Authors: Jonathan Coe
‘They’re only meant to be a snack,’ said Thomas.
‘Besides,’ said Tony, ‘you haven’t put any salt on.’
‘Salt?’
‘Well, with this brand, you see, there’s supposed to be a little blue envelope thingy in there, with salt inside.’
Mr Chersky rooted around in the packet, and found the salt sachet at the bottom. Looking to the others for guidance, he cautiously tore it open, found the salt inside, and shook it over the remaining contents.
‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘I should have expected nothing less from the British. Such a resourceful nation. This is the genius that enabled you to conquer the globe.’ He took the torn sachet and placed it carefully inside his wallet. ‘I shall keep this to show to my colleagues,’ he explained. ‘Or perhaps even send it to my nephew back home.’
‘Tell me more about your magazine,’ Thomas prompted.
‘Of course. You may take a look at our first issue.’
From an inside jacket pocket, he produced a single large sheet of paper, unfolded it carefully, and laid it out on the table before them.
Sputnik
consisted of only four pages, but within those pages there were many different articles printed in small, dense type. Much of it, inevitably, was given over to pieces eulogizing recent achievements in satellite technology, but there were also some paragraphs about other scientific inventions and about advances in the mining industry, together with a short essay on modern Soviet cinema.
‘You’re publishing in English, then?’ Thomas asked.
‘Yes, of course. Also French, Dutch, German and Russian. We have an experienced team of translators working for us at the embassy in Brussels. Please –’ (he slid the magazine over to Thomas) ‘– I would like you to keep it.’
‘Really? That’s terribly decent of you.’
‘In return,’ said Mr Chersky, with his most charming smile, ‘I would very much appreciate your advice. You see, your employer, I believe, is the Central Office of Information in London, and this is an organization which we admire very much in Russia. The kind of propaganda you deal in is really something that in my country, at the moment, we can only aspire to. So . . . elegant, and so subtle. We have very much to learn from your activities.’
‘Now hold on a minute,’ said Thomas. ‘What we do at the COI can hardly be described as
propaganda
.’
‘Really? But what else would you call it?’
‘Well, as our name suggests, we deal in information.’
‘Yes, but it’s not as simple as that. In your publications and your exhibitions, you select certain pieces of information, and reject others. You present them in a certain way. These are political choices. We’re all doing it. That’s why we are all sitting here in Brussels. We’ve come to sell ourselves to the rest of the world.’
‘No, I deny that. I deny it emphatically.’
‘Very well. I have six months to bring you around to my point of view. In the meantime, will you help me?’
‘How can I help?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mr Chersky, ‘that your time at Expo 58 is going to be extremely busy. And I cannot offer to remunerate you, in any concrete way, for the assistance you might be good enough to offer. But it is my sincere hope, nevertheless, that you might sometimes be prepared to cast your eye over our simple publication, and share with me any thoughts you have about how we could improve it. If, for this purpose, we might enjoy the occasional friendly meeting, I would be more than grateful.’
‘Well,’ said Thomas – highly flattered, although he was trying not to show it – ‘I’m all for friendly meetings.’
‘Really?’ Mr Chersky smiled another of his brilliant smiles. ‘And perhaps . . . Perhaps this fine establishment itself could be our rendezvous.’
‘Why not? Capital idea. Absolutely capital.’
‘Mr Foley, you do me the greatest of honours.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine. What are we here for, after all, if not to promote precisely this sort of exchange?’
‘You are right,’ said Mr Chersky, ‘And although I did put forward a more cynical interpretation in my earlier comments, allow me to offer at least a partial retraction. Tonight is not the time to be cynical! The next six months are not the time to be cynical! I will go further, and say that 1958 is not the time to be cynical!’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Thomas.
‘To 1958!’ said Tony, raising his glass.
‘Nineteen fifty-eight!’ the others echoed, and they all drank deeply.
Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder, at this moment, and looked up. It was Anneke. He rose to his feet quickly and turned to face her. Unable to think of a more appropriate form of greeting, he shook her briskly by the hand.
‘How very, very nice to see you again,’ he said, conscious that the eyes of both Tony and Mr Chersky were turned enquiringly towards them. She was wearing her hostess’s uniform, which seemed to be very damp, and her mousy blonde hair was scattered with raindrops. ‘But – dear me – you’re rather wet, I’m afraid.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘it’s started to rain outside. Hadn’t you realized?’
