The Dave Bliss Quintet (8 page)

Hugh shakes his head sadly. “Probably not — they spoke of rain.”

“Who spoke of rain?” cuts in Jennifer in outright insurrection.

“The BBC World service last night,” he ripostes authoritatively. “They say there's a big depression headed this way.”

Jennifer's scowl suggests it has just arrived.

“What do they know?” Bliss puts forward conciliatorily, his mind still on Edwards as he searches the moonlit sky for trace of a cloud. “They're a thousand miles away.”

“Well we never watch the French telly,” whines Mavis. “The weather forecast's never very accurate, is it Hugh?”

“
Les Anglais sont complètement dingues
,” scoffs Jacques, tapping his temple suggestively.

Hey, we're not all crazy, thinks Bliss, though has no intention of defending the mental state of Hugh and Mavis. “Don't worry,” he says, turning to Jennifer, “I'm sure the weather will be perfect for the beach tomorrow.”

“
Non, non, non
,” says Jacques. “Not tomorrow.”

“What is this — a bloody conspiracy?” Bliss mumbles angrily to the sky. “What has everybody got against the weather? There hasn't been a bloody cloud in more than two weeks.”

“It is not zhe cloud of which I speak,” explains Jacques. “It is zhe wind.”

“Not the damn mistral again,” spits Bliss, sitting resignedly.

“
Non, Monsieur
.
Le mistral
was a
pet de lapin.
Tomorrow
la tramontane
will give you zhe wind up.”

Notwithstanding Jacques's indecorous assessment of the mistral as nothing more than a rabbit's fart, Bliss has to agree with him. “
La tramontane?
” he queries.

“
Oui, Monsieur
,” says Jacques, then explains in lurid detail how the icy blast is already gathering its
battalions and winding itself up, ready to sweep down from the permanently snow-capped Alps of Switzerland and Austria.

“That's it then,” says Hugh, in apparently cheerful resignation.

However, memories of the misplaced mistral spur Bliss to lean across to a glum Jennifer and whisper a message of hope. “I should wait and see if I were you.”

Leaving L'Escale, Bliss wanders homeward along the promenade weighed with concern — worrying that he may be the reason for Morgan Johnson's sudden departure. If Marcia had smoked him out so easily, could not Johnson or one of his people? But there is a difference — Marcia had been expecting him. Was Johnson?

Three days of heightened awareness since his first meeting with Marcia has got Bliss no further forward, other than confirming his suspicion that he is a very small fish in a very large cesspool. Still jumpy at the sight of anyone vaguely resembling Edwards, he wanders the jetties and quays of the port with a warm baguette under his arm, journal in hand, and his thoughts on the ranks of flashy yachts, trying to calculate how many mainline junkies it takes to keep each afloat.

With his eye on two especially well-appointed craft, each bristling with a helicopter, a deck load of expensive marine toys, and enough communications hardware to out-manoeuvre an average frigate, he drops onto a convenient bench and watches the frenzy of activity as deckhands and day-workers scrub and polish the already immaculate vessels.

A flotilla of drab harbour ducks, a drake and his harem, spot Bliss taking a meditative bite from his bread, quickly leap the quay wall, and mob him noisily for titbits. The crumbly French loaf showers flakes onto the quayside, which are swooped on by the male, leaving his wives squabbling over thin air. After three failed attempts to reach the smaller birds, Bliss christens the aggressive drake “Edwards” and decides he might as well let him pig out until he is stuffed.

Ten minutes later, with half the baguette inside him, Edwards's head suddenly flops to one side, and he waddles to the edge of the quay, his gut scuffing the ground. With an ungainly belly flop the large drake drops with a noisy “plop” into the harbour and promptly sinks.

“Bloody hell,” utters Bliss, rushing to the edge, but other than a thin trail of bubbles there is no trace of the bird. The words “serves you right” die on Bliss's lips and he slouches away from the rest of the family, head down, facing yet another restless day.

In an effort to clear his mind he isolates himself at the end of a jetty and opens his journal for another serious start.

