15 A Terrace on the Watergate Walk
A Terrace on the Watergate Walk
Gina knew the assignment she’d given Biel wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t something you could do overnight.
But all things considered, a week had already gone by since he’d started, and he still had no results.
Even worse, there was no information, either.
Every so often—whether she was running on the gym treadmill, curled up on her sofa at home, or teaching a class on light in Piero della Francesca to fifty university slackers who were only interested in their phones—a wave would hit her.
She thought she couldn’t let another night go by without calling Biel in London to ask if he’d managed to speak to Mark.
No news, good news, she tried to convince herself.
But she knew it wasn’t always true. In this case, the anxiety brought on by the lack of news was starting to irritate her.
And then, just then, one Tuesday in October, in the absolute darkness of half past eight, in the professors’ parking lot at the faculty of art history, just as she’d started the car after a two-hour seminar with a group of third-years, her phone rang.
Biel Santos. Seeing her lawyer friend’s name on the screen, she turned off the radio, the headlights, and the engine again.
“Tell me you found him.”
“Jesus, Gina, don’t you even say hello anymore?”
“Tell me you have . . .”
“Yes, yes, yes.” He was pleased but not as pleased as she was. He let her hear it.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing . . .” He needed time to explain.
“Something is going on. I know you.”
“Honestly, he doesn’t seem like the same person you described.
Not even close. If we’re talking about Mark Granger, he’s sincerely a man on his last legs.
He’s not even sixty, you were right, but he’s already hung up his hat.
And from what I’ve seen, and I assure you we spent a good amount of time together at Gordon’s, I don’t think he’ll pick it back up ever again.
He probably has a reason, but I was only able to find that out later.
It was actually hard just to locate him, find him, and meet up with him.
The leads you gave me were accurate, but they were scarce and out of date.
You told me he worked as a bus driver in London.
It was a good starting point, but the moment I began the search everything became silent and mysterious.
It was easy to figure out who ran the buses.
Transport for London contracts Stagecoach Bus, which is the company that keeps the staff on payroll.
I asked about a driver, Mark Granger, with no other information, and I got nowhere over the phone.
I didn’t have much more luck online or over email.
After a week of trying, I went in person, and it was even worse.
They didn’t trust me. ‘Why do you want to know? Who are you? Don’t you know our workers have a right to privacy? Where do you think we are? Spain?’
“And there I was, being scolded like I was asking who killed Kennedy.
They genuinely made me feel bad and everything.
In the end I left the office and opted for a more direct route.
I waited at a bus stop near the end of the line and tried to speak to a driver who was using his five-minute break to smoke a cigarette.
Nobody knew him or could tell me anything about him.
Mark Granger, they said, is a very common name.
“Only one woman, a driver on Route 15 who spat like a man, could give me a clue.
“‘Mark Granger? He rings a bell.’ She thought for five seconds. ‘Do you know if he’s missing a finger?’
“‘Yes, yes. That has to be him.’
“‘Then you won’t find him here anymore. I think the company made him go on pension early.’
“‘Do you know where I can find him?’
“‘No idea, mate. Try a pub.’
“She spat on the ground, got back on the 15, and started the route over again.
“Lacking more precise directions, I tried to go through my colleagues. I looked up Stagecoach’s lawyer and introduced myself.
I came up with a story about there being an inheritance in Barcelona, and declared we had to locate Mark Granger at all costs for his own good.
He scrunched his nose. I suppose he sniffed out the lie, but he stood up, left me alone in the little visitors’ room where he’d welcomed me, and remained standing when he came back.
He simply placed a scrap of paper with a phone number on it.
“‘I didn’t give you anything.’
“‘No, no. You and I didn’t meet.’
“‘Granger doesn’t work here anymore.’
“And he left without shaking my hand or telling me why Mark was no longer a bus driver. I called Mark from that same little room at Stagecoach, but he didn’t pick up. I tried again that afternoon. No luck. That night, though, around ten, he answered.
“‘Mark Granger? Listen, I—’
“‘I’m not up for bollocks. What the hell do you want?’
“‘I’d like to talk—’
“‘Who are you?’
“‘My name is Biel Santos. I’m a lawyer for—’
“‘Lawyers are useless.’
