The Ambassador (21 page)
What kind of woman might Strether like? The Prince found himself chuckling. The two had shared days out shopping but the Ambassador had not been especially forthcoming on the subject of female company – except about his wife, whom he had described with a loving awe. But Strether had recently found himself a replacement, if the gossip was correct. That lady he had been with at the Independence Day party, the woman in the slinky dress, her hair falling down about a pretty heart-shaped face full of character, her cheeks flushed as if they had been making love only a few moments before.
She was a doctor at the government laboratory; of that much Marius was sure, for he had been introduced to her more than once. Each time they would smile at each other and say, ‘We’ve met,’ though he had never exchanged more than a few words with her. She was quite senior: Assistant Director, he recalled, so she must be astonishingly bright. Yet she gave an impression of sweet vulnerability, especially in such feminine garb. The curve of her bare arms, no longer hidden under her day clothes, made her distinctly desirable. Strether, poor fool, probably didn’t even notice these finer points.
What was her name? Marius closed his eyes. Suddenly her head and those creamy shoulders, the dusky hollow of her neck, came clearly into focus. He was startled.
Lisa Pasteur
. Lisa Pasteur – it ran over the tongue like moist grapes, like a superb wine, and left a lingering taste of freshness and depth. Lisa Pasteur.
But she was Strether’s girlfriend. He might be quite smitten. As an older man Strether’s emotions might be a minefield. He, too, might be searching for someone special. And it would be a shame to hurt Strether for the sake of a bit of fun. Though Lisa, he sensed immediately, would be a serious proposition from the start, and would not play games.
A saying from his younger days came back to Marius.
All’s fair in love, war and
politics
. It made him laugh out loud, and drain the rest of his tepid coffee.
She was Strether’s. Or was she? And if so –
so what
? Only the lady herself could decide. Perhaps it was right to consider offering her a choice.
‘Ambassador, we are so delighted to welcome you.’
The Mistress of Dulwich College was a solid, muscular individual with steely hair cut in a bob about her square jaw. Her tweedy brown tunic and skirt, her flat, laced shoes seemed entirely in character. Her calves, Strether noticed, bore witness to continued prowess at hockey, a game that had mostly fallen out of fashion. That was probably the reason she still played; she gave an impression of considerable force both physical and intellectual, yet of disdain for passing style.
The Mistress crushed his hand in her own. ‘The boys and girls will be so pleased to see you.’ At his side, Dr Lisa Pasteur, former pupil, cleared her throat, as if to stifle a giggle.
An invitation to present prizes to the school’s leavers at the end of the summer semester – or, indeed, an appearance at any school, since he did not have children – was not one he would normally have accepted. With a diplomatic diary crammed with engagements from morning till night he should have demurred without further ado. But Lisa had persuaded him, choosing her moment one evening as he had been melting into those honeyed eyes. It would have taken a man of stone to refuse her.
The Mistress strode ahead. Her muscular bottom bulged through the skirt which
see-sawed
rhythmically to accommodate it. Both Strether and Lisa gaped helplessly and exchanged glances.
‘Of course Miss Molotov wasn’t the Mistress when I was here,’ Lisa whispered. ‘But it’s invariably somebody fearsome. And usually plain as a pikestaff.’
‘Is she a – you know, an NT?’ Strether hissed back.
‘Oh, absolutely. Doubly enhanced, at a guess. She’s unchallengeable. IQ of one hundred and sixty at least.’
‘She doesn’t look it. I don’t mean to be rude, but …’
‘Not all families make appearance choices. A surname like that probably derives from Russian or Slav stock. If her parents didn’t request visual refinements, they won’t have got them.’
‘Not even with Winston on the job?’ Strether grinned. Lisa dug him in the ribs and did not reply. From her sudden frown, however, he knew that Winston’s efforts to find the missing files were still on her mind. She had mentioned that no more had vanished, but neither had the original material surfaced.
The school buildings were as forbidding as the Mistress, mainly brick-built at the turn of the nineteenth century. It had once been exclusively for boys, with a Master; the bleak masculinity of the place was redolent of cold showers and brisk runs. Lofty narrow windows had high sills to deter any schoolchild’s wandering eye. Sallow paint predominated, wall upon wall of it up to beamed ceilings. In corridors narrow bookshelves were lined with untranslated classics. Footfalls echoed on stone floors or were muted on parquet polished to a hard shine by thousands of shoes.
They turned a corner and were met by two pupils, the head boy and head girl, officially their hosts. Whether the Mistress’s family had requested visual refinements or not, it was obvious that the parents of both these children had. The pale blue eyes and blond hair, the well-bred high cheekbones and the elongated, spare figures were startlingly similar to
those of Sir Robin Butler-Armstrong, the Lord Chamberlain, Graf von Richthofen and others Strether had met. He could spot the template a mile off.
