The Tailor of Panama (5 page)

And having ventured this observation to Marta and received no reply beyond an empathetic lifting of the dark head, Pendel arranged himself, as always for a new account, in the attitude in which he wished to be discovered.

For just as life had trained him to rely on first impressions, so he set a similar value on the first impression he made on other people. Nobody, for instance, expects a tailor to be sitting down. But Pendel had long ago determined that P & B should be an oasis of tranquillity in a bustling world. Therefore he made a point of being
discovered in his old porter's chair, most likely with a copy of the day before yesterday's
Times
spread on his lap.

And he didn't mind at all if there was a tray of tea on the table in front of him, as there was now, perched among old copies of
Illustrated London News
and
Country Life,
with a real silver teapot on it, and some nice fresh cucumber sandwiches, extra thin, which Marta had made to perfection in her kitchen—where, at her own insistence, she was confined for the first nervous stages of any new customer's appearance lest the presence of a badly scarred woman of mixed race should prove threatening to white male Panamanian pride in the throes of self-adornment. Also she liked to read her books there, because he had finally got her studying again. Psychology and Social History and another one he always forgot. He had wanted her to do Law, but she had refused point-blank on the grounds that lawyers were liars.

“It is not appropriate,” she would say, in her carefully honed, ironic Spanish, “that the daughter of a black carpenter should debase herself for money.”

There are several ways for a large-bodied young man with a blueand-white bookmaker's brolly to get out of a small car in pelting rain. Osnard's—if it was he—was ingenious but flawed. His strategy was to start opening the umbrella inside the car and reverse buttocks-first in an ungainly crouch, at the same time whisking the brolly after and over him while opening it the rest of the way in a single triumphant flourish. But either Osnard or the brolly jammed in the doorway, so that for a moment all Pendel saw of him was a broad English bum covered by brown gabardine trousers cut too deep in the crotch and a twin-vented matching jacket shot to rags by rainfire.

Ten-ounce summerweight, Pendel noted. Terylene mix, too hot for Panama by half. No wonder he wants a couple of suits in a hurry. Thirty-eight waist if a day. The brolly opened. Some don't. This one shot up like a flag of instant surrender, to descend at the
same pace over the upper part of the body. Then he vanished, which was what every customer did between the car park and the front door. He's coming up the steps, thought Pendel contentedly. And heard his footsteps above the torrent. Here he is, he's standing in the porch, I can see his shadow. Come on, silly, it's not locked. But Pendel remained seated. He had taught himself to do that. Otherwise he'd be opening and closing doors all day. Patches of sodden brown gabardine, like shards in a kaleidoscope, were appearing in the transparent half-halo of letters blazoned on the frosted glass:
PENDEL
&
BRAITHWAITE
,
Panama and Savile Row since 1932.
Another moment and the whole bulky apparition, crabwise and brolly-first, lurched into the shop.

“Mr. Osnard, I presume”—from the depths of his porter's chair—“come in, sir. I'm Harry Pendel. Sorry about our rain. Have a cup of tea or something a little stronger.”

Appetites,
was his first thought. A quick brown fox's eyes. Slow body, big limbs, one of your lazy athletes. Allow plenty of spare cloth for expansion. And after that he remembered a bit of music hall banter that Uncle Benny never tired of, to the insincere outrage of Auntie Ruth:

“Big hands, ladies, big feet, and you all know what
that
means—big gloves and big socks.”

Gentlemen entering P & B were presented with a choice. They could sit down, which was what the cosy ones did, accept a bowl of Marta's soup or a glass of whatever, trade gossip and let the place work its balm on them before the drift to the fitting room upstairs, which took them casually past a seductive display of pattern books strewn over an applewood side table. Or they could make a beeline for the fitting room, which is what the fidgety ones did, mostly the new accounts, barking orders to their drivers through the wood partition and making phone calls on their cellulars to mistresses and stockbrokers and generally setting out to impress with their importance. Till with time the
fidgety ones became the cosy ones and were in turn replaced by brash new accounts. Pendel waited to see which of these categories Osnard would conform with. Answer: neither.

