The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (25 page)

‘Carlos Ascavar is the main man. You could say he is the Medellin ambassador to Bogotá.' Austin grins. He is clearly enjoying his lunch.

‘He has a fort outside the city. His own heliport. His own little, well, big army. He's the acceptable face of the cartel here. We all know about him, and he knows we know. But his credentials are impeccable. Ivy-league American university business degree, half a dozen construction companies, offices all over the country. He tried to get membership into the country club, but the committee turned him down. So he built his own. Then, coincidentally, there was a fire and the old one burnt to the ground. Some of the old guard moved to a club of sorts in town. It looks pretty shabby compared to Ascavar's. Not that we go there.'

After lunch Adrian drives me back to my hotel, pointing out the ridge of an eastern suburb where Ascavar lives. The big man on the hill, by my reckoning.

‘We're probably being watched as we speak,' says Austin dismissively. ‘He'll know you're in town for sure. Nothing happens in this town without his knowledge.'

‘I don't doubt that. I don't doubt that for a minute.'

The sun drops behind the trees as the car halts at the gates of the British Embassy. The security guards at the perimeter fence slide mirrors on poles under the chassis. The boot is opened, its contents checked over. The car is waved on, moving slowly down a gravel driveway through a shrub-lined garden, reminiscent of the English Home Counties on a balmy summer's evening.

In the hallway of the Embassy the portrait of the Queen looks down on me. Austin and I are the first to arrive. We are ushered into an ante-room. Velvet curtains, carpets, heavy sofas and chairs, another picture of the Queen. Not so much incongruous as mildly surreal. Austin seems a touch nervous and on his best behaviour. He twirls his drink in his hand, whistling quietly. I decline the tray of gin and tonics and ask for a mineral water. It is presented to me in splendid isolation on a silver platter held aloft by a smartly dressed waiter. He hands me a serviette, which, I notice from Austin, is used to wrap the glass, warding off the cold from the ice cubes.

Presently the Ambassador and his wife enter the room. He, a large man in a dinner suit, ruddy complexion, overly big ears; she, a short woman in an unbecoming pink and silver sequined evening dress, blue rinsed hair, overly made-up face. They are introduced as Mr and Mrs Henshaw. They have been in Bogotá for three years. Previous engagements include Vienna (‘divine chandeliers in the dining room,' reminisces Mrs Henshaw), Brasilia (‘the humidity') and Warsaw (‘don't ask!').

The conversation is polite, yet friendly. My flight is asked after. ‘Not too long in Caracas, I trust,' offers the ambassador. ‘They have to disinfect the plane,' adds his wife. Then the altitude is attended to. ‘Some people can feel frightfully lightheaded for a day or two. Even nauseous,' says she. ‘They recommend coca tea,' adds he. ‘We can't wait to hear all about your work. We have great hopes for your invention and the role Britain can play. But we should wait for the others to arrive. Don't want you pestered by the same questions over and over again.'

I nod and smile. On the far wall is a painting. I walk over to it, to find a focus, to escape for a moment. Two young girls are dressing a kitten in their doll's clothes. They look sweet, yet something is sinister about them. What do they intend to do to the cat? The animal is on its hind legs, a bonnet on its head. The girls look out at the painter, smiling innocently. The background is dark. The cat seems uneasy. I light a cigarette, nursing my mineral water, making it last, to have a glass to hold on to. For protection. I continue staring at the picture, listening to the conversation extolling the virtue of the diplomatic bag, especially its value for transporting bacon and English cheddar cheese.

How am I to get through this evening without a drink? I ask of the two young girls staring out of the shadows, the cat like a china doll in all its finery. I watch the waiter walk by with a fresh tray of dry white wine. Like a chameleon's tongue my arm reaches out. Like tendrils my fingers encircle the stem of a fine crystal glass. Trapping it. I drink it down in a gulp. I notice Mrs Henshaw observing me. She gives me a knowing look. I swap my empty glass for a full one. A warmth and ease wafts over me. I begin to feel at one with the room.

There is the sound of a car approaching. Doors open and close. The new arrivals walk along the corridor, urgently engaged in conversation in Spanish. They enter the room. I am introduced to Professor Gomez from Bogotá and Dr Suskind from Berlin. Everyone else knows each other. It is clear this evening is all in aid of myself, the syringe, and international collaboration.

