Chapter 16: And Now the End Is Near

I had to put my jacket back on in the hallway, so quickly was I ejected from the kitchen. Two phones really weighed it down, but if the Professor had recorded the meeting, I was sure my spymasters would want me to hang on to it. The pen had served its purpose, so that went into the water as soon as possible. And then I felt really odd for a minute. A man was dead right now, because of me. He was hardly the first, but it was different from all the other deaths I have caused. I planned this, and apart from some boorish behaviour he hadn’t actually ever done anything to me. I don’t know about you but whenever I’m watching a movie like, say, John Wick, where the hero mows down men in black leather jackets as quickly as I demolish a bag of Maltesers, I do sometimes think: ‘That guy has a mother. She won’t be happy. You don’t raise ‘em for that, to be fatally stabbed in the eye with a remote control. I do understand it’s kill or be killed, but Mr. Wick could just have ... I dunno ... knocked him out and left him in the bushes or something?” That’s silly, I know. That guy was just a stunt performer, elated to have a job that day, and not a fully rounded human being with a backstory and a collection of boy scout merit badges.

These are not the best things to be contemplating in the middle of the Arabian Gulf, on a ship filled with armed guards who are there specifically to prevent what I just did, whilst carrying the victim’s phone on your person. And so I went to the lounge on deck two, just to be seen by potential witnesses. I really wanted a beer right now, but those were no longer served by the bar because you can’t hide them in soft drinks and people kept walking around with them. Basically you had a choice of vodka or rum and I like neither. And so I asked one of the servers if a cup of tea was in the realms of possibility and even though he looked as if I just asked him for a raw herring with onions on a donut, he did disappear into the kitchen and came back three minutes later with a large silver tray that held a kettle of water, a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a cup and saucer, two cookies on a plate and a selection of teas. Bloody hell, all I wanted was a mug of Twinings!

I found a quiet corner with an empty chair next to a table and stood out like a tabernacle when I began to brew my tea. First of all, hardly anyone was sat down. Second, most people were outside, watching the band. Those inside were nursing disguised drinks and complaining about the entertainment. And then there was the lunatic with a full tea tray, brewing himself a cuppa. This always happens to me. I just don’t know how to have a good time like a normal person.

The automatic glass doors opened and closed regularly, but sadly I could hear the band even when they were closed. Right now the woman was singing: ‘Ich Hab’ Noch Einen Koffer In Berlin’, which was one of Marlene Dietrich’s signature songs. A very, very odd choice to amuse a crowd of Arabs and expats, I must say. Who booked these guys, anyway? I think someone saw their prim and proper white jackets, perused a set list with ‘In The Mood’ and ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ and figured they had a safe bet on their hands for this mixed audience of Westerners and muslims.

I didn’t spot anyone I particularly wanted to talk to. Not even Mustafa, the nice Omani guy. And so I left my tray where it was and wandered outside with my cup and saucer, eventually finding myself loitering near Guy’s mixing desk. Look, like it or not: I’m in show business nowadays. Show people are my people. Rich Arabs aren’t, and neither are Russians. Oleg was back, but rather than enjoying the band he seemed to be having a shouted conversation in Russian with the gold dealer’s wife on the balcony of deck three. Ms. Hofmeister soldiered on regardless. I didn’t see Max.

“How are you getting on?” I asked Guy.

“Don’t even ask. Max managed to get sea sick, so he’s having a lie down with some Dramamine. Tina knows some English songs, but most are written for men and her accent isn’t too good. We still have half an hour to go and I for one can’t wait. It’s bottom of the barrel right now.”

“Just have a break. They look tired.”

“We had one twenty minutes ago. Oh great, ‘Dock of the Bay’. Yeah, I’m sure Otis meant that to be sung by a German chick in fractured English. I wish that Russian would shut his trap, though.”

I shrugged. It was their own fault for having such a tepid catalogue. You can just buy the sheet music for ‘Celebration’ and ‘Sweet Caroline’, you know. It’s not restricted or anything. I once worked with a band that could bring the house down just playing the intro to ‘What A Fool Believes’, and they had only met the week before. They’d have this ship bobbing up and down by now. Upside down, in fact.

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” I said, and moved away again, hoping to find some entertainment elsewhere. Sadly I bumped into someone and dropped my cup of tea. It fell on the wooden deck and made quite a bit of noise.

