He walked back to his table; asked if Niko wanted to break. Niko rested his cue, upright, against the table.
— You break, he said.
Haffner settled over the table, fervently. He jabbed the white, but somehow swerved his arm so the tip of the cue slid and tapped the white on top, then bounced beside it on the thin green baize.
— That's not a good shot no, said Niko.
— No, said Haffner.
— Listen, said Niko. You must keep your arm straight — no, yes, out, yes, better. Now try.
— But it's your turn, said Haffner.
— No no, said Niko. You go, you go.
Haffner recovered his form with an in-off red. He played gracefully, impressively. He relaxed into his talent. Intently — doing this for Livia, thinking of Livia, the tenderness he felt for the rashes she had been prone to, her skin weeping like honeycomb — he did not look at Niko during a series of fourteen in-offs. And then he missed.
— Come into my office, said Viko: he was standing beside their table, his arms wide, smiling.
Neatly, he sat down on a bench.
— So sorry, said Viko, nodding over in apology to the now becalmed and darkened table. A drink? he added.
A deal among men: this, at least, was a world which Haffner could understand. On his bench, as in the most masculine of steak houses, Haffner leaned forward, in the way that he had always done: the clasp of his palms dropped against his lap.
A genie, Niko returned with three bottles of beer — the flare of his nostrils, inside, was a glowing coral. He picked up his cue, scratched the turquoise block of chalk, with its shallow indentation, across its tip. He puffed the puff of chalk away. Then settled to his work.
And Viko outlined the situation. Haffner wanted the villa. The Committee was proving difficult. Haffner was interested in speeding the process up. This, so far, was what Viko understood. Haffner praised his grasp of the situation. And Viko, continued Viko: he was known as a man of honour. He liked to help his friends. And Haffner was a friend?
Haffner was a friend.
He thought he was, said Viko. So. Viko had done his research; he had asked various questions: he had made Haffner's situation known.
This was very kind, said Haffner.
Niko had been playing a monotonous series of in-off reds. He lifted his head from the table. What, he asked, did Haffner want the upper limit to be? Haffner wondered if 100 would be appropriate. Niko played another long in-off red.
And Viko therefore thought that, with the document he was now offering to Haffner, Haffner would find it ever so much easier to bring the matter to a close. He unfolded a square of paper from his pocket, and laid it in front of Haffner. Haffner tried to read it. As he expected, it was not in a language he knew.
This was what? he queried. It was the necessary authentication from the authorities, said Viko. It was the proof that the family of his wife were the rightful owners of the property.
— The deeds? asked Haffner.
— Not quite, said Viko. But this was all he needed.
Haffner had never imagined the world of corruption to work with such elegance, such dispatch. If only he had understood this sooner, in his career, he thought. He might have saved himself so many hours of work.
From the bar, they could hear a miniature ice-hockey match, on a miniature television, being brought to its conclusion. Niko paused: he strained to watch.
— You prefer which games? asked Niko, still straining.
— The game of cricket, said Haffner.
— Yes, the English game, said Niko, relaxing back into the real world.
From his cueing position, Niko wondered if Haffner could explain the game of cricket. Haffner thought this was unlikely. But it was true: he liked the higher games. The higher English games. Like cricket, and croquet. The games with intricate rulebooks.
— Or soccer, of course, said Haffner, in an effort to lower himself to the universal level, looking at his incomprehensible document with lavish pride.
— This is my game, said Niko. The penalties! This I love. The lottery. The goalkeeper's fear.
But no, Haffner said, putting his folded document down beside his beer, careful to avoid the ornamental water features on the scratched and sticky shelf. Not at all. The goalkeeper was never afraid of the penalty, said Haffner. The goalkeeper was in love with the penalty.
— You kill me, said Niko.
Hear him out, said Haffner. Hear a man out. What the goalkeeper didn't want was the difficult cross, the perfectly weighted through-ball. These were the tests of skill and psychology: the undramatic moments.
— Possible, said Niko. Possible.
The real dilemma for the goalkeeper, continued Haffner, was whether or not to leave his area. That was the moral crux of goal-keeping — to know when to curb one's courage. But the penalty was pure theatre. The goalkeeper, finished Haffner, in a penalty, could never be defeated.
— Interesting, said Niko, still watching the television. You like Barthez?
— Barthez? said Haffner. A showman. Just a showman. Never rated him. Now Banks, however, now there was a goalkeeper.
— Who? said Viko, bored.
With Niko's next shot, the red ball quivered against the angled upper jaw of a centre pocket, and settled there, unpotted. The white dribbled towards it and, miraculously, stopped — on the lower jaw of the same centre pocket.
— It's amazing what can happen, said Niko, meditatively, on this twelve-by-six-foot table. Then he smiled at Haffner, as if for appreciation.
There only remained, therefore, said Haffner, with decorum — trying to return the matter to his hoped-for conclusion — the matter of: and then he broke off, as he had always broken off before, when negotiating with clients. He understood?
Viko understood: he had consulted with Niko, he said. They were friends. Haffner nodded. They wanted to do this as friends. Haffner nodded again. They would therefore only charge him for the merest expenses. With a small extra compensation. For a third time Haffner solemnly nodded his assent, with gravitas. With gravitas, Viko named his price.
In this way these deals were done.
Haffner, in conclusion, nodded his agreement. In response, Viko stood to offer Haffner the manly theatrics of a less reserved hug.
Haffner looked at his phone, and considered calling Benji — to boast of his success.
— You want another drink? said Niko. Sure you do!
He decided that Benji could wait.
— So, said Niko.
They walked back to the bar, and sat down on the ripped banquette. There was also, he added, the question of his money too. Haffner looked at him, sad that matters should have turned so predictably filmic: with all the usual minor sins. He thought that had been taken care of, mentioned Haffner.
— For the bet? said Niko.
Had that been a real bet? asked Haffner. He had no idea that Niko had been serious.
Niko looked at the old man in front of him, and placed a paternal hand on Haffner's boyish shoulder. Could Niko talk about Haffner? Would he permit this? Haffner said he could. Sometimes, Niko worried, Haffner didn't seem to take things seriously which he should have taken seriously. Like, he pointed out, how Haffner had behaved in the club the night before. Whereas Niko, now Niko took things seriously. But then, Niko had been in a war. In fact, Niko had fought in two wars. Against the Muslims. And let him maybe tell this story. Once, Niko was on the border, in the mountains. They were laying an ambush. It was very cold in the mountains. And Niko's friend, he had been to America. In America, he had bought a special suit, with wiring inside. It was like an electric blanket? But there was no internal power supply to this suit. There was no battery. So they were at the front, in the mountains. And his friend did not bring so many of his clothes. Instead, he brought his suit, and also a car battery. So. They got to their position. He put his suit on, and then he wired it up to the battery.