The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby

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The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby Page 14

by Brian Martin


  Once I had permission from my editor, I had rung the Swiss number. A brittle-voiced girl had answered. I said I was returning a call from Arne and gave my name. I was asked to hold for a moment. Then Arne’s voice was in the background saying goodbye to someone. He came to the phone and spoke to me.

  ‘Hallo. Pelham. Very glad to hear you. Can you come? I do hope so. I think you would find it interesting.’

  ‘Yes. I’d love to. My editor thinks it a good opportunity for me to do some basic research into people closely concerned with expanding inward investment in the Baltic countries.’

  ‘Precisely, what better forum? You must stay in the central hotel in the Piazza Maggiore. I’ll make sure the conference hosts you. Your editor will not have to stand your costs. You will be our guest. I’m so glad you can attend.’

  ‘Well, it’s most kind, but really the paper will pay.’

  ‘There’s no question of it. You are our guest.’

  That was how it was left. I was to arrive the following Sunday evening to be ready for the conference opening at eleven Monday morning. I caught an Alitalia flight to Milan and landed in the late afternoon. The Bologna train took me to the ancient, distinguished, university city where I checked into my hotel at around eight o’clock. The window of my room looked out directly on to the two towers in the middle of the square, one of them leaning to a frightening degree similar to Pisa’s famous tower. Fortunately it was not leaning towards me: I had some reluctance about walking round those crazy towers. I harboured a conviction that the edifice would collapse on top of me the moment I stepped into its shadow. To be within the angle of its incline was for me a psychological terror. On my own I would always hurry, almost run past the structure. If for centuries it had been shifting slightly every year, every month, every minute, in my mind there was no reason why the forces of nature should not make it crumble at the very time of my passage past it. Stranger things have happened. Even my training in intelligence told me that you have to weigh up probabilities, but that you must always be alert for the unexpected. Thus I could not reconcile myself with any sort of equanimity to believing that the tower would stand forever. Surely the time had come for its disintegration. The longer it stood, the further it leaned towards the ground. The greater the chance was that it would fall soon. My fears were not irrational: they possessed logic. I reflected that anyone who wanted to torture a confession, or some compliance, from me, should keep me under the angle of the leaning tower. I should break in no time at all.

  The towers were floodlit. A soft orange light made the stone and brickwork where it fell contrast sharply with the dark shadow where it did not reach. The heart of the old city looked deeply romantic. I decided to walk for a little. I wandered into the Piazza Maggiore, then along part of the Via dell’Indipendenza, back down the Via Guglielmo Oberdan, and then into the Via Rizzoli. In one of the alleys that led off the Rizzoli, I found a small bar that sold cheeses and olive oil, where I treated myself to a glass of regional wine. There was a mixed clientele, the usual group of old men talking non-stop and teasing each other, some shop people who had slipped in for refreshment, and a couple of tables with obvious Bolognese intellectuals. The university, noted for its medical and economics faculties, seemed to supply the chattering class for establishments of that sort. I heard the exchange rate of the euro against the pound sterling and the dollar being debated, and the fact that its introduction initially into Germany had done nothing but damage to German economic interests; but then the tables turned. From a different group I caught snatches of conversation about the effectiveness of cannabis-based painkillers. A small pharmaceutical company had just completed successfully its phase 3 trials for such a drug that was to be bought by a number of government health services. Bologna was an international centre. Two languages were spoken in that bar. I could detect Italian and the universal English. It was clear that everybody understood the latter.

  That evening I made do with a pizza. Next door to the bar was a small, noisy, pizza shop with a few tables. The pizzas were cooked individually in a huge glowing oven at the back of the shop. I ordered a Margherita and a another glass of wine, not quite so good as the one served in the bar, but perfectly agreeable.

