The realization hits the old beach bum like a cold shower. His chest deflates as he loses interest and wanders off.
Then the French veneration for lunch — déjeuner — from midday until mid-afternoon, wins the rattan mat a breathing space. The halyards and shrouds of yachts sing in the early afternoon breeze like a giant musical extravaganza, then the vent de midi picks up a notch and sends parasols, plastic chairs, and small children on skateboards skidding along the harbour wall. The rattan mat lies unruffled until three o’clock, precisely when an inquest is convened by a holidaying Berliner.
“Is zhis beach mat kaput?” sniggers Bliss to himself from his vantage point on the jetty as the German gathers a small group to surround the antisocial item.
“It has been here since zhis morning,” explains one in English.
“Yes — but precisely when?” the German demands to know.
“Does that matter?”
“Certainly. It is essential.”
“But why would anyone abandon such a beautiful mat?” asks another in French, leaving the German out of the loop.
“Beau?” questions another native. “It is crevé — dead. See, it is limp — not even rigor mortis.”
“But we must know if it was here before nine this morning,” insists the German, attempting to restore his authority by precision. “Then we might assume it is abandoned.”
“Why?”
Because, though nobody will express it, the early morning bathers are a breed apart. Misfits, misshapes, and those burdened with an unruly metabolic system who take the waters before the high achievers arrive in the spotlight of the sun and further batter their bruised egos.
The momentary awkwardness is broken by a young Englishman, with a beer bottle in each hand and a couple of illuminated plastic ducks on his head, making a fool of himself by dancing around the mat, turning the funeral into a wake.
“Get away,” they shout, maddened by his apparent irreverence. Then one utters the unthinkable. “Maybe we should just move it.”
No one will take the risk, so search parties form to scour the beach, and a swimming team volunteers to check the sea. “But what are we to look for?” asks one.
“Un homme, of course. A man.”
“Why not une femme?” pipes up a woman, thrusting her bronzed chest forward, unwilling to allow her gender to be so lightly dismissed simply because of the lack of sunscreen.
“OK. Half will keep a look out for a man, and half will search for a woman,” decides the German, and the meeting breaks as constituents return to their sunbathing with an eye to every potential aberrant mat owner.
Bliss’s amusement is suddenly dimmed with the thought that recently drowned bodies usually float just below the surface, and he worriedly scans the bay for a few minutes, but the bright sun clouds his vision. He considers calling the authorities. But what would he say? Officer — someone’s left a mat on the beach!
The weary sun starts to fade, heading lower towards the craggy red peaks of L’Esterel in the west, and dinner beckons the beach lovers — but they spare a respectful moment as they pass the rattan mat, and take one final look around for its soul mate. Finally, picking up a cue from the mountains, the sun blushes as it sets. The beach is completely deserted and the cerulean sea is perfectly clear. With no possibility of a claimant challenging him, Bliss gathers up the mat and bundles it under his arm, thinking he has had such an enjoyable interlude he might bring it back one day, and on his way home to the apartment he laughs inwardly at the thought that everybody has spent the day searching for someone who had simply discarded an old mat. Then he stops with the realization that the situation offers an ideal solution to his dilemma.
What if he, like the mat’s owner, were to disappear, buying a yacht and simply sailing away? But where to? That might be tricky, he admits, realizing his only previous nautical experience involved a rowing boat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. But he wouldn’t need to sail anywhere, that is the crux of the plan — just like the rattan mat, the yacht would be crewless — a modern-day Mary Celeste.
However, by the time he reaches the apartment he has all but given up on the idea, having realized both the limitations and complications, and, wineglass in hand, he leans over the balcony to watch the moon rising from the sea at the start of yet another spotless evening.
The lemon, catching the first rays of moonlight, is still there, still sitting on the grass, ownerless and neglected just like the rattan mat. But — Bliss brightens as his germ of an idea undergoes a resurgence of growth — there is a crucial difference: everyone on the beach saw the mat, but, as far as he is aware, no one but him knows the lemon is there. And if no one knows it’s there — does it exist?
I don’t need a yacht, he tells himself, seeing his plan beginning to blossom. I only need certain people to believe I have a yacht — a yacht that, like me, has disappeared.
The logic of the plan is so simple that he questions its viability. “What a stir it’ll cause,” he muses, envisioning Commander Richards and Chief Superintendent Edwards scrambling to find him and his yacht before Richards is forced to lay out some sort of explanation to the commissioner and the press. And in the meantime he can quietly continue his enquiries into Morgan Johnson.
The plan seems flawless as he runs and reruns it in his mind. If this doesn’t flush out the bad guys nothing will, he realizes, judging his disappearance cannot be entirely ignored — even convalescent leave has its limitations. But, in order for it to have any effect, he will need to draw attention to his apparent disappearance. No one has contacted him during his first two weeks — but isn’t that their plan? Out of sight …
What if he closes his bank account so his monthly transfer is returned to the admin office? he thinks, then shakes his head. No, they’ll assume it’s an error and contact Commander Richards. He will assure them there is no problem. It could be months before someone starts asking questions and demanding answers — unless Samantha were to warm them up by putting a worried call in to the administration department. “I haven’t been able to get hold of my dad since he told me he was going sailing,” she can say, with all the innocence of a defence lawyer asking a deviously loaded question in a major trial. And someone in admin will be on the phone to Richards wanting to know what’s going on. “According to our records this man’s off sick. How come his daughter doesn’t know? And what’s this about a yacht?”
That would work, he thinks, but what’s the downside? An international search and rescue operation, perhaps. It’ll be a good training exercise for someone, he reasons, then seriously considers the possible repercussions such an escapade could have on his career.
There are two possible scenarios, and both see him coming out ahead. If the Morgan Johnson case turns out to be genuine, he pops up and says, “What’s all the fuss about? Of course you couldn’t find me, I was working undercover — what did you expect?” But if the malfeasance of Morgan Johnson is a put-up job, then he surfaces and drops everyone in the shit — Edwards, Richards, and anyone else he can put the finger on.
But what about Commander Richards? Knowing the truth, what possible recourse could he have?
“You specifically ordered me not to tell anyone where I was,
