THE SECOND LESSON

 

3.1

The next morning Rike returns to Tomas’s apartment. In the hallway she finds four large rolls of white insulation, taller than her, wrapped in plastic with labels in Greek. On her way to Tomas’s apartment she again notices Christos’s name on the list of occupants at the main entrance, then at his door, in English first, then Greek, both crossed through. The scratches aren’t recent. She’s deliberately thinking about details, like the sign, to distance herself from the dream.

It’s possible, this scratching out, that Christos has annoyed someone.

The previous evening she spoke with Henning and attempted to pry a little more from him about the man in hospital: Sutler Number Three. Henning, having fended off Isa’s questions about Parson, refused to give details, but did admit to a small triumph. Udo has conceded. Sutler Number Three, Mr Crispy, will be brought to Cyprus. She is not to talk about this, understand? And neither is Isa. The decision, he thinks, has more to do with expense than security.

The sisters feed their curiosity through internet searches: Sutler, HOSCO, Iraq Conspiracy, Sutler One, Two, Three, tapped in to furnish the smallest details, and finally, Parson, who they feel some connection to because Henning has met the man, interviewed him, discussed details about Sutler which he will not divulge. Speculation on Parson’s death includes the involvement of the Neapolitan Camorra. Isa prefers this theory, and pictures the man’s chaotic run from a band of armed thugs. His stumbling across railroad ties. She loves the idea that the Mafia might be involved, however improbable.

Rike takes the steps to Tomas’s apartment preoccupied. What they do know: Sutler is British, he worked in Iraq as a contractor with an American company called HOSCO, he has absconded with anything between forty-five and fifty-three million dollars. No small change. She thinks of him trudging through the desert with sacks of cash, and losing, on each day, one sack after another. The man is like a bug, a tiny thing wheeling massive balls of cash across the desert. The man sheds money as he walks, it flies from him, stripped by the wind.

A million dollars in twenty-dollar notes weighs about twenty kilos.

*   *   *

Tomas’s door stands open in anticipation. Tomas, in the kitchen, answers her knock with a greeting and a question – would she like coffee or water? He has cold still water but no ice. He hasn’t eaten; he’s running late himself. He bends over in the kitchen so she can see only his haunch through the doorway as he searches through his fridge. It’s like he knows. For a forty-year-old he’s in very good shape. When he straightens, he stretches. This is her weakness: necks, backs, shoulders, forearms. The equine shapes these muscles define. She prefers lean to strong: a racehorse rather than a bear.

Rike waits at the door, makes small talk about the packets left out in the hall (insulation, no?) and for the first time she takes a proper account of the room; the loose water-stained parquet floor which makes the whole room feel unsteady; bare white walls bruised with grey scuffs. A window overlooks a small playground, and opposite, behind her, double doors lead to a balcony which overlooks the street. A sad room, if rooms can be sad, weighted by the absence of furniture and the fact that month after month new people live here.

Set ready by Tomas’s chair: a notebook, a newspaper, a dictionary.

‘No birds today?’

‘Yesterday,’ he says in German. ‘Today we have snow in the hall. Snow, in bags, fake snow, polystyrene, in bags as big as this.’ He gestures up to his chest, then shrugs. ‘I have my homework. Here.’ He points to the window overlooking the back of the apartments, and they stand side by side and look out.

The building describes a hard U. Tomas’s apartment is almost dead centre. The two wings of the complex, east and west, curve on either side; between them lies a small, bare playground. The flagstones have been recently hosed and swept. This view feels English to her despite the row of stumpy palms (in Peckham every estate had a play park with swings, a slide, and sometimes a roundabout, and how these parks became the territory for thugs not children). Rike looks at the wings, at the parallel lines of balconies and windows. Most of the shutters are closed, but where they are open it’s impossible not to invent stories of these lives. Once again there are the sounds of people, dishes chipping together, a radio, nothing as loud as the previous day. A man in swimming trunks vacuums his apartment. There’s a rhythm in his dips and sweeps, even in the way he pauses to smoke.

‘I was reading about Syria this morning. Again, the news is very bad.’

Rike hasn’t heard the news today. Most of what she knows comes via the internet or her sister. Neither is reliable.

‘It’s hard to know what’s happening.’

Tomas sips his coffee, his elbow on the window ledge so that the cup and saucer are held over the drop. Below, on the flagstones, a cat.

‘The Arabs. They should do something. They wait, and what for?’

