The Night Manager by John le Carré
And tonight is my trumpet blast, thought Jonathan, waiting to receive the worst man in the world.
Jonathan was worrying about his hands, which as usual were immaculate and had been so ever since he had been the subject of spot fingernail inspections at his army school. At first he had kept them curled at the embroidered seams of his trousers, in the posture drummed into him on the parade ground. But now, without his noticing, they had linked themselves behind his back with a handkerchief twisted between them, for he was painfully conscious of the sweat that kept forming in his palms.
Transferring his worries to his smile, Jonathan checked it for faults in the mirrors either side of him. It was the Smile of Gracious Welcome that he had worked up during his years in the profession: a sympathetic smile but a prudently restrained one, for he had learned by experience that guests, particularly very rich ones, could be tetchy after a demanding journey, and the last thing they needed on arrival was a night manager grinning at them like a chimpanzee.
His smile, he established, was still in place. His feeling of nausea had not dislodged it. His tie, self-tied as a signal to the better guests, was pleasingly insouciant. His hair, though nothing to match Herr Kaspar’s, was his own and, as usual, in the sleekest order.
It’s a different Roper, he announced inside his head. Complete misunderstanding, whole thing. Nothing whatever to do with her. There are two, both traders, both living in Nassau. But Jonathan had been going back and forth through that hoop ever since half-past five this afternoon, when, arriving in his office for duty, he had heedlessly picked up Herr Strippli’s list of the evening’s arrivals and seen the name Roper in electronic capitals, screaming at him from the computer printout.
Roper R. O., party of sixteen, arriving from Athens by private jet, expected 2130 hours, followed by Herr Strippli’s hysterical annotation: “VVIP!” Jonathan called up the public relations file on his screen. Roper R. O. and the letters OBG after him, which was the coy house code for bodyguard, O standing for “official” and official meaning licensed by the Swiss federal authorities to bear a sidearm. Roper, OBG, business address Ironbrand Land, Ore & Precious Metals Company of Nassau, home address a box number in Nassau, credit assured by the Zurich Bank of Somebody. So how many Ropers were there in the world with the initial R and firms called Ironbrand? How many more coincidences had God got up His sleeve?
“Who on earth is Roper R. O. when he’s at home?” Jonathan asked of Herr Strippli in German while he affected to busy himself with other things.
“He’s a British, like you.”
It was Strippli’s maddening habit to reply in English though Jonathan’s German was better.
“Not like me at all, actually. Lives in Nassau, trades in precious metals, banks in Switzerland—why’s that like me?” After their months of incarceration together, their quarrels had acquired a marital pettiness.
“Mr. Roper is actually a very important guest,” Strippli replied in his slow singsong as he buckled his leather overcoat in preparation for the snow. “From our private sector he is number five for spending and chief of all English. Last time his group was here, he was average twenty-one thousand seven hundred Swiss francs a day, plus service.”
Jonathan heard the soggy charter of Herr Strippli’s motorbike as, snow notwithstanding, he puttered down the hill to his mother. Easy, he told himself. Roper has taken his time, you can do the same. He sat at his desk for a while, his head hidden in his hands, like someone waiting for an air attack. Finally he sat upright and, with the composed expression of someone taking his time, gave his attention to the letters on his desk. A soft-goods manufacturer in Stuttgart was objecting to the bill for his Christmas party. Jonathan drafted a stinging response for signature by Herr Meister. A public relations company in Nigeria was inquiring about conference facilities. Jonathan replied regretting there were no vacancies.
A beautiful and stately French girl named Sybille who had stayed at the hotel with her mother complained yet again of his treatment of her. “You take me sailing. We walk in the mountains. We have beautiful days. Are you so very English that we cannot also be more than friends? You look at me, I see a shadow fall across your face. I am disgusting to you.”
