The Pleasure Quartet (26 page)

April had sent him a missive, which he opened and then quickly clicked away from after skim-reading a few expletive-ridden lines about how her recent stay with Noah had confirmed to her precisely how much of a pig he was, who she would warn all of her friends not to touch with a proverbial barge pole. He glanced at the time on the message and noticed she’d sent it in the early hours of the morning – probably a drunken rant that she would later regret and he could safely overlook.

Nothing from Viggo.

Noah racked his brains to come up with some reasonable way to pin down the possible whereabouts of the red-haired violinist. He supposed he could Google private investigators, of the sort that populated B-grade Hollywood films, with run-down offices hidden behind nail salons and dubious taste in brown corduroy trousers, if such people really existed. Then wondered how he could possibly justify that cost on his expenses. Or try a more exhaustive Facebook search, beyond his one quick look to see if she had a website or fan page.

He was prevented from utilising such methods by an inner sense of right and wrong that told him reaching out to Summer through his industry connections, in view of his potentially signing her again, was perfectly legitimate, but that trying to find her through more personal means crossed the line from professional interest to possible creep. If the stories that Mieville had told him were true, then the poor woman had enough weird fans as it was, and certainly didn’t need to think that another odd and potentially dangerous stalker had been added to the mix.

Noah didn’t want to be that guy.

He had a few contacts in Brazil, from his freelancing days years ago when every single potential bit of industry gossip across the world had to be nurtured in case one of them might prove his big break. All of whom he hadn’t spoken to in ages before he called and mailed them in the days prior to his flight out of Heathrow to drum up leads. He had received back a handful of mail server bounce-backs advising him of who had now moved on, and several replies that contained a warm greeting followed by an apology informing him that unfortunately they had not heard anything about a kiwi violinist performing in South America in any kind of show, either with an orchestra or something of a risqué or more private nature. They promised to let him know if any clues popped up.

There was a knock at the door, shaking Noah out of the fog of depression that had begun to settle over him.

He wasn’t expecting anyone.

It was Dana.

She had changed out of the black stretch leggings and crop-sleeved button-up shirt that she had been wearing earlier into a pair of trainers, cut-off khaki-coloured shorts that reached only halfway down her thighs, and a white masculine-style muscle vest that featured a colourful print of a gorilla wearing sunglasses and was several sizes to large for her, with a low neck and baggy arm holes that made it clear she was not wearing a bra underneath, though since she was totally flat chested Noah supposed she didn’t need one. A stone-wash denim backpack straight out of the eighties hung from one of her narrow shoulders, and in place of the silver bangles that he had noticed decorating her wrist at the breakfast table she now wore a Swatch watch with neon-yellow straps. On her left shoulder she had a badly drawn tattoo of a 3-D skull that sported a bright-red Mohawk. Noah longed to ask her if she had picked it up on a drunken night out that she now regretted, but he thought better of it.

In one hand she held a bottle of water, and in the other a Panama City fold-out map and guidebook.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m not one for sitting by the pool. I have to be back by five to head down to Next with the guys, but before then thought I might take a Canal tour.’

Noah’s expression must have been impassive.

‘I know these organised things are cheesy,’ she said, ‘but if you want to see anything other than the inside of clubs and hotel rooms in this job, you soon learn to cram in what you can. I thought you might like to come along. Follow the band and see the world, and all that.’

He considered her invitation, and thought of how it would look; him, a decent-looking but obviously older man, wandering around town with Dana, a young punk whose slight frame and taste in fashion meant she could pass for a teenager. Not that he spent too much of his time worrying about what others thought of him, but Rhonda’s emails wouldn’t answer themselves and he knew that he was likely to have a few late nights and hangovers to recover from in the coming week that would make business matters even harder to get on with on another day. The older he got, the lower his tolerance for partying. He was grateful that the sound and lighting guys were older too, so at least he wouldn’t feel like the band’s chaperone hanging out with them all.

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m here on a sort of working holiday. More work than holiday, I’m afraid.’ He opened the door wider and gestured his head towards the swivel chair by the French doors, his coffee pot and laptop resting nearby; a makeshift office.

