Cuban heels.

I am truly buggered. Tied up. No freedom of movement, no laptop, a bunch of dubious characters and no idea what they do next. A proper writer, somebody like John Le Carre for instance, would know how to get out of this predicament. He would use some literary device or perhaps a distracting anecdote. But it’s all a bit too much for me at the moment. Mental laziness my old headmaster would say but he’s long dead.
This Nigel person is a real tit. He just keeps rabbiting on……

“You make me sick Headley. Totally selfish. You were in Haiti right after the hurricane. You could have donated your boat to help with disaster relief but did you? Oh no. You were on your way to Cuba selling mechanical cane-cutters to Castro.

There’s some truth in that actually. It’s funny how it came about. Oscar had got wind of some used cane-cutters in Dominica. I was in Havana staying at the Hotel Nacional when I got a phone call. I had left a message at the Ministry of Agriculture.
“Senor Branson? You are Richard Branson?”
“No. I’m Dick Headley.”
“But you know Senor Branson?”
“We’ve met.”
“A taxi will call for you at 7 o’clock this evening.”
That was it. No explanation.

​

​It wasn’t a taxi. It was a jeep. Fidel was driving.
“Welcome to Cuba Senor Ricardo,” he says,“today is my birthday.”
This is all very strange.
“Felicidades.” I say as we drive to his house in Vedado where I’m frisked for notebooks and tape recorders. (They missed one. Taking a bit of a chance I know but it was a historic moment and I needed some stuff for the blog.)
"Thank you Rico. Seventy-nine! Not bad eh? What brings you here?"
It was his idea for me to come but I keep my mouth shut.
“Something to do with Richard Branson and a new London/Havana route was it?”
"Ah yes," says Fidel, "the new Virgin route. What do you think of this Branson fellow Ricky?"
"Dick. Well Fidel," I say, "He's always been straight with me." I don't mention it looks like Sir Richard may be having second thoughts about hosting this year's Headley Convention. I'm having second thoughts about the thing myself tell the truth.
"Richard's a gambler," I say, "and he likes starting new things. Wouldn’t surprise me if he builds a spaceship one of these days."
“Amazing. The Russians were first into space of course. When Sputnik 1 was launched I was in the Sierra Madre. We used to watch it crossing the night sky. Regular as clockwork. That’s what socialism can do. Very enterprising fellow this Branson. How far can one trust these capitalist entrepreneur types Dick?"
"Well Fidel," I say, "I think Sir Richard is better than most. He has good connections. He even knows Tony Blair and between them I think they will tell George Bush to get stuffed. Privately of course."
"Blair is the one that worries me," Says Fidel, "there is something a bit flakey about him. He reminds me of a sort of manic boy-scout master. Or a sixth-form prefect in one of those strange English schools.”
Well I had to disagree there. I personally always find Tony very reasonable and convincing. Who doesn't? He exudes reasonableness and conviction, not to mention decency and commonsense. And it's not for me to comment on what Saddam Husein is up to is it? If Tone says they have WMD that's good enough for me. But Fidel has that Foxy look on his face so I keep my thoughts to myself. We're sitting on a verandah behind his house and he's got this bloody great cigar stuck in his gob. It's the size of a small fence post and he's puffing away and I'm waiting for it to explode. The good news is the mosquitoes are choking to death left and right. I consider asking Fidel about the missile crisis but decide against it.
"How's your friend Oscar doing?" Fidel asks.
"Oh he's fine. Still pissed off because he can't come here."
"Not my fault Dick. He should get an EU passport. Anyway it's good to see you. Do you have everything you need at the Hotel Nacional? OK for rum are you? Chicas?"
I tell Fidel I'm fine thank you. Plenty of chicas in the bar as usual. I also tell him I think the Virgin flights would certainly help the tourist business but he better keep the prices up or he'll be swamped with lager louts. Havana will be like Prague.
"Which reminds me Fidel" I say, "I have been hearing stories about changes in the Havana sex trade. Casas particulares in particular?"
"Es verdad Dick." says Fidel, "The girls along the Malecon are getting too saucy and we have to do something. Liberalization is all very well but you know how they are....give them an inch and they take a yard. As I said to my friend Oliver Stone, the famous film director, none of us are getting any younger."
"Oliver himself is on the verge of senility if you ask me." I said.
"Yes poor Oliver. It's the drugs I think. And that 'Alexander' thing bombed which didn't help. But don't forget Dick, Oliver is an artist. For him film-making is a bit like being God."
"Didn't know you believed in God Fidel?"
"Watch it Dick. Sounds like you’re taking the piss."
"Sorry Fidel. Just asking. Have a look at this by the way."
Before I left BVI I foolishly told Oscar about my trip. “Ah-hah,” says he,”off to see El Presidente is it. See if you can interest him in some mechanical cane-cutters.”
Thus it was during a lull in my conversation with Fidel I pulled out a few brochures for him to look at.