Feeling a need to move, he launched himself on a tour of the construction work in the north wing, where Herr Meister was building a grillroom out of old arolla pine rescued from the roof of a condemned treasure in the city. No one knew why Herr Meister wanted a grillroom, no one could recall when he had started it. The numbered panels were stacked in rows against the unrendered wall. Jonathan caught their musky smell and remembered Sophie’s hair on the night she walked into his office at the Queen Nefertiti Hotel in Cairo, smelling of vanilla.
Herr Meister’s building works could not be held to blame for this. Ever since seeing Roper’s name at half-past five that afternoon, Jonathan had been on his way to Cairo.
He had glimpsed her often but never spoken to her: a languid dark-haired beauty of forty, long-waisted, elegant and remote. He had spotted her on her expeditions through the Nefertiti’s boutiques or being ushered into a maroon Rolls-Royce by a muscular chauffeur. When she toured the lobby the chauffeur doubled as her bodyguard, hovering behind her with his hands crossed over his balls. When she took a menthe frappé in Le Pavilion restaurant, dark glasses shoved into her hair like driving goggles and her French newspaper at arm’s length, the chauffeur would sip a soda at the next table. The staff called her Madame Sophie, and Madame Sophie belonged to Freddie Hamid, and Freddie was the baby of the three unlovely Hamid brothers who between them owned a lot of Cairo, including the Queen Nefertiti Hotel. Freddie’s most celebrated accomplishment at twenty-five was to have lost half a million dollars at baccarat in ten minutes.
“You are Mr. Pine,” she said in a French-flavored voice, perching herself on the armchair on the other side of his desk. And tilting her head back and viewing him on the slant: “The flower of England.”
It was three in the morning. She was wearing a silk trouser suit and a topaz amulet at her throat. Could be legless, he decided: proceed with caution.
“Well, thank you,” he said handsomely. “No one’s told me that for a long tune. What can I do for you?”
But when he discreetly sniffed the air around her, all he could smell was her hair. And the mystery was that though it was glistening black it smelled blond: a vanilla smell and warm.
“And I am Madame Sophie from penthouse number three,” she continued, as if to remind herself. “I have seen you often, Mr. Pine. Very often. You have steadfast eyes.”
The rings on her fingers antique. Clusters of clouded diamonds set in pale gold.
“And I have seen you,” he rejoined, with his ever-ready smile. “
You also sail,” she said, as if accusing him of an amusing deviation. The also was a mystery she did not explain. “My protector took me to the Cairo Yacht Club last Sunday. Your ship came in while we were drinking champagne cocktails. Freddie recognized you and waved, but you were too busy being nautical to bother with us.”
“I expect we were afraid of ramming the jetty,” said Jonathan, recalling a rowdy bunch of rich Egyptians swilling champagne on the club veranda.
“It was a pretty blue boat with an English flag. Is it yours? It looked so royal.”
“Oh my goodness no! It’s the minister’s.”
“You mean you sail with a priest?”
“I mean I sail with the second man at the British Embassy.”
“He looked so young. You both did. I was impressed. Somehow I had imagined that people who work at night are unhealthy. When do you sleep?”
“It was my weekend off,” Jonathan replied nimbly, since he did not feel inclined, at this early stage in their relationship, to discuss his sleeping habits.
“Do you always sail on your weekends off?”
“When I’m invited.”
“What else do you do on your weekends off?”
“Play a little tennis. Run a little.
“Is it immortal?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you believe so?”
“When I’m happy.”
“And when you are unhappy, you doubt it. No wonder that God is so fickle. Why should He be constant, when we are so faithless?”
She was frowning in rebuke at her gold sandals, as if they too had misbehaved. Jonathan wondered whether after all she was sober and merely maintained a different rhythm from the world around her. Or perhaps she does a little of Freddie’s drugs, he thought: for there were rumors that the Hamids traded in Lebanese hash oil.
“Do you ride horseback?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Freddie has horses.”
“So I hear.”
“Arabs. Magnificent Arabs. People who breed Arab horses are an international elite. You know that?”
“So I have heard.”
She allowed herself a pause for meditation. Jonathan availed himself of it:
“Is there something I can do for you, Madame Sophie?”
“And this minister, this Mr. . . .”
