The Ambassador (22 page)

‘Tell me,’ Strether pursued, ‘how do they make sure your potential is fulfilled? I mean, in the USA that’s left to chance. Yet we still have some of the world’s greatest writers, musicians, artists and so on. On the whole we muddle through. We call it freedom. But here in the Union you go to such trouble to improve on nature. How do you make sure it’s not wasted?’

Fenton allowed himself a superior smirk and indicated the children scurrying below them with full trays, each searching for an empty seat. ‘You are in the right place. Here you will find the key, and in higher education, Ambassador. Our leaders try not to leave anything to chance, at least for the upper castes.’

‘How do you mean?’ Strether filled his mouth with yellow-fleshed peach and chewed appreciatively. Whatever criticism might be directed at the human outcomes, genetically modified fruit was delicious.

Fenton put his knife and fork down on his empty plate, neatly parallel. ‘A great deal of trouble went into my conception, sir,’ he replied seriously. ‘My parents come from political stock. They required a permit – that took several years, since the political clan is often oversubscribed. They had to show they were a loving and stable couple. It is particularly important in fields such as mine, since statesmen with traumatic or unhappy childhoods tend to cause havoc. I, however, was blessed, as you put it, with remarkable parents. And because I was an agreed conception and within quota, I qualify for free health care, recreation and education, right up to the point when I can earn my own living. Most children here are the same – allowances, grants, additional payments, are quite generous. The taxpayer ensures that my breeding is not wasted. The taxpayer is the ultimate gainer.’

‘Quota?’ Strether was mystified.

‘There is a quota – a limit – for the most popular professions. Or for those where we simply don’t need many – ballerinas, for example. As you have in the USA for immigrants. You are familiar with such selection processes, Ambassador, though you may not be aware of 
it.’ The boy’s pale eyes had a gleam of triumph.

‘I see. Supposing, then, that you had been born out of quota. And yet you wanted to be a politician. What then?’

‘That doesn’t happen among upper-caste families. It did in our grandparents’ day, but not now. People struggled, sir. They had no help. That system still applies for people born into the lower caste who, shall we say, wish to rise above their station. Unless they aim for a shortage activity.’

‘It doesn’t seem to bother you, Fenton.’

‘What should bother me, sir?’ The boy was icily polite.

‘This lack of choice. This darned shoe-horn they use on you. Supposing you wanted to be a musician? What then?’

‘But I’m
bred
to be in public service. That is my nature. To serve the Union with pride, devotion and incorruptibility. I have only the most rudimentary musical appreciation – sufficient to give me pleasure at the opera, where I am likely to meet others in the same occupation, but not to earn a living. And you should remember, sir, that the child whose nature and nurture coincide will be both a high achiever and very happy, contented and fulfilled. I’d feel “shoehorned” if I were forced to function against my genes. Our system’s designed to ensure that can’t happen.’

‘You approve, then?’ Strether was grave. ‘No more hit and miss?’

‘Certainly. We are building here the greatest society the world has ever seen. And some day, without undue modesty, I hope to play my part.’

‘What’s happened to the rebelliousness of youth?’ Strether finished the peach and wiped his fingers.

‘What rebelliousness – sir?’

The boy had such unshakeable confidence that Strether felt quelled. For the next few moments he answered questions about life in Denver and the attitudes of his countrymen and women to leisure drugs, selective abortion and financial crime. The tone of the questioning depressed him further. The boy seemed to think that it was not enough to enunciate a problem; action must follow to obtain the desired outcome. More than once the Ambassador found himself protesting, ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ only to be met with that baleful glint, as if he were confirming the young European’s moral superiority; and that such was the boy’s intention.

The coffee appeared. The boy offered cream and sugar. ‘Let me put it like this, sir,’ he said emolliently. ‘My great-great-grandfather served under Margaret Thatcher. She was remarkably decisive and would not tolerate discursive interventions – fools, in other words. She approved of those who brought her solutions, not problems. We have taken that several stages further. If we have a shortage occupation, we allow lower castes to fill it at least temporarily – and the pay and allowances will rise – but we also increase the permits available and request suitable parents to select enhancements in that direction. It’s quite straightforward.’

‘And what happens to the lower castes when the new NTs come on stream?’

