Chapter 14

The next day at noon I was waiting in the street in front of Thomas Cook & Sons when a taxi drove up and Deborah stepped out. "Hi," she greeted me, then looked in amazement at the doorway. "Cooks is closed!" Her face was as if seeing the end of the world. "How come? It's Monday,"

I explained to her that the moon was at the half. She had not yet heard of Poya days which fall when the moon is at the quarter, half and full, couldn't then believe that a developing country would make things so difficult for itself by choosing a calendar different from the rest of the civilized world.

"So it's Poya day and everything's closed. Great. Now what?"

Walking down the street we were approached again and again by urchins offering money exchange. Deborah asked how much she could have for traveler cheques. Only eleven rupees to the dollar. One boy promised eleven and a quarter, but they were more interested in undeclared dollar notes, especially those of large denominations which are more easily smuggled out of the country.

Coming into Ceylon, Deborah had declared only a small part of her money — some French francs, some dollar traveler cheques. The undeclared rest is in traveler cheques. This undeclared part she will sell as necessary for her needs on the black market. I pleaded with her not to deal with these rascals, but she will thus have almost 20% more for her money, and this she would not deny herself. The hotels, she explained, are greatly overpriced. One is forced to do so.

I did not so much like to walk openly on the street in this part of the city, offered to take her by taxi to a restaurant where I knew I would meet none of my underworld acquaintances. After this, her plan was to visit a hotel six miles down the coast. A newspaper article that morning had told of purselifting by gangs on the public transport, so she was determined to go there only by taxi. We found a very small one and arranged the smallest possible fare in advance for the trip.

It was raining when we arrived at the hotel and all the guests, dressed in their beach clothes, were inside. A noise like chicken yards. Again packaged tourists, again everything expensive and no rooms available for solitary travelers. For a while we sat in a bright, modern lounge, drinking coffee, both very depressed by the ambience. Because of the closed doors, the smell of cooked fish floated everywhere — at three o'clock in the afternoon! Hotel de France in Villefranche, so quiet, so dignified, seemed very far away.

After seeing this hotel Deborah would leave Colombo as soon as possible. Only lacking was a place to go, a firm reservation. The reception clerk, very kind, telephoned the hotel near the coral reefs which announced one room available for four nights starting the day after next. The astronomical price included beds and meals for two. A few rupees reduction would be allowed for single persons. Deborah looked distressed. What to do? A long pause while the clerk waited with the phone in his hand. "Okay," she said at last.

And so the deal was concluded. Such rascals. Compared to these, Flaminio de Conningsfield is a most upstanding citizen!

We returned to Colombo and walked along the sea promenade by her hotel. The rain had stopped but the air was very wet. Deborah wore a raincoat over her cotton dress, still on her feet the rubber sandals which the rain could not hurt. There was a little mud on her toes. She felt very damp and uncomfortable and said she could not wait to get away and live in her bathing suit and look at fish.

I offered to lend her books. She seemed interested, would know what my suitcase library contained. History, poetry, philosophy, I told her. Anything a heart could desire. I waited breathlessly to hear which she would choose — how much that would tell me about her. But she said nothing, only turned her steps back toward the hotel. She did not look at the flat, grey sea on our right. Suddenly she admitted that she had not been very "nice" to me.

My heart dropped. No? Had she not? While I had thought all along that she had been extraordinarily kind. Now was she going to tell me some horrible new thing? I tried to stop her, but in vain.

She told me that in fact she was awful to everyone, but never really wanting to be — it was never her intention to hurt. So now the hurting would stop, from now on everything would be different. Something had changed inside her. She had learned that it was possible to communicate and now she would start with me. If only I would remove the mirror sunglasses, we could begin at least to look at each other's eyes while talking. This we had never really done.

Quickly I removed them, squinting blindly in a ray of sunlight shooting from behind a cloud. Our eyes now went seeking each other's eyes, suddenly so timid, shy, as if both had forgotten that eyes are to be found in the face and not in the arm or foot, ready to look off to the distance at any excuse.

No real success to report. We walked on. A breeze had come up and a few paper kites were in the air, strange kites, one ugly black like a crow wing. I turned and saw a fellow squatting on the grass a great distance away. It was the kite merchant, black, hunched, tattered like a crow. When I looked at him, he hopped a short distance toward us, shaking his feathers, holding out his kites. How strange, I thought, he could look so easily into my eyes from so far away.

