Sometimes even Tim Gedye did not know when Warlove was joking.
“I meant his racial background,” he said.
“What’s that then? Czech family, first or second generation American, I’d have guessed.”
“We don’t guess. Not Czech. Those cheekbones and that nose are not, as you might imagine, Slavic. The family name is, or was, Kafala. Or perhaps it wasn’t.”
“You chaps may not guess but you don’t mind speaking in riddles,” said Warlove.
“Sorry. His background is Arab, not European. In Islam kafala means something like sponsorship or providing support and sustenance, the latter quite literally as it comes from a root word meaning to feed. Kafala is their form of looking after homeless, abandoned or orphaned kids. It bears some superficial resemblances to Western adoption, but there are significant differences. In kafala the child acquires no automatic inheritance rights, and it has to retain its own family name. You may treat the child as a member of your family and you may even love it like a member of your family, but it is strictly forbidden that you should ever try to fool people into thinking that he or she is in fact a member of your family.”
“Fascinating,” yawned Warlove. “And no doubt, ultimately, relevant.”
“Indeed. It seems that sometime in the twenties, Kafka’s grandfather was discovered wandering around the shed on Ellis Island, age five or six, unaccompanied and unaccounted for. Whether his name was Kafala or something like it, or whether he got called Kafala because he was taken care of under the system, is impossible to say at this remove.”
“And the change to Kafka?”
“That came after the war. Tony’s father was drafted in 1943. Good record, got wounded, mentioned in despatches, fitted in well. But when he came out, he quickly realized that not even a Purple Heart stopped a dark- skinned fellow called Kafala from being relegated to the bottom of the social pile. In the army a bit of bad handwriting on his records often resulted in his being called Kafka by mistake. It hadn’t seemed to matter all that much in the camaraderie that develops among fighting men, but back in civvy street a bit of experimentation probably quickly revealed that a suntanned Central European called Mal Kafka stood a lot higher up the heap than a brown Middle Eastern called Amal Kafala.”
“Our Tony’s basically Arab then? No wonder he’s been such a star out there.”
“Indeed. But like his father before him he has been totally converted to the American dream and, like most converts, he perhaps feels the need to make up in devotion what he lacks in background.”
“Needs to wave a bigger flag, eh? How about religion? Not Muslim, is he?”
“Not so we’ve noticed. But one thing seems clear from his history, especially with regard to his wife. He may have lost the name, and probably never had the religion, but the concept of kafala still plays a large part in his philosophy. Looking after homeless and parentless children. Excuse me.”
A slight agitation was visible to the left of Gedye’s breastbone.
“Not having a coronary, are you, old boy?” enquired Warlove.
Ignoring him, Gedye spoke into the air.
“Yes?”
He listened, frowning, and said, “How certain are you, Larry?… I see… That puts a different complexion on things… Question is, how did he know? Wasn’t there some detective…? Yes, check it out. But no action, not while there’s still a good chance Mrs Kafka’s friend can sit on things.”
Warlove looked round at the other diners. No one was paying any attention.
Marvellous thing, hands-free technology, he thought. While the Mastabators objected vehemently to phones ringing in the club rooms, the sight of a fellow diner apparently talking to himself was too commonplace to cause concern.
“More wine, Tim?” he said. “Not bother, I hope? Too old for bother.”
“A slight tremor along a thread. Coincidentally on our friend’s patch.”
“Oh dear. Do tell.”
Gedye told, concluding, “Fortunately I have one of my spiders handily placed to keep the vibrations under control. I’m more concerned about the degree to which our American friend could agitate the web by trying to abandon it.”
“Tony’s sound, I’m sure of it,” said Warlove, with the slight irritation of a man who doesn’t like bother. “And even if he wobbled, old Joe Proffitt would soon steady him up. He’s rock solid.”
“Perhaps. But he may soon have other things to occupy him. Post Enron, the Securities and Exchange Commission have issued their people with fine-tooth combs. A rumour has reached me that they have A-P in their sights.”
“They’ll need very sharp eyes to find any nits on Joe,” laughed Warlove.
“I wish I shared your confidence. They could move very soon. And I understand Proffitt has just ordered himself a luxury yacht with space on it for a golf driving range.”
“There we are then. Must feel safe as houses.”
“Hubristic, I think, is the term you’re looking for. Ah, here comes our nomad friend at last.”
“And so does the soup. Perfect timing as always, Tony. Everything all right?”
“Fine. My wife. Sorry.”
“The lovely Kay. You’re a lucky man. Do tuck in.”
Kafka dipped his spoon unenthusiastically into the gently steaming grey-green pond which had been set before him. True, the wine at the Mastaba was always excellent, but it needed to be. How anyone could call the food here good-or indeed call it food!-baffled him. But if you ate in a tomb, maybe you should expect your soup to be Stygian.
He glanced around the gloomy dining room. It was the size of a small cemetery. Most West End restaurateurs would have crowded a couple of hundred diners in such a space, but here there were no more than twenty discreetly spaced tables, only half of them occupied and most of those by solitary men. Probably resting actors, if his theory about the real nature of the place was right.
As always, soup was the signal for serious business to begin.
“By the way,” said Warlove. “Hear there was a little bit of bother up your way last night. Anything we should worry about?”
“Under control,” said Kafka indifferently. He’d been right when he guessed they’d know about it. They thought they knew everything. But if they thought they knew what he was thinking, they were wrong.
“Pleased to hear it. Now let’s talk turkey, as you chaps say. It’s the first day of spring, isn’t it? Time of the big clearance sales!”
“You reckon?” Kafka put his spoon down. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it might be a good idea to cool things for a while, in view of the current state of things.”
“The current state…?” said Warlove, faintly puzzled.
“The great war against terrorism, all that stuff-haven’t you noticed?”
“Indeed yes. And a splendid marketing opportunity it is, too. Do you have a problem you’re not sharing with us, Tony?”
“I’m just wondering in the circumstances whether it’s wise…” He took his spoon, raised a gill of soup to his lips, then spilled it back into his bowl untasted. Gedye was regarding him with that English look which, without being a sneer, somehow suggested a sneer was on the assembly line.
“Whether it’s right,” he concluded defiantly.
“Right?” said Warlove, enouncing the word with great care as though it were foreign. “In what context would that be?”
“In the context of right and wrong,” said Kafka. “Is there some other fucking context I don’t know about?”
Warlove and Gedye exchanged glances.
“My dear boy,” said the stout man. “Normally I don’t do ethical debate over lunch, even though I did carry off the prize for Religious Knowledge three years in a row at school. But what I will say is we know we are right because we know they are wrong. Right? And because they are wrong, every last damn one of them, we either have to trade with none of them or with all of them. We choose all of them because our masters tip us the wink that, if they didn’t move in polite circles like the UN, they’d choose all of them too. No harm done because everybody’s treated the same. What could be fairer? Now, let’s talk plans. Know what I was thinking the other day?
