ISN’T IT NICE?
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
The overheard phrase made Harrison Mandel nod unconsciously. He’d been about to join in with the crowd of sightseers who were all outdoing each other in superlatives (especially the Americans). Really, he thought, the Eiffel Tower was just very high up.
The journey in the jolting, crowded lift had been as mildly terrifying as a Ferris wheel, one that smelt of French tobacco and diesel oil. The tower itself was thunderingly solid but also spoke volumes about the Parisian spirit of defiance. Put up in a hurry for the 1889 World Fair, it had lingered magnificently. It had survived two world wars and quite a few letter-writing campaigns. The criss-cross lattice of ironwork dominated the Paris skyline, but with an air, just an air, that at any moment it might hoist up its stumpy little legs and stomp off to bring some glamour to Bruges.
The thing about the view from the Eiffel Tower was that it gave you a perfect vista across Paris, across the orderly boulevards, the haphazard jumble of palaces and squares and even a few peeps towards the disappointing humdrumness of the suburbs that, by mutual agreement, left the tourists alone. The one thing you couldn’t see from the Eiffel Tower was the Eiffel Tower, which seemed a bit of a shame. If ever a building had been designed to be seen from a great height, it was that one. The best you could do was peer down through its legs, feel a bit giddy, and then go and buy some postcards.
Harrison stood next to a gasping tour party. The Italians were terribly excited, a Japanese couple treated the occasion to a couple of flashbulbs, and the Canadians said that, actually, they had a tower of their own that was a bit higher, but no one was interested. Harrison hung back, squinting down at Elena. He’d bumped into her at a party (now he was very rich, he always seemed to be at parties) and she’d instantly spotted how miserable he was. Elena was everything that Harrison wasn’t. She was confident, glamorous and demonstrative. She’d wrapped him in a hug and said how sorry she was that he seemed so down. This surprised him. After all, he thought, I don’t look that bad, do I? ‘This is one of my greatest friends,’ she’d announced to two bankers and an aspidistra. ‘The poor darling needs cheering up.’
Paris had followed, much to Harrison’s bemusement. He didn’t actually think that Elena was one of his greatest friends. She’d always seemed very nice, in a hugs and scarves indoors way, but he remained unconvinced that she had actually ever given him a second thought. She was beautiful, intense and exciting. Harrison was more of a punctuation mark, and not one of the ones that invited comment.
‘Come see me in Paris, darling,’ she’d enthused, ‘and I’ll show you Life.’ He hoped, he really hoped, that her offer wasn’t to do with his money. Was she hoping for marriage? He’d nervously raised the subject over dinner on his first night and she’d looked, for a moment, disappointed and cross. She’d reached over the table and tapped him on the nose (she was the kind of person who tapped people on the nose, whether or not there were wine glasses in the way). ‘Harrison, yes, you have an awful lot of money. But you have no excitement. Rien. Why should I marry to be bored?’ Harrison felt both relieved and a little disappointed, but she laughed that wonderful laugh that said that everything would be all right.
They took a boat trip down the Seine, gliding between floodlit arches and he’d ventured to tell her it was heavenly. She’d tapped him on the nose again. ‘You don’t mean that. Bien sûr, you are enjoying it. It is pretty. But you are not . . .’ She paused, her arms trying to find the right word somewhere in the warm night air. ‘You are not enraptured. The deal is I will keep showing you all of Paris until you see something that you find truly beautiful. Non?’
So here he was, stood on top of the Eiffel Tower. He could see, a long way down, Elena, reading a book and waiting for him. She’d declined to come up with him, declaring that while Parisians adored their Tower, actually going up it was a little gauche. He thought she’d have been disappointed if he’d told her he had found it delightful.
Harrison glanced over at the two people next to him, every inch in love, if not with each other then certainly with life itself. They were both grinning like schoolchildren. Actually, she was dressed exactly like a schoolgirl, with a short navy skirt, silk blouse tied with a red ribbon, and a neat straw hat perched on golden hair that was on very good terms with the breeze.
He was the kind of man you could only meet in Paris, with a long coat, an even longer scarf, and a lot of curling hair. The overall impression was of a man who had been completely knitted. Apart from the teeth. You could see a lot of the teeth because the man was always laughing.
If only, thought Harrison, that was me.
* * *
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ the Doctor said, waiting for a reaction from Romana.