“He didn’t sound drunk to me. Or especially out of it. Plenty of sober people think that way about our profession. And just as I thought he was going to hang up, I played my trump card, in desperation.
“‘Paulina Homs! I’m calling on behalf of Paulina, a girl you met in Salou, some years ago. Well, you met her in Barcelona, but I understand you went to Salou for a few days . . . Mark?’
“He didn’t say anything. Surprise, or nostalgia, or the strain of remembering kept him from speaking. I could hear him breathing, but that was all. Finally, he spoke up.
“‘I don’t want any more problems. What happened?’
“‘No, no. Nothing. She’s fine.’
“‘So what do you want?’
“‘To meet and talk about her, on her behalf. She has a question for you. I’m in London, and we could—’
“‘Tomorrow. Gordon’s on Villiers. Six o’clock.’
“And he hung up.
“It turned out Villiers was a street. A narrow, dark passage that runs from Charing Cross to the Victoria Embankment Gardens, near the river. I’d been through it before, but I’d never stopped to look at its name.
It’s a street that doesn’t allow cars but is full of foot traffic, flustered people rushing up and down from one Underground stop to another.
You don’t exactly need to be Watson to guess it, but Gordon’s was a pub near Rudyard Kipling’s house.
That much I had noticed, because there was one of those round blue plaques so typical of London that said he lived there from who knows when until he died.
From the street, Gordon’s looks like nothing more than a wall completely painted black, an old-fashioned pub wall.
The moment you get close, it smells like beer and dog piss.
It’s the kind of dive you and I would never walk into.
But there I was at six o’clock, pint in hand.
“Mark walked in on my third sip. His hair wasn’t black, his features weren’t sharp, he wasn’t toned.
If I’d only had your description, I wouldn’t have recognized him.
Just so you know, Mark Granger has turned into a bald man with a double chin and sadness in his eyes.
A quick glance at his fingers was enough to confirm I had the right man.
He picked up his mug with one hand and a handful of almonds with the other.
“‘Come on. You can’t smoke in here.’
“I followed him outside. He walked with slumped shoulders. He led me to an open alley that looked more like a private path. Gordon’s has a terrace on Watergate Walk, an even narrower damp and shadowy path.
You can’t even fit three people standing next to each other.
Even less so, with the pub tables lining one side of the path.
We sat at one, set our beers down, and your friend arranged the almonds in a single line.
You can’t imagine how filthy that tabletop was.
“‘Did Paulina get married?’
“‘No, no.’
“It took everything in me not to say, ‘Actually, the person you were really with in Salou was Gina’—that is, you—‘but she was pretending to be her mother because you’d showed up with Paulina’s business card.
To play along, to not break the spell, she never found the moment to tell you the truth.
’ But I didn’t say it there at Gordon’s.
It was hard, though, not to slip up and talk about you using a name aside from Gina.
“‘Does she have children?’
“‘No. No, she doesn’t.’
“‘At eighteen she was a doll. A perfect body . . .’
“And forgive me, but I had to agree with him on that point. But Mark Granger isn’t a playboy anymore, or a happy man, or funny like you say he was in Salou twenty years ago. Your seducer can’t look up from his feet now. And I’m not surprised.
“‘Is something wrong?’ I asked him.
“‘For me?’
“He was silent. We were surrounded only by office workers performing their daily after-work ritual.
“‘Yes,’ he finally said. And then, ‘Did you come on behalf of Paulina to ask me how I’m doing?’
“‘No. But I can tell you—’
“‘Want me to tell you? You want to know what’s wrong with me?’ He took a long drink. ‘Their names are Anthony, Jamie, Giles, Marie, Miriam, Shahara, Neetu, Sam, Shyanuja, Anat, Philip, William, and Gladys—mean anything to you? They’re my problems.’
“I lost track of the names. He recited them in a row from memory without hesitation. When he finished, he swallowed two whole almonds.
“‘I saw all thirteen of them die, right in front of me. You don’t know who they are, do you?’
“‘Should I?’
“‘On July 7, I was assigned Route 30. It runs from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch. What do you actually know about me?’
“‘Honestly, very little.’
“‘I’m guessing you know I’m a bus driver.’
“‘Yes, yes. That’s what Gi . . . what Paulina told me.’