Part 7 (1/2)

”And where did you rank before '32?”

”I don't know that. You'll have to ask the boss.”

Then there'd be behemoths: giant cranes on wheels, crane lifts with crane-grab limbs, all skeletal and menacing and huge. We'd carry plaster on our clothes into a Mayfair piano salesroom, then carry the contrasting chimes and tinkles of four types of baby grand still humming in our ears on to a used furniture warehouse. We'd receive faxes on the machine we had in our car and stuff them into the back-seat glove compartment as the driver raced us to another meeting, then forget that we'd received them and have them re-faxed or go back to the same office or the same warehouse again-so the humming in our ears was constant, a cacophony of modems and drilling and arpeggios and perpetually ringing phones. The hum, the meetings, the arrivals and departures turned into a state of mind-one that enveloped us within the project, drove us forwards, onwards, back again. I've never felt so motivated in my life. Naz understood this, I think now, and cultivated a degree of chaos to keep everybody involved on their toes, fired up, motivated. A genius, if ever there was one.

Not that motivation was otherwise lacking: the people we'd hired were being paid vast amounts of money. What was lacking, if anything, was comprehension: making them understand exactly what it was that was required of them. And making them understand at the same time how little they needed to understand. I didn't need to make them share my vision, and I didn't want them to. Why should they? It was my vision, and I was the one with the money. They just had to know what to do. This wasn't easy, though-making them understand what to do. They were all London's premiers: the best plumbers, plasterers, pine outfitters and so on. They wanted to do a really good job and found it hard to get their heads round the proposition that the normal criteria for that didn't apply in this case.

The thickest groups by far were actors and interior designers. Morons, both. To audition the actors we hired the Soho Studio Theatre for a couple of days after placing an ad in the trade press. It read:

Performers required to be constantly on call in London building over indefinite period. Duties will include repeated re-enactment of certain daily events. Excellent remuneration. Contact Nazrul Ram Vyas on etc. etc.

Naz and I arrived on the first day to find a big crowd in the lobby. We'd got our driver to drop us off round the corner from the theatre rather than right outside, so as not to make an ostentatious entrance: that way, we figured, we'd be able to walk round the lobby incognito for a while, sizing people up.

”That one looks worth auditioning for the motorbike enthusiast,” I mumbled to Naz.

”The one in the jacket?” he mumbled back.

”No, but he looks worth auditioning too, now you mention it. And that frumpy woman over there: a possible concierge, I think.”

”What about the others?” Naz asked, still mumbling.

”We'll need extras too: all the anonymous, vague neighbours. Those two black guys look vaguely familiar.”

”Which ones?”

”Those two,” I told him, pointing-and right then they all started clicking, wising up. A heavy silence fell across the lobby; everybody glanced at us, then turned away and started pretending to talk again, but in reality they were still glancing at us. One guy came right up to us, held his hand out and said: ”h.e.l.lo there! My name's James. I'm really looking forward to this enterprise. You see, I need to fund my studies at RADA, where I've been given a place. Now I've prepared...”

”What's RADA?” I said.

”It's the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. I auditioned, and the tutor told my local authority that I was gifted-his words, not mine.” At this point in his spiel James held his hand up to his chin in an exaggerated manner, and I could tell he'd practised the gesture in the same way as the gay clubbers I'd watched several weeks ago had practised theirs. ”But,” he went on, ”they wouldn't give me a grant. So I welcome this whole enterprise. I think it will help me expand. Learn things. My name's James.”

He still had his hand out. I turned to Naz.

”Can you get rid of half these people?” I asked him. ”And give audition slots to the ones I pointed out-and to any others you think might be right. I'm going to get a coffee.”

I went to the very place I'd sat in when I'd watched the clubbers, media types, tourists and homeless people, the Seattle-theme coffee shop just like the one at Heathrow: it was just round the corner from the theatre. I asked for a cappuccino.

”Heyy!” the girl said. It was still a girl, but it was a different girl this time. ”Short cap coming up! You have a...”

”Ah yes!” I said, sliding it out. ”Absolutely I do! And it's edging home.”

”I'm sorry?” she asked.

”Eight cups stamped,” I told her. ”Look.”

She looked. ”You're right,” she said, impressed. She stamped the ninth cup as she handed me my coffee. ”One more and you get a free drink of your choice.”

”Plus a new card!” I said.

”Of course. We'll give you a new card as well.”

I took my cappuccino over to the same window seat I'd had the last time and sat there looking out onto the intersection of Frith Street and Old Compton Street. There was a homeless person there, but it wasn't my one. The new one didn't have a dog-but he did have friends who sallied over to him from their base up the street just like my homeless person's friends had; but then these didn't seem like the same people either. The sleeping bag that the new guy had wrapped around him seemed identical to my one's sleeping bag, though. So did his sweat top.

I'd forgotten about the loyalty-card business. Now I'd been reminded I was really excited by it. I was so close! I gulped my cappuccino down, then strode back to the counter with the card.

”Another cappuccino,” I told the girl.

”Heyy!” she answered. ”Short cap coming up. You have a...”

”Of course!” I said. ”I was just here!”

”Oh yes!” she said. ”Sorry! I'm a zombie! Here, let me...”

She stamped the tenth cup on my card, then said: ”So: you can choose a free drink.”

”Cool,” I said. ”I'll have another cappuccino.”

”On top of your cap, I mean.”

”I know,” I said. ”I'll have another one as well.”

She shrugged, turned round and made me a new one. She pulled out a new card, stamped the first cup on it and handed it to me with my two coffees.

”Back to the beginning,” I said. ”Through the zero.”

”Sorry?” she asked.

”New card: good,” I told her.

”Yes,” she said. She looked kind of depressed.

I took my two new coffees back to my seat by the window. I set them side by side and took alternate sips from each, like Catherine had with her drinks in the Dogstar, oscillating between pre-clock and post-clock cups. This was a good day, I decided. I finished my coffees and went back up to the Soho Studio Theatre.

The first person Naz and I saw was the second man I'd picked out as a possible for the motorbike enthusiast. He looked about right: early to mid twenties, brown hair, fairly handsome. He'd prepared a pa.s.sage to perform for us: some piece of modern theatre by Samuel Beckett.

”We don't want to hear that,” I said. ”We just want to chat for a while, fill you in on what you'll need to do.”

”Okay,” he said. ”Shall I sit here, or stand, or?...”

”Whatever,” I said. ”What we're looking for is this: you'd need to be a motorbike enthusiast. You'd have to be available on a full-time basis-a live-in full-time basis-to occupy a flat on the first floor of an apartment building. You'd need to spend a lot of time out in the building's courtyard tinkering with a motorbike.”

”Tinkering?” he asked me.

”Fixing it,” I said.

”What do I do once it's fixed?”

”You take it apart again. Then fix it back.”