The London Embassy by Paul Theroux

Author:Paul Theroux [Theroux, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241963739
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2012-02-25T07:00:00+00:00

The Man on the Clapham Omnibus

If Sir Charles Smallwood had not sent Miss Gowrie to visit me at the Embassy, and if I had not helped rid this Mortlake landlady of her vengeful lodger, I would never have given this gentleman another thought. Miss Gowrie had called him ‘Charlie.’ She made me curious and she allowed me an excuse to see him.

We knew him vaguely. He was usually invited to our Embassy parties and very often to dinners. He was, somehow, on the permanent guest list. But he was seldom a guest. He invariably turned down the invitations. I had seen him once, but only long enough to shake his hand – a damp, slack, small-boned hand. The only other thing about him that I could remember was that he had been wearing evening dress of an old-fashioned kind – bib and stiff collar, white scooped-out waistcoat, starched cuffs, black trousers, and tails. He should have looked like a prince; in fact, he looked like a headwaiter, though he was not so poised. It was the functionaries, the waiters and doormen in London, who dressed correctly. The rest of us seldom did. Sir Charles wore his evening dress the way an old veteran wears a uniform for a regimental reunion. He looked uncomfortable in this stiff and slightly ill-fitting suit, and it also looked forty years out of date. I could not remember his face.

His address was in the computer, and his code number – eight digits – explained why he was repeatedly invited to Embassy functions. He was a very high grade of guest, the best English ally, a baronet from an old family.

Al Sanger, from the Legal Department, had shown me which keys to hit on the computer.

‘If the British knew the kind of information we had on them in this thing, they’d deep-six every one of us,’ Sanger said. ‘Greatgrandfather’s birthplace, wife’s maiden name, nanny’s husband’s political preference, criminal record, queerness quotient, shoe size, taste in underwear, magazine subscriptions, credit rating – do me a favor!’

Smallwood’s name and code had come up, and Sanger was scrutinizing the alignments of file references, the green letters and numbers.

He said, ‘I don’t even know this guy!’

He seemed angry with himself, so I said, ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I only met him once.’

Sanger said, ‘But this is the kind of guy we’re supposed to know. It’s why we’re here!’

‘Really?’ I wondered if he believed what he had just said.

‘Yeah – to meet the opinion-formers.’

‘How do you know he’s an opinion-former?’

‘If you see a guy with a long white beard, wearing a red suit and carrying a bag of toys and saying, “Ho-ho-ho,” you’d be pretty stupid if you didn’t call him Santa Claus,’ Sanger said. ‘It’s all in the profile. Look at Smallwood’s. Look at those ratings. That’s a pedigree and a half! Where’d you get his name?’

‘From a little old lady.’

‘That’s funny, you know? We’re in the business of information-gathering, and you stand there uttering pointless jokes and tiresome evasions.

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