Tomas Berens is making conversation and it would be polite to respond. Rike can’t quite formulate her thoughts. She can’t think of Syria without thinking of her sister, and then there’s the report Isa read out loud two nights ago about how the unrest was nothing more than war-by-proxy. This isn’t Egypt or Libya, this isn’t about freedom, not with Russia, China, Iran stuck in the mix. She doesn’t like to think of Syria as a place where something is enacted, where moves are made, but she isn’t naive enough to think that this is new, it’s impossible to think of a small country which doesn’t have associations with bigger, more ambitious neighbours. She can’t figure out the sides. Exactly who are the rebels the government are suppressing? Rike can’t make small talk because she doesn’t know what she thinks, so she asks instead to hear about Tomas’s neighbours. Even this isn’t simple. Her self-awareness has created tension. It’s strange to stand next to a man you have dreamed about, as if, by dreaming, some line has been crossed.

‘We should speak only in English? Yes?’

Once again Rike speaks slowly, aware that Tomas is watching her mouth. This is normal, students watch the shape of her mouth, how the lips stretch or curl to a word, to notice where the tongue is placed: visible or not. Not so normal were the three men she taught in London last summer who looked only at her breasts, expectant, not with lust, so much, as hunger, so she couldn’t look at them without thinking of them as being parched or starved. Her one discomfort with teaching is the sense that she’s being sapped dry, although, she admits it’s slightly nonsensical to think of knowledge as nourishment. It’s not uncommon, Isa tells her, for teachers to imagine that their students are obsessed with them. It isn’t that Rike actively considers these ideas as she stands beside Tomas, or even believes them, but they come at her as a package, one thought tied to another, bound by habit and connections. Isa’s ideas are crafted to be wicked, ridiculous, and sticky. Nevertheless, those grey Nordic eyes as they coolly watch her mouth are a little unsettling.

‘Show me where they live and tell me their location. You understand?’ She points to the apartment where the man has finished his cleaning. The blinds are still open but the room is now vacant. ‘Tell me where these people are. Describe their location. Inside? Outside? Behind? Beneath? On top. Tell me where they live.’ The dream sits with her as a residue. Everything she says today brims with innuendo. Rike focuses her attention on Tomas’s right hand, and such big hands. She hopes that Tomas doesn’t sense what passes through her mind.

Tomas nods, sets down his cup, then points to the windows to his right: east wing, one floor below. ‘Christos the driver and his wife live on the third floor.’ He points now at the west wing: a window with open shutters, where pale blue curtains, thin as a nightdress, drop over the sill. ‘Below. One floor,’ he points directly down, ‘is the Kozmatikos family. The mother is a speech therapist. Sometimes you hear the students. Peh-peh-peh. Treh-treh-treh.’ He trills the ‘r’. ‘It must be the school holiday because her son is always home. Maybe he is sick. I often see her son at the window,’ and again in German. ‘I spoke with her husband yesterday. I don’t remember his first name. He works as a pharmacist. The Kozmatikos family have lived here for a long time. It’s close to the hospital and easy for work. He inherited his apartment from his father. I think that’s what he said.’

Rike asks that he speak in English.

‘Before, there were fourteen children here, but now there are only three. He says that Limassol isn’t so friendly now, it’s bigger, and there are many people who come for their holidays. Many businessmen also, and many Russians.’ He points at the opposite building. ‘Most of the rooms on this side are bedrooms and bathrooms. On the front are the sitting rooms.’

They return to the room, then Tomas draws Rike to the balcony and points to the street and the opposite building, the last before the hospital.

‘A judge lives there. He lives on the top floor with his wife. In the evening you can see it’s one long room. The apartment is modern. You see, with the black and white painting? He wears a suit and house shoes. You would not know he is a judge. His wife is an elegant woman. Christos says that the judge has a house at the coast near Larnaca and another in the Troodos mountains. This is where he stays when the court is in session.’

Tomas quickly checks his notebook.

‘I sit here in the morning with my coffee. This is my routine. Every morning I watch the judge’s driver. His car is parked in the same place and the man stands in the same place, like this.’ Tomas folds his arms in demonstration. ‘According to Christos he is a police officer. He is always calm and relaxed. His expression is always the same. He notices everything.’

Tomas looks up from his notes and smiles his first proper smile.

‘The doctor’s son ran away – the Kozmatikos boy. This morning, the mother accused the supervisor of leaving the main door open. The boy is seven or eight and he’s always dressed in his football clothes. He was gone for four hours. He isn’t allowed out of the building on his own. Along the street there is a café which is managed by two brothers, then a news-stand which sells comics and books. There is a man who watches the parking spaces on both sides of the street. He never speaks with the judge’s driver, who is often waiting in the street. During the day the street appears respectable, but at night there are women on the corner. They sit on mopeds. I’m not certain they are all women.’