“What’s this then Dick?” he says.
“Mechanical cane-cutters Fidel. They will speed things up.”
Well I knew right away I’d made a mistake. There was a billow of smoke and I thought he was going to choke. “You must be fucking joking Dick!” he says. “Mechanical cane-cutters! You want to put half the population out of work? I’ll have a revolution on my hands!”
He's still sharp. I sense bodyguards lurking in the shrubbery and decide it might be time to go. It had been a pleasant evening there on the verandah of Fidel's Vedado mansion watching the bats flit through the banyan trees in pursuit of moths and listening to the croaking of the myriad frogs in the undergrowth. But I didn't want to push my luck. I didn't care much for the cigar smoke either tell the truth. If he wants to see another birthday he should give them up. I kept my thoughts to myself.

Of Human Bondage.

Cut a long story short we hit an old chest. Then everything went black. When I come to I’m tied to a chair in Oscar’s living room. Blackjack and Lambert are sitting on the sofa watching me.
“That one there is Headley,” said Lambert, “Got a blog. Thinks he’s funny. The other dude is some old pervert who owns this island, says he does anyway. He sneered at my artwork. Can’t believe half what they say…these old geezers live in a fantasy world.”
“I think you have talent,” I said.
“Oh sure you do. In a patronizing way. Don’t come the altruist with me Headley.”
 
The treasure chest has been opened and I can see gold coins. Like a Disney prop. If they’re real they must be worth millions.
 
“What the fuck’s going on?” I ask.
“Hallo Dick,” says another bloke I hadn’t noticed before. He has matted hair, nose rings, a little goatee beard and the usual Thai tattoos.
“Who are you? “
“Nigel.”
“Nigel who? There’s no Nigel in this blog.”
“Don’t you remember me? I came in your bar one time in Pattaya and you made fun of me. Called me a U2 fan. That’s an ad hominem attack.”
“If you say so.”
 
“We’ll never get away with this.” said Blackjack.
“That’s my line.” I cut in.
“Shut up, both of you,” says Nigel, “and stop all this negativity. You Headley you prick you can wipe that smile off your face.”
“You’d look good with a bazooka round up your ass” says Oscar.
“Typical militaristic thinking,” says Nigel, “watching too many Rambo movies that’s your trouble.”
“I like those movies,” say Jack.
“Did you ever keep pythons Jack”, I ask.
“No, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Taking the piss more likely,” says Nigel. “I know you Headley. We’re going to weigh you down with diving gear then we’re going to sink your boat. ….”
“Wait a minute, says Blackjack, “that sounds a bit heavy to me.”
“… with you and Oscar on it. We’ll make it look like accident. Then we’re off to Pattaya with your treasure.”
“What about the girls?”
“We’re keeping them.” says Jack.
“No we’re not,” says Nigel. “We’re setting them free. What’s the problem Dicky boy? Does it bother you what happens to your harem?”
“Well I have a sensitive side you know,” says I.
“Sensitive side! That’s a laugh,” says Nigel. “You are full of shit Headley. Sailing your fantasy yacht around the Caribbean. Posting your deep insights into human nature on obscure blogs! Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you think anybody’s interested in your opinions? You’re disgusting. I’ve been going back through some of your old posts and I see a lot of racist stuff in there. What do you have to say about that? It’s one thing to make jokes about Tracey Emin but accusing Lambert of shagging her in a tent is pure racial stereotyping to my mind. I suppose you think it’s funny but do you have any idea how hurtful that kind of talk can be?”
“Fuck off,” I say, “It was Lambert who told me about the tent.”
“That’s outrageous.” Says Lambert. “You think I’d spend a week in a tent with some….”
“Some what Lambert? Nearly slipped there didn’t you mate. Anyway I saw the photos remember? You were quite proud of it. And besides I was discussing Tracey’s art so it was a critique and I can say what I want because it’s just my opinion.”
“Oh sure,” says Nigel, "that is so typical. Hide behind the old ‘it’s just my opinion’ argument. Anyone can say that.Admit it Headley, you are culturally insensitive.”
 
