him off his stool. Neil stared into his glass. The ice had melted and the dull green liquid was tepid and bitter-sweet and his head was beginning to sing. Mallory had called over one of the airhostesses. She was a delicate-boned girl with ash-blonde hair in a neat helmet-cut. She paused by the bar, head turned, listening as Mallory hissed at her in his abominable French, ‘Any chance of a flight?’
‘What number do you have, please?’
‘Fifty-seven.’
She gave a contemptuous shrug: ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. The Secret Army say they’re going to blow up the planes if we try to take off. You’re not from here, are you?’
‘Journalists,’ said Mallory.
‘Ah, journalists!’ She nodded, looking suddenly fierce: ‘I’m not from here either, I live in Paris. I’m not getting mixed up in this mess. I want to get back alive!’
Mallory cackled at her and she walked away. ‘You see, old boy, she’s intelligent — she wants to get back to her nice civilized sex-life in Paris. She doesn’t want to get blown up. Pity to see a girl like that blown up, don’t you think?’
Neil nodded, focusing giddily. His Pernod glass had gently reproduced itself into two glasses, and there were two barmen and two dark faces with flaming hair. He squinted across the bar, watching the airhostess stepping down the shallow stairs, past the rows of refugees, babies on their backs screaming, the CRS prowling with guns at the hip — watching her slim legs and neat little haunches disappear behind one of the departure desks. Air France, TWA, El Al, BEA. Pictures of a beefeater in colour; Manhattan skyline at dusk, patterned with dominoes of light.
He thought, if I don’t get out of this place in the
