Moroccan Traffic: Send a Fax to the Kasbah Read online

  He thought again. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘Look, and tell me the answer.’ And he lifted and dropped back the sheet on the portrait.

  The Boardroom is proofed against sound. You could hear the low hum of the heating, and the creak of a chair, and the nearly inaudible click of the quartz clock. There was nothing to say. I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johnson Johnson. ‘Want to watch? Sit there, and don’t talk.’

  ‘You don’t need the jacket?’ I said.

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Quite enjoy someone breathing in the same room. Even fire and brimstone. Now shut up, there’s a splendid young lady.’

  Ten minutes later, Sir Robert bounded in. ‘Ah, Johnson, you’re working. Can you forgive me? Wendy dear, can you find us some coffee? What do you think of this, then? After five sittings?’ He wore a fresh shirt and tie and dark trousers. His waist was solid, but there was no flabbiness anywhere. He picked up and slipped on the jacket which I had not been required to wear. I had not been required to do anything but stand and watch paint being slapped round a palette and placed, without pause, on the canvas by someone who was not like my mother at all.

  I said, ‘It’s a very good picture.’

  ‘Good?’ said Sir Robert. ‘My dear girl, that portrait will be on the centre wall of this year’s Academy. You’re a genius, old boy. Charity will say the same when she sees it.’

  The genius said, ‘You got back all right then?’

  ‘Boring party. Yes. Didn’t know you knew that crowd?’ Sir Robert said. ‘Slept here last night, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ said the genius. ‘Who can claim to know a financial consultant except other financial consultants? Fiddler’s bidding, in fact. Muriel phoned me. Her people and mine are old friends. Nice girl, Muriel. Lucky chap, Oppenheim.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Sir Robert.

  Working late, I had said. Mr. Johnson didn’t bother to look at me, and I didn’t look at Sir Robert. I got out, fast, for the coffee.

  Although I brought him a cup, Mr. Johnson refused again. I thought he wouldn’t care for me to work while he painted, but he simply hooked out a chair by his easel and I sat down with a notebook. The Chairman talked, had a break, and then talked again. Only during the final half-hour did Mr. Johnson make a suggestion. ‘Now I have a touch to do to the mouth. All right, Sir Robert? Miss Helmann?’ And Sir Robert smiled and stopped speaking, while Mr. Johnson took up the running.

  Chatting was, I suppose, part of his job, and he knew Sir Robert’s interests by this time. He knew a surprising amount about cricket and racing, and had quite a stock of anecdotes about acquaintances from Sir Robert’s various quangos. He knew about Charity’s passion for paintings and horses. I supposed he knew what to expect if and when he ever met Lady Kingsley.

  At the end, he put down his palette, threw his fistful of brushes on the trolley and stepped back, his eyes on the canvas. He said, ‘Well, that’s about it. Two-thirds done: the right stage to leave off, although I must say I’m sorry. It’s really coming along.’ He stood absently folding a rag.

  I sat where I was, watching the Chairman’s smile fade. He said, ‘Leave it? Until when?’

  The bifocal glasses turned. ‘Where are we? Spring . . . summer. . . Resume in September, perhaps?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sir Robert gently. He rose in the controlled way he has, put one hand in his pocket and strolled towards Mr. Johnson. He said, ‘We discussed the possibility of an interruption; I remember that very well. But not, my dear chap, what the shop floor might describe as a walkout. You are proposing a gap of seven months without warning? A little steep, wouldn’t you say?’

  Johnson frowned. ‘Disappointing, of course. But there it is.’ He shook his head, tossing tubes into his box. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘Not in my Boardroom, as a rule,’ Sir Robert said. I had heard him say it before, with the same look on his face, and the same pleasant tone in his voice. He continued, ‘I have a feeling you want to go on with this as much as I do. There’s a way around everything. What can I do to help matters?’

  ‘Paint six portraits?’ said Johnson, with all the indifferent charm of a Customs officer. He unscrewed a final tin and soaking a cloth, used it to banish the paint from his fingers. Then he looked up, perhaps struck by the silence.

  He said, ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten. This is the risk you accepted. I have a client who reserved the right, long ago, to make his own priority appointment. He rang me last night and made it.’

