Chapter Seven: A Waughian Interlude
“Although primarily regarded as a holiday destination for wealthy Americans, the mystique of the islands continues to attract a wide range of visitors.”
• • •
In the same way that Mr Youkoumian was the complete foreigner - that perfect combination of the exotic: accent, sophistication, untrustworthiness, and moustache, which all Englishmen regard with fascination, suspicion and disrespect in equal measures - so the company in which Stuart now found himself was the complete foreign group. Stefan: accent. Norbert and Corrie: sophistication. Mike: untrustworthiness. And Ian: moustache.
“You know that wasn’t the only ending for that story.” Mike was trying to appear literary. He had experimented with sporty, briefly flirted with world-weary, and had now changed tack once again. He was talking to the group as a whole, but his eyes were firmly fixed on Corrie.
“Really?” Ian’s conversational gambits had been enthusiastic, although monosyllabic, all evening.
“No. He wrote an alternative where he didn’t go to Brazil.”
“Really?”
“In which case world literature would forever have been poorer for the non-invention of the character of Mr ... Mr ... his name escapes me.” Mike’s pompous accent slipped and he reverted to native New Zealand as he searched for the lost word. “Fella who was out in the jungle. Had a big thing for Dickens.”
“Todd,” Norbert supplied.
“That’s it. Mr Todd.” Mike was back on track. “Splendid creation. Such wit. Such presence. Such ...” He shook his fist to emphasise the point, his voice wavering with emotion, “... gravitas.”
Stuart was watching Norbert. The Swiss man had only occasionally entered the conversation during the evening, but each time he opened his mouth it had always been to say something succinct, to-the-point and interesting. In no way was he at a disadvantage that the group had spoken in nothing other than English: unlike Stefan, who you could see concentrating hard on each word, mentally translating back and forth, forever a sentence behind the conversational pace, Norbert had studied the topics on offer with a quick, critical appraisal, offering up a morsel of knowledge only when he chose to. He was like a chess master playing a novice, studiously examining the board, while already knowing he had a winning strategy, or a fencer effortlessly dancing around a weaker opponent, teasing, prolonging the delicious agony, waiting for the moment to strike. Stuart saw the man was smiling, beginning to speak.
“Are you sure...” There was no accent. He would have been impossible to place, except that Corrie and himself had already said that they came from Zurich. Stuart felt the rapier being sharpened. “...you are not thinking of the film version rather than the book? You sound like you are talking about Alec Guinness.” Swish.
“Umm...”
It was Corrie that saved Mike. Placing a hand on Norbert’s arm, she said with a smile, “It was a very accurate portrayal.”
Wrongly interpreting Corrie’s words as a subtle shift of alliance, Mike, his confidence returned, continued to dig his own grave. Literarily. Literally? Stuart watched the rapier being returned to its sheath with another knowing smile.
“I’m a big fan, you know. Read all his stuff.”
“Really?”
“I do not know the auth-or,” said Stefan.
“Great characters. Basil Seal. He is my favourite.”
“You surprise me,” said Norbert under his breath.
Mike was not to be distracted from his flow, “Boot, of course. And John ... John ... Handful of Dust. John ...”
“Beaver.” Mike smiled rather lecherously as Corrie innocently supplied the answer. Not as ignorant as he seems, thought Stuart.
“Alastair Trumpington, Mrs ...”
“But I like the i-dea of a char-act-er be-ing non-in-vent-ed.” Stefan had only just caught up with his silent translation but, once there, wasn’t to be prevented from saying his piece, even if the conversation had already moved on.
“I thought that nothing could be un-invented,” said Stuart.
“We are talking about non-invented though,” said Mike, effortlessly rising to the new debate, “Something that never existed, not something that once existed but has since been forgotten. It might not be possible to un-invent technology, but a character in a book can be non-invented,” clarified Mike, authoritatively. The man was a genuine chameleon.
“You could argue, though,” continued Stuart, “that a character has been invented as soon as it becomes a thought in the author’s mind, even if it never makes the transition to the printed page.”
“In which case ...”
“I think that scenario is inconceivable,” said Corrie with a pleasant laugh. No trace of an accent either. They’re good these Swiss.
