Errantry: Strange Stories (35 page)

Since then, she had been in the habit of visiting Uncle Lou once a month or so, when his travels brought him home. He would disappear for months at a time and, when he returned, always answered her questions as to his whereabouts by placing a finger to his lips.

His peripatetic lifestyle had slowed in the last decade, so she now saw him more often. He was a travel writer, creator of the popular
World by Night
series.
Budapest by Night
had been his first, unexpected bestseller, quickly spawning
Paris by Night
,
London by Night
,
Marseilles by Night
,
Vienna by Night
and so on ad infinitum. This was in the 1960s and early 1970s, when the world was much larger and far more exotic. Bohemian tourism was just gaining a toehold in the travel industry, fueled by rumors of Bryon Gysin’s pilgrimage to Jakarta with Brian Jones to observe whirling dervishes, and the legions of hippies decamping to Katmandu to eat yak butter whilst negotiating a drug deal.

Yet no matter how obscure or remote a place, Uncle Lou had been there before you, and already returned to his flat in Pallis Mews to bash out an account of where to find the best all-night noodle shop in Bangkok; or a black-market mushroom stall beneath the catacombs in Rome; or a Stockholm voyeurs’ club masquerading as a film society devoted to works that featured the forgotten silent movie star Sigrid Blau.

“Doesn’t he ever feel guilty?” Nina’s mother had once asked her. Lou was her husband’s much-older brother; he had been in the War, and afterward spent several years in Eastern Europe, where his activities were unknown but remained the object of much speculation by Nina’s parents. He had returned to London sporting a beard and a newly-fashionable mane of long hair. The beard was not a permanent affectation—Uncle Lou had been clean-shaven before the War, yet afterward was remarkably hirsute, shaving at least once and sometimes twice a day. But he kept the flowing black hair, which became a trademark of his author photos.

Nina’s mother had always found him “showy,” her code word for homosexual, though Uncle Lou in fact was a notorious ladies man.

Nina had frowned at her mother’s question. “Guilty about what?”

“About promoting criminal activities?”

“He’s not promoting anything,” said Nina. “The things he writes about help the local economy.”

“I suppose that’s what you call it,” her mother sniffed, and returned to her delphiniums.

This afternoon, early October sunlight washed across the cobblestone walk leading to Pallis Mews. Uncle Lou’s vintage Aston Martin DB4 was parked out front beneath a green tarpaulin, with an impasto of bird droppings that suggested it had not been driven in some time. Pale yellow leaves had banked up against the front door to the flat, and Nina plucked a torn plastic bag from the ivy and clematis vines that covered the brick wall.

She had never visited Uncle Lou without an invitation by telephone or, these days, email. The summons was always precise, for late afternoon or early evening; this one had read
Drop by 5:15 Thursday 19th
. In his kitchen, Uncle Lou had a large wall calendar, a sort of scroll, with the phases of the moon marked on it and myriad jottings in his fine, minuscule penmanship, indicating the exact hour and minute in which various meetings had been scheduled. At home he never met with more than one visitor at a time; the nature of his work was solitary as well as nocturnal.

When she was still in her teens, Nina had once arrived ten minutes early. She could hear Uncle Lou inside, washing dishes as he listened to Radio 2, and even glimpsed him strolling past the front window to turn the music down. But the door did not open until the appointed time.

Today it opened even before she could knock.

“Nina, dear.” Her uncle smiled and beckoned her inside. “You look lovely. Watch that pile there, I haven’t got them out to the bin yet.”

Nina sidestepped a heap of newspapers as he closed the door. Uncle Lou had always been meticulous, even fussy. He’d employed a cleaning woman who came once a week to keep the white Floti rugs spotless and arrange the kilim pillows neatly on the white leather sofa and matching chairs; to straighten the Hockney painting and make sure the Dansk dishes were in their cupboards.

But several years ago, the cleaning woman had moved to Brighton to be closer to her grandchildren. Uncle Lou hadn’t bothered to find someone new, and the flat had developed the defiantly unkempt air of a clubgoer who knows she is too old to wear transparent vinyl blouses, even with a camisole beneath, but continues to do so anyway.