Tomas checks the notebook again to ensure he has said everything.

‘Every morning I make a coffee and I come to the window. Christos is always the first to leave, sometimes he returns just before eight. He parks in front of the building and waits for his wife.’

When Tomas looks up from his notebook Rike congratulates him.

Sunlight, reflected from the glass doors, slips from the balcony into the room in a widening block to capture her shoes and calves; the edges vibrate and heat prickles her skin. She hasn’t seen the driver. He isn’t there now. None of the characters Tomas has described are about.

Satisfied with his presentation, Tomas adds, ‘I didn’t explain yesterday that Christos drives a taxi.’

‘I thought he was a photographer?’

‘This is his hobby for a little extra money. For work he takes people to the airport at Paphos and Larnaca. Christos and his wife fight every moment they are together. In the morning they argue about work. In the evening they argue about money.

‘This morning, I woke to hear him shouting that everything that is happening is her fault.’

Rike waits until Tomas has finished. There isn’t much to say. Perhaps talking in a group would be good for him. She could ask about sessions at the school. ‘Conversation would help,’ she says. ‘Try using the simple past tense. Tell me more about Christos. Have you seen him today?’

‘I saw Christos this morning. But we didn’t speak because he is in a bad mood. He had an accident so he cannot drive.’

Rike asks Tomas to describe Christos’s accident in detail. Taxi, stoplights, bus. He’s lucky to be alive. The minibus is a write-off, and as the taxi driver was unofficial and therefore uninsured this is going to cost an unbearable amount of money. Now he considers himself unlucky. He can’t work without his vehicle, which leaves him at home with too much time on his hands.

Tomas shrugs, matter of fact.

Pleased, Rike leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped. ‘Now,’ she demands, ‘let’s practise conversation. OK. I will ask you questions and you will answer me. Tell me about your parents.’

Tomas asks blankly why she is interested in his parents.

Rike isn’t sure how to answer. ‘I want to hear you talk. You can say anything. Tell me specific events. Something you remember? Your parents. Where are they from?’ She smiles in encouragement.

‘They are from Norway. And your parents?’ Tomas asks.

‘My father was an academic.’ She answers, deliberately, in the simple past tense. ‘He taught at the university in Freiburg. My mother was Italian and she was a student at the university at the same time. She was a little younger. Tell me, did you grow up in Norway? What is your first memory of Norway as a child.’

‘My first memory?’

‘Something from the past.’

Tomas looks up, reflecting, his chin set out.

‘A birthday? A holiday?’

‘My birthday is in the summer. I don’t remember anything special.’

‘A party, then. Describe a party.’

‘I don’t remember a party.’

To counter Tomas’s resistance Rike offers her own example. ‘My sister is five years older than me. When she was eleven we had a birthday party for her. We lived in an apartment – in Freiburg – and I don’t remember why, but I wasn’t happy about this party. I don’t think I did this deliberately – my sister would probably tell this differently – but I remember standing beside a table, there were other children, and there was a cake, but I had a glass, a beaker, and I must have been drinking juice, and somehow I bit off the lip of the glass. I remember it coming off.’ She gestures holding a glass to her mouth and biting.

‘And what happened?’

‘My parents were busy, but when my mother noticed she became very worried. She took the glass from me, and I remember very clearly that she thought that the missing piece from the glass was in my mouth. But it wasn’t. I remember it breaking off, but I don’t remember anything else about the glass. My mother became very upset, and it was the end of the party because they had to take me to hospital to make sure I hadn’t swallowed the glass.’

‘And did they find it?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. I hadn’t swallowed it, and I had no cuts. So they thought that I’d done this deliberately for attention. We didn’t have any more parties after that.’

‘Is this true?’

A little surprised Rike says yes, the story is true, of course. ‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

Arms folded, Tomas gives a firm no.

‘And now, in Norway, where do you live?’

‘I don’t spend much time there.’ Tomas shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Tell me about your school.’

Of all questions, this seems the most innocuous, but his reaction, how he moves his weight from his left side to his right, unfolds his arms, tucks his hands away, and looks, she has to admit, a little irritated.

Tomas compresses his mouth, appears to be thinking. He shifts back into his original position. ‘I left school early.’