The boy did not flinch. ‘But that can take twenty years or more. By then the inserts may be ready for retirement. Long before that, frequently, they’re keen supporters. Having shown a natural aptitude, and enjoyed high rewards and security, they want their children to
be sure of the same. They’d like their offspring to be upper caste too. That means assisted conception. So they join the queue and are often fast-tracked.’

The boy spoke with the same earnest enthusiasm as Lisa had that first day at Porton Down, but with none of her anxieties. Strether wanted to prod harder, to ask the youth why anybody was permitted to manipulate the system for unworthier objectives; the fact that
ice-cream
taster Fred’s younger child was an NT, and paid for, gave the lie to such ideals of seamless perfection.
Because they wanted to
would not be an adequate answer in a world so devoted to the common interest. It was, however, an expression of personal liberty, which Strether could easily understand.

But there was no time. The meal was over; the Mistress rose, clapped her hands for silence and crisply thanked the Lord for his bounty. Then she led the guests towards the door and the main hall where the parents were seated.

An hour later Strether and Lisa were making their farewells to their hosts and to each other. She would go back to the laboratory by Maglev. As he climbed into the electric car and gave Peter his instructions, Strether reflected that he had heard more truth from the mouths of babes that day than ever from Marius, Sir Robin or their friends.

And what he had heard had chilled his very soul.

The club was housed in a magnificent old circular edifice named after the consort of Queen Victoria. With its whitened pediments, upturned U-shaped windows, pink stone entrance and painted frieze supporting a flattened dome, the Royal Albert Hall in Kensington was one of the few locations large enough (after the Millennium Structure had blown down) to house the circus, orchestra, restaurants and hundreds of private boxes that made up the Toy Shop.

In the foyer Marius waited, resplendent in a milk-white multifibre tunic. Strether had decided on dignity and chosen navy blue with a fine pinstripe; now he felt under-dressed. The more so, for next to Marius was a fabulously caparisoned doorman dressed as Mr Punch, complete with a hook nose, hunchback and gross belly, in crushed red velvet and black
knee-breeches
. At his side sashayed an enormous Judy – loftier than a basketball player and three times as hefty, a man, surely – in striped pantaloons with an exaggerated ginger wig. The ‘baby’ she carried, wrapped tightly in grubby waddings, was used to batter arrivals over the head. ‘Roll up! R-r-roll up! This way for the greatest entertainment in the wor-r-rld!’ The entrance was lit by the flickering light of torches carried by strapping young men in leather loincloths and not much else. As Strether watched, agog, one put the torch into his mouth, licked the flames lovingly then blew a stream of orange fire safely over his shoulder.

‘My God,’ he muttered to the chuckling Marius as they entered, ‘you didn’t tell me it was like this.’

‘It’s a house of fantasy. Whatever you dream, you may have – that’s the slogan. The design’s based on the Cirque du Soleil who were such a hit here a century ago, with a pinch of virtual reality and the odd hologram thrown in – but mostly it’s genuine, I promise.’

Within a few moments they were joined by Strether’s young staffers, Matt Brewer and his companion, a red-haired Virginian, Dircon (‘Dirk’) P. Cameron III. Four adjacent cubicles had been booked, each with a private entrance; the four and their hostesses could, however, sit together at a balcony in the red-velvet-lined boxes to watch the show.

Marius opened his door and bowed low to the unseen personage inside. A rustle of 
silk and a low purr, or so it sounded, greeted him. The door was then firmly shut. The staffers had vanished further down the curved corridor, pulling and punching each other like little boys. As he opened the door of 31C Strether lifted his head and sniffed in thrilled anticipation. The perfume was old, almost forgotten and no longer on the market, but deliciously unmistakable. When asked what she wore in bed, Marilyn Monroe had answered, ‘Chanel No. 5.’

‘Hi! I’m Marilyn.’

She was, too.

Strether took a step back and gaped in utter amazement. Marilyn in a slinky black sequined dress, halter-neck and backless, which she had worn at the Golden Globe awards in Hollywood in 1962 when she was the world’s most popular star. Marilyn slim and enchanting, not the blowsy overweight moll of later times shortly before her death at
thirty-six
, but at her finest. Marilyn with swept-back tresses, off the face, the purest platinum blonde, the skin alabaster, her blue-grey eyes emphasised by thin black eyeliner and lashes like parentheses, the beauty spot on her left cheek highlighted like a breathtaking full stop. Marilyn with not a single piece of jewellery except tiny drop sapphire and diamond earrings nestling at the angle of her heart-shaped jaw. Marilyn. Marilyn Monroe.