At five thirty I returned alone to my hotel. The landlady was looking a little peculiar. Some visitors had come and were waiting in my room.

I could feel my head grow dizzy. "English chaps?"

"Yes."

Pale and shaken, I forgave her for letting them into my private room, for I knew they were nearly unstoppable. My first instinct was to turn, rush out, and get onto the first plane. But how could I leave all my possessions, the sarees, etc., in the hands of these scoundrels? Besides, all my money I had hidden in my room.

Who were these people? Why were they here?

Of course, money was behind the whole thing. They believe I owe them one thousand dollars. This is true only in a very technical sense, only they would not agree. Now there was nothing to do but take a tight grip of my umbrella and walk bravely through the door (behind the landlady).

I have never seen a room so in confusion, even in the worst days with Erde. They had opened my suitcases and thrown the contents everywhere. Books were everywhere; I never hide money in books, but this they could not know. Sarees were opened, all colours; the room was looking like a harem. In the middle sat the English, eyeing me rather cold. I held tighter to my umbrella, told them they could rise to their feet for the lady present.

No one of course moved. Almost unable to bend, so stiff with fright, I sat down myself. The landlady disappeared quite fast, closing the door behind her. I was wondering if they had found the secret place where I hide my money, but there was no way to look without giving them the secret.

All three were the same I had had "dealings" with earlier, only now had grown very long hair, big moustaches, and were wearing coloured shirts with flower print, bright-coloured trousers with wide bottoms, one pair in red velvet. All had necklaces, like women, and many large finger rings. Another carried a gold-tipped cane. Very enviable. Their young faces were pinched and grey, their eyes pale and dangerous.

I offered them to drink. They refused, therefore never learning it was only water I could give them.

Their accents are cockney, the lowest class of English. One told me that I had left town rather fast the previous time. I explained that business interests had called me away. This was not quite true. In fact it was their fault, only they will not see it this way. The following is the absolute truth in this unfortunate affair:

The last time I was in Colombo, after five weeks, being very nervous, my money decreasing, I went to my "criminal friend." He paid one third of my hotel bill and said that the next day we would start. And, quite astonishingly, we did. I went to the bank and bought $1050 of traveler cheques. The idea was that they should, unsigned, be sold (to gold smugglers) and then declared lost. Then new cheques would be given by the bank. In that way there is a "profit" of about 800 dollars.

It was like a holiday. The whole gang (these three cockney English, plus some others) gathered — to my horror — in my room. Their faces did not attract me (also I knew of what violence they were capable), though they behaved kind. Then we all had dinner together. As I was sitting there at the table I was thinking: this scheme won't work. Then, to my horror and stupefaction, I was asked to sign the cheques again (countersign them) and then go out and sell them. All this was quite against our original agreement by which neither should I countersign them nor myself go out in the street to sell them. Too risky. But in that way I could get eleven thousand rupees, then go together with the English to Bombay to buy another one thousand dollars of cheques.

Of course, this I would never do. Had I done so I would not be worthy to hold my head high. Flaminio de Conningsfield the member of a criminal gang? No, I am not a common thief. So I did not sign, stalled them the whole next day with empty promises, and prepared my departure. The day after, early in the morning, I left the hotel (they had, by the way, become suspicious), went on board the plane to Singapore, and thus evaded them.

Before leaving Colombo, on that last day, I purchased with part of the money some star sapphires which, in Singapore, I bartered for fifteen of the Swiss watches, not a good speculation. The rest of the money I declared lost, receiving in that way seven hundred dollars. Then the cheques which I had declared lost I mailed back to my criminal friends, one with a signature. These cheques they would be able to sell and regain their original investment. I could, of course, easily have escaped with all the cheques, for these rascals had not kept their promises to me. Only I am not so low. In the whole affair I acted with my usual boldness — fast, hard and lucky. My only mistake perhaps was to have returned so soon to Colombo.

But how could I have known that some miserable scoundrel thief in the post office would open the envelope and steal the cheques? For now they told me that the cheques had never arrived!

"But I sent them all back to you," I cried indignantly (with only a slight exaggeration, i.e. 350 dollars).