Rike isn’t sure why the conversation has become so tense. ‘If I’m asking things you’d rather not answer, please change the subject. Speak about anything you like – or ask me questions.’

‘You have one sister?’

‘One sister and one brother.’

‘And where does your brother live?’

‘He lives in Hamburg.’

‘You are the youngest?’

‘Then my brother, and my sister is the oldest. Yes. In fact I’m here for my sister. She is about to have a child.’ She stops herself from saying first, a noticeable hesitation. ‘Which is why I am here.’

‘When is your sister having the baby?’

‘Soon, in eighteen days.’

‘Why is she here?’

‘She worked until recently for the diplomatic corps.’

‘And her husband?’

‘The same. At the moment he works for the German consulate in Nicosia. He was working in Damascus but they were evacuated. He has had to go back because there is a man in hospital.’

Tomas doesn’t appear to understand.

‘There is a man in hospital in Syria, in a serious condition. It’s complicated because they don’t know who he is.’ She makes a gesture implying movement. Picking up an object and placing it somewhere else.

‘And your brother is helping him?’

‘It’s part of his work – when people are in trouble, if they’re in hospital, if they have an accident, they lose their money and passport, or if there’s trouble or a problem back home with their family. He travels all around the Middle East helping people. German people.’

‘Your brother?’

Rike gives a small corrective laugh. ‘No. Sorry. My brother-in-law.’

‘How long were you in England?’

This question surprises her, and she asks why he’s asked.

‘You have a slight English accent. You are German, though?’

Rike nods again. She doesn’t think of herself having an accent, and finds the comment interesting. She wonders how many Scandinavians there are in Limassol, and what it would take to bring a man from Norway to Cyprus – if this situation is usual or unusual. When she asks why he wants to practise his English the man smiles.

‘How will you use your English?’

His smile broadens. ‘To be honest,’ he says, ‘it’s about keeping active.’ He taps his head and Rike completely understands. After all it is a muscle, they agree.

‘How long are you here?’

‘It depends, six or seven weeks.’

‘And then you go to London?’

‘No. I’ll go back to Germany. To my brother’s apartment in Hamburg.’

‘You have work?’

‘I’m not sure what I’ll do. I haven’t decided.’

‘But you won’t stay here?’

Something about the suggestion makes her laugh. While she hasn’t considered remaining in Cyprus, it could be a possibility.

‘It depends on what happens. My sister and her husband will return to Damascus. Unless things become worse. I don’t know what they will do if that happens. The consulate won’t keep them here indefinitely. Henning has said as much. If this looks like a permanent situation they will withdraw the staff and have them return to Germany. Some will be reassigned to Turkey, but Henning, almost certainly, will be recalled to Berlin.’

‘And you would you go with them?’

‘No. I’m only here while she has the baby. Do you know Germany?’

Tomas nods. ‘Berlin. Frankfurt. I don’t know Hamburg.’

‘And what were you doing there?’

‘The same work I’ll be doing here. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and no parents.’ Tomas finishes the thought in German. ‘Just me.’

The air in the room appears to have thinned, become delicate, without a clear reason. Every conversation, she understands, is a kind of currency, or at least an expenditure, but this discussion, being so scattershot, is uncertain, and Rike isn’t sure what is being brokered. She breathes carefully unsure how she should proceed. It is his decision to exchange personal details or not. This happens, she tells herself. Everyone has history, and not everyone is comfortable sharing.

3.2

At the end of the hour, Rike writes down what she has asked, with the growing sense that Tomas is impatient for the lesson to end. He stands up and takes the paper when she offers it, then accompanies her to the door.

‘I have a meeting now,’ he explains, ‘I should go.’

He has, she thinks, an exceptionally disarming smile. They talk as he accompanies her to the door. ‘Cyprus must be a disappointment after London?’

‘London?’

‘Yesterday you told me that you lived in London.’

‘I worked for a charity for a short while, freelance to start with.’ She can’t help but make a face. ‘But that was for a very short time.’

‘You didn’t like the work, or you were unhappy?’

Rike is taken aback by the question. ‘It wasn’t home. And it didn’t feel like it would ever become home. Anyway, I’m here now.’ Rike reaches to her shoulder and realizes that she has left her bag. Tomas returns to the room to fetch it for her.

‘Thank you. I’m always doing that.’ Rike closes the bag and shucks it over her arm. ‘And you?’ she asks. ‘Why Cyprus?’

Tomas leans into the doorframe. ‘It’s a long story. It’s possible I’ll be reassigned to Cyprus. I came to see if I like it.’

