The Ambassador (18 page)

‘There’s been some restlessness, yes,’ Marius answered slowly. ‘I’ve had one or two on mine. I think they put a blanket call to – well, anyone they think’ll be interested.’

The two men’s eyes met. ‘But are there demos? Are people taking to the streets? And why? What’s wrong?’

‘Things don’t have to be wrong for protests, you know that. Often it’s the most privileged who squeal loudest. The lower castes can’t be bothered.’

‘From what I’ve seen of the lower castes, as you call them – the ordinary people who work their twenty-five-hour week, love the wetties and support their local team – they’re remarkably well taken care of. They don’t have much to bother about, that’s so. But
somebody
is up in arms. You haven’t denied it. Who, and why?’

‘Fools. Idiots. Over-educated people with too many principles and too little sense. Purged, most of them. Usually for breaking basic codes, deliberately.’

‘That means they’re denied employment, doesn’t it? Their insurance cards are taken from them, so they have no pension or health rights, unless they provide for themselves. Bit drastic, isn’t it?’

Marius shrugged. ‘Better than putting them in prison, as we used to. Or fining them – pointless exercise that was. Anyway, “protecting the workers” is what they claim to be about, and
workers
is precisely what they’re not.’

That accurate quote proved to Strether that the Prince had also been a recipient of the messages. His replies had been odd, elliptical. At times an aura of obfuscation hung over Marius like an illusionist’s mantle. Dissidents making contact with a foreign power? That was standard practice. But Marius, with his noble background and elected peerage, quintessentially Establishment, was hardly an appropriate outsider.

Strether spoke more slowly. ‘You’re not levelling with me, Marius. I’ve been repeatedly told that here, in this earthly paradise, all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. I’ve read sufficient to know it was a sick joke when Voltaire wrote it, and it can’t be true now. I’ve seen hints enough in four months to have my doubts.’

‘Like what?’ Marius leaned back against the wall and perched a neatly shod foot on the balcony rail. His chin was up and he appeared to be contemplating the flight of a starling 
on its way to its nest. Strether thought quickly. Probably he had little option but to trust Marius. In the absence of those bloody cameras, perhaps the Prince was here with a dual purpose. So be it. The authorities might as well hear Strether’s views from a reliable source. But not everything.

‘Like – if I were being blunt – the whole Union appears to be in the grip of a
self-perpetuating
elite. Identical or not, they operate to the exclusion of everyone else. The enhancement of IQ I find particularly sinister. That’d make upward mobility for anyone else virtually impossible.’

Marius dropped his eyes and twirled the toy umbrella around his drink. ‘There’s nothing new in that. The civil service always was a form of secret society. It functions well; they know and understand each other. Saves a lot of wasted time in conference, I do assure you. And the enhancements are not sinister. Don’t let your distaste for the programme interfere with your judgement. If more public servants were as dedicated, by genetic planning, by birth, by upbringing – call it what you will – then the world would be a more efficient place. There have been no corruption scandals involving an NT, not ever, not even at Commission level.’

The Prince had spoken, as if he were repeating a given line, one which he could not fault but which he personally found less than absolutely convincing. It intensified the Ambassador’s growing unease that the
whole thing
was corrupt, or at least in danger of turning that way.

‘Okay, then. What about the way the codes are ignored? They’re not worth the paper they’re written on. Ethnic diversity’s being discouraged, women don’t get on. It’s a man’s world, but a particular group of men appear to have put themselves squarely in charge. Led by some geriatrics who give me heartburn. They crow about the diverse culture of Europe but it’s tinsel – folk-art and dancing troupes. Like in the old Soviet Union. At least,’ he jerked his thumb backwards towards the sound of the Sousa march, ‘I know the difference. Why doesn’t anybody object?’

Marius eyed him. ‘Who have you been talking to, I wonder? That’s subversive stuff, my dear Bill.’

The Ambassador grunted. ‘Marius, you’re a friend. I hope. You’re smart, a great guy, and sophisticated in ways beyond me. Surely you must be anxious about this? Elites are fine, if they operate to everyone’s satisfaction: as long as they’re open, and the ladder’s in place for others to climb.’

