So I left some money on the table (no tip for a service not received), and not my problem if another human being steals it. Not that this type of waiter would care less if someone did. I stood up and headed off westwards down Curzon Street.
I was still in a good mood, the sun was still shining, I had only about an hour's meeting to deal with, the weekend was coming up and life was definitely pleasant—pleasant, needless to say, within the restrictions prevailing on our particular revolving lump of rock.
So…right into South Audley Street, a couple of minutes up the road, into the office building, up to the third floor (or fourth, if you are American), and into the offices of United Fasteners PLC, and a real grin for that swish, swish receptionist with the crooked smile.
"Hi Susi, TGIF right? Need company for the weekend, platonic of course, boyfriend maybe on a foreign business trip, just let me know." Chuckle, chuckle, keep it light, just a joke, just in case.
It pays to remain excessively polite with women you don't really know—most of them appreciate that, you are showing respect, it shows you are an educated male, maybe you even have true emotions in addition to your sexual ones. And in any case, as a consultant, you carefully toe the line to avoid unwanted situations with the client's employees, especially the female ones needless to say. It reminds me of one of my early trips to the U.S. when I greeted the boss's secretary with "Hi Cherry, you're looking dangerously fantastic this morning. How do you do it?" "Peter, do not," she replied in a whisper, "say things like that in such a loud voice. You may be European, but that doesn't change the fact that just about anything you say around here is capable of getting you into serious trouble for perceived sexual harassment." So I turned a few cubicle rats' heads when I shouted, "I meant your brain, Cherry, I meant that your brain is looking dangerously fantastic this morning." They can't put me in jail for that now, can they? Or can they? The way things are on this planet nowadays, you never really know.
"You wish…" said Susi, "but perhaps another time, and in any case the question would need to be put in a more charming manner." A smile, the crooked smile. "And, Peter, I did ask you a few weeks ago to please call me Susanne, I don't like Susi."
But with another smile, oh yes, another smile. Crooked and wicked. An offer if there ever was one. There are smiles and there are smiles and I am gifted, as indeed some of us are, at telling the difference. Usually, that is to say; if we want to be truthful, and we do, I have made a couple of mistakes here and there. But no doubt about this smile, enough to put my neurons off their stroke, send them into a minor frenzy. A minor sexual frenzy if you insist on my being explicit. One of the things which make life on this planet worth living, if you don’t mind my saying so.
But I am digressing.
"O.K. Susi, it's Susanne next time. Promise." A wink, on down the hall and into the office I've been given to use whenever I'm here. No way, I reminded myself, will I actually undertake anything with a headquarters employee. At least, not until the project is over and done with. And then perhaps she might become one of what my friend Steve refers to as 'blinking red lights', a few of which I have flashing away here and there around Europe, although not as many as Steve.
I should explain that I was at the headquarters of the company which had hired me to get rid of the losses at one of its manufacturing subsidiaries in Slough, a few kilometers west on the M4. I occasionally turn up here in central London to give a presentation on what I've been doing, what effects are being achieved and what the outlook is. I've done four months already and things have gone fast, the company is already profitable and, we can rest assured, it is profitable on a permanent basis and there is more to come on top of that. Not that I am a genius. I am not. I just happen to be good. And no apologies for saying so. And if one were to insist, I would have to say yes, there are also plenty of things I am not good at, I am happy to keep the record straight.
In any case, things can only go this fast when you have a very badly managed company, one with major problems that are easy to identify and when those problems, or at least some of them, can be easily and rapidly dealt with. Quick fixes, low-lying fruit, there is plenty of jargon for this. And such was the situation here. It is always a pleasant surprise to find a company like this, not that I tell it to the people who have hired me of course. And as for bad management, I never talk about that either unless pointedly asked to—and sometimes not even then—because, after all, you never know who is friends with whom in this world.
