Ford drank his share of the coffee, then helped himself to another cup. The bus-burning came as a reminder of the promise he had made in Kopeckale that he would avoid crowds, keep away from public spaces and gatherings, situations which he could not control. Eric finished and then re-started the novel because there were things he didn’t follow, he said, things he’d missed, and there wasn’t anything else to read but old newspapers. The idea that you could read the chapters in any order appealed to him, even though it wouldn’t change anything he already knew. He might go into town. He might try the hammam. He asked Ford if he was interested: you could get proper coffee with hot milk at the barber shop served by a giant ape of a man. There were pastries, honey and almond, yet to be tasted.
Ape. This choice of word, surely a poke at Martin?
Nathalie sat on the bench with her back against the wall, a bowl of olives on her lap. She’d had words with Eric and now they weren’t speaking. Her sights fixed on Martin, visibly brewing discontent. Martin picked dough from the bread and rolled it into pellets which he stacked on his plate. None of them were interested in making conversation. Ford couldn’t see his place in this. Nathalie moved the bread from Martin’s reach, and with a deep intake, a long single breath, she asked if Ford could help settle an issue.
‘Tell me, and be honest, I want to know what you think. Was it wrong to take pictures yesterday?’
The discussion which should have been exhausted still had legs.
‘Why are you asking him?’ Martin spoke in French.
‘Do you think it was right to film that bus? Do you think he had any business being there?’ She challenged Ford to take her side.
‘What difference did it make? There wasn’t anything we could do and he had the camera with him.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Nathalie disagreed, ‘he didn’t do it because he happened to have a camera.’
Martin interrupted. What was her problem? Seriously?
‘The problem is all about taking pictures like this,’ she reached across the table and held her hand flat, close to his face, ‘with the camera this close. It’s a terrible thing to do, to watch and do nothing. Suppose that somebody was hurt, what would you have done?’
‘Nobody was in trouble. I’m not a doctor. I make films. I couldn’t have helped even if the situation was different.’ Martin reached for his cigarettes.
‘But you were filming.’
‘You know what goes on here. It wasn’t an accident. The fire was deliberate. What do you expect? This is exactly why I came here.’ The appearance of one digital camera on the streets of Birsim was a ridiculously small infringement of anyone’s liberty. ‘I don’t see why you have a problem with this?’
‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘but that isn’t the issue. You know this. What would you do if your students behaved like this? Anyway, now you have what you wanted.’ Nathalie untied her hair and drew it back inside a closed fist, her voice an aside, low and sulky. ‘Go see for yourself, now we have someone watching us. Just like you said.’
Martin stood up, a motion left incomplete, his hands dithering on the armrests. He asked what she was talking about.
‘There is a man, outside, just as you said, he’s been there all morning.’
‘What man?’
‘Go see for yourself. Your activities have finally brought you to the attention of the police.’
Sulky and wronged, Nathalie stood up, and said pertly that she would see them all later, she was going out. Martin could do as he pleased.
* * *
They gathered in Mehmet’s small office at the front of the house, Ford, Martin, and Eric, and leaned cautiously into the window for a view of the street. A car, a grey and dusty Peugeot, was parked on the opposite side in a street with no other vehicles. Inside, as Nathalie had said, sat a man, visible in silhouette.
* * *
An hour later Ford and Eric checked the street and found the man still outside, waiting. Ford kept an eye on the street and kept up the reports: ‘He’s still there … hasn’t moved … I think she’s right,’ while Eric and Martin downloaded the digital film onto separate portable hard drives. When Nathalie returned the man in the car did not disguise his interest — he turned to watch as she came to the door, then kept his attention on the house once she was inside.
3.10
Anne sat with her back to the café and gave her order in English.
See, she told herself, see how well this suits you. Relaxed, she looked to the hotel and wondered if she should call Eric. She wanted to clear her mind, to have absolutely nothing in her head so that she could approach her work without the framework of other worries or concerns. But she worried about speaking with him. She worried that he could somehow divine her thoughts, and guess that she had read his private discussions, this online banter with other men. She thought of herself as a bad spy, the world’s worst, possessing no cunning, not one ounce. Above her, blinds and shutters clattered open as the hotel rooms were cleaned, sunlight bold on the upper storeys.
The street curved toward the Campo di Fiori — a street busy with scooters. It was disappointing not to have heard from him. If Eric called the conversation would open up as something natural, easy, he would talk about his holiday and they would have a subject to discuss. If she called, it would be her prerogative to steer the discussion, and she had nothing to say — or rather, she knew that whatever she had to say would sound false and he would immediately sense her unease. Disappointed not to have heard from him she checked her mobile for new messages. She called, in any case, and left a message.
‘Eric? Eric, it’s your mother. I’m in Rome. I’ve just arrived. I’ll try you later this evening.’
Her voice, her tone, she knew, gave away her mind.
3.11
Heida caught her reflection as she came out of the bathroom, and thought to her alarm that she looked uncomfortably like Grüner’s wife.
Troubled by the likeness she returned to the mirror. It wasn’t one specific detail, more a combination of parts and effect. The colour of her hair, the fact that it appeared so unkempt, and these clothes, admittedly not her favourite (a short skirt, a striped long-sleeve top), made her look exhausted. No, it was something in her stance, some aspect locked in her body that made this comparison true. She turned sideways, and there it was. A soggy downward curve, a stroke of disappointment describing her shoulders, her breasts, her mouth, as if this curve had imposed itself on her overnight.
‘Christ.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Look what you’ve done to me.’
Used to not understanding her, Grüner gave a smile intended to show understanding. Heida read this dumb expression as culpable awareness. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. Men always do.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.’
The plan was simple: having contacted the Turkish official who was to help with their visas into Iraq they were to travel, one to Ankara, and one to Istanbul, to be certain to catch the man, as he was, at best, elusive. This slippery subject, always in transit from one city to another, would be caught by one or the other.
‘We should have kept the car,’ she said, one more point against him.
Heida ran her hand over her stomach. Even when she stood upright, this curve, this gravity, imposed itself on her.
3.12
Eric came into the room as Ford was packing. His decision to leave came to him as a sudden and necessary fact — with the pension being watched he was taking too great a risk. Martin’s project placed him square in the eyes of the police, and if the police made any enquiries they would easily discover that the name he had given Mehmet, the name used by Nathalie, Martin and Eric, was different to the name in his passport. If they enquired into this small discrepancy he couldn’t be sure what else they might discover. The dog tags, for example, how would he explain those? He needed to make the transfer. He needed to get to Istanbul.