  ‘For tomorrow?’ said Sir Robert. He sat down in a chair and leaned back. ‘For every day this week and next? I thought a professional spaced out his sittings.’

  ‘For March,’ said Johnson. ‘And I have three other commissions to finish beforehand. You, and those who booked later than you will, sadly, have to wait till September. But in time for next year’s Academy, certainly.’

  He had laid hands on the easel and was turning it thoughtfully. The blue daylight of London glittered on the wet picture, and Sir Robert’s eyes fastened upon it. He rose without shifting his gaze, and thrust a hand, as before in his pocket. His own face looked back as if from a mirror, full of a vigour so piercing that flesh and blood seemed to spring from the canvas. The fit, heavy body. The amused, clean-shaven face with years of explosive living caught in every line. It was two-thirds done, as Johnson had said. A third was only blocked in.

  ‘But of course,’ Johnson said, ‘if art and trade can’t agree, don’t let’s quarrel. Take back your fee and I’ll scrap it. You will, after all, have wasted as much time on the thing as I have.’

  Sir Robert’s hand hung at his side. I watched its fingers curl and then stretch. He had just realised he was face to face with a monopoly. He had opened his mouth when Val Dresden jerked the door open. Val said, ‘Bomb threat, Sir Robert, I’m sorry. We have to get out of the building.’

  He sounded sorry all right. He’d heard the row through the door, and was dying to know who was winning. Sir Robert’s hand subtly relaxed. He said, ‘What a bore. My dear fellow, I have to apologise. Perhaps we can continue when this is all over?’ He made for the door, and we followed. The alarm was warbling by now, and I could hear a confusion of voices and whistles, and footsteps thudding down stairs and through passages. I scooped up my handbag and hurried.

  A voice, socioeconomic group A, said, ‘You’re well-drilled, Miss Helmann. Does this happen often?’

  Mr. Johnson jogged at my side like a billboard. Between his two outstretched arms he was grasping the cause of the dispute, wet side outermost. I said, ‘This is the first time really since Christmas. We wait at the end of the street unless it’s raining. Twice, Sir Robert sent everyone home.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Mr. Johnson.

  ‘Except the personal staff, of course,’ I said. ‘He has the Rolls driven up to the cordon and we stay until the security sweep has been finished.’

  We’d got to the foyer when Sir Robert pushed his way back to Johnson’s side and noticed he’d rescued the painting. He said, ‘My God, I’m impressed, but in fact there’s no danger, old boy. Happens regularly. Hang about for a clean bill of health, and then we’ll have that chat over a noggin. Why not wait for me over there? It’s a good hotel. And it’s cold, standing about in the roadway.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Was it a phone threat you had?’

  ‘The police are tracing it,’ said Sir Robert. ‘The usual rubbish. A bomb will go off in an hour unless we arrange to hand over a million. I feel rather insulted. You’d think they’d value us a little bit higher.’

  ‘So you hand over the million?’ said Mr. Johnson. We had reached Sir Robert’s car.

  My Chairman laughed. ‘Christ, you know better than that. A lot better. Don’t worry. Name your price,
and we’ll meet it.’

  Mr. Johnson stopped walking. He said, ‘I have named my price. I may cancel the contract, but I have no need to alter it.’

  ‘What did you think I was saying?’ the Chairman said quickly. ‘All we both want to do is finish the bloody picture. It’s the best you’ve ever done. You know it. I know it. I’m trying to help you finish it, so quit trying to slam me down, will you?’

  Inside the car, Val Dresden was taking a phone call. He opened the door. ‘Sir Robert! The threat’s been repeated. They think there is a bomb in the building.’

  I stood outside, and watched the Chairman dive in and grab the car phone. Mr. Johnson watched him as well, the painting resting gently reversed on the road. The ambulances and fire engines arrived. Behind the cordon, I could see the rest of the staff, and sightseers, and residents. Occasionally one of the executives would come over to speak to Sir Robert, and be introduced to Johnson Johnson who was holding court by the boot of the Rolls.

  Flattery was doing him good. Presently, he was so far softened up that he would step forward and shake hands with anybody. Then I saw Sir Robert stiffen and, looking round, realised who was coming.