The Prince sighed. ‘Don’t knock Voltaire. His Dr Pangloss had a point. When it’s done well, the result is good governance – not good,
excellent
. It suits a lot of citizens, you know, to leave decision-making to those in charge. No one starves, nobody suffers. Their wants and needs are anticipated by opinion polls and in-depth surveys, then attended to, even before most are aware of it. It’s the kind of regime Utopians have dreamed of over the ages. And we have it here in Europe.’

Strether leaned over the balcony. He could feel Marius’s eyes on him, part curious, part veiled. ‘Yes, I can see that. But don’t some people get fed up being kept out of
decision-making
? Isn’t that part of the quality of life? Sometimes the citizenry want what’s bad for them – and that’s also a kind of freedom. Like overeating, I guess.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘But nobody wants to be shut out when it matters. And Parliament goes along with it – 
parliaments, indeed: from what I’ve heard, assemblies in other regions are also mostly indifferent. Flummery and ceremony but little substance. I’m puzzled, to tell the truth. It doesn’t feel like democracy as I know it.’

‘Nonsense. Registered voters have more chance to take decisions now than at any time in recent history,’ Marius countered robustly. ‘The English have more referendums, on average ten questions a year, than any region but Denmark. Blame
that
, if you like, for the decline of Parliament. Once every big issue is settled by plebiscite, the Commons is bound to feel like a rubber stamp. Which is why I prefer the Lords, where we don’t take ourselves too seriously.’

‘The turnout’s so low. What – twenty-five per cent on the last ballot? It doesn’t increase my confidence.’ Strether modified his tone. He would have to go back inside.

‘That does worry me,’ Marius conceded quietly. ‘If so few participate, far more issues will be decided by executive action. Possibly not even published. Like the current proposal to limit all grade five and above posts to certain types of NT. It hasn’t been possible before – the numbers available were too small. But now there are sufficient, the idea’s resurfaced. And will probably go through on the nod.’

Strether had been about to rejoin the party. He turned quickly. ‘What types of NT?’

‘Oh, it’s no big deal,’ Marius muttered vaguely. ‘You didn’t hear it from me. But what type? Like our colleagues Graf von Richthofen, Sir Robin, Sir Lyndon. Their close relatives, you might say. Pure blood. Perhaps you should interrogate them rather than me, Ambassador. I’m off to get myself another of your excellent cocktails.’

The dialogue had been abruptly ended. Strether followed Marius back through the french windows towards the brass band. Frustrated, he resumed what he hoped was a majestic progression through the rooms and lobbies. He had gained the impression that the Prince, once he was certain of the Ambassador’s train of thought, had been trying to give him information. To confirm, perhaps, that his fears had some substance?

With an effort Strether reset his expression into a wreath of jolly smiles. The celebration was in full swing, with energetic boogying and jiving, the latest dance revivals, filling the larger rooms. Streamers and balloons impeded his path and he had to dodge brightly coloured paper balls shot from pea-shooters thoughtfully provided at the entrance. A juggler in a fluorescent leotard, barged past, tossing Indian clubs, with open bottles of cola balanced on both forehead and chin. A fire-eater was attracting an appreciative audience in a corner. At the bar a team of perspiring barmen were trying to keep pace with demand. The Dixie musicians, their faces streaked with sweat, waistcoats unfastened, paraded round the edge of the hall with an inebriated conga line in tow. The smell of grilled hamburger mingled with popcorn and the acrid, burning odour of the fire-eater’s petrol. The whole event was hot, steamy and a huge success.

Strether dabbed his brow with a handerkerchief and felt a surge of pride. He had striven for the finest way to celebrate his country’s nationhood and had triumphed. Nobody Stateside could have done better. He did not feel especially homesick: there was nobody at home to feel homesick for. Only for the open air and the feel of the dawn sun on a
broad-brimmed
hat. He put his more sombre worries firmly on to a mental
Hold
, to be re-examined with more care later. Life in Europe, meanwhile, had its compensations.

Such as Lisa Pasteur. She was here, somewhere. At last he found her with a group of
companions in a cluster surrounding Porton Down Director Professor Churchill at the Manhattan bar, cream-frothed concoctions in hand.