The Doctor spent a lot of time waiting for a reaction from Romana. Sometimes even K-9, his robot dog, could be more enthusiastic. Romana and the Doctor were both Time Lords from the planet Gallifrey. He’d long ago left behind that world of august domes and hushed cloisters, running away to see the universe, accidentally saving most of it as he went. Romana had joined him fairly recently (was it a few weeks or a few years?). A mere stripling of 125, she had come to him fresh out of the Academy and still had a lot of unlearning to do.
Initially he’d worried that Romana wasn’t enjoying travelling with him at all. She even occasionally referred to their trips as ‘missions’ which made his teeth itch. ‘Romana,’ he’d said to her, ‘there are far too many people who take the universe too seriously. Don’t be one of them.’ She’d simply nodded, very seriously.
She’d kept travelling with him and he was beginning to worry glumly that she wasn’t enjoying it one bit. Normally when his companions weren’t having fun they’d tell him so quite brutally. Often by getting married or, in one case, wandering off halfway through a rather thrilling battle with a supercomputer in the Post Office Tower. But no, Romana stuck with him. Terribly serious, terribly efficient, but just a little bit of a pill.
And then, one day, just to prove him wrong, she’d regenerated for the fun of it. The Doctor had regenerated many times and for a variety of reasons (one day he feared meeting someone who’d list them all in order), but he’d never dared change bodies for a laugh. That had rather impressed him. It was one thing to be able to renew one’s body at a time of deadly crisis. It was quite another to take the legs in a bit. In their game of pan-dimensional one-upmanship, Romana might just have won.
Worse, she had regenerated so easily. Whenever the Doctor did it, it was the closest he’d ever got to having a hangover. He’d spend days thrashing around feeling sorry for himself (mental note: next time, must try a bacon sandwich). Romana had regenerated with barely a shrug, before trotting off to defeat the Daleks.
That was the problem with this new Romana. Even the outfits were amazing. Suddenly, for the first time in his many lives, the Doctor rather feared that he was no longer the cool one.
* * *
Which was why he’d been hoping to land somewhere impressive. He’d felt a tiny bit of a thrill when the Randomiser had picked Paris. Never fails.
‘Well, I think it’s nice,’ the Doctor repeated, hopefully.
Romana looked around and nodded. The Doctor’s hearts sank just a little towards his boots.
‘Well, it’s not quite as you described it,’ Romana said eventually, with a smile that could just have been polite.
‘Oh?’ the Doctor said carefully. The TARDIS was parked around the corner. With a bit of luck they could be back there in ten minutes and on their way somewhere else. Yes, that was it. Call it a misfire, blame the drift compensators and try again. Paris. Bad idea.
Romana looked around again, sniffing the air, and her cautious smile broadened. ‘No. It’s so much better.’
That was a relief. ‘It’s the only place in the universe where you can truly relax,’ said the Doctor, truly relaxing.
‘It’s marvellous!’ Romana sniffed the air again, getting a lot from it. Petrol fumes, wood smoke, rain on pavements, and, more than that, animals and vegetables being roasted over minerals. She exhaled. ‘Ah, that bouquet!’
‘What Paris has,’ the Doctor said, warming to his subject, ‘is an ethos, a life, a . . .’
‘Bouquet?’ suggested Romana, being genuinely helpful.
‘A spirit all of its own that must be savoured. Like a wine, it has a . . .’
‘Bouquet?’
‘It has a bouquet.’ Having fished around and failed to find a better word, the Doctor borrowed hers and pronounced it definitively. ‘A bouquet. Exactly. Just like a good wine.’ He couldn’t help offering a bit of seasoned advice. One traveller to another. ‘Of course, you have to pick one of the vintage years . . .’
‘What year is this?’ asked Romana, a suspicion forming in her mind. ‘I forgot to check.’
‘Ah yes, well . . .’ Caught out, the Doctor narrowed his eyes at a passing seagull. ‘It’s 1979 actually. More of a table wine, shall we say? The Randomiser is a useful device but it lacks true discrimination.’ For a moment he was lost in surprisingly fond memories of the French Revolution and Robot Napoleon the Twelfth. Then he grinned, a broad Welcome Mat of a grin. ‘Shall we sip it and see?’
‘I’d be delighted.’
