A spy by nature - Charles Cumming 5 стр.


There must be some misunderstanding.

Nik stands up and spits, What the fuck is going on? in an audible whisper. He presses the loudspeaker button on my telephone and Klemkes riled gravelly voice echoes out into the room.

Misunderstanding? No, I dont believe it is. You are a fraud. My brother of my wife has made inquiries into your circulation and it appears that you do not sell as widely as you say. You are lying to people in Europe and making promises. My brother was going to report you. And now I will do the same.

Nik stabs the button again and pulls the receiver out of my hand.

Hello. Yes. This is Nikolas Jarolmek. Can I help you with something?

Saul looks at me quizzically, nodding his head at Nik, fishing lazily about in the debris on my desk. He has had his hair cut very short, almost shaved to the skull.

Suddenly Nik is shouting, a clatter of a language I do not understand. Cursing, sweating, chopping the air with his small stubby hands. He spits insults into the phone, parries Klemkes threats with raging animosities, hangs up with a bang.

You stupid fucking arsehole!

He turns on me, shouting, his arms spread like push-ups on the desk.

What were you doing keeping that fucker on the phone? You could get me in jail. You stupid fuckingcunt!

Cunt sounds like a word he has just learned in the playground.

What, for fucks sake? What the fuck was I supposed to do?

What were youyou stupid. Fucking hell, I should pay my dog to sit there. My fucking dog would do a better job than you.

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You stupid fucking arsehole!

He turns on me, shouting, his arms spread like push-ups on the desk.

What were you doing keeping that fucker on the phone? You could get me in jail. You stupid fuckingcunt!

Cunt sounds like a word he has just learned in the playground.

What, for fucks sake? What the fuck was I supposed to do?

What were youyou stupid. Fucking hell, I should pay my dog to sit there. My fucking dog would do a better job than you.

I am too ashamed to look at Saul.

Nik, Im sorry, but-

Sorry? Oh, well then, thats all right

No, sorry, but-

I dont care if youre sorry.

Look!

This from Saul. He is on his feet. Hes going to say something. Oh, Jesus.

Hes not saying hes sorry. If youd just listen, hes not saying hes sorry. Its not his fault if some wanker in Warsaw catches on to what youre up to and starts giving him an earful! Why dont you calm down, for Christs sake?

Who the fuck are you? says Nik. He really likes this guy.

Im a friend of Alecs. Take it easy.

And he cant take care of himself? You cant take care of yourself now, Alec, eh?

Of course he can take care of himself

Nik, I can take care of myself. Saul, its all right. Well go and get a coffee. Ill just get out of here for a while.

For more than a while, says Nik. Dont come back. I dont want to see you. You come back tomorrow. This is enough for one day.


Jesus, what a cunt.

Now Saul is someone who really knows the time and place for effective use of the word cunt. I feel like asking him to say it again.

I cant believe you work for that guy.

We are standing on either side of a table football game in a cafe on Edgware Road. I take a worn white ball from the trough below my waist and feed it through the hole onto the table. Saul traps the ball with the still black feet of his plastic man before gunning it down the table into my goal.

The object of the game is to stop that kind of thing from happening.

Its my goalkeeper.

Whats wrong with him?

He has personal problems.

Saul gives a wheezy laugh, lifts his cigarette from a Coca-Cola ashtray, and takes a drag.

What language was it that Nik was speaking?

Czech. Slovak. One of the two.

Play, play.

The ball thunders and slaps on the rocking table.

Better than Nintendo, eh?

Yes, Grandpa, says Saul, scoring.

Shit.

He slides another red counter along the abacus. Five-nil.

Dont be afraid to compete, Alec. Carpe diem.

I attempt a deft sideways shunt of the ball in midfield, but it skewers away at an angle. Coming back down the table, Saul saying, Now that is skill, it rolls loose in front of my center half. I grip the clammy handle with rigid fingers and whip it so that the neat row of figures rotates in a propeller blur. Sauls hand flies to the right and his goalkeeper saves the incoming ball.

Thats illegal, he says. The shorter haircut suits him.

Im competing.

Oh, right.

Six-nil.

How did that happen?

Because youre very bad at this game. Listen, Im sorry if I interfered back there

No.

What?

Its okay.

No, I mean it. Im sorry.

I know you are.

I probably shouldnt have stuck my foot in.

No, you probably shouldnt have stuck your foot in. But thats how you are. Id rather you spoke your mind and stood up for your friends than bit your tongue for the sake of decorum. I understand. You dont have to explain. I dont care about the job, so its okay.

Okay.

We tuck the subject away like a letter.

So what are you doing up here?