Ian was out of his depth. The day had started just fine - caught the flight to the island, no problem; found accommodation at Matira Point just like the guidebook said; hadn’t had any difficulties being understood, hadn’t had any problems changing money; even met up with a nice bunch of fellow travellers. It was his imagination of days such as this that had made him chuck in his Civil Service job in the first place. But now he was definitely floundering. Nineteen years taking the same train into work each morning, sitting behind the same desk, talking to the same people, about the same things. He had wanted to do something different before he reached the round twenty. His was a familiar story - if only he had had the opportunity to explain it - dreams of a different life, a taste of adventure before it gets too late, see interesting places, meet interesting people, have interesting conversations, travel-e-dee, travel-e-dah. Somehow, though, now that he was here - and let’s face it, Bora Bora: doesn’t come much more interesting than this - he felt like a fish out of water. Everyone else was interesting, everyone else had things to say, opinions to offer, stories of daring deeds, anecdotes about past adventures: everyone, except him. He was boring, he had to face it. He was more boring in Bora Bora than he had been in the DHSS office. At least back there he had dreams of being someone else. Someone exciting. There, he could imagine that he was really a fun-loving, bon viveur, cruelly trapped in the body of a slightly overweight, middle-aged Englishman, by a combination of circumstances beyond his control. Now he realised that this wasn’t the case. You can’t leave boring behind. It follows you around like a bad smell. Here, he had nothing to contribute to the group. He was an outsider. Sitting around the large wooden table in Chez Pauline’s small gardens, beneath a starry South Pacific sky, a bottle of cold beer in one hand, discussing intellectual topics with his new-found companions, he almost longed to be back, sitting in the comfortably secure surroundings of his town-centre office, the drone of the air conditioning on his right, the ozone fumes of the photocopier on his left, talking to Debbie about last night’s edition of Eastenders. “Really?”
All eyes turned to look at Ian.
“I mean ...” He coughed, nervously. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Norbert tracked back, “We were discussing how easy it would be to un-invent an actual person. Take you, Ian, for example. You are out here,” he spread his arms wide, “in the middle of nowhere. Miles from home. Thousands of miles from home. Who would miss you?”
“Well ...” It was the first time that any of the group had directly asked Ian for his opinion. Don’t fluff up. Don’t fluff up. “...my next-door neighbour was going to look in occasionally. Some of the lads down the ...”
“Family? Friends?” asked Mike, aggressively.
“Well, no family to speak of, I suppose ...”
“You don’t have to answer them,” intervened Corrie, seeing Ian’s discomfort, “they are only being foolish. I do not think there is anyone that would miss either myself or Norbert if it comes to that.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Norbert smiling, “my family are very close.”
“Mine are far away,” said Stefan, seriously.
r /> Stuart’s eyes met Norbert’s and they silently shared the joke. Stuart looked away but when he looked back Norbert was still watching him, still smiling to himself. Stuart felt a sudden sense of unease. He was no longer sure, if the joke wasn’t on him. He spoke up to break the other man’s basilisk-like stare and because he had a sudden compulsion to somehow confirm his masculinity. “I have a girlfriend back home. Although we didn’t leave things in the best of states. I’m not sure how much she would miss me,” he ended, lamely.
“And you, Mike,” asked Norbert, “who do you have back in New Zealand? Who would mourn your passing?”
“My passing?” questioned Mike, “Under different circumstances that would almost sound like a threat, Norbert.”
The Swiss man was all defensive, holding up his hands in mock horror, “Not intended. Not intended, at all. But tell us. Who?” he continued, not to be side-tracked.
“Plenty of people,” said Mike, gruffly, effectively putting an end to that topic of conversation.
• • •
It had passed midnight and the electricity in the hostel had been switched off, instantly extinguishing the multi-coloured fairy-lights that shone, like glow worms in the branches of the trees, plunging the table and its alfresco talkers into a deeper darkness. Stuart had made his apologies and retired to the dormitory room and his bed: he had not got much sleep on the boat crossing the previous night and he was dog-tired. In keeping with the earlier topic of conversation he had been quite pleased with his witty parting quip, that “he had reached an age where he didn’t want to meet any new people.” Corrie had laughed appreciatively, in any case. Corrie: she really is a stunner. He could see why Mike was so keen. Norbert must be very sure of himself. He hadn’t shown the slightest sense of irritation at Mike’s overt flirting all evening.
Stefan had decided to call it a night too, leaving just Mike, Ian, and Corrie and Norbert to continue drinking and chatting.
