‘I’m here, Craig.’

He advanced towards her. She remained horizontal, not stirring, but arched a thin hand upward. Since the hand was not in a position to be shaken, but to be kissed in the Continental manner, Craig kissed the fingers somewhat self-consciously.

‘I’m glad you could come, dear man.’ Lazily, her hand indicated the makings on the rosewood table near her. ‘Mix yourself whatever will make you happiest.’ She lifted her own drink from the artificial grass beneath her lounge. ‘I’m staying with vodka plain. You might freshen me up, while you’re at it.’

As Craig took her glass, and made the drinks, Norberg called off to the houseboy immobilized at the door. ‘That’ll be all for tonight, Antonio. On the way, tell cook we’ll dine at eight-thirty.’ When the houseboy left, sliding the door shut after him, Märta Norberg said, ‘Isn’t Antonio a doll? Utterly unobtrusive and efficient. I brought him with me from Hollywood, brought most of them, Antonio, and my masseuse, and my secretary. The rest, the menials, are easy to find here. But Antonio’s the one. My countrymen stare at him as if he’s a zoo. A Filipino in Sweden. Well-why not?’

‘He told me you were swimming. Were you?’ Craig handed her the vodka, and sat sideways on the lounge beside her.

‘Not yet. I was waiting for you. You swim, of course?’

‘I used to. I haven’t for several years.’

‘It’s a must with me. Gives the muscles tone. I’m in the pool ten minutes every morning and for half an hour before dinner.’ She held up her drink. ‘I like vodka and water-separately.’

Craig scanned the lanai. ‘I’ve never seen a room quite like this.’

‘Anyone can have one-for an extra forty thousand dollars.’

‘That much?’

Norberg shrugged. ‘Why not? If Lollio Paulina could have an evening gown for two million dollars, and Cleopatra have a goblet of vinegar wine worth a half-million-because she dissolved a pearl in it-surely Märta Norberg deserves this little bauble. Do you want to swim now?’

‘After I finish my drink.’

‘Good. We can talk.’ She kicked off her fuzzy sandals, wiggled the painted toes of her bare feet, and then tucked her feet comfortably beneath her.

‘Did you enjoy Ragnar’s party?’

‘It was an event. I’ll use it one day.’

‘I suppose you will,’ she said. And then, she added casually, ‘I suppose you’ll also use that ridiculous fight between Garrett and Farelli.’

Craig’s face did not betray his amazement, but he looked fixedly at Märta Norberg. ‘That’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘I thought there were no witnesses besides myself. Did you see it?’

She shook her head, pleased with herself. ‘No, I did not see it. I heard it.’

‘Heard it?’

‘That’s right. Do you want to know more that I heard? Dr. Claude Marceau is having an affair with a French mannequin named Gisèle Jordan. How’s that? How am I doing?’

‘You’ve got me baffled.’

‘More? The celebrated author, Andrew Craig, kissed someone’s niece and whispered endearments-’

‘Where in the hell did you hear that?’

Norberg teased him. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

Craig glowered at her and said nothing.

She threw back her head and laughed, and for a moment the bottom folds of her kimono separated, revealing her naked legs, and she primly covered them again. ‘Now you have something more to write about, don’t you, Craig? Well, I’ll relieve your mind. No sleight-of-hand, see, no mystic powers, no black magic. Ragnar Hammarlund has that Elysium of his bugged and tapped from top to bottom. Flush a toilet, and it goes on tape. Cough in the garden, and it’s on tape. Kiss on the terrace, and it’s for the ages.’

‘I never heard of anything more corrupt. The immoral son of a bitch.’

Norberg laughed again. ‘That’s what I said the first time I heard of it. But you know, from his point of view, it makes good sense and has a morality of its own. He’s in business, and this is the age of communications. So why not go modern?’

‘Recording the private conversations of guests isn’t my idea of business.’

‘You’d be surprised, Craig. I’ll give you an example so that you’ll come off your high horse. Why do you think Ragnar gave that party last night? I’ll tell you. He has his eye on the Marceaus. That’s all he cares about. The rest of you were only window-dressing. The Marceaus are the goods he is after. He once read an early paper of theirs on some synthetic food. He got the idea-and when he gets an idea, nothing can pry him loose from it-he got the idea that if he could lick the synthetic food problem, he could be the first to market it internationally, and treble his fortune. Don’t ask why he’d want to do that. Empire builders are in the business of building empires. He’s had this young Lindblom on the problem for several years, others too, but he wants the best. He figures if he can interest the Marceaus in it, the big minds, the Nobel winners, progress will be accelerated, and he’ll see practical results in his life-time. So he keeps plotting to see the Marceaus, propagandize them, use them. Well, now, give the devil his due, he’s actually making inroads. He knows about Claude Marceau’s affair. All to the good. He won’t blackmail him, nothing so crude, but it gives him some advantage. I don’t have his mind, so I don’t know how he thinks. And he believes he’s actually got Denise Marceau interested in Lindblom’s work.’

‘I hope you don’t condone that kind of thing?’

‘Craig, I couldn’t give less of a damn. The world is full of all sorts of people, and they include the warp-heads like Ragnar, and let them go merrily to Hades in their own ways. I’m interested in One World-mine.’

‘Why have you been telling me all this?’

‘Because I’ve decided to double the population of my One World. I’ve given you an entry visa. Behave, my good man, and you may become a naturalized citizen.’

Craig considered her with wonder. There was some quality of unreality about her person. He could not divine it. His life, once, had been frequented by the self-absorbed and the egotistical, but never had he encountered another human being narcissistic to the point of total disinterest in general right or wrong.

‘I would be flattered to be a citizen of Norberg,’ he said, to say something, ‘but I’m not exactly sure I know what you’re driving at.’

‘Time will tell,’ she said cryptically. She squinted at his empty glass. ‘Now, what will it be-whisky or water?’

‘Hard to decide. I could use another drink. Hammarlund has left a bad taste in my mouth. At the same time, I’d like to cleanse myself entirely. I’d say water.’

She pointed a limpid hand off. ‘Door behind the diving-board. Built-in cabaña. There are drawers full of swim trunks. Take your choice.’

‘What’ll you be doing?’

‘Keeping the water warm for you.’

He stood up and strode to the cabaña door, conscious of her wide, grey, amoral eyes upon his back, and then he went into the cabaña. He stripped down quickly, opened several wall drawers, tried various swimming shorts against his angular frame, and then pulled on a white jersey pair that appeared to have elasticity. They were cut high, and they were tight, and he still felt naked but did not care much. He wanted the water’s refreshment-and to discover what business Märta Norberg had been withholding from him.

When he went out into the lanai, he saw that she was already in the pool, wearing a lemon-coloured bathing cap and scant bikini, backstroking with the grace of a sea nymph across the pool. She bobbed up straight at the deep end, treading near the waterfall, and shouted deeply, ‘Come in, Craig, it’s delicious.’

He was inspired to do a dramatic jack-knife off the short board, but knew that he was out of shape and would certainly strain muscles or break his neck, so he elected conservatism and went off the side in a flat shallow, splashing dive. The water was tepid on his body, and as soothing as the lining of his old sheepskin coat left behind in Miller’s Dam. Stroking and kicking in a modified crawl, he traversed the pool to Märta Norberg’s side.