But the main conflict came, as usual, in the differing interpretation by Dr Abnekov and Professor Botwyk. Dr Abnekov was particularly infuriated by Botwyk's accusation that the Soviet Union was by definition an underdeveloped country because it couldn't even feed itself and didn't begin to meet consumer demand.
'I demand a retraction of that insult to the achievements of the Socialist system,' shouted Abnekov. 'Who was the first into space? Who supports the liberationist movements against international capitalism? And what about the millions of proletarians who are suffering from malnutrition in the United States?'
'So who has to buy our grain?' yelled Botwyk. 'And what do you give the starving millions in Africa and Asia? Guns and rockets and tanks. You ever tried eating a goddam rocket?'
'When all peoples are freed '
'Like Afghanistan and Poland? And what about Czechoslovakia and Hungary? You call killing people liberating them?'
'So Vietnam was freeing people? And how many murders are there in America every year? You don't even know, there are so many.'
'Yeah, well that's different. That's freedom of choice,' said Botwyk, who was against the uncontrolled sale of hand-guns but didn't feel like saying so.
Dr Grenoy tried to get the meeting back to the original topic. 'I think we ought to approach the problem rationally,' he pleaded, only to be asked by Professor Manake what rational role the French Foreign Legion were playing in Central Africa in solving anyone's problems except those of French Presidents with a taste for diamonds.
'I suppose the Foreign Legion absorbs some of the scum of Europe,' said Sir Arnold, trying to support Dr Grenoy, 'I remember once when I was in Tanganyika '
'Tanzania,' said Professor Manake. 'You British don't own Africa any longer, in case it's escaped your attention.'
Dr Zukacs stuck his oar in. 'Untrue. Financial imperialism and neo-colonialism are the new '
'Shut up, you damned Magyar,' shouted Dr Abnekov, who could see the insult to Ghana coming, 'not every country in Africa is a neo-colony. Some are highly progressive.'
'Like Uganda, I suppose,' said Botwyk. 'And who gave support to that cannibal Idi Amin? He kept heads in his deep-freeze for a quick snack.'
'Protein deficiency is rife in the Belgian Congo,' said Sir Arnold.
'Zaïre,' said Professor Manake.
Dr Grenoy tried again. 'Let us examine the structuralism of economic distribution,' he said firmly. 'It is a functional fact that the underdeveloped nations of the world have much to contribute on a socio-cultural and spiritual basis to modern thinking. Levi-Strauss has shown that in some parts of...'
'Listen, bud,' said Botwyk, who imagined Dr Grenoy was about to bring up the question of Israel, 'I refuse to equate that bastard Khomeini with any spiritual basis. If you think holding innocent US citizens hostage is a Christian act...'
In the tumult that followed this insult to the Muslim world the Saudi delegate accused both Botwyk and Levi-Strauss of being Zionist and Pastor Laudenbach advocated an ecumenical approach to the Holocaust. For once Dr Abnekov said nothing. He mourning the loss of his son who had been captured and skinned alive in Afghanistan and anyway he loathed Germans. Even Dr Grenoy joined the fray. 'I wonder if the American delegate would tell us how many more Americans are going to prove their spiritual integrity by drinking orange juice spiked with cyanide in Guyana?' he enquired.
Only Sir Arnold looked happy. He had suddenly realized that Zaïre was not Eire and that the question of Ulster was still off the menu.
The Countess finished clearing up in the kitchen. She could still hear the raised voices, but she had long ago come to her own conclusions about the future of the world and knew that nice ideas about peace and plenty were not going to alter it. Her own future was more important to her and she had to decide what to do. The man who called himself Pringle was undoubtedly Glodstone. She had taken a good look at him when she had gone up to his room with his supper tray and had returned to her room to compare his drawn face with that in the school photograph Anthony had brought back. So why had he lied? And why had someone broken into the Château looking for her? She had already dismissed Grenoy's suggestion that the mob in Vegas had caught up with her. They didn't operate in that way. Not for a measly hundred grand. They were businessmen and would have used more subtle means of getting their money back, like blackmail. Perhaps they'd merely sent a 'frightener' first, but if that were the case they'd employed a remarkably inept one. It didn't make sense.
Now, sitting at the big deal table eating her own dinner, she felt tired. Tired of pandering to men's needs, tired of the fantasies of sex, success and greed, and of those other fantasies, the ideological ones those fools were arguing about now. All her life she had been an actress in other people's dream theatres or, worse still, an usherette. Never herself, whatever her 'self' was. It was time to find out. She finished her meal and washed up, all the while wondering why human beings needed the sustenance of unreality. No other species she knew of did. Anyway she was going to learn what Glodstone's real purpose was.
She climbed the stairs to his room and found him sitting on the bed draped in a sheet and looking bewildered and frightened. It was the fear that decided her tactics. 'So what's Glass-Eye Glodstone doing in these parts?' she asked in her broadest American accent.
Glodstone gaped at her. 'Pringle,' he said. 'The name is Pringle.'
'That's not the way I read your Y-fronts. They're labelled Glodstone. So's your shirt. How come?'
Glodstone fought for an excuse and failed. 'I borrowed them from a friend,' he muttered.
'Along with the glass eye?'
Glodstone clutched the sheet to him hurriedly. This woman knew far too much about him for safety. Her next remark confirmed it. 'Look,' she said, 'there's no use trying to fool me. Just tell me what you were doing sneaking around in the middle of the night and rescuing so-called people.'
'I just happened to be passing.'
'Passing what? Water? Don't give me that crap. Some hoodlum breaks in here last night, beats up the clientele, dumps one of them in the river, and you just happen to be passing.'
Glodstone gritted his dentures. Whoever this beastly woman was he had no intention of telling her the truth. 'You can believe what you like but the fact remains...'
'That you're my son's housemaster and at a guess I'd say he wasn't far out when he said you were a psycho.'
Glodstone tended to agree. He was feeling decidedly unbalanced. She couldn't be the Countess. 'I don't believe it. Your son told you...It's impossible. You're not the Countess.'
'OK, try me,' said the Countess.
'Try you?' said Glodstone, hoping she didn't mean what he thought. Clad only in a sheet he felt particularly vulnerable.
'Like what you want me to tell you. Like he's circumcised, got a cabbage allergy, had a boil on his neck last term and managed to get four O-levels without your help. You tell me.'
A wave of uncertain relief crept over Glodstone. Her language might not fit his idea of how countesses talked, but she seemed to know a great deal about Wanderby.
'Isn't there something else you want to tell me?' he asked finally to put her to the test about the letters.
'Tell you? What the hell more do you want to know? That he hasn't got goitre or something? Or if he's been laid? The first you can see for yourself or Miss Universe 1914 can tell you. And the second is none of your fucking business. Or is it?' She studied him with the eye of an expert in perversions. 'You wouldn't happen to be an asshole freak, would you?'