“Oh my goodness, I do apologise,” I said to an Asian gent who hardly seemed to have noticed. “That was entirely on me. Have I gotten anything on you? I do believe it was empty, but...”

“Is okay, is okay,” said the guy, giving his upper arm one quick brush with his hand before turning back to watch the band. But unfortunately, I had caught someone else’s eye.

“BUTLER! You come! Ha! Yes, you are there!” yelled Oleg, and pointed at me. His security people made a bee line for me and shepherded me to him while an unperturbed waiter picked up the shards of my cup and saucer. What was I going to do: fight them? Run away? We were on a boat!

“Mister Kadimirov,” I said, deliberately sounding as warm as a traffic warden. But he was too drunk and too powerful to notice.

“Maybe YOU sing! This is booooring! I want to hear something nice!”

“I’m sorry, I’m not on the playbill.”

He grinned at me, in that way drunk people have when their brain plays catch-up.

“No?”

“Enjoy your evening. And if your goon doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder right now, I shall kick him in his balls so hard he’ll be able to audition for the Moscow Boys Choir.”

That amused Oleg even more, but he gave a quick nod to the guy behind me and a meaty hand fell away from my shoulder, albeit with an audible grunt that clearly meant the owner had understood me and would like a word in private if at all possible.

“One ... thousand,” said Oleg.

“What?”

“One thousand dollars. No, pound sterling! You’re British, right? For a song.”

I wanted to scoff, I really did. But I was hardly in a position to go: ‘Fuck off, I just got a five million dollar contract with Aston Martin and I can get a thousand quid for doing a thirty second radio commercial.’ And so I ate a tiny bit of crow and said:

“Very tempting, but I am employed by Prince Asim and I am not allowed to subcontract.”

“Two.”

“I am not negotiating, I’m...”

“Three thousand. Per song.”

Just then, the band struck up a song I have heard a bit too often in my life. It’s one of the dreariest, miserable tunes ever committed to vinyl. My grandmother, God rest her soul, played it almost non-stop. And while I loved oma, she instilled in me a life long hatred of Nana Mouskouri and in particular the song ‘Weisse Rosen Aus Athen.’

“I am ... Hang on...” I said, turning to face Tina.

Weiße Rosen aus Athen

Sagen dir ‘Komme recht bald wieder’

I lost it. It was probably the stress of just having killed someone. I’m not a psychopath, you know. It gets to me.

“No! HELL no!” I bellowed at the stage. Tina stopped singing abruptly. My voice carries, what can I say?

“THERE IS A LIMIT, YOU KNOW! NOT THIS!”

I quickly turned to Oleg.

“Three and a half.”

“Deal! Haha!”

I was already close to the stage, so I literally jumped on and grabbed the microphone. By now the band had stopped playing and some security guards were considering how big of a threat I was.

“Sorry dear, this can’t go on,” I said to Tina, covering the microphone with my hand. “You’re excused.”

Well, she didn’t need to be told twice! The balcony cheered, but not in a kind way. Not that I deserved kindness at this point. If a mentally unhinged person climbs a stage, pity is more in order. But as I had been there before, it somehow seemed like I had a right to be there, to bully an artist off the stage during a performance.

“Sorry folks,” I muttered, as I placed the microphone back in the stand so that I’d have my hands free to search the iPad for something, anything worth singing. But Oleg came up on stage as well and, without a trace of fear, said:

“LADIES! GENTLEMEN! I HAVE ANNOUNCEMENT! I HAVE HIRED MISTER BUTLER FOR TO SING! Give me.”

He wrenched the iPad from my hands and read the index.

“I can’t sing them all,” I warned.

“I pay, you sing,” he said, without looking up. “AH! THIS! NUMBER FOURTY!”

The band, rather shaken up but unwilling to risk not getting paid, located the song on their own screen. I could see eyebrows jumping up all arcoss the line-up.

“A song from my country,” said Oleg, as he handed me back the iPad and jumped off the stage. (Which was only about two feet high, I’ll remind you.)

“That can’t be good news,” I muttered. And then I read the title. Twice. That song was no more from his country than fortune cookies are from China.

“You’re kidding,” I said to Oleg, with the benefit of amplification. The audience tittered in anticipation. Obviously they wanted to see me get in trouble.

“SING!”

I turned to the band, which was already playing the lead-in, or rather the first bar over and over again. Well, here goes:

“Hit it.”

