The 2084 Precept (4 page)

"You wish…" said Susi, "but perhaps another
time, and in any case the question would need to be put in a more
charming manner." A smile, the crooked smile. "
And
, Peter, I
did ask you a few weeks ago to please call me Susanne, I don't like
Susi."

But with another smile, oh yes, another
smile. Crooked and wicked. An offer if there ever was one. There
are smiles and there are smiles and I am gifted, as indeed some of
us are, at telling the difference. Usually, that is to say; if we
want to be truthful, and we do, I have made a couple of mistakes
here and there. But no doubt about this smile, enough to put my
neurons off their stroke, send them into a minor frenzy. A minor
sexual frenzy if you insist on my being explicit. One of the things
which make life on this planet worth living, if you don’t mind my
saying so.

But I am digressing.

"O.K. Susi, it's Susanne next time.
Promise." A wink, on down the hall and into the office I've been
given to use whenever I'm here. No way, I reminded myself, will I
actually
undertake
anything with a headquarters employee. At
least, not until the project is over and done with. And then
perhaps she might become one of what my friend Steve refers to as
'blinking red lights', a few of which I have flashing away here and
there around Europe, although not as many as Steve.

I should explain that I was at the
headquarters of the company which had hired me to get rid of the
losses at one of its manufacturing subsidiaries in Slough, a few
kilometers west on the M4. I occasionally turn up here in central
London to give a presentation on what I've been doing, what effects
are being achieved and what the outlook is. I've done four months
already and things have gone fast, the company is already
profitable and, we can rest assured, it is profitable on a
permanent basis and there is more to come on top of that. Not that
I am a genius. I am not. I just happen to be good. And no apologies
for saying so. And if one were to insist, I would have to say yes,
there are also plenty of things I am
not
good at, I am happy
to keep the record straight.

In any case, things can only go this fast
when you have a very badly managed company, one with major problems
that are easy to identify and when those problems, or at least some
of them, can be easily and rapidly dealt with. Quick fixes,
low-lying fruit, there is plenty of jargon for this. And such was
the situation here. It is always a pleasant surprise to find a
company like this, not that I tell it to the people who have hired
me of course. And as for bad management, I never talk about that
either unless pointedly asked to—and sometimes not even
then—because, after all, you never know who is friends with whom in
this world.

The office was small and fairly ordinary,
but it had everything I needed and in any case I am not a person
who requires status symbols. I saw the note on the desk as soon as
I walked in and I picked it up.
TODAY'S MEETING POSTPONED UNTIL
A WEEK ON MONDAY AT 9 A.M. APOLOGIES. ROGER CALLED AWAY AT SHORT
NOTICE. COULDN'T CATCH YOU ON YOUR MOBILE. SEE YOU THEN. HAVE A
GOOD WEEKEND, GEOFF.

Roger was the Group CEO, Geoff the Group
V.P. Finance. Friday, nice weather, Roger probably called away at
short notice to his golf course down in Surrey. Actually, not fair.
No proof. Maybe he's got his nose hard to the grindstone somewhere
else, what do I know?

You'll note the first names. Thank God, if
you'll forgive the expression, that I am not back on my previous
assignment, a bottling machine manufacturer in Stuttgart. Six
months of Herr this and Frau that and please use the formal
Sie
version of you,
Du
would be far too familiar, and
please don't forget to address Herr Karrenbauer as Herr
Doktor
Karrenbauer, thank you. They revel in their doctor
titles over there, a bit like the old English army majors still
insisting on being called Major long after they've been shoveled
back into civilian life or retirement. And some of the German docs
have studied for so long that they have
two
Doktor titles
and are quickly fitting in a modicum of work before having to
retire. Then you are supposed to say "Guten Morgen, Herr
Doktor
Doktor
von Leyendecker". And before I am corrected on the
"Morgen", it so happens that
all
of their nouns start with a
capital letter. There must be a reason for that but I've no idea
what it is. And some people have been sitting at adjoining office
desks for over twenty years and still address each other as Herr
this and Frau that. Amazing. Different culture. No problem. Respect
it, don't have to enjoy it.

