to borrow money from Doreen – all right, Diana – to fly pregnant leopards from the war zone in East Timor to a zoo in Australia. Darwin, if I remember right.
‘I’m sorry. What did he die of?’
‘I was just having a good weep when you interrupted me.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Alone. He had taken up the cause of some aborigines near Alice Springs. Just think, a brother of mine to go and die in Australia.’
‘I don’t suppose he could help it.’
‘But Australia… How degrading!’ Sob. Sob.
‘It sounds romantic to me.’ I was trying to cheer her up – always my role where women were concerned. ‘Just imagine the abbo funeral. Didgeridoos wailing across the burning outback, dancing, fire, wallabies roasting on a spit, liquor consumed, screams, mass fornication… An ideal way of being sent off – better than a bloody church service…’
‘Oh, you’re so cruel, you wretch!’
Her phone clicked off. I remembered she was a bit on the religious side. I could but chuckle.
I had been contemplating writing a novel about my life with Diana Coventry when the better idea of Saint Anna came along. Well, I thought it was better. I sent an outline of the story to my agent, old Welling-Jones. True, there was the annoyance of this idea intruding itself upon a lazy Cretan package holiday, but one is fortunate when an idea arrives at all, no matter how inconveniently.
Kathi was sitting by the stern of the yacht when Archie Langstreet returned, wearing a new pair of blue velvet slacks and a white T-shirt without inscription. She had her evening glass of vodka and lime by her right hip. Every now and again she glanced at a portable TV set, by her naked feet, where two men and a woman were clinging to the face of a mountain in a howling gale.
She greeted Langstreet warmly and switched off the set. He kissed her cheek.
‘Have you eaten, darling?’ she asked.
‘No, no. Where’s Cliff?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Where is he?’
‘You ought to eat something. He’s with his Scandish blonde, isn’t he?’
Langstreet grunted. ‘Kathi, I’ve made an amazing find. A crude painting of the infant Jesus being suckled, not by the Virgin Mary, but by his aunt. I came across it in a chapel up in the hills. Eight centuries old. Part of the Christian legend the Christians appear to have forgotten.’
She laughed, switching off the television set. ‘A bit of blasphemy? A schism within the holy ranks?’
‘I’m given to understand that it’s a neglected part of holy legend. Certainly the family who owned the chapel believed in Anna and reverenced her.’
‘Oh, there can’t be a jot of truth in it, surely. It’s like Max Ernst’s famous painting of the BVM giving young Jesus a good walloping!’
He sat down on the deck beside her, being careful to place a newspaper underneath him to protect the white of his canvas trousers.
‘The story can be authenticated. That I mean to do. You must take this seriously, Kathi, my dear. If it is true, it is very touching. It seems that, according to my guide, the Virgin Mary’s milk ran dry, so auntie took over.’
She sat there frowning, drawing her knees up to her chest.
‘Does the guide believe this to be true?’
‘He doesn’t know much about it. He claims there is only one other such painting in the world – apparently in Bulgaria or Romania.’
Kathi chuckled. ‘Can you see her tits?’
‘One breast protrudes. It’s very modest.’
Laughing, she said, ‘Pity you didn’t come across a painting of the Virgin Mary showing her tits!’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘That would never be permitted. It’s no laughing matter. You’re being indecent. I must speak to a local priest and find out more about the subject. The painting is clearly something of a rarity, and should be preserved. There it is, rotting in a stone shack in an olive grove.’
She remained silent for a while, or else was listening to the lap of water against the sides of the boat.
‘It’s an ikon, is it?’
‘No. An ikon would most likely have been stolen long ago. It’s a wall painting or a fresco.’
She said slowly, ‘An ikon would have been better. You could have used it, couldn’t you? I mean, against bloody Nentelstam.’
Archie Langstreet and his wife were taking a vacation while his lawyers in Geneva sought to amass the final sheaf of documents in a legal battle of long-standing. As a senior official in the WHO, Langstreet had been assigned to see the case through. His official title was Director of ACDW (Against Commercialisation of the Developing World). The case was due to come to court in November, after three years’ work. Nentelstam had done everything in its power to delay and muddle the issue. Langstreet was dedicated to concluding the case, and winning it, before his retirement.
Nentelstam was well known for selling its formula powdered milk to mothers in the Third World. That breast-feeding obviated the danger of many diseases and the risks of becoming pregnant again was considered by the powerful international company to be none of their business. If Langstreet hated anyone, it was the faceless Nentelstam corporation, with its ruthless drive to open up more markets.
New scientific evidence had recently come to light, fortifying his case against the corporation.
He told his wife now that no ikon was going to make Nentelstam change its mind or its policies.
‘But an ikon of Jesus being breast-fed,’ Kathi urged.
‘There’s no ikon, my dear.’
‘So you said. But wouldn’t it be a powerful persuader for your cause? “Breast-feeding could turn your son into a Saviour…” ’ She sketched the sentence in the evening sky with a finger. ‘Don’t you see, Archie? If there were an ikon, it could be reproduced all over the world.’
‘It’s a good idea, Kathi. Brilliant, now I come to think of it. But – if there were an ikon… Only there’s not.’
‘If there were an ikon – ’
‘If there were an ikon?’ He regarded her grimly, not smiling.
She stood up. ‘We’ll go shopping in the morning.’
Cliff was up early next day. The sound of his singing in the shower woke Kathi. She slept naked. Drawing a silk robe about her, she went on deck to survey the scene. Distantly, two fishing boats had drawn in, and there were men working at the nets. The boats were painted light blue, with eyes under the raised prows. Otherwise, the harbour was deserted. The sky was overcast with light mackerel cloud. A breeze
