David Szalay - London and the South-East

For a while the screen fizzes, then suddenly a picture appears. The first thing he notices is that the lens is not perfectly aligned with the spyhole — a wide band on the left of the screen is just black. The rest of the image shows the surface of the table and Martin’s suited torso, his shirt front and tie; the lower part of his face — and only the lower part — makes occasional appearances. This worries Paul until he sees the moment — some way in — when Martin lowers his whole face into the picture to sniff the punnet of fruit in front of him, thus providing an undeniable positive ID.

The film opens with Andy saying, ‘… at the fruit.’ He has obviously just taken it out and he hands the punnet to Martin. Martin examines it — he seems to eat one or two berries. Then he says, ‘So you use polytunnels, yeah?’ The voices are slightly muffled.

‘Yeah,’ Andy says.

Martin asks some more questions — in answer to which Andy says that the strawberries, Elsantas, will be supplied in 227-gram punnets; that he has a tonne of fruit in total; and that an arranged sale has unfortunately fallen through. It is at the end of this exchange that Martin’s face makes its short appearance on-screen. There is something almost lewd about the expert way in which he sniffs the berries — perhaps it is his fluttering eyes, his slight smile. Then he says, ‘Well.’

‘So,’ Andy says, ‘would you be interested?’

Martin laughs in a way that suggests he thinks his interlocutor is something of an idiot. This is not surprising. From the start, ‘Andrew Smith’ has presented an image of extraordinary innocence and simple-mindedness. Which is perfect, of course — he seems exactly the sort of person who would find themselves forced to offload a tonne of fruit for a painfully low price. And it is only now that Paul sees quite how perfect Andy was for the job. He told him to try not to sound too posh; he does not seem to be trying, and in fact his plummy voice is only enhancing the overall effect. He sounds soft, privileged, unschooled in the painful knocks and upsets of economic self-propulsion. ‘Would I be interested?’ Martin muses. ‘That rather depends, doesn’t it?’

And a few seconds later Andy says, ‘What does it depend on?’

With a forkful of shepherd’s pie poised to enter his mouth, Paul smiles. ‘What do you think?’ Martin says.

‘Money?’ Andy, after a long pause.

‘Got it in one.’

‘All right. So … Um …’

‘How much?’

‘I was thinking …’ Andy says. ‘Two hundred pence a kilo?’

The price is obviously lower than Martin had expected. Suspiciously low. The situation is suddenly tense. Perhaps sensing this, Andy says, ‘I really need to offload this fruit.’ And for the first time he sounds not foolish but insincere.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’ Martin says.

Ignoring the steaming strata of mash and mince on his knees, Paul stares transfixed at the screen. The players have left the script. Nevertheless, what Andy should do — what Paul himself would do, what any salesman would do — is obvious. For a long time Andy says nothing. Judging from the quantity of smoke pouring into the image, he is puffing furiously on a Marlboro Light. Martin makes a dry, disapproving sound.

‘Like what?’ Andy says finally.

Paul laughs out loud. It is not at all what he had in mind; it is impossible to imagine a more fumblingly idiotic line. And yet it is thus a masterstroke — instantly quashing Martin’s suspicion that Andy might be something other than a total imbecile.

‘You tell me,’ Martin says.

‘The thing is,’ Andy says quietly, ‘we’re not … um.’ He seems to be struggling. ‘Oh what is it?’ he wonders aloud.

‘I don’t know,’ Martin says. ‘What?’

‘BNC audited?’

‘Do you mean B R C audited?’

‘Um. Yeah.’

‘Right. Anything else?’

After a minute Andy says, ‘You know the Assured Production Scheme …’

‘You’re not part of it.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Um.’ A pause. ‘We’re just not.’

‘What do you mean, you’re just not ?’ Martin says, very suspiciously.

There is a long silence.

