The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [94]
‘Good to meet you,’ Ben told him, standing uncomfortably with his weight on one leg. It occurred to him that he was shaking hands with the men possibly responsible for his father’s death. Did Mark realize that? Had he thought this through?
‘Good to meet you also,’ Tamarov replied, ignoring a peroxide blonde who drifted past him wearing a black lace corset and thigh-high leather boots.
There were quickremarks now and drinkorders, the group settling down at the table. Ben was conscious that he owed money to Raquel, but she seemed happy to remain at his side, her hand now confidently parked in Macklin’s lap. Tamarov sat on Ben’s right, his backto the wall, with Mark and Duchev beside one another at the other end of the table.
‘Where’s Philippe got to?’ Macklin asked, turning and looking back towards the entrance. His voice was loud and controlling, any civility erased by drink.
‘Went to the gents, I think,’ Mark said.
‘Taking his fucking time about it. So, how you been, Benny boy?’
‘Not too bad, Tommy boy,’ Ben replied, and was surprised to see Tamarov smiling as he removed his jacket.
‘You not like me calling you that?’ Macklin grabbed Ben’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. ‘Hey Keeno!’ Again he was shouting down the table. ‘Little brother here doesn’t like me calling him “Benny boy”. Now what do you thinkabout that?’
Tamarov glanced at Ben, the unspoken solidarity of sober men, and raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he was tired of Macklin’s behaviour, that he thought of him as foolish and embarrassing. Ben nodded back, and wondered if he had gained his trust.
‘I told ya,’ Mark replied, wearing the mask of work, the banter and the easy charm. ‘Ben don’t like to be messed around, Thomas. He’s the artist in the family, the thinker.’
‘Ah, you are the artist?’ Tamarov said, drawing Ben out of the exchange. His voice was low and matter-of-fact, a heavy accent.
‘That’s right.’
‘Mark tells me earlier you are painter, this is correct?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I buy paintings, collect for my pleasure.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
It was an early skirmish. Was Tamarov telling the truth? Drinks were being set down - champagne and vodka all round - and Ben concentrated on the swarm of bikinis and miniskirts now descending on the table. Mark shifted along so that a Thai girl with flowers in her hair could sit between him and Duchev. Duchev, looking like a coalminer who had wandered into the wrong party, grimaced as a thick-boned brunette tapped him on the shoulder and invited herself to sit down. They began speaking and Ben assumed that she was Latvian. Raquel then began massaging Macklin’s shoulders, saying how much she liked his suit and helping herself to champagne. He would have to speakto Tamarov.
‘So why do you do it, please?’ the Russian asked.
He had a very direct and concentrated manner, cold, striking eyes that could detect the flaw in a man.
‘Why do I do what?’
‘Painting. Why did you become artist?’
For the sake of the job, it seemed important to Ben to take care with his answer.
‘I do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do,’ he replied. ‘I can’t bank. I can’t farm. I can’t teach. But I can draw. And I have a need to do it, to get this stuff out of me.’
It was an answer he had employed many times before, but Ben now added to it by drumming his chest in a manner that he thought might appeal to a Russian. The music in the club was now very loud, the throb of a Latin salsa.
‘I see.’ Tamarov seemed unaffected by events around him: the laughter, the wisecracks, the two bored black girls near by, yawning into their mobile phones. ‘And how