Packer took off his anorak and sweater, finished drying his face and hair, put on a clean shirt and the linen jacket which Sarah had bought for him a year ago, and went down again to look for her.
The tearoom, restaurant, and downstairs bar were even noisier and more crowded than before: the girls lean and tanned, with small hips and strong good legs, well exhibited in their uniforms of skin-tight stretch-pants; the men confident and well nourished, of no determinate age or nationality, but sharing an easy camaraderie — the hallmark of that society circuit that embraces the playboy pens of the Western world. Packer eyed them with weary contempt, relieved that he was not one of them, yet resentful that they did not seek him out for membership.
In the bar he bumped into a handsome man who splashed whisky over his sleeve. The man laughed and Packer clenched his fist. Easy, he thought: this is neither the time nor place to start picking at that social chip on your shoulder. He found the bar, and after using his elbows with some agility, managed to get a glass of mineral water. It was several more minutes before he saw Sarah.
She was squeezed up against the wall in a corner, her scarlet lips parted in their practised smile; her dark hair arranged with raffish abandon; wearing a wide-sleeved Peruvian peasant shirt, loosely knotted emerald-green cravat, and white bell-bottomed trousers that skilfully made the best of her hips while concealing her ankles, which were her least lovely feature. She had an almost empty glass of white wine in her hand.
The man she was talking to had his back to Packer. He was very tall, and his face, which was bent down almost at right angles as he talked to her, was hidden under an immense sealskin hat with the wide brim turned down over his ears. The rest of his long body was sheathed in a suit of brownish-grey sharkskin, over a pleated white shirt, unbuttoned to the navel and revealing, on his hairless olive chest, a chain with a gold Star of David. Despite the concealed nightclub lighting, he was wearing dark glasses. It was a few seconds before Packer realized that it was Ryderbeit.
The Rhodesian had been talking eagerly to Sarah. When he saw Packer his expression behind the dark glasses was mute; he did not smile, just nodded. ‘Evening, soldier-boy. You don’t have to make the introductions — we already done it ourselves.’
Sarah had turned, and it seemed to Packer that her smile became slightly insecure, like a window coming loose at the hinges. ‘Hallo. You know each other then?’ She sounded uncertain of her ground.
Ryderbeit was drinking a white spirit, but he showed no trace of drunkenness. He bent his face back over Sarah and said, ‘I was just telling Miss Laval-Smith about the most beautiful and dangerous creature in the world —’ the fingers of his left hand traced a quick slithering movement through the air, and Sarah gave an exaggerated shudder — ‘our old friend, the green mamba. I knew a bastard once who ran over one on a motorbike, and the thing came after him and caught up with him, and they both presented themselves to the Great Reaper a few minutes later.’
‘Horrible!’ Sarah said brightly. ‘At home we get lots of adders in the summer, but I can’t even stand grass snakes. They give me the creeps.’
Ryderbeit lifted his head and cackled. ‘Penis envy, my darling!’ He stood leering down at her, while she smiled back, with artificial amusement. Then she turned to Packer. ‘Your friend here has been telling me some really dreadful things. All about people having their livers eaten while they were still alive.’
Ryderbeit swallowed his drink and handed Packer the empty glass. ‘Be a friend and get me another, soldier. Kirschwasser. A nice big one with a lot of nothing.’
‘Get your own,’ Packer growled.
Sarah gave him a quick frown, then smiled and handed him her own glass too. ‘I’d like some more wine, Owen. Chablis, please.’
Ryderbeit rocked back on his heels and showed his small canine teeth. ‘Good on you, soldier. See you in about a month’s time.’
Packer paused dramatically; then took both their glasses and began to shoulder his way back towards the bar. When he returned five minutes later, Ryderbeit was alone, leaning against the wall and staring at the floor.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Packer said, with morose triumph. ‘That old Red Sea Pedestrian charm failed you at the last minute, and she’s gone off with a skiing instructor?’
Ryderbeit reached for his fresh glass, emptied it in a gulp, then stood shaking his head. ‘Holy Moses, boy! I don’t say she’s my type, but I could sure sink the sausage there! I bet she performs like a can of worms with an outboard motor.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
Ryderbeit shook his head again. ‘Big bald sod with a couple of plums in his mouth came over and called her “darling”, and she called him “DJ”, which appears to be short for D’Arcy-James. D'Arcy-bloody-James!’ he repeated in a shrill moan; then looked at Packer with a pitying smile. ‘As I said, soldier, I’ve been round the track with three lovelies like your Sarah, and I’ll tell you something for nothing. They’re all hard, fully paid-up professional bitches. Leave them to the D’Arcy-Jameses of this world, and all the other Hooray-Henrys!’
Packer bowed. ‘I’m deeply indebted to you for your sentiments, Samuel. Let’s get on to
