Provender Gleed (44 page)

What he did was re-enter the television room and resume his position in the corner. It was sensible to be in the last place Mr Gleed had seen him, in case Mr Gleed should come looking for him.

As he stood there, however, watching the TV, he realised that the game of brinkmanship Prosper Gleed was playing with the Kuczinskis was edging out of control. Even with the sound down, it was clear that war was breaking out. Provender was back at Dashlands, which meant his father ought to have contacted the Kuczinskis and defused the situation. He had not done so, of course, and it appeared that Quigley was the only person in the house who had any idea what was happening out there in the rest of the world. The Family was worried about Mrs Gleed's wellbeing, and rightly so, but at the same time there was an equally if not more pressing emergency they should be concerned about.

What to do? Quigley was in two minds. On the one hand, someone in the Family must be informed that conflict had begun. On the other hand, it couldn't be him - he was only a Phone.

The solution was to find Carver, and Quigley set out from the television room with a view to doing just that. Carver was the interface between Family and staff. Carver would be able to decide if and how to carry the news to Prosper Gleed.

Not knowing where Carver was in the building, Quigley began his search in the vicinity of the master bedroom, reasoning that the Gleeds' major domo was likely to want to be close at hand for the Family. In the event, Carver was not there, but Quigley did come across Provender instead, who was in a corridor, morosely tracing with one finger the dimples in the glass bricks which were inset into a section of the wall.

Quigley wavered, then made a decision which, had the circumstances not been so exceptional, he would have otherwise balked at.

'Sir?'

Provender either did not hear or refused to acknowledge that he was being addressed.

Undeterred, Quigley said, 'Sir?', more loudly this time, and added, 'Master Provender?'

'What?' said Provender. 'What do you want?'

Quigley quickly explained.

'If,' he said, by way of conclusion, 'you could somehow convey to your father the need for --'

'Dial,' said Provender.

Quigley gaped.

'Dial the Kuczinskis.'

'Master Provender, I can't do that. You know I can't. A Phone is for the exclusive use of the head of the Family.'

'The head of the Family is indisposed. The head of the Family can't come to the Phone right now. I'm the
de facto
head of the Family. Dial.'

'It's simply not --'

Provender grabbed Quigley by the shoulders, swung him round and snatched the handset off his back.

'Dial,' he said, with such firmness and finality that Quigley knew he had no alternative.

He flipped open the central section of his chestplate so that the rotary dial was exposed.

This isn't my fault
, he thought.
I can't be held accountable. I'm just a machine
.

A machine, however, would not have got itself into such a dilemma in the first place. Nor would a machine's index finger have trembled as it began spooling in the digits of the Kuczinskis' Phone number.

68

'
Słucham
. Stanislaw Kuczinski.'

'Mr Kuczinski, this is Provender Gleed.'

'Excuse me? There must be some interference on the line. I could have sworn you just said
Provender
Gleed.'

'I did.'

'I see. Yes, that would account, I suppose, for the Mr before my name. But your father, then... Has something unfortunate occurred?'

'It has, but not what you're thinking.' Hoping for, if Kuczinski's tone was anything to go by. 'Listen, Mr Kuczinski, I won't fanny about. We need to --'

'What is this 'fanny about'? I don't know this phrase.'

'I won't waste time. We need to stop this thing immediately, while we can, before it gets any worse.'

'You're referring to...'

'You know what I'm referring to.'

'Provender, I'm not sure it can be stopped, not now. But look on the bright side. We all stand to make a bit of profit out of it.'

'People will get killed, Mr Kuczinski. You or I could get killed.'

'I doubt it. You live in the countryside. My castle has a bunker. A Family would never survive without a heightened sense of self-preservation, and that certainly is true of yours and mine. So sit back, Provender. Have fun. Enjoy the show. And may the best Family win. By the way, I may be wrong, but aren't you supposed to be my prisoner?'

'Yes, I know. Problem there. I'm trying to think of a good word for it. A misapprehension on my father's part.'

'A misapprehension.'

'He blundered, I'll admit it. Leapt to the wrong conclusion.'

'And did so in the most insulting fashion. Do you know what he said to me and my sister?'

'I don't, I'm afraid.'

'I'll tell you. He called us inbred. There were many other things he called us but that was far and away the worst. Inbred.'

