William Boyd - The Destiny of Nathalie X

The name was the problem, he saw. The problem lay there, definitely. Because … Because if you were not happy with your name, he realized, then a small but sustained lifelong stress was imposed on your psyche, your sense of self. It was like being condemned to wear too small shoes all the time; you could still get about but there would always be a pinching, a corn or two aching, something unnaturally hobbled about your gait.

Wesley Bright. Wesley. Bright.

The trouble with his name was that it wasn’t quite stupid enough — he was not a Wesley Bilderbeest or a Wesley Bugger; in fact it was almost a good name. If he had been Wesley Blade, say, or Wesley Beauregard he would have no complaints.

“Wesley?”

Janice passed him the docket. He clicked the switch on the mike.

“Four-seven? Four-seven?”

Silence. Just the permanent death rattle of the ether.

Four-seven answered. “Four-seven.”

“Parcel, four-seven. Pick up at Track-Track. Going to Heathrow, as directed.”

“Account?”

Wesley sighed. “Yes, four-seven. We do not do cash.”

“Oh yeah. Roger, Rog.”

He could always change his name, he supposed. Roger, perhaps. Roger Bright. Wesley Roger … No. There was that option, though: choose a new moniker, a new handle. But he wondered about that too: hard to shake off an old name, he would guess. It was the way you thought of yourself, after all, your tag on the pigeonhole. And when you were young, you never thought your name was odd — it was a source of dissatisfaction that came with aging, a realization that one didn’t really like being a “Wesley Bright” sort of person at all. In his case it had started at college, this chafing, this discomfort. He wondered about these fellows, actors and rock musicians, who called themselves Tsar, or Zane Zorro or DJ Sofaman … He was sure that, to themselves, they were always Norman Sidcup or Wilbur Dongdorfer in their private moments.

Colonel Liceu “o Falção” Lobo opened his eyes and he saw that the sun had risen sharp and green through the leafmass outside his bedroom. He shifted and stretched and felt the warm flank of Nilda brush his thigh. He eased himself out of bed and stood naked in the greenbright gloom. He freed his sweaty balls, tugging delicately at his scrotum. He rubbed his face and chest, inhaled, walked quietly out onto the balcony and felt the cool morning on his nakedness. He stood there, the wooden planks rough beneath his bare feet, and leaned on the balustrade looking at the beaten-earth parade ground his battalion had spent two weeks clearing out of the virgin jungle. There was nothing like a new parade ground, Colonel Liceu Lobo thought, with a thin smile of satisfaction, to signal you were here to stay.

He saw Sergeant Elias Galvão emerge from the latrines and amble across the square toward the battalion mess, tightening his belt as he went. A good man, Galvão, a professional, up this early too. “Morning, Sergeant,” Colonel Licen Lobo called from his balcony. Sergeant Elias Galvão came abruptly to attention, swiveled to face his naked colonel and saluted.

“Carry on,” Colonel Liceu Lobo instructed. Not a flicker on his impassive face, excellent. Sergeant Galvão’s lieutenant’s pips could not be long away.

“Liceu?” Nilda’s husky sleepy voice came from the bedroom. “Where are you?” The colonel felt his manhood stir, as if of its own accord. Yes, he thought, there were some compensations to be had from a provincial command.

Wesley, trying not to inhale, walked with his business partner, Gerald Brockway, co-owner of B.B. Radio Cars, through the humid fug of the “bullpen” toward the front door. There were three drivers there waiting for jobs and naturally they were talking about cars.

“How’s the Carlton, Tone,” Gerald asked.

“Magic.”

“Brilliant.”

“Cheers.”

Outside, Wesley opened the passenger door of his Rover for Gerald.

“You happy with this?” Gerald asked. “I thought you wanted an Orion.”

“It’s fine,” Wesley said.

“Noël got five grand for his Granada.”

“Really?”

“They hold their value, the old ones. Amazing. Years later. It’s well rubbish what they did, restyling like that.”

Wesley couldn’t think of what to say. He thought a shrill ringing had started in his inner ear. Tinnitus. He lived in constant fear of tinnitus.

“Change for the sake of change,” Gerald said, slowly, sadly, shaking his head.

Wesley started the engine and pulled away.

“Look at Saab.”

“Sorry?”

“They’ve had to bring back the 900. You can’t give away a 9000.”

“Can we talk about something else, Ger?”

Gerald looked at him. “You all right?”

“Of course. Just, you know.”

“No prob, my son. Where are we going to eat?”

“Everyone has heard of samba and bossa nova, sure,” Wesley said. “But this is another type of music called chorinho —not many people know about it. Love it. Play it all the time. I can lend you some CDs.”

“I’d like to give him a break, Wes. But something in me says fire the bastard. Why should we help him, Wes? Why? Big error. ‘No good deed goes unpunished,’ that’s my personal philosophy. Is there any way we can turn this down? What the hell is it?”

“Chorinho.”

“You cannot diddle major account customers. Two hours’ waiting time? I mean, what does he take us for? Couple of merchant bankers?”

“It means ‘little cry.’ ”

“What is this stuff, Wesley? You got any English music?”

Wesley watched Gerald mash his egg mayonnaise into a creamy pulp. He dribbled thin streams of olive oil and vinegar onto the mixture, which he stirred, and then freely sprinkled on pepper and salt.

“That’s disgusting,” Wesley said. “How am I meant to eat this?” He pointed his knife at his steak.

“I haven’t had a steak for two years. You should have my teeth problems, Wesley. You should feel sorry for me, mate.”

“I do feel sorry for you. I’d feel more sorry for you if you’d been to a dentist. You can be helped, you know. You don’t have to suffer. A man of your age. Jesus.”

Gerald ate some of his mixture. Wesley looked around for a waitress and saw Elizabetta, the plump one. She came over, beaming.

“Pint of lager, please. Ger?”

“Large gin and tonic.”

Wesley lowered his voice. “Is, um, Margarita in today?” he asked Elizabetta.

“This afternoon she come.”

He shifted his shoulders around. Gerald was not listening. “Tell her I’ll phone. Say Wesley will phone. Wesley.”

“Wesley. OK.”

Gerald pulped his apple crumble with the back of his spoon.

“Nice little place this, Wes. Worth the drive. What is it, Italian?”

“Sort of. Bit of everything.”

“ ‘International cuisine,’ then.”

Wesley looked around the Caravelle. There was no nautical theme visible in its pragmatic decor, unless you counted the one seascape among its five reproductions on the wall. He and Gerald sat in a row of booths reminiscent more of — what was the word? Seating arrangements in libraries … — carrels, yes. Maybe the name was a malapropism, he thought. An asparagus on the banks of the Nile. Someone had blundered: it should have been called the Carrel Café & Restaurant. Names, again … He stopped thinking about it and thought instead about Margarita.

Mar-ga-ri-ta. Not Margaret.

He rolled the “r”s. Marrrrgarrrita.

She was dark, of course, very Latin, with a severe thin face that possessed, he thought, what you might call a strong beauty. Not pretty, exactly, but there was a look about her that attracted him, although, he realized, she was one of these southern European women who would not age well. But now she was young and slim and her hair was long and, most important of all, she was Portuguese. Uma moça bonita .