False Nine (28 page)

‘You done give me enough already, boss.’

‘All right. But if you’re ever in London – to see Tottenham Hotspur – make sure to look me up. We’ll go together.’

‘For sure.’

At Jumby Bay there was already a message from Jacint saying that a Legacy 650 – a long-range jet – would collect us from Guadeloupe at seven o’ clock the following morning, Atlantic Standard Time. This meant I was going to have another night in the Caribbean whether I liked it or not. I would have preferred to have spent my last night at Jumby Bay, which is a beautiful hotel. But I didn’t want to risk leaving Jérôme on his own for too long; in spite of everything that had been talked about and agreed I still worried that he might go walkies again. Without his meds anything was possible. So I packed my bags and flew back to Pointe-à-Pitre in the Diamond Twin Star that had brought Grace and me to Antigua.

I paid little or no attention to the spectacular view you get in the back of this aircraft. I’d realised there was something about the Caribbean – anywhere in the Caribbean – that I didn’t like. Probably the fact that it’s so very far away from anywhere else. I used to be jealous of people who went there during the winter while I was stuck at home playing football, but actually I think I was better off. Going to the Caribbean every winter is a kind of curse. It made me feel a little bit like Napoleon exiled on St Helena.

At the airport I bought Brand’s book and tossed it into the back seat of the white Mercedes limo that was to ferry Jérôme and me back to the airport. Then it drove me to the house in Le Gosier. I was banking on staying the night there and not La Vieille Tour which, without Grace to keep me company, would have been too depressing. I told the driver to pick us up at five the next morning and then rang the doorbell.

Charlotte let me in the door just as the Queen Creole hairdresser I’d seen the previous day seemed to be leaving. Charlotte told me that
le maître
was in the front garden. A heap of Louis Vuitton luggage lay in the hall which I found reassuring. At least it looked like he was ready to leave. I tossed my own cheaper overnight bag on top of the pile and went to find Jérôme.

He was lying on a sunlounger with a pair of red Beats on his ears. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the previous night, including the earrings and the watch. It was almost as though he hadn’t been to bed, and the minute I started speaking to him I knew something was wrong. It seemed that he’d developed a cold – a box of fresh tissues lay on a glass table by his arm, while under the sunlounger was a cloud formation of used ones – and, perhaps understandably, he seemed very morose. His hair was shorter and I concluded that the hairdresser must have come there to cut it but it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

‘Have you got a cold?’

He sniffed loudly and nodded back at me. ‘A cold. Yes. It came on this morning. I just hope a cold is all it is and not something else. Like flu.’

I tried not to wince; the Embraer Legacy 650 seats thirteen which, as private jets go, is a good size, but the cabin is still small – small enough for a sneeze to carry his cold germs to me. I’d had a flu jab in the UK but there are so many different strains of flu you’ve no way of telling if that covers you for whatever flu they get in a tropical climate like that of Guadeloupe.

‘That’s too bad,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it will affect your medical. These days sports doctors know how to take that into account. They’re looking for something a bit more serious than a cough or a runny nose. Take a sleeping pill, get plenty of sleep on the plane and you’ll probably be fine.’

He nodded again.

‘Here, I got you a present from the shop at the airport.’

‘What is it?’ He eyed the paper bag suspiciously and then held out his hand.

‘The book.’

He looked blank.

‘Russell Brand’s magnum opus.’ I took it out of the bag and handed it to him.

He stared at the cut-price Karl Marx on the cover almost as if he’d never seen him before.

‘The one you asked for?’ I said.

‘Oh, right. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll read it on the plane this evening, perhaps.’

He didn’t even open it; instead he just laid the book under the lounger on a bed of snotty tissues. It’s keeping the right company, I thought.

‘Which reminds me. The plane is going to be a little later than I said. We won’t be leaving until seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ I glanced at the Hublot on my wrist – a present from Viktor Sokolnikov. I shrugged. ‘I thought I could stay here with you until then. I’d already checked out of that hotel when I found out about the plane.’

