The Times, 25 June 1990
JERRY’S MOPED WAS acting up. It had never been as reliable as the Royal Albert, even on normal roads, and was behaving like a grumbling old dog as it picked its way along Romania’s ancient tracks.
The great chasms and towering rocks, the gigantic torrents, gloomy forests and barren shale all inspired in him an awe of Nature. After less than two hours of this experience he found himself talking loudly to himself in German.
From Goethe it was but a short step to the Jewish Problem, something he had hoped to avoid on this holiday.
“Blut ist Hut,” he sang resignedly. “Sturm me daddy, eighty to the car…” and with this he began a descent into the cloud-hidden depths of a mysterious valley. So much for the subtleties of the human spirit! For him there were more urgent demands on his attention. How on earth had the English managed to make themselves the narrowest and most reactionary people in Europe and still see themselves as generous and enlightened? It was a wonder to him, and a privilege, to observe this fantastic progress at first hand. Gibbon, for instance, had been forced to speculate and, from his position, had found the decline of Rome almost impossible to accept.
Increasingly, this had led him into those mighty abstractions the Victorians created from the stuff of the Enlightenment and which, they convinced themselves, were solid as the British Empire.
“Das Volk ehrt den Kiinstler, Johnny.”
Marrakech was looking better all the time. Jerry was glad he had lost none of his old instincts. In fact he seemed quicker on his toes than he had been in his glory days. He, better than anyone, knew when to head for the border.
YOU AND I
On a certain day, the Jewish community was informed that the Yellow Badge had been introduced in all of Roumania. A sample was sent in with the strict injunction that in a few days the Yellow Badge must be ready and all Jews, men, women and children, were instructed to wear them. In Bukovina, this was immediately introduced… This measure had a devastating effect on the mood of Bucharest… People wearing the Yellow Badge were barred from street cars… could not go to any offices or approach any authorities. This decree drew a pall over and had a depressing effect upon the city.
King Carol, Hitler and Lupescu
“PERU IS GETTING altogether more interesting, now that a bloody writer’s been beaten by a Jap.” Lifting a gentle hand from his Mars Supapac Bishop Beesley slipped a minibar into his mouth. Outside, through the hotel window, dreamed the dusty streets of some South American capital. “But it needs a better man than me to open up the interior properly. I haven’t the stomach for it.” He descended with a sigh, inch by painful inch, into the largest armchair. “Besides, a man in my position has to cultivate a certain detachment.” He looked thoughtfully to-wards the street where a tall old Englishman paused to peer up. “Can that be Major Nye?”
The hushed tones of the serious professional Christian invaded his mouth and Jerry was startled by this apparent procession until he remembered that the Bishop was expecting another visitor.
“Can we drop you anywhere tomorrow, bishop?” he asked carefully.
Beesley turned eyes upon him that were full of a ghastly benevolence. “Perhaps, dear boy. You’re very kind.” As if in sudden anxiety he glanced again at the window but the English-man had strolled on. Jerry knew Beesley was never happy in Catholic countries, especially Latin America. He had been heading for some other Rio, some magical retreat, when the plane had been diverted here. He stroked his jowls and looked thoughtfully down at his sweat-stained tennis whites.
Jerry turned to leave.
“Do you know?” said Bishop Beesley with some resentment. “The chap downstairs mistook me for a German this morning.”
“Don’t worry, bishop.” The old assassin picked a crumb of chocolate from the handle of the black mitre-case. Noticing how worn and shiny it had become reminded him how long the bishop had been on the run. “Nobody else will.” He closed the door softly, as if upon a corpse.
Downstairs the electricity was off again and, as if waiting for the ride to begin, flies had settled thickly on the blades of the motionless ceiling fan.
Others crawled across the darkened screen of a dormant TV still watched by the janitor, as if he perceived some drama denied to all but himself.
Jerry glanced into the brilliant street, the glaring stucco, the graffiti and the Coca Cola signs. Maybe it was time to go back to the wild side of life.
The Californian surf was beginning to sound good again and from somewhere overhead he was sure he could hear the com-fortable presence of a rescue chopper.
There had to be somewhere else to go than a colonised Ladbroke Grove, the Cotswolds or a decolonised North Africa.
He had settled on Liberia even before the helicopter descend-ed into a little square, blowing dust through the beaded curtains of the run-down shops and cantinas, sending dogs scattering reluctantly into the deeper shadows of the alleyways.
Professor Hira, his round brown face glowing with sweat and self-satisfaction, reached down a hand. “Welcome aboard, old chap. Oh, by the way -” the Brahmin paused as Major Nye gunned the engine to keep her steady - “Liberia’s out now, too. Any ideas?”
Jerry gave in. Angkor Wat. Anuradaqpura, Luxor and New York… all his favorite ruins had been taken over by someone. They’d even sold his roof garden to Richard Branson. To pay his debts, they said. He hadn’t realised he owed anything.
He gave a hazy thought to Sid Vicious as he was lifted dramatically over the rooftops and spires into a pearly reality he had never hoped to find again.
“You missed the second coming,” said Major Nye. “Didn’t he, professor?”
“I think so. Or possibly just God’s second childhood.” Hira giggled.
He had a liking for mild blasphemies.
DEVIL CHILD
The reluctance of the army to rush to the aid of the government in the recent rioting has been interpreted differently by many Western intelligence experts, who claimed that many officers and soldiers were reluctant to oppose rioters who alleged that the government was run by neo-communists. As part of the power struggle the interior minister General Mihai Chitac, was dismissed after the rioting and control of the police switched from the interior to the defence ministry.
The Times, 25 June 1990
OLD SAMMY CAME out of the kitchen into the alley. He was red with sweat.
His stained white hat and apron fumed with the greasy heat of the chop shop whose flaring, agitated jets were the constant of his busy Friday night trade. He deep-fried pies and chops to order. Those boiling vats, in which all kinds of questions floated, reminded Jerry what eternal damnation must be like. No wonder those poor bastards were terrified. No wonder they clung to their ramshackle faiths - their habits which they could no more discard than the Jews in 1933 or the English in 1979. They were locked into self-made prisons, justi-fying all that was most cowardly and most cautious and most unjust in human society. He’d rather have Unitarianism which at least believed in handing out soup and a sandwich from time to time. Faith, he had to admit, was a bit of a baffling one. It couldn’t be good for people.
Nothing fitted.
He’d ride with the tide for a while. After all, the cards were still settling.
What had he been getting so angry about?
The sandwiches weren’t, anyway, that bad. He’d recom-mend the Tuna Melt.
“I had a feeling I was getting in touch with the occult.” On his apron Sammy wiped fingers swollen and impure as his sausages. “But I suppose that’s typical at my time of life, isn’t it?”