The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (13 page)

I had left the Connaught by ten twenty and was at Mark’s by a quarter to eleven.

‘You smell like a
parfumerie
,’ he said.

He was right: it was a blend of various Chanels and Raoul’s eau de cologne
that I found in Roxanne’s bathroom. I explained where we had been. He was envious of my dalliance in the Connaught and delighted about the Firehouse. For an hour and a half we sat and talked, our conversation ranging from the problems of establishing a reputation as restaurateur to poetry, and it was on poetry that we spent most time. Mark told me that he hoped to read some of his poems at the forthcoming Cheltenham Literary Festival. It would be a valuable opportunity to establish his voice in the literary community at large, and make it easier for him to find magazines for the publication of his poetry. He said he was in a state of expectation and would hear one way or the other that following week. We discussed love and friendship, two of the themes he liked most to write about. At the end, when we both felt tired and viewed with resignation the long day ahead, I said goodbye. We hugged each other and as I turned to go he kept me in the embrace and kissed my cheek, the sign of his deep friendship. As I walked away, his last gesture brought tears to my eyes. Clearly, what he felt was unspoken, entirely contained in his physical touch.

When I reached the
Journal
offices next morning, the editor asked me to sit in on an editorial conference. Two of the permanent leader writers were there and the purpose was to discuss what should be written about European Community enlargement. I had to contribute my views on the admission of the Baltic states. I liked these meetings. They were similar to postgraduate seminars in a university. One of the leader writers was a seven-year fellow of All Souls College and inevitably brought a considerable degree of gravitas to the proceedings. He was highly intelligent and articulate. I told my usual story of vibrantly alive, rapidly developing political economies run by young, enthusiastic, ambitious politicos, mostly trained in business schools with Ph.Ds from the best Scandinavian, European and American universities. Europe had to deal with a thrusting generation of Harvard, INSEAD, Stockholm, LSE graduates, who really intended to go places. Many of them had a year or two of experience working in big multinational corporations or with institutions such as the World Bank or IMF.

The All Souls man asked me about nationalist sentiment in the Baltic countries. I told him, from my experience, people’s nationalism was limited, parochial. Their countries had never really been independent, always under the tutelage of Sweden, Germany, Russia, and consequently their concerns were for the region, and those new politicians saw the bigger picture. They wanted a keen sense of national identity, but also the security of membership of a large, powerful European body that would guarantee their cultural independence. They were advocates of what was called subsidiarity. I explained to the editorial group that the economies were beginning to thrive but that there was a threat to stability from unscrupulous organised crime in the form of some international corporations. I explained that at that time I was trying to do some investigative journalism into one particular concern called Myrex, but Myrex was just one of a number of business firms whose dealings and methods of doing business were more than a little dubious.

I stressed that my long-term predictions were favourable for the Baltic states. The peoples were, on the whole, cultivated, civilised, westward looking, mostly fluent in English, the international language of business, well organised and clearly focused. They could only be of benefit to the rest of the European Community. I explained that there was active interest from venture capitalists in small companies starting up in the Baltic, many of the companies high-tech that exploited leftover expertise after Soviet disintegration. So long as the economies were not undermined by large-scale international crime, they looked sure-footed and likely to make giant strides forward in the short-term future. I found myself speaking the kind of language that was used in writing the leaders. The editor looked extremely pleased and I wondered if I might be invited shortly to become one of the permanent leader writers. It was certainly a job I coveted. It was a cerebral job that required a great deal of thinking, and concise, terse writing in vivid terms. I knew I could do the job.

The editor asked me to stay on after we had finished with the Baltic. The government’s stance against the trade unions was to be discussed and he thought I might have something intelligent to contribute. I had to think hard and quickly. My contribution was that I thought the government was neglecting its traditional well of support. It was too obviously setting itself against its working-class majority, and although it had only gained power by seducing the white-collar workers of the middle class, they were the minority and it was unwise to consider their interests to the exclusion and detriment of the union power base. One or two ministers lacked political subtlety and I named them. The political editor who was present agreed with my nominations and suggested we identified them particularly in our leader analysis. So, that went well and I left the meeting pleased that I had not put a foot wrong.

