Authors: Albert Cohen
When he had finished, he coughed respectfully and waited with a look of devotion on his face. Solal gave his approval, and van Vries went away elated at having got through the interview unscathed. Once in the corridor, he stepped out straight-backed and exuding authority once more. It had all turned out well, he'd be rid of Deume for two, no three months. Mossinsohn, the temp, a workhorse if ever there was one, would make an excellent replacement.
CHAPTER 29
'I tell you, old man, that went down a treat,' he said, buttoning his trousers while the cleansing cascade boomed round the pan of his favourite lavatory. 'Congrats, old bean,' he added, and he emerged feeling an urge to frisk and gambol like a puppy celebrating duty done in the tender morning grass.
Outside in the corridor, he wondered what he could do now. His daily dose of sodium cacodylate had been administered by the duty nurse. His morning coffee had been duly drunk. All that remained now was to get down to work. That Danish nurse was an absolute corker. 'To work, to work,' he hummed as he pushed his office door. No sooner was he settled at his desk than he opened his newspaper and stared at the kindly face of the new Pope, who had been elected the previous day.
'Now that's what I call promotion!' he murmured to His Holiness. 'Still, I haven't done too badly myself!'
When he had folded his paper, he looked dotingly round his office, which was the office of an A, digging his feet into the Persian carpet so that he felt its reassuring presence, allowing his eyes to linger fondly on the glass-fronted lockable - ah yes, lockable — bookcase filled with fine volumes from the Ubrary which were quite useless but were bound and therefore looked decidedly smart.
'And if they ask for them back, sucks to them, I'll say I have to have them on permanent loan! A chap's got to be able to stand up for himself in this hell-hole!'
Delighted with his invigorating cacodylate, which he got given free, gratis and for nothing, and feeling as breezily fit as any man ought who enjoys trouble-free digestion, he moved the picture of his wife on his desk slightly to one side with the most gratifying results. With it angled thus, he would not be the only one to get the full benefit. Any B he invited to take a pew in his leather armchair would see it too and could sit and admire. In the antique silver frame, she looked very high-society, dress revealing just enough, a beautiful woman. And she was his wife, dammit all, and he could get his hands on her whenever he felt like it. Pinching his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, he gave a delighted, nasal 'quack-quack'. The photo was a brilliant move, very senior-civil-servanty. Pity they had no children. A picture of a pretty little girl in a nice dress would have been very section-headish. But there it was. At any rate, he'd reorganized his office jolly weD since being put up to an A. The non-figurative painting on the wall suggested the cultivated official who needed an artistic environment. The box, also of antique silver, was another good idea, a useful status symbol.
'I lift the lid and shunt it towards any Bs who trickle respectfully along with a request for information. "Cigarette, Carvalho?" "Cigarette, Hernandez?" Best of all, old man, would be to have a personally signed photo of the USG: "To Adrien Deume, with all good wishes." Or perhaps warmest regards. Warmest regards would be tickety-boo! Just imagine the expression on VV's face as he came in and read it! Yes, except that I don't know him well enough yet. Watch your step, old man, no mess-ups, don't get impatient, bide your time! The signed photo will depend on how our personal relationship develops. But for starters, tomorrow, the evening of Friday the eighth of June, dinner at the Ritz as guests of the USG! Me in bib and tucker and she in her best evening frock! That's right, m'dear fellow, dinner with the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations! I was bursting to tell V V, it took every ounce of my self-control to stop myself blurting it out! No, let's wait until we're on really close terms with the USG. Agreed, not a word to VV until my position is unassailable. His letter to Ariane struck just the right note. "Please convey my apologies to all concerned." Prettily said, eh? And on top of that he sent her his good wishes. Say what you like, I've come a long way in a short time. (He went through his "quack-quack" routine again.) If all goes well tomorrow night, I won't mess about, I'll go ahead and organize a party and ask him to come. On second thoughts, make that an invitation to dinner, especially now that Mummy and Dada are going away tomorrow evening and won't be back for at least two months. Come to think of it, it was just as well he couldn't come the other evening, stroke of luck! That's it, invite him to dinner! I'll simply be returning his invitation, right? Just him, Ariane and me in the quiet of our own home. Butler in white gloves. Quack-quack. But the main thing for the moment is to make a good impression tomorrow night. Take a couple of Maxitons an hour beforehand, at seven, to make certain I'm on the top of my form. I'll be cultivated, witty, amusing. If he laughs, if he sits up and takes notice, we're in, Meredith! And