The office was small and fairly ordinary, but it had everything I needed and in any case I am not a person who requires status symbols. I saw the note on the desk as soon as I walked in and I picked it up. TODAY'S MEETING POSTPONED UNTIL A WEEK ON MONDAY AT 9 A.M. APOLOGIES. ROGER CALLED AWAY AT SHORT NOTICE. COULDN'T CATCH YOU ON YOUR MOBILE. SEE YOU THEN. HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND, GEOFF.
Roger was the Group CEO, Geoff the Group V.P. Finance. Friday, nice weather, Roger probably called away at short notice to his golf course down in Surrey. Actually, not fair. No proof. Maybe he's got his nose hard to the grindstone somewhere else, what do I know?
You'll note the first names. Thank God, if you'll forgive the expression, that I am not back on my previous assignment, a bottling machine manufacturer in Stuttgart. Six months of Herr this and Frau that and please use the formal Sie version of you, Du would be far too familiar, and please don't forget to address Herr Karrenbauer as Herr Doktor Karrenbauer, thank you. They revel in their doctor titles over there, a bit like the old English army majors still insisting on being called Major long after they've been shoveled back into civilian life or retirement. And some of the German docs have studied for so long that they have two Doktor titles and are quickly fitting in a modicum of work before having to retire. Then you are supposed to say "Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor Doktor von Leyendecker". And before I am corrected on the "Morgen", it so happens that all of their nouns start with a capital letter. There must be a reason for that but I've no idea what it is. And some people have been sitting at adjoining office desks for over twenty years and still address each other as Herr this and Frau that. Amazing. Different culture. No problem. Respect it, don't have to enjoy it.
So…no meeting. Never mind, I'll be paid my full day's rate for doing nothing—not that my work schedule will show that of course, it will show hours of analytical work back at the hotel—and nothing to do except turn up at the factory again on Monday morning. Another of life’s pleasant surprises, like landing in bed with a girl who’s told you she’s not like that. Even so, I would have liked to learn for how long they wanted me to continue. On the one hand it's easy money for me now, just implementing what is still pending, and on the other hand there is the possibility of another project for me down in Spain and if that materializes, I'll need to be able to tell the Spaniards when I can start.
I sat down, fished in my pocket for the cigarettes, still an indoors habit after all these years, but wait till I get downstairs, yes they'll be banning it in the streets before we know it but not just yet, and I came across the visiting card. I pulled it out. A superior quality material at least, fine-woven and fairly stiff to the touch. A nice card, it helps to pull in one or two of the more brain-damaged punters no doubt. A jellyfish trap. But it would do nothing to entice people with a certain amount of intelligence. Such as myself. No sirree.
No sir. No way. At all. But on the other hand…come to think of it—and it's a habit of mine to consider all possibilities, including way off-the-wall ones, makes me a good consultant—come to think of it, it could possibly be an amusing little event, another of life's minor anecdotes floating by on an undulating ocean wave, it would make a good bar tale and a true one as well.
And it would be fascinating to hear his ploy for getting out of the €100,000 promise. Several possible versions come to mind. So…come to think of it again, why wouldn't I call and agree to a meeting? I've got the time, life's little adventures keep you fit, and why throw away a piece of fun when fun is what life is all about? S
ome of the time anyway.
I took hold of my mobile and dialed.
"Jeremy Parker speaking. How may I help you?"
"Hi Mr. Parker, it's me, we met a short while ago in Curzon Street. I'm curious, I have changed my mind, I would be happy for us to meet."
"Ah, well, that's good to hear Mr. O’Donoghue, indeed it is, yes. And I am sure you will find it interesting, if nothing else. If Saturdays are not inconvenient to you, we could meet tomorrow, at my office perhaps, say after lunch, would 2 o'clock be suitable?"
"That will be fine, Mr. Parker. I'll be there. I look forward to meeting you again. Would you like me to bring anything with me, a résumé or whatever?"
"Actually, your C.V. would not be a bad idea. Thank you. Tomorrow at two o'clock then?"
"Indeed. See you then. Bye."