Then Andy says, ‘Some of our pickers haven’t got their work visas yet.’ Watching the scene on television, Paul is sure that this is an attempt to move on to a new subject, not an answer to Martin’s question; Martin, however, seems willing to take it as one. He laughs. ‘Well, no wonder you’re not in the scheme,’ he says.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘So you’re not BRC audited,’ Martin says. ‘You’re not in the APS …’ He is marking the points off on his long fingers. ‘And you’re using illegal immigrants to pick your fruit.’

‘Yah,’ Andy says, hesitantly. And then — ‘Would that be a problem?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Um. Would it be a problem in principle?’

First, Martin simply restates the question. ‘Would it be problem in principle,’ he says. And he sighs. Then he inspects the fruit. This time, though, instead of lowering his face, he lifts the punnet. ‘These are nice fruit,’ he says eventually, having eaten several berries.

‘Yeah, they are,’ Andy eagerly agrees.

‘How much did you say you had?’

‘Um, a tonne. Yah.’

‘And you want two hundred pence a kilo?’

‘Two hundred pence …’

‘So two thousand pounds the tonne.’

‘Um …’

Twice, Martin thrums his fingers on the trompe l’oeil malachite of the tabletop. Though his face is out of shot, the fingers are eloquently expressive of tense vacillation. Then he says, ‘Fifteen hundred.’

Andy sighs stagily. There is the sound of a lighter being lit, and waves of fine blue smoke fall into the picture. ‘What about —’

Martin interrupts him. ‘Take it or leave it. It’s up to you.’

The pause that Andy inserts here is immense. ‘Okay,’ he says finally.

Suddenly, though, Martin seems wary. ‘Have you got a card or something?’

‘A card? Sure.’ Andy hands over one of Watt’s cards. Martin looks at it. Then he says, ‘All right. When can you deliver?’

‘Whenever,’ Andy says. ‘Immediately.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Um. Tomorrow morning?’

Martin laughs. ‘If that’s what you call immediately,’ he says. ‘All right. Deliver tomorrow morning. You know where we are.’

‘Yah.’

‘Fine.’ He slaps his knees and stands up. ‘Well. A pleasure doing business with you, Andrew.’

‘And you.’

‘Not too much of a pleasure, I hope! No, I’m joking. I hope I’ve been able to help you out.’

‘You have.’

A few more pleasantries are exchanged, and then Martin leaves. Andy stands up and walks through the picture to the bar. Only when he returns with a pint does he remember to stop the DVR, and the screen is suddenly void.

Paul watches it once more while he finishes his shepherd’s pie. He wonders whether Martin has since made enquiries about Morlam Garden Fruits — whether he has tried the mobile number on the card, and heard the automated female voice saying that it is not in use; whether he has tried the landline and found it to be a private home in Hastings; whether he has asked directory enquiries for Morlam Garden Fruits, and been told that they have nothing under that name — not in Kent, nor anywhere else in the UK.

He takes a bus to Brighton station and leaves the flight bag in a locker there. With sunlight filtering through the glass roof, he texts Watt to tell him which one. Then he walks down Queen’s Road. He feels unexpectedly melancholy. A sort of emptiness. And it is perhaps for this reason that he spurns the shops of Western Road and walks all the way down to the sea. Success — if this is what it is — seems as sad as failure. Sadder, in a way — without the psychological detritus to moon over, there is only a sad, immaculate sense of transience. He passes the conservatoried entrances of the Grand Hotel and the Hilton Metropole; wind-tousled doormen wait on the steps, and in the still air of glassy restaurants women in white blouses set the tables for lunch. On the other side of the road, the sea and the sky are formed from the same palette of cool blues and greys. What troubles him most, as he walks, is the fact that the fear is still there — fear of the future, fear of loneliness. For a week, he had lost sight of it. So much had happened — he had spoken to Andy on Thursday; on Saturday he had met Watt in Eastbourne; he had spent Saturday night experimenting with the equipment; on Monday morning — it seems a month ago — Andy had turned up. Then the events of the past forty-eight hours … The sea thuds lazily on the tiered pebbles to his left. And now this tiredness, this sense of time passing, this strange mourning sadness, this fear.