‘I hadn’t. But please, pull up a chair, make yourself comfortable.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘And it was very kind of you, as well, to send me this invitation. But I cannot stay.’
‘You can’t?’
‘I only finished work half an hour ago. And in ten minutes from now, my father will be waiting to collect me from the Porte de L’Esplanade, to take me home. But I had to come by, to say thank you.’
Feeling very bold, Thomas took her gently by the arm. ‘Shall I walk with you, at least some of the way?’
‘That would be nice. Thank you.’
Together, they stepped outside. It was a relief to leave behind the multilingual babble of the Britannia.
‘It is a success, your party?’ Anneke asked.
‘Yes, I think so. No shortage of guests, at any rate.’
‘I hear a lot of people talking about the British pavilion, and the British pub.’
‘Really? That’s very gratifying.’
The rain was getting heavier all the time. They took temporary shelter beneath one of the trees by the side of the ornamental lake.
‘I had a suggestion to make,’ said Anneke, ‘since I was not able to stay very long tonight. On Monday evening I’m not working and I was going to come to the Expo with my friend Clara. We thought we would visit the Parc des Attractions. Would you like to join us?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Thomas. ‘Thank you. That would be splendid.’
‘Perhaps you also have a friend, someone you could bring with you?’
‘Naturally. I’ll ask Tony, my room-mate.’
‘Good.’
She smiled at Thomas, and a confusion of different feelings shivered through him. He had not seen Anneke for many weeks, and tonight she looked even more beautiful than he remembered, notwithstanding that dreadful uniform. But it also occurred to him, for the first time, that he should really not delay much longer in telling her that he had a wife and baby back in London.
‘I was so pleased that you invited me to the party,’ Anneke said. ‘I was worried that you might have forgotten about me. After all, you must already have met a lot of hostesses.’
The conversation, Thomas realized, could take a dangerously intimate turn if it continued in this vein.
‘Blast this rain,’ he said, by way of distraction. ‘I don’t think you should keep your father waiting. If only we had an umbrella . . .’
Suddenly a hand was thrust out from the darkness, holding that very object.
‘Here you are, old man.’
Two familiar figures stepped out from the shadows.
‘You can use ours if you like.’
‘Only too happy to be of service.’
It was Mr Radford and Mr Wayne. Thomas stared at them stupidly. How long had they been lurking in the undergrowth? Had they been following him ever since he left the pub? Or even before that?
‘Evening, Foley,’ said Mr Wayne, extending his hand. ‘We thought it wouldn’t be long before we ran into you.’
‘Not interrupting anything, I hope?’
‘Hate to break in on a tender moment.’
‘My name’s Radford,’ said Mr Radford, shaking Anneke’s hand.
‘Wayne.’
‘Anneke,’ she answered, looking from one to the other in confusion. ‘Anneke Hoskens.’
‘Would you like us to escort you to your meeting point?’ said Mr Wayne. ‘It’s a filthy night.’
‘A girl could catch her death on a night like this,’ said Mr Radford.
‘Here, you take my arm, and get under this umbrella.’
‘And I’ll tag along behind, with Mr Foley. We don’t mind a bit of rain, do we?’
‘Erm . . . no. I suppose we don’t.’
‘Of course not. We British are made of stern stuff.’
Mr Wayne headed off at an uncompromising pace, tugging Anneke alongside him on his arm, and entertaining her, presumably, with whatever smalltalk he had at his disposal. Mr Radford, meanwhile, was in his usual interrogative mode.
‘Good party, Foley?’
‘Not bad. Pretty decent.’
‘Any surprises? Uninvited guests, that sort of thing?’
‘A couple, yes.’
‘Like that Russian chap, for instance.’
Thomas looked askance at him. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Wants to have a few meetings with you, I gather.’
‘So he says. Is there a problem?’
‘Good heavens, no. A free and frank cultural exchange between the different nations . . . that’s what this event is all about. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘I believe so, yes.’ Mollified, Thomas added: ‘Good of you to see it like that, I must say. After all, you heard what the King said yesterday. We’re never going to make any sort of progress until we all start to trust each other.’
