The Tailor of Panama Part 8

'No sale, old boy. Need your soul.'

Aping the example of his host, Pendel has taken his brandy gla.s.s in both hands and is leaning across the candlelit table. Weighing his decision still. Holding out, even though most of him would like to say 'yes', just to end the embarra.s.sment of not saying it.

'I haven't heard you on job description yet, have I, Andy?'

'Listening post. Told you.'

'Yes, but what do you want me to hear, Andy? What's the bottom line?'

The eyes again, needle-sharp. The red sparks back inside. The slouchy jaw, absently masticating while he ruminates. The slumped fat-boy's body. The trailed, damped-down voice spoken from one corner of the crooked mouth.

'Not a lot. Balance o' global power in the twenty-first century. Future o' world trade. Panama's political chess-board. Silent opposers. Chaps from the other side o' the bridge, as you call 'em. What's going to happen when the Yanks pull out? If they do. Who'll be laughing, who'll be crying, come midday December 31st 1999? Shape o' things to come when one o' the world's two greatest gateways goes under the hammer and the auction's run by a bunch o' wide boys? Piece o' cake,' he replied, but ending on a question mark, as if the best were yet to come.

Pendel grins in return. 'Oh, well, there's no problem then, is there? We'll have it all packed and ready for your collection by lunchtime tomorrow. If it doesn't fit, bring it back as often as you like.'

'Plus a few things that aren't on the menu,' Osnard adds even more quietly. 'Or not yet, shall we say.'

'What are they then, Andy?'

A shrug. A long slow complicitous, insinuating, unnerving policeman's shrug, expressing false ease, terrible powers and an immense store of superior knowledge.

'Lot o' different ways to skin a cat, this game. Can't learn 'em all in a night. That a "yes" I heard, or you doing a Garbo?'

Astonishingly, if only to himself, Pendel still contrives to prevaricate. Perhaps he knows that indecision is the only freedom left to him. Perhaps Uncle Benny is once more plucking at his sleeve. Or perhaps he has some hazy notion that, according to prisoner's rights, a man selling his soul is ent.i.tled to a period of reflection.

'It's not a Garbo I'm doing, Andy. It's a Harry,' he says, bravely rising to his feet and pulling back his shoulders. 'I'm afraid that when it comes to life-altering decisions, you'll find Harry Pendel somewhat of a highly calculating animal.'

It was after eleven when Pendel switched off the engine of his car and coasted to a halt twenty yards below the house in order not to wake the children. Then used both hands to open the front door, one to shove it and one to turn the key. Because if you shoved it first the lock worked smoothly, otherwise it went off like a pistol shot. He went to the kitchen and rinsed his mouth out with Coca-Cola in the hope that it would take away the brandy fumes. Then he undressed in the hall and laid his clothes on the chair before tiptoeing into the bedroom. Louisa had opened both windows which was how she liked to sleep. Sea air wafted in from the Pacific. Drawing back the sheet he saw to his surprise that she was naked like himself and wide awake and staring at him.

'What's wrong?' he whispered, dreading a row that would wake the children.

Reaching out her long arms she clutched him fiercely against her, and he discovered that her face was sticky with tears.

'Harry, I'm really sorry, I want you to know that. Really, really sorry.' She was kissing him and not letting him kiss her in return. 'You're not to forgive me, Harry, not yet. You're a good fine man and a fine husband, and you're earning great, and my father was right, I'm a cold, mean-hearted b.i.t.c.h and I wouldn't know a kind word if it got up and bit me in the b.u.t.t.'

It's too late, he thought as she took him. This is who we should have been before it was too late.

CHAPTER SIX.

Harry Pendel loved his wife and children with an obedience that can only be understood by people who have never belonged to a family themselves, never known what it is to respect a decent father, love a happy mother, or accept them as the natural reward for being born into the world.

The Pendels lived on the top of a hill in a neighbourhood called Bethania in a fine, two-storey modern house with front and back lawns and Bougainvilia galore and lovely views down to the sea and the Old City and Punta Paitilla in the distance. Pendel had heard that the hills around were hollow, full of Yanqui atom bombs and war rooms, but Louisa said we should all feel safer for them and Pendel, not wishing to argue with her, said perhaps we should.

The Pendels had a maid to mop the tiled floors and a maid to do the washing and a maid to babysit and do the routine shopping, and a grizzled black man with white stubble and a straw hat who hacked at the garden, grew whatever came into his head, smoked illegal substances and cadged from the kitchen. For this small army of servants they paid a hundred and forty dollars a week.

