“No quite the only operating system,” says a suave voice with a Sicilian accent. “This is the Cosa Nostra speaking. Under clause 312 of the C.I.A. and Mafia International War on Terror Treaty, Cosa Nostra agents only need clearance from us. Our Fredonian agent Grolsh received clearance from us twenty minutes ago.”
The room vibrates to the sudden boom of a heavily struck gong, and a new voice says, “But agent Grolsh has not received clearance from the Chinese Central Intelligence Agency!”
“And if I might be allowed to put in a word…” says an Oxbridge voice –
“You may not!” says the voice of America, but the Englishman continues pleasantly, “I realise the United Kingdom is a junior partner in our alliance, but the City of London is still the Western world’s biggest money-laundering centre, and we feel agent Grolsh is now a useful link between all of us, including the Muslims. Is that not true, Grolsh?”
“No deals with the enemy,” says America.
“Surely,” pleads Grolsh piteously, “surely in this free market world of ours a man may sell himself to everyone who can afford him? And the U.S.A., the Mafia, the U.K. and China are allies. You are not at war with each other!” The gong booms once more and China announces, “Every nation must be prepared for every eventuality.”
“You can say that again!” says America, so China says it again.
“You had better come back to Sorrento, Grolsh,” says the voice of Sicily.
“No way!” says America. “When Grolsh leaves the President’s bedroom he will be coshed, chloroformed, rolled in a carpet and sent for debriefing at Abu Ghraib.” Rudi, much amused by the conversation, has been quietly singing the Fredonian national anthem to himself, but a terrible wail from Grolsh silences him.
“Mercy, England! England, please have mercy! Surely your renowned sense of fair play will come to the aid of poor old Grolsh, your most faithful of Fredonian agents?” “Sorry Grolsh old bean. Our prime minister is Scotch and has just given permission for your extraordinary rendition through Prestwick airport.”
“Vera!” screams Grolsh. “You were going to put a bullet through my brain — pity me! Pity me and do it now.”
In a girlish way Vera smiles on him and pleasantly says, “No.”
“Then give the gun to me!” he begs, and she hands it over saying with a hint of apology, “There are no bullets in it.”
“Rudi!” he yells, weeping. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
Rudi kindly raises the duvet on Grolsh’s side of the big bed. Grolsh grabs a vodka bottle, dives in and burrows as far down as he can while Rudi covers him up.
This little drama distracts all three from what the other voices are discussing, but that international squabble at last ends with the terrible boom of the Chinese gong.
MIDGIEBURGERS
STREETS OF BUNGALOWS are called suburban when part of cities, but exist in many much smaller British places. A wife sits in a bungalow beside an electric fire, knitting with the concentrated fury of one with no other outlet for her energies. A husband sits opposite, examining magazines received that morning with a bulky weekend newspaper. Discarding the one called Sport he leafs unhappily through Lifestyle, Homes, Travel, Arts and Entertainment, but every page seems to have colourful photographs of glamorous young people in richer, more exciting surroundings than his own. He leaves the magazines, goes to a window and looks out for signs of other life, but in the pale grey sky above the bungalows opposite not even a bird is visible. He says, “I can’t make out what the weather is like.”
“Where?” she demands.
“Outside.”
“Go and look.”
“No. I am insufficiently…” (he thinks for a while) “… motivated. You’re lucky.”
“Why?”
“You can knit. Shop. Do housework. Retirement has made me…” (he thinks for a while) “… an appendage. I should cultivate something.”
“What?”
“A hobby perhaps. Friends perhaps.”
“Friends are not cultivated,” she tells him. “They grow naturally, like weeds.”
“I bet I could cultivate one,” he says with sudden enthusiasm. “This is a free country. I can go into any pub, see someone interesting, walk straight up to them and say: Excuse me for butting in, but you look like a man of more than average intelligence and I need advice. Jim Barclay’s my name, tax avoidance expert, retired, and I’m looking for a hobby to cultivate.”
He falls silent for a while, then says, “If I was American it would sound much better: Howdy stranger. Jim Barclay’s the name, and tax avoidance is the game. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Woods don’t have necks,” she tells him.
“Not around here, anyway,” he says, sighing. Returning to the fireside he sits down again and at random opens a magazine at a page advertising an expensive gown. This looks like bunches of glittering rags not quite covering a glamorous, charmingly worried young woman in what seems the boiler room of an obsolete factory. He studies her wistfully for a while, then the doorbell rings.
“Somebody’s arrived! Somebody’s arrived!” he says exultantly, striding from the room, opening the front door and crying, “My God, it’s you!”
“Yes, it’s me,” says someone modestly.
“Come in, come in, come in!” Jim says, ushering the visitor through and closing doors behind him. “Linda, this is old… old… old…”
He snaps his fingers to encourage memory.
“Bill,” says the newcomer pleasantly. He is the same age and professional type as his host, and adds, “I was driving north on business, saw I was near here and thought I’d call in.”
“So you did! Linda, Bill and I were great pals when we worked for the old P.I.S.Q.S.”
“You’re wrong,” says Bill pleasantly. “It was for the old S.H.I.Q.T.”
“Are you sure?” asks Jim, surprised.
“Absolutely.”
“Anyway, it was one of those hell-holes and you saved my life, I remember that clearly enough.”
“It was my job,” says Bill with a modest shrug. “I was in charge of security.”
“Indeed you were, thank goodness,” cries Jim. “This calls for a celebration. Have a seat.”
“Only if you’re having one yourself.”
“Impossible. I’m too excited. But you must have one.”
So Bill sits.
“Tea or coffee, Bill?” asks Linda, who has risen hopefully to her feet.
“Neither. Sorry,” says Bill with a touch of regret, “my doctor won’t let me.”
Linda sits sadly down and carries on knitting. Her husband walks up and down, smacks his hands together, repeats, “This calls for a celebration. Orange juice? Beer? Gin? Vodka? Whisky? Drambuie? Tia Maria? Sherry? Port? Chateau Mouton Rothschild du Pape? I’m afraid we’re out of champagne.”
“Sorry,” says Bill, “I’m a health freak. I only drink water, and stopped at a pub for a couple of pints ten minutes ago.”
“O,” says his host, sitting down and wondering what else to say.