by David Szalay
Taking the drinks, and tucking two packets of crisps under his arms, Paul returns to the table, where Oliver has finished setting up, and is knocking the cue ball the length of the now illuminated baize, trying to bring it to rest as close as possible to the baulk cushion. It is the sort of thing he would happily do for hours. Paul wins the toss, and taking off his jacket (his suit jacket, worn with a round-necked jumper and jeans and scuffed work shoes) he steps up to break. He overhits it, and leaves a red on for Oliver. Not an easy red, but Oliver has become the sort of intimidating opponent who punishes most lapses, and Paul sits down – partly to put pressure on the eleven-year-old, and partly because he assumes that the pressure will not tell. It doesn’t. With a sharp clock the ball drops into the pocket. The white scoots into the pack and – quite luckily, Paul thinks – positions itself for a simple black. All day he has had a voracious hunger that seems unsatisfied however much he eats, and he pulls open the pack of prawn cocktail crisps with a sort of urgency. Oliver sinks the black, and having to stand on tiptoe, replaces it on its spot. Paul lifts the pint of Foster’s to his lips and its smell sickens him for a moment. He soldiers on, sipping, scowling, stuffing the sweet-and-sour crisps into his narrow mouth. Even now it pains him to think of that easy blue he missed in Wolverhampton. On such small things our lives depend, he thinks. Fate. It may be the case that ever since that miss – and if he had potted it, he has to admit, he might have missed the next shot, or failed in the next round – it may be the case that he had given up on his life even then. Not entirely of course, but as a serious, wholly worthwhile undertaking. He remembers the way his legs shook as he returned to his seat, after the blue had rattled in the jaws of the pocket and rolled a little way over the table’s green plain, and the umpire saying, in a heartless voice, ‘Rainey, thirty-four.’ He remembers that he had tears somewhere near, though not actually in his eyes. He has no memory of the Welsh boy finishing the frame, only of standing in a light shower of applause to shake his damp hand …
Clock!
Oliver seems to be putting a break together. The most extraordinary thing about his game, Paul thinks, is not his precise and assured potting, nor his intimidating nerve and determination; it is his break-building. He has an amazingly mature ability to think several shots ahead, to plan ahead … So, after Wolverhampton, life had gone on, but maybe his attitude to it had changed. Nothing seemed worth full engagement. He had drifted – that was for sure. He had been drifting, it sometimes seems, ever since. He pulls the crisp packet taut and pours the last orange-pink crumbs into the palm of his hand. Then he lights a cigarette. With the hangover, he feels emotionally oversensitised, as well as intellectually dull and physically depleted – everything seems moving, seems full of mysterious significance. There is something savage about the way Oliver plays, a savage precision. Killer instinct. He has a winner’s attitude. He pots the black, and the white spins back turbulently to align itself with one of the few remaining reds. Paul knocks the rubber butt of his cue (he uses one of the dodgy club cues) twice on the floor in restrained appreciation. Oliver ignores this, his focus intent on the next task. It is sometimes difficult, watching him, to remember that he is still a child, who weeps when he is disappointed or prevented from doing what he wants. Like the time Paul promised to take him to Sheffield, to watch some World Championship matches at the Crucible. Heather vetoed that. While Oliver cried in his room, Paul had tried to reason with her in the kitchen, where she was doing the washing-up. As soon as he started to speak, she said, ‘Paul – no.’ He sat down at the table, and lit a cigarette. It was summer and outside the windows the garden – the damp rectangle of overgrown grass and old tennis balls and tangled washing lines and slugs – was still half sunny. He started again, but she turned to him, her hands in pink rubber gloves and said, ‘No!’ He knew there was no point pushing it, that her stomach for a fight over this was far stronger than his own. ‘I’m sorry, Oli,’ he had said stiffly, ashamed of being unable to deliver on his promise, ‘your mother doesn’t want us to go.’ He did not even ask her why she was so opposed to the idea (she later said it ‘wouldn’t have been fair on Marie’) – if he had it would only have made her angry, only have made her point out the obvious fact that Oli is her son, not his. And he is hers. Paul is not his father. (Though there are naturally times when she wants him to perform the part.) And Paul, it must be said, is pleased to be shielded from any sense of ultimate involvement, is pleased to feel that, theoretically, he is under no obligation, that he is simply filling in for someone else, informally, temporarily. That the whole domestic set-up is merely provisional – he feels safe with that, which is also why he never pushes her on it, why he sometimes seems so passive. He looks up. Oliver is standing there, surveying the table and chalking his cue the way he sees the professionals do on TV. Paul notices that the people at the next table, two old men, have stopped playing and are watching Oliver. It is quite a break he is on. He finesses the last red into the side pocket and, his chin still on his cue, watches as the white rolls against the end cushion, setting it up precisely to pot the black, which is stranded there. One of the old men nods, and lights a cigarette. Ned the barman is passing with a clutch of empty glasses. ‘Eh, Ned,’ says the other old man. Ned stops. ‘This boy’s got a maximum break on.’ And Ned, too, becomes a spectator. Now with four sets of eyes on him, but seemingly oblivious to them, Oliver sinks the black. Ned winces – the cue ball has not travelled far up the table and the shot for the yellow, which is still on its spot, is extremely difficult. Paul, who is resisting the urge to stand lest it put more pressure on Oli, watches in silence. He wishes the spectators – Ned is staring open-mouthed at the table – would all fuck off. And now more of them are emerging from the shadows, as word of what is happening spreads through the hall. In the middle of it, Oliver shows no sign of even noticing them. He seems as focused, as unflustered as if he were on his own. He takes his time. He pots the yellow. There is a short spate of applause and then the watchers, perhaps sharing Paul’s worry, stop their hands. What is left should be easy, were it not for the pressure, the immense forces of the pressure, which distort it. (And there is also the fact that everyone there has lost sight of – he is eleven years old.) When he pots the black – and he nearly underhits it – there is a strange, strangled exclamation, and then people are applauding and laughing and talking excitedly to strangers; except Paul, who is still and silent, and Oli himself, who had seemed the oldest of them all a moment ago, when the final ball fell with a quiet rustle into the rigging of the pocket, and is suddenly a child again, small, with an unsteady expression on his face – not a smile, exactly – as though stunned and scared by this moment of success, so often imagined (imagined uninterruptedly, in fact, for several years), so many times unsuccessfully attempted – and wondering, ‘What has happened?’ Or even, ‘Who am I?’
3
IT IS A perfect Monday morning. Late November. Cold grey gloom outside. And raining. On waking, in the dark, to the alarm’s infuriating high-pitched stutter, the first thing Paul does is fumble on the light. For a few moments it stings his eyes. It is not a day on which he expects anything significant to happen. Heather drops him off at the station on her way to the small solicitors’ firm, Gumley Rhodes, where she does part-time secretarial work. For an hour, he sits squashed against a wet window, someone else’s newspaper in his face, and a morsel of hashish under his tongue. When he arrives at London Bridge, he has a slow subtle floaty feeling in his limbs, a peaceful fug about his whole person. He takes the Northern Line to Bank, and there transfers to the Central Line. From the mighty escalator at Holborn, he watches the adverts slide down through his field of vision, until delivered by it, via the low ticket hall, into daylight and rain, he crosses Kingsway, and enters King’s House through the taupe glass door – tentatively, fearing some sort of fallout from the Flossman incident. He knows, however, that this is paranoid – there is no sign of fallout nor will there be.
Paul is always one
of the first onto the sales floor in the morning. Murray is usually the last to arrive.
‘Murray,’ Paul says, when he does, ‘is it just me, or was Eddy Jaw in the Penderel’s on Friday?’
Murray looks surprised. ‘Eddy Jaw?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘I’m sure I saw him.’
A few uninterested heads turn to see what Murray will say.
He shrugs. ‘Might have been, yeah,’ he says. With an unlit cigarette in his hand, he stands up. The double-breasted front of his suit, especially when unbuttoned, seems too big for him, there seems to be too much blue cloth – masses of it, a dismantled marquee.
‘I’m sure he was …’ Paul says.
And suddenly, on the point of leaving, Murray says, ‘Yeah, he was. I saw you talking to him.’
‘Me? I was? What were we talking about?’
Murray leaves without answering.
