The Other Side of Silence

“Now, him I’ve heard of. He works for the Queen.”

“Yes, but which one? There are so many queens in this story. I get confused which one’s which.”

She smiled and put her arms around my neck. In the lamplight her brown hair wreathed her face like a lion’s mane. I pushed some of it aside as if it had been a curtain, kissed her tenderly, and pushed my hand between her legs. Gentlemen prefer blondes, alleged a recent movie I’d seen; it was just as well I was no gentleman. She gasped a little and pressed down on my hand. Outside the wild pigs had come back. I could hear them snorting in the trees as they snouted around blindly in the dirt. At least I thought they were the wild pigs; in retrospect they must have been my brain cells.

TWENTY-ONE

Under a salmon-pink sky the following evening, Somerset Maugham, Robin, Alan Searle, and I waited for the old man’s chauffeur to fetch the British from their hotel on the Cap. A cold buffet dinner had been prepared and was being laid out on the terrace by the cook, Annette, while the four of us were in the drawing room with cocktails and cigarettes. The Grundig tape recorder remained on the refectory table, ready for action. The atmosphere was tense and expectant and, as usual, more malevolent and cattish than the chorus line in an old Weimar cabaret.

“Look at that sky,” said Robin. “It’s Leander pink, isn’t it?”

“More Garrick Club pink, I’d say,” remarked his uncle. “Not that you’d know the difference, dear.”

“I’ve never been to the Garrick Club,” said Alan. “Willie’s never taken me. Although he is a member.”

“You’re much too young for the Garrick, love,” said Maugham. “You’re not allowed through the door until there is a significant amount of hair growing out of your ears and nostrils. In fact, it’s a condition of membership.”

“Then you ought to be the club secretary,” said Alan.

Maugham turned in his chair to address Annette. “Make sure we use the Victorian champagne glasses,” he instructed her. “One of these men who are coming tonight is a knight of the realm.”

“Oh? Who?” asked Alan. “Who are these people, Willie?”

“Sir John Sinclair and a chap called Patrick Reilly,” said Maugham. “Sinclair’s the current director of MI6 and Reilly’s a Foreign Office mandarin. I believe he used to be chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee. The people who oversee MI5 and MI6. They’re going to make sure I’m not about to buy a pig in a poke and, hopefully, underwrite my purchase.”

“So why if they’re so damned important are they staying at the Belle Aurore?” asked Robin.

“Because it’s a lot cheaper than the Grand or La Voile d’Or,” said Maugham.

“Why aren’t they staying here at the villa? It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room.”

“They’ve brought some thugs from Special Branch with them. Just in case this is all some sneaky Russian plot to kidnap two of our top spooks. But as usual, Her Majesty’s Government is also being tight with money. Besides, Sinbad will much prefer staying at the Aurore. It’s rather more modest and low-key than those other hotels.”

“Who’s Sinbad?” asked Robin.

“Before he was director of MI6, Sir John Sinclair was a major general in Royal Artillery,” said Maugham. “But prior to that he went to Dartmouth Naval College and for two years he was a midshipman in the Royal Navy. Sinbad the sailor. And that’s how I know him. He served with the Murmansk force in northern Russia and for a while, in a small way, was one of my field agents.”

“I don’t even know where the Belle Aurore is,” Searle said peevishly.

“It’s on Avenue Denis Semeria,” I explained. “Just down from the Villa Ephrussi.”

“I say, listen to the hotel concierge,” said Robin.

“On the main road to Villefranche?” said Alan.

I nodded. “I drive past it almost every day.”

“Sounds a bit noisy to me,” said Alan.

“Guy Burgess went to Dartmouth Naval College, didn’t he?” I said. “At least that’s what he said on the tape.”

“Yes, he did,” said Robin.

“Sinbad is much older than Guy Burgess,” said Maugham. “About fifteen years older, probably. So there was no chance of an overlap there. Besides, Burgess isn’t Sinbad’s type at all.”

“You don’t mean he’s queer?” said Alan.

“No, I don’t. Sinbad is happily married.”

“Stands to reason someone must be,” I said.

“To Esme, I believe. For many years.”

“Anyone married to someone called Esme for many years must be queer,” said Robin.

“I find it hard to imagine that anyone who was a midshipman in the Royal Navy isn’t a bit queer,” objected Alan. “If they’d ever put it on the recruiting posters that the traditions of the Royal Navy were rum, sodomy, and the lash I’d have joined immediately. But instead I ended up in the army. In fucking Yorkshire. That’s enough to cure anyone of homosexuality, for life.”

“Is this all you people ever talk about?” I said. “Who’s queer and who isn’t?”

“It’s that or bloody Suez,” said Alan, “and right now I think I’d rather not talk about Suez.”

“No, indeed,” murmured Robin. “The gyppos are going to drop us all in the shit again.”