  After that I returned to my hotel, made myself comfortable, lay back on the bed and turned on the ubiquitous CNN news. I wished that I was really on holiday and that Roxanne was with me. I knew, of course, that such a thing was impossible. Our relationship was not on that basis. We had never been away together, nor was it likely to happen. That would not suit Raoul. Our meetings were irregular and transient. The prospect of being anywhere together on holiday was a delusion. Still, it was nice to dream, and before I knew what was happening, I had drifted off to sleep. I woke with a shock, to realise that CNN had just shown a huge car bomb explosion that had taken place in Tel Aviv. The recorded noise of the atrocity that had killed fourteen people in a busy shopping area had awoken me. As I opened my eyes the horror of flying metal, glass, bricks, splintered wood and human body parts, made a ghastly impact upon my consciousness.

  I reflected on the world’s current troubles. Most sprang from the Middle East. While the Palestinians remained under siege, there being no real recognition of their national independence crucially by Israel, then the conflict, the bombings, the shootings, the torture, would go on. Nowhere was free from the troubles. The world was Northern Ireland on a grand scale. At base, differences were religious. Islam and Judaism posed the problem. In Europe and America, the clash was developing between Islam and Christianity. Both continents were seen as props of Israel. Both became targets for Islam. The world was full of polarisations.

  It was a depressing prospect. Neither side was likely to give way. The Palestinians and Israel both flaunted an intransigent militancy. It was a bitter feud in which individuals were prepared to fight to the death and innocent people could be sacrificed for the projected benefit of the majority.

  I tried to banish those thoughts from my mind. I switched channels and watched some bland Italian chat show that I only partially understood. At least there was laughter and music. My thoughts went back to Roxanne, and that did not help. It was a relationship that was going nowhere. It was a series of long-running one-night stands but with the same person. That was how disenchanted I felt with my life. I decided to go down to the bar for a nightcap.

  The bar, half lit, was sparsely populated. A couple in a corner sat close to each other and occasionally touched hands. They sipped red wine and whispered. Three men stood by a window, relaxed and companionable, and talked about the European Champions League. The noisiest was a supporter of AC Milan, another of Manchester United: the third, I detected, had no allegiance. They spoke in a mixture of Italian and English. At a small table sat a solitary man, middle-aged, some businessman abroad for his firm. I ordered a Black and White with some frizzante water and leaned against the bar wondering what the next day would have in store.

  The whisky warmed me and because I was tired made me feel slightly confused. I decided it was time to turn in. As I left the bar to take the lift to my floor, the receptionist called my name.

  ‘Mr Rigby. A Mr Arne has just rung to welcome you to Bologna. He apologises for not having rung before but said that he has been out of town. He will send someone to collect you in the morning at 10.15.’

  I thanked her for passing the message on and thought that Arne must have said on the phone something such as, ‘Arne here. Would you pass on this message to Mr Rigby.’ She would have immediately assumed that Arne was his surname, and thus the Mr Arne. It was curious that he never used another name. His reluctance to do so, and his one name device, intrigued me. One day, I decided, when I knew him better, I would ask him his reasons. Did it lend an air of mystery to him as a man? Was it just an early habit that endured? Was it all an unintentional accident of his later, professional years? I resolved that one day I should find out.

  And so, as the diarist Pepys would have said, I went to bed.
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br />   18

  The weather was brilliant. When I went to breakfast, the sun outside was shining. The Square was brightly, cheerfully, lit. The crazy towers reflected, even at that time in the morning, a warm reddish glow. I looked out on to the piazza and watched people coming and going. As so often in Italian, or French, towns and villages, early in the morning fresh loaves of bread were being carried back to neighbouring houses. On the pavements outside cafés old men sat at tables and chatted. One or two business people had cups of coffee, capuccini, which they sipped until the froth had gone, and then into which they dipped pieces of bread. I imagined that it was a late breakfast for them. Perhaps the young man I was watching had hurriedly left his mistress in bed, rushed out to reach his workplace on time, and had just called in to satisfy his hunger, sharpened by his night of lovemaking. He put down his newspaper and stretched backwards: again, I thought, he was easing his stomach muscles exercised too much by the demands of his lover. I let my fantasies go and concentrated on my own coffee, a strong brew that I poured and added a little milk to.