It is, Paul thinks, as if he’s offended – as if I’ve offended him somehow. And he sifts his scant memories of Friday night, looking for something that might account for this moodiness. Nothing that he can remember. Perhaps something happened to Murray over the weekend. What Murray does at the weekend is a mystery to Paul – the two of them operate an informal, unspoken don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on the subject, and in fact hardly speak of their lives outside the office at all. (They are always hearing about Andy’s life, though. Every Monday he has a new story about some Annabel or Alexandra he’s lusting after, who’s always ‘gorgeous’ – all the girls in Andy’s stories are ‘gorgeous’, if they’re not ‘mooses’ – and whom he met at Jezza’s or Josh’s party on Saturday night.) About Murray’s life, however, only the occasional slight snippet filters out. Every summer he has a barbecue in his small suburban garden but only people from the office are there, and not many of them – typically the Pig and Neil and Simona and one or two others – a few of the transients who happen to be on the team at the time – as well as Paul. It is a long-standing tradition now, Murray’s office barbecue. So Paul knows where Murray lives, and what his house is like – two-up, two-down, not unlike his own minus the extension. He also knows that before he knew him, Murray was married, and divorced, and thinks he may have a brother somewhere – all in all surprisingly little, given that they have worked together, on and off, for over fifteen years. These days, particularly, Paul finds Murray’s life quite depressing to think about – in the intensity of its seeming loneliness, no woman, a desperate financial situation – so he seldom does. When he does, it is with pity, and mild horror.
The morning is unexceptional. Paul reads The Times, and does what he can of the quick crossword. Tony Peters holds a team meeting – which Paul watches, sneeringly, over the top of his paper. He dislikes everything about Tony Peters’ team – the tidy desks, the smart, well-behaved salespeople, the way they laugh at Tony’s jokes, the strict timekeeping, the team meetings … Later, the slow clock nearing eleven, he listens in to one of Andy’s wooden, underpowered pitches. ‘Yes, many of our readers are in the chemical industry,’ Andy is saying when Paul activates the earpiece and, shaking loose the tangled coils of the cord, puts it to his ear. ‘Would they be potential clients?’
‘We have clients in the chemical industry.’ It’s another German. ‘And also, of course, in other industries.’
‘Like what other industries?’
‘For example, the food industry.’ The German is civil, but sounds bored.
‘That’s very interesting,’ Andy says. ‘We have readers in the food industry as well. Such as Nestlé.’
‘Do you have something you could send me? A fax?’
‘Of course. But if I could just ask you whether you’d like new business from Europe’s leading multinational companies?’
Obligingly, the German says, ‘Yes, I would. Of course.’
‘That’s good, because as I’ve said, our readership includes the purchasing directors of Europe’s thousand leading multinational companies, such as Philips, Hoechst and BMW.’
‘But if you could send me something.’ The German is more insistent now. ‘Let me give you my fax number. It is forty-nine for Germany.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then …’ There is no hope for poor Andy, Paul thinks. He replaces the earpiece and returns to his desk. No hope at all. He leafs through some old leads – the dead catalogues of international industry fairs, obscure publications full of advertorial, directories. Listlessly, he taps in a number. A company called Sunny Industries, in Mumbai – though the lead is so old it is still down as Bombay. It is in an ancient directory of Indian companies, and he chooses it because it presents him with the MD’s name and direct-line number. He watches Murray while it rings. All morning, Murray has managed to pretend not to have noticed that Marlon is there – which is not easy because Marlon’s desk is directly opposite his own, and Marlon is there. Paul notices that Murray’s eyes take on a strange, empty, defocused quality whenever they pan across it, as they often must. Yes, he has been very quiet this morning, Murray. Uncharacteristically subdued …
Earlier, Paul had heard separately from several people what had happened on Friday. Murray, it seems, had waited in the Gents, sitting bored in the locked stall, until he thought that Marlon, who usually left the office early for the gym, would be gone. For some reason, however, Marlon was not gone. What’s more, there was a strange atmosphere of eerie stillness on the sales floor – something must have happened. Sitting at his desk, Marlon had his back to the entrance. Murray had hesitated, and then – after momentarily making eye contact with a smiling Andy – had turned to leave. And it was then that he heard Marlon’s voice. ‘Oi, Murray!’ Involuntarily quickening his stride, he had pretended not to hear. When Marlon shouted again, though, it had been impossible to keep up the pretence with any sort of plausibility. So he had stopped, and turned, and seen Marlon stalking towards him, saying, ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Murray.’
