And even now that he has achieved all this he doesn’t stand still. He continues to grow.
Day by day he develops and becomes yet more mature.
His understanding of the world continues to deepen.
So does his understanding of himself.
His relationship with the universe becomes more subtle and devious.
Things couldn’t be better. Because every day they are.
So when one fine morning he comes into his inner office and his principal private secretary says that Phil Schaffer has phoned, he stops in his tracks, grinning. The idea of going out to the suburb with the dog track, and confronting the confusions and embarrassments of his past life with the formidable armoury of maturity and understanding that he now possesses, appears suddenly very sweet. For there is one small drawback to things getting better and better all the time. The better they get, the better they could have been; and no one likes to leave a past behind him that could have been better.
“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” he tells his principal private secretary.
“But what about your lunch with the Japanese Prime Minister?” cries his principal private secretary. “What about your State of the Nation speech?”
But Howard only laughs.
He takes one of the smaller cars and drives himself. He doesn’t want to put on any show. It’s going to be difficult enough offering Phil some kind of job without causing offence.
As he waits at a stop-light somewhere out beyond the freight-yards he drums his fingers on the steering wheel and gazes straight in front of him, thinking. He is wondering:
— whether he is on the right road or not;
— whether he should kiss Rose when he arrives;
— whether he will be invited to lunch, and if not, whether he should get a sandwich in a pub instead, and if so, whether he would prefer egg and tomato, or cheese and chutney;
— whether the girl standing on the opposite side of the crossroads, with her face hidden by the long dark hair falling over her shoulders as she waits to cross the road, head turned to watch the oncoming traffic, will look straight ahead so that he can see her face; and if so, whether it will fulfil his hopes; and whether the fulfilment of his hopes would in itself be a kind of disappointment.
The traffic light, which has been green for some time, turns red.
The girl crosses. She does fulfil his hopes, in a way; and the fulfilment of them is in itself a kind of disappointment; and her name is Rose.
“Rose!” he calls, and prinks on the hooter. She turns to look at him in surprise. Grinning and waving, he puts the car into gear and steps on the accelerator. He will zoom up to her, stop with a screech of brakes, and ask her something like when lighting-up time is. She will be half pleased to see him and half disapproving; and that will be the beginning once again of something so painful and awkward that the possibility of happiness must be concealed in it somewhere.
But when he gets to the other side of the crossroads it’s not Rose, after all. It’s a revolving figure, a hundred feet tall, advertising cigarettes. Beyond her, farther along the expressway, are flashing signs bearing the symbols of the Chrysler Corporation and Asahi Pentax. Of course! At sunset, with the sky red and the road wet after a day of storms, he is approaching some great metropolis. A restless excitement stirs in him, a sense of being on the verge of deep and different things….