“I have a friend of mine,” began Norbert.
“Aren’t all stories that begin ‘I have a friend of mine’ really about the actual teller?” said Corrie, teasing.
“Not this one,” continued Norbert, “This is actually a rather sad story. I have a friend of mine who was sent to prison for a crime he did not commit.”
“Really?” It was Corrie this time, but only because she beat Ian to it.
“Go on,” said Mike.
“As I say, it is a rather sad story. This friend of mine loves walking. It is his passion. He loves walking more than anything else in the world. So, one day he was walking in the hills above Zurich. I do not know if you know Zurich, but it is a very beautiful city. There is the lake of course, but all around, there are the most lovely hills. They are very popular with hikers at the weekend. Anyway, this was a perfect early-spring day. The snow had completely left the lower slopes, and the sun was beginning to get the first real heat of the year. He - I will not tell you his name, just in case, you know - had taken provisions just for the day. One day’s hike. He was planning to be back in his own home for the evening. Of course, that did not happen. There would be no story, if what was simple and what was planned always happened.”
“Go on,” repeated Mike, interested, although simultaneously frustrated at having to allow his rival centre-stage for so long.
“So he walked and he walked, higher and higher into the hills, but as he walked the weather got worse. Little by little, such that it was barely noticeable, it was getting darker and darker ...”
“Norbert, please.” It was Corrie, protesting good-humouredly, “Too melodramatic.”
“Colder and colder,” Norbert sent Corrie a challenging glare, followed by a knowing smile, “the cloud coming down lower and lower, until he realised that he had strayed from his familiar path and did not know his way back. Of course, he could have trusted his intuition and just headed downhill, he would have reached the lake at some point he realised, but in those conditions, well ... anything can happen, he just was not sure. Luck - would he call it such in hindsight - was with him though. Almost dark now, with no provisions left, and no equipment for camping out overnight, he happened upon a shelter, one of the mountain rescue huts that are scattered up there amongst the hills. It was not the longed-for warmth of his own bed, but it was a more comfortable prospect than sleeping rough, in the open, on the mountain-side.”
“Was it locked?” asked Ian, pleased to find a subject-matter that he was at least keeping apace with.
“No, luck was with him again. The hut was open, and more than that, was occupied. But that, sadly, was where his luck ran out.”
“How so?” Ian was really getting involved now.
“Inside was a body. A young woman. She had been strangled.”
“No.” Altogether now.
“And?” Mike was impatient.
“The long and the short of it was that my friend was arrested. For murder. He told the police he did not do it. He was a victim of circumstances. It was pure chance that he had happened upon the shelter, let alone encountered the body. He did not know the young woman. Had never met her. Had no connection with her whatsoever. And yet he was convicted. There was no one else, they said. He protested his innocence in court. He continued to protest his innocence during the next seven years in prison. To no avail.”
“Terrible,” said Corrie, nodding sympathetically.
“Indeed. Anyway, seven years passed out of his fifteen year sentence, and he was allowed one day remission. He had been a model prisoner. It was the very least he was entitled to. And what did he do? The one thing that had been denied him in prison. His great passion in life.”
“He went walking.” Ian was flying.
“Correct.” Norbert pointed at Ian, “He went walking. It was a beautiful day, much as it had been those seven years prior. The sun was shining, the lake was glimmering far beneath him, and he walked and he walked, walked like he had never walked before. Up in his beloved hills, high above the city. Such was his joy at being free, even if it was just for one day.”
“So, did he go back to prison? Or just keep on walking?” asked Mike.
“No. He went back to prison. He knew the deal. Seven o’clock that evening he reported back to the prison gates and, to the best of my knowledge, is still there to this day, serving out his time, still protesting his innocence.”
“That is not the end, is it? I sense there is more,” said Corrie.
“You know me too well,” said Norbert.
“Well?”
“They found her body two days later. Strangled. In the same rescue shelter as before.”
Norbert sat back, a self-satisfied look on his face. Corrie gave him an affectionate pretend slap across the face. “Naughty.”
“Huh,” said Mike, unimpressed.
“You have not heard that story before?” Norbert asked Mike, meaningfully.
“No. Why should I?” countered Mike, “You said it was a friend of yours.”
“I just wondered.” Norbert took Corrie’s hand, smiling. “Bed?”