This was the situation, more than any other, that he had wanted to avoid.
‘That was my repeat,’ Marlon said.
‘What? Was it?’ A half-hearted show of ignorance that only seemed to infuriate Marlon further. ‘You fucking know it was,’ he shouted, staring up at Murray, who quickly said, ‘If it was, I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t care if you’re sorry.’ Not knowing what to say, Murray had looked at the floor – had tucked his strong chin into his neck and looked at the worn grey carpet and the dark blue tassels of his loafers. ‘What are you going to do about it, Murray?’ He found it hard to believe that this was actually happening, that he was being dressed down by Marlon on the sales floor, in front of everybody. He could not look up from the carpet. He has had dreams like this – nightmares in which he is publicly humiliated by little men like Marlon, and in which his father, a short man, often figures. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Murray seemed unable to speak. He had had to force the words out. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘I want you to give me the commission next time you get a deal in. If you ever get another deal in.’ An obviously preposterous demand, and Murray had looked up, finally, just to make sure that Marlon was joking. He did not seem to be. ‘You lost me the commission on my repeat by fucking it up,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have even been calling them, and you fucked it up.’
In mute protest, Murray shook his head.
‘You shouldn’t have even been calling them …’
‘That was never a deal.’
‘Yes of course it fucking was.’
The tension, to some extent, had fallen away – some people, bored by the routine spectacle of two salesmen arguing over leads and blowouts and commission, had gone back to what they were doing – and Murray had said, more emphatically, ‘That was never a deal.’ And for an infinitesimal moment, unnerved by something in Marlon’s eyes, he had feared the worst. Marlon, however, had not punched him. He had said, in a voice that everyone was able to
hear, ‘You’re a wanker, Murray.’ Then he went back to his desk, and after standing in the doorway for a while, with what was technically a smile on his square-jawed face, Murray had slipped away …
‘Yes!’ shouts a voice in Paul’s ear.
‘Yes, hello,’ Paul says. ‘I’d like to speak to Abhijit Bannerjee, please.’ There is an offputting echo on the line.
‘Yes, that’s me. And who is this please?’
‘My name’s Charles Barclay, Mr Bannerjee. I’m calling from London …’
Half an hour later, Paul hangs up. He has been trying to get rid of Mr Bannerjee for most of that time, but Mr Bannerjee’s persistence, his intense will to sell, was unstoppable. He agreed – ‘Yes, yes, very good, of course’ – to take a full-page, full-colour ad within the first few minutes of the call, and then he started to sell. What he was selling, Paul was not sure, but he knew the tone. There were references to ‘tea gardens’ and ‘boutique hotels’, ‘software’ and ‘airport taxis’, ‘databases’ and ‘cheap labour one pound a day’. And he kept explaining how he had people, many people, who would be ‘the hands’ of some protean enterprise, which would make ‘a billion’ and involve ‘boutique hotels’. He said he had developed machines with true artificial intelligence, and that he had also developed property in London in the seventies. Whenever Paul tried to steer the conversation back to the full-page colour, Mr Bannerjee would say, ‘Of course, yes of course, we are going to do that,’ and then start talking, with torrential enthusiasm, about something else, some other business he was proposing to start – software or construction or tea or boutique hotels. The boutique hotels seemed to be the only fixed point in this maelstrom of entrepreneurial zest – they featured every few minutes, and always as a spin-off from something else, from the tea gardens, the airport taxis, the thousands of toilers entering data for a pound a day – though how this last would work was not entirely clear. After about ten minutes and several attempts to talk Mr Bannerjee through the agreement form, Paul began to give up on the full-page colour. Mr Bannerjee asked him when he was going to be in Mumbai. Paul said, ‘Probably not till next summer.’ Mr Bannerjee then said that he would be in London in a few weeks, and suggested they have a meeting. Paul was evasive, spoke of being extremely busy. Mr Bannerjee said he would be staying at the Hotel Henry VIII in Bayswater – did Paul know it? Paul fibbed, and said he did. Mr Bannerjee suggested the bar of the Henry VIII as a possible meeting place – ‘or maybe they have conference rooms, I don’t know’. The call ends with Paul saying that he really has to go, and that he will send the agreement form through, and Mr Bannerjee saying that ‘of course’ he will send it back straight away.