remember, don't be late! No fooling around, is that clear? His letter says eight. So come eight o'clock tomorrow night on the dot, enter Lord Deume of A Grade, preceded by his delightful wife. She's in a good mood these days, thank God, and has been since, well, you know. Women need it. Now that's all very well, chum, but you're going to have to sparkle and catch his eye. To which end go home this afternoon and fetch back here everything you've got on Mozart, Vermeer, Proust, and swot it all up between two and six so you'll be able to draw on a supply of well-informed, freshly minted views on the aforementioned so you can amaze him with your wealth of knowledge. The thing is to get to that moment when all of a sudden he sits up, gives me an old-fashioned look, and says to himself: "This young Deume's a dark horse, must see more of young Deume." Oh, and don't forget to ask him if he's been to the Picasso exhibition, it'll give me a chance to hold forth. (He sniggered. Smart move, memorizing those three wizard sentences from that review of the Picasso show. They'd have the most electrifying effect.) But say them slowly, as if I'm searching for my words, as if I'm making it up as I go along. Damn! What if he doesn't like Picasso? In that case I'll be shooting myself in the foot if I come out with my three sentences! Test the water first, find out whether he likes Picasso or not, all right? Agreed. You'll see, everything will be fine on the night. Keep the tone lofty, shove in a few "albeits", "explicates" and "assume responsibility for our acts". Yes, and also make a list of other suitable topics which will permit displays of culture and wit. Deep thoughts, but keep 'em light. That's the ticket, make him laugh, but don't lower the tone. If he laughs, it's the friendship stakes! Because if he laughs, horizons open up, signed photo and the move up to adviser! Because get this straight: I've no intention of letting my A grow whiskers! Because I'm already starting to feel fed up with being an A when Petrescp, for God's sake, has been pitchforked up to adviser! Still, I suppose it's not really surprising, he keeps a photo of that minister of his, Titulesco, on his desk. It makes you sick. Favouritism, that's what it is. Petresco's a nasty piece of work. Now I've seen just about everything in this dump. Oh yes, old bean, you heard, adviser! And sharp about it! But to pull it off you're going to need to get his respect and his friendship. Objective: earn his respect and friendship. Scribble list of conversational topics on piece of paper you can take a peep at in case mind goes blank. If that happens, a quick peer under the table, all casual-like. Set your mind at rest, old man, not only shall I be brilliant but I'll have Ariane there for back-up, looking stunning and driving him crazy. No, scrub the Maxiton, it can have side-effects, just a little whisky for courage during those first ten minutes. I'll keep the large signed photo here on my desk, it'll be my safe conduct in dealing with VV. Don't talk about promotion over dinner, not even a hint, that'll be a feather in my cap. It's in my interest to act disinterested. But look here, old sport, that's enough chatter for now. Don't let this go any further, but you haven't done a stroke all morning.'
Feeling a twinge of guilt and dreamily twirling his secret teetotum, then playing with his cornelian marbles which went click-click, and beguiling his gloom by banging his stapler in slow motion, none of which gave him any pleasure, for his sloth pained him like a wound, he tried to find excuses for himself. There were no two ways about it, working on Thursdays was enough to give anyone the hump. Because, dammit, Thursday was practically the end of the week, you felt you didn't have a decent run at anything, there was no incentive. Still, he had a good hour still to go and he supposed he ought to do something to earn his pittance, it was a matter of professional conscience. He parked his marbles and the teetotum next to his two magnets (another clandestine possession which gave him hours of harmless fun) and opened the Cameroon file.
'O holy law, which levies universal toil, In this wise are thy ways set,' he intoned, and he unscrewed the cap of his pen.
At that moment the phone rang. He swore crossly and screwed the top back on his pen. God in heaven, there was never any peace in this place! He snatched at the receiver and said his name in an aggressive tone of voice. It was van Vries. 'Yes, sir,' he said meekly, 'I'm on my way.' Damn! There he is, just getting into the swing of it, on the point of setting to with a will, and he gets disturbed! Absolutely no chance of getting on quietly with his work! Really, what a madhouse!
'Stir your stumps! There's no rest for the wicked,' he muttered as he stood up.
What did VV want now, he wondered in the corridor. Was it to be a telling-off? He stopped, unfastened his jacket, and scratched his head. VV must have spotted him sloping off to the cafeteria with Kanakis. Rats to that, he couldn't care less! Wasn't he having dinner with the USG tomorrow night? He did up his jacket again and yanked and tugged it till it was straight. Besides, he was an A now. But standing outside the door of his boss's office he knocked quietly and entered like any B.