When I arrived back at my desk, I discovered I had two messages on my voicemail. The first was from Roxanne saying goodbye and stressing that we must meet again soon. I thought of a line from the old song, ‘Don’t know where, don’t know when.’ She said she had relished our last night together at the Connaught while Raoul was busy. She made a kissing sound into the receiver: it conjured images of what we had done that night before. But the other message was a complete shock. It was from Arne. His precisely accented voice bade me good morning – he had left his message at 6.30 – and invited me to a business conference that was to take place in a week’s time in Bologna. One of the topics to be discussed at the forum was inward investment and developing trade in the Baltic states. Another was entitled
The Mighty Dollar – the Means of US Imperialism
: he chuckled after he had told me that, and I could not quite gauge why he did so. Myrex, he told me, would be happy to host me there as an observer, but he thought I might find it useful. There were people he knew I would like to meet who would be there. He left a Swiss telephone number that I was to ring him back on.

I sat there fairly dumbfounded. Arne seemed to be adopting me, and I realised that he would not be inviting me just for my personal benefit. There had to be something that fitted in with the interests of Myrex, or even of himself. It even crossed my mind that he might be homosexual and that he wished to explore the possibilities of a relationship. I could see that it was possible but from what I observed of the man, I concluded that he would never allow his private life to interfere with his professional one. On the other hand, sex was all-powerful; but then, so too was money. Joint hegemony was there, sex and money. He, or Myrex, wanted something from me. The Bologna conference was an opportunity to make overtures to see if they could get it. I knew that I had to discuss the proposition immediately with my editor who, I reckoned, would be well disposed, especially after our meeting that morning.

As I anticipated, the editor approved my going. I rang Willy and informed him of what was happening. He was most enthusiastic. Cynically, I thought that he was pleased because once again the Service could have me there doing useful work but not having to pay my expenses. Someone else was paying, in that particular case Myrex and the
London Journal
. On the other hand, the nation benefited, the
Journal
included. So far as national security went, we were all one large cooperative; that seemed to be the attitude. Lorel booked my flight. She had difficulty finding a direct one to Bologna, but she managed to route me to Milan and then by train to Bologna. I never complained about Italian railway journeys: the trains ran on time, were clean, comfortable and relaxing. It was easier to write on the train than in an aircraft.

Once I had permission from my editor, I had rung the Swiss number. A brittle-voiced girl had answered. I said I was returning a call from Arne and gave my name. I was asked to hold for a moment. Then Arne’s voice was in the background saying goodbye to someone. He came to the phone and spoke to me.

‘Hallo. Pelham. Very glad to hear you. Can you come? I do hope so. I think you would find it interesting.’

‘Yes. I’d love to. My editor thinks it a good opportunity for me to do some basic research into people closely concerned with expanding inward investment in the Baltic countries.’

‘Precisely, what better forum? You must stay in the central hotel in the Piazza Maggiore. I’ll make sure the conference hosts you. Your editor will not have to stand your costs. You will be our guest. I’m so glad you can attend.’

‘Well, it’s most kind, but really the paper will pay.’

‘There’s no question of it. You are our guest.’

That was how it was left. I was to arrive the following Sunday evening to be ready for the conference opening at eleven Monday morning. I caught an Alitalia flight to Milan and landed in the late afternoon. The Bologna train took me to the ancient, distinguished, university city where I checked into my hotel at around eight o’clock. The window of my room looked out directly on to the two towers in the middle of the square, one of them leaning to a frightening degree similar to Pisa’s famous tower. Fortunately it was not leaning towards me: I had some reluctance about walking round those crazy towers. I harboured a conviction that the edifice would collapse on top of me the moment I stepped into its shadow. To be within the angle of its incline was for me a psychological terror. On my own I would always hurry, almost run past the structure. If for centuries it had been shifting slightly every year, every month, every minute, in my mind there was no reason why the forces of nature should not make it crumble at the very time of my passage past it. Stranger things have happened. Even my training in intelligence told me that you have to weigh up probabilities, but that you must always be alert for the unexpected. Thus I could not reconcile myself with any sort of equanimity to believing that the tower would stand forever. Surely the time had come for its disintegration. The longer it stood, the further it leaned towards the ground. The greater the chance was that it would fall soon. My fears were not irrational: they possessed logic. I reflected that anyone who wanted to torture a confession, or some compliance, from me, should keep me under the angle of the leaning tower. I should break in no time at all.

