Somewhere East of Life

Leberecht gave him a hard look. ‘You’re not insane or anything? Frankly, I’d prefer my desk in Soss City.’ They both laughed.

The immaculate secretary brought in a map of the Caucasus. Leberecht indicated an area near the Black Sea coast which had recently proclaimed itself to be West Georgia, under a leader by the name of Lazar Kaginovich.

‘Kaginovich is one of the maggots who have risen to the surface since the body of the Soviet Union decayed. Don’t worry, you won’t meet him.’ Leberecht put a well-manicured finger on the map. ‘In this mountainous area somewhere here is a place called Ghvtism. It’s not marked. It’s very remote, which may mean it’s peaceful. We’re interested in documenting a church called – it’s a bit of a mouthful – Ghvtismshobeli. Say “Gutism” and “Show belly” and you’ll remember it.’ He chuckled. ‘The Georgians have long prided themselves on being the southernmost outpost of Christianity. Just a few miles south of Ghvtismshobeli, it’s Islam. So this little church is something of an outpost.’

‘When was the church last inspected?’

‘It’s been listed for years, never inspected. A Italian traveller called in there in the eighties of last century, reporting a legend of a valuable ikon. Go and see if it’s still standing, document it before they blow it to hell in some petty war or other. You sure you like the sound of it?’

Nodding, Burnell said he would go. Leberecht told him that as usual he would be given a pack with cameras, camcorders, survey instruments, and so on. Also, some American protection might be forthcoming.

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Well, Roy, a) the area’s dangerous, and b) the Americans are interested in oil and anything else they can get their hands on. Georgia is on the way to the resource-rich nations of Central Asia. I should add that there’s also a hush-hush c). A big-noise American general is taking a personal interest. I can say nothing more.’

‘And that’s very little, Karl.’

‘Everything connects, my friend. A flight leaves FAM for Tbilisi on Saturday afternoon. I’ll come and see you off.’

Back in his apartment, he began slowly to make arrangements to pack. To unpack, to repack. He opened a window. That hole in his life moved in to occupy the centre of his being. In Georgia new difficulties would fill the hole.

He took some slap. A bumblebee flew in the window, landed on him, and clung to his shirt, seeming to fondle the fabric with its forelegs. It was a matter of wonder what this industrious creature might be doing in flowerless Soss.

The bee, seen through Burnell’s temporary glow, was an angelic creation. Its lovely body, covered in yellow and black fur, seemed to blaze. By contrast, an armorial lustre slid along the chitinous combs of the insect’s legs. Its wings lay glistening along its body. He regarded it with veneration.

As he looked, he saw a small brown dot move in the region of the bumblebee’s neck. A parasite was crawling about its furry host.

The bee flew to the window and began an angry buzz against the pane. He shooshed it into the open with a shirt.

Beginning slowly to contemplate the shape of his journey, he noticed a blank business card tucked into the noticeboard in his kitchenette. Written on the card in red ink was a local phone number. No name. It meant nothing to him, although he was certain it was not the number of his dealer.

He stood with the card in his hand, admiring its sharp edges, so precisely cut. Going over to the phone he dialled the red figures. A recorded voice said in German, ‘Who is it? You’ve probably dialled the wrong number.’

‘Oh …’ He stuttered a little. His responses were slow. Before he could hang up, a woman’s voice said in German, ‘That’s you, Roy? Sorry, I’m here.’ Not recognizing the voice, he did not know what to say.

‘Is anything wrong? Are you alone? I cancelled all our appointments since you didn’t call. You want me to come round? I can still fit you in tonight.’ It was a quiet voice, with an unusual accent.

‘I – look, I’ve been away … Yes, come round. What time?’

A slight surprise entered her voice. ‘Seven-thirty, I guess, as usual, OK? You sound funny.’

‘I’m fine. I’ll explain when I see you. Wiederschön.’

He put the phone down. He should have asked her who she was; but these things would be easier face to face. It was so wimpish to have to admit you had had your memory stolen; no one liked admitting loss of memory. Whoever she was, she must be a girlfriend. She might be able to fill in some of his past. They could eat in the Schäfer’s Chinese restaurant, and maybe they would make love. It sounded like a good way to pass an evening in the Federal Republic.