I am an author writing about a man who sits alone on a jetty gazing at the ocean. Who am I? Why am I here? What do I think? What am I waiting for?

Like the breathing of a somnolent giant, the gentle swish of the tide rises and falls under the jetty with such power I feel my spirit being carried away across the ocean to some distant paradise where all is revealed.

Footsteps on the wooden planking bring his head up as a young woman throws out a towel suggestively close to him, then does a striptease with her dress,
revealing a bikini thong that offers virtually no protection against the elements.

“Look at me!” screams the tiny triangle of strategically arranged material.

“What are you looking at?” says her face as she catches him, “and what are you writing about?”

Paradise is not all it's cracked up to be,
he writes, sensing that the woman is somehow annoyed that he may be writing about her. That, like the naked
indigènes
of other less civilized cultures, she is concerned his writing will steal her soul, or will expose her to her enemies.

Feeling the weight of her stare he keeps his head down, writing gobbledegook, and debates whether or not she wants him to pay her attention. Should I approach her? he wonders. Let her know I'm not a nutter. But what to say — flattery? I am writing about a beautiful woman …

What does she expect? he questions, trying to read her expressions and feel her vibes as she swings from inquisitiveness through interest to concern, then annoyance, and eventually outright fury, as she snatches up her towel and storms off along the jetty, the naked cheeks of her bottom clenched in fierce anger.

What did I do wrong? he wonders, feeling even more dejected as he puts away his pen and turns his thoughts to the malignancy of Superintendent Edwards. The possibility that an old rattan beach mat would solve his dilemmas does not occur to him as he sits on the jetty and winds himself up with worry.

Watching as the beach quickly fills with the day's visitors, his eye is caught by a noticeable void in the carefully arranged mosaic of basking flesh. A frayed beach mat lies abandoned on the sand, like an empty
raft amid a sea of floating bodies, yet is accorded more reverence than any sun worshipper.

“Mind the mat!” shout worried parents, as playing children blindly rush across the sand in pursuit of balls, kites, and each other, and newcomers give the space a wide berth as they scout for a vacant spot. Near-naked sun seekers, shining with oil, can fend for themselves, but the unoccupied mat obviously demands protection from all.

“Gosh — did that swimsuit shrink?” muses Bliss, spotting a V-shaped man whose skinny legs seem incapable of supporting his pumped torso. His chest still bears the breadth of an active youth, but the rest of his body is retreating into old age as he spends his days patrolling the shoreline with the arrogance of an elephant seal beachmaster. The sunbathing beauties instinctively know the trophy he seeks, and at his approach they quickly turn onto their stomachs or grab a towel.

The beach prowler takes on the question of the vacated mat, standing overly close as he scours the beach, hoping his intrusion on the mat's personal space will induce the owner to claim possession — hoping the owner may turn into a trophy.

“See. I was guarding your mat for you,” he will insist, but only if she is worthy; otherwise he will snort loudly and grumble about the inconsiderateness of people leaving unattended mats.

After five minutes of posturing, the pariah becomes restless at his lack of magnetism and draws upon the strength of surrounding bodies, gathering a small group to infringe upon the mat with him as he leads a deliberation on its fate.

“I zhink we should move it,” he suggests, taking command. “
Ça vous défrise?
” he enquires — any objections?

The crowd backs away from the edge. “It is nearly midday,” one quickly explains. “He could be having an early lunch.”

“He?” the beach-master queries, with more than a trace of disappointment.

“
Mais oui
,” says the other, “it seems most logical to me.
Regarde —
zhere is no bag, no towel, no dress, and no sunscreen. What woman would go to zhe beach without sunscreen?”

The realization hits the old beach bum like a cold shower. His chest deflates as he loses interest and wanders off.

Then the French veneration for lunch —
déjeuner
— from midday until mid-afternoon, wins the rattan mat a breathing space. The halyards and shrouds of yachts sing in the early afternoon breeze like a giant musical extravaganza, then the
vent de midi
picks up a notch and sends parasols, plastic chairs, and small children on skateboards skidding along the harbour wall. The rattan mat lies unruffled until three o'clock, precisely when an inquest is convened by a holidaying Berliner.

