Free Arcadia by Jim Crace

schoolboys on an outing, making
sure they kept for themselves the fullest glass. They all found a place to rest or sit. Some upturned pots, a wooden bench, some low staging for the plants, made perfect seats. The cats made the
most of the dry and practised hands, the bony laps, the strokes and preening that were on offer. The waitress was a little flustered by the flirting helpful hands which aided her with drinks. The
two stout ladies of the band and their slimmer friend, on the other hand, were serenading this impromptu glasshouse gathering with the smiles and gestures of the most intimate nightclub. ‘To
Victor!’ And someone added, ‘May you grow new teeth.’
    Everybody raised a glass and once again the band squeezed out the Birthday Polka. Everybody sang the words and passed their glasses for more drink. Victor stood to say eight words, no more, of
thanks. ‘Just like the village parties, gentlemen,’ he said, promoting the deceit that he had sap for blood, that he was just a countryman at heart. ‘Your health.’ He looked
out for the second time that day towards the garish awnings of the marketplace. Before he’d had a chance to sit, he added one more toast, ‘Our town!’ He swept his hand towards the
market, as if to wipe the townscape clean. He would have said, if he had been a more loquacious man, ‘Before I die I’d like to clear all that! To start afresh. A marketplace. A building
worthy of our town.’ Instead, he said (he could not help himself), ‘To business, gentlemen.’ Again they lifted glasses up, and drank. ‘I trust your businesses are well. No
problems that you want to talk about?’ No one was in the mood to answer him. They shook their heads and laughed, as if the very thought of problems was a joke.
    ‘Well, then,’ said Victor. ‘That is as it ought to be. Rook’s paid enough by me to solve and settle problems …’
    ‘By us as well …’ The man who spoke had meant it as a joke. He’d never stopped to think before whether Rook’s pitch payments were transactions that he shared with
Victor. Too late to wonder now.
    ‘By you as well?’
    ‘It’s nothing much. A gratuity for everything he does.’
    ‘What does Rook do that is not already funded by his salary?’
    Victor saw discomfort all round. He read it perfectly. No wonder Rook thought the Soap Market was paradise. The market termites droned for him. The man was taking bribes. Victor knew at once
what he must do to this extortionist and how – a timely gift – it served his longterm purpose perfectly. A man like that, a man who served himself before his boss, a man, moreover, who
could not be trusted should a market-renovation plan be contemplated, could not expect to keep his job. There was no wickedness in that. It was a duty for a boss to let the shyster go, just as it
was the task of gardeners to rid themselves of bugs.
    ‘How much exactly do you pay?’ he asked. Again, there were no volunteers to speak. They did not wish to seem the victims of dishonesty, or collaborators in deceit. Victor took a
notebook from his jacket, and a pen. ‘Jot down the size of payment that you make to Rook,’ he said. ‘I would not wish my friends to pay more than they ought.’ Of course,
they did as they were told.
    Downstairs, one floor below, Rook and Anna judged – as all seemed quiet in Victor’s office suite – that the time was right to seat their boss in his birthday chair, amongst the
gleaming foliage, and to raise their glasses in a toast. The chair was carried from the anteroom. The drinks were poured. More champagne, naturally. The chair was placed at the centre of the lobby
outside Victor’s suite where they presumed the birthday lunch was – quietly – still in progress. Rook stood behind the chair, a smile composed already on his face. Anna knocked on
Victor’s door, and entered. The only sound and movement in the room came from the air-conditioning.
    ‘They’ve gone,’ she said to Rook.