When Pendel lay in bed at night it was his secret pleasure to enter the troubled sleep of prison, with his knees drawn up and his chin down and his hands cupped over his ears to keep out the groans of fellow prisoners, then wake himself and establish by cautious reconnaissance that he wasn't in prison at all but here in Bethania under the charge of a loyal wife who needed and respected him and happy children sleeping just across the corridor, which was a blessing every time, what Uncle Benny called a mitzvah: Hannah his nine-year-old Catholic princess, Mark his eight-year-old rebel Jewish violinist. But while Pendel loved his family with dutiful energy and devotion, he also feared for it and trained himself to regard his happiness as fool's gold.

When he stood alone on his balcony in the darkness, which was what he liked to do each evening after work, maybe with one of Uncle Benny's small cigars, and scented the night smells of luscious flowers on the damp air and watched the lights swimming in the rainy mist and glimpsed through fitful clouds the queue of boats at anchor in the mouth of the Ca.n.a.l, the abundance of his good luck instilled in him a keen awareness of its fragility: you know this can't last, Harry boy, you know the world can blow up in your face, you've watched it happen from this very spot, and what it's done once it can do again whenever it feels like it, so look out.

Then he would stare into the too-peaceful city, and very soon the flares and the red and green tracer and the hoa.r.s.e tattoo of machineguns and the jackhammer rattle of cannons would start to create their own mad daytime in the theatre of his memory, just as they had on that December night in 1989, when the hills blinked and shuddered as huge Spectre gunships flew in unopposed from the sea to punish the mostly wooden slums of El Chorrillo - as usual it was the poor who were to blame for everything - bludgeoning the burning hovels at their leisure, then going off to replenish themselves and coming back to bludgeon them again. And probably the attackers never meant it to be that way. Probably they were fine sons and fathers, and all they meant to do was take out Noriega's comandancia until a couple of sh.e.l.ls strayed off course, and a couple more followed. But good intentions in wartime do not easily communicate themselves to the subjects of them, self-restraint pa.s.ses unnoticed, and the presence of a few fugitive enemy snipers in a poor suburb does not explain its wholesale incineration. It's not much help saying, 'We used the minimum force' to terrified people running barefoot for their lives over blood and smashed gla.s.s, dragging suitcases and children with them on their way to nowhere. It's not much help to maintain that the fires were started by vindictive members of Noriega's Dignity Battalions. Even if they were, why should anyone believe you?

So the screams were soon coming up the hill, and Pendel, who had heard screams in his time and uttered a few, would never have supposed that one human scream would be able to a.s.sert itself above the sickening drone of armoured vehicles or the hump-clump of state-of-the-art ordnance, but it really could, particularly when there were a lot of screams together, and they were delivered by the l.u.s.ty throats of children in terror and accompanied by the porky stink of burning human flesh.

'Harry, come inside. We need you, Harry. Harry, come back from there. Harry, I do not understand what you are doing out there.'

But that was Louisa screaming, Louisa wedged upright in the broom cupboard under the stairs, with her long arched back braced into the joinery for the greater protection of her children: Mark nearly two who was hugged into her belly, soaking her through his nappy - Mark, like the Yanqui soldiers, seemed to have unlimited supplies of ammunition - Hannah kneeling at her feet in her Yogi bear dressing gown and slippers, praying to somebody she insisted on calling Jovey, who was afterwards perceived to be an amalgam of Jesus, Jehovah and Jupiter, a sort of divine c.o.c.ktail run up from the dregs of spiritual folklore that Hannah had a.s.sembled in her three years of life.

'They know what they're doing,' Louisa kept repeating in a high military bark unpleasantly reminiscent of her father's. 'This is not a one-off thing. They have it all figured out. They never, never hit civilians.'

And Pendel, because he loved her, felt it kindest to leave her with her faith, while El Chorrillo sobbed and glowed and fell apart under the repeated onslaughts of whatever weaponry the Pentagon needed to try out next.

'Marta lives down there,' he said.

But a woman fearing for her children fears for no one else, so when morning came Pendel took a stroll down the hill and heard a silence that in all his time in Panama City he had never heard before. It was suddenly clear to him that, under the terms of the ceasefire, all parties had agreed there would never again be air-conditioning or construction work or digging or dredging; and that all cars, lorries, school buses, taxis, garbage trucks, police cars and ambulances would be henceforth banished from G.o.d's sight for ever more; and that no babies or mothers would be permitted to scream again on pain of death.

