Authors: Charles Cumming
It has a tick like chattering teeth.
“Can I just say to begin with that I think it’s very important that we maintain a tight alliance with the French, though the problem is of their making. Initially, at least.”
Ann, God bless her, has had the balls to kick things off, although her opening statement has a forced self-confidence about it that betrays an underlying insecurity. Like a pacesetter in a middle-distance track event, she’ll lead for a while but soon tire and fall away.
“Do you agree?” she says, to no one in particular, and her question has a terrible artificiality about it. Ann’s words hang there unanswered for a short time, until the Hobbit chips in with a remark that is entirely unrelated to what she has said.
“We have to consider how economically important fish exports are to the Americans,” he says, touching his right cheekbone with a chubby index finger. “Do they amount to much?”
“I agree.”
I say that, and immediately regret it, because everyone turns in my direction and expects some sort of follow-up. And yet it doesn’t come. What happens now, for a period of perhaps five or six seconds, is appalling. I become incapable of functioning within the group, of thinking clearly in this unfamiliar room with its strange, artificial rules. This happened with Lucas and it is happening again. My mind is just terrible blank white noise. I see only faces, looking at me. Ogilvy, Elaine, Ann, Matt. Enjoying, I suspect, the spectacle of my silence. Think. Think. What did he say? I agree with what? What did he say?
“I happen to know that annual exports of fish and shellfish to the United States amount to little more than twenty or thirty million pounds.”
The Hobbit, tired of waiting, has kept on going, has dug me out of a hole. Immediately attention shifts back to him, allowing me the chance to blank out what has just happened. I have to think positively. I may not have betrayed my anxiety to the others, or to Pyman, Rouse, or Stevenson. It may, after all, have been just a momentary gap in real time, no more than a couple of beats. It just felt like a crisis; it didn’t look like one.
Stay with them. Listen. Concentrate.
I look over at Elaine, who has taken a sip from a glass of water in front of her. She appears to be on the point of saying something in response to the Hobbit. She has a perplexed look on her face. You
happen
to know that, Hobbit? How can someone
happen
to know something like that?
Ann speaks.
“We can’t just abandon exports of fish and shellfish to America on the grounds that they only bring in a small amount of revenue. That’s still twenty million pounds’ worth of business to the fishing community.”
This is the humanitarian angle, the socialist’s view, and I wonder if it will impress Rouse and Pyman, or convince them that Ann is intellectually unevolved. I suspect the latter. Elaine shapes as if to put her straight, moving forward in her chair, elbows propped on the table. A woman in her twenties who is not a socialist has no heart; a woman in her thirties who is still a socialist has no brain. Instead, she ignores what Ann has said and takes the conversation off on a different tack. We are all of us rushing around this, just trying to be heard. Everything is moving too fast.
“Can I suggest trying to persuade the Americans to accept imports of fish from European waters that are not affected by the alleged nuclear spillage? We can accept a temporary export ban on shellfish, but to put a stop to all fish exports to the U.S. seems a bit draconian.”
Elaine has a lovely, husky voice, a been-there, done-that, low-bullshit drawl with a grin behind it. All the time the examiners are busy scribbling. I have to operate at a level of acute self-consciousness: every mannerism, every gesture, every smile is being minutely examined. The effort is all-consuming.
A pause opens up in the discussion. My brain fog has cleared completely, and a sequence of ideas has formed in my mind. I must say something to erase the memory of my first interruption, to make it look as though I can bounce back from a bad situation. Now is my chance.
“On the other—”
Ogilvy, fuck him, started speaking at the same time as me.
“Sorry, Alec,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Sam. I was just going to say that I think it’s going to be difficult to make a distinction between fish and shellfish in this instance. Nuclear contamination is nuclear contamination. The Americans have a very parochial view of Europe. They see us as a small country. Our waters, whether they be the English Channel or the Mediterranean, are connected geographically in the minds of the Americans. If one is polluted, particularly by nuclear waste, then they all are.”
“I think that’s quite a patronizing view of America.”
