Gerald Seymour - At Close Quarters

A record of total disappointment at home, and he had never once let it show, hadn't let his work suffer.

Holt and Crane into the Beqa'a, Percy Martins's last big one, by Jesus, he would not let the last big one go unnoticed on the nineteenth floor of Century.

He had a good record, nothing to be ashamed of, and less recognition for it than the man who sat behind the reception desk at Century. Meanwhile he was stuck in a kibbutz, where there was no fishing, where there was no access to a damn good mission going into Lebanon, Of course, he should have insisted that there was proper preparation of the ground rules before he ever left London. And no damned support from the station officer. The station officer's balls would be a decent enough target when he made it back to Century…

He had signed his bill, should have had a full bottle of Avdat but he had never gone over the top with expenses, he had strolled to the bar.

Percy Martins had never been able to understand why so many hotels dictated that drinking should be carried out in semi-darkness and to the accompaniment of loudspeaker music. There were Americans in the shadows, from the air-conditioned bus that had arrived in the afternoon. He preferred solitude to them. Blue rinse, check trousers and damn loud voices for both sexes.

The Americans had all the tables except one. Two men sat at the table, and bloody miserable they seemed to Martins because in front of each of them was a tall glass of fresh pressed orange juice. Not young and not old, the two men. Obvously Israelis. One wore an old leather jacket, scarred at the cuffs and elbows, the other wore a bleach scrubbed denim jacket. They were not talking; they looked straight ahead.

And there were the young Scandinavians. He knew they were Scandinavians, impossible language they were speaking, like English taped and played backwards. And drinking, and loud. All that Martins associated with Scandinavians.

There were four of them. He had the choice between several loud American women and their husbands, the teetotal Israelis, and four merry Scandinavians. They were at the bar, they were ordering another round. He assumed them to be UNIFIL. At the bar he nodded to them, made his presence known, then ordered himself a beer.

He had drunk half his beer, not made contact, when t he young man closest to him lurched backwards on the punchline of a joke, stumbled against Martins' elbow while he was sipping, spilled a mouthful down the laundered shirt.

It was the beginning of the conversation. Handkerchiefs out, apologies first in Norwegian and then English when Martins had spoken. Introductions.

He learned that the young man who had jogged him was Hendrik. He learned that Hendrik was with UNIFIL's NORBAT. He learned that Hendrik and his friends were allowed one evening a week in Kiryat Shmona.

He was rather pleased. A stained shirt was a cheap price to pay for introductions.

A replacement beer was called for by Hendrik.

"You are English, Mr Martin?"

"Martins. Yes, I am English… Cheers."

"Here for holiday?"

"You could say I am here for a holiday, Hendrik."

"For us it is not a holiday, you understand. No holiday in south Lebanon. What does an Englishman find for a holiday in Kiryat Shmona?"

"Just looking around, just general interest… Your glass is empty, you must allow me."

Martins clicked his fingers for the barman. Had he looked behind him, he would have seen that the two glasses of orange juice remained untouched, that the Israelis leaned forward, faces set in concentration. Four beers for the soldiers, a whisky and water for Martins.

"So how do you like it here, Hendrik, serving with the United Nations?"

"Are you a Jew?" 1

The young man's face close to his own. "Most certainly not."

"The Jews treat us like filth. They have so great an arrogance. They make many problems for us."

"Ah yes. Is that so?"

His whisky was less than half drunk, but the barman had reached for it, prompted by one of the soldiers. The glass was refilled.

"That's most civil of you. You were saying, Hendrik

"

"I was saying that the Jews make many problems for us."

"Not only for you, my boy," Martins said quietly, the first trace of a slur in his speech.

"Every day they violate the authority of the United Nations."

"Is that so?"

"Every single day they come into the U N I F I L area."

"Indeed? Do they indeed?"

"They come in and they make trouble, but it is us who have to mend the damage."

"Absolutely."

There was an appealing candour to the young man, Martins thought, compared to his own callow son, miserable little brat, without a polite word for his father.

"That's very decent of you… " The whisky glass was gone again. Percy Martins felt the warm careless glow in his body.

"They've always made trouble, the Jews. Since way back, since before you were born, my boy. Part of their nature. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not an anti-semite, never have been, but by God they tax my patience. They always have done, damn difficult people to do business with when you need co-operation."

"Business or holiday?"

Martins leaned forward, avuncular, confiding. "A little more business than holiday."

"What sort of business?"

Martins swayed, "Careful, my boy. Over your young head… "

He seldom drank in London. A pint in the pub or a quick Scotch when he slipped out of Century in the evening to get some fish and chips or a takeaway pizza before going back to work late. He kept no alcohol at home. If he left alcohol in the house it would be drunk by his wife, or by the boy when he was home from college. But this was a first class young man, with a good reading of events, a very level headed young man. God, why did they have to have that bloody music? And why did those bloody Americans have to address each other as though they were in the next state?

"Like last night."

"Sorry, my boy, what was last night?"

"They sent an infiltration team through our lines… "

Martins reeled back. "How did you know about that?"

He was close to losing his footing. He hung on the edge of the bar.

"They sent an infiltration team through last night."

Martins shouted. "I bloody heard you, don't repeat yourself. I asked you a question. How did you bloody know what happened last night?"

He was not aware that his raised voice had quietened the Americans. He did not see the man behind him, the one who wore the leather jacket, slide from his chair, go fast for the door.

"Why do you shout?"

"Because I want an answer, my boy."

"To what, an answer?"

"How you knew about an infiltration team moving off last night."

"Does it concern you?"

"Your answer, I want it."

His vision was blurred. He could not register the curious concentrated interest of the boy Hendrik.

"An Englishman, on holiday – why does an infiltration concern him?"

"It bloody well concerns me, how you knew."

"You are drunk, mister."

In front of him the young man turned away, as if no longer interested. Martins caught at the white T-shirt, spun him round.

"How did you know about the infiltration last night?"

"Take your hands off me."

"How did you know…?"

There was quick movement. As though the Norwegians were suddenly bored with the elderly Briton.

Martins's shout still hung in the air as they pushed past him, away from the bar, out through the swing door.

The music played was ragtime.

The man sitting at the table behind abandoned the two orange juices, hurried out through the door to drag his colleague off the telephone.

There was the sound of the U N I F I L transport roaring to life in the car park.

"What did he say, Hendrik, that pissed fart?"