The Business

'But I'm not fucked up.'

'Ha!  That's what you think.'

'…You know, in principle this idiocy could go on for ever.'

'Exactly!  Unless you take some action to discover the truth.'

'Let me guess.  And the only way to find out is to go to a shrink, right?'

'Well, of course!'

'Look, are you on commission or something?'

'I'm on Prozac, so what?'

'I prefer prosaic.  What I remember is what happened.  Look, I'm sorry I bothered you, Luce.  I'll —'

'Don't hang up!  Don't hang up!  Listen, this must have been meant to happen because I was just on my way…In fact I'm here, I'm at the place.  Now look, Kate, I just think there's somebody here that you need to talk to, okay?  Now, just a second.  Just a second.  Hi.  Yeah, hi.  Yeah.  Yeah.  That's right.  L. T. Shrowe.  Listen, I got somebody here on the phone I think really needs to talk to Dr Pegging, you know?'

'Luce?  Luce!  Don't you dare!'

'May I?  He is?  Oh, great.'

'Luce?  Don't you fucking dare!  I'm not — I won't — I'm putting the phone down!'

'Hi, Doctor.  Yeah, it's good to see you, it really is.  Look, I realise this is kinda weird, but I have this friend, right?'

'Luce!  Luce!  Listen to me, goddammit!  This had better be a joke.  You better be in the fucking supermarket or your manicurist's or something because I'm not going to —'

'Hello?'

'…ah.'

'Who am I speaking to?'

I looked through narrowed eyes at the far side of my room. Okay, I thought.  I said, 'Oh, like, gee, are you another, like, weirdo?'

'I beg your pardon?  My name is Dr Richard Pegging.  I'm a psychoanalyst here in San José.  And who might you be?'

'San José?  Jeez, isn't that in, like, California or someplace?'

'Well, yes.'

'Okay, listen, Doc, like, if you really are, like, a doc, sorta like you said, then, like, I'm really sorry, okay? But, I mean, this woman, that woman who just, like, handed you the phone?'

'Yes?'

'Well, she's been calling me now for a coupla months.  I mean, the first time she must justa dialled at random or something or got me out of the book, I dunno.  Oh, sorry.  My name's Linda?  Linda Sinkowitz?  I live here in Tuna County, Florida?  And I'm just, like, here, you know?  And then one day I get this phone call and it's this woman Lucy something and she thinks I'm her best fucking friend or something, excuse my language, and I tell her she must have, like, made a mistake only it goes on way too long for it really to be a mistake but so okay she calls off and that's fine but then a few weeks later it all happens again and this is, like, the — Jeez, I dunno — the ninth or tenth time or something, you know?  I mean, I guess she needs help or something, right, but if this happens again I'm gonna have to tell the phone company.  I mean, you —'

'That's quite all right.  That's fine, that's fine.  I think I get the picture, Ms Sinkowitz.  Well, it's been nice talking to you.  Hopefully you won't be —'

'Kate!'

'Ms Shrowe, if you don't mind —'

'Doc, do you mind?  It's my fucking phone!  Thank you!  Kate?  Kate?  What the fuck's this about Ms Sinkowitz?'

'Have a nice session, Luce.'

* * *

For the evening, we had a circus to entertain us.

The word was that during the afternoon — once Suvinder Dzung had been prised out of his bed and sobered up by his servants — Hazleton, Madame Tchassot and Poudenhaut had resumed negotiations with the Prince, his private secretary B. K. Bousande and Hisa Gidhaur, his Exchequer and Foreign Secretary who had arrived that morning.  This negotiating party was late for dinner, which was accordingly delayed for half an hour, and then went on without them.  This was a little embarrassing as we had to entertain even more rich, famous and titled people that evening compared to the Friday; however, Uncle Freddy made some ridiculous excuse for our absentees, guffawed a lot and told a series of long-winded jokes, which kept everybody entertained in the drawing room until it was decided to go ahead with dinner anyway.

My beloved was gone:  Stephen Buzetski had disappeared after breakfast that morning, called away to Washington DC.