This comes from Elaine. I had made the mistake of perceiving her as an ally. In my peripheral vision I see Rouse and Pyman duck into their pads.
“Okay, perhaps it is, but consider this.”
This had better be good or I’m finished.
“Any lasting export ban of radioactive shellfish to America will quickly become an international ban. No one wants to eat contaminated food. If we don’t put a stop to it soon, other countries, even in Europe, will refuse to buy shellfish and fish from British and French waters. It’s a domino effect.”
This goes down well. Both Ann and the Hobbit nod respectfully. But Ogilvy has decided he has been silent too long. He leans forward, like a chess grand master on the point of making a telling move in the endgame. He’s going to make me look ineffectual.
“The question is an interesting one,” he says, drawing us into his web of good-naturedness. A bird sounds territorially outside. “Is this a direct face-off between the United States of America and a United States of Europe? Do we as British citizens want to see ourselves that way, as part of a federal Europe? Or do we value our sovereignty too much, our prerogative to dictate terms to other European states and to the world at large?”
This is inch-perfect, not a fluffed line. He goes on.
“I suggest that we see this problem in those terms. There are too many conflicting European interests to mount an effective British campaign. We must do it with the assistance of our European partners and present a united front to the Americans. We hold many of the cards. Our major problem is Germany, and that is what we have to address. Once they’re on board, the rest will follow.”
This is the smart move. He has set the foundations for the conversation, given it a clear starting point from which it can develop and assume some shape. Ogilvy has essentially proposed to chair the discussion, and this aptitude for leadership will not go unnoticed.
Ann takes up the argument.
“I don’t see why we have to present pan-European resistance to America as the civil servant in this document suggests.”
As she says this, she taps the printed sheet quite vigorously with the point of her middle finger. She is not as good at this as Ogilvy is, and she knows it. Every contour of her body language betrays this to the rest of us, but some dark stubbornness in her, some Ulster obstinacy, will not allow her to back down. So she will wade in, deeper and deeper, pretending to know about things she barely understands, feigning a self-confidence she does not possess.
“To put it bluntly, this is France’s problem,” she says, and her voice is now overexcited. “It’s a French nuclear reprocessing”—her tongue trips on this last word several times—“plant that is leaking. I suggest that, perhaps with EU funding, you know, we conduct some definitive checks on the plant with American observers on site. On the site. If it proves to be clean, then there’s no reason why the Americans shouldn’t begin rebuying European fish. If it’s leaking, we demand that the French get it fixed. We then try to persuade the Americans to buy fish and shellfish from non-French, uncontaminated waters.”
“So you’re suggesting we just abandon the French?” I ask, just so that my voice is heard, just to make it look like I’m still taking part.
“Yes,” she says impatiently, hardly taking the time to look at me.
“There’s a problem with that solution.”
Ogilvy says this with the calm bedside manner of a family GP.
“What?” says Ann, visibly unsettled.
“The plant was built in 1978 with joint British, French, and Dutch cooperation.”
This trips everyone up. Nobody had recalled it from the printed sheet except Ogilvy, who is happy to let this fact make its way across the room to the impressed examiners.
“Yes, I’d forgotten that,” Ann admits, to her credit, but she must know that her chance has passed.
“I still think Ann has a point,” says a gallant Hobbit. He is surely too kind to be caught up in this. “The French facility needs to have a thorough checkup with American observers. If it’s leaking, we all have to put it right collectively and be completely open about that. But I suspect it’s fine, and that these American claims are disingenuous.”
In the tight lightless classroom, this last word sounds labored and pretentious. Ann’s face has flushed red and the hand in which she is holding her pen is shaking. Ogilvy inches forward.
“Let’s look at it this way,” he says. “We don’t know all the facts. What we do know is that the Americans are playing games. And in my view, the best way to deal with a bully is to bully them back.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting, Alec, that if the Americans are proposing to squeeze us, then we in turn should squeeze them.”
They’ll like this. We’re supposed to play hardball. We’re supposed to be capable of a trick or two. Ogilvy glances across at Rouse, then back at the Hobbit.
