wasn’t it? Or, to be pedantic, Annuka Vos’s bag? He lifted the cover of the red leather address tag. “Dr. Norman Wilfred.”
Good God! He had Dr. Norman Wilfred’s suitcase! He had taken over not only his identity but the physical fabric of his life! Was now possessed of everything, probably, that Dr. Norman Wilfred owned on the island of Skios! Had found it put into his hands, without any conscious effort on his part, by fate! The heavens had noted his initiative, and smiled upon it!
Perhaps he really was now Dr. Norman Wilfred! Had actually become him!
The flight tag told the same story. “Name,” it said: “Dr. Norman Wilfred. Destination: Fred Toppler Foundation, Skios.” And when he looked in the mirror this time it agreed. The man looking back at him was, yes, Dr. Norman Wilfred.
All he needed was the key to his own suitcase. Which was where? And for the first time the obvious thought came to him—one he should have thought before, but somehow, in the onrush of events, hadn’t: that somewhere in the world there must be another Dr. Norman Wilfred. A Dr. Norman Wilfred with none of Dr. Norman Wilfred’s worldly possessions, it was true, except the key to the padlock that secured them. A Dr. Norman Wilfred sustained by the dangerous belief that he and no other was Dr. Norman Wilfred, and that his rightful place in the world was precisely here, in this very room.
Where was he at the moment, this former Dr. Norman Wilfred, whom the gods had so decisively rejected?
On the island, presumably, arrived on the same plane as the new and improved edition of himself. Not more than a dozen or so miles away, since the island seemed to be only a dozen or so miles long. Still at the airport, perhaps, waiting patiently for someone to collect him. Or, more likely by now, impatiently. Phoning furiously to ask where his car was. Being told that some confusion must have occurred. Finding himself a taxi. In a taxi already. On his way. Raging. Almost in sight of the foundation …
At any moment now the usual embarrassments would be beginning. “I was somehow confused” the new Dr. Norman Wilfred, already fading back into Oliver Fox, would be saying. “Can’t apologize enough. A moment of inexplicable aberration … Nothing like this has ever happened to me before…”
So, no time to waste. Straight along the path at once, left, veranda on the right, before the superseded incumbent arrived. No time to put on his clean shirt—and no clean shirt to put on, anyway. Go just as he was, in his snow-white bathrobe.
He was out of the door so fast that he almost forgot to take his room key— did forget the champagne!—ran back to get it—and was out of the door again in a flash. Heard his phone ringing—realized he’d left it in the pocket of his dirty shirt—couldn’t go back for it, because the door was already closing behind him, and the key was where he had put it down in the kitchen while he’d got the champagne out of the refrigerator.
Bridges burnt, then. No retreat.
11
Georgie Evers came down the steps of the plane into the hot Mediterranean night, her phone to her ear, waiting for Oliver to answer.
“Hi!” he said at last.
“Hi!” she said. “It’s me! I suddenly saw there was a flight to Thessaloniki! I thought, Thessaloniki? My God, isn’t that in Greece ? So I ran all the way to the ticket desk, I ran all the way to the gate! And at Thessaloniki—I don’t believe this!—there’s a flight just boarding…”
She stopped, because she had become aware that Oliver was talking at the same time. No, he’d stopped as well.
“So here I am! I’m in Skios! I’m just getting off the plane…! Oliver? Are you there?”
Because now there was a disconcerting lack of any further response from Oliver. She pressed End and dialed again.
“Hi!” said Oliver.
“Hi!” she said. “We got cut off.”
But he was still speaking.
“ Sounds like me,” he was saying. “But it’s not me.
Good God! He had Dr. Norman Wilfred’s suitcase! He had taken over not only his identity but the physical fabric of his life! Was now possessed of everything, probably, that Dr. Norman Wilfred owned on the island of Skios! Had found it put into his hands, without any conscious effort on his part, by fate! The heavens had noted his initiative, and smiled upon it!
Perhaps he really was now Dr. Norman Wilfred! Had actually become him!
The flight tag told the same story. “Name,” it said: “Dr. Norman Wilfred. Destination: Fred Toppler Foundation, Skios.” And when he looked in the mirror this time it agreed. The man looking back at him was, yes, Dr. Norman Wilfred.
All he needed was the key to his own suitcase. Which was where? And for the first time the obvious thought came to him—one he should have thought before, but somehow, in the onrush of events, hadn’t: that somewhere in the world there must be another Dr. Norman Wilfred. A Dr. Norman Wilfred with none of Dr. Norman Wilfred’s worldly possessions, it was true, except the key to the padlock that secured them. A Dr. Norman Wilfred sustained by the dangerous belief that he and no other was Dr. Norman Wilfred, and that his rightful place in the world was precisely here, in this very room.
Where was he at the moment, this former Dr. Norman Wilfred, whom the gods had so decisively rejected?
On the island, presumably, arrived on the same plane as the new and improved edition of himself. Not more than a dozen or so miles away, since the island seemed to be only a dozen or so miles long. Still at the airport, perhaps, waiting patiently for someone to collect him. Or, more likely by now, impatiently. Phoning furiously to ask where his car was. Being told that some confusion must have occurred. Finding himself a taxi. In a taxi already. On his way. Raging. Almost in sight of the foundation …
At any moment now the usual embarrassments would be beginning. “I was somehow confused” the new Dr. Norman Wilfred, already fading back into Oliver Fox, would be saying. “Can’t apologize enough. A moment of inexplicable aberration … Nothing like this has ever happened to me before…”
So, no time to waste. Straight along the path at once, left, veranda on the right, before the superseded incumbent arrived. No time to put on his clean shirt—and no clean shirt to put on, anyway. Go just as he was, in his snow-white bathrobe.
He was out of the door so fast that he almost forgot to take his room key— did forget the champagne!—ran back to get it—and was out of the door again in a flash. Heard his phone ringing—realized he’d left it in the pocket of his dirty shirt—couldn’t go back for it, because the door was already closing behind him, and the key was where he had put it down in the kitchen while he’d got the champagne out of the refrigerator.
Bridges burnt, then. No retreat.
11
Georgie Evers came down the steps of the plane into the hot Mediterranean night, her phone to her ear, waiting for Oliver to answer.
“Hi!” he said at last.
“Hi!” she said. “It’s me! I suddenly saw there was a flight to Thessaloniki! I thought, Thessaloniki? My God, isn’t that in Greece ? So I ran all the way to the ticket desk, I ran all the way to the gate! And at Thessaloniki—I don’t believe this!—there’s a flight just boarding…”
She stopped, because she had become aware that Oliver was talking at the same time. No, he’d stopped as well.
“So here I am! I’m in Skios! I’m just getting off the plane…! Oliver? Are you there?”
Because now there was a disconcerting lack of any further response from Oliver. She pressed End and dialed again.
“Hi!” said Oliver.
“Hi!” she said. “We got cut off.”
But he was still speaking.
“ Sounds like me,” he was saying. “But it’s not me.
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