“Most of your colleagues wear Kevlar vests and travel in numbers. Do you think having an Iraqi mother will protect you?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps you are very brave?”
“No, sir.”
Water trickles down Luca’s back. It might be sweat. “The bank manager was tortured.”
“It appears so.”
“Do you know how much money was taken?”
“No.”
“What happened to the other security guards?”
“Perhaps they chased after the robbers.”
“Perhaps they ran off with the money.”
The leaking hoses have doused the general’s cigarette. He stares at the soggy offering. “It is not a good idea to make accusations like that.”
“This is the eighteenth bank robbery in Baghdad this year. Does that concern you?”
The general smiles, but the corners of his mouth barely move. “I find it reassuring that somebody is keeping count.”
His car door is being held open, the engine running. He slides into the passenger seat and waves the driver onwards with a flick of his hand. The convoy moves off, weaving between fire engines, adding one more siren to a city that sings with them.
2
Being measured for a new suit was not something Vincent Ruiz expected to happen until he was lying cold and stiff on an undertaker’s slab. And if that were the case, he didn’t suppose he’d care about an effeminate stranger nudging a tape measure against his balls. Maybe he’s weighing them. Every other measurement has been taken.
Emile drapes the tape measure around his neck and jots down another set of numbers.
“Does sir want the trousers to touch his uppers or the top of the soles?”
“Call me Vincent.”
“Yes, sir.”
He holds the tape measure against Ruiz’s hip and lets it fall before tugging it tight again. “Has sir considered cuffs?”
“Are they extra?”
“No. You have the height to wear cuffs. Short men should avoid them. I’d recommend about one and a half inches.”
“Fine.”
Next the tape measure is wrapped around Ruiz’s upper thigh. “Does sir dress to the left or the right?”
“I like to swing both ways.”
Emile’s eyebrows arch like inflection marks.
“Just give me loads of room,” says Ruiz. “I want to be able to hide a hard-on. My ex-wife is coming to the wedding and she’s a lot hotter since we divorced.”
“Very good, sir.”
Ruiz sighs and gives up trying to get a smile out of Emile. Instead he ponders his daughter’s wedding. Claire is getting married in just under a week and he is supposed to walk her down the aisle and “give her away.” She rang him last night and threatened to ask someone else if he didn’t start following instructions.
“That’s just it,” he told her. “I don’t want to give you away. I want to keep you.”
“Very droll, Dad.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m getting married whether you like it or not.”
“I could have Phillip arrested.”
“He’s a lawyer, Dad, not a criminal.”
“Is there a difference?”
Emile picks up his brocade cushion and retreats from the fitting room. Ruiz pulls on his worn corduroy trousers and heavy cotton shirt. As he buttons the front, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Turning sideways and sucking in his stomach, he straightens his shoulders and examines his physique. Not bad for a man who has hurdled sixty. Some mileage on the clock, but that’s to be expected. His doctor wouldn’t agree, of course, but his doctor is the sort of idiot who thinks people should live to be a hundred and fifty.
Slipping on a jacket, he pats the pockets and takes out a metal tin of boiled sweets. Unscrewing the lid he pops one into his mouth where it rattles against his teeth. He gave up smoking six years ago. Sugar is the substitute; calories as opposed to cancer.
As he steps out of the menswear shop, a hand slips through his left arm, pulling him close. He accepts Claire’s kiss on the cheek, bending slightly so she can reach.
“Is it done?”
“It’s done.”
“That wasn’t so hard?”
“A strange man has been weighing my balls.”
“Emile is lovely.”
“He’s gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.”
She giggles and skips to keep up with him. Dark-haired and pretty, she walks on her toes like a ballet dancer-her former career. Now she teaches at the Royal Academy, crippling prepubescent girls who look pregnant if they eat an apple.
“OK, now remember we have a dinner with Phillip’s folks tomorrow night. They’re catching the train from Brighton. Mr. Seidlitz has invited us to his club.”
Ruiz’s heart sinks. “What sort of club?”
“Don’t worry, Daddy, he doesn’t play golf.”
Seidlitz is a Ukrainian name. Maybe golf isn’t big in the Ukraine. Ruiz isn’t looking forward to it-a table for six, small talk. Miranda will be his date. His ex-wife. Number three. She’s the one who acts like they’re still married. Ruiz knows there is something fundamentally amiss about this fact, but Miranda is the sort of ex-wife that most men dream about. Low maintenance. Self-sufficient. Classy. When they divorced she asked him for nothing except for a few souvenirs from the marriage and to be allowed to stay in touch with Michael and Claire. They still needed a mother, she said.
Over the past few years Ruiz and Miranda have periodically fallen into bed together-a perfectly satisfactory “friends with benefits” arrangement, offering companionship, a pinch of romance and the sort of sex that can fog the windows. Not love, it’s true… not exactly-but closer to love than most relationships Ruiz had known.
Claire looks at her watch. “I’m meeting Phillip. He’ll be early.”
“Why?”
“He always is.”
“That’s another reason not to marry him.”
“Oh, stop!”
Blowing him a kiss, she skips across the road, leaving him on the corner. He wants to call after her, to hear her sweet voice again.
Married… in a week. She seems too young. Thirty-two on her last birthday, yet Ruiz can still picture her in pigtails and braces. Her fiance is a lawyer who works for an investment bank. Does that make him a lawyer or a banker? He votes Tory, but everybody does these days.
Ruiz wishes Laura were here. She would have loved all this-preparing menus, choosing flowers, sending out invitations-weddings are about mothers and daughters. The father of the bride just has to turn up, walk down the aisle and hand his daughter over like she’s part of a prisoner swap.
Ruiz isn’t even expected to pick up the tab. Phillip has everything covered. He earns more in a month than Ruiz used to make in a year as a detective inspector. He didn’t even melt a little during the global meltdown, while Ruiz’s retirement funds have halved. His investment advisor isn’t answering his calls, which is always a bad sign.
Office workers are spilling out of buildings, their day ending, the commute ahead. Ruiz tries to avoid public transport during the peak hours. Lust, greed, sloth, envy, pride… the full pathology of human behavior is played out on the tube every morning and evening. It’s like an experiment in overcrowding using humans instead of rats. Ruiz prefers to conduct his own scientific study, which involves a pint of Guinness and a table by the window where he can watch the office girls walk by in their tight skirts and summer blouses. Not a dirty old man but a lover of the feminine form.
The Coach amp; Horses in Greek Street used to be one of his favorite pubs, back in the days when Norman “You’re Barred” Balon was still in charge. Norman was London’s grumpiest publican, famous for abusing patrons. He retired a few years back. Regulars gave him a standing ovation and three cheers. Norman told them to shut up and “spend more fucking money.”
Setting his pint on a table, Ruiz pulls out a notebook and reads over the sentences he wrote this morning. Stories. Anecdotes. Descriptions. Ever since he retired he’s been making notes and trying to remember things. He doesn’t see himself as a writer. He has no desire to be one. It’s about finding the right words and sorting out his memories, rather than justifying his actions or leaving something behind.