“Matthew, you seem to know about the levels of import and export of fish and shellfish going to and fro between Britain and America.”
The Hobbit, flattered, says, “Yes.”
“Well, I suspect that the Americans export significantly higher numbers of fish and shellfish to Europe than we export to them. Is that right?”
“Off the top of my head, yes, as much as three times the amount,” says the Hobbit.
It’s just between the two of them for now, and it’s an impressive thing to watch. Ogilvy is giving us all a lesson in man management, in how to make the little guy feel good about himself. A trace of sweat has formed above the Hobbit’s upper lip, a little vapor of nerves, but he is otherwise entirely without self-consciousness. Just getting the words out, happy to talk in facts. Maybe even enjoying himself. Ogilvy has rested his elbows on the table, fingers interlocked and raised to his dark face.
“So a ban on American fish and shellfish imports would hit them even harder?”
“In theory,” says Elaine, a dismissiveness in her voice.
“Of course,” says Ogilvy, cutting her off before she has a chance to tell him how unworkable a trade embargo with the United States would be, “I actually don’t think that we’ll have to go as far as reciprocating their ban with one of our own.”
He wants to show Rouse and Pyman that he’s seen all the angles.
“The key to this, as I’ve said, is the Germans. If we can get them on our side, and as long as any problem with the reprocessing plant can be addressed, I can’t foresee the Americans continuing with their demands. It’s important that we be seen to stand up to them.”
It’s time to steal some ideas from Ogilvy, before he runs away with it.
“The sticking point is the automobile manufacturer. We have to make sure that that contract is secured and goes ahead. At the same time, we might offer the Germans a sweetener.”
“What kind of a sweetener?” Elaine asks. She lingers on
sweetener
as if it is the most absurd word she has ever heard.
“Sell them something. At a bargain price. Or we could buy more of their exports.”
This sounds meek and ill-informed. It is clear that I have not thought it through. But Ogilvy bails me out, saying yes with a degree of enthusiasm that I had not anticipated. Ironically, this leads to a bad mistake. He says, “We could offer to buy up deutsch marks, to push up their value briefly against the pound.”
This is ludicrous, and Elaine tells him so.
“You try it. You’d have to be owed some pretty big favors at the Exchequer to get something like that done.”
She delivers this in a tone of weary experience and for a moment Ogilvy is stumped. His square jaw tremors with humiliation, and it gives me a small buzz of pleasure to watch him ride it out. It’s important that I don’t let this opportunity slip. Shut him down.
“I have to agree with Elaine, Sam. We mustn’t pass the buck to another department. It’s difficult, without knowing more about our other negotiations with the Germans, to determine how exactly we might go about persuading them to side with us. It may not even be necessary, for two reasons. The first has already been made clear. The French plant may in fact be safe and the Americans may be acting illegally. If that’s the case, we’re in the clear. But if it does prove necessary to get the Germans onside, we could try another tactic.”
“Yes, I—” Ann tries to grab the floor, but I’m not about to be interrupted.
“If I could just finish. Thank you. If we succeed in convincing a majority of other European states to form a united front against the Americans, the Germans will not relish being isolated. While they may not want to be seen to be taking issue with the United States, at the same time they won’t want to be seen by their European partners to be forming an unholy alliance with America. We can, in effect, shut them up.”
“We shouldn’t underestimate the Germans or their influence,” the Hobbit mumbles. “Nobody here wants to acknowledge the truth of this situation, which is that the Germans are the dominant economic force in European politics. They are, in effect, our masters.”
This annoys me.
“Well, if that’s what they’re teaching you on your European affairs course at Warwick, I’m not signing up.”
Elaine, Pyman, and Rouse emit snorty laughs. I’m winning this, I’m coming through. The Hobbit’s cheeks rouge nicely. He can’t think of a comeback, so I carry on.
“This notion of the Germans as the European master race is contrived. Their economy will slow in the next few years, unemployment is chronic since unification, and Kohl’s days are numbered.”