  An elegant, beautiful young woman, with long blonde hair, severely cut at the back across the top of her shoulders, came to a table in front of me. At the distance of a few yards she smelled good, perfumed with something rich and slightly sharp: I could not place it. She had recently come from her shower and make-up session. As she went to sit down she looked around her and caught my eye. She knew I was looking at her and our eyes met. I smiled and she immediately smiled back. I could not think of anything to say and I let the moment pass.

  After breakfast, I prepared myself for the day, collected my briefcase, and went to wait in the hotel vestibule for Arne or one of his menials to pick me up. There, I saw another girl waiting. She was wearing, rather inappropriately I thought, the sort of hat Scandinavians or Estonians wear, a pointed hat knitted in heavy wool in Fair Isle patterns with ear flaps hanging down and plaited cords to tie under the chin. I had been in strange basement caves in the centre of Tallinn where old women sold such things to tourists. It was hardly the hat for the weather outside. She wore it because she looked good in it. A young man hurried in through the hotel doors. She said to him in English, ‘Mike, if Milly’s upstairs, tell her I’m waiting.’ He said he would do so. A moment or two later, she disappeared downstairs to the basement where the lavatories were. A moment after that, the beautiful girl who had caught my eye at breakfast came out of the lift and looked around. I calculated that she had to be Milly. I said, ‘Are you Milly by any chance?’ She replied in an educated, Oxford English voice, smooth, modulated and extremely attractive, that she was.

  ‘How did you know my name?’ She added rather reproachfully, ‘We hardly spoke at breakfast.’

  I explained I had overheard the conversation between her friend and the young man who had been going upstairs, and that her friend in the Estonian hat had gone down to the WCs. She thanked me and followed her friend downstairs. A little later they both re-emerged and came across to where I was standing.

  The girl in the Fair Isle hat said, ‘Thanks for keeping us in touch with each other. We might have missed.’

  ‘Not at all. A great pleasure to be of service. I love your hat. Where did you get it? Is it Scandinavian? Norwegian, perhaps.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she replied. ‘It’s Peruvian. I got it over there last year.’

  I flattered her. ‘I like it. It certainly suits you. It’s odd, though, that hats in the Baltic and in South America are so similar. There must be a cultural explanation for it, but I don’t know what it is.’

  My smart breakfast companion said, ‘Well, I certainly can’t enlighten you. You must be right. We’ll have to look into it; but lovely to meet you. We must rush. No doubt we’ll see you later if you are staying here for a few days.’

  ‘Surely. I look forward to that,’ I said, and I hope I said it not too enthusiastically, although I felt that old familiar frisson of expectation and keenness. They went out into the sunlit square and left me feeling pleased with myself that I should have made contact with a pair of such attractive young women. I wondered optimistically what might lie in store. At that moment, a young man, no more than about twenty-five or -six, came into the hotel, looked at me and asked if I were Mr Pelham Rigby. He was undoubtedly American and looked as though he were spending a year doing voluntary service overseas. He should have been at Harvard or Yale in his button-down-collar cotton Oxford shirt and boat shoe loafers.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Are you from Arne?’

  ‘I am. I’m Paul,’ He introduced himself. ‘He intended to come for you himself but someone rang from Estonia just as he was about to set out. So he asked me to stand in and escort you to the conference. It’s better for us to walk. It isn’t far and it’s a great morning. The sun’s shining and the air is still fresh.’

  ‘A very good idea,’ I responded. He seemed a nice guy, self-assured, civilised, clearly wanting to be friends at the outset. He was typical of many East Coast Americans, pleasant, easy-mannered, polite, and he made you want to get to know him just by his considerate, accommodating behaviour. He adopted the manner of someone who is a friend of long acquaintance.

