The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August(97)

“Of course!” Was my jubilation at recognition a little too much, a little too forced? This was America, a land of big expressions, and the phone was not the medium for subtlety. “I’m sorry, Mr Ransome, of course I remember–it’s a touch early in the morning, is all…”

“Good God!” Was his regret a little too forced, a little too over the top? Perhaps, I mused, when this was done we could swap notes on the qualities of each other’s deceptions? I could think of no one whose opinion I would value more in this regard. “I’m so sorry. What time is it there?”

“Two in the morning.”

“Good God!” again, and really I was beginning to feel I should be taking points off Vincent’s otherwise flawless performance. I made a mental note to myself that empty banal sounds were far more apposite than grand exclamations of sentiment when it came to such matters. Then again, if his operating assumption was that I was a traumatised innocent stuck in my second life, perhaps he considered it only apt to treat me like an idiot? “Harry, I’m so sorry,” and again there it was, the slip of a familiar first name where no such terms should have yet existed. “I was going to invite you to join me for drinks next week, as I believe I’ll be in your neighbourhood. How thoughtless of me to forget the time! I’ll call back later–a thousand apologies!”

He hung up before I could begin to let him off the hook.


We met for drinks.

The bar was a haunt for lobbyists and journalists, and beneath the low-wattage bulbs and against the sound of slow jazz, a brief truce was declared and the soldiers were allowed to cross the lines to join strangers at their tables, discussing football, baseball and the latest twists and turns in the ongoing battles of the civil rights movement.

Vincent arrived ten minutes late, dressed in an outrageous white suit and braces. He was, he explained, a layabout with very little do with his life, but the world I inhabited fascinated him, and he hoped I didn’t mind his picking my brains. Not at all, I replied, and he insisted on buying the drinks.

I had eaten vast amounts of cheese in preparation for this moment, and drunk copious quantities of water. There is an art to getting drunk in the line of duty, and I was determined that he would catch me neither shirking in my efforts nor off guard as a consequence. The only downside was the regular need to nip to the toilet, but as prices went, I’ve paid worse.

As we talked, it became evident that Vincent’s notion of rich layabout was not necessarily the same as that held by his peers. “Father left me a lot,” he explained with a dismissive shrug, “including a degree I never use, a house I never live in and a factory I never visit, but really I can’t be bothered with all that.”

Sure you can’t, Vincent. Sure you can’t.

“Your father must have been a rich man.”

“So-so, so-so.”

The immortal words of the extremely wealthy, whose natural financial saturation point is so high they have been buoyed above the realms of ordinary mortals, and can perceive vast riches beyond the dreams of lesser fishes. Thus, “So-so, so-so”, a promise of wealth yet undiscovered.

The question of Vincent’s father dangled between us and, as the bait seemed so juicy and tender, I ignored it.

“So what’s a guy like you,” I wondered, “doing talking to a hack like me?”

“Didn’t I say? I’m an admirer of your work.”

“Is that it? I mean, you’re not… what, looking to start your own newspaper, or get a job in the trade or any of that?”

“Good God no! I wouldn’t know where to begin. Tell you what though…”

Here it came, the conspiratorial shuffle across the couch, the bowed head, furtive glances at his neighbours: “You wouldn’t have some insider dirt, would you?”

What kind of dirt, dear Liza, dear Liza?

“My accountant chappy wants me to buy into a company doing something terribly technical with harmonic resonance, whatever that is. I usually just let him handle these sorts of things, but the investment is really quite high and I wasn’t sure if it was going to go anywhere. What do you think?”

I think, Vincent, that when you decided to deploy the notion of an “accountant chappy”, you pushed your hand a little too far.

I think it would be easy to kill you now.

I think that, despite everything, I am smiling.

Smiling at your act. At your charm. At your easy manner and little dirty jokes. Smiling because for ten years we smiled and worked together, and for only a few days did you attempt to destroy my life. Smiling because that’s the habit that has been set into my features in your presence, though I loathe you beyond all comprehension. Smiling because, despite the lies, despite knowing all I do about you, I like you, Vincent Rankis. I still like you.

“What’s the name of the company?” I asked. “Maybe I can check them out?”

“Would you? I don’t want you to think that was what this is about–I know that people use others all the time–but honestly, Harry–may I call you Harry–I have been such an admirer of your work I just wanted to meet you, this other business is really on the side…”

“It’s no problem, Mr Ransome–Simon? Simon, it’s no problem at all.”

“I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”