I just thought Id come up and see you. Ive been busy with work, havent seen you for a week or so. You free tonight?

Yeah.

We can go back to mine and eat.

Good.

Saul is the only person in whom I have considered confiding, but now that we are face-to-face it does not seem necessary to tell him about SIS. My reluctance has nothing to do with official secrecy: if I asked him to, Saul would keep his mouth shut for thirty years. Trust is not an element in the decision.

There has always been something quietly competitive about our friendship-a rivalry of intellects, a need to kiss the prettier girl. Adolescent stuff. Nowadays, with school just a vague memory, this competitiveness manifests in an unspoken system of checks and balances on each others lives: who earns more money, who drives the faster car, who has laid the more promising path into the future. This rivalry, which is never articulated but constantly acknowledged by both of us, is what prevents me from talking to Saul about what is now the most important and significant aspect of my life. I cannot confide in him when the indignity of rejection by SIS is still possible. It is, perversely, more important to me to save face with him than to seek his advice and guidance.

I take out the last ball.


We eat stir-fry chicken side by side off a low table in the larger of the two sitting rooms in Sauls flat, hunched forward on the sofa, sweating under the chili.

So is your boss always like that?

It takes me a moment to realize that Saul is talking about the argument with Nik this afternoon.

Forget about it. He was just taking advantage of the fact that you were there to ridicule me in front of the others. Hes a bully. He gets a kick out of scoring points off people. I couldnt give a shit.

Right.

Small black-and-white marble squares are sunk into the top of the table, forming a chessboard, which is chipped and stained after years of use.

How long have you been there now?

With Nik? About a year.

And youre going to stay on? I mean, wheres it going?

I dont like talking about this with Saul. His career, as a freelance assistant director, is going well, and theres something hidden in his questions, a glimpse of disappointment.

What dyou mean, wheres it going?

Just that. I didnt think youd stay there as long as you have.

You think I ought to have a more serious job? Something with a career graph, a ladder of promotion?

I didnt say that.

You sound like a teacher.

We are silent for a while. Staring at walls.

Im applying to join the Foreign Office.

This just comes out. I didnt plan it.

Youre what?

Seriously. I turn to look at him. Ive filled in the application forms and done some preliminary IQ tests. Im waiting to hear back from them.

The lie falls in me like a dropped stitch.

Christ. When did you decide this?

About two months ago. I just had a bout of feeling unstretched, needed to take some action and sort my life out.

What, so you want to be a diplomat?

Yeah.

It doesnt feel exactly wrong to be telling him this. At some point in the next eighteen months, a time will come when I may be sent overseas on a posting to a foreign embassy. Sauls knowing now of my intention to join the Diplomatic Service will help allay any suspicions he might have in the future.

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Im surprised, he says, on the brink of being opinionated. You sure you know what youre letting yourself in for?

Meaning?

Meaning, why would you want to join the Foreign Office?

A little piece of spring onion flies out of his mouth.

Ive already told you. Because Im sick of working for Nik. Because I need a change.

You need a change.

Yes.

So why become a civil servant? Thats not you. Why join the Foreign Office? Fifty-seven old farts pretending that Britain still has a role to play on the world stage. Why would you want to become a part of something thats so obviously in decline? All youll do is stamp passports and attend business delegations. The most fun a diplomat ever has is bailing some British drug smuggler out of prison. You could end up in Albania, for fucks sake.

We are locked into the absurdity of arguing about a problem that does not exist.

Or Washington.

In your dreams.

Well, thanks for your support.

It is still light outside. Saul puts down his fork and twists around. A flicker of eye contact, and then he looks away, the top row of his teeth pressing down on a reddened bottom lip.

Look. Whatever. Youd be good at it.

He doesnt believe that for a second.

You dont believe that for a second.

No, I do. He plays with his unfinished food, looking at me again. Have you thought about what it would be like to live abroad? I mean, is that what you really want?

For the first time it strikes me that I may have confused the notion of serving the state with a longstanding desire to run away from London, from Kate, and from CEBDO. This makes me feel foolish. I am suddenly drunk on weak American beer.

Saul, all I want to do is put something back in. Living abroad or living here, it doesnt matter. And the Foreign Office is one way of doing that.

Put something back into what?

The country.

What is that? You dont owe anyone. Who do you owe? The queen? The empire? The Conservative Party?

Now youre just being glib.

No, Im not. Im serious. The only people you owe are your friends and your family. Thats it. Loyalty to the Crown, improving Britains image abroad, whatever bullshit they try to feed you, thats an illusion. I dont want to be rude, but your idea of putting something back into society is just vanity. Youve always wanted people to rate you.

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