Your own agent was the one who ran down the Simi, the so-called theft of which is the subject of charge three.* I could not have planned this. Yet if I had not met the Simi, I could never have so charmed Mrs Kram. So common sense will tell you that I could not have entered Voorstand planning to climb into Kram’s bed.
Almost a week I spent with her. During that time no one — not Wendell Deveau, not Gabe Manzini — could discover where I was. Metaphorically speaking, I was in another country.
We sat amongst her folk rugs (so many mice and ducks you never saw) with her photograph albums. So many black borders, so many dead people. So many terrible things had happened to her in her short life. She had witnessed her handsome husband’s brains splatter against the front-row celebrities on opening night. She lost two babies in the home that caught alight while she was at the theatre. Other things, you may or may not know about, more things than should have happened to anyone, had happened to this woman, whose wealth and power were envied everywhere.
She is thought to be ruthless, I know, and is, I know.
But Madam, Meneer, this misguided woman’s passion for the principles of your past, her vegetarianism, her prayerfulness, all this is genuine.
In each one of her Ghostdorps she had tried to create an ideal world — a model — where the actor inhabitants lived in accordance with the values of the Settlers Free. ‘They ploughed, they tilled, hulled, they shucked, they ground, etc.’
She promised me she would find work for my father, that she would keep me in comfort all my life. She told me she would employ my nurse.
She told me about the Saarlim Ghostdorp. It was not my idea. How could it be? Could it be anyone’s but hers? It was she who had assembled Frear Munroe, Dirk Juta, Clive Baarder, on her rooftop.
It was she who later took me into her trothaus boardroom and introduced me to Clive Baarder. Please wait, Madam, Meneer. In a moment I will tell you what happened in that room. But first a reminder of what you put my family through.
*
‘Unlawfully take into his own possession a Simulacrum Mark 3, model No. 234, the property of the Saarlim Cybernetic Corporation, and that he did, without proper permission, either orally or written, and contrary to the best interests of the aforesaid Simulacrum’s legal owners, damage the aforesaid machine to such a degree as to make it without value.’
52
‘You are asking me to betray my son,’ my father said to Gabe Manzini, who was drinking Orange Pekoe tea from Bill’s best art-deco china ware.
‘A little melodramatic,’ Gabe Manzini said, ‘even for the Sirkus Brits.’ He lifted the saucer to read the mark and then placed it on the table very gently. ‘All I asked you was, have you seen him or his nurse?’
Bill looked away from him towards Wendell Deveau. The big pasty Efican was looking out of the window, eating the ham sandwich he had brought with him.
‘I can’t do it,’ Bill said, at last.
‘Come on, mo-frere,’ Wendell Deveau said, crumpling up the green sandwich bag. ‘Don’t stuff us around.’
Bill took the greasy paper from the DoS man and carried it to the fastidiously tidy kitchen.
‘It is your privilege not to assist us,’ Gabe Manzini called. ‘Just as it is my privilege to ask if your immigration papers are in order.’
‘You’d kick me out of the country, for not answering a question?’
‘Again: I did not say that. But we are a rough lot, Meneer Millefleur. We get very impatient with details.’
‘I’ve lived here over twenty years,’ Bill said, seating himself at the table again. ‘I’ve paid my taxes.’
‘Come on, Bill,’ Wendell Deveau said. ‘Don’t stuff us around.’
‘Twenty years!’ Manzini smiled, and what was unnerving to Bill was that it was a nice smile, the smile of a civilized man. ‘You must like it here. This is a very nice apartment. I was admiring the De Kok.’
‘I like it a great deal,’ Bill said.
‘As for your papers, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t say if they were in order if you showed them to me,’ Gabe Manzini said. ‘We have a whole building full of lawyers who look at that sort of thing.’
‘And what do you want with my son?’
‘Well, as you can see, we have two parties with an interest,’ Gabe Manzini said. ‘And if I were a little less upset with my colleagues in your estimable DoS I might not say this to you — but if I were you, Meneer Millefleur, I would be working damn hard to let me have your son. I think Agent Deveau here has orders to eliminate him.’
‘Come on, Gabe, all I want to do is interview him, just like you do,’ Wendell said.
‘Well, Meneer Deveau, the tapes will settle that question. My advice to you,’ he turned to Bill, ‘would be to let me talk to him. We Voorstanders are not always the villains.’
‘I don’t have to work in Saarlim,’ Bill said. ‘You refuse me residency, I’ll go home.’
‘You know,’ Gabe Manzini said, ‘I wouldn’t advise that. Those DoS guys can be real pricks, especially when they’ve been made to look stupid. Just because they’re sometimes unprofessional doesn’t mean they couldn’t hurt you. The opposite, really.’
‘Could I have a second of your time?’ Wendell said to Gabe Manzini.
Gabe Manzini looked up at Wendell Deveau and smiled pleasantly. ‘Of course, Bruder,’ he said. ‘Later. We’ll talk all about it at 583. For now, I think we should give Mr Millefleur a moment to reflect.’
Gabe Manzini rose and walked around the apartment. He stopped at a sandstone figure of the Dog-headed Saint. Picked it up. Turned it over. Replaced it. He was a neat figure, slim, athletic, with shining brown shoes and corduroy trousers. He was like a curator, not a murderer. Everything he looked at, the precious dining table, the art-deco china, the Badberg first editions, the De Kok ‘Crucifixion in the New World’, revealed a connoisseur’s discernment and therefore an educated approval which Bill would, in other circumstances, have found highly flattering.
Indeed, my father had always prided himself that, no matter what his disappointments in relation to his acting, he was living a cultured life at the centre of the world. He had seen Michael Cohen play Hamlet. He had dined with Una Chaudry. He had seen the greatest actors of his time. He had shaken the hands of two kings, a mayor, a duke from England. He had skated on the ice in Demos Platz on Christmas Day. He had dined at Le Recamier, at all the finest restaurants in the city. He had been born in a leaking caravan in Efica, but he had spent his life with the very best of everything in the world.
But now he saw it was impossible for him to do what he was asked. He sat and looked at the possessions which had hitherto given him so much satisfaction and realized that he did not give a tinker’s fart about them. He saw a whole wall of dominoes tipping and falling like a long black tail which led back to the ageing Circus School with the rusting roof.
In his mind he and Tristan Smith were already back in the seedy little theatre in Gazette Street. It was raining. Moosone. The drains were overflowing. A plastic rubbish bin was blowing down the street.
53
Wally had turned his back on me. Jacqui had brushed past me and ignored my greeting. But it was Clive Baarder who had been the most upset to see me when, nearly a week later, I finally emerged from Peggy Kram’s boudoir.