The boy stepped forward. ‘My name’s Fenton, sir. Welcome.’ He had a calm, adult manner, assured and in control. Inherited, probably, Strether briefly reflected. The girl introduced herself as Bridget. She had the same small pretty earlobes as Lisa, but no earrings. The youngsters were nearly Strether’s height; their gaze was direct and unforced. The Ambassador felt himself under polite scrutiny.
No doubt he must be an object of curiosity to them: he, a foreigner, and quite evidently not an NT, but in a position of some authority. They must wonder how he approached problems, whether he could think logically, if he ever found his natural abilities to be inadequate. Given what they were told so early about themselves in the printout, they must wonder how someone like himself came upon self-knowledge. How would a non-NT find out what his tastes and talents were? How discover what made him happy, what frustrated? The randomness of real life must resemble a casual drawing of lots to them. Except that for these children, and their families,
real life
meant knowing everything about oneself, right from the start. There could be few secret desires harboured in such a breast. Unless they had been put there without anyone saying.
He tried to concentrate on his duties. First, lunch; parents and friends of
award-winners
would arrive as their coffee was served. The great hall would be full as the platform party entered. Then a speech and the handing over of prizes; that would just give him time to return to the Residence to change before the night’s adventure at the Toy Shop nightclub. The thought of that outing to come made his pulse race.
Marius had suggested that he did not tell Lisa of the escapade. Women did not approve of such places, he warned, though mostly their activities were utterly innocent – or as innocent as guests might wish. The inference was left for Strether to draw that should he want a more vigorous evening, that too would be possible.
The arrangements had been made. In itself that had been an astonishing experience, one which he had felt obliged to note in his private diary.
27 July 2099
… Marius helped me. We had to book about two weeks in advance, but even then some of the popular names had gone. Some guests make block bookings for years ahead with their favourites. Fresh stock is ordered as necessary, we were advised, but it can take decades to come on stream. If a particular type has a surge of exposure, for example when an old movie is played on mainstream TV, big problems can arise. That happened recently with the retrospective cinema season of late twentieth-century wetties. Demand for the Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio models was so high they collapsed from exhaustion: no more bookings are being accepted for either of them till October.
It’s done by vidphone conferencing. Marius came to the Residence and clocked on – you need to be a club member with a password and he, inevitably, is. I was puzzled at some details required – date of birth, nickname, that sort of thing. The operator was a swarthy man with gap teeth, a pencil moustache and slicked down hair. Like a 1920s Chicago gangster. His mouth was lop-sided and his eyes
darted about, as if he thought we couldn’t see him. Choosing was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
It’d have been great to ask for Lisa herself, but the real Lisa – and, probably, a cloned one – would have threatened me with death and destruction, I’m certain. You’d think a person would be flattered. Marius soon picked Lucrezia Borgia. He said that contrary to legend, she was a beautiful and intelligent Italian countess much loved by the citizenry; she didn’t poison anybody – that was her father, the Borgia Pope, her husbands and their cronies. He was assured she’d been modified to be sweet-natured, though he commented to me that he’d prefer a fiery witch any time. In any case, given the time lapse since her death in 1517, he doubted if much of today’s version was original. He reckoned he was quite safe.
Various suggestions were made for me, mostly from the entertainment world of the recent past. Among those who’d died sufficiently long ago for authentic copies to be available were Emma Mirren (her mother Helen was also in their brochure), Sophia Loren, Jeanne Moreau and Liz Hurley. The latter looked most fetching, I must say, though her dress was held together by safety-pins – she didn’t make the best of herself. In truth I’d never heard of some of them: the Atlantic’s a big pond, even today. They were probably free, Marius whispered, because their popularity was somewhat overblown – he urged me not to compromise, but to take only what I wanted. I declined them. The operator sighed and flicked back a few decades. Then we struck pay-dirt.
How about Mae West? he asked, and which age: when she was first famous and wrote dirty plays, or in later years as a wise-cracking old madam? He played a clip from
Myra Breckinridge
as a taster. Or Marlene Dietrich, blue angel in fishnet tights and topper, or mature in spangled gown? Elizabeth Taylor, who smouldered adorably, violet-eyed and svelte
(Cat on a Hot Tin Roof)
or black-browed and busty
(Cleopatra)?
Or if I preferred an intellectual beauty, the Jodie Fosters are perennially successful. I began to feel spoiled for choice.
