The nightclub beneath the restaurant was an even starker demonstration of a world Kite had only dreamed about or seen in Hollywood movies. Extraordinarily beautiful women were seated at tables with impeccably turned out French and Italian plutocrats treating them to flutes of champagne and bottles of Bandol rosé. Although nobody in the Bonnard group looked out of place in such an environment, Kite accepted that his button-down Gap shirt and scruffy denim jeans were the clothes of an impoverished interloper. It was Eskandarian, of all people, who seemed to sense his discomfort, approaching Kite at the bar and offering to buy him a drink while Abbas looked on.
‘I feel as amazed as you look, Lockie!’ he said. ‘Can you believe this club? In Tehran we do not have such places.’
Kite thought of Bijan’s words – If you were a young man living in Iran today, you would be forbidden to attend such parties – and tried to hide his disquiet. He could not square what Bijan had told him with the ebullient, liberal, westernised man now buying him a vodka and tonic in an exclusive Antibes nightclub. Surely if he was seen in this place – if Abbas, for example, reported him to whoever it was that policed the moral behaviour of Iran’s citizens back home – he would be denounced by Rafsanjani and the new regime? Or was it simply a case of rank hypocrisy, that Eskandarian was part of an elite who behaved as they pleased, creaming off the top of a corrupt society while millions of others existed in miserable poverty?
‘Are you enjoying your holiday, Lockie?’
It was hard to hear Eskandarian’s question over Grace Jones singing ‘La Vie En Rose’, but Kite nodded enthusiastically and said: ‘Yeah, oui, yeah’, telling himself that this was his first proper opportunity to make an impression on Eskandarian. ‘It’s my first time in Antibes. Yours? Luc said you’ve travelled quite a lot …’
‘You are right, Lockie. This is correct. I have travelled widely. I was living in France twelve years ago. I still get to go to a lot of places because of my work.’
Kite wanted to say, or if necessary shout: ‘What work exactly?’ but it was too direct. Instead he allowed Eskandarian to question him about his own background, describing life at the hotel and his mother’s career as a model in the 1960s.
‘And your father? What does he do?’
Eskandarian was standing with his back to the dance floor holding a glass of champagne. Kite was leaning against the bar with his vodka and tonic. He had no hesitation in using his father’s death to win Eskandarian’s sympathy and told him that he had died several years earlier. His words had an immediate impact on the Iranian, who placed a hand on Kite’s shoulder and offered his sincerest condolences.
‘I also lost my father some time ago,’ he said. ‘To the SAVAK, the shah’s secret police. But we will not talk of this now, not on this happier occasion. All that I will say is that you seem to be a very polite, very intelligent young man and that your father would be proud of you.’
Kite was buoyed by the compliment and felt his fondness for Eskandarian growing ever stronger, even as he made a mental note to tell Peele that the SAVAK had killed his father. I am not who you think I am, he thought. You shouldn’t trust me or compliment me. He was surprised to feel exhilarated, rather than ashamed of his own duplicity, and thanked Eskandarian for his kind words.
‘So you don’t go dancing in Tehran?’ he asked.
The Iranian cast his eyes out onto the packed dance floor. Jacqui and Hana were standing opposite one another, drunkenly miming the playing of trumpets at the start of ‘Sledgehammer’.
‘It is a religious society,’ he replied, turning back to face Kite. ‘Or rather, I should say it has become a religious society. The government does not tolerate western music like this, however much some of us may enjoy it.’
Eskandarian conveyed with an expression of wry amusement that he counted himself among this group of people. Out of the corner of his eye, Kite saw Xavier sidling onto the dance floor.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, shouting over the song.
‘Let’s discuss it another time,’ Eskandarian replied, placing the same hand on the same part of Kite’s shoulder. Kite was worried that he was being brushed off. ‘These things are too complicated for nightclubs. Isn’t this the Peter Gabriel song with the famous video? On MTV?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he replied, intrigued that Eskandarian should know such a thing. ‘Brilliant video. So are you going to dance?’
Eskandarian shook his head, stepped across Kite and tried to attract the barman’s attention. As he did so, Kite saw to his horror that Xavier had put his arm around Hana’s waist and was pulling her close. They looked sensational together: the handsome young man in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, the beautiful Vietnamese woman moving sinuously beside him. Kite could lip-read both of them singing ‘I wanna be your sledgehammer’ and noted the delight
