And then she sees: he thinks she has come to him for an abortion.
Chapter 12
Unwanted conception — that seems the end of the world to many of his patients. What his niece relates to him of this man she has taken on is a threat from the world. The secure world in which, as someone who always has had her in his care, even if he did not see her for months, did not quite know where she might be, he felt himself somehow hoveringly responsible for her in what he has seen as the abrogation of this by the temperament of his brother in his highly-approved first marriage, and her mother’s subsequent desertion to her casino impresario. The intricacies of the law are not for him, that’s not his field, but he does know, from its physical and mental and spiritual manifestations (he believes in the spirit or soul, this is part of the innocence with which his gloved hand enters its shelter, the body), the indeflectable power of physical attraction in its victims, his patients; its ruthlessness and recklessness. A juggernaut thundering into the personality. He also believes in love (no doubt influenced by his own enduring experience of it) — love is the spirit— which is not necessarily present in physical attraction, but replaced by its denial, cruelty (he sees rape cases, these violent days that do not spare the rich). He knows how love, if mysteriously engendered by physical attraction, develops the characteristic of assuming, to the exclusion of all else, whatever assails the other being; that other has become the self. So in his presence she knows it; that he knows she loves the man who appeared to her, legs, body, finally head from under a car. And about that, he knows there is nothing to be done; although others might think otherwise, and be thankful that the law will do it for them. What there is to be done — he certainly urges engaging the lawyer, lawyers, in fact, any big guns available; as with his own profession, second and even third opinions are needed for alternatives in the need for radical action. Eleven days left of two weeks!
— Shall I go with you to this lawyer you know of? You’d like me to be with you?—
She feels an unwarranted relief from anxiety, based on nothing, just because of this spontaneity from someone who cannot help her. No, no, she and her lover must go together.
— Any time, any time, I’m here. Sharon and I, at home. You can call, you can come. Ask the lawyer if any sort of letter of recommendation — I don’t know what the form might be — would be useful. Some guarantee for your man from this respectable and law-abiding old citizen.—
He went with her past the women gazing up to greet him from their place in the waiting-room, leading her along the corridor to the lifts, waiting, so that she would not be alone with doors gliding closed on her.
It is a fact that the Senior Counsel no longer practises law. She finds out in a roundabout way since she could not ask her father without giving an explanation of why she wants to approach the man. One among the friends — it’s David — is her source through abandoned connections he takes up on her behalf. The Table is unanimous: get in touch with the guy anyway, even if he doesn’t practise any more, he’ll still have all the stuff in his head, he’s not going to refuse advice to you, he’s seen you, he’s seen Abdu, you say, at your father’s place. How can he refuse. No way!
Joining them at The Table, the victim, the accused, the endangered, their friend Julie’s pickup — what is he to have the sense of, as himself? — he has listened to them closely.
— That’s what I tell her.—
You know why I’m reluctant. (In case the word escapes him): Don’t much want to.
They are like any of the combination of lovers who come and go, having a private spat between them in the protection of The Table.
So if he speaks to your father? That can be something good. If it comes from him, an important man your father likes. So if he speaks!
She gets the general secretary on the line when she calls a corporate headquarters at the number she’s been given, reaches the private secretary, then the personal assistant, and finally Mr Hamilton Motsamai himself. She has had to introduce herself to the personal assistant as Nigel Summers’ daughter. The lawyer is (in the corporate jargon she’s familiar with among her father’s associates) affable, how is Nigel, I expect to be in a meeting with him next week, very good — of course I remember you, your father’s house is a special place to relax in … yes. He has a deep soft voice, black voice, that sounds as if it would resonate from a tall broad man but she remembers he is small and agile-looking. If it’s urgent, of course. Very good. After all, this is Ackroyd’s daughter — but then oddly, as if in contradiction, she adds something awkwardly.
— I hope you don’t mind my asking — would you please not mention I’ve called you, if you do happen to be in touch with my father.—
So at once there is a secret between her and this stranger that he, her lover, will not know of. Although everything in her, is his. This is a mere filament of the strands of deviousness she is aware of having to learn in a circumstance she, in all her confident discard of conventional ones, finds she had no preparation for. He, her find; it was also this one, to be discovered in herself.
She is asked by the personal secretary, who makes the appointment, to give the registration number of her car so that she may be granted parking in the corporate headquarters’ underground bays. The good second-hand Toyota the garage mechanic obtained for her finds a place in the cavern. She looks for a moment at his avatar, presenting himself aggressively handsome in the silk scarf at the neck of the shirt that becomes him best. She smiles but he knows she is trying to measure with other eyes the impression he needs to make. They emerge through security turnstiles where they slot the plastic cards given them when the guard at the entrance verified the registration number; are guided by another uniformed man to sign (her name serves for both), time of arrival and other particulars of identification in a gold-tooled leather-bound book; are taken over by a smart young woman programmed to preface with And how are you today her instruction of which elevator goes up to the 17th floor. The doors open on a reception area before interleading halls and alcoves, like a five-star hotel; palm trees lean up to a glass dome, a fountain dribbles from the beaks of bronze cranes and under lamps there are pale leather sofas and chairs grouped for conversation. Some sort of luncheon is going on, spilling from one of the alcoves. There is the curve of a small bar, silver-bright ice buckets on stands, a buffet concealed by people helping themselves to an accompaniment of laughter and voices from which the treble jets as another kind of fountain. He and she stand: the lights have gone up in a theatre.
Mr Motsamai’s suite is reached through his secretary’s office and his personal assistant’s office, both women seal-sleekly blonde. He receives his associate’s daughter and the young man (foreign) not in the formality of his office where he does business but in his adjoining reception room, not too large for one-to-one contact, amply comfortable, with TV console and a fan of financial journals on its glass tables. His sparse pointed beard, quaintly worn as seen on engravings of ancient tribal kings, is matched in distinction by the fresh white carnation in his lapel beside a rosette of some Order.
It is evident that Summers’ daughter will be the one to speak.
His face changes as he listens to her story. It’s as if he has been returned by her to another life: this is the withdrawn and acutely attentive face of Senior Counsel, not the affable deputy chairman or whatever-he-is in the headquarters of this banking conglomerate or whatever-it-is. The girl’s story becomes a confession in all the detail she has learned carefully by rote and, it’s obvious from her wary delivery, she’s aware her companion is silently monitoring.