‘You’ve got plenty?’
She looked at me, smiled and said, ‘I suppose we shall come presently to the point of all this, but for the moment, since I don’t actively dislike you and I like company when I’m flying to take my mind off the twenty thousand-odd feet below me, I don’t mind talking. Yes, I’m very well off. And I did it all myself. How’s your bank balance?’
‘Reasonable at the moment—which is a rare state of affairs.’
‘And you are going to Tripoli on business?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not, I hope, connected with my father?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because if you are you will either be cheated or lose your money.’
‘I’m not in any deal with your father. I’m looking for a man.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve been doing that for some time, but the quality isn’t what it used to be. I suppose it’s because they’re mass produced or something.’
‘If I can find time off work I might take you up on that. I’m one of the last custom-built models, real leather upholstery and at a hundred miles an hour all you can hear is the ticking of the clock. How much did you pay Martin Freeman for that gold python bracelet you were wearing yesterday?’
She took it without a flicker, shook the ice around in her glass, glanced out at the strato cirrus over which the setting sun was slapping gold and scarlet in action-painting frenzy, and then said, ‘In lire the equivalent of two thousand pounds.’
‘It’s been valued at five thousand.’
‘I got a bargain then.’
‘It was also stolen.’
No flicker again. ‘That’s his problem. Not mine.’ There was a touch of the father’s daughter there.
‘My client wants it back.’
‘Your client can have it for two thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘I’ll consult her.’
‘Her?’
‘Yes. His sister. He makes a habit of financing himself out of her collection.’
‘She’s wealthy?’
‘Very.’
‘The price has gone up to three thousand. Now ask the next question.’
‘Which is?’
‘Where did I get to know Martin Freeman and why did I buy it?’
‘Well—where did you and why did you?’
‘He once helped me with some publicity work in Rome. He’s a likeable layabout and the same kind of dreamer as my father. Maybe his brain is a bit bigger. I wanted to help him—in return for what he’d done for me years ago.’
‘You go for him?’
‘No. Even amongst the mass-produced goods he’s strictly a reject—with me, anyway.’
‘Somali mother, Italian father, you speak English almost too well.’
‘My mother was an octoroon. I’m a fast studier, an international cabaret star, and English, French and German are obligatory. I weigh a hundred and thirty, have a Greek passport, and a star-shaped mole on the inside of my left thigh. If you are custom-built I might show it to you sometime. As for the Greek passport, I thought I would like to be a member of one of the most illustrious civilizations of the past. By the way, I get most of my clothes at Courreges, don’t care for oysters much, but am inclined to make a pig of myself over pasta. I’d like another drink and suggest that from now on we just keep to this kind of small talk. Unless, of course, you want to tell me the story of your life?’
It was a sudden dismissal, and I wondered what had prompted it. However, I didn’t quarrel with it. Small talk suited me. The big fat facts of life often show for a brief, shy moment in small talk.
‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘As for the story of my life, I really think it began when you walked into the Piazza Santo Spirito flat. Stout Cortez and a peak in Darien and all that.’
‘You will have to do better than that. Why not order the drinks?’ I did and we talked. I had a feeling that I was doing better, but it was hard to tell. I didn’t doubt that she felt that she had my measure. And I didn’t doubt that I hadn’t anything like got hers—except that she knew how to handle herself and wasn’t going to let anyone else do it unless he passed muster. And nothing came out of the small talk, except the pleasure of making the time to Tripoli pass quickly and enjoyably.
As we parted in the beginning of the stampede into the customs sheds, under a dusky blue velvet sky lit with little yellow star sequins and a crescent moon to symbolize the Arab world, I said, ‘Some evening soon, perhaps, we might make pigs of ourselves over pasta and a bottle of Orvieto?’
‘Could be, but it would have to be Chianti Ruffino.’
With a smile she flowed ahead of me and I couldn’t help noticing that the customs boys fell over themselves to deal with her and get her through as. fast as possible.
I came out into a warm night that smelt of dry dust, burnt-up palm fronds, goats and exhaust fumes from the waiting taxis.
One of the taxis was under the charge of the faithful Wilkins. She was wearing a woolly cardigan, a tweed skirt, sensible shoes and a wide-brimmed straw hat so that she wouldn’t get burnt by the tropical moon. Just seeing her there gave me a warm feeling of belonging and nostalgia. She certainly wasn’t any Gloriana or La Piroletta, but she was my girl Friday, one in a million, and that’s what a man has got to have if he’s going to make a success of business and have his filing system kept in order.
*
It was half an hour’s drive in to Tripoli from the King Idris Airport. The Arab taxi-driver took it at top speed and with the radio wailing out snake-charm music at top volume. Now and again Wilkins and myself were thrown about as he deliberately just missed the