“Ogilvey.”
Sir Something Ogilvey?”
“Just Mister.”
“He is a friend of yours?”
“A sailing friend.”
“You were at school together?’
“No. I wasn’t at that kind of school.”
“But you are of the same class, or whatever the expression is? You may not breed Arab horses, but you are both—well, my God, what does one say?—both gentlemen?”
“Mr. Ogilvey and I are sailing companions,” he replied with his most evasive smile.
“Freddie also has a yacht. A floating bordello. Isn’t that what they are called?”
“I’m sure not.”
“I’m sure yes.”
She made another pause while she reached out a silk-clad arm and studied the underside of the bracelets on her wrist. “I would like a cup of coffee, please, Mr. Pine. Egyptian. Then I shall ask a favor of you.”
Mahmoud the night waiter brought coffee in a copper pot and poured two cups with ceremony. Before Freddie came along she had belonged to a rich Armenian, Jonathan remembered, and before that an Alexandrian Greek who owned dubious concessions along the Nile. Freddie had laid siege to her, bombarding her with bouquets of orchids at impossible moments, sleeping in his Ferrari outside her apartment. The gossip writers had printed what they dared. The Armenian had left town.
She was trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking. He struck the lighter for her. She closed her eyes and drew on the cigarette. Lines of age appeared on her neck. And Freddie Hamid all of twenty-five, Jonathan thought. He put the lighter on the desk.
“I too am British, Mr. Pine,” she remarked, as if this were a grief they shared. “When I was young and unprincipled I married one of your countrymen for his passport. It turned out he loved me deeply. He was a straight arrow. There is no one better than a good Englishman and no one worse than a bad one. I have observed you. I think you are a good one. Mr. Pine, do you know Richard Roper?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But you must. He is famous. He is beautiful. A fifty-year-old Apollo. He breeds horses, exactly as Freddie does. They even talk of opening a stud farm together. Mr. Richard Onslow Roper, one of your famous international entrepreneurs. Come.”
“Not a name to me. I’m sorry.”
“But Dicky Roper does a lot of business in Cairo! He is English, like you, very charming, rich, glamorous, persuasive. For us simple Arabs, almost too persuasive. He owns a splendid motor yacht, twice the size of Freddie’s. How come you do not know him, since you are also a sailor? Of course you do. You are pretending, I can see.”
“Perhaps if he has a splendid motor yacht he doesn’t have to bother with hotels. I don’t read the newspapers enough. I’m out of touch. I’m sorry.”
But Madame Sophie was not sorry. She was reassured. Her relief was in her face as it cleared and in the decisiveness with which she now reached for her handbag.
“I would like you to copy some personal documents for me, please.”
“Well now, we do have an executive services bureau directly across the lobby, Madame Sophie,” Jonathan said. “Mr. Ahmadi usually presides at night.” He made to pick up the telephone, but her voice stopped him.
“They are confidential documents, Mr. Pine.”
“I’m sure Mr. Ahmadi is perfectly dependable.”
“Thank you, I would prefer that we use our own facilities,” she retorted, with a glance at the copier standing on its trolley in the corner. And he knew she had marked it on her journeys through the lobby, just as she had marked him. From the handbag she drew a wad of white paper, bundled but not folded. She slid it across the desk to him, her ringed fingers splayed and rigid
“It’s only a very small copier, I’m afraid, Madame Sophie,’ Jonathan warned, rising to his feet. “You’ll have to hand-feed it. May I show you how, then leave you to yourself.”
“We shall hand-feed it together, please,” she said with an innuendo born of tension.
“But if the papers are confidential . . .”
“You must please attend me. I am a technical idiot. I am not myself.” She picked up her cigarette from the ashtray and drew on it. Her eyes, stretched wide, seemed shocked by her own actions. “You do it, please,” she ordered him.
So he did it. He switched on the machine, inserted them—all eighteen of them—and skim-read them as they reappeared. He made no conscious effort to do this. Also he made no conscious effort to resist. The watcher’s skills had never abandoned him.
