The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(98)

‘No,’ I said firmly.

‘Flying First Class in a Jumbo. With a bar.’

‘No,’ I said, but she could see that I was weakening.

‘A suite in the best hotel and a bankroll to gamble with. Say a thousand.’

‘Dollars or pounds?’

‘Pounds.’

‘Oh, very well. But I must go to bed first.’

‘OK. In fact, goody.’

‘I’m sorry I cannot invite you to share a nuptial couch,’ I added stiffly, ‘my bed is some two feet six inches wide and there are enough electronic bugs in the room to start an epidemic.’

‘Yes,’ she said obscurely.

When I emerged from the shower, briskly towelling the Mortdecai tum, Johanna was in the said 2′ 6″ bed.

‘I’ve had the bugs turned off, Charlie.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I said in American.

‘Yeah. I kinda own this joint, you know?’ I winced.

‘I didn’t know,’ I said stuffily, ‘and there still isn’t enough room in that bed for two.’

‘You wanna bet, buster?’

There was enough room. And I mean that most sincerely.

‘I think that, on the whole, I’d better take Jock with me,’ I said later, during the interval for refreshments. ‘After all, three eyes are better than two, eh?’

‘No, Charlie. He is too conspicuous, people would remember him, whereas you’re kind of unremarkable, you sort of melt into the background, you know?’

‘No, I didn’t know that,’ I said stiffly, for that is the kind of remark which stings.

‘Anyway, dear, he’s a xenophobe, isn’t he – he’d probably hit all sorts of people and attract attention.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I said. ‘Back to the grind,’ I added, but not out loud of course.

Johanna drove me to London the next morning. She is a wonderful driver but I used the passenger’s brake a goodish number of times; the journey was, in fact, one long cringe for me. We finally pitched up unscathed at Upper Brook Street, W1, having stopped briefly at one of those places where they make passport photographs of you while you wait.

‘But I already have a passport,’ I said.

‘Well, dear, I thought you’d like a nice new one.’

From the flat she made a number of guarded telephone calls to all sorts of people; the upshot was that by late afternoon I was the proud possessor of First Class tickets on a Boeing 747 and a Vatican City passport, complete with all necessary visas and made out in the name of Fr Thomas Rosenthal, SJ; occupation: Curial Secretary. I didn’t think that was very funny and said so, huffedly.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I do realize that at your age you wouldn’t be just a Fr still, but if we’d made you a Monsignore or Bp or something the airline people would make a fuss of you and that wouldn’t be secure, right? Tell you what, I’ll send the passport back and have them promote you Canon. Hunh? Would you settle for Canon?’

‘Oh, leave it alone, Johanna; I’m truly not sulking. The Church wouldn’t be the first career I’ve muffed. Anyway, I’m not at all sure they have Canons in Rome and Monsignores have to wear puce breeches, I think.’

‘Oh, good. I knew you wouldn’t mind being a simple Fr. You have a kind of wonderful modesty …’ I raised a deprecatory hand.

‘I shall of course need a few strings of rosary-beads and a Breviary or two – I’m sure you’ve thought of that.’

‘Charlie, darling, you’re supposed to be a Jesuit, remember? They’re not into all that stuff.’

‘Of course not; silly of me.’

I don’t mind admitting that I enjoyed the flight; I was the only First Class passenger and the stewardess was most attentive. Most attentive. I began to understand why Johanna had taken such pains over me the previous night, if you see what I mean. (If you don’t see what I mean, congratulations on a clean mind.)

My hotel was of a luxe which surprised me: tout confort moderne would be understating by a bushel and a peck. It was not quite like that one in Bangkok where you have to shake the sheets each night to rid your bed-clothes of little golden girls, though the management of this one was certainly doing its best. But you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, do you?

In the morning I sprang out of bed with a glad cry and promptly sprang into it again with a whimper. I was never strong, even as a boy, and on that morning I felt so enfeebled both in body and mind that I doubt whether I could have hit the ground with my hat. Certainly, I was in no state to play at Secret Agents with Sinister Orientals. Jet-lag and other factors had me by the throat, to name only one organ; I built up my strength by having first one delicious breakfast and then, after a two-hour digestive nap, just such another, washing them down with nutritive glasses of brandy and soda which, in that sort of hotel, you can summon up without the aid of floor-waiters: you simply press the appropriate tit on a ‘Refreshments Console’ which looks for all the world like a miniature cinema-organ.

By lunch-time I felt able to totter down to the restaurant and recruit my strength properly; I had something green and crisp and tasty which was evidently the pubic hair of mermaidens but which the waiter assured me was fried seaweed. Then there were slivers of duck cooked in a sort of jam; a delicious goo made of the swim-bladders of some improbable fish; deep-fried dumpling-like things each containing a huge and succulent prawn, and so on and so forth: there was no limit to their inventiveness.