'I'm sorry that he did.'

'You shouldn't be apologising to me. My sister was the one who truly took offence. Stasha has been cursing your father's name ever since.'

'I'm sorry to her too, then.'

'It would be better to hear it from your father than from you.'

'That's not possible at the moment. My father has other things to attend to. A Family crisis.'

'I see. You have assumed the duties of Family head, then.'

'Evidently.'

'Interesting. Does that, I wonder, give you the authority to speak for all of the Gleeds?'

'Under the circumstances, I'd say yes.'

'Hmm. I'm curious to know what those circumstances are.'

'Maybe another time. Let's stick to the matter at hand.'

'Ah, still keen not to "fanny about". Well then, Provender Gleed, son of my great enemy, tell me why exactly I should back down now. Especially when, as the fact that we're having this conversation at all proves, I am not and never was your kidnapper. Why should I, the wronged party in all of this, be the one to surrender?'

'I'm not asking you to. I'm conceding defeat.'

'Excuse me?'

'You win. You and my father were eye to eye. On his behalf, I'm saying he has blinked. You have successfully called his bluff. You are the victor.'

'I can't believe I'm hearing this. Are you sure you're a Gleed? You aren't some hoaxer who has tapped into the Family Phone network?'

'I'm a Gleed through and through. Just not the same kind of Gleed as my dad.'

'That would seem to be so. Undoubtedly you sound like him, your voice is just like his, though that is hardly surprising. But the words you're saying - they are completely different.'

'My father is a proud man, Mr Kuczinski, and for all his faults he feels the weight of history heavily. The feud between the Gleeds and the Kuczinskis is important to him. He defines his Family role, I think, by it. It is - has been - his one main way of feeling that he's doing right by his Family. Whereas me? I'm not sure I care. I mean, the feud is so old. It's been going on so long. It hasn't got anyone anywhere and it's brought so much misery generally. If it were up to me, I'd say just forget it. It isn't up to me, of course, but if it were...'

'Something so longstanding, so ingrained, cannot simply be swept away at a wish.'

'No, I agree. It's woven into our Families' lives. It can't be undone overnight.'

'But your implication is that we could make a start.'

'Possibly.'

'At least try.'

'Yes.'

Kuczinski said nothing for a while, but the sound of relay chatter and crackling atmospherics on the line was the sound of thoughts turning over.

'I would expect some concessions,' he said.

'What sort of concessions?'

'A gesture. A token of goodwill.'

'Money?'

'I was thinking a factory, maybe, or some other business concern. That's all. It doesn't even have to be an important one. A paper mill, a shipping contract. I'm not fussy. Something simply handed over freely, of your own will. It would be a show of ... what's the word? Earnest?'

'Earnest, yes.'

'You would consider that?'

'I'm sure it could be arranged. I can't promise it because it would require my father's authorisation ... but I could talk to him. Talk him into it. Is that really it? Is that all you want?'

'I would like a formal apology from your father, before a quorum of the Congress, but I realise I'm never going to get one.'

Provender half chuckled. 'You're right there. I can promise you almost anything but that.'

'Then a business concern will have to do.'

'You hear me when I say I can't guarantee it?'

'I do. But do you know what? Surprised though I am to say this, I trust you. I trust you to try.'

'I appreciate that trust. Very much.'

'And of course, if you fail, it wouldn't take much to put the wheels of war back into motion if I had to.'

'I don't want that. You can tell from my voice how much I don't want that.'

'Indeed I can. To be honest with you, I have had no stomach for this particular fight. My sister... Well, just be thankful she is not head of the Family, that's all I can say.' Kuczinski chuckled. 'Provender, it has been unusual and refreshing to talk with you like this. I feel strangely optimistic in my heart - and yes, I have one, whatever your father might have told you. I do not believe that the Gleeds and the Kuczinskis are going to settle all of their differences as of this moment, and anyway, what is wrong with a bit of healthy competition between Families? It adds savour to our lives. We might become dull and jaded otherwise. I do believe, however, that something has at last shifted. I could be wrong. I could be being foolish. Stasha will doubtless tell me that I am. But if what has happened today means that our Families are no longer butting heads quite so forcefully, that is surely a good thing. Perhaps, before long, you and I will be meeting in person?'

