Wesley looked across the room at Pauline trying vainly to calm the puce, wailing baby. Daniel-Ian Young, his nephew. It was a better name than Wesley Bright, he thought — just — though he had never come across the two Christian names thus conjoined before. Bit of a mouthful. He wondered if he dared point out to his brother-in-law the good decade-odd remorseless bullying that lay ahead for the youngster once his peers discovered what his initials spelled. He decided to store it away in his grudge-bunker as potential retaliation. Sometimes Dermot really got on his wick.
He watched his brother-in-law, Dermot Young, approach, two pint-tankards in hand. Wesley accepted his gladly. He had a terrible thirst.
“Fine pair of lungs on him, any road,” Dermot said. “You were saying, Wesley.”
“—No, it’s a state called Minas Gerais, quite remote, but with this amazing musical tradition. I mean, you’ve got Beto Guedes, Toninho Horta, the one and only Milton Nascimento, of course, Lo Borges, Wagner Tiso. All these incredible talents who—”
“—HELEN! Can you put him down, or something? We can’t hear ourselves think, here.”
Wesley gulped fizzy beer. Pauline, relieved of Daniel-Ian, was coming over with a slice of christening cake on a plate, his mother in tow.
“All right, all right,” Pauline said, with an unpleasant leering tone to her voice, Wesley thought. “What are you two plotting? Mmm?”
“Where did you get that suit, Wesley?” his mother asked, guilelessly. “Is it one of your dad’s?”
There was merry laughter at this. Wesley kept a smile on his face.
“No,” Dermot said. “Wes was telling me about this bunch of musicians from—”
“—Brazil.” Pauline’s shoulders sagged and she turned wearily to Wesley’s mother. “Told you, didn’t I, Isobel? Brazil. Brazil. Told you. Honestly.”
“You and Brazil,” his mother admonished. “It’s not as if we’ve got any Brazilians in the family.”
“Not as if you’ve even been there,” Pauline said, a distinct hostility in her voice. “Never even set foot.”
Wesley silently hummed the melody from a João Gilberto samba to himself. Gilberto had taken the traditional form and distilled it through a good jazz filter. It was João who had stripped away the excess of percussion in Brazilian music and brought bossa nova to the—
“Yeah, what is it with you and Brazil, Wes?” Dermot asked, a thin line of beer suds on his top lip. “What gives?”
WHUCHINNNNNNG! WHACHANNNNGGG!! Liceu Lobo put down his guitar, and before selecting the mandolin he tied his dreadlocks back behind his head in a slack bun. Gibson Piaçava played a dull roll on the zabumba and Liceu Lobo began slowly to strum the musical phrase that seemed to be dominating “The Waves on the Shore” at this stage in its extemporized composition. Joel Carlos Brandt automatically started to echo the mandolin phrases on his guitar and Bola da Rocha plaintively picked up the melody on his saxophone.
Behind the glass of the recording studio Albertina swayed her hips to and fro to the sinuous rhythm that was slowly building. Pure chorinho, she thought, sensuous yet melancholy, only Liceu is capable of this, of all the great choros in Brazil, he was the greatest. At that moment he looked around and caught her eye and he smiled at her as he played. She kissed the tip of her forefinger and pressed it against the warm glass of the window that separated them. Once Liceu and his fellow musicians started a session like this it could last for days, weeks even. She would wait patiently for him, though, wait until he was finished and take him home to their wide bed.
Wesley stepped out into the back garden and flipped open his mobile phone.
“Café Caravelle, may I help you, please?”
“Ah. Could I speak to, ah, Margarita?”
“MARGARITA! Telefono.”
In the chilly dusk of a back garden in Hounslow, Wesley Bright listened to the gabble of foreign voices, the erratic percussion of silverware and china and felt he was calling some distant land, far overseas. A warmth located itself in his body, a spreading coin of heat, deep in his bowels.
“Ghello?” That slight guttural catch on the “h”…
“Margarita, it’s Wesley.”
“Ghello?”
“Wesley. It’s me — Wesley.”
“Please?”
“WESLEY!” He stopped himself from shouting louder in time, and repeated his name in a throat-tearing whisper several times, glancing around at the yellow windows of Dermot’s house. He saw someone peering at him, in silhouette.
“Ah, Wesley,” Margarita said. “Yes?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten, outside the café.”
Pauline stood at the kitchen door, frowning out into the thickening dusk of the garden. Wesley advanced into the rectangle of light the open door had thrown on the grass.
“What’re you up to, Wesley?”
Wesley slid his thin phone into his hip pocket.
“Needed a breath of fresh air,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit off, to tell the truth. Those vol-au-vents tasted dodgy to me.”
Pauline was upset, she had been expecting a meal out after the christening, but she was also concerned for him and his health. “I thought you looked a bit sort of pallid,” she said when he dropped her at her flat. She made him wait while she went inside and reemerged with two sachets of mint infusion, “to help settle your stomach,” she said. She took them whenever she felt bilious, she told him, and they worked wonders.
As he drove off he smelled strongly the pungent impress of her perfume, or powder or makeup, on his cheek where she had kissed him, and he felt a squirm of guilt at his duplicity — if something so easily accomplished merited the description — and a small pelt of shame covered him for a minute or two as he headed east toward the Café Caravelle and the waiting Margarita.
Her hair was down. Her hair was down and he was both rapt and astonished at the change it wrought in her. And to see her out of black too, he thought, it was almost too much. He carried their drinks through the jostling noisy pub to the back where she sat, on a high stool, elbow resting on a narrow shelf designed to take glasses. She was drinking a double vodka and water, no ice and no slice, a fact he found exciting and vaguely troubling. He had smelled her drink as the barmaid had served up his rum and coke and it had seemed redolent of heavy industry, some strange fuel or new lubricant, something one would pour into a machine rather than down one’s throat. It seemed, also, definitely not a drink of the warm South either, not at all apt for his taciturn Latin beauty, more suited to the bleak cravings of a sheet-metal worker in Smolensk. Still, it was gratifying to observe how she put it away, shudderless, in three pragmatic drafts. Then she spoke briefly, brutally, of how much she hated her job. It was a familiar theme, one Wesley recognized from his two previous social encounters with Margarita — the first a snatched coffee in a hamburger franchise before her evening shift began, and then a more leisurely autumnal Sunday lunch at a brash pub on the river at Richmond.
On that last occasion she had seemed out of sorts, cowed perhaps by the strapping conviviality of the tall, noisy lads and their feisty, jolly girls. But tonight she had returned to the same tiresome plaint — the mendacious and rebarbative qualities of the Caravelle’s manager, João — so Wesley had to concede it was clearly something of an obsession.
They had kissed briefly and not very satisfactorily after their Sunday pub tryst, and Wesley felt this allowed him now to take her free hand (her other held her cigarette) and squeeze it. She stopped talking and, he thought, half smiled at him.
“Weseley,” she said, and stubbed out her cigarette. Then she grinned. “Tonight, I thin I wan to be drunk …”