Her eyes widened when she caught sight of the expanse of his view and de luxe-room mod cons.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It’s nice up here.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Executive perks, I guess.’

‘I guess I’ll see you later then,’ she said. ‘If you get through your work and have any time tomorrow, I’m planning on an early start, to hike the Quetzal Trail. It’s a day trip, by Volcán Barú. To see the rainforest. Not too taxing,’ she added hastily, ‘if you approach it from the right direction.’

Evidently Dana didn’t think too much of his fitness levels.

‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ he asked her. Noah might be able to sneak off early, but he doubted that the crew would be back before 3 a.m., by the time The Handsomes finished their last set and they packed up all the equipment.

She laughed, revealing a row of perfectly straight white teeth and the silver flash of a tongue piercing.

‘Rarely,’ she told him. ‘You get used to it.’

She gave him an awkward wave goodbye, and turned to go. Noah briefly observed her as she slung her other arm through her backpack’s strap and walked towards the elevator.

Had she been hitting on him? Out of genuine attraction, or an attempt to further her band’s career by sleeping with a label executive?

He didn’t think so, unless he had totally lost his touch for sensing physical chemistry. She had seemed somewhat lonely, and eager for company. Noah recalled from his days of touring with musicians how you quickly grew bored of the people you spent every day with.

Noah took the seat next to her when they sat down for dinner. The concierge had suggested La Trona, a striking location with good food and a price list that wouldn’t break the tour’s careful budget, in the Bella Vista district. The building had formerly been the home of a famous Pollera dancer, Ramona Lefevre, he was advised.

‘So how was the Canal?’ he asked her.

‘Industrial,’ she said. ‘But its history is truly fascinating.’

Over a main course of Sriracha mayonnaise with crab cakes, Noah found himself asking Dana if during the short course of her career on the road thus far she had ever stumbled across a red-haired musician by the name of Summer Zahova. As the words tripped out of his mouth, he blamed his indiscretion on the Chilean wine that the waiter kept liberally refilling his glass with, and the gaudy, wall-sized Renaissance-style oil painting across the room that featured a giant bare-breasted woman and did nothing to take his mind off the opposite sex.

‘The violinist, you mean?’ she replied, after pausing for a moment, visibly mining her memories. Dana had ordered the spicy tuna and pistachio-crusted salmon and Noah deliberated over whether or not they were yet on good enough terms for him to ask her if he could try a mouthful.

‘Yes,’ he said, surprised she knew who he meant. ‘That’s her.’

‘I actually saw her play live once, in a bar in Camden. Years ago, before she was even famous. I was only about sixteen at the time. Sneaking into whatever club or pub I could manage, you know how it was, all fun and games, not that anyone ever asked for ID.’

Noah nodded agreeably, although it had been many years since he had last needed ID.

‘The only reason I remember,’ she continued, ‘is because she played with a band called Groucho Nights and I had a terrible crush on the lead singer at the time, Chris. He was my motivation for getting into music and ending up doing what I’m doing now. Just another groupie, I guess.’ She threw him a dry smile. ‘I know they played with the Holy Criminals for a bit, who are on your label, I think?’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ he told her.

‘All part of my job.’

‘Did you ever see Summer live again?’

‘No. I know she went on to much bigger things. I was dead jealous of her then, since I guessed she was probably sleeping with the Groucho Nights frontman who I fancied, so her show posters always jumped out at me whenever I saw them, but I haven’t seen her play since. I’ve never been much into classical music, reminds me too much about school days and homework somehow. Dance and electronica is my style these days, not just for work.’

Noah nodded.

‘Why do you ask? Planning on signing her?’

‘Hoping to,’ he said. ‘The label could do with a change, an infusion of new blood.’