From the Ironbrand Land Ore & Precious Metals Company of Nassau to the Hamid InterArab Hotels and Trading Company of Cairo, incoming dated August the twelfth. Hamid InterArab to Ironbrand, outgoing, assurances of personal regard.
Ironbrand to Hamid InterArab again, talk of merchandise and items four to seven on our stock list, end user to be Hamid InterArab’s responsibility and let’s have dinner together on the yacht.
The letters from Ironbrand signed with a right flourish, like a monogram on a shirt pocket. The InterArab copies not signed at all, but the name Said Abu Hamid in oversized capitals below the empty space.
Then Jonathan saw the stock list, and his blood did whatever blood does when it sets the surface of your back tingling and makes you worry how your voice will sound when you next speak: one plain sheet of paper, no signature, no provenance, headed “Stock available as of October 1st 1990.” The items a devil’s lexicon from Jonathan’s unsleeping past.
“Are you sure one copy will be enough?” he inquired with that extra lightness that came to him in crisis, like a clarity of vision under fire.
She was standing with her forearm across her stomach and her elbow cupped in her hand while she smoked and watched him.
“You are adept,” she said. She did not say what in.
“Well, it’s not exactly complicated once you get the hang of it. As long as the paper doesn’t jam.”
He laid the original documents in one pile, the photocopies in another. He had suspended thought. If he had been laying out a dead body he would have blocked his mind in the same way.
He turned to her and said, “Done,” overcasually, a boldness he in no way felt.
“Of a good hotel one asks everything,” she commented. “You have a suitable envelope? Of course you have.”
Envelopes were in the third drawer of his desk, left side. He selected a yellow one, A4 size, and guided it across the desk, but she let it lie there.
“Please put the copies inside the envelope. Then seal the envelope very effectively and put it in your safe. Perhaps you should use some sticky tape. Yes, tape it. A receipt is unnecessary, thank you.”
Jonathan had a specially warm smile for refusal. “Alas, we are forbidden to accept guests packages for safekeeping, Madame Sophie. Even yours. I can give you a deposit box and your own key. That’s t
She was already stuffing the original letters back into her bag as he said this. She snapped the bag shut and hoisted it over her shoulder.
“Do not be bureaucratic with me, Mr. Pine. You have seen the contents of the envelope. You have sealed it. Put your own name on it. The letters are now yours.”
Never surprised by his own obedience, Jonathan selected a red felt-tipped pen from the silver desk stand and wrote PINE in capitals on the envelope.
On your own head be it, he was telling her silently. I never asked for this. I never encouraged it.
“How long do you expect them to remain here, Madame Sophie?” he inquired.
“Perhaps forever, perhaps a night. It is not known. It is like a love affair. Her coquettishness deserted her, and she became the supplicant. “In confidence. Yes? That is understood. Yes?”
He said yes. He said of course. He gave her a smile that suggested he was a tiny bit surprised that the question needed to be raised.
“Mr. Pine.”
“Madame Sophie.”
“Concerning your immortal soul.”
“Concerning it.”
“We are all immortal, naturally. But if it should turn out that I am not, you will please give those documents to your friend Mr. Ogilvey. May I trust you to do that?”
“If that is what you want, of course.”
She was still smiling, still mysteriously out of rhythm with him. “Are you a permanent night manager, Mr. Pine? Always? Every night?”
“It’s my profession.”
“Chosen?”
“Of course.”
“By you?”
“Who else?”
“But you look so well by daylight.”
“Thank you.”
“I shall telephone you from time to time.”
“I shall be honored.”
“Like you, I grow a little tired of sleeping. Please do not escort me.”
And the smell of vanilla again as he opened the door for her and longed to follow her to bed.
Standing to attention in the gloom of Herr Meister’s permanently unfinished grillroom, Jonathan watched himself, a mere walk-on character in his overcrowded secret theater, as he goes methodically to work on Madame Sophie’s papers. For the trained soldier, trained however long ago, there is nothing startling about the call to duty. There is only the automaton’s drill movement from one side of the head to the other.