I'm looking forward to the bit of fun tomorrow. Maybe a waste of time but what the hell, it won't take long. Back down the corridor, "Hey, Susi—sorry, Susanne—have a great weekend, got to rush, have an appointment, take care." Down in the elevator, out into the road, smoked a cigarette and then caught a cab in Curzon Street.
I asked the driver to take me to the Royal Strand Towers. I just wanted to check out its exact whereabouts, It's bad to arrive late for anything and knowing where the location is in advance gets rid of one of the risks. The building turned out to be just past the Aldwych turnoff. Fine. The sun was still shining away, the sky was still blue, a pleasant short walk in the Covent Garden direction, into Tavistock Street, through the peeling doorway and up the creaky stairs and into the 'En Passant'.
* * * * *
The 'En Passant' is a strange place, pretty run down, not very clean. I suppose you would have to call it a chess and bridge café, I've never seen any other type of customer there, not even a homosexual on the prowl. Open 24 hours, burgers and sandwiches, coffee and coke available. I walked past the bridge tables to the chess section at the back. A dozen tables, all laid out with a chess set and a chess clock, about half of them in use at this time in the afternoon.
You can only find an opponent here if you are prepared to play for money which, unlike prize-money tournaments, means betting cash on each game. Most of the regulars have an appearance as dilapidated as the place itself, worn-out clothes, scuffed shoes, uncombed hair, and some of them not smelling too good either. That's because most of them are out of work, adroit specialists in the serious profession of welfare state manipulation—any system created by elected birdbrains is full of holes of course—with plenty of time to play chess each and every day for the rest of their lives if they wish, financed by the poor British tax-paying creatures. And many are immigrants, mainly from Eastern Europe, and most of them are also receiving unemployment benefits, or at least they look as if they are.
But, make no mistake, these are all good chess players, some very good in fact, and there is a sprinkling of masters among them; national masters that is, not international masters or grandmasters, you wouldn't find them in a place like this. They scrape their living playing for teams in the major European leagues and on the international tournament circuit. So the guys that are here are here to earn additional cash, tax-free like the rest of their income. They never play among themselves, except for a bit of Blitz when bored. They are after the punters, very often businessmen who think they can play good chess but can't, weak club-level players at best who dream of one day beating an experienced opponent or two. Which they never do and never will. But they keep coming back, each time they put it down to bad luck or to an obviously weak move made at some point in their game, and it usually takes them a long time, years, before they eventually wake up to the fact that they are never going to make it.
I am also a punter, but one who earns some petty cash here from time to time. I turn up occasionally when finding myself at a loose end in London. I am not a master but I am a strong club player and I have an international Elo ranking of 2265.
Chess is the only game I know of where no luck is involved. It starts off exactly the same every time. There are 72,000 possible positions after two moves, 9 million possible positions after three moves, and 300 billion after four moves—I use the Short Scale version of the term billion, it`s a word the Americans have raped but it is indeed easier than saying one thousand million—and the number of possible positions in an average-length game of 40 moves is more than all of the quarks in the universe. Yes, quarks, those things which neutrons and protons are made up of and which, in turn, are the components of atoms, except hydrogen atoms of course which have no neutrons, and so we are talking a big number here. And if you find it difficult to believe any of these chess statistics, you can probably check them out nowadays on the Internet.
When I saw that the only person not playing was Ivanovic, I was not disheartened. On the contrary, you only really enjoy chess when playing an opponent as strong as, or stronger than, yourself. Ivanovic was a master. Not quite as good as he used to be, certainly, but you never lose your master title. Ivanovic had definitely come down heavily in life and he looked it. He was a miserable kind of guy, one of those who hate other people, who hate the world and, in many cases, also hate themselves. He virtually lived in the En Passant, and he had the pasty white skin to show for it, and he did nothing else, absolutely nothing, except play chess. For money.
"Hi," I said, "wanting a game?"
"Only playing full games today," he mumbled back in thick-accented English, "two hours on the clock, £100."