Turning away from the view, Romana couldn’t help smiling, partly with relief. The Doctor’s definition of a ‘vintage year’ undoubtedly meant alien invasion, several bloodbaths and an exploding stately home. Just for once she could do without all that. Just for once, it would be nice to land somewhere and just have fun. What was it that humans called it? A holiday. Yes, that was it.
‘Shall we take the lift or fly?’
The Doctor sucked a finger and stuck it in the air, testing the wind speed. It had been a while, but, well . . . He glanced around at the tourists they were sharing the viewing platform with. The Japanese photographers, the chattering Italians, the slightly glum-looking Englishman. Well, yes, it might cheer him up. ‘Let’s not be ostentatious,’ he cautioned Romana.
‘All right, then,’ she nodded. ‘Let’s fly.’
Tempting. But no. ‘That would look silly.’ The Doctor grinned again. ‘We’ll take the lift.’
* * *
So, they went and stood inside a box that was, for once, exactly the same size inside as outside.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Romana.
‘Are you speaking philosophically or geographically?’ The Doctor watched as the ground, that lovely exciting ground of Paris slid gently closer.
‘Philosophically.’
‘Then we’re going to lunch,’ he said firmly.
‘Lunch!’ Romana repeated, giggling happily. They so rarely got a chance to stop for food. Her last meal had been what the TARDIS food machine had sworn blind wasn’t a British Rail cheese and pickle sandwich, but Romana had remained unconvinced.
‘I know a place that does a bouillabaisse that’ll curl your hair.’ That is, thought the Doctor, if it was still there. Hmm. It had been one of the few sensible recommendations Catherine de Medici had ever given him.
‘Bouillabaisse.’ Romana lit up. ‘Yum yum.’
The Doctor and Romana were very firmly on holiday.
* * *
Most people agreed that Count Scarlioni was the most charming man they’d ever met. Even those who died during the encounter.
He could fill a room with laughter, gliding through it with a nod here, a wink there, and a beam for everyone. Hostesses clamoured to have him at salons. Ambassadors yearned for him at receptions. Curators begged him to gallery openings. And he’d always come, lighting up the occasion with that ever-present smile of his, which Paris Match had once called ‘the second most famous smile in Paris’. This was a man, everyone agreed, who really loved people.
The one person who did not find Count Scarlioni charming was the Count himself. Sometimes he’d wander the vast corridors of his château, touching the ancient art treasures, the rare and beautiful objets, the priceless bric-a-brac, and, when he was absolutely sure he was quite alone, he’d pause in front of a mirror and look at himself. At his almost perfectly handsome face. At that smile.
When she’d first met him, the Countess had asked him about that smile. It was as if he was in on some glorious private joke. She wanted so desperately to share it. He’d leaned forward across the table and told her:
‘I’m the greatest art thief the world has ever known.’
He’d laughed. And she’d laughed too. But something in his eye told her that, audacious, daring and true as that was, that wasn’t quite the reason for his smile.
Most people wondered what they were put on this Earth to do. Count Scarlioni knew. The problem was, it was quite fiddly.
* * *
The Count lived in one of the most unique addresses in Paris. At the edge of the Marais, in between two scrupulously neat boulevards showing off Baron Haussmann’s work at its finest, was a handsome estate. Over every inch of it sprawled a château. Not the slightly boxy stripped down Hôtel Particulier versions that most nobles made do with for their pied à terre, but a full-sized palace, high walls ranged with turrets and balustrades. Mazes filled the courtyards, peacocks strolled in the grounds, and deer were sometimes glimpsed among the trees. History had failed to notice the Château—the Germans had failed to occupy it, floods hadn’t touched it, the mobs of the Revolution had somehow missed it. The Château was so huge that, even though tout Paris had been to parties there, no one dared claim to have seen all of it.
Some people called it the House of Questions, because there were so many questions about it. When had it been built? How had it survived for so long? Who were its previous owners? Who, really, was its present owner? And, of course, why did no one who lived there ever have any answers?
A particularly poisonous gossip columnist had once cornered Count Scarlioni at a party and confided that she, and she alone, had coined the phrase. How simply wonderful wasn’t it that all of society had taken it up! How wonderful, the Count had agreed with a thin smile. Curiously, when the columnist vanished soon afterwards, no one had asked any questions.