The decision: They would have all the sarees, tape recorder, etc., plus 500 dollars. I pleaded with them to have patience. The sarees would in three days (a small lie to give me more time) be sold for a good price, out of which I would pay what I "owed" them, though in reality I owed them nothing. Still, to settle matters in an amicable way (and to keep my nose!), I would do so. Finally they agreed, only warning me not to leave Colombo by train, plane or bus. I gave them my word as a man of honour, we shook hands and they went away.

So for an hour I have been arranging books and folding six-meter-long sarees. They have damaged nothing — thieves respect objects — except my sensibilities. How horrible to know someone has been rifling your possessions. Some of the books were uncut when I bought them and have never been touched by another, now have been searched for money. Luckily my money, hidden in a secret place known only to arch-criminals and myself, was not found.

Though they have discovered my presence in Ceylon, I still possess hope. They are dangerous, but I am clever. Still, I wish this all were over. The day after tomorrow, Deborah will be living at the end of the island in a beautiful beach hotel — I have seen photographs in the tourist brochures. A desert island would be preferable, but what would I not give to share even that packaged life with her, even for a so short time? In a few days the old year ends — a "propitious" moment would say the Indian astrologers. How I long to be with Deborah to greet the new one.

Well, they have given me seventy-two hours respite. All the same, tonight I will sleep with a chair against the door handle and my umbrella at the ready by my bed. The traveling baton will be placed near the door.

One can never be too careful. And so to bed with a good book.

The next morning the telephone rang. Would the Professor please come now to the Embassy of M-- to see the Ambassador? The Professor would. So, dressed in full embassy dress, umbrella (it was looking like rain, therefore would be handy as well), white gloves, gold watch chain, etc., with my suitcase of sarees, I took a taxi (to discourage criminals wanting to follow me) to the embassy where I was politely received by the secretary.

Result: The forty-nine sarees had a value of 7500 rupees (which I had not paid), and I got for them 11,000 rupees! Without doubt one of the greatest "coups" ever made by a foreigner, by which I got my revenge to a high degree over this country of rascals and criminals.

Now, having all these rupees, I got the idea to purchase from Deborah some dollars at a rate of exchange favorable to us both. I telephoned her hotel, but she had gone out. So, with my cash well hidden in a secret place upon my person, not to be victimized by the pickpockets and thieves, I turned my steps toward the bazaar.

I do not like the bazaar. It is a dangerous place. No matter what is being advertised on the outside of the shops, it is not really that which is for sale. Behind every shop front is a smuggling gang selling contraband hair spray or electric goods. Now, wanting to purchase a special brand of shaving cream that my skin requires, impossible to find in open commerce east of Vienna, I entered the crowded, noisy streets. I had not gone far when, to my amazement, I saw someone I knew standing in one of the shops on the other side of the dirty window. Deborah. She seemed almost to have been watching for me, now motioned frantically for me to enter. I did so.

"Flaminio," she said, her face absolutely white. "I'm lost."

At first I didn't understand. "What is the matter?" I cried. I glanced about wildly for attackers, saw only very dreary displays of plastic and tin kitchen gadgets.

She could hardly speak. "They've taken all my money."

"What did you say?" My brain would not accept so quickly such news.

"He told me to wait here, that he'd be back in five minutes." She stared at her watch in despair and shook her wrist. "What does it say?" she wailed.

She was in such a state of shock and horror that she could not read the hands of the watch. I told her it was eleven thirty. "But why did you give him all your money?"

She gripped my arm. "How can I get it back? There must be some way to find him. He's about eighteen, shortish, wearing a blue shirt. He came up to me in front of the Ceylonese Airlines office. Come on. We'll get a taxi and go back there."

Of course it was hopeless, but I went with her in the taxi. No boy with a blue shirt was waiting outside for the return of his frantic victim. Deborah looked absolutely ill, could hardly seem to breathe correctly. Hiding her face in her hands, she told me the story.

Throughout a morning of looking for a quarter of a rupee more per dollar among the various black marketeers of his acquaintance, the boy had slowly gained her confidence. He took some of her francs, he gave them back. He took once some other monies to show to the smugglers, then gave them back, finally wanted to show the sort of traveler cheques she had. She had wanted to tear out a small one as sample, but impatiently he took the entire book of cheques from her hand and told her he would return in five minutes. Then he had disappeared.