The talk moves from cheddar cheese to the relative merits of South-East Asian and South American rubber. They are all aware of my sojourn in Vietnam and the rolls of rubber waiting in store. How much more they know is a mystery to me. Dr Suskind is keen to explore the potential of producing the syringe plungers in Colombia using Brazilian raw materials.

I am on my third drink by now and warming to the occasion.

‘Is the mayor not coming?' I ask the ambassador's wife.

She coughs to mask a hiccough.

‘Oh, him,' she slurs. ‘He's a real Colombian. Don't you know about Colombian time?'

No, I shake my head, I do not.

‘You ask a Colombian to dinner and they'll arrive three hours late. It's expected. It happens all the time. We told him seven, deliberately. So he should be here in an hour or so. We'll eat at nine, whether he's here or not.'

‘I hear he's running for president,' I say, to be polite, to keep the conversation going.

‘Fritz, over here,' shouts Mrs Henshaw. ‘A drink. For myself and Dr Malloy.'

Fritz appears with a silver tray and two enormous gin and tonics. The professor and the German scientist are talking with the ambassador. Austin is nowhere to be seen.

‘Did you hear the one about the mayor of Bogotá and the kidnappers?' asks the ambassador's wife, between slugs of gin.

‘No, I can't say I have.'

‘Well, everyone who is anyone knows about it, so I can't imagine I'm breaking protocol by telling you. You'll find out sooner or later.'

‘Intriguing,' I say, noticing Austin is back in the room, engaged in urgent discourse with Dr Suskind.

The ambassador's wife takes me by the arm, leading me out onto the terrace. The night air is so fresh it could be Switzerland. Mrs Henshaw speaks with such a clipped English accent it could be Cheltenham.

‘Well,' she says, warming to her subject, ‘he's only just been released these last three weeks. Two months ago he was kidnapped by the Medellin cartel, along with a judge. They kept them in a
finca
somewhere outside the city. It was the main story on every news bulletin, every front page. The army was scouring the countryside. The mayor's wife was on the radio extolling his virtues. Then, miraculously, he's released. But the judge is shot dead. The mayor comes back to town smelling of roses. All the old scandals about the brothel in Cartagena and the bank in Barcelona are forgotten. Suddenly, he's everyone's hero, his standing in the polls rockets through the ceiling. Well, so the story goes, and I've heard it from a number of quarters,' she grasps my shoulder, swaying closer to me, either to speak confidentially, or else to keep her balance, ‘the story has it he set it all up. Delivered the judge to Ascavar, faked his own kidnapping. The things that go on here, Dr Malloy, you wouldn't believe. You mark my words, Mayor Guzman will be the next president of Colombia. And I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him.'

The sound of footsteps encroach on the terrace.

‘Ah, Mayor Guzman, how delightful to see you again,' gushes the ambassador's wife to the man standing in the doorway.

‘And you too, Mrs Henshaw,' he replies in American English. A Sicilian in Colombian clothing, between two Andean mountain bears, both in dark glasses and dark suits.

‘This is Dr Malloy,' she says, pushing me forwards. ‘He's a visiting professor from Melbourne, Australia. He's working in London, England. I was just telling him all about you.'

I wake up slumped in a chair. Before I can focus, I smell the ashtray on the table beside me, next to the empty bottle of mini-bar whiskey.

I remember sitting down to dinner, the vast array of wine glasses in front of me. Each was filled (and refilled) in turn, following and preceding each course. And how many courses? I sat in the place of honour next to the ambassador, listening to his speech about the worldwide significance of my discovery. Of how the one-use syringe would play a major role in minimising infectious disease throughout the world and how eager he was, as the representative of the host nation, to involve as many countries as possible in its development, manufacture and testing. The Taneffe pharmaceutical company was lauded for its foresight, altruism and credentials. The ambassador noted how everyone was gathered this evening to ensure Colombia would play a leading role in the development and manufacture of the rubberised components. This was followed by refills and glass clinking. Between the Brown Windsor soup and the roast beef (Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes and garden peas, plus gravy, and was there honey still for tea?), Dr Suskind and Professor Gomez pledged their enthusiasm for the project, commercially and academically. I made a vain attempt at soaking up the alcohol with a vast helping of the apple crumble and custard. Across the table, Mayor Guzman, president-elect, eyed me with a dark and unnervingly sober expression.