A question that a few people had had answered over the years was ‘What were the cellars like?’ The answers had varied over the years. For once, the tiresome clutter of bottles and leftovers from the Inquisition had been cleared a little to one side. Everything makes way for progress, including the Count’s wine collection. The space was now taken up by a uniquely powerful and very large computer and an awful lot of technology. In contrast to the beautiful dust gathering on the exquisite bottles of wine, the equipment was gleamingly new. It sang to itself, reels of computer tape taking up the melody while pinwheel printers handled the chorus and an oscilloscope chipped in with a merry descant.
In pathetic contrast to brand new and singing with happiness, Professor Kerensky slumped somewhere in the middle of it. His thin, frail figure tottered unsteadily between the banks of equipment. Occasionally he’d grab hold of something expensive just for support. He’d rapidly developed a quite reasonable terror of his employer whilst simultaneously being exhilarated and exhausted by the work.
Today, Kerensky was almost at breaking point, and had reached it courtesy of some paperwork. To be precise, a set of bills printed in red and with FINAL DEMAND stamped on them. It had initially amazed him that he could receive post in his basement. Then it had horrified him as every envelope served only to make him more miserable.
The one good thing about the last few months was the weight loss. If my doctor could see me now, Kerensky told himself as he cut yet another new notch in the frayed leather belt. Then again, there was the exhaustion, and also the vitamin D deficiency that came from never leaving the cellars. I think I may just surprise everyone by dying of scurvy, he thought.
Today was the day of Kerensky’s last stand. He was going to make the Count listen to reason. This was proving harder than he’d thought. The Count had many years of experience sailing through parties ignoring awkward questions, and he didn’t see the point in breaking the habit now.
If Kerensky looked like a half-dead morsel brought in by the Château’s cat, then Count Carlos Scarlioni himself provided a glorious contrast. He always did. He was a man for whom the words ‘suave’ and ‘louche’ had been invented. His face was handsome, thin and quite excitingly cruel. His hair was blonde. His tight suit told you exactly what expensive tailoring looked like, whilst also being in a shade of white that dared you to pour wine on it. His face, almost like a mask, was set in a permanent smile. Kerensky had at first found that smile charming. Now he found it terrifying.
The worst thing about the Count’s smile was that it never ever reached the eyes. His eyes focused on you with the cold accuracy of a microscope or the sights of a gun, and let the rest of the face get on with the smiling. Today, that smile said that it was thoroughly bored.
‘But . . .’ These days Kerensky began most sentences with but. The Count found it a tiresome habit that he really should be bothered to correct. ‘I can proceed no further, Count! Research costs money. If you want results we must have money.’
Money? Ah yes, thought the Count. Who had invented money in the first place? Well, that had been a mistake. Here was Kerensky waving some pieces of paper at him and the only way to make him shut up (short of shooting him) was to give him some more pieces of paper. How utterly dull.
‘I assure you, Professor . . .’ Count Scarlioni spoke with a drawl that told you how much better educated he was than you. It was a voice that came with a mind that was already firmly made up. ‘Money is no problem.’
Rather like Kerensky himself, that wouldn’t work any more. ‘But, so you tell me, Count, so you tell me every day!’ He waved the sheaf of bills around again, warming to his subject as though he were delivering a lecture at the university. He paused then, thinking fondly of the formal dinners and less fondly of his colleagues. He imagined they were all wondering how they could possibly cope without him. ‘Money is no problem? What do you want me to do about these equipment invoices? Write “money is no problem” across them and send them back?’
Would that work? wondered the Count briefly. He leaned back against a piece of equipment which, judging by Kerensky’s horrified expression, really shouldn’t be leaned against. Good. Languidly he reached into his jacket pocket, removing a bundle of paper that had been causing a rather irritating bulge. It was as fat as a cookbook. ‘Will a million francs ease the “immediate cash flow problem”?’ Like most things the Count said, you could hear the ironic quotation marks. He peeled off just enough to render the bulge less annoying and handed them casually over to Kerensky. He resisted the impulse to fold them into paper aeroplanes. Now, that would be fun.
The tiny fool’s face lit up as if the Count had done something not boring. He even made a strange little clucking noise. You could always tell people who’d never got used to being around money. They grew so tiresomely excited by the sight of it. ‘But yes Count! Yes! That will help admirably!’ Struck by a mundane thought, Kerensky paused and waggled a finger at him. The Count toyed with biting it off. ‘But I will shortly need a great deal more.’