‘Trust?’ said Mr Radford. ‘Who said anything about trust? Of course you mustn’t trust him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we don’t know anything about him yet. Apart from the fact that he has the freedom to wander into your pub all by himself, when most of the Soviets are being kept locked up in their hotel at this time of night – which makes him suspicious, to start with. Good Lord, man, I wasn’t saying that you should trust him. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘I just thought –’
‘See him as often as you like. The more often, the better. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and if he ever lets slip something that might be considered . . . you know, interesting – let us know.’
‘How will I contact you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll always be around. Now look, you’d better go and say a fond farewell to your little Belgian piece. Charming girl, by the way. Excellent choice. And don’t worry about the abandoned bride back home, either. Very little chance of her finding out, I’d say. Highly unlikely. You’re on a safe wicket there.’
With which reassuring words he gave a hideous wink, tipped the rim of his trilby hat at Thomas and slipped away.
I can love whoever I want
On Monday evening, Thomas and Tony decided to walk from their motel to the Expo site. It would only take half an hour or so, and there was a beautiful sunset to enjoy along the way.
The Atomium was ahead of them as they walked, its lights glimmering and twinkling in the encroaching dusk. Thomas felt a tremor of excitement pass through him: partly from sheer joy at the sight of this bizarre, impudent monument, of which he knew he could never tire; partly from nervous anticipation at the thought of everything the next few hours might hold.
‘By the way, as far as Miss Hoskens is concerned,’ Tony said, not for the first time that day, ‘I think you’re playing a pretty dangerous game.’
‘I told you, I’m not playing any sort of game.’
‘Well, what are your intentions, exactly?’
‘She’s a charming girl, that’s all, and while I’m here in Brussels I see no harm in having an honest, serious friendship with her.’
‘Ha! Friendship, you say? I’m sorry, old boy, but I saw the way she was looking at you on Friday night, and there was more than friendship in those luminescent Belgian eyes.’
Thomas was forever discovering hidden depths in his new friend. Where had he picked up the word ‘luminescent’, he wondered?
‘Even that Russian bod noticed it,’ Tony continued, ‘and he didn’t strike me as being over-preoccupied with matters of the human heart. I tell you, you’re going to hurt that girl, if you’re not careful. Not to mention your wife. Marriages have broken up over less.’
‘With all respect, what do you know about married life? Either its responsibilities or its pleasures?’
‘Nothing, I’m pleased to say. Footloose and fancy free, that’s me, and I intend to stay that way. Which is why
I
, at least, can look forward to this evening with a clear conscience. And if this friend of hers is half as good-looking as Anneke herself, there’ll be no stopping me. I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I reckon I’ve spruced myself up pretty nicely this evening. Best shirt. Smartest tie. A few splashes of the old cologne behind the ears and a thorough going-over with that new stripey toothpaste with the miracle ingredient. I don’t know how she’s going to resist me.’
Thomas smiled, although he had only been half-listening. Tony’s comment about Mr Chersky had reminded him of some of the things that had been said on Friday night: in particular, the way Mr Radford had asked him to keep an eye on their new Russian acquaintance and report anything suspicious. Was this what had alarmed those two strange, eternally vigilant, omnipresent Englishmen? Perhaps Chersky had really been using his (rather implausible, it now seemed) eagerness to seek out editorial advice as the most brazen of pretexts for introducing himself, not to Thomas, but to Tony: the man whose job in Brussels was to oversee the display of valuable British scientific equipment, the very workings of which were shrouded in well-kept secrecy. Contemplating this, Thomas had a sudden, vertiginous sense of radical
instability: as if he was standing again by the window in the Atomi
um’s topmost globe but gazing down, this time, not on the various pavilions and attractions of Expo 58, but on a hallucinogenic, perpetually shifting world of doubtful loyalties and concealed motives. Even the seemingly innocent conversation he’d had with Tony over the weekend about CND . . . Thomas had been – not shocked, exactly, but certainly surprised to learn that he had taken part in one of the Aldermaston marches. Of course, that didn’t make him a Communist, or anything like that. But still, he imagined it was the kind of thing that made the likes of Mr Wayne and Mr Radford a bit jumpy. It only added to his sense that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into a world he didn’t really understand. The business with Anneke was much the same. It was true, looked at from an objective point of view, that he shouldn’t be spending time with her like this. He was a married man, and he took his vows very seriously. But he could see little harm in it, for precisely that reason. He would know when to stop. He would know when to draw the line. Surely they would both have the strength to pull back, when things threatened to get out of control?