‘And do you?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Careful as you go down,’ he warns. ‘There might be pieces of glass.’ He pauses, clicks his finger to prompt himself, his hand attempts to shape a word. ‘This morning the Kozmatikos boy smashed his mother’s ornaments. Little figures. Figurines? He lined them up and dropped them over the steps.’

They both look at the landing. The floor, swept clean, shows no sign of the morning’s tantrum.

‘I think this is why he ran away.’

‘You saw this?’

‘I saw a little. It was deliberate. He put them on the steps and pushed them over, one at a time. He wanted to make her angry.’

‘And then he ran away?’

Tomas nods, and she notices the faint trace of a smile.

‘Is he back?’

‘Yes. Now she isn’t shouting.’ Tomas shrugs, and now they both smile.

No sign on the door, no sound, no bustle or trouble. Safe enough to assume that the boy is home.

‘It’s strange,’ she says, ‘how ordinary you take everything to be, but when you look there are a lot of unordinary things.’ Rike isn’t sure she’s making herself clear. ‘Like pets. You don’t see people with too many pets here. Not as many as in Germany. There aren’t many dogs, so much.’

Tomas folds his arms and says that there is a lot to be said for this.

‘You don’t like dogs?’

‘They don’t like me.’

*   *   *

Tomas has agreed to meet the rental agent immediately after the lesson. The man comes up to find Rike and Tomas on the landing. The three of them walk down the stairs to the courtyard. The agent is brash and short and Rike talks with him as they come down the stairs. The man seems misproportioned, with small fat hands, a thick neck, and plump body unbalanced by a broad head, and oddest of all, a puff of thinning grey hair with a purplish tinge. The man walks in a stiff side-to-side sway, a little out of breath; keys hang from a chain fastened to his belt. He wears a pair of sunglasses which give him a suspicious air. Rike takes the stairs one at a time and grips the rail.

The windows overlooking the playground are shuttered and as they walk the agent describes the basement. Most of the space is open, although there are some smaller rentable units. These units are good for storage and safe. No one ever goes down there. The agent speaks in a voice which sounds bored and exhausted. The main area is used by a designer.

Rike’s ears are suddenly itchy. A roll-down shutter protects the basement door. Before they open it, Rike makes her excuse. She has promised to meet her sister.

3.3

The sisters wait in the corridor on a flat-backed bench, school-like, or hospital-like, which is exactly where they are, in a hospital. Isa comments on their surroundings: the benches, long slats of lacquered wood, orange and sticky, run the length of the wall. The walls are painted marine blue to eye level (when seated) and run minty-green above. Isa can’t see the logic, except the blue being gloss is wipeable, easy to clean.

‘You think I don’t know.’

Distracted by the nurses Rike doesn’t hear her sister’s comment. Nurses hurry down the corridor.

‘It’s strange seeing everyone here.’

‘The nurses?’

‘No. People like him.’ Isa nods to the end of the corridor where the doors stand open to show two suited men; one leans forward as if to listen, the other, taller and bald, leans back with his arms folded. Rike can’t quite see but thinks that the bald man is Udo.

‘Ordinarily you wouldn’t see them talking.’

Rike asks why. They talk about anything except for the reason they are at the hospital. The reason why Isa requires so many check-ups.

‘He doesn’t approve. The one with his arms folded got rid of his wife about a year ago. After twenty years of marriage he sent her home. The rumour is that he was having an affair, but he hasn’t been seen with anyone. The other one, Udo, is Henning’s section boss, and they can’t stand each other. Henning is hoping he’ll leave, but they won’t offer him another post.’ Isa yawns and rubs her stomach. ‘He can’t stand him.’

Rike takes another look, but Udo is out of sight.

‘Back in Damascus you’d never see those two in the same room. Now you see them together the whole time. It’s just how it is. Crisis makes for strange bedfellows.’ Isa yawns harder, like the first yawn was a warm-up. This time she shows her teeth before she covers her mouth. ‘Creepy. Creeps.’

‘How long will this take?’

‘I don’t know. It could take ages. They’re going to weigh me. It’s insulting. They give me a paper gown, make me take off my clothes and have me stand on a scale. Then they’ll take blood, because they always take blood. They weigh, they measure, then they take blood.’

Isa’s eye follows the nurse as she returns; her dress zipping between her thighs, her soft shoes making no sound on the red tiled floor.

‘Do British women deliberately try to look like that?’

Rike follows her sister’s gaze, but can’t see the problem.

