Eric stood over the cot, hands at his side, visibly stung. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s time to move on. I’ll take the bus to Ankara then try for the Black Sea. If I go now I might catch up with my friend.’
‘Friend?’
‘Yes.’ Ford stood upright, laundry bunched in his hand. ‘Amy.’ Amy? He wasn’t good with names. Not off the cuff.
‘Amy?’
‘The woman I was travelling with.’
‘You said she’s with someone else now?’
Bothered that he had to explain himself Ford returned to packing. ‘It’s complicated. I should make the effort.’
Eric nodded slowly, as if he didn’t follow, as if other people’s situations were always slightly out of his understanding.
Ford checked the small pocket inside his pack, and took off the dog tags and tucked them inside, because the tags, the weight of them, like everything else, was beginning to bother him.
* * *
Eric accompanied Ford into town. As they came out of the pension the man in the car looked up but didn’t move. The sun cut across a clean-shaved chin, a thin mouth, a fat moustache. He remained in the car as they turned off the street to the main road.
Ford gripped the straps of his backpack, ready to sprint if he needed to, but the car did not follow them, and Eric, preoccupied himself, did not appear to notice his anxiety. If the man approached them now at least Ford could run. At the Maison du Rève he would have been trapped.
With regular coaches to Ankara throughout the day he found he had a choice: one at midday, one at three, and the last at eleven at night; each connecting with a coach to Istanbul. Ford decided on the midday bus, why wait, only to find the service fully booked. Three o’clock? No trouble. Depart later, arrive early in the morning. He’d wait in one of the tea houses in the market square. Eric stayed with him, and they sat under canvas and faced the market.
Eric sought advice.
‘I knew what it would be like. No one will work with him.’
‘So why did you?’
‘A paid holiday. Experience. Extra credit.’ He frowned. All of this was well and good, but Martin was a fully subscribed asshole who had managed to isolate himself from his students, fellow academics, from the art establishment. Even so, inexplicably, the project was gaining attention. ‘People want to show the work. Museums. Curators. We’re going to screen the first section at the Gare du Nord in Paris. Six projections cycling through forty-seven hours of material. Six screens.’ He swept out his hands. ‘Massive.’ Each testimony prefaced with a landscape, each talking head presented in their original language, their own words. Speakers fixed to inverted plastic domes would direct the sound upon the travellers, creating zones where their voices could be heard without interfering with the station’s activity — an immense undertaking. There was talk about showing the entire cycle, all five sections, in Grenoble, at Magazin.
Eric continued talking. Ford kept his eye on the market, the stalls, and the three streets that fed into the enclosed square. Police, men in military drab ambled without intent among the traders and shoppers, a muddle of activity. He looked back into the café at the dusty red walls, at the barber shop beside it, the door to the hammam closed — everything so ordinary that he began to relax. Beside their table sat a bulky unlit stove, and the air was busy with the fats of cooking meat, of coffee, of dust. In three hours he would be on his way to Istanbul. The decision to leave felt right and wise.
‘You don’t get the opportunity to work on material like this. It just doesn’t happen.’
Ford only caught snippets: And when someone is that creative … difficult … work through it … We have history, Martin and me. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t … At some point Eric paused as if waiting for an answer, waiting for Ford to disagree or approve.
‘Do whatever you think is best.’
The cay came to the table in tulip-shaped glasses. Three soldiers took up a table close by, closer than he would have liked. Eric, a little discouraged, continued talking and asked a second time for his advice. Ford, tired of listening, admitted that he’d drifted off.
‘I was talking about Malta. You could come. It would be private.’
‘Private?’
‘She has it booked for two weeks, but there’s no one there after those two weeks. I’m thinking of staying for the rest of the break. I don’t have to return for another month. It’s private, remote.’
‘Why would I go to Malta?’
Eric leaned forward and squinted. Pushed off course a second time he appeared hurt.
Ford looked at the boy and began to realize that this wasn’t a simple matter. The boy’s expression showed him to be wounded, not by some small slight, but by some deeper hurt, something Ford had or had not done.
‘You’re right. It’s not that interesting.’ Eric held his breath, as if considering whether or not to speak, ideas collapsing behind that expression, a notion of something solid turning to vapour, and Ford realized that he hadn’t been talking about Martin but something else. ‘OK. Look, I’m going to go.’ He abruptly stood up and said goodbye.
Ford watched Eric walk away, head hung as if heartsick, wounded. What, he asked himself, was that about? On the back of the chair folded over itself, forgotten, lay the boy’s sweater.
He paid for the tea, checked his pocket for his ticket, kept his eye on the soldiers, and found himself irritated. Why should he listen, why should he waste his time? Why would this boy expect anything from him? As he stepped out of the café he found Eric at the table, stiff, leaning forward, decisive.
‘Who are you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who are you? You’re not Tom and you’re not Michael, I know, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t an Amy.’
Ford could not reply.
‘You don’t answer when someone calls your name. I just called your name. I just shouted. I was right there.’
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘I was right there. You never answer to Tom. Even Nathalie’s noticed, you don’t respond. You didn’t hear a word, did you? I know. I know who you are.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know who you are. I know.’ In one swift movement Eric reached for Ford’s hand.
Ford veered back, repulsed. Horrified at his action the boy fell into the crowd.
* * *
Ford stopped at the café and watched the small road that curved up to the promontory. The sun passed over the market square, but the afternoon remained hot. Eric’s sweater lay on the ground, sleeves pointing to the market, and Ford considered how ordinary this was: the market, the café, the afternoon — and so the boy knew who he was? He tried to guess what Eric would do. He wouldn’t directly approach the police. This was doubtful. But once he returned to the Maison du Rève he would talk with Nathalie and Nathalie would automatically talk with Martin. Once loose the idea would prove itself in the history of what he’d said or not said, deeds done or un-done, untranslated facts would slip into place. Everything would suddenly make sense — and if they needed proof it would only take one article, one mention in a newspaper, one news report, one seed. The consequences racked up, one event leading to another. He couldn’t judge what their actions would be, that next step. Nathalie with her focused sense of justice would deliberate. She would need facts. She would agonize. Even so, she couldn’t be counted on, and she would probably call the authorities. Martin, already paranoid, could not be predicted. Once uncontained the information would spark immediate trouble.