Yes, indeed: Oleg had picked ‘If I Were A Rich Man’, from the 1964 musical. I didn’t know the words verbatim, but well enough to get by with the occasional glance at the iPad. There’s only one song that’s MORE Jewish, and that’s Hava Nagila. So obviously it’s ideal for a ship filled with Arabs, in the middle of the Gulf. Or actually about five miles away from the Dubai shore line, as we were headed back. But as with so many songs: the audience didn’t understand half of it. It’s like when people think ‘99 Luftballons’ is about balloons, or REM’s ‘The One I Love’ is a love song. Like a bunch of patriotic Americans belting out ‘Born In The USA’, oblivious to it’s real meaning, this crowd of mostly rich people just clung on to the words ‘rich’ and ‘wealthy’ and liked what they heard a whole lot better than the offerings of the previous two hours.

Asim and Omar appeared from the saloon, both holding a glass. I think they needed to relax as much as I did. Asim seemed positively delighted to see me up on stage and rushed to the first row, which actually took a bit of effort because there were actually people there now. People who had been starved for entertainment for at least four hours and who welcomed a singalong. Oh yes, a singalong! Nobody knew the words, but it was written for a musical so it only takes one go-around for the audience to catch on.

They liked that line: ‘Screaming at the servants’. I scanned ahead as I sang and noticed a line coming up that actually contained the word ‘rabbi’. Best to replace that with Imam, considering my target audience. Likewise, ‘Reb Tevye’ could be substituted with ‘Mr. Carstairs’.

Weird as it sounds: I was having fun. I needed to unwind, not just from that eternal butler act, but from the spying and the hiding and the killing. And so I merrily plowed through to the end and gave it my all. As did the band, it must be said. Whatever instruments were missing in the band, the keyboard player conjured out of his machine and Guy also worked his magic behind the mixing desk.

Would it spoil some vast eternal plan?

A pause. I looked at the band leader, waiting for my cue. And there it was:

If I were a wealthy maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

I’ve had bigger rounds of applause, but it was clear people hadn’t been offended. Asim in particular stared at me like a toddler waiting in line to shake hands with Mickey Mouse. I noticed Oleg had made his way to Guy’s mixing desk and was now using his iPad to browse for the next song. God forbid Hava Nagila or Yo Ya was actually up next: I had to draw the line somewhere. Likewise, L’chaim would probably be pushing it, but I doubted the entire Fiddler playbook would be available. Still, I was a bit nervous as Oleg flipped through the catalogue. To fill the gap, I chatted with the audience a bit. Not sure what I said, but it was probably something about having had a lovely evening and heading back to port. Then the clarinet player reached into his inside pocket and produced a harmonica. He was sat nearest the stage and calmly walked on, standing next to me at the microphone. The piano struck up and I didn’t even need to hear two bars before I knew what was up next: Piano Man. Which was a good choice, because quite a few people like to sing along with that one, me included. The clarinetist played the harmonica intro while I briefly scanned the first few lines of the song to make sure. I didn’t really need to, and I don’t need to write down the lines here, either. I’m sure you know them just as well.

It’s a long song: six minutes or so. And even though Billy Joel’s singing style isn’t particularly suited to my voice, as I’m a baritone, it worked rather well. I liked my view from here, too: Dubai was lit up as brightly as an amusement park, including the gargantuan Burj Khalifa. As I was stood on the back of the rear deck, most of the skyline was blocked by the ship, but there was enough left over on the port and starboard sides to enjoy.

By now everyone was outside, including any staff members who had their hands free. I didn’t forget the balcony and that’s why I noticed a rather diminutive figure in an abaya joining the throng of ladies. Only her eyes were uncovered, but that was enough: Anaïs had come to take a look. Her work in the kitchen was done and she needed a break like anyone else.

I had the light in my eyes most of the time, except when I stood on the far left hand side of the stage. She waved at me, just by wiggling her fingers.

Everyone likes Piano Man and everyone likes to sing along, so I had an easy time of it. But then Oleg started to search through the catalogue again, and I saw Guy shaking his head after every swipe on the screen. Time to get ahead of this, before he made me do the Birdie Song or something.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for my last song before we enter Dubai creek. You will have noticed this was all unplanned and unrehearsed and you have been very kind. Will you indulge me with this final song, after which we will all bid goodbye to our gracious host and our fellow guests on this wonderful journey ... Maestro, will you please turn to item 44 of the playbook? This last one is for the balcony. Sorry you couldn’t be here with us tonight.”

