Our Kind of Traitor (29 page)

‘
Christ
that was close,’ she whispers.

Close to what? What does she mean? Perry agrees. Yes, close.

*

God does not sweat. Federer’s pale blue shirt is unstained except for a single skid-mark between the shoulder blades. His movements seem a trifle less fluid, but whether that’s the rain or the clotting clay or the nervous impact of the flag-man is anybody’s guess. The sun has gone in, umbrellas are opening round the court, somehow it’s 3–4 in the second set, Soderling is rallying and Federer looks a bit depressed. He just wants to make history and go home to his beloved Switzerland. And, oh dear, it’s a tie-break – except it hardly is, because Federer’s first serves are flying in one after the other, the way Perry’s do sometimes, but twice as fast. It’s the third set and Federer has broken Soderling’s serve, he’s back in perfect rhythm and the flag-man has lost after all.

Is Federer weeping even before he’s won?

Never mind. He’s won now. It’s as simple and uneventful as that.
Federer has won and he can weep his heart out, and Perry too is blinking away a manly tear. His idol has made the history that he came to make, and the crowd is on its feet for the history-maker, and Niki the baby-faced bodyguard is edging his way towards them along the row of happy people; the handclapping has become a coordinated drumbeat.

‘I’m the guy drove you back to your hotel in Antigua, remember?’ he says, not quite smiling.

‘Hello, Niki,’ Perry says.

‘Enjoy the match?’

‘Very much,’ says Perry.

‘Pretty good, eh? Federer?’

‘Superb.’

‘You wanna come visit Dima?’

Perry looks doubtfully at Gail:
your turn
.

‘We’re a bit pressed for time, actually, Niki. We’ve just got
so
many people in Paris who need to see us –’

‘You know something, Gail?’ Niki inquires sadly. ‘You don’t come have a drink with Dima, I think he’ll cut my balls off.’

Gail lets Perry hear this instead of her:

‘Up to you,’ says Perry, still to Gail.

‘Well how about just
one
drink?’ Gail suggests, doing reluctant surrender.

Niki shoos them ahead and follows, which she supposes is what bodyguards learn to do. But Perry and Gail are not planning to run away. In the main concourse, Swiss alphorns are booming out a heart-rending dirge to a swarm of umbrellas. With Niki leading from the back, they climb a bare stone staircase and enter a jazzy corridor with each door painted a different colour, like the lockers in Gail’s school gymnasium, except that instead of girls’ names they bear the names of corporations: blue door for
MEYER-AMBROSINI GMBH
, pink for
SEGURA-HELLENIKA
&
CIE
, yellow for
EROS VACANCIA PLC
. And crimson for
FIRST ARENA CYPRUS
, which is where Niki pops open the cover of a black box mounted on the doorpost, and taps a number into it, and waits for the door to be opened from the inside by friendly hands.

*

After the orgy
: that was Gail’s irreverent impression as she stepped into the long, low hospitality box with its sloped glass wall, and the red clay court so near and bright the other side that, if dell Oro would only get out of the way, she could reach her hand through and touch it.

A dozen tables were ranged before her with four or six diners apiece. In total disregard of the stadium’s rules, the men had lit up their post-coital cigarettes and were reflecting on their prowess or lack of it, and a few of them were looking her over, wondering if she’d have been a better lay. And the pretty girls with them, who weren’t quite so pretty after the amount they’d been made to drink – well, they’d faked it, probably. In their line of work, that was what you did.

The table nearest to her was the largest, but also the youngest, and it was raised above the others to give Dima’s Armani kids more status than the humbler tables round it – a fact acknowledged by dell Oro as he shuffled Gail and Perry forward for the pleasure of its seven dull-faced, hard-eyed, hard-bodied managers with their bottles and girls and forbidden cigarettes.

‘Professor. Gail. Say hello, please, to our hosts, the gentlemen of the board and their ladies,’ dell Oro is proposing with courtly charm, and repeats the suggestion in Russian.

From along the table a few sullen nods and hellos. The girls smile their air-hostess smiles.

‘You! My friend!’

Who’s yelling? Who to? It’s the thick-necked one with the crew-cut and a cigar, and he’s yelling at Perry.

‘You are
Professor
?’

‘That’s what Dima calls me, yes.’

‘You like this game today?’

‘Very much. A great match. I felt privileged.’

‘You play good too, huh? Better than Federer!’ the thick-necked one yells, parading his English.