‘They don’t care about themselves. Look. There isn’t any dignity. Look at those shoulders. See how she walks. Like a cow heading to a barn. I hate these places. I know about the cats, by the way.’

Rike looks to her sister. Eye-to-eye.

‘Of course I know.’

‘The cats?’

‘The cats. The cats. I spoke with Henning this morning.’

‘He told you?’

‘I made him.’

The sisters look to each other for some kind of measurement or assurance.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

‘I’m not upset. Honestly. This is the last thing to worry about. I’m not going to cry over a neighbour who’s taken a dislike to three cats.’

‘Two.’ Rike can’t judge if Isa is sincere. Sometimes there’s no way of reading her.

‘It doesn’t matter. This is Cyprus, the problems here aren’t on the same scale. Anyway, I’m more worried about Henning. He never talks. He’s probably more upset than me, and I wouldn’t know. Everything that’s left from his family is in Damascus, everything from Henning’s father, and we don’t know what will happen.’ Isa pauses because she’s upsetting herself. ‘What worries me is that we’ve only known each other in Damascus. It’s our city. It’s where we met. It’s where we married.’

‘He seems all right. It’s you he’s worried about.’

‘This is how he copes. His job is about managing, so he worries about me instead.’

‘Of course he worries.’

Isa draws her thumb under her eyes. ‘I’m just angry.’ At this her voice begins to wobble. ‘It’s so pathetic.’

Rike smiles at this and slips her hand along the bench to rest under her sister’s thigh.

‘The Heiztlermann’s horses. Can you imagine? She must be going out of her mind.’ Isa clears her throat. ‘Oh. I heard from Mattaus this morning.’

Rike nods. Mattaus. Perfect. This is not what she needs right now. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

Isa shrugs. ‘I’m telling you now. He said he wants to visit. He wants to bring a new man he’s met.’ Isa is uncomfortable. ‘You know what he’s like.’

‘But what about Franco?’

‘There is no Franco. They’ve broken up.’

‘When did this happen?’ Rike feels herself tighten up, contract.

‘I don’t know the details. You know Mattaus. Everything has to change when he gets bored. He’s met someone else. Franco is still in their apartment. You know how it goes, someone will come along and he’ll go with them, then disappear until it’s all over. I think he doesn’t like to tell you these things because you can be judgemental.’

‘And you aren’t?’

‘Look, you know how he is. Anyway, he says he’s in love. He’s an architect.’

The sisters roll their eyes in unison.

‘Poor Franco. Did he say anything about him?’

‘Only that he refuses to leave the apartment. I don’t think it’s quite the story you imagine.’

‘And Henning? Have you spoken with Henning about this?’

Isa sharply dismisses the idea. ‘Oh god no. Can you imagine? Anyway, I’ve told Mattaus he can’t stay with us. He can sleep on the beach.’

*   *   *

Rike sits alone in a marine-blue and minty-green corridor while Isa speaks with the consultant, and wonders what Tomas Berens might be doing. She’d like to tell her sister about the dream, but knows she wouldn’t hear the last of it if she did. Mattaus is an unwelcome interruption. A bad thought.

*   *   *

She finds the market, she’s come here once before with Isa and Henning.

The market is held every day except Sunday. On weekdays the small avenues between the stalls are especially crowded, and in the morning it can take a while to walk from one end to the other. In the afternoon the market is almost empty. The building has a temporary feel, with windows along the roof, fine wood shavings on the concrete floor, and a line of counters – raised chopping blocks and white marble table tops on which the meat is dressed and displayed. Along one side is a row of upright ancient freezers, their doors scuffed and dented.

While she is squeamish, she’s inured to the displays of cut meat, the hooks stuck through shins and tendons, the cold iron-like stink of blood. Once in a while there’s a sight which makes her cringe, retreat a little – a hoof on a severed limb, a peeled goat’s head, eyeballs and teeth and no skin, slippy layers of pink veins and white fat. Never mind the flies, the small clots of blood, the cloths used to wipe the knives and cutting boards, the butchers’ hands. All men. There are only men here.

The man in Rome. The first Sutler flung into the path of a train. Luggage on the train. Man off, strewn between tracks. Although, no, this isn’t quite the case, in the papers now it isn’t Sutler who died, but Parson, the man who was following him, which means that Sutler is potentially responsible: a thief and a murderer.

She hasn’t come here for death either. She just wants to see something actual. The slaughtered and prepared meat is exactly what it is, flesh, it isn’t a metaphor for anything.