‘And I’m all yours for the evening,’ she breathed, as if reading his thoughts.

‘My God,’ Strether muttered again, and reached for a chair.

In an instant she was at his side, all solicitude. ‘Oh! You poor man. It’s such a shock. Didn’t you see me on the video?’

Strether shook his head. He had spent too long trying to decide between
Destry Rides Again
and
Cleopatra
. But as he accepted the glass of champagne and rapidly drained it, he took in those extraordinary wide eyes, filled his lungs with her presence, and knew he had chosen – magic.

‘You – you look just like her,’ he said weakly. ‘You sound like her. You move the same, exactly. It’s uncanny.’

For answer Marilyn turned and wiggled her remarkable curves. ‘I
am
her. You gotta understand. Do I call you Bill? And I adore your accent! I’m not a copy. I’m
her
. Me! Oh, it’s so complicated. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy.’

The gown was so restricting she could barely walk. She wiggled closer and refilled his glass. In the spangled high-heeled sandals her toes were healthily pink, the nails painted scarlet. Strether felt his throat contract, with panic and adoration. Behind them the lights dimmed. A squat, muscle-bound man, his body shiny with oil, mallet in hand, strode out on to the circular stage below and hit a huge brass gong. He was followed by the fire-eaters, whirling blazing batons. Marilyn jumped theatrically. ‘See, the show’s about to start. Shall I order some supper?’ Strether still could not stir. He stared. ‘You look as if you would glow in the dark,’ he said at last. She answered with a hectic squeal. ‘Yes! That’s right! That’s what they said about me in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
. Luminous, they said. I was in love – with Joe. I guess it showed.’

For the next half-hour Strether, shaking inwardly and forcing himself to breathe, sat with Marilyn’s thigh pressed up against his own. He could feel the warm firmness of her flesh as she leaned across him to the plates, could smell not only the perfume but the fainter, more enticing pheromone of the woman herself. Her red-tipped fingers offered him goujons 
of fish, sushi prawns, a sauce-coated spare rib, which he refused; she did not seem to mind but wiped his chin with a napkin, all the while chatting inconsequentially in that breathy, earthy voice. She kept his glass well-filled, but his heady intoxication was not due to alcohol.

Below them the strong man and the fire-eaters completed their act and retired to loud applause. Tumblers ran forward and criss-crossed in the air, bouncing off hidden trampolines so high that they could peep expressionless into the boxes above. Skimpy costumes of gold and silver lamé with an overlay of macramé gave them the appearance of agile lizards. The next act was a pair of young female contortionists. Tiny lithe girls with olive skins, sheathed in blush silk from the top of their smooth heads down their pre-pubescent torsoes to the nubs of their infant heels. They writhed together like snakes, limbs slithering in and out and reappearing sinuously at impossible angles. Their joints seemed capable of smooth rotation through 360 degrees. Under any other circumstances Strether would have been glued to the performance. Indeed, when one particularly inexplicable manoeuvre resulted in a neat mountain of buttocks, face, buttocks, face, he sat back with an exclamation.

‘Amazing, aren’t they?’ Marilyn agreed. ‘Nomin and Chimed. Such adorable children. I don’t know how they do it either, bending their spines over backwards like that. But they’re Mongolian, double-jointed. They say it’s natural, genetic.’

She snuggled closer to him and he could feel her full breasts pressing on his arm. ‘You,’ he choked, ‘are not wearing any underwear.’

‘Sure,’ she giggled, and shook her shoulders so that he could see her breasts move. ‘Never have done. I don’t like to feel wrinkles.’

Gently she took the glass out of his hand. ‘Let’s draw the curtains,’ she urged. ‘A little privacy. And if I press this button here …’

Before Strether’s startled eyes plush curtains swished silently across the balcony. The interior lights, rose-coloured, cast a delicate glow over Marilyn’s arms and shoulders. The diamond earrings twinkled tantalisingly as she unclasped first one then the other and dropped them on the table. At that moment, behind her, a quiet hum came from the wall and a luxury
chaise-longue
slid out, smothered in cushions and a velvet throw.