“Is zhis beach mat kaput?” sniggers Bliss to himself from his vantage point on the jetty as the German gathers a small group to surround the antisocial item.

“It has been here since zhis morning,” explains one in English.

“Yes — but precisely when?” the German demands to know.

“Does that matter?”

“Certainly. It is essential.”

“But why would anyone abandon such a beautiful mat?” asks another in French, leaving the German out of the loop.

“
Beau?
” questions another native. “It is
crevé —
dead. See, it is limp — not even rigor mortis.”

“But we must know if it was here before nine this morning,” insists the German, attempting to restore his authority by precision. “Then we might assume it is abandoned.”

“Why?”

Because, though nobody will express it, the early morning bathers are a breed apart. Misfits, misshapes, and those burdened with an unruly metabolic system who take the waters before the high achievers arrive in the spotlight of the sun and further batter their bruised egos.

The momentary awkwardness is broken by a young Englishman, with a beer bottle in each hand and a couple of illuminated plastic ducks on his head, making a fool of himself by dancing around the mat, turning the funeral into a wake.

“Get away,” they shout, maddened by his apparent irreverence. Then one utters the unthinkable. “Maybe we should just move it.”

No one will take the risk, so search parties form to scour the beach, and a swimming team volunteers to check the sea. “But what are we to look for?” asks one.

“
Un homme,
of course. A man.”

“Why not
une femme?
” pipes up a woman, thrusting her bronzed chest forward, unwilling to allow her gender to be so lightly dismissed simply because of the lack of sunscreen.

“OK. Half will keep a look out for a man, and half will search for a woman,” decides the German, and the meeting breaks as constituents return to their sunbathing with an eye to every potential aberrant mat owner.

Bliss's amusement is suddenly dimmed with the thought that recently drowned bodies usually float just below the surface, and he worriedly scans the bay for a few minutes, but the bright sun clouds his vision. He considers calling the authorities. But what would he say?
Officer — someone's left a mat on the beach!

The weary sun starts to fade, heading lower towards the craggy red peaks of L'Esterel in the west, and dinner beckons the beach lovers — but they spare a respectful moment as they pass the rattan mat, and take one final look around for its soul mate. Finally, picking up a cue from the mountains, the sun blushes as it sets. The beach is completely deserted and the cerulean sea is perfectly clear. With no possibility of a claimant challenging him, Bliss gathers up the mat and bundles it under his arm, thinking he has had such an enjoyable interlude he might bring it back one day, and on his way home to the apartment he laughs inwardly at the thought that everybody has spent the day searching for someone who had simply discarded an old mat. Then he stops with the realization that the situation offers an ideal solution to his dilemma.

What if he, like the mat's owner, were to disappear, buying a yacht and simply sailing away? But where to? That might be tricky, he admits, realizing his only previous nautical experience involved a rowing boat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. But he wouldn't need to sail anywhere, that is the crux of the plan — just like the rattan mat, the yacht would be crewless — a modern-day
Mary Celeste
.

However, by the time he reaches the apartment he has all but given up on the idea, having realized both the
limitations and complications, and, wineglass in hand, he leans over the balcony to watch the moon rising from the sea at the start of yet another spotless evening.

The lemon, catching the first rays of moonlight, is still there, still sitting on the grass, ownerless and neglected just like the rattan mat. But — Bliss brightens as his germ of an idea undergoes a resurgence of growth — there is a crucial difference: everyone on the beach saw the mat, but, as far as he is aware, no one but him knows the lemon is there. And if no one knows it's there — does it exist?

I don't need a yacht, he tells himself, seeing his plan beginning to blossom. I only need certain people to believe I have a yacht — a yacht that, like me, has disappeared.

The logic of the plan is so simple that he questions its viability. “What a stir it'll cause,” he muses, envisioning Commander Richards and Chief Superintendent Edwards scrambling to find him and his yacht before Richards is forced to lay out some sort of explanation to the commissioner and the press. And in the meantime he can quietly continue his enquiries into Morgan Johnson.