East of Desolation

‘You mean up here around Disko?’

‘No, I mean on the coast generally.’

‘That all depends.’ I shrugged. ‘Conditions fluctuate from year to year, but on the whole you’re clear till the end of September.’

He seemed genuinely astonished. ‘But that would give me another six or seven weeks. You’re sure about that?’

‘I should be – this is my third summer remember. August and September are the best months of the season. Highest mean temperatures, least problem with pack ice and so on.’

‘Well that’s great,’ he said. ‘Milt thinks they should be ready to go by the end of September.’

‘Which means you can hang on here and keep your creditors at bay till then,’ I said.

‘They’ll sing a different tune when I’m working and the shekels start pouring in again.’ He seemed to have recovered all his old spirits and went behind the bar and poured himself another drink. ‘You flying back tonight, Joe?’

I nodded. ‘No choice, I’ve got two charter trips arranged for tomorrow already and there could be more when I get back.’

‘That’s too bad. You’ll stay over for dinner?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Good – I’ll settle up with you first, then I’ll take a shower and change. How much is it this time?’

‘Seven-fifty including the supplies.’

He opened a small safe that stood under the bar and took out a plain black cash box. It was one of the strange and rather puzzling things about him, this insistence on paying cash on the barrel for everything. His financial position may have been pretty rotten everywhere else in the world, but on the Greenland coast he didn’t owe a cent. He opened the box, took out a wad of notes that obviously contained several thousand dollars and peeled off eight hundred dollar bills.

‘That should take care of it.’

I fitted the notes into my wallet carefully and Desforge replaced the cash box in the safe. As he locked the steel door and straightened up again, Ilana Eytan came into the saloon.

I saw her first in the mirror behind the bar framed in the doorway and anywhere in the world from Cannes to Beverly Hills she would have had the heads turning.

She was wearing a slip of a dress in gold thread with tambour beading that must have set someone back a hundred guineas at least. The hemline was a good six inches above the knee, just right for swinging London that year and the black, shoulder-length hair contrasted superbly with the whole ensemble. Perhaps it was something to do with her smallness in spite of the gold high-heeled shoes, but she carried herself with a kind of superb arrogance that seemed to say: Take me or leave me – I couldn’t care less. I don’t think I’ve ever met any woman who looked more capable of taking on the whole world if needs be.

Desforge went to meet her, arms outstretched. ‘What an entrance. I don’t know where you got it, but that dress is a stroke of genius. You look like some great king’s whore.’

She smiled faintly. ‘That wasn’t exactly the intention, but it will do for a start. What about the letter – good news? Milt didn’t tell me much when I saw him.’

‘More delays I’m afraid.’ Desforge shrugged. ‘You should know the movie business by now. Milt thinks we’ll be ready to go by the end of next month.’

‘And what are you going to do till then?’

‘I might as well stay on here. It’s the perfect solution under the circumstances and I’m having far too good a time to want to leave just yet.’ He turned and grinned at me. ‘Isn’t that a fact, Joe?’

‘Oh, he’s having a ball all right,’ I assured her. ‘The only question is will he survive till the end of September.’

Desforge chuckled. ‘Don’t take any notice of Joe, angel. He’s just a natural born pessimist. Give him a drink while I have a shower then we’ll have something to eat.’

The door closed behind him and she turned to look at me calmly, hand on hip, the scrap of dress outlining her body so perfectly that she might as well have had nothing on.

‘You heard what the man said. Name your poison.’

I helped myself to a cigarette from a box on the bar. ‘Jack’s memory gets worse almost day-by-day. He knows perfectly well that I never use the stuff.’

‘That’s a dent in the image for a start,’ she said and went behind the bar. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’

I shook my head. ‘With a dress like that around I need a clear head.’

‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘A statement of fact. On the other hand I’ve no objection to keeping you company with a stiff tomato juice.’

‘Well laced with Worcestershire Sauce?’ I nodded.

‘We aim to please. Coming right up.’

There was an elaborate stereo record player in one corner and I moved across and selected a couple of old Sinatra LPs, mostly Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hart material, with one or two standards thrown in for good measure.

The maestro started to give out with ‘All the things you are’ and I turned and went back to the bar. My tomato juice was waiting for me in a tall glass. It was ice-cold, obviously straight from the fridge and tasted fine. I swallowed half and she toasted me with an empty glass, picked up the bottle of vodka that stood at her elbow and poured some in. She added a scoop of crushed ice, something close to amusement in her eyes.

‘The perfect drink. Tasteless, odourless, the same results as a shot in the arm and no headache in the morning.’

I think I knew then what she had done and a moment later a sudden terrible spasm in the pit of my stomach confirmed it. I dropped the glass and clutched at the bar and her face seemed to crack wide open, the eyes widening in alarm.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

The taste started to rise into my mouth, foul as sewer water and I turned and ran for the door. I slipped and stumbled half-way up the companionway and was aware of her calling my name and then I was out into the cool evening air. I just managed to make the rail when the final nausea hit me and I dropped to my knees and was violently sick.

I hung there against the rail for a while, retching spasmodically, nothing left to come and finally managed to get some kind of control. When I got to my feet and turned she was standing a yard or two away looking strangely helpless, her face white, frightened.

‘What did you put into the tomato juice – vodka?’ I said wearily.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

‘What was I supposed to do, make a pass at you on one vodka?’ I found a handkerchief, wiped my mouth and tossed it over the rail. ‘Something I omitted from the story of my life was the fact that I was once an alcoholic. That was as good a reason for my wife leaving me as all the romantic ones I gave you at Argamask. After I crawled back out of nowhere for the third time, she’d had enough. Her parting gift was to book me into a clinic that specialises in people like me. They did a very thorough job of aversion therapy with the aid of a couple of drugs called apomorphine and antabus. Just a taste of any kind of liquor these days and my guts turn inside out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ll never know how much.’

‘That’s all right, Myra,’ I said. ‘You weren’t to know. Part of that fantasy life of mine that we were discussing earlier today and I’m stuck with it. I suppose we all have things we don’t care to discuss in mixed company.’

She had gone very still from the moment that I had used her real name and suddenly I felt bitterly angry and sorry for her, both at the same time.

I grabbed her by the arms and shook her furiously. ‘You stupid little bitch – just what are you trying to prove?’

She struck out at me and wrenched herself free with a strength that was surprising. I staggered back, almost missing my footing and she turned and disappeared down the companionway. There was a murmur of voices and a moment later, Desforge appeared.

‘What in the hell is going on here?’