'You mean at the Congress table? My father's still got plenty of years left in him. I don't think I'm going to be Family head just yet.'

'Perhaps so. Nevertheless, you might go along as his second in place of your uncle? You are of an age when, as firstborn son, you should.'

'I don't know. It remains to be seen.'

'Well, whatever. I should look forward to it, though, if it were to happen. And now I must go. Calls to make. Politicians to persuade. I think I shall even be speaking to your country's prime minister. I suspect, once he gets over the shock of hearing from a Kuczinski, he will prove as biddable as the rest of them are. It's wonderful, don't you think, how those in government, who give out orders so readily, are also so eager to take them?'

'It's ... it has it uses,' Provender conceded. 'Mr Kuczinski, many thanks for this.'

'Stanislaw, Provender. Please, I insist. Call me Stanislaw.'

69

Diplomatic breakthrough
.

Somehow, miraculously, within a couple of hours of the pendulum starting to swing towards war, all at once it lurched in the opposite direction. When all seemed lost, a resolution was found. Governments - impelled, it seemed, by the direness of Europe's predicament - redoubled their efforts, exhorted their ambassadors to try that bit harder, composed fresh formulae for peace, and even offered to stand down their forces unconditionally if that might convince the other side to do the same. One final, last-ditch round of negotiation seemed to produce a workable solution to the crisis. All of a sudden the grim high-ranking faces that had been a fixture of TV screens for the past few hours became relieved high-ranking faces. There was even, here and there, the odd hint of a smile.

Planes were recalled. Ships about-turned and cruised back to port. Soldiers decamped and marched back to base. City-Smashers vented hydrogen and commenced the long cumbersome descent to their hangars.

A continent sighed.

War, slain in infancy, died a swift and painless death.

70

A man could get lost in a house this size
, thought Moore, before promptly doing just that.

It was late afternoon, edging into evening, and Moore wasn't sure if anyone even knew he was still there. He had been left behind in the rush of events, a piece of débris stranded after a dam-burst. Upstairs the Gleeds clustered and fussed around their stricken
materfamilias
. Even Is was up there, helping. Moore, however, was no use in such a situation; he had no pertinent skills to offer. All he could do was hang around downstairs and wait for developments, and the longer he did that, the more he started to feel he had outstayed his welcome. He was unwilling to slope off without saying goodbye, but increasingly, as time went on, that looked like being his only option. It was a disappointing outcome, a far cry from the hearty congratulation, the lavishment of praise, the acclaim he had been looking forward to. He understood entirely that Cynthia Gleed had to be the focus of the Family's attention for now, he was nothing compared to her in terms of importance ... but still it would have been nice, wouldn't it, to have received just a little of the recognition he was due.

No, that was a selfish way to think, and Moore cursed himself for the lapse in empathy. If only there had been something he could do, some contribution he could make to ease the Gleeds' distress. But there wasn't.

Before departing, he decided to explore. After all, he remained a guest in the house until someone told him he wasn't, and that gave him the right to roam the premises, and when was he going to get an opportunity like this again? When was he next going to be an invited visitor to Dashlands, implicitly permitted the run of the house? Never, that was when. If someone asked him later to describe what Dashlands was like inside, he would be ashamed if he could tell them about a couple of rooms at most.

So he set off wandering, room to room, corridor to corridor, passing through lounge and library and hallway and gallery, pausing every so often when some
objet
or unusually opulent specimen of décor caught his eye. He lingered for some time in a windowless, humidity-controlled chamber whose sole purpose was to display oil portraits of every head of the Family going all the way back to Rufus Gleed. It was like a snapshot of three centuries of history of art, from murky Old Master to lurid, broad-brush Modernism and all points in-between. The styles changed, the frames grew simpler, but the features of the subjects stayed consistent throughout. Really what Moore found himself surrounded by was a dozen-plus studies of a nose. Wherever he looked, whichever way he turned, the prominent Gleed proboscis poked out at him from the walls. It, rather than any of the pairs of eyes in the portraits, was what followed him around the room. None of the artists had attempted to flatter or disguise the nose. Rather, they celebrated it, and the room itself seemed a shrine to it, and to heredity, and longevity. A monument to the nose's size and staying power, and also the Family's.