He quickly changed the subject, asking her further details about the Canal tour and her leisure plans for the rest of the trip. She visibly didn’t sense anything odd about his line of questioning, and continued talking animatedly about her love of travel and South America in particular. Listening to her was a darn sight more interesting than his earlier discussion with Pete and Jerry in the hotel lobby about the ins and outs of lighting gear, which Noah had only the vaguest clue about and no interest in, but her train of conversation highlighted exactly how vast Brazil was and how slim his chances were of stumbling across Summer without any further clue to her location. That was if she was in Brazil as Viggo had guessed, and hadn’t stretched her wings to other parts of the continent. Or somewhere else in the world by now.

After the meal, they ignored the calls from the eager cab drivers lined up outside the restaurant and walked the short distance to Veneto Casino where the shimmering gold lights and potted palm trees reminded Noah of Las Vegas and encouraged him to squander a regrettable sum of US dollars at the blackjack table before returning to the hotel in the early hours of the morning.

He shared a taxi back with Stéphane and Alain, who sensibly wanted to get at least some sleep before the sun came up so that they could perform at their best the following night. The two deejays were both stone-cold sober and didn’t seem to be under the influence of drugs either, Noah noted. He hadn’t even seen either of them light a cigarette, and both had ordered the vegetarian courses at dinner. Noah was confident that neither he nor Dana would have to deal with the fall-out from any rock-star hotel room high jinks, televisions being thrown out of cabana windows into the nearby pool or other such nonsense.

Jet-lag and alcohol took over the moment that his head hit the pillow, and Noah was asleep without even resorting to a nightcap.

There was a break in the duo’s touring schedule. Following two nights of gigging in Rio, it had been planned for the band and its staff to stay on for a week before moving on, an opportunity to relax, beach surf and recharge their batteries. Noah had been quite unsuccessful through his local music contacts in finding any trace of Summer or her passage through the Brazilian city. In the wake of either Alain or Stéphane or the nightbirds in their technical support crew, he had roamed through the city’s clubs and bars, befriending barmen and other DJs and peppering them with questions, but no one knew anything about an English-speaking red-haired woman answering to Summer’s description, let alone one who played the violin. The task was thankless, and Noah was convinced the whole enterprise was turning into a total waste of time.

The phone by the bed rang, strident, intrusive. He opened his eyes, feeling as if he had only drifted off an instant earlier, still hungry for the relief of sleep. He’d forgotten to pull the hotel room curtains when he returned from the bar trawl, but it was still a pale shade of dark outside. His free hand hunted for the handset.

‘Hey!’

He recognised Alain’s ever enthusiastic voice.

‘Morning . . .’ Noah mumbled.

‘Want to join us? We’re going up to Recife in an hour. We’ve a private jet. Some crazy rich guy’s offering us a private birthday gig and wants to fly us there. Just one night. Want to come?’

‘Where the fuck is Recife?’

‘Up the coast in the north-east of the country. Everyone says it’s a nice place. The Venice of Brazil, according to Google. Mucho rivers, bridges, islands.’

‘I’m not sure.’ He felt bone weary, tired of the whole affair.

‘It’ll be fun. We’re only taking a small crew. All paid for. The two of us, Pete, Jerry and Dana, to run the sound and lights. The club we’re hired to play is all kitted out, apparently. Top-of-the-range stuff. We’ve kept a seat on the plane for you. Just overnight. We should be back in Rio by noon tomorrow.’

‘Hmm . . .’

‘Come on. It’ll cheer you up, Noah. You’ve been in a shitty mood since we landed.’

Noah packed an overnight bag.

A local businessman with more money than sense had hired one of the major hotspots, a nightclub called Nox, for his much-younger trophy wife’s birthday celebrations. Getting hold of The Handsomes to deejay was the cherry on the cake, and knowing how tough a negotiator their manager was, Noah was certain they hadn’t come cheap – in addition to the private jet that had brought them all here and the size of the rooms put at their disposal in the palatial hotel they were being put up at on the river front.

The club was crowded and the light show that accompanied Alain and Stéphane’s set was designed for a larger venue. Noah had the beginnings of a headache and retreated to the open bar on the riverside beach, where he was soon joined by other refugees from the party raging within. He knew the set The Handsomes would be playing inside out by now, and no one would notice his absence.