He took a moment to examine her frankly before she could notice him. Her dress was full length and slinky, made of a shimmery black silk cut on the bias so that it clung as she moved. A slit up to thigh level made Strether look twice and gulp. Her glossy hair had been piled on her head but tendrils escaped, framing her face. Suddenly Strether knew for certain that he yearned for her – needed her, to be more than his consort for private dinners, in a way he had not wanted a woman for a long time.

The Professor rose and stretched out his hand. ‘Ambassador, what a tremendous evening. Allow me to present my wife.’ An angular, narrow-chested woman came forward; armed with his new knowledge, Strether’s glance strayed involuntarily to her chin line. Aged sixty or so, she must have had a lift. Or maybe two. No surplus folds, no jowls, no wrinkles marred the smoothness. He caught Lisa’s eye: she had noted his surreptitious examination of Mrs Churchill and was greatly amused by it. Cross with himself, he realised that never again would he be able to look older people in the face without checking. Women, or men.

‘I was grateful for the time you gave me during my visit, Director. Dr Pasteur, too.’

The exchange continued blandly until Strether could manoeuvre himself away. As he turned a corner Lisa deftly caught up with him.

‘Well done,’ he grinned. ‘They can’t be easy to slip away from.’

‘I told them I was going to find the loo then explore. It’d be boring to spend the entire evening with colleagues from Porton Down – I see quite enough of them.’

‘You look stunning, Lisa. That dress! I’m glad you don’t wear it when we go out. You’d have had me in the rumour magazines in no time.’

Their liaison, such as it was, had been kept low key by mutual (and unspoken) agreement. It could not be completely private – but nor was it trumpeted abroad. Strether guessed now that nobody at Porton Down was in the know: their body language had displayed no prurient curiosity.

Both knew that nothing might come of it, or that the results, should they get together, might turn out unsatisfactory. Both, as they had discovered in cautious conversations, were wary of casual relationships – Strether had agreed wholeheartedly with that. They had found each other’s company delightful, stimulating. Yet each was wary of using the other; and, paradoxically, that had turned them into comrades, co-conspirators, almost.

But the springing awareness of her physical presence, of her femaleness and attractiveness, which had struck him the first moment he had seen her despite the white lab coat, had stayed with Strether and grown vigorously within him. Lisa had entered his dreams, increasingly in images he would have described to no one. Now she stood below him, her face tilted upwards. The black folds of the neckline set off the curve of her shoulders. A simple gold chain lay about her throat. The little earrings she had worn in Milton Keynes twisted delicately and caught the light. He could see a tiny blue vein on her temple; the fine skin was almost translucent there, and in the vulnerable hollows of her collarbones.

‘I want to kiss you,’ he whispered to her.

‘Mm, I know,’ she replied mischievously. ‘It must be the heat. Excites the hormones. I’m glad your air-conditioning doesn’t work too well.’ She put a hand on his arm and stood quite still as if making a decision. ‘Maybe it’s time,’ she said, almost to herself. Then she 
half-smiled, and glanced around. ‘D’you have somewhere quiet?’

It was the act of a moment to guide her to the back elevator. His office was in the west wing and fairly well equipped, with a bathroom and a small bedroom. He wished he had prepared it better, with flowers or a gift for her. It was sparsely furnished, suitable for a catnap between engagements when it was not worth the trek to the Residence: but it did guarantee privacy. And, away from the crowd, it was blessedly cooler.

As he unlocked the corridor door, Strether was laughing softly. He had not drunk much that evening; he had been too busy. Yet he felt hotly intoxicated and madly out of kilter. And totally thrilled that she had seized the initiative.

‘You make me feel like a big kid, Lisa. Here am I, the host, Oh, I won’t be missed for twenty minutes – but I should be offering something a deal more romantic for you.’

In the elevator they had been so close, touching knuckles, not holding. As she walked into the office and gathered her bearings, Lisa spoke. ‘I’m not a very formal person, Bill. We aren’t, in Europe. The days of elaborate courtship disappeared with Queen Elizabeth.’ She smiled over her shoulder at him. ‘If we see what we really want, we go for it.’

Someone had left a window ajar and the night air came in, heady with the perfume of late blossom from a clutch of trees below. A few petals had landed on the windowsill. Nearby a cricket sang sleepily. She lifted her arms and rubbed her skin, enjoying the soft breeze.