Ivan Vladislavic - 101 Detectives

The boy’s body. I could not picture it. It was easier to imagine that this was a prank, that he would cast off the shroud of beach towels and jump up, squealing with laughter.

An ambulance came. Two men in floral shirts waited on the grass, while another in a white suit went down to the water’s edge, stepping carefully so that sand did not get in his shoes. The captain and his mate brought Eckie’s body ashore on a board and the other men put it in the ambulance. The captain carried Martha ashore in his arms like a child. Her silence was more appalling than her weeping. Everything fell into it.

I did not go to Blue Bay or anywhere else. I finished my work and in the evenings I sat on the verandah with a book on my knees. The Parakeet was anchored nearby. The newly arrived holidaymakers, unaware of its freight, and some of the old ones, eager to make the most of the time left to them, swam out to the boat and splashed around it. Behind the counter at the Sandbar, Harry went on cracking ice and slicing limes.

The overnight flight to Frankfurt was packed and I wished I was flying business class. The penny-pinching would have to stop. Watching the backpackers stuff their bags into the overhead bins, I wondered what Martha had made of Eckie’s rucksack. Could she figure out where everything went? Perhaps the travel agent had sent someone to help her, a guide or counsellor. They must have trained professionals for a situation like this. Or a sister might have come to support her. Did she fly home with the body? What do they do with the coffin? It must go in the hold with the luggage.

The safety film unnerved me. ‘In the unlikely event of a loss of pressure in the cabin, oxygen masks will drop down automatically from the panel above you.’ I imagined what it would be like to face death here, the suffocating terror of it. The cartoon figures on the screen, mincing stiff-legged towards the emergency exits or reaching calmly for the dangling oxygen masks — ‘Make sure your own mask is properly secured before you help children and others in need of assistance’ — were meant to reassure. These beige dummies should be less alarming than actors, who were real people after all, but they had the opposite effect on me. They looked like zombies. Flight of the living dead.

I ate the little helping of Moroccan chicken with the little knife and fork. I drank two little bottles of chardonnay.

There was an empty seat a few rows back, and after the trays had been cleared away, I thought of moving for the elbow room, the chance to put my head down for an hour or two. I remembered those stories about passengers on doomed flights who swapped seats with a stranger and were miraculously saved when the plane went down. But what about the others who were saved by staying where they were? There was no story in that. And there was no lesson in it either. You lived or died. Luck could not save you, and neither could love.

As soon as the lights were dimmed, I covered myself with the baby blanket and tried to sleep, but I was too near the galley. People looking for water or whisky kept pushing through the curtain, bumping against my shoulder.

In the small hours, when I had begun to despair of sleeping at all, a voice reached me. It was a young mother in the row in front of me. She had an infant in a bassinet secured to the bulkhead. I’d noticed her earlier because she kept getting up to look into the crib, to adjust a blanket or run a hand over the child’s head. Now she was singing a lullaby. I did not recognise the language, but I understood it well enough.

The cabin was quiet. Under the lit signs that said ‘Do not smoke’ and ‘Keep your seatbelt fastened’ nearly everyone was asleep. The baby was sleeping, but its mother went on singing. Just as she needed to reach out and stroke the edge of the crib with her fingers, she needed to reach out with words into the soft shell of his ear. For a moment, I saw an aeroplane full of little children asleep in their adult bodies, under youthful muscle and middle-aged fat, behind beards and breasts. Babies. The long, grey nursery droned into the dark. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and the consoling babble washed through me.

I

I don’t know much about industrial theatre. To tell the truth, I didn’t even know it existed until my friend Natalie invited me to the launch of the new Ford Kafka. In her younger days, Natalie was a cabaret artist, but lately she has made a name for herself on the industrial stage. She thought this particular performance would appeal to me, because I am interested in both reading and motoring.

As a special guest of Natalie, entering through the stage door so to speak, I would not be receiving an official invitation. But she showed me the one she had saved for her portfolio: a key ring with an ignition key and an immobiliser jack dangling from it. It was very much like the real thing, except that the immobiliser was embossed with a K. The details of the launch — venue, time, dress code (‘black tie or traditional’) — were printed on the plastic tag. I learnt afterwards that messengers dressed as racing drivers had delivered the invitations by hand to each of the invited guests. The trend in these things, says Natalie, is towards the extreme. Even the habitués of industrial theatre grow weary of cheese and wine and complimentary gifts, and something out of the ordinary must be proffered to reawaken their appetites. Then the hope is always that these custom-made playthings will lie about on desks and coffee tables long after the event and become talking points.

The invitation-key promised that our reception would be lavish. Yet, in my unsuspecting way, I was surprised by the venue. The Industrial Arena was not a makeshift stage in some factory or warehouse, but a convention centre on the outskirts of the city, just beside the motorway, with its own squash courts, a miniature golf course, and facilities for simultaneous translation. I had to leave my car in a parking lot and take a shuttle bus to the main complex.

The bare concrete façade of the banqueting hall, where I had been conveyed along with several other guests, reminded me again of a factory. But once I had made my way up an angular ramp and passed through some sliding doors, I found myself in a luxurious lobby, with carpets underfoot and chandeliers overhead.

Apparently I was early, for the place was nearly empty (six for six thirty, the invitation said). Near the entrance was a long table laden with glasses and I went hopefully towards it. A waitress handed me a brimming champagne flute. Another woman shook my hand and bade me welcome. A third ushered me towards a desk, where the early arrivals were having their names ticked off on a list, and I joined the end of a short queue.

I felt a flutter of panic when I saw the same black key ring dangling from three different forefingers in the queue ahead of me. What if Natalie had forgotten to notify them about our special arrangement? But there was no need to worry. My name was soon located on the list and my table pointed out to me on a seating plan. I went on into the hall.

All around me table tops floated like pale rafts on a dark sea. In the centre of each was a tower supporting a candle and a number. Here and there, a figure submerged in shadow clung to the edge of a table. I passed between them, repeating my own number to myself under my breath.

My place was in a corner near the emergency exit. It was as far away from the stage, an empty space flanked by loudspeakers and overhung by lights on metal bars, as it was possible to be. A card with my name on it indicated that the seat reserved for me was the worst in the house: if I sat here, I would have my back to the action. I quickly switched my card with that of a Mr Madondo on the opposite side of the table. Though I was now fractionally further away, I would at least enjoy a comfortable view.