Not even the immense and stately column of black smoke rising out of what had once been El Chorrillo made the smallest sound as it emptied itself into the morning sky. Only a few malcontents were refusing as usual to recognise the ban, and they were the last remaining sharpshooters in the compound of the comandancia, who were still potting at Yanqui emplacements in the surrounding streets. But soon they too, with a little encouragement from the tanks installed on Ancon Hill, fell silent.

Not even the telephone in the forecourt of the petrol station was exempt from the self-denying ordinance. It was intact. It was able. But Marta's number refused to ring.

Clinging defiantly to his newly a.s.sumed mantle of Solitary Mature Man Facing a Life Decision, Pendel rode his familiar seesaw of devotion and chronic pessimism with a wildness of indetermination that threatened to unseat him. From the accusing internal voices of Bethania he bolted to the sanctuary of the shop, and from the accusing voices of the shop he bolted to the sanctuary of home, and all in the name of calmly weighing his alternatives. Not for one minute would he allow himself to think - not even in his most self-accusing moments - that he was alternating between two women. You're rumbled, he told himself, with the triumphalism that seizes us when our worst expectations are fulfilled. Your grandiose visions have come home to roost. Your fabricated world is crashing round your ears and it's your own stupid fault for building a temple without foundation. But no sooner had he flailed himself with these doomsday predictions than cheering counsel came running to his rescue: 'So a few home truths make a Nemesis already' - using Benny's voice - 'when a fine young diplomat is asking you to stand up and be a man for England, you think you're a doomed corpse in a morgue? Does a Nemesis offer to play mad millionaire for you, slip you an inch of fifties in a plain envelope and tell you there's plenty more where they came from? Call you G.o.d's gift, Harry, which is more than some have done? A cla.s.sic? A Nemesis?'

Then Hannah needed the Great Decider to decide which book she should read for the school reading compet.i.tion, and Mark needed to play 'Lazy Sheep' for him on his new violin so that they could decide whether he was good enough to sit his exam, and Louisa needed his opinion on the latest outrage at the Headquarters Building so that they could decide what to think about the future of the Ca.n.a.l, although Louisa's views upon that subject had been decided long ago: the peerless Ernesto Delgado, Washington-approved straight arrow and Preserver of the Golden Past, was incapable of fault: 'Harry, I do not understand. Ernesto only has to leave the country for ten days in order to escort his President, and his staff immediately sanction the appointment of no fewer than five attractive Panamanian women as Public Relations Officers on full US scale, when their sole qualifications are that they are young, white, drive BMWs, wear designer dresses, have large b.r.e.a.s.t.s and rich fathers, and refuse to speak to the permanent employees.'

'Shocking,' Pendel decided.

Then back to the shop where Marta needed to go through overdue bills and uncollected orders with him so that they could decide who to chase and who to leave another month.

'How are the headaches?' he asked her tenderly, noticing she was even paler than usual.

'It's nothing,' Marta replied from behind her hair.

'Has the lift stopped again?'

'The lift is now permanently stopped' - granting him a lopsided smile - 'the lift is officially declared stopped.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Well please don't be. You are not responsible for the lift. Who is Osnard?'

Pendel was at first appalled. Osnard? Osnard? He's a customer, woman. Stop shouting his name around!

'Why?' he said, sobering completely.

'He's evil.'

'Aren't all my customers?' he said, harping playfully upon her preference for the people the other side of the bridge.

'Yes, but they don't know it,' she replied, not smiling any more.

'And Osnard knows it?'

'Yes. Osnard is evil. Don't do what he is asking you to do.'

'But what's he asking me to do?'

'I don't know. If I did I would prevent him. Please.'

She would have added 'Harry', he could feel his name forming on her frayed lips. But in the shop it was her pride never to prey upon his indulgence, never to show by word or sign that they were joined to each other in eternity, that each time they saw each other, they saw the same thing through different windows: Marta in her ripped white shirt and jeans lying like uncollected refuse in the gutter while three members of Noriega's Dignity Battalions, known affectionately as Dingbats, take turns to win her heart and mind with the aid of a bloodied baseball bat, starting with her face. Pendel staring down at her with his arms twisted up his back by two more of them, yelling his heart out first in fear, then in anger, then in supplication, begging them to let her be.

But they don't. They force him to watch. Because what is the point of making an example of a rebellious woman if there's n.o.body around to take the point?

It's all a mistake, captain. It's sheer coincidence that this lady is wearing the white shirt of protest.