When Thomas and Tony reached their meeting point at the gate to the Parc des Attractions, there was no more time to reflect. Nor did the next couple of hours do much to alleviate his vertigo. Together with Anneke and her friend Clara, they rode the
montagne russe
and the big dipper. They span around on a giant wheel and they whizzed around in circles on model spaceships. They hurtled around the track in dodgem cars and deliberately crashed into each other, giggling wildly like fourteen-year-olds. Thomas had never known such dizziness. The years fell away from him and soon he had forgotten everything: the British pavilion, the Britannia, his office in Baker Street, his house in Tooting, Sylvia, his mother, Baby Gill . . . Dazzled by the company of the two girls, his head spinning with the adrenalin rush of the different rides, he felt that he had miraculously entered some sort of eternal present, in which nothing that he did need have any consequences, or come to an end.
They were hungry and thirsty. ‘Let’s go to the Oberbayern!’ said Clara. The two Englishmen didn’t know what she meant, but they followed the Belgian girls trustingly.
The place Clara had proposed was a gigantic replica of a Bavarian beerhouse and dance-hall. Waved inside by a doorman in traditional costume, they found themselves entering a space that had the dimensions of a medium-sized factory. It was packed to the rafters, and the noise was overwhelming. Through a dense cloud of pipe and cigarette smoke, Thomas could just about see that trestle tables filled every available inch of space, apart from a raised platform, about the size of a boxing ring, alongside one of the walls, on which a lederhosen-clad orchestra was pounding out a repetitive folk tune.
Clara and Anneke made their excuses and went to the ladies’ room, while the two men pushed through the crowd and struggled to find four places together at one of the tables.
‘Good God,’ said Tony, once they were safely seated. ‘This is mayhem.’
A waiter appeared and they ordered four beers, which were promptly delivered in tankards holding at least a quart apiece.
‘Well, cheers, old boy,’ said Thomas. ‘This is certainly turning out to be a night to remember.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘How are you getting on with Clara?’
‘Well, to be perfectly frank . . . She’s just not really my type.’
Thomas nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, I could see that. She seems awfully nice.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. She is awfully nice.’
‘Very friendly.’
‘Terribly friendly. It’s just that . . . you know.’
‘Yes. I know what you mean.’ He tried to think of a tactful way of phrasing it. ‘She’s a well-built girl, isn’t she?’
‘Very much so. Sturdy. Useful sort of girl to have around on a farm, or something like that.’
‘What’s she doing here, exactly?’
‘Well, she comes from the same town as Anneke and applied to be a hostess as well. But they didn’t take her. So she’s working in this sort of cod historical village they’ve put together. “La Belgique Joyeuse”.’
‘Ah, yes – Gay Belgium. I’ve heard a lot about it. They say that if you haven’t experienced Gay Belgium, you haven’t lived.’
‘Well, Clara’s working in one of the shops there. Poor girl, she has to get dressed up as an eighteenth-century baker every day. Got ticked off this afternoon for wearing a wristwatch, apparently.’
‘So what are you going to do? She seems awfully stuck on you.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll play it by ear. Anyway, Mum’s the word – here they come.’
The contrast between the two girls, as they approached the table, could hardly have been clearer. Anneke was wearing a pale-blue summer dress, short-sleeved, which showed off the slenderness of her arms and ankles. Freed from her ridiculous pill-box hat, her hair was able to fall to her shoulders in a tousled cascade. Her eyes gleamed and her skin, though freckled, had a bronzed and healthy glow. Clara’s ruddy face, meanwhile, radiated simple good nature. Her legs were stocky and the cut of her knee-length skirt was ill-chosen, but there was a permanent, overbearing cheerfulness about her which somehow contrived to take your mind off these failings. Thomas liked her. But then she had not been clinging on to his arm for the last two hours.
Clara proved a useful guide to the entertainment on stage. She said that she had grown up in a German-speaking part of Belgium, and was familiar with many of the songs the orchestra was playing. Like Anneke, she tucked in enthusiastically to her plate of
bratwurst
and
sauerkraut
. Thomas thought it strange that Belgians should be so ready to embrace the culture of a country which had occupied their own less than fifteen years ago, and committed many atrocities, but he did not say anything. It was not the right time to get involved in such discussions.
