Life in the West. Brian Aldiss

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      ‘Exactly.’ Fittich exhaled. He walked with his arms hanging relaxedly by his side.

      They came to the bottom of the street and paused. Ahead, beyond a double line of traffic, were flats, walls, and then sheds, shutting them off from the Mediterranean which, from farther up the steep side road, had been visible as an inviting strip of blue.

      ‘The entrance to the harbour’s farther along. This is about as near as I got to the sea this morning.’

      ‘Oh well, we must resign ourselves,’ said Fittich, in the tone of one well-accustomed to resigning himself. ‘At least we had our sight of the sea, and a little exercise. Now I shall return happily to the hotel. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

      ‘The next session is not until four o’clock. We could walk along this way.’

      ‘I wish to have a siesta, thanks all the same.’ He smiled apologetically and tugged at his neat grey sideburns.

      ‘Then I’ll walk back with you. I flew in rather late last night, and an hour’s snooze will help keep me awake through the afternoon papers.’

      They turned, walking side by side.

      After a silence, Fittich said, ‘My considered opinion is that it really requires more delicacy to form critical opinions about the popular culture of today which we find all around us than it is to deal with the illustrious dead, such as Beethoven or Goethe. One needs an open mind and a specific vocabulary.’

      ‘We got a lot of Marxist-Leninist vocabulary this morning, didn’t we?’

      ‘Are they only talking to themselves? Do they not enjoy what they speak about? Well, I shall console myself with your remark – “If you like whisky, never get a teetotaller to write about it.”’

      They laughed. ‘Let’s have a whisky together this evening,’ said Squire. ‘I have to go out for an hour or two, but will be back by about ten o’clock.’

      ‘Fine. A great pleasure.’ They had reached the doors of the hotel. ‘I want to talk more with Vasili Rugorsky. He seemed a decent enough chap.’

      ‘I thought so too.’

      ‘Of course, the decent ones generally turn out to be KGB men, don’t they?’

      In the foyer, Squire checked his stride and went to look at the rack of postcards.

      ‘We shan’t see much of the island. Might as well buy a postcard.’

      ‘Well, I will detain you no longer. Some of the more important people here will wish to speak with you.’

      ‘Oh, don’t say that, Herr Fittich. I’m delighted to have your company. Look at this, the Villa Igiea. Beautiful, eh? I’d like a villa right there, pitched on the cliff.’

      He waved a postcard of the ruins of a Roman dwelling, reduced to no more than half a dozen columns, set on the edge of the sea among pines, looking out to distant islands.

      ‘You also have a pleasant house in England, Pippet Hall,’ said Fittich.

      Squire turned to face him. ‘Why do you say that?’

      Fittich looked nervous. ‘My apologies, I should not have made the silly remark. To be honest with you, in the spring I visited your home in Norfolk. Pippet Hall. It was when your television series was actually being shown and your name was everywhere. I happened to stay with an English friend who, like me, is an admirer of your series. Well, we passed by your gates. I was astonished to find such a grand house visible from the road, not hidden, and close to the village, unlike most fine houses.

      ‘To be frank with you, I stuck my camera through your gates. You will think it a terrible cheek. And as I was about to snap, a charming lady appeared in my lens, strolling along with a young man towards the gate. It was exactly what I needed to complete the composition. I opened the gate for her. She smiled at me and said she hoped I had got a good shot. Back at my friend’s car, I looked at the photograph of you with your family on the back jacket of your book. It was your wife I had passed a word with. We drove off, I in great delight. And it turned out to be a good picture. I should have had the decency to have posted your wife a copy of it.’

      ‘I’m glad it turned out well. Excuse me, I’ll see you later.’

      Looking slightly puzzled at Squire’s abruptness, Fittich said, ‘My apologies for detaining you. But knowing you would be here as our star guest, I brought you a copy of the photograph. Please allow me.’ As he spoke, he was bringing a leather wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. He removed a colour print from the recesses of the wallet and, smiling, passed it to Squire.

      The house in its mellow red brick appeared to nestle among trees and the giant rhododendron bushes which served as windbreaks on its east side. All looked serene and peaceful in the spring sun. In the foreground was Teresa Squire, wrapped in a warm coat, her head on one side with a gesture of suspicion directed at the intrusive photographer; it was a look Squire knew well. By her side, but hanging back, perhaps also in response to the sight of a camera, was a lean young man in jeans, his narrow face notable chiefly for sharp side-whiskers.

      As a look of pain passed across Squire’s face, Fittich said, ‘Did you wish to keep this print? I trust that your wife is well, Mr Squire?’

      ‘We were parted when you took this shot. Thanks, but I don’t want it – not because of her.

      ‘Because of him.’

      Upstairs in Room 143, Squire locked the door and took off his shirt and trousers. He sat by one wall in the lotus position, gazed at the wall before him, and practised pranayama. A yogi in Southall had once told him that, through correct breathing, modern man could regenerate himself; Squire, who liked to hope, partly believed the yogi.

      Nevertheless, when he rose to his feet twenty minutes later, he was left with a desire to phone England, and to be informed. He put through a call, not to his wife or his sister, but his London publisher, Ron Broadwell of Webb Broadwell Ltd.

      After an hour’s wait, the number rang, and Broadwell’s secretary came on the line. ‘Hello, Mr Squire, I’m afraid Mr Broadwell’s out. Can I help?’

      ‘Oh, I just wondered if Ron had any news for me.’

      ‘Yes, we heard this morning that your American publisher has put a reprint of 20,000 copies in hand. So that’s good, isn’t it?’

      ‘Splendid. Is Ron at lunch?’

      ‘Yes, he’s still at lunch. He should be back by four. I’ll tell him you rang.’

      The genial Ron Broadwell was lunching – unknown to the world – with Squire’s sister, Deirdre Kaye. They lunched together once a year in the Hyde Park Hotel, Knightsbridge, and had done so ever since the fifties when, as undergraduates at Cambridge, they had consummated a brief love affair in the hotel. Since then, both had married Americans, and the affair was long over.

      They remained good friends and still enjoyed their secret annual meeting. This year it was Deirdre’s turn to pay. A delegation of Chinese in sober business suits was eating Dover sole in unison at a nearby table. Deirdre and Broadwell had both ordered СКАЧАТЬ