‘No.’
‘Very well.’ He looked at Paulet. ‘I am staying at the Bernini-Bristol. Come there at three this afternoon with your account and I will give you a cheque on my Paris bank.’
He picked up his hat, dished out two brief nods, and left.
I looked at Paulet. ‘You expected this?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s happened. I’m sorry. I’ve enjoyed your company.’
‘You would not care to hire me as an assistant?’
‘No thanks. My client wouldn’t wear it and I can’t afford it. Anyway, it’s now the hour of cowdust in the eyes. Let’s go down to the bar and have a couple of double Rajputs.’
He gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing.
I stopped at the desk and asked them to try and get me a late afternoon booking on a plane to Tripoli. Paulet and I then had our drinks and he was a very subdued man.
‘Always,’ he said, ‘when I begin to enjoy myself, or meet someone interesting, bam!—the guillotine comes down.’
‘Stick a 10 percent surcharge on your bill for loss of expectations.’ I skipped lunch and went along to the British Council library. It was no surprise to me to find in the article on Indian and Sinhalese Art and Archaeology in Volume 12—HYDROZ to JEREM—of the Encyclopaedia Britannica a full-page reproduction of ‘The Hour of Cowdust’. Well, well, even in the most careful of us there’s always a point of laxness. But what, I asked myself, was it all in aid of? It wasn’t the first time in my life the question had arisen and I knew that if I didn’t come up with an answer then time eventually would reveal it—probably with unpleasant consequences.
The hotel desk had got me a reservation on the half-past-four plane to Tripoli. I said goodbye to Paulet and made the Leonardo da Vinci Airport by taxi with ten minutes to spare.
There were not many people on the plane so there were plenty of spare seats. I sat down on the port side close to one of the wings and we took off out over the Mediterranean heading for Sicily, Malta and then Tripoli. I settled back with a Pan book and promised myself that in an hour’s time I would have a large whisky and soda. Just before the hour was up I began to get that feeling that someone was watching and taking an interest in me. It’s a sense that becomes highly developed in my trade, like the sense of hearing in a good mechanic who notices at once from the note of an engine when it goes slightly off tune. I glanced across the gangway. A fat number in a mohair suit and a red fez, brown as a coffee bean, was sleeping happily. I turned to take in the seat behind me.
La Piroletta had the outside berth. The inner one held her handbag and a bunch of newspapers and magazines. She was dressed exactly as she had been in the Florence flat—except that she was not wearing the python bracelet. And she was looking at me thoughtfully. Whatever expression she had on her face suited me. It was the kind of face that could make more than the most of any expression and still be beautiful. I gave her a smile and a nod. She just remained thoughtful then she gave me the faintest of nods and there was a tiny movement of her mouth which wouldn’t have needed much more to make it a smile. Anyway, it was enough for me.
I got up and went back to her.
I said, T was just thinking of having a drink. Would you care to join me?’ At the same time I handed her one of my cards.
She looked at it and then with a nice, flowing, graceful movement got up and moved to the inner berth. If you think that’s easy to do, gracefully and flowingly in an aircraft seat, you can never have tried it.
I sat down and asked her what she would like to drink.
‘Gin and tonic.’
I caught the stewardess’s eyes and gave her order and while I did I was sorting out two problems. One, the line I was going to take; and, two, this business of coincidence in life. I don’t have any great faith in coincidences—though I’ll admit they happen more often than most people think. But with me, so far as business was concerned, coincidences generally turned out not to be. I decided not to lay any bets either way on this one. As for the line I was to take, I thought it might make a nice change to be reasonably honest and straightforward. After all, one mustn’t get stuck in one routine all the time.
I said, ‘You’re going to Tripoli or further?’
‘Tripoli.’
‘So am I.’
‘Where do you stay?’
‘I don’t know until I get there. A friend is booking a hotel for me. And you?’
‘The Uaddan.’
‘I’ve begun to wonder what that name means.’ I hadn’t because I didn’t care, but I wanted to keep the preliminaries on a drink-chat level so that she would not feel rushed.
‘It is,’ she said, ‘the Arab name for some kind of mountain goat or deer. Something like an ibex, I think.’
The drinks came. I lit a cigarette for her. She sipped her gin and tonic and there was an unembarrassed pause in the talk while we both decided the next move in the game. Daintily she picked the slice of lemon out of her drink and sucked it. That, too, she did gracefully, and with a nice little wrinkle of her nose at the citric sharpness.
I said, ‘I gather you haven’t a very high opinion of your father?’ She considered this, then nodded.
‘Why not?’
Without hesitation, and there seemed to be