It’s here that she reconsiders Mr Crispy, Sutler Number Three. Her story is wrong-headed. She has romanticized him, sure, and played with the idea that he unwittingly entered a situation. This is a foolish idea. The man isn’t accidentally in the desert, he hasn’t wandered off. Not at all. This is flight. Sutler is a force, propelling itself forward, a determined energy that wills itself to life. This is why he has survived.

Here he is, disguised, wearing Arab dress, concealed already, in some kind of public transport, a rough bus in which people hang heads and arms out of windows, women and children sleep, and an undignified scrum of people bundle together, half-conscious, dozy with the heat. In an attempt to destroy evidence the man was caught in an explosion (she’s heard this from Henning, and read it herself online). He could be bandaged, seriously wounded. Nobody knows the extent of the damage. He could be fingerless, deeply disfigured. He could be numb and witless. Maybe this damage is what makes them so certain that this third Sutler is the real Sutler?

Sutler’s problem isn’t money, it’s his new-found notoriety. He can’t go back, can’t even think about it. He can only move forward.

This figure isn’t devastated by the sun but transformed. The burns are part of a process in which he becomes new. The sun fashions Sutler into a new man. Mr Crispy is no accident, he’s the best option from a limited set of choices. Nothing will remain of the old Sutler. Ears, nose, mouth, the skin off his feet and hands are scorched from him. According to Isa they will slice skin from his back to rebuild his face.

Walking through the market, Rike can believe in this transfiguration. It isn’t something that anyone would plan. But the situation is useable. A man this determined could make it work for him. It’s part of what he needs to do.

*   *   *

She can’t find her keys. Typical. And can’t believe her luck when she sees the door open, Isa home and complaining about the smell, a fan in the corridor blowing air into the apartment.

‘I just needed some fresh air.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Twins.’ Isa looks for a reaction which Rike won’t give. ‘Only kidding. Does it smell in here? I think it still smells. They’ve collected the trash, but the stink lingers.’

Rike checks the kitchen drawer and finds a second set of keys. She takes these and uses her body to block Isa’s view. She’ll have them re-cut. Henning, a stickler with keys, would make a big fuss if he knew.

‘So what did they say? Seriously?’

‘Nothing. I’ve put on a little more weight than I need – that’s me, not the baby. But nothing. Really. Nothing.’

‘Blood pressure?’

‘Fine. Not great, but fine.’

‘Did he say when?’

Isa smiles and nods, can’t help herself. ‘Same date. A little less, maybe. Maybe two days earlier. I have a feeling he’s right.’

The sisters hug and hold on to each other.

*   *   *

Isa speaks with Henning on the phone, her voice low, but not low enough. It’s possible that she’s unaware that Rike has returned. For almost an hour Rike has been reading in the garden, and when Isa went for a shower she slipped out quickly to have a new set of keys cut in the corner shop.

It takes a moment for her to realize that she is the subject of the conversation.

‘That’s the problem. That’s it right there. It’s always the wrong person. At school she had this thing for an autistic boy. What was his name? It was like a project or something. Her project. I don’t know. You know how she is. And then Franco. That whole thing.’ Isa pauses, then interrupts. ‘No, she had this whole thing for him, fell in love with him.’ Another pause, and when she resumes speaking her voice has an unexpected sincerity. ‘Because I worry for her.’

Rike returns to the garden, is tempted to make some noise – make a point. Under the tree, stretched out, head up with bright little eyes, is the black cat – long and lovely. Rike pockets the keys, looks at the cat, and while she should feel delight, she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel anything other than irritation about being the third party to a conversation about her private life. Rike takes her seat a little distracted by her lack of outrage. It doesn’t mean anything. Isa always has to take things too far. All that nonsense about the autistic boy. And what was his name? Michael Something. Michael Koenig. Short, fat (didn’t Isa always point that out?), Michael Koenig with his pudgy face which generated any quantity of stuff: noise primarily, but also snot, tears, spittle. A boy whose tantrums and violence were unparalleled, but who was also, often, peaceful, calming. The boy behaved without constraint. In every action, every response, Michael Koenig never lied, had zero cunning, and despite his moods she knew exactly where she stood with him. Unlike Isa, Michael never disappointed her, because she expected little from him. Other people, on the other hand, were infinitely disappointing. Had she loved him? Certainly, in whatever way you love someone when you are younger. Her desire to include him in every activity (she insisted that he be invited camping with them) bordered on mania. Isa just didn’t like him. She probably felt replaced.

That Isa would still be resentful doesn’t surprise her.