Wandering about the apartment, he found himself unable to think. In the top drawer of his dresser was the photograph of a pretty woman in a large straw hat, smiling, as people felt compelled to do when they saw a camera about. Was it a photograph of the girl he had just phoned? But this one was standing in front of what looked like a Spanish building. He was baffled. He thought, ‘It’ll be better after Saturday afternoon. That’s the future. In the future all men are equal – nobody has memories of the future …’

He began to look out a book to take on the journey. Gibbon, of course. Montaigne. From his travel shelf he pulled down Freshfield’s Travels in the Central Caucasus.

As darkness was falling, Burnell’s phone rang.

‘Burnell?’ A neutral voice.

‘Yes. Who’s that?’

‘Tartary. Listen to this message. Georgia, in the Caucasus. A missing ikon, known as “The Madonna of Futurity”. Could be it’s at Ghvtismshobeli. Number One wants it back here. Do your best …’

‘Who’s that? Who’s Number One?’

‘Just get that ikon.’

The phone went dead. On several previous trips Burnell had carried out seemingly unimportant missions for Codename Tartary he believed: in this way he earned money to support his habit. He could not identify the voice; its owner probably spoke through a masker. Possibly it was a German voice speaking an American English. Many mysterious things went on in FAM.

For a while he worked on his personal computer, summoning up data he had forgotten.

Number One might refer to ‘Gus’ Stalinbrass himself, the crazed American general in charge of the EU peace corps who had somehow turned his troops into an invading force, apparently with the intention of carving out an empire of his own … Strange things happened these days.

Another theory was that WACH was part-funded by Stalinbrass monies. He had listed possible evidence of this. The Director of WACH might be involved – mainly in the theft of art works from the emergent nations with which WACH was principally concerned. Someone in WACH was using Burnell. He stared into the illusory depths of his screen.

Burnell believed evolutionary pressures determined that people exploited each other. Consequently, he tolerated being exploited unless he felt himself squeezed. In retrospect, even the trick Broadwell-Smith had played on him was amusing.

He looked again into his electronic diary for further details on Tartary which might have been lost with the extracted memories. There was nothing. Not even a phone number. They got in touch with him, not vice versa.

How deeply he was involved he did not know. However, if someone wanted an ikon which he might come across in Georgia, he was complaisant enough to oblige.

Flicking through the electronic index, he saw the name Remenyi. It was another unknown. He turned up the entry.

Peter Remenyi was thirty-two years old, a celebrated Hungarian ski-jumper. It appeared he was a close friend, and that he and Burnell had been in the Alps the previous summer, travelling on horseback. A home address in Budapest was given. Vexed to think he had been in Budapest and not called his friend, Burnell immediately phoned Remenyi’s number.

For a while, he listened to the phone ringing in Hungary. Nobody answered.

He switched off the processor, sitting back, trying to sort through the struggle of non-memory in his head. Whatever had happened in the recent past was a puzzle. The sections of the brain involved with memory retention contained many amacrine cells or microneurones. Yet non-localized storage of data also occurred; in consequence, ghost images rose up. Faceless men and women came and went. And was there not someone he knew, possibly this Peter Remenyi, lying somewhere in a coma?

The nightmare thought occurred to him that he might himself be Remenyi. But that was absurd. His colleagues in WACH had identified him as Roy Burnell.

As he was throwing some clothes into a pack, his doorbell buzzed. It was seven-thirty on the dot. Burnell went and opened the door.

A young woman entered his domain, self-possessed on her high heels. A man of unprepossessing aspect had accompanied her. He remained in the corridor, giving Burnell a hard look, not speaking. The woman was in her late twenties, well built, not quite plump. Her dyed blonde hair was cut short, bristly at the back of the head up to the occipital bone. Her eyes, fringed by long false lashes, were curiously masked by the application of shining scarlet make-up which curved to a point on the temples. Her lips were painted black. She wore a tight green plastic skin dress, buttoning up the front, which emphasized her generous bosom. The dress ceased just below the swell of her mons veneris.

He understood immediately.

‘You’ll have to tell me your name.’

She was looking about the apartment, very business-like. ‘That’s silly. You sounded strange on the phone. Not yourself.’

‘Maybe. I’ve been robbed. It’s the EMV craze. Someone has stolen my memory. The immediate past is a blank. I hoped perhaps you might help me.’

‘I don’t offer that kind of therapy. Sorry. You’re got ninety minutes of my time. You can still have erections? I guarantee I will leave you relaxed and happy. As always.’