The splendour of the room was at first all Jonathan could take in. Its occupants, if there were any, were lost between the brilliance and the dark. Then, as Corkoran ushered him forward, he made out a swirling golden desk in tortoise-shell and brass, and behind it a scrolled throne covered in rich tapestry frayed with age. And beside the desk, in a bamboo sun chair with wide arms and a footstool, reclined the worst man in the world, dressed in white sailing ducks and espadrilles and a short-sleeved navy blue shirt with a monogram on the pocket. He had his legs crossed and was wearing his half-lens spectacles, and he was reading something from a leather-backed folder that bore the same monogram as his shirt, and he was smiling while he read it, because he smiled a great deal. A woman secretary stood behind him, and she could have been the twin sister of the first.
"No disturbances, Frisky," an alarmingly familiar voice ordered, snapping the leather folder shut and shoving it at the secretary. "Nobody on the terrace. Who's the ass running an outboard in my bay?"
"That's Talbot, fixin' it, Chief," said Isaac from the back.
"Tell him to unfix it. Corks, shampoo. Well, I'm damned. Pine. Come here. Well done. Well done indeed."
He was clambering to his feet, his spectacles perched comically on the tip of his nose. Grasping Jonathan's hand, he drew him forward until, as at Meister's, they had entered each other's private space. And examined him, frowning through his spectacles. And while he did so, he slowly raised his palms to Jonathan's cheeks as if he meant to trap them in a double slap. And kept them there, so close that Jonathan could feel their heat, while Roper posed his head at different angles, peering at him from a few inches' distance until he was satisfied.
"Bloody marvellous," he pronounced finally. "Well done, Pine; well done, Marti; well done, money. What it's for. Sorry not to be around when you arrived. Had a couple of farms to flog. When was the worst?" Disconcertingly, he had turned to Corkoran, who was advancing across the marble floor bearing a tray with three frosted silver goblets of Dom Perignon. "Here he is. Thought we were running a dry ship."
"After the operation, I suppose," said Jonathan. "Coming round. It was like the dentist multiplied by ten."
"Hang on. Here's the best bit."
Confused by Roper's scattershot method of talking, Jonathan had failed to hear the music. But as Roper's hand reached out to order silence, he recognised the dying strains of Pavarotti singing "La donna è mobile." All three stood motionless until the music ended. Then Roper lifted his goblet and drank.
"
"Good luck," said Jonathan, and drank too. As he did so, the sound of the distant outboard cut off, leaving a deep silence. Roper's gaze dropped to the scar on Jonathan's right wrist.
"How many for lunch, Corks?"
"Eighteen, rising twenty, Chief."
"Vincettis coming? Didn't hear their plane yet. That Czech twin-engined thing they fly."
"Coming when last heard of, Chief."
"Tell Jed, name cards. And decent napkins. None of that red loo paper. And track down the Vincettis, yes or no. Pauli come through about those 130s yet?"
"Still waiting, Chief."
"Well, he better be bloody quick, or never. Here you are. Pine. Sit down. Not there. Here, where I can see you. And the Sancerre, tell Isaac. Cold, for once. Apo faxed the draught amendment yet?"
"In your in-tray."
"Marvellous chap," Roper commented as Corkoran departed.
"I'm sure he is," Jonathan agreed politely.
"Loves to serve," said Roper, with the glance that heterosexuals share.
* * *
Roper was swirling the champagne in his goblet, smiling while he watched it go round and round. "Mind telling me what you want?" he asked.
"Well, I'd like to get back to Low's if I could. As soon as it's convenient, really. Just a plane to Nassau would be fine. I'll make my way from there."
"Not what I mean at all. Bigger question altogether. In life. What do you want? What's your plan?"
"I haven't got a plan. Not at the moment. I'm drifting. Taking time out."
"Balls, frankly. Don't believe you. You've never relaxed in your life, my view. Not sure I have either. I try. Play a bit of golf, do the boat, bit of this and that, swim, screw. But my engine's going all the time. So's yours. What I like about you. No neutral gear."
He was still smiling. So was Jonathan, even though he wondered on what evidence Roper was able to base his judgment.
"If you say so," he said.
"Cooking. Climbing. Boating. Painting. Soldiering. Marrying. Languages. Divorcing. Some girl in Cairo, girl in Cornwall, girl in Canada. Some Australian doper you killed. Never trust a chap who tells me he's not after something. Why'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
Roper's charm was something Jonathan had not allowed himself to remember. Man-to-man, Roper let you know that you could tell him anything, and he would still be smiling at the end of it.