I sit up in the chair, the crick in my neck reminding me my tie is still in place. My flailing arm knocks over the ashtray. ‘Hell's bells,' I mumble to myself, ‘my head.' Then I remember the conversation with the mayor, hours into the evening, after the port, during the brandy and cigars. It had been shortly after the ambassador's wife crashed to the floor, only to be retrieved and hauled upright (to continue the conversation where she had left off) by the ever-present, ever-alert, ever-servicing Fritz. Cringing at the memory, I recall staggering across the room to where the Mayor of Bogotá sat on a sofa with one of his bodyguards. Swaying uneasily from side to side, I ask: ‘And what, Mayor Guzman, is all this about you setting up your own kidnap?'

The sun trickles through the blinds and the phone begins ringing on the table. I reach out through the ash, noticing the paper wrapper smeared with remnants of cocaine (oh, Jesus, where had that come from?), and push the phone from its cradle.

‘Hello … hello … Dr Malloy? This is Fritz.'

‘Yes, Fritz, good morning.'

‘How are you, Dr Malloy?'

‘Fine,' I moan, ‘just fine and you?'

‘Excellent. Last evening was a great success. Mrs Henshaw, the ambassador's wife, thinks you are extremely charming.'

‘And the mayor? Does the mayor think I am charming?'

‘Ah, the mayor. The mayor is a slightly different matter.' He pauses to accentuate the embarrassment. ‘He is placated, shall we say. You learn diplomacy in this business. I spoke with him after you had your little conversation with him. You do recall your conversation with the mayor?'

‘Yes, I recall my conversation with the mayor,' I say, hearing the old well-worn remorseful tone in my voice.

‘He is a fine man. He will make a great president. Though not someone one would wish to be on the wrong side of. But I'm sure you realize that.'

‘Yes, I can imagine that.'

‘Good. But not to worry. Today is our day off. Our social day. I'll be at the hotel in an hour, British time, to show you the sights.'

‘Fine, I'll be here,' I reply, gently replacing the phone on the receiver.

Under the shower, as well as feeling physically wretched, come the all-too-familiar sensations of shame and humiliation. Like so many times before, I remember most of the previous evening, up to a point. Mrs Henshaw's fall and recovery, vague recollections of smoking an enormous cigar with an equally drunk ambassador, and a nauseating memory of lurching over to the mayor and blurting out the accusation. It had all seemed so witty, astute and amusing at the time. But there it ends, like coloured slides projected onto a wall, static, disordered. A series of images flash indiscriminately, then a blank screen. How had I come home? The dredges of whiskey and cocaine in the hotel room? A familiar scene. A familiar feeling.

I let the hot water from the shower course over my body, remembering those last months with Matilda. The drinking sprees which began to take up most of the week. The defeated looks on Matilda's face when I returned at night. The destructiveness wearing away at our love.

An hour later, Fritz sits outside the hotel in the embassy Land Rover used for social trips. It had taken all his well-honed diplomatic skills to placate the mayor. For far lesser misdemeanours the mayor has arranged kidnappings, where the victim finishes up tossed into one of the ravines skirting the banana-shaped city. But everyone has their boss, and Fritz reminded the mayor that Ascavar wanted to meet the good doctor at his office and not at the funeral parlour.

Fritz watches some street boys strip the wheels from a car across the road. The blue skies darken in seconds and the daily rains begin to fall heavily. The boys hurry off towards the barrio, pushing the car tyres in front of them.

I exit the hotel to a deluge and see Fritz waiting patiently in the car across the road.

‘Well then,' I say, sheepishly tapping on the driver's window.

The rain streams down in sheets. Fritz presses a button on the dashboard and the door lock is released.

‘Just like London?' suggests Fritz, looking up to the skies.

‘No,' I say, shaking the water from my head, ‘nothing like London.'

‘You have the weekend bag, as I recommended?' asks Fritz as I settle into the seat, fastening my seat belt, noticing Fritz does not wear his.