  It was too late to prevent an encounter. Sir Robert assumed a welcoming smile. ‘Ah, Morgan. Dreadful bore, isn’t it? Johnson, may I introduce our newest Director? Mr. Morgan and his team have just joined Kingsley Conglomerates.’

  He didn’t say more. He didn’t actually say, ‘This is the Bummer of the Year; give me a week and I’ll fix him.’ But you could tell he hoped Johnson got the message.

  He probably did, from the way he shook hands. In his own design room, according to rumour, Mr. Morgan favoured T-shirts with bracelets and denims. For a visit to HQ he had found a peculiar suit with a hole in one elbow. His pigtail was the same. Mr. Morgan said, ‘Heard of you. Can I? Or do you make a small charge?’

  ‘Feel free,’ said Mr. Johnson, and turned the canvas for Mr. Morgan to look.

  ‘Wow!’ said Mr. Morgan. His jet-black eyes didn’t blink. ‘Wow, that’s tubular.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johnson. ‘It’s a personal best. What do you make?’

  ‘I’m into microchips,’ said Mr. Morgan. He hadn’t removed his eyes from the paint. ‘I’ve got low arousal. It’s better than women.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘I hope they’ve given you nice golden handcuffs.’

  ‘Brother,’ said Mr. Morgan, ‘In the matter of shackles, I am not in your league. Why have you stuck yourself with this stuff?’

  Mr. Johnson looked at him calmly. ‘You joined a conglomerate.’

  ‘I promised my teacher,’ said our newest Director. ‘Soon as I got out of Remand School. So what’s your problem with blue pigments? Permanence.’

  I stared at them both. Johnson Johnson said, ‘Yes, permanence. Why?’

  ‘I’ve done some work on that. Ring me some time. Not now: I’m going on holiday.’

  ‘You’re into chemistry, too?’ said Mr. Johnson.

  ‘You name it. Pays the bar bills. Better get back. Blue’s a bugger,’ said Mr. Morgan, and threw himself lithely into the crowd which was still milling about, rubbing its arms and staring towards Kingsley Conglomerates.

  Which, ten minutes later, blew up.

  The flash came first: then a bang that deadened my ears. The glass flying out of the windows looked like a broken kaleidoscope. It began to fall in the empty street, together with lumps of concrete and tangles of metal and other rubbish. We were too far away to feel much of the blast, or the heat that followed as the fire took its hold. Sir Robert scrambled out of the car, followed by his silent PA, shivering in his voile shirt. The driver was gripping the wheel fit to break it. Those executives I could see were all pale, and the girls in the crowd were mostly screaming except those like Trish, who were patently thrilled.

  Sir Robert said, ‘Christ! Police, security, dogs, and they can’t defuse a bomb on a plate with a ticket on it. Have they brought down the whole fucking building?’ Unlike the other faces, his had turned scarlet.

  You could see nothing now but black smoke with a glare of red flame in it. But I had caught that single instructive glimpse: the flash of glass buckling and jumping along the third floor. I said, ‘It’s the Boardroom floor only, I think.’

  For us, it wasn’t bad news. Blast-proof safes protected all the company papers. Apart from expensive leather and curtains and carpets, the third floor held little of capital value. Even the portrait was safe. I looked again at Johnson Johnson who was holding it.

  Staring upwards, he looked properly stunned. But his first reaction, when the bang came, had been different. It had been one of raw and unmistakable anger. Then, observing me, he’d said, ‘Shit,’ in a mild voice.

  It wasn’t my place to speak, and I didn’t. The management announced Crisis Procedure. I waited, notebook in hand, but Sir Robert gave all his orders to Dresden. Then he came quietly over and asked me to take care of a particular problem.

  I can’t pretend I was pleased. You don’t get blown up every day, and I was going to miss the excitement. On the other hand, the personal success would be mine, and not Dresden’s. I agreed, and left him, and crossed to the car to phone my mother.

  I got my mother’s recorded voice on the answerphone. I had to wait all through the familiar rasp, and the place where she unstuck her fag to cough better. Mr. Morgan, peering into the car, said, ‘What’s up? No one at home?’

