Читать книгу Naked Angels - Judi James, Judi James - Страница 17

Mikhail stood in the middle of Kapisztran ter, beneath the statue of the monk the square had been named after, and studied the tourists. It was a few degrees below zero that morning but the weather was no longer such a problem. He had a new coat around his shoulders and three pairs of good socks on his feet. In exactly seventeen minutes, when the church clock chimed the half-hour, he would go into the coffee house in National Assembly Street and sit amongst the old women with their white hair and pearls and order a hot chocolate with whipped cream and a slice of sweet pancake with nuts on top.

An American couple walked up to the statue he was standing in front of and paused. Mikhail could spot the nationality from the clothes the tourists wore. Furs for the Italians, and always good quality shoes. Trousers for American women and the men always wore a hat. The British wore inappropriate shoes and carried umbrellas, even in summer. Mikhail waited until this couple were busy reading the inscription on the statue before crossing to speak to them.

‘Good morning,’ he said in English. So polite, so formal.

The couple smiled at him. ‘Hi there.’

Mikhail pointed at the statue. ‘John Capistranus,’ he said, ‘saint, Franciscan monk and fighter of the Turk.’

The couple’s smiles widened.

‘He led the armies into the battle of Belgrade. It was a great victory. American?’ he asked. The couple nodded. ‘Would you like a photograph of the two of you in front of the statue? Both together?’ he held his hand out for the expensive camera the American was carrying. The man went to hand it over but his wife dug him discreetly in the ribs. Keep your camera at your side, the guide book told them, Don’t let a thief run off with it. The man was in a quandary. He didn’t want to look as though he was accusing the young man of thieving …

‘I can use my own camera if you like,’ Mikhail said, smiling. ‘Give me your address and I can have the shot sent to your room by tonight. Cheap, too – not much money.’

The American smiled with relief. ‘OK,’ he said. They posed nervously for a shot, then paid a very large sum in cash. Mikhail chatted to them a little longer, then stood waving as they walked away. Claude’s camera had come in handy. Maybe one day he would even put a film in it and learn how to take some proper photographs.

Tincan was sitting on a bench a few feet away, his hair plastered flat with gel and an ill-fitting jacket around his beefy shoulders. Mikhail sauntered over and passed him the couple’s name and hotel address. ‘Room 171,’ he said. ‘They’re at the opera between seven and ten thirty tonight.’ Tincan would rob the room later and pay Mikhail a little from his takings. Life was almost sweet as long as you forgot the past and tried not to consider the future. As long as you ignored the ghosts, too. Andreas didn’t visit so often now and when he did it was only in dreams.

He looked at the camera. Sometimes he thought he could still smell Claude’s scent on the plastic. Tincan had suggested he sell it and buy a cheaper one. After all, what did it matter what type he used since it was all a scam anyway? But Mikhail had wanted to keep it. Not for sentimental purposes; his only thoughts of Claude were of anger and disgust. No, Mikhail still had plans to leave Hungary one day for somewhere better and he thought the camera might help to find him a job. He had told Tincan, but the boy had only laughed.