He nodded again.
‘Here, I got you a present from the shop at the airport.’
‘What is it?’ He eyed the paper bag suspiciously and then held out his hand.
‘The book.’
He looked blank.
‘Russell Brand’s magnum opus.’ I took it out of the bag and handed it to him.
He stared at the cut-price Karl Marx on the cover almost as if he’d never seen him before.
‘The one you asked for?’ I said.
‘Oh, right. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll read it on the plane this evening, perhaps.’
He didn’t even open it; instead he just laid the book under the lounger on a bed of snotty tissues. It’s keeping the right company, I thought.
‘Which reminds me. The plane is going to be a little later than I said. We won’t be leaving until seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ I glanced at the Hublot on my wrist — a present from Viktor Sokolnikov. I shrugged. ‘I thought I could stay here with you until then. I’d already checked out of that hotel when I found out about the plane.’
‘Sure. Be my guest. Tell Charlotte to pick out a room.’
‘All right. Thanks.’
‘How long does it take? To fly from Pointe-à-Pitre to Barcelona?’ His voice was rusty with cold.
‘Eight or nine hours, probably. Which gives you even more time to recover from whatever it is that you’ve got. So that’s good.’
He grunted and stood up, almost as if he wanted to get away from me.
I followed Jérôme onto the lawn, collected the football still lying there under my instep, toed it into the air, dropped it onto my knee, bounced it a couple of times, let it fall onto the grass and gently kicked it to him.
Without much enthusiasm he trapped the football with his right foot, tapped it off the laces on his pink shoe six or seven times, flicked it up into the air, nodded it twice, headed it back to me, and then turned away. Game over.
He retreated indoors and for a while I left him alone; I wondered if he was upset about having to leave Guadeloupe in order to fly back to Spain to face the music. And I had to remind myself that I was dealing with someone who was a depressive; whose mood swings made him seem unpredictable, not to say a pain in the arse. So slapping him was not an option. Besides, he was more muscular than I had realised earlier; his upper body made him seem as muscular as Cristiano Ronaldo, who has probably the best physique in the game today. I don’t doubt that he could have hit me as hard as I could hit him; maybe harder.
A little later on I went into the kitchen where Charlotte was polishing marble work surfaces and generally avoiding my eye.
‘Our plans have changed a little,’ I explained. ‘We’re leaving first thing in the morning. So, I’m going to need a bed. For tonight. It’s just one night.’
She nodded. ‘Just pick yourself out a room, sir. All of the beds are made up.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
I went out and put my overnight bag in the spare room with the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, very like the one Dumas had at his apartment in Paris. Then I went back to the kitchen. I’d seen a Krups bean-to-cup coffee machine and was now intent of making myself a cup. I did, and it tasted delicious.
‘Is this coffee local?’ I asked Charlotte who was still there. ‘It’s fantastic. I noticed it last night after dinner. This stuff makes the coffee in the hotel taste like mud.’
She nodded. ‘That’s Bonifieur you’re drinking,’ she said. ‘It’s the local coffee here in Guadeloupe. Bonifieur is the ancestor of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, and very rare. Very expensive, too. That is, anywhere else except this island. Here, I’ll make you some more.’
‘Bonifieur,’ I said. ‘I never realised. I wonder if it’s too late to go and buy some beans.’
‘There’s no need, sir. I’ll give you a bag before you leave. We’ve got lots of it.’
Charlotte made a pot of coffee, put it on a tray with a cup and a jug of hot milk and I carried it through into the drawing room where I sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, hunted down a sports channel and started to watch some golf while I savoured what I was drinking. I loved watching golf more than I enjoyed playing it. I especially like those plush American courses like Augusta where even the fairways look like they’ve been upholstered with green velvet.
After a while I noticed Jérôme standing on the level above.
‘At last,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something I really like about Guadeloupe. The coffee. It’s Bonifieur. Fantastic. You want some? I’ll fetch a cup.’
‘I don’t like coffee very much,’ said Jérôme.
‘Me, I love it. Coffee’s my thing, you know? I mean, after football.’
‘I prefer fruit juice.’
‘You should watch that. A lot of fruit juice, it’s just sugar. People think it’s good for them and it’s not.’
‘Okay.’
‘You know, I think it’s really good the way you support people on this island. The local school’s football team. Grace told me that you even sent money to that hairdresser who was here earlier.’
Jérôme sneered. ‘Yeah, I’m a real saint, aren’t I? Everyone loves me. But I’m not such a great guy, you know. I can be difficult. A selfish prick, you know? In fact, there are times when I fucking hate myself.’
He was off his meds all right; his mood seemed to be the exact opposite of the one I’d seen last night.
‘I think we all get like that sometimes.’
‘Maybe.’
I finished the cup I was drinking and went up to join him on the upper level.
‘You and Gui must be great friends if he’s prepared to lend you this lovely house.’
‘He’s all right, I guess.’
‘You know him from Monaco, you said.’
‘Yes.
‘I don’t recall seeing him play. Is he good?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with his taste anyway.’
Jérôme shrugged moodily.
‘That Spanish teacher I was telling you about last night,’ I said. ‘The one who taught me? I found her address. I’ll text it to you.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I was thinking. You know what would really make them love you in Barcelona? If you took the trouble to learn just a few words of Catalan, for the press conference. I don’t speak much Catalan myself. But I can give you a few words. For example, you could say something like Estic encantat de ser aquí, and Tinc moltes ganes de jugar per al miller equip del món. You can learn it like a parrot. If you can say all that I just said then I swear they’ll think you’re the next Messi.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure. They love people who make an effort to speak a bit of Catalan. It’s important to them. Part of their national identity.’
Jérôme looked doubtful. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Manson.’
‘Scott. Call me Scott. I can see I caught you at a difficult time.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘You’re in a mood.’
‘I’ve a cold.’
‘No, it’s a little more than that.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Are you angry with me, Jérôme? Did Grace say something, perhaps?’
‘Like what?’
‘About me? About us?’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know.’ For her sake I thought it best not to mention that she and I had been intimate. ‘It’s just a pity she’s not here now. To help reassure you that everything is going to be all right.’
‘Look, I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all. I’ll be glad when all this is over.’