That got me a wry laugh from anyone not dressed from head to toe in white, except Asim.

Guy adjusted the lights so that the orchestra was now in the dark and only a spotlight on me remained. The orchestra shut down their iPads and put down their instruments, except the keyboard player. He glanced over the sheet music, smiled and began the intro of Jacques Brel’s most famous song, repeating the first few bars until the audience was quiet and I joined in.

Unlike my English, which is more or less fluent, and my German, which is okay, my French is what I would call ‘passable’. By which I mean it’s quite passable a French person might understand what I’m trying to say, after a few passes. But only if that French person relies on tips, or they’ll have moved on to shrug at something, or flick away another cigarette in a graceful arc.

After six years of high school French I can just about read a newspaper article, but I would struggle to conduct an entire conversation in French. In fact, when in Paris I tend to just order in English. (They love that... ) But as a child I did like the movies by Louis de Funès, a comedian who excelled in playing characters that were frantic, quick to anger and very accident prone. I must have seen his last film, ‘Le Gendarme et les Gendarmettes’, at least a dozen times. Admittedly that was not just because of Funès’s amazing angry outburst, but also because of the four very sexy female ‘Gendarmettes’. So although I may not be able to faultlessly write an entire email in French, I do have access to that language and have never avoided French films or music. And so I was confident I’d be able to make my way through this monument of a song. I’ve been on stage before. I know my limits.

Like most things French the song is pompous, longwinded and fairly inaccessible. but it is a hell of an act to put on. I sang exclusively to the balcony, mostly in Anaïs’ general direction, sank to my knees at one point and then hoisted myself up on the mic stand, I leaned on the stand as if it were a crutch and took off the mic to wander around the stage. The piano accompaniment was magnificent and the audience grew quieter and quieter. I will swear on Edwin’s eyes that Asim’s lip wobbled, although he later denied it, and Oleg had his mouth open from the second stanza onward. I guess the song hits you hard if you’ve never heard it before and even if you don’t speak French, ‘Ne me quitte pas’ is easily understood. These were educated people, so most of them probably understood almost every word.

After the final ‘Ne me quitte pas’, Audio Guy killed the spotlight at exactly the right time. I was lit up only from behind, by a lamp that was part of the ship’s illumination. In the reflection of the saloon doors I only saw my own, black outline with a white halo. I just stood there for about five seconds, catching my breath. Nobody moved or spoke until the band leader got up and applauded. The band soon followed and then the rest, shaken out of the dark, lonely place to which that song drags you.

During the applause I composed a brief goodbye in my head, but suddenly Guy appeared behind me and pretended to adjust the mic stand. It was switched off.

“You’re not done.”

“What?”

“Look,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Can’t let it go like this. We don’t end on a downer. We can do ‘Will be allright’. The band knows it.”

‘Will be alright’ was one of the songs from ‘I Married A Murderer’. It wasn’t actually a solo for the character I played, but all of us joined in at the end. The audience loved it and we’d often use it for our encore.

We also used to vary one or two couplets per show if the day’s news called for it, and I had a knack for improvising a line or two. We’d put in something about train strikes, weird stunts by the Royal Family (mostly Prince Philip), stuff like that.

“I’m a bit tired, actually.”

“Grow a pair,” growled Guy, then slapped my shoulder and disappeared back to his mixing desk. The pianist began to play a simple two bar melody, a Jazz waltz. Dinge donge dinge dinge dong. Dinge donge dinge dinge dong. I really had no choice in the matter, so I waited for the crowd to settle down.

“One more, okay? I’ll make this a fun one,” I promised. Someone whooped. Not even Asim!

Dinge donge dinge dinge dong.

Dinge donge dinge dinge dong.

Words raced through my head, slotting them into the familiar melody. A story formed. Just the first few lines, but I knew I’d make it to the end. The first couplets were standard, anyway. ‘The Forest’ could become ‘The Desert’ ... Yeah. I could do this.

Dinge donge dinge dinge dong.

Dinge donge dinge dinge dong.

Familiar giggles from the crowd. The drummer joined in with a simple beat, followed by the bass guitar.

When you’ve gone on a safari,

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