The circus, in a tent on the lawn, was one of these extreme affairs where people dress as though auditioning for Mad Max IV; they juggled chainsaws, attached heavy industrial machinery to their sexual organs and rode very noisy motorbikes while doing unlikely things with knives and flaming torches.  It was all terribly macho and camp at the same time and quite entertaining; however, I'd seen it all before several Edinburgh Festivals ago, so didn't stay long.  I wandered back into the main house and took myself off to the snooker room.

I tend to play quite a lot of pool while trawling the in-play hang-outs in Silicon Valley.  Most of the cutting-edge dudes are young and male, and find the idea of playing pool with a mature but well-preserved lady pretty cool.  Often they'll drop their guard when they realise they're going to get beaten, or become a little too relaxed and open if I let them win against the odds.  Honing potting skills on a snooker or a billiard table is good practice for this sort of thing: if you can regularly make pots from across eleven and a half feet of green baize, switching to a pool table gives you the impression that the pockets have suddenly swollen to the diameter of basketball hoops.

Adrian Poudenhaut was there before me, also indulging in some solitary play.  He looked tired.  He was polite, almost deferential, and gave up the table for me, refusing the offer of a game.  He exited the room with a wary but knowing smile.

I looked at my reflection in the room's tall windows.  I was frowning.  A tiny sparkle of light way in the distance caught my eye and I moved closer to the window.  The snooker room was on the second floor of Blysecrag (third if you counted the American way), the last main floor before the servants' quarters in the attics.  I remembered that from here, on a clear night, you could see the lights of Harrogate.  Another distant blossom of light rose above the town.  Somebody was letting off fireworks; it was two days after Guy Fawkes' Night, but a lot of people held their displays over to the Friday or Saturday after the more traditional fifth of November.  I leant against the window-frame, arms crossed, watching.

'You look sad, Kate.'

I jumped, which is not like me at all, and turned round.  The voice had been male, though I half expected to see Miss Heggies standing there, just re-materialised.

Suvinder Dzung, looking tired and a little sad himself, was standing by the snooker table, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits, tie undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair less than perfect.

I was annoyed at myself for not having heard him or spotted his reflection. 'Did I look sad?' I asked, giving myself time to gather my wits.

'I thought so.  What are you watching?' He came closer and stood beside me.  I remembered watching our own fireworks the night before, on the terrace, and him putting his arm round my waist.  I edged away from him a little, trying to make it look as though I was just making room for him, but getting the distinct impression that he was perfectly well aware of what I was really doing.  He gave me a small, maybe apologetic smile, and did not try to touch me.  I wondered if he even remembered our early morning telephone conversation.

'Fireworks,' I said. 'Look.'

'Ah.  Yes, of course.  Gunpowder, treason and plot, and all that sort of thing.'

'That sort of thing,' I agreed.  There was an awkward silence. 'Pretty good view, for a billiards room,' I said.  He looked at me. 'They're usually on the ground floor because of the weight,' I explained.

He nodded and looked thoughtful. 'Are you perhaps a Catholic, Kate?'

'What?'

'You looked so sad.  The plot in which Guy Fawkes was taking part was an attempt to restore the Catholic succession to England, was it not?  I thought perhaps you were lamenting to yourself his lack of success in blowing up the Houses of Parliament.'

I smiled. 'No, Prince.  I was never a Catholic.'

'Ah.' He sighed and looked out of the window at the distant lights.  He smelled a little of smoke and some old-fashioned scent.  His eyes looked sunken and dark.  He seemed lost in his own thoughts. 'Ah, well.'

I hesitated, then said, 'You look a little low yourself, Prince.  Has it been a long day?'

'Most,' he said. 'Most long.' He stared out of the window.  He cleared his throat. 'Ah, dear Kate.'

'Yes, Suvinder?'

'About our telephone conversation this morning.'

I held up my hands as though to catch a basketball at chest height. 'Suvinder,' I said. 'It's all right.' I hoped I might settle the issue with just that gesture and those words, plus a look of friendly sympathy and understanding, but the Prince had obviously already decided he was going to have his say.  I hate it when people are so damn programmed.

'I hope you were not offended.'

'I was not, Prince.  As I said at the time, I was annoyed at being woken up, but the sentiments were most flattering.'