For my café chess I prefer Blitz, five minutes per game for £5 a game, but full-length makes for better chess and would probably give me at least a reasonable chance against him. Mind you, £100 was a bit steep, but who cares? "O.K.," I said, "I've got the time. Start right away?"
He didn't say anything, merely nodded in a disinterested and bored manner, sat down, set both clocks, and tossed a coin. I lost and so I had the black pieces. A disadvantage but not a fatal one of course; however, as Black, you do have an initial task, which is to strive to achieve equality as soon as possible. Ivanovic started with e4 and I chose the Sicilian Defence. It suits my character, it's adventurous, it provokes the production of adrenalin. In many variations of this opening, Black can be subjected to persistent kingside pressures—which can reach hurricane proportions if not defended with great care—while at the same time obtaining plenty of tactical opportunities of his own for counterattacking on the queenside.
To cut a long story short, the game followed one of the various lines of the Scheveningen System, a common Sicilian variation, and on the nineteenth turn I made a somewhat weak knight move, allowing White to gain some positional advantage. And that was all Ivanovic needed. He kept up the pressure and after spending another hour sliding down into a losing game, and knowing it, I resigned. No point in continuing, two pawns down and absolutely no compensation of any kind.
Chess is unquestionably a good character-trainer. You can be in an inferior position for a prolonged period of time before it turns into a losing one and you can be in a losing position for another long period of time before it becomes a lost one. As my father and plenty of others used to say, losing is part of your education and it is good for the soul. Whatever a soul is, I haven't a clue, perhaps you know.
And no, we chess players have nothing to do with those ghastly characters in novels who capture one, two, or even more of their opponent's pieces and then are actually allowed to continue until they checkmate him, upon which the opponent topples his king down onto the board. I will permit myself to say that such characters and their authors produce in me a strong desire to vomit, profusely indeed.
I handed him the money, wished him a good day, accepted his grunt in return and went down the stairs and out into the fresh air.
Fresh air, but the sun was gone and the rain was here. No umbrella, I should have known better, good evening England. I ran around the corner to a steakhouse, ordered a meal, a filet steak well-done (I know, I know, but that's how I like it). The wine was good, a simple Côtes
du Rhône, a wine I always order if not wanting to spend too much; it is one of those rare wine-growing areas that seldom produce a bad bottle. It was dark when I came out of the restaurant and it was still raining, but I got lucky and found a cab to take me back to the hotel. I was no longer hungry, but I was tired. I had worked a lot of hours this week and today's four hours of chessboard concentration plus the wine had not changed things much.
Into the hotel, checked the foyer for women on the way through, uninteresting, only one nice one sitting there with her husband (actually, it had to be her boyfriend, married people don't look at each other like that) and two other old ones painted up like red Indian squaws gone berserk.
I also decided to give the hotel bar a miss. An early night was called for. Up to my room, teeth, shower, and into bed with my book of the day, a collection of James M. Cain's legendary novels. I was reading one of the short ones, ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’, and managed to finish it before falling asleep.
DAY 2
The room service trolleys and other miscellaneous hotel noise pollution woke me at the fairly reasonable Saturday morning hour of 08.30. Nothing to do, no work, a piece of fun awaiting me in the early afternoon, and I would decide on the evening later. So I languished in bed for a while before getting up and commencing the shit, shave and shower routine.
I looked out of the window, still raining, either that or raining again. I decided that the brown-check jacket and casual shirt would be good for the so-called meeting, brown slip-on shoes, relatively new like all my shoes and, also like all my shoes, size 48 or size 13 depending on where you come from in Europe, and possibly some other number in the USA.
Why can't the human race standardize something as simple as that? Well, the answer is that it can't. That would not only require a certain modicum of intelligence, it would also mean they would have to actually agree on something, a rarity on this disordered planet as I am sure you agree. We can't even assent to driving our cars on the same side of the road. As you probably know, there are 72 countries in which you drive on the left and 125 countries in which you drive on the right. The only good thing is that no country has decided to drive in the middle. Tribal behavior. Amazing.
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