So…no meeting. Never mind, I'll be paid my
full day's rate for doing nothing—not that my work schedule will
show that of course, it will show hours of analytical work back at
the hotel—and nothing to do except turn up at the factory again on
Monday morning. Another of life’s pleasant surprises, like landing
in bed with a girl who’s told you she’s
not like that
. Even
so, I would have liked to learn for how long they wanted me to
continue. On the one hand it's easy money for me now, just
implementing what is still pending, and on the other hand there is
the possibility of another project for me down in Spain and if that
materializes, I'll need to be able to tell the Spaniards when I can
start.

I sat down, fished in my pocket for the
cigarettes, still an indoors habit after all these years, but wait
till I get downstairs, yes they'll be banning it in the streets
before we know it but not just yet, and I came across the visiting
card. I pulled it out. A superior quality material at least,
fine-woven and fairly stiff to the touch. A nice card, it helps to
pull in one or two of the more brain-damaged punters no doubt. A
jellyfish trap. But it would do nothing to entice people with a
certain amount of intelligence. Such as myself. No sirree.

No sir. No way. At all. But on the other
hand…come to think of it—and it's a habit of mine to consider all
possibilities, including way off-the-wall ones, makes me a good
consultant—come to think of it, it could possibly be an amusing
little event, another of life's minor anecdotes floating by on an
undulating ocean wave, it would make a good bar tale and a true one
as well.

And it would be fascinating to hear his ploy
for getting out of the €100,000 promise. Several possible versions
come to mind. So…come to think of it again, why wouldn't I call and
agree to a meeting? I've got the time, life's little adventures
keep you fit, and why throw away a piece of fun when fun is what
life is all about? Some of the time anyway.

I took hold of my mobile and dialed.

"Jeremy Parker speaking. How may I help
you?"

"Hi Mr. Parker, it's me, we met a short
while ago in Curzon Street. I'm curious, I have changed my mind, I
would be happy for us to meet."

"Ah, well, that's good to hear Mr.
O’Donoghue, indeed it is, yes. And I am sure you will find it
interesting, if nothing else. If Saturdays are not inconvenient to
you, we could meet tomorrow, at my office perhaps, say after lunch,
would 2 o'clock be suitable?"

"That will be fine, Mr. Parker. I'll be
there. I look forward to meeting you again. Would you like me to
bring anything with me, a résumé or whatever?"

"Actually, your C.V. would not be a bad
idea. Thank you. Tomorrow at two o'clock then?"

"Indeed. See you then. Bye."

I'm looking forward to the bit of fun
tomorrow. Maybe a waste of time but what the hell, it won't take
long. Back down the corridor, "Hey, Susi—sorry, Susanne—have a
great weekend, got to rush, have an appointment, take care." Down
in the elevator, out into the road, smoked a cigarette and then
caught a cab in Curzon Street.

I asked the driver to take me to the Royal
Strand Towers. I just wanted to check out its exact whereabouts,
It's bad to arrive late for anything and knowing where the location
is in advance gets rid of one of the risks. The building turned out
to be just past the Aldwych turnoff. Fine. The sun was still
shining away, the sky was still blue, a pleasant short walk in the
Covent Garden direction, into Tavistock Street, through the peeling
doorway and up the creaky stairs and into the 'En Passant'.

* * * * *

The 'En Passant' is a strange place, pretty
run down, not very clean. I suppose you would have to call it a
chess and bridge café, I've never seen any other type of customer
there, not even a homosexual on the prowl. Open 24 hours, burgers
and sandwiches, coffee and coke available. I walked past the bridge
tables to the chess section at the back. A dozen tables, all laid
out with a chess set and a chess clock, about half of them in use
at this time in the afternoon.

