Tremor of Intent

So far Hillier had joined Theodorescu in a dish of lobster medallions in a sauce cardinale. The lobster had, so the chief steward had informed them, been poached in white wine and a court-bouillon made with the shells, then set alight in warm pernod. The saloon was full of silent waiters, many Goanese, some British (one, Wriste's winger-pal, had come up to whisper 'Ta for the Guinness'). There was no harassed banging and clattering through the kitchen doors; all was leisurely.

'I think,' said Theodorescu, 'you and I will now have some red mullet and artichoke hearts. The man who was sitting in that place before you was not a good trencherman. I tend to feel embarrassed when my table companions eat very much less than I: I am made to feel greedy.' Hillier looked at Miss Devi's deft and busy long red talons. She was eating a large and various curry with many side-dishes; it should, if she ate it all, last her till about midnight. 'I think we had better stay with this champagne, don't you?' said Theodorescu. It was a 1953 Bollinger; they were already near the end of this first bottle. 'Harmless enough, not in the least spectacular, but I take wine to be a kind of necessary bread, it must not intrude too much into the meal. Wine-worshipping is the most vulgar of idolatries.'

'You must,' said Hillier, 'allow me to have the next bottle on my bill.'

'Well now,' said Theodorescu, 'I will make a bargain with you. Whoever eats the less shall pay for the wine. Are you agreeable?'

'I don't think I stand a chance,' said Hillier.

'Oh, I think that nauseous boy has impaired your self-confidence. At table I fear the thin man. The fat laugh and seem to cram themselves, but it is all so much wind and show. Are you at all a betting man?'

'Well-' In Hillier's closed tank a sort of fermentation was taking place; a coarse kind of Schaumwein of the spirit made him say: 'What do you have in mind?'

'Whatever sum you care to name. The Trencherman Stakes.' Miss Devi tinkled a giggle. 'Shall we say a thousand pounds?'

Could that, should he lose, be charged to his expenses, wondered Hillier. But, of course, it didn't apply. A cheque signed by Jagger was only a piece of paper. 'Done,' he said. 'We order the dishes alternately. All plates to be thoroughly cleaned.'

'Splendid. We start now.' And they worked away at the red mullet and artichoke hearts. 'Slowly,' said Theo-dorescu. 'We have all the time in the world. Speaking of champagne, there was some serious talk-in 1918, I think it was, the second centenary of the first use of the name to designate the sparkling wines of Hautvillers – some talk, as I say, of seeking canonisation for Dom Pérignon, champagne's inventor. Nothing came of it, and yet men have been canonised for less.'

'Very much less,' said Hillier. 'I would sooner seek intercession from Saint Pérignon than from Saint Paul.'

'You're a praying man, then? A believer?'

'Not exactly that. Not any longer.' Careful, careful. 'I believe in man's capacity to choose. I accept free will, the basic Christian tenet.'

'Excellent. And now, talking of choosing-' Theo-dorescu beckoned. The chief steward himself came across, a soft-looking ginger-moustached man. Hillier and Theo-dorescu ordered ahead alternately. Hillier: fillets of sole Queen Elizabeth, with sauce blonde; Theodorescu: shellfish tart with sauce Newburg; Hillier: soufflé au foie gras and to be generous with the Madeira; Theodorescu: avocado halves with caviar and a cold chiffon sauce. 'And,' said Theodorescu, 'more champagne.'

They ate. Some of the nearer diners, aware of what was going on, relaxed their own eating to watch the contest. Theodorescu praised the red caviar that had been heaped on the avocado, then he said: 'And where, Mr Jagger, did you receive your Catholic education?'

Hillier needed to concentrate on his food. 'Oh,' he said, at random, 'in France.' He had given away too much already; he must maintain his disguise. 'At a little place north of Bordeaux. Cantenac. I doubt if you'd know it.'

'Cantenac? But who doesn't know Cantenac, or at any rate the Château Brane-Cantenac?'

'Of course,' said Hillier. 'But I'd understood that you weren't a wine man. The Baron de Brane who made Mouton-Rothschild great.'

'A strange place, though, for a young Englishman to be brought up. Your father was concerned with viticulture?'

'My mother was French,' lied Hillier.

'Indeed? What was her maiden name? It's possible that I know the family.'

'I doubt it,' said Hillier. 'It was a very obscure family.'

'But I take it that you received your technical education in England?'

'In Germany.'

'Where in Germany?'

'Now,' said Hillier, 'I suggest filet mignon à la romana, and a little butterfly pasta and a few zucchini.'

'Very well.' The chief steward was busy with his pencil.

'And after that some toast lamb persillée and onion and gruyère casserole with green beans and celery julienne.'

'And more champagne?'

'I think we might change. Something heavier. '55 was a great year for clarets. A Lafite Rothschild?'

'I could ask for nothing better.'

'And for you, my dear?' Miss Devi had eaten a great deal, though not all, of her curries. She wanted a simple crème brûlée and a glass of madeira to go with it. She had had her fill of champagne: her eyes were bright, a well-lighted New Delhi, no smouldering jungles. Hillier grew uneasy as, while they awaited their little fillets, Theo-dorescu bit hungrily at some stick-bread. It might be bluff: watch him. The dining-saloon was emptying at leisure: in the distance a dance-band was tuning up: the aged fiddlers had departed. The diners nearest the contestants were less interested than before: this was pure gorging, their full stomachs told them; the men were, behind blue smokescreens, now satisfying hunger for the finest possible Cuban leaf. The Walters family was still there, the girl reading, the boy inhaling a balloon-glass, the wife smoking, the husband looking not very well.

'Whereabouts in Germany?' asked Theodorescu, cutting his fillet. 'I know Germany. But, of course, I know most countries. My business takes me far and wide.' I have been warned, thought Hillier. He said: 'What I meant was that I studied typewriters in Germany. After the war. In Wilhelmshaven.'

'Of course. A great naval base reduced to a seaside centre of light industries. You will probably be acquainted with Herr Luttwitz of the Olympia Company.'

Hillier took a chance, frowning. 'I don't seem to remember a Herr Luttwitz.'

'Of course, stupid of me. I was thinking of a quite different company altogether.'

'And what,' asked Hillier, when the roast lamb came -he could tell it was delicious, but things would soon be ceasing to be delicious – 'is your particular line of business?'

'Pure buying and selling,' shrugged Theodorescu massively. Was it imagination, or was he having difficulty with that forkful of onion and gruyère casserole? 'I produce nothing. I am a broken reed in the great world -your great world – of creativity.'