It was perhaps a perverse bit of
both, I had agreed to my thought.
I had more or less been expecting
him to contact me. I knew he would
relish in the opportunity to gloat over the way things had turned out for me.
The news of Nkwe’s death six weeks ago had gone viral around the world. Why
Saul had waited this long to see me, I supposed was all part of his big plan to
make the most of my very public fall.
The villa was cool after the heat
of the summer sun and I released my sticky hair from the back of my collar,
rolling my neck and shoulders to try and ease some of the tension that had
gathered there.
The house keeper, an older French
woman called Celeste, came towards me from the main reception room at the foot
of the grand staircase.
'Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez un
visiteur she said and, changing
to English, continued, ‘signor Marcelo
Saul. He said you were expecting him.’
I felt a scuttle like sensation pass across my scalp, like a
tiny panicked feet tripping through my hair. Merci, celeste,’ I said, placing my bag on the nearest surface
with a hand that was almost but not quite steady, ‘but I was led to understand
that he was coming much later’.
The housekeeper raised her hands
in a what- would-I-know? gesture.
He is here now, in there.’ She
pointed to the formal reception room that overlooked the gardens and the port
and sea beyond.
I set my mouth, although my heart
gave another flip-flop-like beat. ‘you
can leave now,’ I said. ‘I will see you in the morning. Bonsoir.’