“I know, it’s a bit of a mess.” Uncle Lou sighed and bent to pick up a stray newspaper that was attempting escape, and set it back atop the stack with a hand that trembled slightly. His Moroccan slippers flapped around his bony feet, gold tassels gone and curled toes sadly flattened. “But it’s so expensive now to find anyone. Come on in, dear, do you want a drink?”

“No thanks. Or yes, well, if you’re going to have something.”

Uncle Lou leaned over to graze her cheek with a kiss. He hadn’t shaved, and she noted an alarming turquoise blister—actually, a blob of toothpaste—on his neck.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and shuffled into the kitchen.

While he got drinks, Nina wandered into his office, a brick-walled space covered with bookshelves that held copies of the
By Night
books in dozens, perhaps hundreds, of various translations. There were more untidy stacks here, of unopened mail that had not yet made its way onto Uncle Lou’s desk.

She glanced at one of the envelopes. Its postal date was a month previous. She looked over her shoulder, and hastily flipped through more envelopes, finding some dated back to the spring. At the sound of Uncle Lou’s footsteps in the hall she turned quickly and went to meet him.

“Thanks.” She took the martini glass he offered her—it was clean, at least—and raised it to
ting
against his.

“Chin chin,” said Uncle Lou.

She walked with him to the dining room, which overlooked a good-sized courtyard. Years ago Uncle Lou had let the outside space revert to a tangle of mulberry bushes, etiolated plane trees, and ground ivy. It would have made a nice dog run, but Uncle Lou had never kept a dog. There were signs of some kind of animals rooting around—foxes, probably, which were common in Hampstead, though Nina had never caught a whiff of their distinctive musky scent.

They settled at the dining table. Uncle Lou set out a plate of olives and some slightly stale biscuits. They drank and chatted about a travel piece in last week’s
Guardian,
a noisy dog in Nina’s neighborhood, people they knew in common.

“Have you heard from Valerie Minton ?” asked Nina. She finished her drink and nibbled at an olive. “You haven’t mentioned her for a while.”

Uncle Lou sighed. “Oh dear, very sad. I guess I forgot to tell you. She died in March. A heart thing—a blessing, really. She had that early-onset Alzheimer’s.” He downed the rest of his martini and set the empty glass beside hers. “Here’s a piece of good advice: don’t get old.”

“Oh, Uncle Lou.” Nina hugged him. “You’re not old.”

But that of course was a lie. She could feel how thin he’d gotten, and frail. And the flat was all too clearly becoming a burden in terms of upkeep.

She grasped his hand and stared at him. His long hair was white, thinner than it had been. His face was lined, but a lifetime of keeping late hours had saved him from skin-damaging ultraviolet rays and preserved a certain youthful suppleness. With his high cheekbones, stark blade of a nose and cleft chin, he might have been an aging actor, with eyes a disconcerting shade of amber, so pale they appeared almost colorless in strong light. The theatrical effect was heightened by his wardrobe, which this afternoon consisted of an embroidered India-print shirt over wide-wale corduroy trousers that had once been canary yellow but had faded to the near-white of lemon pith, and the heavy silver ring he always wore on his right pointer finger.

The ring wobbled now as that finger shook, scolding her. “I am older than old, Nina. Older than God, who has never forgiven me for it.”

Nina laughed, and he turned to gaze wistfully out into the courtyard. How old
was
Uncle Lou? In his eighties, at least. Many of his old friends were dead; others had moved to live with their children, or into retirement communities. Nina’s own flat was too small for another person; she could move in with him, she supposed, but she knew Uncle Lou wouldn’t hear of it. A few years earlier, he had sold the By Night trademark and backlist to a web entrepreneur for an impressive sum. Perhaps he could be encouraged to look into one of those posh facilities where elderly people of means lived?

She wouldn’t bring it up this afternoon, but made a mental note to do some research herself into what was available near Hampstead.

Uncle Lou squeezed her hand. “Do you feel up to a walk on the Heath?”

