GUT – Chapter 6

In his office on the 12th floor of the Tusk, Dr Humid van Arroz sat back in his armchair and crossed his long thin legs on his desk so that his size 12 hand-tooled shoes blocked out the door to his office. There had been something about that blonde in the pants skirt and red tights, red tights of all things, who had fallen to his feet, and that something bothered him.

He didn’t know why and had made his enquiries. She was a good worker, but she had an insatiable curiosity, and what was worse and did not at all fit in with the G.U.T. was her apparent ignorance, yes ignorance, of one of the G.U.T.’s most important precepts – respect for authority.

He had felt it, seen it in her brown eyes, just before Ms Rena had taken her under her wing. That worried him, too. Ms Josinta Rena, the keeper of the confidentials, had protected her in a way. He would have to keep an eye out for this Philippa Sandberg.

He rubbed the nails of his right hand softly over the right lapel of his jacket. He was not unknown to use charm. Yes, he would use his own brand of charm on this tousle-headed young woman who could risk disturbing his empire.

Dr Humid van Arroz’s empire had been built up carefully over years of connections – his own brand of vitamin C. He instinctively reached for the bowl of plump fresh navel oranges that he kept on a small ebony table by his desk. Still musing, he dug his fingernails into the puckered skin.

A sudden knock on the door caught him bringing his long legs down from the desk and too quickly releasing the orange.

Drat.

He hated being surprised like this. His fingers were sticky. He slipped his free hand into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a white Swiss cotton handkerchief monogrammed with HvA; he shook it out quickly and wiped his fingers. He had just stuffed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket when the door opened.

“Excuse me,” said Theodor Saint, his teeth gleaming white in a broad smile. He was not wearing his turban and had combed greying strands of hair from one side of his head to the other, like a tiara rimming his brown dome. “Excuse me,” he said again.

“What is it, Saint?” snapped Dr van Arroz. “I have told you not to come up here to my office. If I need you, I shall come down to yours.”

Theodor Saint kept smiling, “I thought you might desire a progress report,” he said, settling into the armchair facing Dr van Arroz’s sculpted oak desk. Theodor Saint knew that van Arroz was always interested in progress, at least the sort that was in the latter’s interest.