“Not to mention racist.” Says Lambert.
 
“We’ll never get away with it.” says Blackjack again.
“Bloody hell,” says Nigel, “I thought you were tough.” 
 
Fuck me I’m thinking, they’re all nuts. Oscar’s gone quiet. Not surprising. He’s all trussed up and they’ve strapped a ping-pong ball in his gob. Looks a right twit. I suppose I don’t look much better. We must look like a couple of Japanese secretaries. Anybody wandering in would think we were making a bukkake video.
 
I can hear the girls splashing in the pool. They seem happy with the new arrangement. We'll get no help there. 
 
“Can I ask something?” I say.
“I suppose so.” Says Nigel.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Blackjack starts to say something but Nigel says,“We are going to open a hostel for reformed bar-girls in Pattaya,”
“Aaaaarggumgooo,’ says Oscar.
“That’s right.” Says Lambert, “a fully equipped hostel catering to reformed bar-girls under thirty years of age on condition they renounce all ties with falang and stay off drugs. There will be a gourmet canteen, a TV in each room and a state of the art gym. I will be the manager.”
“Hang on,” says Blackjack, “What if they don’t want to be saved? I’m just saying.”
“You aren’t very bright are you Blackjack,” says Nigel, “Why don’t you just stick to crime and let me save the planet.”

​Who are these twerps? Me and Oscar just have to sit and listen to their repartee. It’s like a Tarantino movie.

Bangkok interlude.

We’re going to leave Dick and Oscar to their digging because we have some distressing news to impart. The Golden Bar on Soi 4, Sukhumvit is to be closed! This is very sad. And if that wasn’t bad enough it’s going to be replaced with a Hooters!!!

Alert readers will know that the Golden Bar was Arthur’s favorite watering hole. He spent many hours sitting there staring at the street. The closure has put him in something of a quandary. What to do? He could have a nap but he just had one. How about an email check. There may be something from Simon.

He enters an internet café/laundry/massage parlour and sits down at an empty monitor. You have to be careful in these places. That innocent looking young Thai at the desk is an accomplished hacker. He will be into your bank account in a minute given half a chance.

There’s the usual cross section of online humanity. Thai kids playing Grand Theft Auto. A Swedish rasta playing bongos. Compulsive communicators working on their travel blogs. The girl at the next desk is up to something too. Talking to her farang boyfriend most likely and giving him an update on her precarious financial situation.

As for the email itself it’s the usual mish-mash. Mostly spam. Nigerians giving away money, free Viagra. Nothing from Simon. Arthur decides to do a bit of web surfing. Then he spots a message from Charles Saatchi.

Somehow Arthur must have got himself onto Charles Saatchi's mailing list because he’s invited to his new show of paintings! Paintings you gasp!?! Yes paintings. It seems Charlie has had enough of pickled sharks and Tracey Emin's love life.

Arthur may be just a useless old alcoholic but that doesn't mean he doesn’t try to pin down the Zeitgeist. Charlie's shows are always interesting, pointing, as they do, to future directions, and he would like to accept his kind invitation, but tell the truth London isn't very high on his list of holiday destinations at the moment. Nothing to do with the bombings and such. He’s British after all. And he was born in London during the Blitz so don't tell him about bombs. He’s as stoical, defiant, resolved and resilient as the next bloke, but he just can't relate to England anymore. Can't stand the place to be honest. Too many chavs and snotty middle-class pricks and hooligans and exploding wogs and Roumanian plumbers. Too many everybody. All lovely people of course…but there’s just so bloody many of them. Arthur gets his news from the BBC. He prefers to watch it play out on TV anyway. Also it clashes with his other interests. Beer and meditation.

But he does take the trouble of doing a bit of long-distance research on these paintings of Charlie's. Turns out they're all about ends. The end of communism, the end of art, the end of the internet, the end of the world for all I know. We are living in the end times according to Saatchi’s new crop of young artists and who is Arthur to argue with that. He’s certainly winding down himself. Getting to the end of his rope you could say. Not that the Thai girls are too bothered. They still smile and call him Papa and hope for a good tip. The end of painting? That started dying a long slow death with Picasso so it's been ending for a long time. Saatchi's got a good eye and he keeps up with what's going on. Perhaps he knows something the rest of us don't. One thing's for sure...he knows how to flog paintings. If he puts them in his gallery somebody will buy them.

Enough internet for one day thinks Arthur. It’s a Tower of Babel. Nap time.