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“Disgustingly rich.” He nodded, blowing smoke. “Of course, they’ll never say as much directly, but Jim’s clothes aren’t off the rack, they’re tailor made. And he’s got one suit that’s worth at least a thousand dollars.”
My expression must have been questioning, because he laughed and, mimicking a New York Yiddish accent, said: “My family’s in the garment business, Mäusele. I know from menswear.”
“What’s a Mäusele?” I wanted to know.
“Little Mouse.”
“Oh.” Is that what I reminded him of, I wondered? A little mouse, afraid to come out of her hole? But I didn’t ask him that. Instead, I asked: “What does Jim Whitaker do, anyway? Do you know?”
“He says he works for a private engineering company, but Simon thinks that’s just a smokescreen, a cover story to hide Jim’s real occupation.”
“Which is?”
“CIA, of course.” He winked. “Simon gets a little paranoid sometimes—he’s studied politics too long. He sees conspiracy in everything and everybody, and the worst part is that it’s contagious. I’ve spent so much time listening to Simon that even I look at Jim
sometimes and think, yeah, he does look kind of secretive, you know? It catches.”
“Maybe that’s my problem, then,” I said, hugging my knees more tightly. “My own imagination’s been working overtime this afternoon. It must be Simon’s paranoia rubbing off.”
“Why? What have you been imagining?”
“I rather fancied I was being followed.” Said like that, I thought, it sounded ridiculous. I smiled.
“Who was following you?”
As I described the man, Paul’s eyebrows drew together in a frown of recognition. “What, the gypsy, you mean? The one with the little dog about that big?” He held his hands a foot and a half apart, to simulate the size of the dog.
“That’s the one. He’s a gypsy, really?” I’d never seen an actual gypsy before—only fake ones in films.
Paul nodded. “There are a lot of gypsies around here. Some of them live in campers—caravans, I guess you’d call them—down by the beach. They’re not the cream of society, to be sure, but that guy you saw is pretty harmless. At least, he’s always been nice to Simon and me,” he said, shifting his legs. “Simon always stops to pet the dog. So I wouldn’t worry about… oh, damn, there goes my book!”
I caught it for him as it came bouncing down the steps beside me. “There,” I said, handing it back to him. “No damage done. But you’ve lost your place.”
“That’s OK, I can find it again.” He grinned. “I have a very intimate relationship with this book.”
“Well, I should think so, if you’ve been reading it for two years.”
He turned the paperback over, balancing it carefully in his hand. “That was always my favorite poem, you know, when I was a kid. Tennyson’s Ulysses. I used to know it by heart.”
From what I’d seen so far of his memory, I was willing to bet he knew the poem still. I’d memorized it once myself, years ago, at school. I remembered how romantic it had seemed—the aged Ulysses throwing off the chains of boredom, leaving his dull hearth in search of new adventure. To sail beyond the sunset… I’d thought that beautiful, once. But now I knew it was a wasted effort, chasing sunsets. There was nothing on the other side.
Paul was watching me with those wise eyes that saw too much. I glanced away, quite casually, and asked him: “But however did you make the leap from Tennyson’s Ulysses to James Joyce? They’re not a bit alike.”
“That,” he told me, “was my sister’s fault. She saw this book in a used bookstore a couple of summers back, read the title, and bought it for me. She thought one Ulysses was the same as the next. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I started reading it.” He smiled again, and set the book aside. “It’s become sort of an obsession. I won’t be able to rest until I’ve finished the damn thing.”
I was vaguely surprised to learn that Simon and Paul had a sister. Not that it mattered, but for some reason I’d thought there were only the two of them. The curious thing about meeting people on holiday, I told myself, was that one formed opinions based on first impressions, or past experience. And one was so often wrong. I looked up at Paul. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“There are six of us, altogether.”
“Six!”
“Yeah. Simon’s the oldest, then Rachel, Lisa, Helen, me, and Sarah. Sarah,” he added, having counted everyone off in order on his fingers, “is the one who bought me the book.”
“Six,” I repeated, incredulous.
My reaction amused him. “Let me guess. You’re an only child.”
I admitted that I was. “But then my cousin was usually around at holidays and half-terms to keep me company. People used to mistake us for brother and sister, we looked so much alike.” We still did, come to that. Especially around the eyes. The thought of Harry triggered a more recent memory. “I’ve had a message from him, by the way. He’ll be a few days late.”