Nor did he betray any of the known symptoms of a man about to spend five thousand dollars on his appearance. He wasn't nervous, he wasn't cast down by insecurity or hesitation, he wasn't brash or garrulous or overfamiliar. He wasn't guilty, but then guilt in Panama is rare. Even if you bring some with you when you come, it runs out pretty fast. He was disturbingly composed.

And what he did was, he propped himself on his dripping umbrella, with one foot forward and the other parked squarely on the doormat, which explained why the bell was still ringing in the rear corridor. But Osnard didn't hear the bell. Or he heard it and was impervious to embarrassment. Because while it went on ringing he peered round him with a sunny expression on his face. Smiling in a recognising kind of way as if he had stumbled on a long-lost friend.

The curved mahogany staircase leading to the gents' boutique on the upper gallery: my goodness me, the dear old staircase . . . The foulards, dressing gowns, monogrammed house slippers: yes, yes, I remember you well . . . The library steps artfully converted to a tie rack: who'd have thought
that's
what they'd do with it? The wooden punkahs swinging lazily from the moulded ceiling, the bolts of cloth, the counter with its turn-of-the-century shears and brass rule set along one edge: old chums, every one . . . And finally the scuffed leather porter's chair, authenticated by local legend as Braithwaite's very own. And Pendel himself sitting in it, beaming with benign authority upon his new account.

And Osnard looking back at him—a searching, unabashed upand-down look, beginning with Pendel's face, then descending by way of his fly-fronted waistcoat to his dark-blue trousers, silk socks and black town shoes by Ducker's of Oxford, sizes six to ten available from stock upstairs. Then up again, taking all the time in the world for a second scrutiny of the face before darting away to the
recesses of the shop. And the doorbell ringing on and on because of his thick hind leg planted on Pendel's coconut doormat.

“Marvellous,” he declared. “Perfectly marvellous. Don't alter it by a brush stroke.”

“Take a seat, sir,” Pendel urged hospitably. “Make yourself at home, Mr. Osnard. Everyone's at home here, or we hope they are. We get more people dropping in for a chat than what we do for suits. There's an umbrella stand beside you. Pop it in there.”

But far from popping his brolly anywhere, Osnard was pointing it like a wand at a framed photograph that hung centre stage on the back wall, showing a Socratic, bespectacled gentleman in rounded collars and black jacket, frowning on a younger world.

“And that's
him,
is it?”

“What's who, sir? Where?”

“Over there. The Great One. Arthur Braithwaite.”

“It is indeed, sir. You have a sharp eye, if I may say so. The Great One himself, as you rightly describe him. Pictured in his prime, at the request of his highly admiring employees, and presented to him on the occasion of his sixtieth.”

Osnard leapt forward to have a closer look, and the bell at last stopped ringing. “ ‘Arthur G.,' ” he read aloud from the brass plate mounted on the base of the frame. “ ‘1908–1981. Founder.' Well, I'm damned. Wouldn't have recognised him. Hell did the
G
stand for?”

“George,” said Pendel, wondering why Osnard thought he should have recognised him in the first place but not going so far as to enquire.

“Where d'he come from?”

“Pinner,” said Pendel.

“I meant the picture. Did you bring it with you? Where was it?” Pendel allowed himself a sad smile and a sigh.

“A gift from his dear widow, Mr. Osnard, shortly before she followed him. A beautiful thought that she could ill afford, considering the cost of shipping all the way from England, but she would
do it, irregardless. ‘It's where he'd like to be,' she said, and nobody could talk her out of it. Not that they wanted to. Not if she'd set her heart on it. Who would?”

“What was her name?”

“Doris.”

“Any kids?”

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Mrs. Braithwaite. Did she have children? Heirs. Descendants.”

“No, alas, their union was not blessed.”

“Still, you'd think it would be Braithwaite & Pendel, wouldn't you? Old Braithwaite, senior partner after all. Ought to be first, even if he's dead.”

Pendel was already shaking his head. “No, sir. Not so. It was Arthur Braithwaite's express wish at the time. ‘Harry, my son, it's youth before age. From now on we're P & B, and that way we won't be mistaken for a certain oil company.' ”

“So who are these royals you've been dressing? ‘Tailors to Royalty.' Saw it on your sign. Busting to ask.”

Pendel allowed his smile to cool a little.