  We walked out into the Piazza Maggiore. I avoided the leaning tower. We strolled into the Via Portanova and went towards the Malpighi district and the Piazza San Francesco. From thereon, I became a little confused and lost my bearings. We were in the outer reaches of the old city bordering on the ugly, utilitarian modern industrial development of the new. We did pass the Bologna Centre of the Washington School of Advanced International Studies. My guide and companion pointed it out to me. He said he was an alumnus. When he had studied for his Master’s degree in International Relations and Economics, he had spent the first year in Bologna and the second back in Washington. It was a modern building with concrete facing and recessed windows on four floors. He indicated where the extensive library was, the refectory, and the teaching rooms. As I had noticed on a previous visit to the city the flat roof was thick with sprouting radio and television antennae, and about a dozen satellite dishes. I suspected that SAIS Bologna was not as innocent as it would like to seem. It registered with me as a CIA communications and listening post. No doubt many who attended the Master’s programmes were CIA personnel, and, additionally, many SAIS students probably ended up as agency operatives.

  After a few more minutes of relaxed walking and easy conversation, we reached a low building that Paul said was the conference centre where our meeting was to convene. The gardens that surrounded the centre were immaculate, well-tended, watered, verdant and full of flowering shrubs. As we arrived, there were at least half a dozen gardeners casually at work on lawns and borders. Big business is no niggard in spending to maintain appearances. Paul ushered me in through revolving doors where I was greeted by a uniformed girl who asked my name and company. Paul took over. He introduced me as Mr Pelham Rigby of Myrex. That was a surprise: I had temporarily forgotten my association with the corporation. The girl sorted through some information packs laid out on a table and gave me one together with a name badge which she asked me to wear whenever I was in the building. I thanked her and said to Paul, ‘You probably know I’m a journalist. Why shouldn’t I be labelled from the London Journal?’

  He said, ‘No journalists are invited. You have to have a cover. Arne thought that the easiest thing was for Myrex to assimilate you. Others here would not like a press presence. You shouldn’t talk about your newspaper connection.’ I thought to myself, ironically, that I should not reveal either, my connection to Willly; but that, of course, went without saying. Paul showed me towards a reception room where coffee was being served. There were forty or fifty people standing around drinking coffee and talking in groups. Men outnumbered women by about three to one. I glanced at the various groups to see if there was anyone I recognised, failed, but noticed the familiar fair, floppy hair of Arne in a group standing by a window. He was slightly taller than the other people and so he was at once noti
ceable. I mentioned to Paul where Arne was, and he suggested we went over to join him.

  As we approached the small group, Arne broke away.

  ‘Good morning, Pelham,’ he said in that peculiar precise English of his. ‘I am so sorry not to have met you myself. I had hoped to do so but I was held up by some Estonian business.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. Paul here has been an excellent escort. I’ve been looked after very well indeed.’

  ‘I hope you were comfortable in the hotel and slept well. Make yourself at home here. We have a plenary session at half past eleven. A professor of economics at Bologna University is giving a keynote address. He also teaches at SAIS in Washington and is close to the present presidential administration. He should be interesting and useful. There will be a short discussion afterwards and then lunch. Paul is acting as my, what shall we say, aide de camp. If you can’t find me, Paul will take care of you.’

  I looked at Paul and he smiled back at me. We were, I decided, on the same wavelength. What was his relationship to Arne and Myrex? Given a little time, I reckoned I had better find out. Paul said he would try to keep me in his sights, and that if I needed to be introduced to anyone, he was always ready to oblige. It was clearly a huge advantage for Arne to have that attractive, personable, polite young American as his personal assistant.

  The Bologna academic, Professor Caracci, was fascinating. He had analysed the rates of inward investment into the three Baltic countries over the last five years, predicted trends for the next fiscal year, and highlighted the companies that were most heavily involved in commercial and industrial development. By comparison with some big American and British companies, Myrex was a small player in the field but Caracci emphasised, it was expanding rapidly. He spoke enthusiastically about the imminent entry of the Baltic trio into the European Union. The discussion that followed his lecture was diverse and lively. I noted that Arne took no part.

 

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