'Sit down,' said van Vries, who, after a quick sideways glance in his direction and without raising his head, went on with what he was writing.
It was his usual gambit and it served the multiple purpose of maintaining his authority, satisfying a minor sadistic streak, and making his inferiors pay for the mortifications he suffered at the hands of his superiors. Moreover his risk-free rudeness went some way to compensating him for not having made the Diplomatic. (Now if he had been a diplomat, just think of all the Broglies and Cholmondeleys he could have rubbed shoulders with, easily and naturally, without any effort or strain on his part.) So whenever he summoned one of the members of his section, it was his practice to keep him waiting for periods which varied according to the character or contacts of the person concerned, the pretext more often than not being that he was finishing off a note on the minute-sheet of a file. (Van Vries's notes were greatly admired by his fellow heads of section but made his staff tear their hair. He was a past master of the art of saying nothing. He was pathologically circumspect, and quite capable of stringing together a dozen sentences which seemed pregnant with meaning but, on close examination, meant nothing at all and therefore did not commit him to any point of view. It was this buffoon's very special talent that he could take pages and pages to say nothing.)
On this particular morning he judged it prudent to inflict only a brief wait on this scheming little squirt who had mysteriously wormed his way into the good graces of what he called the 'celestial spheres'. He put down his pen, raised his large, sickly eyes, and aimed a friendly, welcoming smile at the little swine to whom he owed the humiliation of seeing one of his subordinates promoted by direct selection, over his head, without his knowledge, without his even being consulted beforehand, which would have saved face.
'How are you, Deume?'
Adrien replied that he was well and, reassured by this opening salvo, sat back more comfortably in his chair, while at the same moment the door opened admitting a trolley pushed by a tea lady. Van Vries offered him tea, and he said yes please. But this sign of consideration from his boss did not wash away the gloom he felt at the sight of the teapot: heads of section had a right to a pot of tea, whereas other section staff were entitled only to a cup. He made up his mind to raise the matter that same day with Castro and one or two other As. That was the way: a collective note from As to Supplies and Equipment with a view to putting an end to a scandal and being granted teapot privileges. Their teapots needn't be as grand as section heads' teapots, if that was what it took, but teapots they would have, by God! And besides, a collectaneous note would provide opportunities for meeting As he didn't know yet, whom he could then invite home.
The trolley lady reappeared with another cup, poured the tea, and went away. As she left, van Vries, stepping completely out of character, made a humorous remark about her which extracted from his subordinate the obeisance of a gale of laughter. (Adrien Deume often laughed uproariously, for reasons which varied according to the standing of the person he was with. When he was outranked, it was to prove by a show of irrepressible hilarity just how much he'd enjoyed the joke. With his equals, he simply howled!, which was his way of getting himself thought of as a thoroughly good sort, pals with everyone and as frank as he was open. With women, and with his wife in particular, his explosive, hearty laugh was intended to make him look manly, a force of nature.) Having established a cordial atmosphere with his witticism, for anyone who is in receipt of favour must be handled with kid gloves, van Vries swivelled in his chair, put his feet on his desk, and clasped his hands behind his head, striking an attitude he intended as eloquent of the relaxed leader of men but which among themselves his subordinates dubbed his 'Egyptian-dancer pose'.
'I have decided to send you on an official visit,' he began in a lofty tone of voice which reassured him of his existence. (A pause for thought. Should he refer to his conversation with the Under-Secretary-General? Best not, on the whole. If this pipsqueak Deume were to discover that the idea had come from such a height, his head would swell and he'd be more difficult to handle. Besides, it was incumbent upon him to maintain the aura of the section head who made his own decisions. However, just to be on the safe side, for everything gets out sooner or later, he added a minimum of truth:) 'I've had a word with the upper echelons. (Allow a pause to savour the last words which pleased him immensely.) The upper echelons agree. So I'm sending you to Paris and London. Come to think of it, you'd better go to Brussels as well, though Belgian mandates aren't really your province. But the fact that you're Belgian will make it easier for you to establish contact. You'll round off with a detailed study visit to Syria and Palestine, our two most sensitive mandated territories. Your visit must not exceed twelve weeks, unless something unexpected crops up, in which case you will be able to obtain, at the appropriate moment, permission to extend your stay in accordance with the relevant procedures. Officially, your role will be to gather information useful to the section from the relevant ministries in all three capitals and also from the high commissions of Syria and Palestine. At the same time, and this is the unofficial and not least important part of your visit, you will make every effort to meet leading figures in these ministries and high commissions and establish friendly, personal contacts in a mood of trust and cooperation.