‘Well, not quite.’

‘Have a nice day. OK? Enjoy!’

Dell Oro shoos them on down the aisle. On the other side of the sloped glass wall, Swedish dignitaries in straw hats and blue hatbands are making their way down the rainswept steps from the Presidential enclosure to brave the closing ceremony. Perry has taken hold of Gail’s hand. It takes a bit of barging to follow Emilio dell Oro between the tables, squeeze past heads and say ‘so sorry, whoops, hello there, yes
wonderful
game!’ to a succession of mostly male faces, now Arab, now Indian, now all white again.

Now it’s a table of Brit males of the chattering classes who need to bounce up, all at once: ‘I’m Bunny, how simply
lovely
you are’ – ‘I’m Giles, hello
indeed
! – you
lucky Professor
!’ – all too much to take in, actually, but a girl does her best.

Now it’s two men in Swiss paper hats, one fat and content, the other skinny, needing to shake hands: Peter and the Wolf, she thinks absurdly, but the memory sticks.

‘Spotted him yet?’ Gail calls to Perry – and in the same moment spots him for herself: Dima, hunched at the furthest end of the room, brooding all alone at a table for four, with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in front of him; and looming behind him a cadaverous philosopher, with long wrists and high cheekbones, ostensibly guarding the entrance to the kitchen. Emilio dell Oro is murmuring in her ear as if he has known her all his life:

‘Our friend Dima is actually a bit
depressed
, Gail. You know about the tragedy, of course, the double funeral in Moscow – his dear friends slaughtered by maniacs – there has been a
price
. You will see.’

She did indeed see. And wondered how much of what she saw was real: a Dima not smiling and barely welcoming, a Dima sunk in vodka-stoked melancholy, not bothering to get up as they approach, but glowering at them from the corner to which he has been relegated with his two minders. For now blond Niki has mounted guard at the cadaverous philosopher’s side, and there is something chilling in the way the two men ignore one another, while bestowing their attention on their prisoner.

*

‘You come sit here, Professor! Don’t trust that goddam Emilio! Gail. I love you. Siddown.
Garçon!
Champagne. Kobe beef.
Ici
.’

Outside on the court, Napoleon’s Republican Guard are back at their post. Federer and Soderling are mounting a saluting stand, attended by Andre Agassi in a city suit.

‘You talk to the Armani kids at the table up there?’ Dima demanded sulkily. ‘You wanna meet some goddam bankers, lawyers, accountants? All the guys that fuck up the world? French we got, German, Swiss.’ He lifted his head and shouted down the room: ‘Hey everybody, say hello to the Professor! This guy pussy me at tennis! She’s Gail. He gonna marry this girl. He don’t marry her, she marry Roger Federer. That right, Gail?’

‘I think I’ll just settle for Perry,’ said Gail.

Was anybody listening out there? Certainly not the hard-eyed young men at the big table and their girls, who demonstratively huddled closer together as Dima’s voice rose. At the tables nearer at hand too, indifference prevailed.

‘English too, we got! Fair-play guys. Hey, Bunny! Aubrey! Bunny, come over here! Bunny!’ No response. ‘Know what
Bunny
means? Rabbit. Fuck him.’

Turning brightly to share the fun, Gail was in time to identify a chubby, bearded gentleman with side-whiskers, and if his nickname wasn’t Bunny it ought to be. But for an Aubrey she looked in vain, unless he was the tall, balding, intelligent-looking man with rimless spectacles and a stoop who was heading briskly down the aisle towards the door with his raincoat over his arm, like a man who suddenly remembers he has a train to catch.

Sleek Emilio dell Oro with his gorgeous silver-grey hair had taken the spare seat at Dima’s other side. Was his hair real or a piece? she wondered. They make them so well these days.

*

Dima is proposing tennis tomorrow. Perry is making his excuses, pleading with Dima like an old friend, which is what he has somehow become in the three weeks since they have seen him.

‘Dima, I
truly
don’t see how I can,’ Perry protests. ‘We’ve got a flock of people in town we’re pledged to see. I’ve no kit. And I’ve promised Gail faithfully this time round that we’ll take in the Monet water lilies. Truly.’

Dima takes a pull of vodka, wipes his mouth. ‘
We play
,’ he says, stating a proven fact. ‘Club des Rois. Tomorrow twelve o’clock. I book already. Get a fucking massage after.’

