‘Seriously, what is that guy’s problem?’ she asks.
‘He likes you,’ Kevin says.
‘Fuck off.’
‘He does.’
‘He does like you, Ish,’ I confirm.
‘Howie doesn’t like anyone,’ Ish says. ‘I bet he just wants an I for his creepy BOT sex-alphabet.’
‘I was his K!’ Kimberlee exclaims in passing.
‘Looks like you missed your chance, Kevin,’ Joe Peston says.
The news the following day is dominated by the Minister’s bleak prognosis. Messages of support pour in from allies and opposition alike, as well as conjecture as to who will replace him. One name that keeps cropping up is Walter Corless.
‘Walter?’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to have an ideology to be a politician? Like, believe in something?’
‘He believes in money.’
More importantly, money believes in him. As CEO of a major multinational, Walter has the financial acumen to steer the nation through the present economic cataract — or such is the hope.
‘A BOT client as head of Finance, I like the sound of that,’ Jocelyn muses. ‘Plenty more sweet consultancy work.’
‘Walter’s a fucking nutcase,’ Ish says. ‘Put him in charge and he’ll turn the whole country into a rendition site and sell it to the CIA.’
‘Gotta make the money somewhere,’ Jocelyn says, shrugging.
It seems that the revelation of his illness has pushed the Minister past some point of no return. In his press conferences now he looks not merely sick but, for the first time, defeated. ‘The fundamentals are sound,’ he keeps saying, the same blanket denial to every question, in the same leaden, exhausted tone. His face is suddenly gaunt, wasted. I can’t work out quite what it reminds me of; then I look out and see the grey hulk of the unfinished Royal Irish headquarters, rain lashing in through the empty sockets of the windows.
The international news is even worse. The Germans are castigating the Greeks; the Greeks are burning German cars. In Texas the blackened husk of the self-immolated congressman has made a speech from his hospital bed, declaring that he might not have any skin left but he can still shoot a gun (at least that’s what his press officer says he says; the croaking is to my ears unintelligible); hordes of elderly people storm the streets of El Paso, his home town, waving Confederate flags and flaming torches. In Oran the Caliph’s new fleet of British-made bombers, bought in an oil-for-weapons deal brokered by the ex-Prime Minister, raze what is being called a rebel stronghold, though it looks, in the ‘before’ photos, like a village harbouring nothing more dangerous than goats.
The whole world is becoming angrier and angrier — but not me. Paul is coming over tomorrow night to lay out his initial plans, and already it seems I can feel Ariadne’s warmth stealing into my life, like the first rays of light creeping into a room as outside the sun wheels into view.
On the day of the dinner, however, he calls to tell me there’s a problem. ‘Remember that volleyball try-out Clizia went to the other night? Well, she made the team.’
‘Oh,’ I say neutrally. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah, only the thing is, she’s got a game tonight, so I have to babysit Remington.’
‘Oh,’ I say again.
‘You know, make him his food and so on.’
I realize he’s angling for something. ‘I would be happy to prepare something for Remington too.’
‘Why, Claude, that’s very kind of you,’ Paul says, with painfully false surprise. ‘But I don’t want to impose on you.’
‘No imposition, I don’t very often have the chance to cook for others.’
‘Fantastic — listen though, Igor’s probably going to come over too —’
‘Igor?’
‘Yeah, but don’t worry about him, he’ll eat anything. Except fish. He hates fish. And chicken. But don’t go to any trouble.’ He tells me he will see me at seven, then ten minutes later calls again to say that it might be closer to half seven, and also that Igor doesn’t eat beef but does eat veal.
I put the phone down, not sure what to do. A part of me wants to tell him about the perfume in the stairwell, the clothes stuffed in the bag. But what business is it of mine? Anyway, it’s not impossible that there really is a volleyball game. Isn’t it?
They arrive at 7.45. Paul apologizes again for the change in plan. ‘This whole Cleaners’ Volleyball League is all a bit out of the blue.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And how are you, Remington?’
‘Remington’s got a joke, haven’t you, Remington?’ Paul prompts him.
‘Will you tell me your joke?’ I ask, bending down to the boy.
‘What do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’ Remington mumbles.
‘I don’t know, what do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’
Remington sways shyly back and forth a moment, then goes to hide himself behind his father’s leg.
‘It’s funnier when he does the punchline,’ Paul says.
‘Not to worry,’ I say, and then to Remington, ‘Do you like hamburgers?’
He nods solemnly, then tugs his father’s trouser and whispers in his ear. ‘Oh, right — Claude, we’re wondering if it would be possible to watch a little Rainbow Mystery Epic?’
A minute later Remington is installed on the sofa, the serenity of his attention in almost exactly inverse proportion to the blizzard of lightning flashes, screeching robo-animals and epileptic scene shifts issuing from the TV screen.
‘Jeez, Claude, where’s all your stuff?’ Paul says, gazing around the apartment at the abundance of white surfaces.
‘I left most of my things in Paris.’ In fact it had been a relief to get away from them — the artworks, antiques, juicers and coffee-makers, the shelves of unread books, unwatched DVDs, unlistened-to compact discs, all carefully arranged in alphabetical order: everything that had promised to be the final piece of the jigsaw, and then wasn’t. Now, apart from one or two objets, I just download everything; it sits unseen and forgotten on my hard drive, an alternative life I can own instead of living or even needing to think about.
‘These your parents?’ Paul flashes a photograph at me.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have been putting the family pictures on computer — how do you say, making an archive?’
‘Your father looks like a pretty serious individual,’ he says, leafing through a stack of old Polaroids. ‘Look at those arms. What did he do?’
‘He was a blacksmith.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Does it seem funny?’ I strip the foil away from the neck of the bottle he has brought.
‘No, no, it’s just …’ He looks down at the picture again. ‘I mean, talk about a dying art. Can’t be many of those left.’
‘No, there are not many,’ I say.
‘So what was it like?’
‘What was what like?’
‘Being the son of a blacksmith?’
I shrug. ‘It was just his job. I didn’t pay so much attention. I was busy with my studies.’
‘Of course. You were his greatest creation.’
‘I don’t think he saw it that way.’
‘Old father, old artificer,’ he says obscurely, gazing at the picture. ‘Maybe there’s a book in you after all.’
‘That’s his story, not mine,’ I say, handing him a glass of wine, delicately taking the photographs with the same movement and replacing them on the shelf. ‘So, you have had a chance to think of some ideas?’
‘I sure have. But I’d rather wait till the big guy gets here.’
‘About that,’ I say. ‘Why are we involving Igor, exactly?’
‘Well, he could really use the money,’ Paul says. ‘I mean, he’s having a hard time getting by at the moment. By the way, I told him to invoice you separately, is that okay? He’s going to put it down as a termite infestation.’