The man who had distracted him was introduced as Monsieur Charles Pol, from Paris — ‘Charles, Monsieur Hawn used to be one of our most distinguished journalists. Now he has fled to the groves of Academe — he has become a scholar, he writes books.’
‘Eh bien, enchanté, Monsieur!’
Charles Pol was one of the fattest men that Hawn had ever seen. Not just ordinarily fat, or even extraordinarily fat: he was a man of short but gargantuan proportions, like a living relic of the Michelin man — rolls of fat squeezed into an enormously outsize tropical suit, whose seams at the elbows were already breaking, his armpits displaying damp patches, although the bar was air-conditioned. As Hawn studied him, he was aware of a sweet cloying perfume that was certainly too vulgar for Anna — or Logan, for that matter.
The barman had arrived and Logan was busily ordering fresh drinks. They were all on tall Negronis, except Robak who nursed an orange juice. Hawn chose beer. He wanted to remain sober, at all costs. He also noticed that Anna’s colour was unusually high. She had a good head for drink, and he had rarely seen her the worse for it. He wondered if it was suppressed anger at the general company round her; or whether it was the uncertain tension of meeting up with him again in so public a fashion, in front of strangers. But it had been her choice, not his. He tried explaining about the traffic jam and why he was late, but she shrugged as though it didn’t matter. He could see that it was not going to be an easy evening.
He turned to Hamish Logan. ‘So what are you doing in Venice, Ham? Long dirty weekend under police guard?’
Only the Frenchman, Pol, smiled; and Hawn glanced at him, but the image, next to Anna’s neat profile, was both absurd and frightful.
Logan took a long pull at his drink. ‘Strictly business, my dear boy. Pre-emptive strike, so to speak — cleaning up before the shit hits the fan. Or, as in this case, the oil hits the beaches.’
‘It’s an absolute disgrace,’ Anna said. ‘And every time it happens, they get away with it. Somebody makes a packet, while the local people are left to clean up the mess.’ She glared at Logan: ‘Why don’t they make ABCO pay the bill, for God’s sake? They’re rich enough.’
‘Lloyds picks up the bill, my dear — they always do.’ He leant out and patted her hand, which she quickly withdrew. He seemed unabashed. ‘As for the ship — Greek charter, Liberian flag — can’t touch her.’
‘There’s not much to touch,’ Anna said angrily, ‘It’s broken in half!’
She sat there, next to one of the princes of PR and the fat French clown — she straight-haired, no make-up, in her loose brown dress that reached below her knees, like a monk’s habit without a hood, and well-worn block-heeled sandals. Hawn could not tell whether she was enjoying herself or not.
Logan turned to Hawn: ‘’Course it’s the most frightful bore. Twelve dead, as far as we know, and the whole coast awash with valuable oil. And I’m afraid a lot of people seem to be rather cross about it. Including your dear Anna here.’
‘You obviously think it’s rather a joke,’ she said. ‘A nice excuse for a few days in Venice, living it up at ABCO’s expense.’
‘Not a joke, my dear. Work.’
‘What work? Wining and dining a few corrupt Italian bigwigs — greasing the odd palm, and selling them all the soft-soap about ABCO’s great world role in keeping the wheels of industry moving, and how Italy can’t do without her, and how a few spoilt beaches really mustn’t be allowed to foul up the works.’ Her face, in profile to Hawn, had taken on a deeper flush.
Ham Logan chortled into his Negroni. It was clear that the others too were faintly entertained by Anna’s outburst. But she only increased Hawn’s discomfort by turning on him: ‘Well, haven’t you got anything to say?’
‘Oh, don’t be childish,’ he said, in a half-whisper. ‘You’re not going to change their morality overnight — let alone over a few drinks. You know what sort of people they are. And you accepted their hospitality, not me.’
As though sensing that the conversation had gone far enough in this line, they now turned to broader subjects. More drinks arrived, and the awful bogus bonhomie was spread more thick, with the exception of the American, Robak, who sat quietly aloof with his orange juice.
‘The Saudis are windy. Don’t blame them. After Iran, they’re bound to bump up the price this time.’
‘The Shah was a darned fool. He paid too much, to too many people, then was dumb enough to listen to them.’
‘The Americans behaved disgracefully.’
‘Carter, he is a catastrophe.’
‘The British are all washed up.’
‘Like the Italians.’
‘I’d like to see Tricky-Dicky back.’
‘Who’s going to guard the Gulf now? It’s up for grabs, and we don’t have to look far to see who’s going to grab it.’
‘The New Islam is pretty anti-foreign — which includes being anti-Russian.’
‘You think that worries the Russians?’
‘The Russians need oil. Always have. They’ve got plenty of it, but they can’t exploit it. They need the technology. They need us. I tell you, gentlemen, if anyone is going to act as the new policeman in the Gulf, it’s ABCO. The Soviets aren’t going to rock the boat.’
This last opinion came from Robak. Hawn, who had been only half listening, and was waiting for a convenient moment in which to extract Anna, now broke in, recklessly, as much to keep his end up with her as to make a serious contribution.
‘What about the Germans in the last war?’
‘So?