‘A massage in the
rain
, Dima?’ Gail asks facetiously. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve discovered a new vice.’

Dima ignores her:

‘I gotta meeting at a fucking bank, nine o’clock, sign a bunch fucking papers for the Armani kids. Twelve o’clock I get my re-match, hear me? You gonna chicken?’ Perry starts to protest again. Dima overrides him. ‘Number 6 court. The best. Play an hour, get a massage, lunch after. I pay.’

Suavely interposing himself at last, dell Oro opts for distraction:

‘So where are you staying in Paris, if I may inquire, Professor? The Ritz? I do hope not. They have marvellous niche hotels here, if one knows where to look. If I’d known, I could have named you half a dozen.’

If they ask you, don’t screw around, tell them straight out
, Hector had said.
It’s an innocent question, it gets an innocent answer
. Perry had evidently taken the advice to heart, for he was already laughing:

‘A place so lousy you wouldn’t believe,’ he exclaimed.

But Emilio did believe, and liked the name so much that he wrote it down in a crocodile notebook that nestled in the royal blue lining of his crested cream blazer. And having done so, addressed Dima with the full force of his persuasive charm:

‘If it’s tennis tomorrow that you’re proposing, Dima, I think Gail is quite right. You have completely forgotten the rain. Not even our friend the Professor here can give you satisfaction in a downpour. The forecasts for tomorrow were even worse than for today.’

‘Don’t fuck with me!’

*

Dima had smashed his fist on the table so hard that glasses went skittling across it, and a bottle of red burgundy tried to pour itself on to the carpet until Perry deftly fielded it and set it upright. All along the length of the sloped glass wall it was as if everybody had gone deaf from shell-shock.

Perry’s gentle plea restored a semblance of calm:

‘Dima, give me a break. I haven’t even got a
racquet
with me, for pity’s sake.’

‘Dell Oro got
twenty
goddam racquets.’

‘Thirty,’ dell Oro corrected him icily.

‘
OK!
’

OK what? OK Dima will smash the table again? His sweated face is rigid, the jaw rammed forward as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, tilts his upper body backwards, grabs Perry’s wrist, and hauls him to his feet beside him.

‘OK, everybody!’ he yells. ‘The Professor and me, tomorrow, we’re gonna play a re-match and I’m gonna beat the shit outta him. Twelve o’clock, Club des Rois. Anyone wanna come watch, bring a goddam umbrella, get lunch after. Winner gonna pay. That’s Dima. Hear me?’

Some hear him. One or two even smile, and a couple clap. From the Top Table at first nothing, then a single low comment in Russian, followed by unfriendly laughter.

Gail and Perry look at each other, smile, shrug. In the face of such an irresistible force, and at such an embarrassing moment, how can they say no? Anticipating their surrender, dell Oro seeks to forestall it:

‘Dima. I think you are being a little hard on your friends. Maybe fix a game for later in the year, OK?’

But he’s too late, and Gail and Perry are too merciful.

‘Honestly, Emilio,’ says Gail. ‘If Dima’s dying to play and Perry’s willing, why don’t we let the boys have their fun?
I’m
game, if you are. Darling?’

The
darlings
are new, more for Milton and Doolittle than themselves.

‘OK then. But on one condition’ – dell Oro again, fighting for the upper hand now – ‘tonight, you come to my party. I have a superb
house in Neuilly, you will love it. Dima loves it, he is our house guest. We have our honoured colleagues from Moscow with us. My wife at this very moment, poor woman, is supervising the preparations. How about I send a car to your hotel at eight o’clock? Please dress exactly how you like. We are very informal people.’

But dell Oro’s invitation has already fallen on dead ground. Perry is laughing – saying it really is
completely
impossible, Emilio. Gail is protesting that her Paris friends would
never
forgive her, and no, she can’t possibly bring them too, they’re having their own party and Gail and Perry are the guests of honour.

They settle instead for Emilio’s car to pick them up at their hotel at eleven o’clock tomorrow for tennis in the rain, and if looks could kill, dell Oro’s would be killing Dima, but according to Hector he won’t be able to do that till after Berne.

*

‘You two make absolutely
stunning
casting,’ Hector cried. ‘Don’t they, Luke? Gail, with your
lovely
intuition. You, Perry, with your
fucking marvellous
Brain-of-Britain. Not that Gail’s exactly thick either. Thanks hugely for coming this far. For being so plucky in the lion’s den. Do I sound like a scoutmaster?’