You can only find an opponent here if you
are prepared to play for money which, unlike prize-money
tournaments, means betting cash on each game. Most of the regulars
have an appearance as dilapidated as the place itself, worn-out
clothes, scuffed shoes, uncombed hair, and some of them not
smelling too good either. That's because most of them are out of
work, adroit specialists in the serious profession of welfare state
manipulation—any system created by elected birdbrains is full of
holes of course—with plenty of time to play chess each and every
day for the rest of their lives if they wish, financed by the poor
British tax-paying creatures. And many are immigrants, mainly from
Eastern Europe, and most of
them
are also receiving
unemployment benefits, or at least they look as if they are.

But, make no mistake, these are all good
chess players, some very good in fact, and there is a sprinkling of
masters among them; national masters that is, not international
masters or grandmasters, you wouldn't find them in a place like
this. They scrape their living playing for teams in the major
European leagues and on the international tournament circuit. So
the guys that are here are here to earn additional cash, tax-free
like the rest of their income. They never play among themselves,
except for a bit of Blitz when bored. They are after the punters,
very often businessmen who think they can play good chess but
can't, weak club-level players at best who dream of one day beating
an experienced opponent or two. Which they never do and never will.
But they keep coming back, each time they put it down to bad luck
or to an obviously weak move made at some point in their game, and
it usually takes them a long time, years, before they eventually
wake up to the fact that they are never going to make it.

I am also a punter, but one who earns some
petty cash here from time to time. I turn up occasionally when
finding myself at a loose end in London. I am not a master but I am
a strong club player and I have an international Elo ranking of
2265.

Chess is the only game I know of where no
luck is involved. It starts off exactly the same every time. There
are 72,000 possible positions after two moves, 9 million possible
positions after three moves, and 300
billion
after four
moves—I use the Short Scale version of the term billion, it`s a
word the Americans have raped but it is indeed easier than saying
one thousand million—and the number of possible positions in an
average-length game of 40 moves is more than all of the quarks in
the universe. Yes, quarks, those things which neutrons and protons
are made up of and which, in turn, are the components of atoms,
except hydrogen atoms of course which have no neutrons, and so we
are talking a big number here. And if you find it difficult to
believe any of these chess statistics, you can probably check them
out nowadays on the Internet.

When I saw that the only person not playing
was Ivanovic, I was not disheartened. On the contrary, you only
really enjoy chess when playing an opponent as strong as, or
stronger than, yourself. Ivanovic was a master. Not quite as good
as he used to be, certainly, but you never lose your master title.
Ivanovic had definitely come down heavily in life and he looked it.
He was a miserable kind of guy, one of those who hate other people,
who hate the world and, in many cases, also hate themselves. He
virtually lived in the En Passant, and he had the pasty white skin
to show for it, and he did nothing else, absolutely nothing, except
play chess. For money.

"Hi," I said, "wanting a game?"

"Only playing full games today," he mumbled
back in thick-accented English, "two hours on the clock, £100."

For my café chess I prefer Blitz, five
minutes per game for £5 a game, but full-length makes for better
chess and would probably give me at least a reasonable chance
against him. Mind you, £100 was a bit steep, but who cares? "O.K.,"
I said, "I've got the time. Start right away?"

He didn't say anything, merely nodded in a
disinterested and bored manner, sat down, set both clocks, and
tossed a coin. I lost and so I had the black pieces. A disadvantage
but not a fatal one of course; however, as Black, you do have an
initial task, which is to strive to achieve equality as soon as
possible. Ivanovic started with e4 and I chose the Sicilian
Defence. It suits my character, it's adventurous, it provokes the
production of adrenalin. In many variations of this opening, Black
can be subjected to persistent kingside pressures—which can reach
hurricane proportions if not defended with great care—while at the
same time obtaining plenty of tactical opportunities of his own for
counterattacking on the queenside.

To cut a long story short, the game followed
one of the various lines of the Scheveningen System, a common
Sicilian variation, and on the nineteenth turn I made a somewhat
weak knight move, allowing White to gain some positional advantage.
And that was all Ivanovic needed. He kept up the pressure and after
spending another hour sliding down into a losing game, and knowing
it, I resigned. No point in continuing, two pawns down and
absolutely no compensation of any kind.