Lilian

2

2

In the evening at the hotel, Turner filled the bathtub with hot water and brought a bottle of whiskey to the bathroom. Sitting in the tub, as the bubbles disappeared, he was listening to their faint, silky bursts. Taking a sip of whiskey now and then, he contemplated his life and the unusual meeting with the stranger who—he had to admit—intrigued him with his weird offer.

They had landed in Tokyo three days ago, and his jet lag had passed yesterday. When he was younger, he had taken it well but in the past few years he had become increasingly sulky after long flights. He did not want to blame everything on his age but could not deny that slowly but surely, he was getting older. Aging is a vile process, going unnoticed from day to day, then suddenly hitting you with, “Hey, buddy, time is passing, if you haven’t noticed.” For example, when an old photo surfaces and you notice in astonishment how much you have changed. Or when you realise that a hangover lasts for a day, whilst some time ago you were on your feet by noon.

The previous night, he and Brody had gone into the city to see the sights. They had lunch, stopped at a few places and had a few glasses. Turner noted early on and maintained the opinion that they make a fine whiskey in Japan, but what’s the point if you can have bourbon or Irish. Anyway, when it comes to that he enjoys all of them. As George Bernard Shaw put it, “Whiskey is liquid sunshine.”

The evening city tour quickly turned into bar hopping, and they ended up in a nightclub, as usual. Brody was a family man but in these cases he let himself unwind and let Thai, Japanese, and Black girls sit in his lap and pour whiskey down his throat. But he never went further than this. Turner considered Brody a decent man. He worked a lot for him. They spent almost all of their time together, but they weren’t friends. Brody did everything for his boss to feel as if they were close to being friends, but a certain level of respect had to be maintained. He was good at keeping the balance between being an employee and a friend.

Deep inside, Turner knew that Brody condemned his lifestyle. Brody was an old-school guy: wife, family, work, children, retirement—unlike him, the adventurous type until his last breath.

However, Turner has changed a lot in this respect. Long ago, he brought the girls up to his hotel room in pairs and poured champagne on them as they were stripping. He was adored in places like that because he was handsome and spent money hand over fist. If anyone asked Brody, he would say that Turner had always enjoyed himself and had the time of his life. He did not care about anything except for the pursuit of pleasure as if there were no tomorrow.

In the past few years, however, he had slowed down. He was not so entertained by the nights out anymore. Of course, he was glad to have girls, but a drink and their company was enough. He did not desire more.

Now, sitting in the tub, Turner looked back at the past few years, and realised that the notion of growing old was closing in on him more and more often. Of course, when looking into the mirror in the morning he saw himself getting older. Though he often was able to overlook his deepening wrinkles, he did notice them from time to time.

He never doubted that he had made good decisions, not in the past, and not now. He would be fifty in a few months and had already achieved more than he ever desired: wealth, connections with important people, and endless freedom. This is the world we live in, and he had made the best of it. Perhaps he had achieved his goals too soon because what was left to do? Where now, Roberto? He had tried to suppress the question in his mind, so far with success, because he always found some novelty to try out, or a goal to reach. However, in the past two or three years, he had begun to stagnate into self-repetition. Was he burned out, as he was once told by his seniors he would be? Once the music is over, the band will stop playing and then comes the piercing silence and the seemingly eternal loneliness.

Turner never believed in that. There was always something to do, he thought, especially if you had the money. But for some reason his heart told him otherwise.

He took a sip of whiskey and winced because the ice had melted, and his drink was almost lukewarm. Turning to reach for the ice, he realised that his bathwater had cooled down. With a sigh, he opened the tap, threw two new ice cubes into his glass, and poured a little whiskey on them. He shook the glass in a circular motion and took another sip. This time, the whiskey was cold, and the water was warm again. Everything was in harmony again. Only a cigarette was missing to complete the picture, but it was too far away. Besides, smoking inside is forbidden anyway, so he decided against it, and instead imagined himself standing on the balcony in a bathrobe, staring at the stunning brilliance of nocturnal Tokyo and smoking.

Turner circled back to his thoughts. He continued to believe that there was nothing wrong with his life, but he also had to admit to himself that a change in lifestyle was necessary. Before it’s too late.

The man I met today knows me, he kept thinking. He was also well aware that I am after adventure. I have met many swindlers so far, and plenty of canny businessmen, but every bone in my body is telling me that Olivier was telling the truth, and he does have something exceptional, but what could it be? Children? s*x slaves? Can’t be! I could not care less about these things. At any rate, these are not even out of the ordinary. Anyone can acquire such services in several countries. Some kind of extraordinary drug? Not likely. Manhunt? Or murder with impunity? Perhaps, but in that case I would refuse the offer, and it wouldn’t be surprising anyway. Space travel? That, he could he have told me in the street. So, what could he offer? Turner knew he would not be able to figure it out, and this is what made it so exciting. The fog that lets you see shapes and blurred outlines. The curtain and the top prize behind it. You don’t know what it is, but you do have a feeling that it will make quite a bang.

He decided to listen to his instincts and not question the intentions of the salesman. If this is indeed a con, then it will be a good lesson. He swallowed the rest of the whiskey in a gulp and climbed out of the tub. After drying himself with a towel, he put on the dark blue hotel bathrobe. He stepped out onto the balcony and was able to light a cigarette at last.

After the cigarette, he went inside, sat down on the bed, took out the business card and stared at it for a long time. It was a nice card. “If you steal, you should steal big time,” was a phrase regularly used by his bank manager friend. Well. We will see. Although it was past midnight, he dialled the number. Olivier picked up after the second ring. He did not sound tired or as if he had been wakened by the call. He was waiting for the call.

“This is Rolland Olivier.”

“Robert Turner here.”

“Good evening, Mr. Turner!” he said, with a subtle, restrained pleasure in his voice. It was the middle of the night after all. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to hear your offer,” said Turner.

“I’m glad to hear it. You won’t regret it. There is a coffee bar a block from your hotel, called Ashita. How about 8:00 a.m. tomorrow?”

The coffee bar was a public place, a perfect spot for a conversation intended to earn someone’s trust. Turner did not attribute much significance to the fact that Olivier knew his hotel address, although it was known only by five people in the world, and even they had known it for less than a week. That he might have been followed was a somewhat disconcerting thought. It was more likely that they bribed someone for the information. If they went to so much trouble, then the mysterious service they peddle must be worth a lot.

“Make it nine,” said Turner.

“I will be there by nine.”

“Great! Have a good evening!”

“You too, Mr Turner.”

After they hung up, Turner went to bed, but had some trouble falling asleep. His mind was running wild as he thought about the possibilities, but without getting anywhere. He could not remember the last time he was so excited about the schedule of his next day. “First day in school, Robert,” he heard his mother’s voice echo in the old, dusty chambers of his memory. It is strange when a certain memory pops into your head suddenly, and why exactly that one.