Philip Kerr - False Nine

After a while I noticed Jérôme standing on the level above.

‘At last,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something I really like about Guadeloupe. The coffee. It’s Bonifieur. Fantastic. You want some? I’ll fetch a cup.’

‘I don’t like coffee very much,’ said Jérôme.

‘Me, I love it. Coffee’s my thing, you know? I mean, after football.’

‘I prefer fruit juice.’

‘You should watch that. A lot of fruit juice, it’s just sugar. People think it’s good for them and it’s not.’

‘Okay.’

‘You know, I think it’s really good the way you support people on this island. The local school’s football team. Grace told me that you even sent money to that hairdresser who was here earlier.’

Jérôme sneered. ‘Yeah, I’m a real saint, aren’t I? Everyone loves me. But I’m not such a great guy, you know. I can be difficult. A selfish prick, you know? In fact, there are times when I fucking hate myself.’

He was off his meds all right; his mood seemed to be the exact opposite of the one I’d seen last night.

‘I think we all get like that sometimes.’

‘Maybe.’

I finished the cup I was drinking and went up to join him on the upper level.

‘You and Gui must be great friends if he’s prepared to lend you this lovely house.’

‘He’s all right, I guess.’

‘You know him from Monaco, you said.’

‘Yes.

‘I don’t recall seeing him play. Is he good?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with his taste anyway.’

Jérôme shrugged moodily.

‘That Spanish teacher I was telling you about last night,’ I said. ‘The one who taught me? I found her address. I’ll text it to you.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘And I was thinking. You know what would really make them love you in Barcelona? If you took the trouble to learn just a few words of Catalan, for the press conference. I don’t speak much Catalan myself. But I can give you a few words. For example, you could say something like Estic encantat de ser aquí , and Tinc moltes ganes de jugar per al miller equip del món . You can learn it like a parrot. If you can say all that I just said then I swear they’ll think you’re the next Messi.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure. They love people who make an effort to speak a bit of Catalan. It’s important to them. Part of their national identity.’

Jérôme looked doubtful. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Manson.’

‘Scott. Call me Scott. I can see I caught you at a difficult time.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘You’re in a mood.’

‘I’ve a cold.’

‘No, it’s a little more than that.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Are you angry with me, Jérôme? Did Grace say something, perhaps?’

‘Like what?’

‘About me? About us?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know.’ For her sake I thought it best not to mention that she and I had been intimate. ‘It’s just a pity she’s not here now. To help reassure you that everything is going to be all right.’

‘Look, I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all. I’ll be glad when all this is over.’

‘Sure.’

Jérôme went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. By now I was quite sure he was avoiding me. The previous evening I’d gained the strong impression that he liked me. But now I had the impression that he couldn’t bear to have me around.

I went into the room I’d chosen for myself. Something was wrong, all right. But I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. And then, seeing the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, I had an idea. On closer inspection it turned out to be just a print. I lifted the frame off the wall for a moment and then replaced it carefully.

I went back downstairs and poured myself some more coffee. The sports channels were all in French but finally I found a football match — Chelsea versus Burnley, which is a very different experience when you have a French commentator who almost manages to make Burnley sound like it’s somewhere exotic.

A few hours later I heard Jérôme moving around upstairs and went to find him.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I told him.

‘Oh?’

I pointed through the door of the room I’d picked out for myself.

‘This picture,’ I said, pointing at the Yayoi Kusama. ‘It’s a copy of the one that’s in your apartment in Paris, isn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It might be. I have an art advisor who buys all my pictures. As investments mainly. To be honest I know nothing about art.’

‘It’s the same one,’ I said firmly.

‘If you say so.’

And then he walked out again.

By now I knew there was something strange happening in that house. The picture was upside down. I knew this because it was me who’d hung it like that.

And if that had been the only strange thing about Jérôme Dumas I might have excused his behaviour. Quite apart from his offhand manner there were a number of things I’d noticed about him which didn’t seem quite right. For a start there was the way he had favoured his right foot when playing keepy-uppy earlier; I knew Jérôme was famously left-footed. Then there was his declared dislike of coffee when after dinner the previous evening I’d seen him drinking several cups. And after all his declared interest in Russell Brand, why hadn’t he been a little more pleased to receive a copy of his book — a book which he’d told me himself he was very keen to look at? And what had happened to the ink stain on his fingers? The same ink had still been on Grace’s forefinger at the airport in Antigua when I’d said goodbye to her that morning.

I stood up, turned the picture the right way up and lay down on the bed to think. After a while I got up and went into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror, almost as if hoping the guy looking back at me might say exactly what was wrong. He said nothing helpful; and yet it was almost as if he could have told me the answer. As if I was actually already in possession of the solution to the mystery which was confounding me.

‘Why is Jérôme Dumas behaving strangely?’ I asked the person in the mirror.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Scott Manson. ‘Perhaps it’s just that he’s a cunt.’

‘But you do admit that there’s something peculiar here?’ I said.

‘Yes. Very definitely. But look, all of this strange behaviour can be easily explained, surely. You’ve said it before. He’s off his meds.’

‘That only explains the observable behaviour, not the physical details. For example, did you ever know a lefty who instinctively played the ball with his right?’

‘No,’ said Scott. ‘But lots of lefties are good with both feet.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ I said. ‘I passed him the ball when he wasn’t expecting it and without thinking about it, he trapped the ball with his right. That’s reaction. Not choice.’

‘All right. I’ll concede that.’

‘What about the picture?’

‘The picture? I think that’s weird, yes. But I don’t know that you can infer anything from that. Perhaps he just didn’t notice the picture was upside down? Perhaps he’s just a philistine.’

‘If it was any old painting, I’d agree. But even a print by Yayoi Kusama costs a lot of money. The one in his apartment must have cost at least a million dollars. I know because I checked it out when I was in Paris. But he didn’t turn a hair when he was looking at it the wrong way round.’

‘He’s got a cold,’ said Scott. ‘So, he’s not seeing straight. I’ve had a cold and I didn’t know what day it was.’

‘You’ve never had a cold that meant you didn’t know what day it was. You’re exaggerating.’