‘Sure. Be my guest. Tell Charlotte to pick out a room.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

‘How long does it take? To fly from Pointe-à-Pitre to Barcelona?’ His voice was rusty with cold.

‘Eight or nine hours, probably. Which gives you even more time to recover from whatever it is that you’ve got. So that’s good.’

He grunted and stood up, almost as if he wanted to get away from me.

I followed Jérôme onto the lawn, collected the football still lying there under my instep, toed it into the air, dropped it onto my knee, bounced it a couple of times, let it fall onto the grass and gently kicked it to him.

Without much enthusiasm he trapped the football with his right foot, tapped it off the laces on his pink shoe six or seven times, flicked it up into the air, nodded it twice, headed it back to me, and then turned away. Game over.

He retreated indoors and for a while I left him alone; I wondered if he was upset about having to leave Guadeloupe in order to fly back to Spain to face the music. And I had to remind myself that I was dealing with someone who was a depressive; whose mood swings made him seem unpredictable, not to say a pain in the arse. So slapping him was not an option. Besides, he was more muscular than I had realised earlier; his upper body made him seem as muscular as Cristiano Ronaldo, who has probably the best physique in the game today. I don’t doubt that he could have hit me as hard as I could hit him; maybe harder.

A little later on I went into the kitchen where Charlotte was polishing marble work surfaces and generally avoiding my eye.

‘Our plans have changed a little,’ I explained. ‘We’re leaving first thing in the morning. So, I’m going to need a bed. For tonight. It’s just one night.’

She nodded. ‘Just pick yourself out a room, sir. All of the beds are made up.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

I went out and put my overnight bag in the spare room with the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, very like the one Dumas had at his apartment in Paris. Then I went back to the kitchen. I’d seen a Krups bean-to-cup coffee machine and was now intent of making myself a cup. I did, and it tasted delicious.

‘Is this coffee local?’ I asked Charlotte who was still there. ‘It’s fantastic. I noticed it last night after dinner. This stuff makes the coffee in the hotel taste like mud.’

She nodded. ‘That’s Bonifieur you’re drinking,’ she said. ‘It’s the local coffee here in Guadeloupe. Bonifieur is the ancestor of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, and very rare. Very expensive, too. That is, anywhere else except this island. Here, I’ll make you some more.’

‘Bonifieur,’ I said. ‘I never realised. I wonder if it’s too late to go and buy some beans.’

‘There’s no need, sir. I’ll give you a bag before you leave. We’ve got lots of it.’

Charlotte made a pot of coffee, put it on a tray with a cup and a jug of hot milk and I carried it through into the drawing room where I sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, hunted down a sports channel and started to watch some golf while I savoured what I was drinking. I loved watching golf more than I enjoyed playing it. I especially like those plush American courses like Augusta where even the fairways look like they’ve been upholstered with green velvet.

After a while I noticed Jérôme standing on the level above.

‘At last,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something I really like about Guadeloupe. The coffee. It’s Bonifieur. Fantastic. You want some? I’ll fetch a cup.’

‘I don’t like coffee very much,’ said Jérôme.

‘Me, I love it. Coffee’s my thing, you know? I mean, after football.’

‘I prefer fruit juice.’

‘You should watch that. A lot of fruit juice, it’s just sugar. People think it’s good for them and it’s not.’

‘Okay.’

‘You know, I think it’s really good the way you support people on this island. The local school’s football team. Grace told me that you even sent money to that hairdresser who was here earlier.’

Jérôme sneered. ‘Yeah, I’m a real saint, aren’t I? Everyone loves me. But I’m not such a great guy, you know. I can be difficult. A selfish prick, you know? In fact, there are times when I fucking hate myself.’

He was off his meds all right; his mood seemed to be the exact opposite of the one I’d seen last night.

‘I think we all get like that sometimes.’

‘Maybe.’

I finished the cup I was drinking and went up to join him on the upper level.

‘You and Gui must be great friends if he’s prepared to lend you this lovely house.’