Just like a peasant. If you gave them bread they only came back and asked for more. Much better to just let them starve. ‘Of course, Professor, of course.’ He twitched his smile up a notch. ‘Nothing must stand in the way of the Work!’
He strode away to the corner of the laboratory, his hands tapping idly away on the side of the computer before making the tiniest of alterations to a dial. It annoyed Kerensky when he did that. It annoyed him even more that, invariably, it turned out to be right. Kerensky had long ago reached the horrid realisation that Count Scarlioni simply employed him because he couldn’t be bothered doing it himself. It pulled him up. He, Kerensky, was an acclaimed genius, fought over by universities, wined and dined by conference organisers. He was a man whose opinion mattered, whose contribution to science was vital. Here, in this miserable cave in Paris he was about to make a breakthrough that would change the world for ever. And yet, and yet, he felt as if he’d been hired to tidy an overgrown garden while the owner sat dozing in a deckchair with a long, cool drink. What would that drink be? His mind wandered dreamily away.
Yawning, Count Scarlioni reached a rope pull set into the wall and tugged it. Because the Count was in the cellar, it was answered immediately. The door at the top of the stone staircase creaked open and Hermann, the Count’s darkly suited butler descended.
Kerensky had never dared strike up a conversation with Hermann. The man had a cultured, but recognisably German accent. His shoulders were broad, his hair had once been blonde, he had an athletic build which was untroubled by his advanced age. Kerensky had made a few educated guesses about how Hermann had spent his late teens and had swiftly decided against confirming them. He did not enjoy being alone in a room with Hermann.
Whereas the Count greeted Hermann like an old and valued friend, watching with delight as the timid figure of the Professor scuttled away to fuss around his computer.
Hermann approached, bowing. ‘Your Excellency?’
The Count patted the slimmed-down bulge in his jacket as though it were a regrettably empty cigarette case. ‘The Gainsborough didn’t fetch enough,’ he murmured. ‘I think we’ll have to sell one of the bibles.’
‘Sir?’ Hermann queried.
‘Yes, the Gutenberg.’ The Count was unable to keep a trace of sadness out of his voice.
‘I think we should tread carefully.’ Hermann was one of the few people who ever spoke plainly to the Count. Never excitingly, but always wisely. Hermann had, after all, quite a lot of experience in dealing with art. ‘It would not be in our interests to draw too much attention to ourselves. Another rash of priceless art treasures on the market . . .’ Hermann rubbed his neatly trimmed beard with regret. His lowered tone managed to convey that he thought it both careless and also tasteless.
Hermann was the only man the Count would take such criticism from. ‘Yes. I know Hermann, I know. Sell it . . .’ He paused, and flicked his smile into a grin. ‘Discreetly.’
‘Discreetly, sir?’ Hermann raised both eyebrows. ‘Sell a Gutenberg Bible discreetly?’
Hermann had a point. The Gutenberg Bible was the first bestseller in the history of publishing. Up until the 1450s bibles had been laboriously hand-doodled by bored, cold monks. Gutenberg changed all that. His were printed. It was the most exciting thing to happen to the Bible since it got a sequel.
These days the Gutenbergs were so rare that even the discovery of a stray page was a sensation. Only twenty-one complete copies were known to exist. Nestling next to the teasmade on the Count’s bedside table was a twenty-second.
The Count mustered a noble smile. ‘Well, sell it as discreetly as possible, Hermann. Just do it, will you?’
Knowing better than to argue, Hermann bowed. ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir.’ And climbed the stone stairs, closing the cellar door behind him. Because the Count was still down there, his exit was not followed by the click of the lock.
The regrettable bit of the day dealt with, the Count turned back to Kerensky. Neither knowing nor caring what a Gutenberg Bible was, the old fool was still burying himself in the wiring of a circuit board. Looked at from a few paces away, it was actually quite impressive what Kerensky had managed to put together. Not how he would have done it himself, but then, so few things were. The Count rubbed his hands together, his mood approaching glee. ‘Good Professor, excellent. I do hope we are now ready to perform the next stage of the experiment.’
Concentrating on his circuit board, Kerensky entirely missed the vague threat. ‘In two minutes, Count. Just two minutes,’ he muttered, waving a hand in the Count’s direction.
The Count drummed his fingers against a work bench, mildly impatient. A more patient man would have said, if you’ve waited so long for something, a couple more minutes cannot hurt. But the Count had long ago run out of patience.