  Because of the pigtail, his hair had stayed neater than anyone else’s, and he was neat in build also. He had a bony face and a nose like an osprey’s. From three inches away he looked what he was, in his thirties. I wondered if he guessed that the Chairman, having seen off the bomb, would immediately wade into his low-authority clothing.

  ‘I left a message,’ I said. ‘On the answerphone. My mother will get it.’

  ‘Go home, angel,’ he said. ‘Nothing here for nice kids with mothers.’

  I didn’t need to explain why I couldn’t. Sir Robert approached. ‘Wendy, Mr. Johnson is waiting. We really can’t let him cart that wet canvas home single-handed. Help him as much as you can. And get warm. Have something to eat. There’s no hurry: Dresden will manage quite splendidly.’ His voice bounced off a newly stopped taxi into which Mr. Johnson was easing his picture.

  ‘What?’ said Mr. Morgan, as anyone might. But Sir Robert merely put a warm hand on my shoulder and propelled me into the taxi with Johnson. I went, for I knew what he wanted. The other third of his portrait, finished pronto.

  Sir Robert usually gets his own way. In due course Mr. Johnson thanked me for helping, and dutifully asked if he might take me to lunch. Even knowing all I now know, dutiful is still the word I would attach to Johnson Johnson. He was being perfectly dutiful to someone.

  Hence (as I was to find out long after) our lunch table was already booked. Booked for himself and for me, a full twenty-four hours before it all happened.

  Chapter 2

  We dropped the picture off at Mr. Johnson’s apartment, which had a marble entrance with bay trees and two porters who seemed to know all about handling wet paintings. Then we went to his club, which had two Jags, a Porsche and a pale blue vintage Sunbeam inconspicuously parked in the forecourt.

  I have learned all I need to know about etiquette: I expected there would be a Ladies’ End to the dining room, and there was. I was quite nicely dressed, and accustomed to conferences, where you have to walk about with older men. I noticed the people we passed were quite a lot younger than Mr. Johnson, and I thought that perhaps he had picked one of his sportier clubs. Walking through, I heard members greet him, but no one offered to join him. They possibly thought I was a personal friend. Or they may not have wanted to join him. Cosy was not what I would have called Johnson Johnson. He had a social distance zone the size of a car park.

  And his club was nothin
g to write home about. When we got to the table, the menu wasn’t even in French. I chose pâté, sole and the cheese board. The great man plumped for soup, mince and pudding, ordered a stingy two glasses of claret, and ate while I thanked him for his hospitality. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘I hate to hear of nice girls getting the sack. Would you like to dispose of the whole subject now, or are you keen to get me pissed first?’

  I thought of my mother, and the world’s largest library of aids to self-improvement. Among my mother’s cassettes were quick-help assessments of Extroversion, Introversion and Neuroticism, with in-job analysis measures designed to tap critical on-the-job behaviours.

  The authors hadn’t met Mr. Johnson.

  I had absorbed four professional ways of saying ‘I’m angry’ and my client had used them all up in one morning.

  I said, ‘You want to finish that painting. I know Sir Robert. I thought I might suggest an accommodation.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Suppose you suggest it over the pudding, and we actually eat our first two courses in peace. Why didn’t you go to university?’

  He made me nervous, being so unpredictable. I could, of course, have told him the answer. Because my mother didn’t believe in universities, that was why. Because my father had died street-stupid the way he was born, always with a new idea for a new business that would start paying the rent. Business people didn’t succeed by going to university, my mother said. I agreed with her. I said, ‘I’m keen on business. For a girl, a good secretarial training is often the best way into management.’

  ‘What fascinates you about management?’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Getting to the top? Starting up on your own? Or earning the means to do something quite different?’

  He moved in the same circles as Sir Robert. He knew Daniel Oppenheim. He knew chief executives and investment brokers and bankers. I said, ‘I like doing things well, and seeing things happen. I may not reach top management, but I can enjoy giving loyalty and good service along the way.’

  He handed me salt, and took back the butter. He behaved exactly like a man entertaining a lady guest of his choice. He said, ‘Well, that’s the stock answer. What’s the real answer?’