‘What do you care?’
‘Given your moustache, I’d say Manouche. One of Django Reinhardt’s descendants, maybe?’
‘My name is Samana. Babel Samana.’
‘Your gypsy name?’
‘That is secret.’
‘My name is Bale. No secret there.’
The gypsy’s fingers increased their beat upon the table. His eyes were everywhere now – flitting across the other drinkers, testing the doors, plumbing the dimensions of the ceiling.
‘How much do you want for it?’ Cut straight to the chase. That was the way with a man like this. Bale watched the gypsy’s tongue dart out to moisten the thin, artificially virilised mouth.
‘I want half a million euros.’
‘Just so.’ Bale felt a profound calmness descending upon him. Good. The gypsy really did have something to sell. The whole thing wasn’t just a come-on. ‘For such a sum of money, we’d need to inspect the manuscript before purchase. Ascertain its viability.’
‘And memorise it! Yes. I’ve heard of such things. This much I know. Once the contents are out into the open it’s worthless. Its value lies in its secrecy.’
‘You’re so right. I’m very glad you take that position.’
‘I’ve got someone else interested. Don’t think you’re the only fish in the sea.’
Bale’s eyes closed down on themselves. Ah. He would have to kill the gypsy after all. Torment and kill. He was aware of the telltale twitching above his right eye. ‘Shall we go and see the manuscript now?’
‘I’m talking to the other man first. Perhaps you’ll even bid each other up.’
Bale shrugged. ‘Where are you meeting him?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘How do you wish to play this then?’
‘You stay here. I go and talk to the other man. See if he’s serious. Then I come back.’
‘And if he’s not? The price goes down?’
‘Of course not. Half a million.’
‘I’ll stay here then.’
‘You do that.’
The gypsy lurched to his feet. He was breathing heavily now, the sweat dampening his shirt at the neck and sternum. When he turned around Bale noticed the imprint of the chair on the cheap leather jacket.
‘If you follow me, I’ll know. Don’t think I won’t.’
Bale took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table. He looked up, smiling. He had long understood the effect his freakishly clotted eyes had on susceptible people. ‘I won’t follow you.’
The gypsy’s mouth went slack with shock. He gazed in horror at Bale’s face. This man had the ia chalou – the evil eye. Babel’s mother had warned him of such people. Once you saw them – once they fixed you with the stare of the basilisk – you were doomed. Somewhere, deep inside his unconscious mind, Babel Samana was acknowledging his mistake – acknowledging that he had let the wrong man into his life.
‘You’ll stay here?’
‘Never fear. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Babel began running as soon as he was out of the cafe. He would lose himself in the crowds. Forget the whole thing. What had he been thinking of? He didn’t even have the manuscript. Just a vague idea of where it was. When the three ursitory had settled on Babel’s pillow as a child to decide his fate, why had they chosen drugs as his weakness? Why not drink? Or women? Now O Beng had got into him and sent him this cockatrice as a punishment.
Babel slowed to a walk. No sign of the gadje. Had he been imagining things? Imagining the man’s malevolence? The effect of those terrible eyes? Maybe he had been hallucinating? It wouldn’t be the first time he had given himself the heebie-jeebies with badly cut drugs.
He checked the time on a parking meter. Okay. The second man might still be waiting for him. Perhaps he would prove more benevolent?
Across the road, two prostitutes began a heated argument about their respective pitches. It was Saturday afternoon. Pimp day in St-Denis. Babel caught his reflection in a shop window. He gave himself a shaky smile. If only he could swing this deal he might even run a few girls himself. And a Mercedes. He would buy himself a cream Mercedes with red leather seats, can holders and automatic air conditioning. And get his nails manicured at one of those shops where blond payo girls in white pinafores gaze longingly at you across the table.
Chez Minette was only a two-minute walk away. The least he could do would be to poke his head inside the door and check out the other man. Sting him for a down-payment – a proof of interest.
Then, groaning under a mound of cash and gifts, he would go back to the camp and placate his hexi of a sister.
2
Adam Sabir had long since decided that he was on a wild goose chase. Samana was fifty minutes late. It was only his fascination with the seedy milieu of the bar that kept him in situ. As he watched, the barman began winding down the street-entrance shutters.
‘What’s this? Are you closing?’
‘Closing? No. I’m sealing everybody in. It’s Saturday. All the pimps come into town on the train. Cause trouble in the streets. Three weeks ago I lost my front windows. If you want to get out you must leave by the back door.’
Sabir raised an eyebrow. Well. This was certainly a novel way to maintain your customer base. He reached forward and drained his third cup of coffee. He could already feel the caffeine nettling at his pulse. Ten minutes. He would give Samana another ten minutes. Then, although he was still technically on holiday, he would go to the cinema and watch John Huston’s Night of the Iguana – spend the rest of the afternoon with Ava Gardner and Deborah Kerr. Add another to his no doubt unsaleable book on the hundred best films of all time.
‘ Une pression, s’il vous plait. Rien ne presse.’
The barman waved a hand in acknowledgement and continued winding. At the last possible moment a lithe figure slid under the descending shutters and straightened up, using a table for support.
‘ Ho! Tu veux quoi, toi? ’
Babel ignored the barman and stared wildly about the room. His shirt was drenched beneath his jacket and sweat was cascading off the angular lines of his chin. With single-minded intensity he concentrated his attention on each table in turn, his eyes screwed up against the bright interior glare.
Sabir held up a copy of his book on Nostradamus, as they had agreed, with his photograph on prominent display. So. The gypsy had arrived at last. Now for the let-down. ‘I’m over here, Monsieur Samana. Come and join me.’
Babel tripped over a chair in his eagerness to get to Sabir. He steadied himself, limping, his face twisted towards the entrance to the bar. But he was safe for the time being. The shutters were fully down now. He was sealed off from the lying gadje with the crazy eyes. The gadje who had sworn to him that he wouldn’t follow. The gadje who had then trailed him all the way to Chez Minette, not even bothering to hide himself in the crowd. Babel was still in with a chance.
Sabir stood up, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Close to, all the savagery that he had detected in the gypsy’s stare had transformed itself into a vacant mask of terror.
‘You’re the writer?’
‘Yes. See? That’s me. On the inside back cover.’
Babel reached across to the next table and grabbed an empty beer glass. He smashed it down on to the surface between them and ground his hand in the broken shards. Then he reached across and took Sabir’s hand in his bloodied paw. ‘I’m sorry for this.’ Before Sabir had time to react, the gypsy had forced his hand down on to the broken glass.
‘Jesus! You little bastard…’ Sabir tried to snatch his hand back.