Aaron Elkins - Uneasy Relations

“It seems like the best thing to do,” Gideon said, his spirits low. Others offered reluctant agreement. Everyone was disappointed. And depressed.

“As you may know, we have a similar situation arising in a few days, and we’ve been struggling with what to do about that one too,” Rowley said by way of appeasement. “We’ve come to the same conclusion. No long addresses.”

As Gideon knew, a public event was set for the day after tomorrow, at which the first shovelful of dirt was to be turned at what would eventually be the Europa Point Prehistoric Site and Ivan S. Gunderson Visitor Center. Ivan, who had matched the public funding pound for pound, was supposed to make a speech and also have yet another award, the Honorary Freedom of the City of Gibraltar, bestowed on him by the territory’s minister of culture.

Audrey was not that easy to appease. “I see,” she said stiffly. “And assuming that we hold our own little dinner at all, can we be sure he’s going to remember to come?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be collecting him myself.” Rowley hesitated. “He does have good days, you know. More often than not, actually. Perhaps this will be one.”

“Let us fervently hope so,” said Audrey with a roll of her eyes.

It started off well enough.

The Rock Hotel, a long, white, six-story art deco building situated above Gibraltar town on the lower flanks of the Rock itself, and directly overlooking the Alameda Botanical Gardens, is by most accounts Gibraltar’s finest, its register adorned with the names of royalty real, cinematic, and literary – Prince Andrew, Prince Edward, Sean Connery, Peter Sellers, Alec Guinness, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway. Its particular gem is its marble-balustered Wisteria Terrace, a trellis-shaded patio set among lush plantings, filled with the sounds of birds, and looking out toward the wide bay with its tankers at rest, and in the distance, the gleaming rooftops of the Spanish town of Algeciras on the far shore. It was here that the participants gathered for cocktails and exotic canapes – lobster-and-fennel wontons, mini-eclairs with creamed prawns, ham rosettes on duck liver croutons – before going in to dinner.

Before that, most of them had already gathered in Gideon and Julie’s room for predrink drinks. Among the hotel’s famous amenities (which included a bright yellow rubber duck in every guest bath and a supply of lollipops) was the provision each afternoon of a decanter of sherry and another of Scotch to every room. Gideon and Julie had earlier invited Pru to join them for a chat. She had been spotted carrying her Scotch decanter down the hall by Buck and Audrey and she had invited them to do the same, picking up Corbin and Adrian on the way. Even Rowley, who wasn’t staying at the hotel, had stopped by for a few words with Audrey – and a small glass of sherry – before driving off to pick up the guest of honor. As a result, most of the attendees were already pretty well oiled – relaxed and good-humored – before they ever got to the Wisteria Terrace.

As was appropriate, Ivan Gunderson, urbane and smiling in the cream-colored, subtly beige-striped blazer and midnight-blue silk ascot that had become his trademark dress, was the center of attention, and he performed brilliantly. Straight-up martini in hand, he graciously if somewhat regally mingled with the others, making sure to allow time for everyone. He had been quite charming on being introduced to Julie, bowing over her hand – for a moment Gideon wondered if he was going to kiss it – and wryly apologizing, in his elegant, agreeable tenor, for the boredom she was surely about to endure.

But it wasn’t long before Gideon, whose lunchtime wine hadn’t set well with him and was therefore one of the few not drinking, began to see that Rowley was right. Gunderson wasn’t the same man he’d had last seen a couple of years ago. Age, lying confidently in wait for so long, had finally caught up to him with a vengeance. Oh, he still looked much the same; a little more stooped, a little more frail and tentative on his feet, but still the same tall, graceful frame that made any jacket look like an Armani, the same thick, scrupulously brushed mane of white hair, the same clear, ice blue eyes, the same kindly, appealing air of intelligence and reasonableness. But behind the polished surface, it became increasingly clear that a battle had been fought and lost. The witty, urbane Ivan Gunderson known to the world had been evicted, and a confused, forgetful, and probably frightened old man had taken up residence.

He was operating by rote now, and by instinct. He was still skilled at the little ceremonies of life; his remarks to Julie showed that. But he initiated almost nothing in the way of conversation. Say something to him with a smile, and he would smile back, and look amused and knowledgeable. Say it with a solemn shake of your head, and he would turn grave too, and shake his head as well, and commiserate with you in vaguely relevant terms. Gideon had warm and grateful memories of their early meetings, when the famous Ivan Gunderson had gone out of his way to be welcoming and helpful to the young, unknown physical anthropologist. It had been Gunderson who’d taken him in hand at the very first professional conference he’d attended, and had made sure that he was included in dinner plans and social outings. Through the years they had met a good dozen times, often at small, convivial dinners, but whether Gunderson now had any idea of who Gideon was was doubtful. Clearly, familiar words and phrases served as cues: weather , archaeology, Gibraltar Boy, First Family, I believe the last time we met was in San Diego – all would prompt replies, lively and seemingly pertinent, but at bottom no more than stimulus-response reactions.

He was good at it too, but after twenty minutes, the emptiness behind the words sank in for almost everyone, and Adrian’s jocular suggestion that they go in and sit down to dinner before they perished of hunger was greeted with relief by all.

Dinner was in a private dining room where three tables had been arranged in the shape of a T in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. At the head was Gunderson, with Adrian to his right, and Audrey and Buck to his left. At the table that formed the stem of the T were Julie and Gideon, sitting across from Corbin and Pru. At the bottom of the stem was Rowley, who had modestly turned down the invitation to sit at the head table. Sun-dried tomato and couscous salads were brought out as soon as they came in.

“Before we begin,” said Adrian from behind his chair, before sitting down, “I think it would be appropriate if we all were to raise our glasses in memory of Sheila Chan, our cherished friend and colleague, and my dear student, whom we all mourn and miss.”

“Sheila Chan,” several others echoed. The glasses were raised, sipped (Gideon’s held tonic water), and set down, followed by three or four seconds of silence, after which the couscous salads were addressed and conversations were resumed.

“Who’s Sheila Chan?” Julie asked Gideon.

Gideon hunched his shoulders. “No idea. It’s a familiar name, though.” He looked across the table at Pru and Corbin. “Who’s Sheila Chan?”

“You didn’t know Sheila?” Pru said, surprised. “No, that’s right, of course you wouldn’t have known her. But you must have heard about what happened to her?”

A shake of the head from Gideon. “No. So, who was she?”

“She was one of the area supervisors on the dig,” Pru said with the slightest of edges to her voice, “a hard worker, competent – well, you knew her a lot better than I did, Corbin. Why don’t you tell it?”

Corbin, whose mouth was fully occupied with couscous, nodded while he finished chewing, his long, gaunt, blue-tinged jaws working steadily, deliberately away, tendons popping and shifting as hard as if they were working on a slab of beef jerky. Finally he swallowed and sipped some water. “Yes, Sheila and I were grad students together at Cal, under Adrian.”