Nina nodded. “Great idea.”

They strolled along a path that meandered over a gentle rise crowned by an ancient oak. There were always families with young children here, and lots of dogs off leash.

“Uh-oh,” said Nina, as a silken-furred red setter came bounding toward them. She moved protectively to his side. “Incoming . . .”

Dogs behaved in a peculiar fashion around Uncle Lou. Those that had previously encountered him acted as the setter did now: as it drew near, it dropped to its belly and inched toward him, whining softly, tail wagging madly.

Strange dogs, however, barked or snarled, ears pressed tight against their skulls and tails held low, and often fled before Uncle Lou could hold out his hand and make reassuring
cht cht
sounds that Nina could barely hear.

“Hello there.” Uncle Lou stopped and gazed down at the setter, smiling. His knees bent slightly and he winced as he reached to touch the dog’s forehead. “Conor, isn’t it? Good dog.”

At the old man’s touch the setter scrambled to its feet and danced around him, ears flapping.

“Sorry, sorry!” A man rushed up and grasped the dog’s collar, clipping a leash onto it. “Don’t want him to knock you over!”

Uncle Lou shook his head. “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. Would you, Conor?”

He stooped to take the dog’s head between his hands and gazed into its eyes. The setter grew absolutely still, as though it sensed a game bird nearby; then dropped to its belly, head cocked as it stared up at Uncle Lou.

“Well, he likes you, doesn’t he?” The man patted the setter’s head, smiling. “Come on then, Conor. Let’s go.”

Nina waved as the man strode off, the setter straining at the leash. Uncle Lou stood beside her, watching until the two figures disappeared into the trees. He turned to his niece, nodding as though all this had occurred according to some plan.

“I’d like you to accompany me to an event.” He gestured at the path, indicating they should begin to head back home. “If you’re not too busy.”

“Of course,” said Nina. “Where is it?”

“At the zoo.”

“The zoo?” Nina looked over in surprise. Uncle Lou had always been far more likely to invite his niece to attend a clandestine midnight gathering of political dissidents or artists, than to suggest a visit to the zoo.

“Yes. The Whipsnade Zoo, not Regents Park, so we’ll have to drive up to Dunstable. A fundraiser for a new building, a home for endangered fruit bats I think, or maybe it’s kiwis? Something nocturnal, anyway. There’ll be press around, the local gentry, maybe a few minor celebrities. You know the sort of thing. Someone in the PR department obviously thought it would be amusing if I was in attendance. You can be my date.”

He slipped his arm into hers, and Nina laughed. “Sure. Sounds like fun. When is it? Do I need to dress up?”

“Next Wednesday. I believe the invitation says to wear black. Not very imaginative. But you always look lovely, dear.”

They’d reached the Pallis Mews flat. Uncle Lou paused to pluck a clematis blossom from the ivy-covered wall, and turned to poke its stem through a buttonhole in Nina’s jacket. “There. Purple is your color, isn’t it? Thank you for dropping by.”

He kissed her cheek and Nina embraced him, hugging him tightly. “I’ll see you next week.”

Uncle Lou nodded, long white hair stirring in the evening breeze, and walked unsteadily back inside.

The following week Nina showed up at the appointed quarter-hour, 4:45. A bit earlier than customary for Uncle Lou, but they wanted to allow plenty of time for rush hour traffic on the M1. Out front, the tarp had been removed from the Aston Martin, which gleamed like quicksilver in the twilight.

“Hello, darling, don’t you look marvelous!” exclaimed Uncle Lou as she stepped into the flat. “I haven’t seen that dress before, have I? Lovely.”

He kissed her cheek, and she noticed his own cheeks were flushed and his tawny eyes bright.

“You look lovely, too,” she said, laughing. “Is there some ulterior motive for this event? Am I the beard for an assignation?”

For an instant Uncle Lou appeared alarmed, but then he shook his head.

“No.” He made a show of straightening his velvet jacket, a somewhat frayed black paisley with silver embroidery. “It’s been a while since I was out and about, that’s all. And I need to be worthy of
you
, of course.”