The nonsense about Franco is so outrageous she can’t reason her way around it. And yet, isn’t this typical? Doesn’t Isa break every confidence between them, blab out everything they share, because this is what Isa does? And how ugly is it to take her concern and twist it in this way? She begins to feel some heat on the matter. Mattaus behaves like a shit toward Franco. For five years, perhaps longer, Franco is as good as family, so why shouldn’t she be concerned for him when Mattaus behaves the way he does? This is typical of Isa, so busy with herself that she doesn’t see the full picture. Isa doesn’t know how Mattaus behaves with Franco, not in the same way as Rike – and yes, why not, she does feel protective of Franco. But how typical. Really. How typical of Isa to say such a thing.

It’s possible that her overhearing the conversation wasn’t accidental. In any case, it doesn’t matter. Rike won’t be provoked.

Isa comes into the garden with news.

The man from the desert is being brought to Cyprus. Today or tomorrow. This is now definite. Henning will have his way, and he’ll return soon, although they don’t know exactly when, and she doesn’t know which hospital the man is being brought to: military or civil.

Rike says she knows, not about the hospital, but about the man. She spoke with Henning right after Udo gave his consent to the move.

‘No,’ Isa corrects her. ‘You must have heard wrong. He’s only just told me. This is probably why Udo was at the hospital today.’ Isa sucks air between her teeth, considering. ‘My guess is the military hospital at Akrotiri will have better facilities. And they’ll want to keep him secure, don’t you think?’

Rike agrees without showing interest. So Henning will be back soon? Good. This, at least, will make things easier.

3.4

In the morning the driver takes Gibson to Naples. Sullen after viewing the site of the incident, Gibson sits in the back seat and does not talk. The driver says that there are details which will need to be discussed, but this can wait for the moment. Rooms have been booked in Hotel Laurino on via dei Tribunali, and when they arrive, they find a man waiting for them in the lobby, knees together, arms crossed, unlikely to be a guest. He rises to shake the driver’s hand and Gibson realizes that he has this wrong. The man isn’t a driver but someone more senior. Gibson recalls the man introducing himself as Sandro, and giving a second name and rank he hadn’t caught. The ranking and organization of the Italian police is confusing. There’s the police, and then the carabinieri. He isn’t sure how the duties are divided. And magistrates? In Italy the magistrate is part of the investigation.

Gibson offers his hand to the other man, who smiles but says nothing. If Gibson would like, Sandro says, he can go over some of the details for him, and explain the procedures. It might make the day a little easier. ‘You will be seeing Laura Parson?’ he asks. Given the circumstances she has been helpful, and remarkably courageous.

*   *   *

Sandro believes he has everything straight. He understands the reason for Parson’s time in Italy. He understands the working relationships: how Parson worked for Gibson & Baker, and how HOSCO was their client. This he understands.

What is less clear is the reason why hotel rooms – in Palermo, Bari, Castellammare, and Naples – have been booked in Paul Geezler’s name.

‘I checked them,’ he says, and found that nearly eighty per cent of the bookings were not used. ‘A room was booked, but nobody stayed. In some cases the room was not paid for.’

Sandro has copies of the papers found on the train, if Gibson wouldn’t mind. He lays the papers out across the glass coffee table. Gibson recognizes Parson’s handwriting.

‘These don’t look like notes, wouldn’t you say? The numbers here are telephone numbers for hotels. But these numbers are confirmation or reservation numbers for rooms.’

Does Gibson follow the implication? It isn’t Sutler making the bookings under Geezler’s name. It’s Parson. Would he have any idea why?

Lost for an explanation, Gibson asks if Sandro has spoken with Laura about this.

The man says no. And this is another strange element. Why, when Parson is undertaking such demanding, and ultimately dangerous work, would he ask his wife to accompany him?

It hadn’t seemed so unusual to Gibson. Because of his work Parson was separated from his wife for several months, the simple answer is that he wanted to be with her, and the job didn’t seem dangerous at all.

The problem, Sandro agrees, probably isn’t a problem. In most cases people’s lives are messy and unfathomable, because we are guided by habits and superstitions, ways of behaving which are impenetrable, irrational.

When Sandro leaves, the other man, who has still not spoken, accompanies him.

Gibson catches his reflection in the long mirrors either side of the reception desk, and is surprised to appear less stern and weary than he feels. It is encouraging to hear that Parson has inconsistencies.

Sunlight rebounding off the traffic scores across the lobby in sharp bands. He decides to walk to Laura’s hotel although he does not know Naples.