Frank’s Story (cont.)
Blackpool, England. July, 1981
It was a sunny day but a cold one. A thin, biting wind blew through the Lancashire streets, so Frank and his three companions didn’t make it to the seafront. They reached Binns – a large, beige department store close to the promenade – and Leonard suggested they visit the shop’s cafe.
‘Wouldn’t have thought it would be your kind of place, Mr Alexander.’
‘I like English tearooms. And they serve the best toasted currant teacakes in the north of England in this place. By the way, you must call me Leonard.’
They made their way up the escalators to the cafe, armed themselves with plastic ‘wooden’ trays, grabbed snacks from the counter and found a corner table. Frank settled for a coffee. Pulled out his Camel Straights and plucked one from the packet. ‘So, what’s the story, gentlemen?’
‘First, let me introduce my son, Georgy.’
Frank shook hands with the man in his sixties. ‘Please call me George. My dad’s sentimental.’ He spoke with fondness and no recrimination in his voice.
‘And this is my grandson, Marius.’
The younger of the Alexanders gave Frank a friendly, informal salute. ‘My friends call me Mya. My middle name is Yuri and so M-Y-A.’
‘I get it. So how can I help?’
‘Before we begin,’ George said, ‘I think it’s only fair to tell you we’re already talking to two other authors about potentially writing this extraordinary true account.’
Marius said, ‘My grandad has an amazing story. He was there when the Russian royal family were shot. He was in the very room when it happened.’
Frank lit a cigarette. ‘I’m guessing the Romanovs didn’t think it was that amazing.’
‘My grandson has a romantic view of history,’ Leonard replied.
‘And you have a realistic one?’
‘I believe it’s only history when it’s been forgotten by those who were there.’
‘Anyway,’ Marius continued, ‘he found a gemstone in the house where the massacre took place. He called it the Red Diamond. Have you heard of it?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘It allowed him to build our family’s fortune. Long story short – I’m opening a nightclub in Blackpool. I think it could be more successful than Brian London’s 007 ever was! And I’m going to call mine The Red Diamond. I want my grandad’s story told so it will drum up some publicity for the place. Give it a bit of history. Lend it some weight. And it’s a cool name, don’t you think?’
George interjected, ‘It’s much more than that, Mr Harvey! My father’s story should be told. Not just for him. But for those no longer here to tell it.’
The older man nodded. ‘Maria, Yuri . . . even Pasha.’
Frank took a pull on his cigarette. ‘All right, gents. Why don’t you tell me your story from the beginning?’
*
The editor of the Blackpool Chronicle was beginning to wish he’d acted on Frank’s suggestion, but instead found himself lying on the phone to his boss. ‘Yes, I know you said I was taking a risk, sir, but Harvey is settling in already . . . it’s like he’s never been away.’
A minute later, he pulled out his bottle of Bell’s, took a mouthful and walked to his office door.
‘Do any of you lot know where Frank Harvey might be heading?’
The woman with fair hair raised her hand.
*
Leonard finished his story. George patted the back of his father’s hand. Marius leant across and squeezed his shoulder. Frank lit yet another cigarette.
‘Well, first of all, Leonard, I’m so sorry for what you’ve had to endure. Losing your wife like that. Losing so much. Do you regret taking the diamond? Do you mind if I ask?’
‘I do not mind. Do I regret taking it? I don’t know. Pasha stayed in Russia and lost his wife. We escaped. Yet I lost Maria. So . . . It’s like that puzzle which is all the rage at the moment. The Rubik’s Cube, I think it’s called. One twist changes not just one aspect, it throws everything into disarray. There were many twists that led to Yuri’s death, to Maria’s death, to Pasha’s suicide. Changing that one thing – my acquisition of the diamond – putting back that one twist alone wouldn’t restore the cube to perfection.’
George murmured, ‘Well said, Dad.’
Marius asked, ‘So, what do you think, Frank? How would you handle telling my grandad’s story? One writer said a first-person narrative was the way to go. Another thought telling it as though it was a collection of short stories that ultimately weaves into one narrative . . . What would you do? How would you tell the story?’
Frank looked at Leonard. ‘I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch that story, to be honest with you. And my advice, for what it’s worth, is that if I were you, I’d walk away from it.’
Leonard said, ‘Go on, Mr Harvey.’
‘The Red Diamond has brought you a lot of wealth. But it’s cost you, Leonard. Every time you’ve looked to it, it’s cost you.’ He paused. ‘Marius, if you call your nightclub The Red Diamond and launch a book to lend its name some kind of lustre . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if it burns down on its opening night.’
The youngest Alexander shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You believe in curses? In the supernatural?’
‘I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in the Devil. But I believe in good and I believe in evil. And I certainly believe in luck.’
Marius retorted, ‘You make your own luck.’
‘I believe,’ Leonard stated, ‘that that is exactly what Mr Harvey is saying.’
Frank bowed his head to the older man as a sign of respect, thanks and affirmation. He broke the ensuing silence with, ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, gentlemen.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks a lot, Uri Geller,’ Marius grumbled. ‘You could have told us straight off that you thought some kind of black magic governs our lives!’
George snapped, ‘Marius! Mr Harvey is the first writer who hasn’t asked about fees and royalties and just given us his true thoughts. Apologise!’
Frank cut in, ‘That’s really not necessary. I can understand why you’re pissed off, Mya. If it’s still OK to call you Mya?’
Marius gave an unexpected smile. Shrugged. ‘Sure.’
Leonard said, ‘I apologise on behalf of my grandson.’
‘Please don’t,’ Frank replied. ‘Hard to believe, but I can fly off the handle, too. Look, Mya. Open your nightclub. Make loads of cash. Just don’t call it The Red Diamond. Please, gentlemen, next time you use that diamond, make sure it’s for the right reason. And when that time comes, maybe it’ll be the right time to recount your story to the world.’
*
A lifetime later, Marius Alexander, now in his seventies and wearing his late grandfather’s old full-length, cashmere coat and homburg, walked through the windy streets of Elephant and Castle. He strode along Newington Causeway until he reached the Mercato Metropolitano – a vast collection of bars, cafes and street-food vendors. Much of the place was outside, giving the MM a sense of being part-market. Communal. Artisanal. Marius smiled.
‘Mya!’
He turned around and saw Frank Harvey approaching him. The two old friends embraced. Marius slapped the other man’s upper arm. ‘You were right! My grandfather would have loved this place!’
‘Let me get us a drink in!’
‘No, no, no. You bought the meal when we met up last month. Let me take care of this.’
They took a table in the French Corner and Marius poured them both a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. They clinked glasses.
Frank said, ‘Za drooz-boo!’
‘Za vas!’ Marius sipped his wine. ‘So, my friend, how can I help you? You sounded so serious on the phone!’
‘When we first met . . . God, so many years ago . . . Do you remember, I told you, urged you really, that the next time you use the Red Diamond, it should be for the right reason.’
‘I remember, Frank.’
‘Well, Mya . . . I believe that time has come.’