‘There’s bound to be more out there,’ said the voice of Leslie. ‘Have you tried Penthesilea International?’ He started the van, backed out of the parking space, turned around, drove to the barrier, waited while the porter raised it, then turned left into the Strand.
‘They don’t want to know unless you’re a big name like Candida Stark or Gnostia Mundy,’ said Melissa.
‘There must be big-money guys hitting your website all the time.’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘I bet you do: if you could arrange a meeting with a bit of action on camera they might find it in their hearts to offer a little financial support for your project.’
‘That kind of thing could backfire — big-money guys mostly have high-priced help for making trouble go away.’
‘What were you going to do with the tape if Harold’s Monday night had gone as planned?’
‘Hadn’t decided yet.’ She turned in her seat and slung a heavy shoulder bag on top of Klein. ‘What’s under the blanket — a body?’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘This.’ She prodded Klein.
‘It’s me — Harold Klein.’ He threw the blanket aside.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Melissa.
‘What can I tell you? If you play games with little old men they’re likely to come looking for you.’
‘How do you know I’m the one you’re looking for?’
‘It’s your voice I’ve heard on the telephone, speaking as Angelica.’ Her face was alternately lit and unlit as the van passed under street lamps. It was not the Waterhouse-nymph face of the website Angelica but a delicate oval art-deco face, neatly stylised features, precisely red mouth, dark hair in a short bob and fringe — most of all it was a serious face, a face that meant business.
‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Where are we going?’ said Leslie. They were on Waterloo Bridge.
‘Turn around when you get to the other side,’ said Melissa. To Klein, ‘Well, what is it you want?’
‘I want to talk to you, just the two of us, and not in this van.’
‘All you want is conversation?’
‘For starters.’
‘Tell me why I should accommodate you, Mr ex-Ruggiero.’
‘Do you want me to tell the police that I was forcibly abducted for a sexual assault but my angina scared you off?’
‘Why would they believe that?’
‘I’ve recorded my brief encounter with Leslie on Monday night; I’ve printed out “Monica’s Monday Night”, featuring Leslie and this van, and my doctor has a copy of it; and I’ve recorded my telephone conversation with you. You might consider your website and other activities a legitimate form of research but various academic and municipal authorities could well take a different view. Howzat?’
‘I’d no idea you were such a cold and calculating little old non-hero, Harold. Evidently you’re determined to get what you want. If I called your bluff you might well come out of it worse than I but in a spirit of academic research I’m half-inclined to help you act out your fantasy.’
‘As any proper academic would,’ said Klein.
‘OK, old cock, we’ll have our little assignation at your place, not mine. Where do you live?’
‘Fulham.’
‘Fulham, Leslie. You can drop me off at Harold’s place and I’ll find my own way home.’
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ said Leslie.
‘We’ll find out, won’t we. He’s weird but I don’t think he’s dangerous. Let’s cross the water and get on with it.’
‘That’s the way to do it,’ said Klein. ‘It’s a good day to die.’
‘Why did you say that?’ said Melissa.
‘It’s a quote — something some guy used to say before going into battle.’
‘Did he die in battle?’
‘No, he was stabbed in the back after the battles were over.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.’
Melissa’s face, into the light and out of it, was attentive, interested, calculating? The traffic sounds were like those in a dream and the geography of London inflected itself in unfamiliar ways, looming here, passing unnoticed there, strange music to the eye. ‘Like a sixteenth-century map,’ said Klein, ‘full of odd shapes and terrors: the winds have faces and there are anthropophagi in unknown corners.’
‘What are you on, Harold?’ said Leslie.
‘Mortality,’ said Klein. He tasted, like fruit gums, the intensely red, green, and amber of traffic lights. Cars on both sides, ahead and behind, were silent worlds of otherness with bright reflections sliding rearward on their tops. Again there appeared the Embankment and the river garlanded with lamps, jewelled with boats, shining with lost years.
‘What’s happening?’ Klein murmured to Oannes. Marlene Dietrich appeared in his mind as Lola Lola with naked thighs, black stockings, suspender belt, top hat. Emil Jannings, at the end of his tether, crowed like a rooster. ‘Are we getting into a Blue Angel-situation here?’
‘There are worse ways to ruin yourself,’ said Melissa.
‘Like Russian roulette?’
‘Think about it: the professor’s canary was dead at the very begining of the film but when he moved in with Lola Lola, up jumped a new canary singing like a steam whistle. How’s your canary, Harold?’
‘The last time I looked it was on its back with its feet in the air. Are you wearing black stockings?’
‘Of course, with a suspender belt. I like to be correctly attired for mental undressing. Sorry about no top hat.’
‘No wanking while we’re on the road,’ said Leslie to Harold as the Tate Gallery and the Vauxhall Bridge came and went. ‘How do we get to your place?’
‘Carry on down the Embankment past the Battersea Bridge and around into the New King’s Road where you turn left.’ To himself, ‘Before that there’s the Albert Bridge and Daphne.’
‘Who’s Daphne?’ said Leslie.
‘A bronze nude. When I lived in Beaufort Street I used to go jogging on the Embankment and I always slapped her bottom when I passed. I think she was vandalised and now she’s fibreglass.’
‘That’s life,’ said Melissa.
‘Who vandalised you?’ said Klein.
‘Would you believe me if I told you I stabbed my father twelve times?’
‘I’d believe you saw Beyond the Clouds.’
‘You’re so five minutes ago in a sort of twenty-five-years-ago way, Harold. You’re a hippy replacement.’
‘“By brooks too broad for leaping the lightfoot lads are laid,”’ said Klein, ‘but a lot of us old retreads are still around.’
The Albert Bridge wedding-caked and diamonded its way over the river. ‘Albert Bridge, my delight,’ sang Klein, ‘let your lights all shine tonight.’
‘You just make that up?’ said Leslie.
‘Something from a long time ago,’ said Klein. It was a rhyme he’d composed for Hannelore back in the good time. For the rest of the trip he whispered into his hand except when he had to give directions. Arrived at his house, he looked out across the common towards the District Line. ‘The place hasn’t changed since I left it earlier this evening.’
‘Did you think it would?’ said Melissa.
‘These days time goes in and out like an accordion,’ said Klein.
‘Listen,’ said Leslie, ‘I’d love to stay and talk about relativity with you, but the boss wants me gone.’ To Melissa, ‘Watch your ass, sweetheart.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Klein, as he left the van with the object of his desire.
25 A Taste of Honey
For a moment they stood by the steps of Klein’s house. On the far side of the common a Wimbledon train dopplered its way to Parson’s Green. The night was warm for December; there was a nightingale singing; there was an almost-full moon.