Jonathan Coe - Number 11

‘These people had nothing, that’s the amazing thing,’ she said to Frederick, as she continued to pore over the museum’s hefty illustrated catalogue on the plane back to London. The reproductions of the artwork were mere distant echoes of the originals, but Rachel found herself fascinated, anyway, not by the illustrations but by the life stories of the different artists. She read of Fernando Nannetti, an electrician from Rome who suffered from lifelong hallucinations and persecution mania, but produced an enormous handwritten oeuvre carved into the walls of his psychiatric institution; of Joseph Giavarini, the ‘Prisoner of Basel’, who shot his mistress dead, and then, in prison, spent his time fashioning beautiful statuettes out of chewed bread, the only material available to him; of Marguerite Sir, a farmer’s daughter from south-eastern France who fell victim to schizophrenia, became convinced at the age of sixty-five that she was an eighteen-year-old girl about to marry, and spent the rest of her life creating and embroidering a magnificent bridal dress for the wedding that would never take place; of Clément Fraisse, who, at the age of twenty-four, after attempting to set fire to his parents’ farm using a packet of flaming bank notes representing the family savings, was sent to an asylum where for one year he lived in a cell measuring six feet by nine, the whole of which he decorated in carvings of incredible craftsmanship and detail. Turning the pages, Rachel read one story after another of this sort: unimaginable cases of confinement without end, illness without hope. ‘They had nothing, and yet they produced this astonishing work. They created. They gave . They gave these beautiful objects back to the society which had taken everything away from them.’

Freddie grunted. He was only half listening. The Sunday Times business pages were absorbing most of his attention. Everything about his posture, his indifference, his arrogance suddenly struck Rachel and ignited in her a flame of indignation.

‘Bit of a contrast,’ she said, ‘to some people I could mention. The sort of people who’ve got everything but never give anything back at all.’

‘Spare me the moralizing,’ said Freddie wearily, putting the newspaper down at last. ‘For your information, Sir Gilbert — if that’s who you’re talking about — has already created more jobs than most people will create in a lifetime. He employs people, he pays wages, he spends his money in hotels and restaurants and car showrooms. Everybody benefits from that. Everybody.’

‘Really?’ said Rachel. ‘And yet he hardly pays any taxes. Thanks to you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, I’m beginning to get a pretty good idea. You follow them around the world, giving them bits of paper to sign — a trust fund here, an offshore account there. Moving their money around to places where the tax people can’t get near it. Madiana probably has non-dom status, doesn’t she? What’s the betting most of Gilbert’s companies are in her name? What’s the betting he declares about the same level of income as a nurse?’

‘Everything we do,’ said Freddie, ‘is perfectly within the law.’

‘Well, one of these days the law might change.’

‘Why would that happen?’

‘Because people are getting fed up.’

‘So the revolution’s on its way, is it? “The people” are getting ready to man the barricades and dust down the guillotines? I don’t think so. Give them enough ready meals and nights in front of the TV watching celebrities being humiliated in the jungle and they won’t even want to leave their sofas. No, the law on this won’t be changing any time soon. As it happens I attended a reception at Number 11 just the other day and had a long conversation with the Chancellor, and he very much has … other priorities, I would say.’

‘You know each other, do you?’

‘Family ties. Our fathers were at prep school together.’

Rachel raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh my God. This country really hasn’t changed at all in the last hundred years, has it?’

‘That’s because the current system works perfectly well.’

‘Nobody minds the rich being rich,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s just that there has to come a point where enough is enough.’

Freddie laughed.

‘I mean, why do they need a basement that’s eleven storeys deep? Why did they need to fly me out to Switzerland when we could just as easily have done that homework tonight at home?’

‘One of the things I like about you, Rachel,’ Freddie said, ‘is your modesty. I don’t think you realize what an asset you are to this family. Madiana flew you out to Lausanne so she could show Pascale — who is one of the wealthiest as well as one of the snobbiest people in Switzerland — that her daughters have a private tutor who will come running at the click of a finger. You should have heard her at lunch — she never stopped talking about you. “Oh yes, she studied Latin at Oxford University.” “Of course she graduated with first-class honours.”’

‘There’s no such thing as a degree in Latin,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘I did English. And I got a 2.1.’

‘Well, good for you,’ said Freddie. ‘I think that’s jolly impressive. Have a glass of champagne to celebrate.’

But Rachel would not let the subject go. ‘The poorest half of the world has the same amount of money as the richest eighty-five people. Did you know that?’

‘Of course I did,’ he said, sounding impatient now. ‘It was in all the papers a few months ago. It’s a meaningless statistic.’

‘Meaningless? Doesn’t it make you think?’

‘It makes me think the poorest half of the world should get their act together.’

‘Really?’ Rachel stared at him, looking for traces of irony, reluctant to believe that he could actually mean what he was saying. She was forced to conclude that he did. ‘I’ll never understand you, or people like you. What … gives you pleasure, exactly? What do you live for?’

‘I’ll tell you what turns me on,’ said Freddie, although this wasn’t quite the question he’d been asked. ‘Youthful outpourings of political naivety. I find those incredibly exciting. In fact the only thing that’s more exciting is when they’re delivered in a Yorkshire accent.’ He looked around, and gestured with his eyes towards the toilet at the rear of the cabin. ‘Come on, this is our chance to join the mile-high club. On a private jet! When are you going to have an opportunity like this again?’

Rachel reminded him that there were children on board, and to emphasize the fact, she spent the rest of the flight sitting with them.

*

The Mercedes was waiting for them again at Battersea helipad, but, unusually, Faustina was there too, sitting in the car with her husband. On the drive home, she placed herself between the girls on the back seat, with Rachel in the front. Freddie took a taxi home. Faustina kept both arms around the girls and hugged them tightly. Neither she nor Jules talked very much. The atmosphere was tense, uneasy.

‘Is something wrong?’ Rachel asked, when they reached the house. Faustina took the twins straight up the front steps, almost pushing them along. Rachel and Jules took their usual route around to the back.

‘I’ll show you.’

Instead of using the staff door that opened onto the little kitchen, he led Rachel up the steps and into the garden. It was filled with builders’ junk, as always, and there were illuminated warning barriers fencing off the massive pit at its centre.

Jules took Rachel right to the eastern wall and then pointed at something on the ground. It was a scrap of tarpaulin, covering what appeared to be some sort of animal shape.