'They were,' he swallowed, 'sincere, but ill put.'

'The sincerity was by far the more obvious quality, Suvinder,' I said, and even surprised myself at the way the words came out.  The Prince looked pleased.  He gazed out the window again.  We both watched the few rising sparks.

I was thinking about how high up we were, about the crags and cliffs and the undulating hills between us and the town when he said, 'It is all so flat here, isn't it?'

I looked at him. 'Are you homesick, Suvinder?'

'Perhaps, a little.' He glanced at me. 'You have only been to Thulahn once, haven't you, Kate?'

'Just the once, and very briefly.'

'It was the rainy season then.  You did not see it at its best.  You should return.  It is very beautiful at this time of year.'

'I'm sure it is.  Maybe one day.'

He gave a small smile and said, 'It would please me greatly.'

'That's very kind, Suvinder.'

He bit his lip. 'Well, then, will you tell me why you were looking so despondent, dear Kate?'

I don't know whether I'm just naturally reticent or it's some business-inspired wariness to do with giving people a handle on my possible weaknesses, but normally I'm loath to share any back-story (as Hollywood would call it) stuff.  Anyway, I said, 'I suppose I always find fireworks kind of sad.  I mean, fun, too, but sad all the same.'

Suvinder looked surprised. 'Why is that?'

'I think it goes back to when I was a little girl.  We could never afford fireworks, and my mother didn't like them anyway; she was the kind of person who hid under the kitchen table when there was thunder.  The only fireworks I ever had of my own were a few sparklers one year.  And I managed to burn myself with one of those.  Still have the scar, see?' I showed him my left wrist.

'Oh dear,' he said. 'Sorry, where?'

'There.  I mean, I know, it's tiny, looks like a freckle or something, but, well.'

'To have no fireworks as a child, that is sad.'

I shook my head. 'It's not that, though.  What we used to do was, on November the sixth each year my pals and I would go round the town where I lived, collecting spent fireworks.  We' d dig the Roman candles up out of the ground and search for rockets in the woods and people's gardens.  We tramped all over the bits of waste ground looking for these bright tubes of cardboard.  They were always wet and soggy and the paper was just starting to unravel, and they smelled of dampness and ashes.  We used to stick them in a big pile in our gardens, as though they were fresh and unused.  The thing was to have more fireworks and bigger ones than your friends.  I found it helped to go further afield, to where the better-off people had their displays.'

'Oh.  So you were not just tidying them up?'

'I suppose we were doing that too, inadvertently, but really it was a kind of competition.'

'But why is that sad?'

I looked at his big, dark, melancholy face. 'Because there are few things more forlorn and useless than a damp, used firework, and when I look back it just seems so pathetic that we used to treasure the damn things.' I shrugged. 'That's all.'

The Prince was quiet for a while.  A few more rockets lit up the skies above Harrogate. 'I used to be frightened of fireworks,' he said. 'When I was smaller.'

'The noise?'

'Yes.  We have fireworks on many of our holy days and on the monarch's birthday.  My father would always insist that I let off the biggest and loudest of them.  It used to terrify me.  I would never sleep the night before.  My nurse would stop my ears with wax, but still when I set off the larger mortars the blast would all but knock me head over heels, and I would start to weep.  This displeased my father.'

I didn't say anything for a while.  We watched the tiny, silent sparks climbing, spreading, falling in the distance.

'Well, you're in charge now, Suvinder,' I told him. 'You can ban fireworks if you want.'

'Oh, no,' he said, and looked mildly shocked. 'I could never do such a thing.  No, no, they are traditional and, besides, I came to tolerate them.' He smiled hesitantly. 'I would even say that now I love them.'

I put my hand out and touched his arm. 'Good for you, Prince.'

He looked down at my hand, and seemed to be about to say something.  Then his secretary B. K. Bousande appeared at the door, clearing his throat.

Suvinder Dzung looked round, nodded, then smiled regretfully. 'I must go.  Good night, Kate.'

'Good night, Suvinder.'

I watched him pad quickly, silently away, then turned back to look out of the dark window, waiting for more of the tiny lights climbing above the town, but there were none.