‘That’s the problem. That’s it right there. It’s always the wrong person. At school she had this thing for an autistic boy. What was his name? It was like a project or something. Her project. I don’t know. You know how she is. And then Franco. That whole thing.’ Isa pauses, then interrupts. ‘No, she had this whole thing for him, fell in love with him.’ Another pause, and when she resumes speaking her voice has an unexpected sincerity. ‘Because I worry for her.’
Rike returns to the garden, is tempted to make some noise — make a point. Under the tree, stretched out, head up with bright little eyes, is the black cat — long and lovely. Rike pockets the keys, looks at the cat, and while she should feel delight, she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel anything other than irritation about being the third party to a conversation about her private life. Rike takes her seat a little distracted by her lack of outrage. It doesn’t mean anything. Isa always has to take things too far. All that nonsense about the autistic boy. And what was his name? Michael Something. Michael Koenig. Short, fat (didn’t Isa always point that out?), Michael Koenig with his pudgy face which generated any quantity of stuff: noise primarily, but also snot, tears, spittle. A boy whose tantrums and violence were unparalleled, but who was also, often, peaceful, calming. The boy behaved without constraint. In every action, every response, Michael Koenig never lied, had zero cunning, and despite his moods she knew exactly where she stood with him. Unlike Isa, Michael never disappointed her, because she expected little from him. Other people, on the other hand, were infinitely disappointing. Had she loved him? Certainly, in whatever way you love someone when you are younger. Her desire to include him in every activity (she insisted that he be invited camping with them) bordered on mania. Isa just didn’t like him. She probably felt replaced.
That Isa would still be resentful doesn’t surprise her.
The nonsense about Franco is so outrageous she can’t reason her way around it. And yet, isn’t this typical? Doesn’t Isa break every confidence between them, blab out everything they share, because this is what Isa does? And how ugly is it to take her concern and twist it in this way? She begins to feel some heat on the matter. Mattaus behaves like a shit toward Franco. For five years, perhaps longer, Franco is as good as family, so why shouldn’t she be concerned for him when Mattaus behaves the way he does? This is typical of Isa, so busy with herself that she doesn’t see the full picture. Isa doesn’t know how Mattaus behaves with Franco, not in the same way as Rike — and yes, why not, she does feel protective of Franco. But how typical. Really. How typical of Isa to say such a thing.
It’s possible that her overhearing the conversation wasn’t accidental. In any case, it doesn’t matter. Rike won’t be provoked.
Isa comes into the garden with news.
The man from the desert is being brought to Cyprus. Today or tomorrow. This is now definite. Henning will have his way, and he’ll return soon, although they don’t know exactly when, and she doesn’t know which hospital the man is being brought to: military or civil.
Rike says she knows, not about the hospital, but about the man. She spoke with Henning right after Udo gave his consent to the move.
‘No,’ Isa corrects her. ‘You must have heard wrong. He’s only just told me. This is probably why Udo was at the hospital today.’ Isa sucks air between her teeth, considering. ‘My guess is the military hospital at Akrotiri will have better facilities. And they’ll want to keep him secure, don’t you think?’
Rike agrees without showing interest. So Henning will be back soon? Good. This, at least, will make things easier.
3.4
In the morning the driver takes Gibson to Naples. Sullen after viewing the site of the incident, Gibson sits in the back seat and does not talk. The driver says that there are details which will need to be discussed, but this can wait for the moment. Rooms have been booked in Hotel Laurino on via dei Tribunali, and when they arrive, they find a man waiting for them in the lobby, knees together, arms crossed, unlikely to be a guest. He rises to shake the driver’s hand and Gibson realizes that he has this wrong. The man isn’t a driver but someone more senior. Gibson recalls the man introducing himself as Sandro, and giving a second name and rank he hadn’t caught. The ranking and organization of the Italian police is confusing. There’s the police, and then the carabinieri. He isn’t sure how the duties are divided. And magistrates? In Italy the magistrate is part of the investigation.
Gibson offers his hand to the other man, who smiles but says nothing. If Gibson would like, Sandro says, he can go over some of the details for him, and explain the procedures. It might make the day a little easier. ‘You will be seeing Laura Parson?’ he asks. Given the circumstances she has been helpful, and remarkably courageous.
* * *
Sandro believes he has everything straight. He understands the reason for Parson’s time in Italy. He understands the working relationships: how Parson worked for Gibson & Baker, and how HOSCO was their client. This he understands.
What is less clear is the reason why hotel rooms — in Palermo, Bari, Castellammare, and Naples — have been booked in Paul Geezler’s name.
‘I checked them,’ he says, and found that nearly eighty per cent of the bookings were not used. ‘A room was booked, but nobody stayed. In some cases the room was not paid for.’
Sandro has copies of the papers found on the train, if Gibson wouldn’t mind. He lays the papers out across the glass coffee table. Gibson recognizes Parson’s handwriting.
‘These don’t look like notes, wouldn’t you say? The numbers here are telephone numbers for hotels. But these numbers are confirmation or reservation numbers for rooms.’
Does Gibson follow the implication? It isn’t Sutler making the bookings under Geezler’s name. It’s Parson. Would he have any idea why?
Lost for an explanation, Gibson asks if Sandro has spoken with Laura about this.
The man says no. And this is another strange element. Why, when Parson is undertaking such demanding, and ultimately dangerous work, would he ask his wife to accompany him?
It hadn’t seemed so unusual to Gibson. Because of his work Parson was separated from his wife for several months, the simple answer is that he wanted to be with her, and the job didn’t seem dangerous at all.
The problem, Sandro agrees, probably isn’t a problem. In most cases people’s lives are messy and unfathomable, because we are guided by habits and superstitions, ways of behaving which are impenetrable, irrational.
When Sandro leaves, the other man, who has still not spoken, accompanies him.
Gibson catches his reflection in the long mirrors either side of the reception desk, and is surprised to appear less stern and weary than he feels. It is encouraging to hear that Parson has inconsistencies.
Sunlight rebounding off the traffic scores across the lobby in sharp bands. He decides to walk to Laura’s hotel although he does not know Naples.
THE THIRD LESSON
4.1
The door to Tomas’s apartment stands open in anticipation. Rike has had to hurry, and she makes it to the top of the stairs a little breathless. Tomas sits ready, his notebook open on his lap and a dictionary at his feet. He leans over the notebook and reads with a singular focus. Rike pauses at the door before knocking. It was wrong, she concedes, to call him unhandsome, or to say that he is not handsome. His face is masculine, angular, his mouth, full and slightly pronounced (in profile), has the same effect on her as his hands — a slight out-of-kilter difference in scale, so small in this instance it could easily be imagined.