"Were the cheques declared entering the country?"

"Some were."

"Then those you can report lost. Have you the numbers?"

She began frantically searching through her handbag, then her billfold. All sorts of small papers were there — registered letter receipts, a punched ticket for the Paris Metro, but no list of cheque numbers. Perhaps she had thrown it away. By now we were driving back into the grounds of her hotel. She was trembling so that she could not arrange her papers, finally pushing everything back into her bag and snapping it shut.

I paid the driver and we walked up the stairs to her room. There she threw herself face down on one bed. I, so used to this sort of financial ups and downs, attempted to comfort her, but she would have none of it, preferring despair.

"The worst thing about it," she would repeat and repeat, "is what an idiot I was. What an idiot. What a stupid idiot."

I assured her she was not. No one can resist such rascals. Her only fault was to be too trusting and perhaps a little greedy. This sort of young rogue with whom she had dealings is typical of the rest of his "profession." No conscience, no remorse.

"Even if I find the numbers of the cheques and declare them lost, they'll know something is funny."

"It is possible," I told her suddenly and for no reason, "that I can help you get back the money without going to the police or bank."

"How?" she cried, sitting up and grasping my two arms.

Now that this rash proposal had left my mouth, what was there to tell her? Only to hint at connections, underworld contacts. I told her that it would take some time.

"How long?" She must know immediately.

"A week?"

"Fine," she exclaimed.

"Possibly two."

This pleased her less. She looked seriously worried.

I told her then of the sarees I had brought to Colombo, that they had brought a good price and I was quite willing to help her with expenses until the money should be recovered. The only problem was the very dear hotel she was going to where she must pay for a double room.

"But then you can stay there also. It won't cost but a few rupees more."

Do you see that even dishonesty has its rewards? My lie, that I could in the seething criminal life of this city find her poor book of cheques without numbers, had already resulted in success beyond my dreams.

"Do you really think you can get them back?" Already she was getting doubts.

"Absolutely."

"Then you think I shouldn't report them lost?"

"First let me make certain inquiries."

She agreed it was best to try first my way, get involved with banks and false statements only as a last resort. How hard it was to keep my face serious when I wanted to embrace her out of happiness and joy. I wanted so to console her, soothe her, make her forget the cheques. "You can be sure," I told her, "that the banks will make a very thorough investigation. If they learn you had undeclared cheques they will make it difficult for you ever to return to Ceylon." (Very comical.)

In this way I tried to raise her spirits, but they kept sinking lower. She could not quite believe me (with good. reason), and felt one minute she should to the bank, another minute, no, too many risks. She was pale and could not eat lunch, although we ordered sandwiches, felt she had some fever. She said that if she could shut her eyes and sleep forever, it would make her happy. She said she would rather die than ask her father, who wished for her return, to send money.

When her face was hidden I removed from their cache two hundred rupees and put them into her hand. Then I bowed and took my leave, saying that I would telephone to say at what time to meet at the train station, would she only settle her bill. I added that I hoped to have preliminary news of her traveler cheques by the next morning. She thanked me profusely, promising to repay me as soon as possible.

Returning to my hotel, I planned my departure, deciding not to leave my room until it was forever. I instructed the landlady to admit no visitors and to tell everyone that I am ill, covered with red spots of unknown origin. I must laugh, for it is true. There exists in Colombo a certain insect which I have never seen which hops into the clothes at any moment and runs like fire around, covering the flesh with stinging welts. One such had attacked me in the taxi going to Deborah's hotel, which resulted in much secret scratching while I consoled her. (Fortunately her face was so often hidden in her hands.) Now in my room before the mirror I examined the burning circle of red spots around the lower portion of my anatomy. The unknown culprit had already disappeared.

Then to the telephone. The train will leave very early in the morning; there will be no first class wagon. Both of these are unfortunate for Her Ladyship, but lucky for me (less expensive, also the criminals will not see me leave at that hour). The landlady's son went to purchase the tickets. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening under the fan, which helped against the mosquitoes.

Bad as my situation is, biting insects, threatening criminals, for the New Year affairs must take a better turn. The army is at full battle strength. Drums and fife playing we shall march southward with chins high. But the enemy is waiting in the north? Ah, but are you sure we are wanting to meet him?

 

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