The orchestra had begun to play a particularly insistent and catchy song. Everyone who wasn’t eating began to clap their hands to the beat of the music. Clara leaned across the table and said – or rather shouted – that this tune was called ‘Ein Prosit’ and was a traditional Bavarian drinking song. She and Anneke were starting to clap along, too. The music got louder and louder, and the tempo faster and faster, as the chorus repeated itself incessantly. Many of the diners were singing along, and suddenly, a few yards away from Thomas, two young women jumped to their feet, clambered onto the table and began to dance, scattering fragments of food and attracting more than the occasional glance as they did so. The diners laughed and cheered and stamped their feet. Many of them also got up to dance, and the singing got louder still:
Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit
Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit.
OANS ZWOA DREI! G’SUFFA!
(A toast, a toast
To cheer and good times
A toast, a toast
To cheer and good times.
ONE TWO THREE! DRINK UP!)
Anneke and Clara jumped up and held out their hands for the men to join them. But Tony shook his head, grinning broadly, while Thomas took a long draught of beer and hid his face behind the enormous tankard. The women shrugged and began to dance with each other anyway.
‘This is mass hysteria!’ shouted Tony, looking around in amazement. ‘Isn’t this the kind of thing that brought Hitler to power?’
‘Ssh! No politics tonight, please.’
Finally, when it seemed impossible that the music could get any louder or any faster, a crashing major chord brought the whole thing to a welcome conclusion. Amid the cheers, clapping and laughter, Anneke and Clara flopped back down into their chairs, flushed and sweating, and made an immediate lunge for their beer glasses.
‘
Die Gemütlichkeit!
’ said Clara, swinging her glass at everyone’s in turn.
‘Good times, and good cheer!’ said Anneke.
They all drank deeply, then sat back and smiled long, satisfied, slightly tipsy smiles.
The orchestra started up another tune, and on a balcony high above the diners, a choir of about twenty men and women – all in traditional costume – materialized as if from nowhere and took up the melody in three-part harmony. Clara sighed delightedly.
‘Ah – “Horch was kommt von draußen rein”! I adore this tune.’
It did indeed come as something of a relief, after the crazed monotony of the last performance. It was hardly what Thomas would have described as sophisticated music, but still, there was something lilting and supple about the melody that appealed to him. The audience began to clap along again, but less robotically than before.
‘Bavaria must be a very cheerful place,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve never heard a piece of music from there that didn’t sound jolly.’
‘Ah, but the words are rather tragic,’ Clara explained. ‘There is a lover – in some versions a man, though I like to think of her as a woman – and today her sweetheart is getting married to someone else, and she says that for her this is a day of mourning. But she is quite defiant about it. She won’t relinquish her feelings for this man.’
And, as a new verse started, Clara began to sing along:
Laß sie reden, schweig fein still
Hollahi hollaho
Kann ja lieben wen ich will
Hollahi aho.
“ ‘I can love whoever I want,” she says.’ Clara had been addressing her words to all of them, up until this point, but now she stared pointedly at Tony, and repeated: ‘I can love whoever I want.’ She stood up, took him by the hand, and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s dance. You must feel like dancing.’
Tony followed, looking rather like a sheep being led off to the abattoir, and throwing a helpless, beseeching glance back in Thomas’s direction.
Now Anneke stood up and held out her arms.
‘So, Thomas, do you ever dance?’
‘Very rarely,’ Thomas said. He was about to add, ‘I think the last time was at my wedding,’ but the words died on his lips. Instead he allowed Anneke to lead him gently towards a clear space between the tables. He took hold of one her hands, and put his other arm around her waist. Through the thin cotton of her dress he could feel the beginnings of the curve of her bottom. This did not seem right, so he moved his hand upwards, until he could feel the base of her spine, which seemed just as inappropriate, if not more so. So he raised his hand away from her back a fraction, and barely touched her at all. Clara, he noticed, was leaning in tightly to Tony as they danced, her head resting upon his shoulder, a quietly blissful smile on her face.
‘This has been a wonderful evening,’ said Anneke.
‘Yes, it has,’ said Thomas, but before the conversation could proceed any further, he was interrupted by a familiar voice with a shrill Cockney accent, saying: ‘Hello, Mr Foley! Fancy seeing you here.’
It was Shirley Knott, the barmaid at the Britannia. And her dancing partner was, of all people, Ed Longman, the rude American guest from Friday night.