Special permission was required for certain models, the operator said, and moreover we’d left it a bit late. The Margaret Thatchers were a bit prim and unfortunately, since they were exact copies, would never stop talking, but were much admired by grey-haired gents in their fifties. At this I swore under my breath; the operator must have heard me, for his hopeful expression turned sour. They go back further in history, he continued, but was beginning to sound desperate. Queen Marie Antoinette is a terrible flirt and specialises in feeding her clients cake. Alexander’s Persian queen, Roxanne – widow of the defeated Emperor Darius – is a coquettish little minx, but then she married in turn the two greatest men in the ancient world, which can’t have been easy. And the Empress Josephine, wife of Napoleon, is both regal and rampant. A certificate of good health is required for a night in her company. They didn’t want any heart-attacks on the premises, though doctors were in attendance.
I asked Marius in a whisper what would happen if I wasn’t hetero. He chuckled and said he had another vidphone number and I could choose any number of desirable partners – Oscar Wilde (though he was a bit sensitive, poor soul),
Rudolph Valentino, Rock Hudson and Quentin Crisp among others. It was particularly helpful when, as in Crisp’s case, the body had been left to medical science so the NT was a precise copy, right down to the witty one-liners. Some stars, hetero in life, had been genetically altered to accept the attentions of gay or bisexual men. The Arnold Schwarzeneggers, David Nivens and Clint Eastwoods in particular went down well. In fact it got confusing as other versions of the same men were also the biggest earners at the women-only club in Knightsbridge, the Hen Party.
It’s a pity no current names are on the list. Copyright is held on all living stars by the individuals themselves, who naturally insist on their uniqueness. No clones for them, and under European directives their estates have exclusive rights for seventy years after their deaths. So I’m stuck with an effort of memory; but then, this is a fantasy world made flesh, so the images of my adolescence seem entirely appropriate.
The operator was becoming impatient. I asked for a few more old names. I settled on American nostalgia: I chose Marilyn Monroe. God knows what I’ll find when I meet her, but apparently she’s been made from the original Marilyn’s
gall-bladder
so she’s absolutely authentic.
If nothing else.
Strether became aware that the young student, Fenton, had made a remark which required a response. They were seated at high table in the refectory. The wood-panelled walls displayed a dozen honours boards dating back centuries, with letters picked out in black and gold. Two had carved laurel wreaths – the dead of world wars. In the body of the hall hundreds of pupils bustled, dressed in regulation brown tunics with the school badge on the shoulder, and simply-cut skirts or trousers.
The dominance of graceful blondes of both sexes was overwhelming. The largest minority after that resembled Marius or Maxwell Packer – trim, dark-haired. Lisa was similar – a mid-European style, striking by contrast with the generally Nordic preponderance. A few were of Asian origin, neat-featured and black-haired. Strether looked closer. Not one was as dark as he or she might have been. Given that Winston, the records clerk, had been at work only ten years, it was unlikely that their light skin colour was his doing. It must be a policy of long duration.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Strether mumbled. ‘Would you repeat that?’
Fenton did not blink. ‘I asked, sir, if you have children.’
‘No, I don’t. My wife and I were never blessed.’
‘May I ask why not? I apologise if this is personal, sir, but I have an essay to write on the contrast between European social attitudes and those of other cultures. Here, among the upper castes, it is regarded as important to procreate. Either one should ensure that one’s genes are passed on, cleansed or enhanced as necessary, or an improved embryo can be used. Provided a stable environment pre-exists, naturally.’
Strether put down his fork. ‘May I ask how old you are, Fenton?’
‘Eighteen, sir.’
‘Then perhaps
you
’ll tell
me
. Why, in a world where global resources are under such pressure from excess population, should anyone bother with offspring – apart from
untrammelled biological urges, that is? Why isn’t childlessness admired?’
The young man stared at him coolly. In three years’ time after university he would be a candidate for the civil service exams, Strether realised, and almost certainly would qualify as one of the favoured breed ready for the highest ranks. A couple of decades or so from now, he could be running the country.
‘Quality, sir. If there are to be restrictions – or discouragements – they should apply to the lower castes. You are right, Ambassador. We don’t need
more
people. We do need
better
people.’
That was unarguable. Strether tried a different tack, his tone jocular. ‘So what did you do with your eleventh birthday printout?’ he asked. ‘Pin it on the wall alongside the biker posters?’
‘Certainly. Though it’s mainly a collection of numbers – hair colour and such. And my posters are of politicians and statesmen. My surname’s Gladstone-Bismarck.’
‘Heavens. I might have known. What was your IQ?’
The boy smiled. ‘Enough,’ he answered.
Strether reached for a stoneless peach and peeled it with a small knife. On his other side the Mistress was engaged in a lively discussion with Lisa whom she was trying to persuade to become a school governor.