The towers were floodlit. A soft orange light made the stone and brickwork where it fell contrast sharply with the dark shadow where it did not reach. The heart of the old city looked deeply romantic. I decided to walk for a little. I wandered into the Piazza Maggiore, then along part of the Via dell’Indipendenza, back down the Via Guglielmo Oberdan, and then into the Via Rizzoli. In one of the alleys that led off the Rizzoli, I found a small bar that sold cheeses and olive oil, where I treated myself to a glass of regional wine. There was a mixed clientele, the usual group of old men talking non-stop and teasing each other, some shop people who had slipped in for refreshment, and a couple of tables with obvious Bolognese intellectuals. The university, noted for its medical and economics faculties, seemed to supply the chattering class for establishments of that sort. I heard the exchange rate of the euro against the pound sterling and the dollar being debated, and the fact that its introduction initially into Germany had done nothing but damage to German economic interests; but then the tables turned. From a different group I caught snatches of conversation about the effectiveness of cannabis-based painkillers. A small pharmaceutical company had just completed successfully its phase 3 trials for such a drug that was to be bought by a number of government health services. Bologna was an international centre. Two languages were spoken in that bar. I could detect Italian and the universal English. It was clear that everybody understood the latter.

That evening I made do with a pizza. Next door to the bar was a small, noisy, pizza shop with a few tables. The pizzas were cooked individually in a huge glowing oven at the back of the shop. I ordered a Margherita and a another glass of wine, not quite so good as the one served in the bar, but perfectly agreeable.

After that I returned to my hotel, made myself comfortable, lay back on the bed and turned on the ubiquitous CNN news. I wished that I was really on holiday and that Roxanne was with me. I knew, of course, that such a thing was impossible. Our relationship was not on that basis. We had never been away together, nor was it likely to happen. That would not suit Raoul. Our meetings were irregular and transient. The prospect of being anywhere together on holiday was a delusion. Still, it was nice to dream, and before I knew what was happening, I had drifted off to sleep. I woke with a shock, to realise that CNN had just shown a huge car bomb explosion that had taken place in Tel Aviv. The recorded noise of the atrocity that had killed fourteen people in a busy shopping area had awoken me. As I opened my eyes the horror of flying metal, glass, bricks, splintered wood and human body parts, made a ghastly impact upon my consciousness.

I reflected on the world’s current troubles. Most sprang from the Middle East. While the Palestinians remained under siege, there being no real recognition of their national independence crucially by Israel, then the conflict, the bombings, the shootings, the torture, would go on. Nowhere was free from the troubles. The world was Northern Ireland on a grand scale. At base, differences were religious. Islam and Judaism posed the problem. In Europe and America, the clash was developing between Islam and Christianity. Both continents were seen as props of Israel. Both became targets for Islam. The world was full of polarisations.

It was a depressing prospect. Neither side was likely to give way. The Palestinians and Israel both flaunted an intransigent militancy. It was a bitter feud in which individuals were prepared to fight to the death and innocent people could be sacrificed for the projected benefit of the majority.

I tried to banish those thoughts from my mind. I switched channels and watched some bland Italian chat show that I only partially understood. At least there was laughter and music. My thoughts went back to Roxanne, and that did not help. It was a relationship that was going nowhere. It was a series of long-running one-night stands but with the same person. That was how disenchanted I felt with my life. I decided to go down to the bar for a nightcap.

The bar, half lit, was sparsely populated. A couple in a corner sat close to each other and occasionally touched hands. They sipped red wine and whispered. Three men stood by a window, relaxed and companionable, and talked about the European Champions League. The noisiest was a supporter of AC Milan, another of Manchester United: the third, I detected, had no allegiance. They spoke in a mixture of Italian and English. At a small table sat a solitary man, middle-aged, some businessman abroad for his firm. I ordered a Black and White with some
frizzante
water and leaned against the bar wondering what the next day would have in store.

The whisky warmed me and because I was tired made me feel slightly confused. I decided it was time to turn in. As I left the bar to take the lift to my floor, the receptionist called my name.