Michael Frayn - Skios

“You certainly don’t,” said Oliver, as he put the passport back into his shirt pocket. “He’s Mr. Vassilis Papadopoulou.”

“Exactly. And he’s invited a number of his business associates. So you can see why they might all need a little extra security.”

Oliver laughed. Koffler Schnoffler. Papadopoulou Schnapadopoulou. And he was still on the tightrope!

* * *

At the sight of Dr. Wilfred emerging from the baggage hall the solitary driver still waiting raised his little placard. , it said, SKIOS TAXI.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said Dr. Wilfred. “Someone took my bag.”

“No problem,” said Skios Taxi. “Fox Oliver?”

“What?”

“Fox Oliver?”

Phoksoliva? Dr. Wilfred was too tired to start struggling with a strange language at this time of night. Surely they could have found someone to meet him who spoke English! And who was a little more personable than this. Skios Taxi’s belly hung over the top of his trousers. His bald head was gleaming with sweat. He had a black wart like a fly on the end of his nose. Dr. Wilfred found him quite disrespectfully unprepossessing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you would be kind enough simply to take me where I’m going.”

The man didn’t move.

“You Fox Oliver?” he said.

Dr. Wilfred make a great effort to accommodate him. Euphoksoliva … The first syllable was familiar, anyway. Good something, as in “euphemism” or “euphoria.” “Good day,” perhaps. “Good evening.” Except it sounded like a question. “Good flight?” perhaps.

“No,” he said.

“No?” said Skios Taxi.

“No. Someone took my bag.”

Skios Taxi gazed at him. “ Eunophoksoliva? ” he said.

Dr. Wilfred surprised himself by how patient and polite he managed to remain.

“I’m extremely sorry,” he said. “I have had a very bad day, which has culminated in discovering that my suitcase has been taken by someone else. So, until they find it and send it on to me, I have no clean clothes, no pajamas, not even a toothbrush. And tomorrow I have to give a rather important lecture. Here, look. Lecture, yes? Lecture! So I think that what I should now like most to do is simply to get to my destination and go to bed and have a good night’s sleep and hope that when I wake up everything will seem a little less horrible than it does just at the moment. All right? Am I making myself clear?”

“No problem.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“So — Fox Oliver?”

Dr. Wilfred gave in.

“All right,” he said. “ Phoksoliva . Certainly. Phoksoliva . Why not? Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva, Phoksoliva !”

Skios Taxi smiled and held out his hand.

“Spiros,” he said. “OK. No problem. You got a bag?”

“No,” said Dr. Wilfred. “I have not got a bag. Someone has taken my bag. And before you say ‘No problem’ again, please don’t, because there is a problem, and the problem is that I don’t have my bag !”

Spiros made a calming gesture and ushered Dr. Wilfred towards the car park.

“No problem,” he said.

“You’re not allergic to lilies, are you?” said Nikki as she moved about Parmenides, turning on lights and putting Oliver’s bag on the rack. “Though I did already check with your PA person, because of the onions. I’ll close the windows, though I don’t think we’ve got any mosquitoes here.”

She stood looking round the room for any imperfections she had missed, and glanced at her watch.

“Supper in the taverna? Or shall I ask the kitchens to send something up?”

He shook his head and stood looking at her. She continued looking round the room.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”

Still she lingered, though.

“You can just shut yourself away here and work if you want to … Of course, we hope you’ll mingle … Or swim, or just sit somewhere … We like to think that the keynote here is civilization. Civilized conversation in civilized surroundings … I think you’ll find most of the people here pretty receptive. Though not, of course, specialists…”

She adjusted a cushion on the sofa.

“You’re having lunch with Mrs. Fred Toppler tomorrow, as you know. She likes to talk. I should just let her…”

She readjusted the cushion.

“And then of course there’s your lecture. In the morning I’ll show you where you’ll be speaking. We can discuss all your requirements then. Just phone me if there’s anything you need in the meanwhile. I’ve put my card on the desk. Or you can find me very easily. I’m in Democritus. Straight along the path and first on the left. The veranda on the right. There’s champagne in the fridge, by the way.”

And she had gone. She had left clear enough directions, though. Champagne. Then straight along the path, first left, and …

She had come back.

“Not the veranda on the left! That’s Mrs. Toppler’s part of the house!”

This time she really had gone. Oliver looked at himself in the mirror. The man in the mirror laughed. “So,” he said to Oliver, “you’re at a foundation. And you’re giving a lecture. I wonder what it’s about.”

“Don’t worry,” said Oliver to the man in the mirror, “we’ll both find out when I give it. If by any chance we ever get that far.”

First things first, though, since the lecture was tomorrow and tonight was tonight, and might never become tomorrow. Have a bath, put on a clean shirt, take the champagne out of the refrigerator, and then — Democritus. The veranda on the right.

* * *

The swaying of the taxi on the bends in the dark and the thumping over the potholes suddenly ceased. After a moment the unaccustomed stillness and quietness penetrated Dr. Wilfred’s consciousness and he opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. He had a feeling it was Malaysia, or Costa Rica. There was nothing to be seen but the narrow tunnel of bushes and unmade-up road created by the headlights, and the back of a head silhouetted against it.

“Thirty-two euros,” said the head.

Oh, yes. The taxi. No bag. Phoksoliva . Skios … Dr. Wilfred opened the car door and struggled stiffly out into the blackness. He felt automatically for his wallet and then stopped. Thirty-two euros? But all expenses were paid! All expenses were always paid! Before he could protest, though, he realized that his getting out of the taxi had changed everything. The night had been transfigured. He turned round. A fairy palace of light had come magically into being. Olive trees with delicate silver undersides. Wavering reflections on ancient stone walls. A flickering of bats. At the same moment, now he no longer needed it, the name of the establishment that all this was part of lit up inside his head: the Fred Toppler Foundation. Of course. For a moment he just stood and gazed. The foundation’s reputation for its treatment of visiting speakers was more than justified; never in all his travels had he ever come across guest quarters quite like these. His own swing-seat … and parallel bars … and weather station … Around the side of the house he could just see what appeared to be his own pool … It all looked like a tastefully converted and very expensive holiday let.

He gave Spiros forty euros and waved the change aside. As the occupier of premises like these he could scarcely do less.

“Have a good evening,” said Spiros.

“Even without my bag,” said Dr. Wilfred genially.

“No worries. They find it. I bring it.”