They left the steak house a little wanner and a little closer, and walked further down the boulevard towards the Place Rogier where the towering Manhattan Centre of concrete and glass rose powerfully into the night sky. ‘You’re a strange, quiet sort of man,’ Sally said without looking at him, her eyes fixed high up on the Manhattan building on a large Martini neon.
‘Only when I’m strange and quiet,’ he replied.
She smiled wistfully. ‘You still want to get drunk?’
‘Not drunk. Gently... tipsy.’
‘We can go in here.’
The Manhattan was a small, classy café near the end of the Boulevard Adolphe Max, emulating the American bars of Thirties’ movies. A row of tall stools stood along a bar of polished mahogany, below a wooden canopy hung with beaten copper light shades. Small, round tables and chairs stood in clusters in little alcoves. The walls were panelled in the same polished mahogany and along behind the bar, stickers advertised Scotch, American beers and Stella Artois. It was almost empty, and they filled two empty stools along the row. A bored, neat waiter in black waistcoat and pants, white shirt and bow tie, who had been leaning against the end of the bar smoking a cigarette when they came in, snapped to attention and approached them crisply to take their order. They asked for whiskies which were brought in short glasses and placed on mats on the counter in front of them. Bannerman raised his glass. ‘Slainthe.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘It’s Scots for good health.’
She smiled. ‘Slainthe then.’ They took their first sips in silence and Bannerman took out a cigar. He peeled back the cellophane and trimmed the end carefully then lit it with a match, rolling the end until it was well lit and smoking the way he liked it. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing much to tell.’
He allowed the thick blue smoke to drift lazily out the corners of his mouth. ‘Now why do people always say that?’
‘Maybe because it’s true.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Everyone’s got a story to tell.’ He took another mouthful of whisky and allowed it to slip back easily over his tongue and down his throat so that it left a nice warm sensation in its wake. ‘The editor of a paper I worked for once always said that behind every window there’s a story. Same thing really.’
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why do reporters always ask questions?’
He grinned at her. ‘It’s their job.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. We’re a nosy breed.’
‘Only you seem quite different from Tim Slater or some of the other reporters I’ve met.’
‘That’s probably because I am.’
She tutted, partly with irritation, partly with amusement. ‘Why do you always have to be so clever?’
‘I don’t. I’m just enjoying breaking the ice on our relationship.’
‘Oh? Do we have a relationship?’
‘I don’t know yet. Maybe.’ He paused while he drew in smoke from his cigar. ‘So tell me something about yourself. We met during a scene, we’ve travelled together across half of Brussels, had a meal together, and all I know about you is that you’re English and you keep house for Slater — or do you?’
She sighed. ‘All right. Yes, I’m English, I’m thirty-two years old and unmarried — and that’s not an invitation. I’ve lived in Brussels for two years and teach English at a private college three days a week. On the other days I keep house for Mr. Slater and take Tania to and from her special school. I look after her on Sundays and sometimes babysit in the evenings when he goes out with his fancy woman. Is that enough, or would you like my life story from day one?’
Bannerman smiled. ‘Quite talkative when you like. Why do you need to work for Slater when you’ve already got a job?’
‘Because I don’t make enough from teaching alone. Brussels is an expensive place to live.’
He paused, then asked, ‘So what’s an attractive young lady like you doing living alone in a place like this?’
‘None of your damned business.’
Her sudden sharpness surprised him. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was an uneasy silence for some moments, then, ‘Tell me about Slater’s fancy woman.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m asking.’ He drained his glass and saw that Sally’s was empty too and he signalled the ever watchful waiter and ordered them another two glasses.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘His lady friend is about thirty, a very good-looking woman, plenty of money, or do they call it class nowadays? You get the impression she’s stepped down out of her class. Slumming. Or maybe he’s out of his. Though I’ve nothing against Mr. Slater. He’s all right. It’s just...’
‘What?’
‘They seem a strange couple. Badly matched. She’s not exactly affectionate.’
‘She Belgian?’
‘Uh-huh. Marie-Ange Piard. Divorced.’ She half emptied her glass then looked at him seriously. ‘You know, it occurs to me that I know as little about you as you did about me. How about me asking some of the questions? Like, why don’t you tell me something about yourself?’
Bannerman grinned. ‘There’s nothing much to tell.’ He looked up and saw that she was smiling too.
‘Bastard,’ she said.
Bannerman raised an eyebrow and drained his second glass. ‘I get a lot of people that way.’
Her smile faded slowly and there was a long silence. Then, suddenly self-conscious, she turned her eyes away.
‘Do you want another drink?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She pushed her half-finished glass away from her. ‘I’d like to go home now. It’s late.’
They left the Manhattan and she insisted on taking a tram home on her own. ‘Will I see you again?’ he asked.
She said, ‘Maybe.’ And he watched the tram move off along the tracks, carrying her away into the night.
V
Bannerman rode the Metro over to the east side and found the door of Slater’s flat off the latch. He went in and closed it quietly behind him. Then he walked the length of the hall, feeling the quiet of the house around him, and found Slater sitting in the dark in the living room, his cigarette end glowing red as he drew on it. ‘She’s asleep,’ Slater said, surly and subdued. ‘Your bag’s in your room. Along the hall, the last door on your left.’
Bannerman could not see his face, but he nodded and felt all the disquiet returning through the gentle whisky haze in his head. ‘I’ll find a hotel on Monday,’ he said.