A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [106]
‘You’re not fine, Alec,’ he says, the weight of his body shifting forward, coming at me. ‘You’re hardly here. Most of the time I don’t even recognize you any more.’
He is keeping his voice low, tinkering with a pan on the stove which has pasta boiling hard inside it. I am worried that Fortner, who is only across the corridor in the chair nearest the kitchen, will hear us, so I move away from the sink and close the door until it is ajar.
‘Come on, Saul. Who has the will to listen to a guy they’ve never met before doing his party piece about answering machines and phone bills? I have a lot on my mind.’
‘We all work hard, for fuck’s sake,’ he says, but before I have time to reply he has carried a bowl of salad into the dining-room and left me alone in the kitchen. I turn to the sink and begin rinsing the plates in a coughing stream of lukewarm water. One by one, I slot them into the dishwasher.
‘Is the pasta ready?’ he says, coming back in.
‘I don’t know. Listen, why don’t I stay tonight? We can talk then, have a smoke, watch some TV.’
‘OK,’ he says, forking a strand of tagliatelle out of the water. Then, more quietly: ‘Whatever.’
At half past ten, with the main course out of the way, Fortner makes his move.
Saul, Dave and Susannah are having a conversation about the latest cinema releases, which to me is always the sign of a bad dinner party. Fortner interjects to ask if anyone has seen Mission Impossible, and Susannah says yes she has and tells a boring story which reveals only that she has misunderstood the plot. More summer blockbusters are discussed - Independence Day, Die Hard With a Vengeance, one with Schwarzenegger I haven’t heard of called Eraser - and everybody gets to share their views about whether or not Arnie is past his prime. Dave plays the arthouse card by revealing that he has seen ‘the new Bertolucci’. As far as I can tell, it’s just a story about a bunch of seedy British ex-pats sleeping around in Tuscany. In the middle of all this, Katharine says simply:
‘Honey, have you taken your medication?’
Which is Fortner’s cue.
‘Dunno why I bother,’ he says, getting up from the table with the slowness of a geriatric. His voice is a low grunt. ‘Goddam pills never do any good.’
And with that he lumbers towards the entrance hall. He makes this look so natural that the others would never suspect a thing. Dave carries on.
‘I often think, would Bernardo Bertolucci have half the reputation he has if his name was Bernard Bell or… or Bob Bower or something?’
From the hall I can hear the slap of my briefcase falling on to the carpet, and the successive snaps of the brass catches flying open.
‘I mean don’t you think that the success he’s enjoyed has something to do with the allure of the name “Bernardo Bertolucci”? He already sounds like a great movie director before he’s even shot a frame of film.’
There’s a rustle of papers in the hall, clearly audible to all of us and not at all like the sound of a pill bottle or a foil pack of antibiotics. Then the briefcase is closed. Almost immediately another case, clearly Fortner’s, is opened. The sound of this is much fainter; only someone who was deliberately listening out would hear it. Fortner must have held the catches with his fingers, drawing them up slowly to smother any sound. I look at Saul and Susannah, but they have been sidetracked by Dave, who has segued into Last Tango in Paris. I listen for further noises, but Dave’s voice smothers everything. Katharine catches my eye but the expression on her face does not change. Then, at a convenient break in the conversation, Saul says:
‘I’ll get pudding. Will Fortner want any, Kathy?’
This could be dangerous: if he heads out into the hall, he may see Fortner. I try to think of a way to delay him, but Katharine reacts quicker.
‘Hey,’ she says, thinking on her feet. ‘Before you do that, just tell me about something. It’s been bugging me all night. You see that book there?’
‘Which one?’
Saul is wavering near the door, looking back at her.
‘On the second