Language in the Blood Read online

  Chapter 5: Fifi

  Winter on the Côte d’Azur was always a quiet time and the winter of 2010 was no exception. Andrei had sailed off to Thailand at the beginning of October and my other acquaintances were starting to move on to warmer climes one by one. Roberto jetted off to Bogota for a family visit and George and I did what we had done the previous two winters and sailed The Count Dracula into Nice port where I had rented a mooring for the winter.

  Every ten years or so I had to move on and create a new identity; not ageing does raise questions eventually. George had some interesting contacts who had constructed my latest identity for me. These days, officially, I went by the name of Cameron MacAdam, who would have been 22 by now if he had lived. Whilst my paperwork was fine for keeping the French authorities happy, I wasn’t sure if it would stand up to the scrutiny that traveling requires, and there was always the risk of customs visiting The Count Dracula during daylight and wanting to see all passengers on deck. That year, I was happy to stay in Nice as George and I had a project to get on with.

  We set to work on our latest venture following a call from the family of a hostage victim in Nigeria. The Nigerian contract looked to be quite complicated; George would have to travel there alone at some point to do some reconnaissance on the ground. Going on a plane was impossible for me, too many mirrors and machines that didn’t detect me, but I always tried to help with the preparations. He joined me in my office to work out the mission details.

  ‘Do you miss the army, George?’ I asked him as he sipped his coffee.

  ‘I do miss some things about the army,’ he answered, unfolding some maps and papers.

  ‘I have the feeling that even after the eight years you’ve been here, you’ve not quite settled in. I never see you mixing with the locals,’ I continued.

  ‘It’s the language. Unlike you, I can’t just suck it up,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘But it’s been five years. Even Roberto’s French is getting good, and he’s met some interesting people at his French course.’

  ‘I get by in French and I do have friends here.’ He was getting defensive now.

  ‘You mean Roger, your mate in Antibes?’ I mocked.

  ‘Roger’s a great guy!’ said George, looking at me surprised.

  Roger was even worse than George at integrating into French life. He had got himself a job with an American family in Cap d’Antibes, a peninsula that stretched out into the Mediterranean, overlooking either Nice or Cannes and affordable only to the super wealthy. His job consisted of walking the dog, driving the family around and maintaining the grounds. He lived in a cottage in the grounds and had the use of a small Renault. In his five years in Antibes Roger hadn’t learned a word of French. He had lunch at the same café every day because the waiter spoke excellent English and one lunchtime had got talking to George. Now, he too knew all the expat hangouts in Antibes. He and Roger and another few Englishmen played poker every week, no doubt bitching all the time about how much better England was.

  ‘I know you can get by perfectly well on the Côte d’Azur without speaking much French, but I feel you are missing out on something,’ I went on.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Cameron. I’m happy enough,’ he said, continuing to rummage through some papers.

  ‘Really? I never hear you speak about women,’ I pried further.

  ‘I do alright, Cameron, but I’m hardly going to introduce you to any of my female companions. I don’t want you mistaking my friends for food. Now, can we get some work done?’ He was beginning to sound annoyed.

  ‘Work? Never cared for it much. Would you believe I started out as a cooper’s apprentice?’

  George coughed up his last sip of coffee at that remark. ‘You were making barrels? That must have played havoc with your manicure.’

  ‘I wasn’t always this well looked after vision you see before you. My girlfriend at the time rather liked it. She said I was getting arms like a blacksmith. I worked for a number of years in a brewery, making barrels, before I joined the army. Here George, feel my biceps. Even after years of doing nothing they are still there.’ I rolled up my sleeve to let him have a squeeze.

  ‘Fuck off! And that is a lie. I see you at night powering through the water, no wonder you still have arms like a blacksmith,’ George said jerking back in his chair and away from my impressive bicep.

  ‘Anyway. As I said, I never cared much for work, especially manual labour. Now, what do you want me to do George?’