I Am Pilgrim(173)

All the time, stopping only to throw another tape on the discard pile, the time code was flying by in front of me, threatening to send me cross-eyed before the day was over. Just in case I got myself confused, I had written down the date, hour and minute of each phone call and allowed a margin of fifteen minutes on either side just to make sure she hadn’t arrived early or waited around afterwards.

Frequently checking the notation, I had come close a couple of times, watching the time code roar towards one of the appointed times, feeling my pulse race and the fatigue lift, only to see the tape stop abruptly and then find myself watching footage from a totally different week.

On one agonizing occasion I came within a hundred and forty seconds of the first phone call and I was certain the woman was about to walk into frame when the TV set suddenly went to a blizzard of static as the tape ran out completely and I was left staring in despair and disbelief. Ahmut Pamuk hadn’t been kidding when he said the system was chaotic.

I was down to my last three tapes when he appeared at the door. ‘Wanna coffee?’ he asked.

I hesitated, looking sceptical, I guess.

He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking: Not more of that Turkish crap – so thick you don’t know whether to drink it or chew it. I’m not offering that – I’m suggesting a cup of real American java, as thin as piss, so weak we Turks normally serve it in baby bottles.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I said.

‘One condition,’ he replied. ‘I’ll go and buy ’em, I’ll humiliate myself with the café owner on your behalf, but if anyone pulls in you have to pump the gas.’

‘Okay,’ I said. With just three tapes left, I knew the chances of seeing the woman were negligible, and I had pretty much given up – apart from a miracle, a coffee was just what I needed.

I had finished the next tape and was partway through the second-to-last one when Pamuk handed me the coffee. I took the top off, looked around to find a garbage can, discarded the lid and looked back at the screen. It had jumped nine days and, with a growing sense of wonder, I saw the code at the bottom counting down fast to the date and time of the second phone call.

I checked my notation just to make sure – confirmed it – and couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. Behind me, Pamuk was standing in the doorway, enjoying his treacle-like coffee, and I knew that if I saw the woman I couldn’t react – he thought I was looking for someone pulling in to pump gas and, if I proved myself a liar, that would open up a rat’s nest of questions. Apart from that, there was a risk – however slight – that he would know the woman. Totally neutral, I told myself: keep it calm.

‘Did you mean what you said before?’ Pamuk asked, taking the opportunity to kick back and have a chat.

‘About what?’ I kept watching the footage, too frightened to try to skip forward in case I missed something.

‘Me being one of the best you’d heard.’

‘It’s true,’ I replied, watching the seconds fly by and click over into another minute. Keep going, I urged it silently: Keep going.

‘Did you play yourself?’ said Pamuk.

‘When I was a kid – just good enough to know I’d never be great. I would have given anything to have had your talent.’

He said nothing. I wanted to look at his face to see his reaction, but I couldn’t break my concentration. If I was going to catch sight of her, it would be very soon. I shot a glance to check the VHS player – there was plenty of tape left but, thanks to BP’s security system, that was no guarantee. It could jump a day, a week or a month at any moment. I looked back at the screen, watching the seconds cascade past and feeling Pamuk’s presence behind me.

He grew larger in my mind and a strange emotion settled on me – I suppose all my senses were supercharged – but I had the feeling, the certainty, that I had been put into his life for a reason. It reminded me of the priest I had met in Thailand long ago who said that perhaps our paths had crossed so that he could tell me something. It felt like it was my turn to pass it on.

My concentration didn’t waver, my eyes didn’t shift. ‘You hate the work you do,’ I said quietly, ‘you hate the music you have to play, and that’s enough to cripple a man’s heart. Any man.’

On the screen there was no sign of a vehicle or a pedestrian – nothing. Maybe she was walking closer or parking her car and would stay so tight to the kerb that she would avoid the camera’s field of vision altogether – and that was assuming the tape didn’t run out or make one of its sudden jumps. I looked at the time code again, flying ever closer to the appointed minute for the call.