‘He’s all right, I guess.’

‘You know him from Monaco, you said.’

‘Yes.

‘I don’t recall seeing him play. Is he good?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with his taste anyway.’

Jérôme shrugged moodily.

‘That Spanish teacher I was telling you about last night,’ I said. ‘The one who taught me? I found her address. I’ll text it to you.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘And I was thinking. You know what would really make them love you in Barcelona? If you took the trouble to learn just a few words of Catalan, for the press conference. I don’t speak much Catalan myself. But I can give you a few words. For example, you could say something like
Estic encantat de ser aquí
, and
Tinc moltes ganes de jugar per al miller equip del món
. You can learn it like a parrot. If you can say all that I just said then I swear they’ll think you’re the next Messi.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure. They love people who make an effort to speak a bit of Catalan. It’s important to them. Part of their national identity.’

Jérôme looked doubtful. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Manson.’

‘Scott. Call me Scott. I can see I caught you at a difficult time.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘You’re in a mood.’

‘I’ve a cold.’

‘No, it’s a little more than that.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Are you angry with me, Jérôme? Did Grace say something, perhaps?’

‘Like what?’

‘About me? About us?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know.’ For her sake I thought it best not to mention that she and I had been intimate. ‘It’s just a pity she’s not here now. To help reassure you that everything is going to be all right.’

‘Look, I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all. I’ll be glad when all this is over.’

‘Sure.’

Jérôme went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. By now I was quite sure he was avoiding me. The previous evening I’d gained the strong impression that he liked me. But now I had the impression that he couldn’t bear to have me around.

I went into the room I’d chosen for myself. Something was wrong, all right. But I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. And then, seeing the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, I had an idea. On closer inspection it turned out to be just a print. I lifted the frame off the wall for a moment and then replaced it carefully.

I went back downstairs and poured myself some more coffee. The sports channels were all in French but finally I found a football match – Chelsea versus Burnley, which is a very different experience when you have a French commentator who almost manages to make Burnley sound like it’s somewhere exotic.

A few hours later I heard Jérôme moving around upstairs and went to find him.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I told him.

‘Oh?’

I pointed through the door of the room I’d picked out for myself.

‘This picture,’ I said, pointing at the Yayoi Kusama. ‘It’s a copy of the one that’s in your apartment in Paris, isn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It might be. I have an art advisor who buys all my pictures. As investments mainly. To be honest I know nothing about art.’

‘It’s the same one,’ I said firmly.

‘If you say so.’

And then he walked out again.

By now I knew there was something strange happening in that house. The picture was upside down. I knew this because it was me who’d hung it like that.

And if that had been the only strange thing about Jérôme Dumas I might have excused his behaviour. Quite apart from his offhand manner there were a number of things I’d noticed about him which didn’t seem quite right. For a start there was the way he had favoured his right foot when playing keepy-uppy earlier; I knew Jérôme was famously left-footed. Then there was his declared dislike of coffee when after dinner the previous evening I’d seen him drinking several cups. And after all his declared interest in Russell Brand, why hadn’t he been a little more pleased to receive a copy of his book – a book which he’d told me himself he was very keen to look at? And what had happened to the ink stain on his fingers? The same ink had still been on Grace’s forefinger at the airport in Antigua when I’d said goodbye to her that morning.

I stood up, turned the picture the right way up and lay down on the bed to think. After a while I got up and went into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror, almost as if hoping the guy looking back at me might say exactly what was wrong. He said nothing helpful; and yet it was almost as if he could have told me the answer. As if I was actually already in possession of the solution to the mystery which was confounding me.

‘Why is Jérôme Dumas behaving strangely?’ I asked the person in the mirror.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Scott Manson. ‘Perhaps it’s just that he’s a cunt.’

‘But you do admit that there’s something peculiar here?’ I said.

‘Yes. Very definitely. But look, all of this strange behaviour can be easily explained, surely. You’ve said it before. He’s off his meds.’