Compose yourself, senor. It won't be white much longer.

Marta on the bed in the makeshift clinic to which Mickie Abraxas has bravely taken them; Marta naked and covered in blood and bruises while Pendel desperately plies the doctor with dollars and a.s.surances, and Mickie stands at the window keeping guard.

'We are better than this,' Marta whispers through bloodied lips and smashed teeth.

She means: there is a better Panama. She is talking about the people from the other side of the bridge.

The next day, Mickie is arrested.

'I'm thinking of turning the Sportsman's Corner into a bit of a clubroom,' Pendel told Louisa, still in his quest for a Decision. 'I see a bar.'

'Harry, I do not understand why you need a bar. Your Thursday evening gatherings are riotous enough as it is.'

'It's about pulling people in, Lou. Whipping up more custom. Friends bring friends, the friends get their knees under the table, feel at ease, start looking at a few materials, full order books result.'

'Where will the fitting room go?' she objected.

Good question, Pendel thought. Even Andy couldn't tell me the answer to that one. Decision deferred.

'For the customers, Marta,' Pendel explained patiently.

'For all the people who come to eat your sandwiches. So that they increase and multiply and order up more suits.'

'I wish my sandwiches would poison them.'

'And then who would I dress? All those hotheaded student friends of yours, I suppose. The world's first tailormade revolution, courtesy of P&B. Thank you very much.'

'Since Lenin used Rolls Royces, why not?' she retorted with equal spirit.

I never asked him about his pockets, he thought, working late in the shop cutting a dinner jacket to the strains of Bach. Or his turn-ups or his preferred width of trouser. I never lectured him on the advantage of braces over belts in a humid climate, specially for gentlemen whose waistline is what I call a moveable feast. Equipped with this excuse, he was on the point of reaching for the telephone when it rang for him, and who should be there but Osnard saying how about a nightcap?

They met in the panelled modern bar of the Executive Hotel, a clean white tower a stone's throw from Pendel's shop. A huge television set was showing basketball to two attractive girls in short skirts. Pendel and Osnard sat apart from them and heads together, in cane chairs that wanted them to sit back instead of forward.

'Made up your mind yet?' Osnard asked.

'Not as such, Andy. Working on it, you might say. Deliberating.'

'London likes everything it's heard. They want to clinch the deal.'

'Well, that's nice, Andy. You must have given me quite a write-up, then.'

'They want you up and running soonest. Fascinated by the Silent Opposition. Want the names o' the players. Finances. Links with the students. Have they got a manifesto? Methods and intent.'

'Oh, well, good. Yes. Right, then,' said Pendel, who among his many worries had rather lost sight of Mickie Abraxas the great freedom-fighter, and Rafi Domingo his egregious paymaster. 'I'm glad they liked it,' he added politely.

'Thought you might pump Marta: sidelights on student activism. Bomb factories in the cla.s.sroom.'

'Oh. Good. Right.'

'Want to get the relationship on a formal basis, Harry. So do I. Sign you up, brief you, pay you, show you a couple o' the tricks. Don't like the trail getting cold.'

'It's any day now, Andy. It's like I said. I'm not the rash sort. I reflect.'

'They're upping the terms by ten per cent. Help you concentrate your mind. Want me to run 'em by you?'

Osnard ran 'em by him anyway, mumbling through his cupped hand like someone working on his teeth with a toothpick, this much down, this much set against your loan each month, cash bonuses payable depending on the quality o' the product, London's sole discretion, gratuity o' so much.

'Should be out o' the woods in three years max,' he said.

'Or less if I'm lucky, Andy.'

'Or smart,' said Osnard.

'Harry.'

It is an hour later but Pendel is too estranged to go home, so he is back in his cutting room with his dinner jacket and Bach.

'Harry.'

The voice that is addressing him is Louisa's from the first time they went to bed together, really went, not just fingers and tongues and listening for her parents' car coming back from the movie, but completely naked in Harry's bed in his grotty attic flat in Calidonia where he's tailoring at night after selling ready-mades all day for a clever Syrian haberdasher called Alto. Their first effort has not been blessed by success. Both are shy, both late-developers, held back by too many household ghosts.

'Harry.'

'Yes, darling.' Darling never came naturally to either of them. Not at the beginning, not today.

'If Mr Braithwaite gave you your first break, and took you into his house, and put you through night school, and won you away from that wicked Uncle Benny of yours, he has my vote alive or dead,'

'I'm very glad you feel that, darling.'