“Well, sir, I'll put it this way, and I'm afraid that's as far as I'm allowed to go, owing to laze majesty. Certain gentlemen
not
a great distance from a certain royal throne
have
seen fit to honour us in the past, and up to the present day. Alas, we are not at liberty to divulge further details.”

“Why not?”

“Partly by reason of the Guild of Tailors' code of conduct, which guarantees
every
customer his confidentiality, be he high or low. And partly I'm afraid these days for reasons of security.”

“Throne of England?”

“There you press me too hard, Mr. Osnard.”

“Hell's the crest o' the Prince of Wales hanging outside for, then? Thought you were a pub for a moment.”

“Thank you, Mr. Osnard. You have noticed what few have noticed here in Panama, but further than that my lips are sealed.
Sit yourself down, sir. Marta's sandwiches are cucumber, if you're interested. I don't know whether her renown has reached you. And there's a very nice light white I can recommend. Chilean, which one of my customers imports and has the grace to send me a case of now and then. What can I tempt you with?”

For by now it was becoming important to Pendel that Osnard should be tempted.

Osnard had not sat down but he had accepted a sandwich. Which is to say he had helped himself to three from the plate, one to keep him going and two to balance in the ample cushions of his left palm while he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pendel at the applewood table.

“Now these aren't us at
all,
sir,” Pendel confided, dismissing at one gesture a swatch of lightweight tweeds, which was what he always did. “Can't be doing with these either—not for what I call the mature figure—all right for your beardless boy or your beanstalk, but not for the likes of a you or a me, I'll put it that way.” Another flip. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

“Prime alpaca.”

“It is indeed, sir,” said Pendel, much surprised. “From the Andean highlands of south Peru, appreciated for its soft touch and variety of natural shades, to quote
Wool Record,
if I may make so bold. Well, I'm blessed, you
are
a dark horse, Mr. Osnard.”

But he only said this because your average customer didn't know the first thing about cloth.

“My dad's favourite. Swore by it. Used to. Alpaca or bust.” “Used to, sir? Oh dear.”

“Dead. Up there with Braithwaite.”

“Well, all I can say is, Mr. Osnard, with no disrespect intended, your esteemed father knew whereof he spoke,” Pendel exclaimed, launching upon a favourite subject. “Because alpaca cloth is in my fairly informed judgment the finest lightweight in the world bar none. Ever was and ever shall be, if you'll pardon me. You can have
all your mohair-and-worsted mixes in the world, I don't care. Alpaca is dyed in the thread, hence your variety of colour, hence your richness. Alpaca is pure, it's resilient, it breathes. Your most sensitive skin is not bothered by it.” He laid a confiding finger on Osnard's upper arm. “And what did our Savile Row tailor use it for, Mr. Osnard, to his eternal and everlasting shame until the scarcity prevented him, I wonder?”

“Try me.”

“Linings,” Pendel declared with disgust. “Common linings. Vandalism, that's what it is.”

“Old Braithwaite would have boiled over.”

“He did, sir, and I'm not ashamed to quote him. ‘Harry,' he said to me—it took him nine years to call me Harry—‘Harry, what they're doing to the alpaca, I wouldn't do to a dog.' His words, and I can hear them to this day.”

“Me too.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

If Pendel was all alertness, Osnard was the reverse. He seemed unaware of the impact of his words and was studiously turning over samples.

“I don't think I quite got your meaning there, Mr. Osnard.”

“Old Braithwaite dressed m'dad. Long ago, mind. I was just a nipper.”

Pendel appeared too moved to speak. A rigidity came over him and his shoulders lifted in the manner of an old soldier at the Cenotaph. His words, when he found them, lacked breath. “Well I never, sir. Excuse me. This
is
a turn-up for the book.” He rallied a little. “It's a first, I don't mind admitting. Father to son. The two generations both, here at P & B. We've not had that, not in Panama. Not yet. Not since we left the Row.”

“Thought you'd be surprised.”

For a moment Pendel could have sworn the quick brown fox's eyes had lost their twinkle and become circular and smoky dark, with only a splinter of light glowing in the centre of each pupil.
And in his later imagination the splinter was not gold but red. But the twinkle was quickly there again.