People in Glass Houses

by Shirley Hazzard

  The car rolled out of the hotel driveway. To their left, through a screen of eucalyptus leaves, they glimpsed an enclosure of long, leaning markers.

  ‘A Turkish cemetery,’ exclaimed Miss Kingslake, leaning forward.

  The driver slowed down. ‘It is the cemetery for civil servants.’

  They passed through an agglomeration of Mussolini’s architecture, and came within sight of the harbour and the ancient city. At this hour the walls of the Crusaders were tangerine, their splendid order pierced here and there by a gleaming tower or a minaret. Clelia Kingslake sensed, again unwillingly, that an expression of interest would not be welcome. Nevertheless she said, ‘How marvellous.’

  ‘A façade,’ Grilli said, ‘that’s all this is, a façade. This place is poor as hell.’ Without the big powers to back them up, they’d be nothing.’

  On the far side of Miss Kingslake, Rees beamed. ‘I’d like a picture of this.’

  ‘All right, man, you can stop here. Momento, what-have-you and so on. Not here, you fool, have a bit of sense, pull over to the wall.’

  ‘If we pulled out of here, all this would fold up tomorrow.’

  ‘The walls’, said Miss Kingslake, ‘are in some places seven centuries old.’

  ‘Not getting out, Miss Kingsford?’

  Having left the car, Grilli turned back, hung his fingers over the open window. ‘Take my advice, girlie. Don’t try to be a wise guy.’

  Alone with the driver, Miss Kingslake asked, ‘Where do you live, Mihalis?’

  He pointed, ‘Over there, on the façade.’

  They followed the road Miss Kingslake had travelled the day before. Rees was to pay a courtesy call on the commandant of the airfield, whose name he read out several times from a slip of paper. Grilli would leave him there and return for him. (Later Miss Kingslake was to discover that Grilli, self-conscious about his inherited Palermitan accent, declined to deal with purer-spoken officials — a complication that had not been foreseen at Headquarters.) Grilli and Moyers spoke of invoices, of supplies and equipment; and Miss Kingslake, considerately leaning back to facilitate their discussion, was reassured by this talk of tonnage and manpower. Was it not all this, ultimately, that mattered on an emergency mission?

  When the car drew up, Grilli escorted Rees into the airport. The Captain also got out and scrambled into the back seat, where he heavily and patriotically exhaled Canadian Club.

  ‘That’s it. What-have-you and so on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The office. The mission. HQ Rhodes. For what it’s worth.’

  Following the direction of his jabbing finger, Miss Kingslake discovered a large stuccoed cube alone in a rocky field.

  ‘You mean, right here? At the airfield?’

  ‘Converted military post. Lent to us by the locals. Supposed to be gratis, but they’ll want their pound of flesh, just wait, what-have-you and so on.’

  Some minutes had passed in silence before Miss Kingslake inquired conversationally, ‘How far is it from here to Lindos?’

  The door opened. ‘You didn’t come here for sightseeing.’ Grilli climbed inside.

  Having followed her companions up a short flight of steps, Miss Kingslake presently lost them in a maze of connecting rooms. The offices were high and wide, and floored with huge black and white tiles — hot weather rooms that were fringed with cold at this season. In the centre of each stood a new electric stove attached by its cord to some far-off outlet. These cords went rippling and wiggling beneath desks, under double doors, out into corridors; those that had not lasted the distance had been extended with others. The whole establishment was swarming, a nest of vipers.

  Clelia Kingslake made herself known to the mission accountant, a Dane, and to the radio operator, a Pakistani. With a new, urgent perception, she saw that both were of crushable substance, and her heart sank though she said some cheerful words. A room containing the local recruits, boisterous with laughter when she opened the door, at once fell silent. Half a dozen messengers and drivers sat on the edges of tables speaking Greek, and on the single chair a little old man was fitting a roll of paper into an adding machine. She inquired for the Captain’s office and they showed it to her, pointing out its particular black cord writhing down the hallway.

  Following this, Miss Kingslake went to meet her Minotaur.

  She found herself alone in the room, and sat down at what was apparently her desk, at the lightless end of the room. She uncovered the typewriter, unlocked the drawers. A sheet of instructions had been left on the blotter and was signed Noreen. Miss Kingslake switched on her desk lamp and began to read. ‘Two pink flimsies Beirut, one white flimsy Addis—’

  Mihalis came in with something in his hand.

  ‘It’s a light meter,’ She took it from him and put it on the desk. ‘I suppose it belongs to Rees.’

  Mihalis lingered.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll see he gets it.’ She picked up the list again. ‘Headquarters all yellow flimsies.’

  Mihalis leant forward. Miss Kingslake looked up.

  ‘It takes one hour to Lindos.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you, Mihalis.’ With the best will in the world, she could not help feeling as if a code word had been slipped to her in prison.

  The Captain’s boots, having metal on them, were very loud on the tiled floor. ‘What was the driver doing here?’

  ‘He left this.’

  ‘I’ll take charge of that. Slack, that driver. Needs bracing up.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Like the rest of them. Go into that room of theirs down the corridor, they’re acting up all day long. Good mind to report the lot of them, what-have-you and so on. Not the Europeans, of course, just the local staff.’

  ‘The local staff are the Europeans.’

  ‘Paid far too much of course.’ The Captain was at that moment drawing an allowance from the Organization in addition to his Army pay. ‘The way this outfit of yours throws money around. Not theirs, of course, so they feel free.’

  Miss Kingslake lifted out the contents of her In-tray.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about drivers. Had a series of drivers in Kashmir, biggest lot of clots, what-have-you and so on. Rented a villa there, awkward driveway, narrow entrance between two concrete posts. Just room for the car, inch or two to spare. Made it a condition of keeping the drivers — they had to go through without slowing down. One scratch and they were washed up, through, no reference.’ The Captain laughed and crashed his mailed feet delightedly on the tiles below his desk. ‘They snivelled at first, of course, but they needed their jobs and they made it their business to learn.’ He tipped his chair back, rummaged in the desk drawer for cigarettes. ‘Don’t talk to me about drivers.’

  Clelia Kingslake was setting out the incoming cables, like cards for solitaire. She could see the concrete blocks looming, feel the sweat on her brow and on her hands gripping the wheel. And to think that only yesterday she had wept over Matthew Arnold.

  The Captain spoke out on a variety of subjects, always exhorting her not to talk to him of these matters. He was unused, he divulged, to women in his office. He liked his own office, with at most a corporal in attendance. He was a man who lived among men. (Four years earlier, although he did not say this, he had abandoned a wife and child in Battleford, Saskatchewan.) He was accustomed to working with men throughout the day; to returning in the evening to B.O.Q.

  This, though Miss Kingslake could not know it, was Bachelor Officers’ Quarters.

  ‘B.O.Q., that’s the place for me.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  When Rees looked in to retrieve his light meter, the Captain brushed away his thanks. ‘Delighted to be of service, sir.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you busy people.’

  The sun came round to the front of the building, and the Captain went out and stood in it. He could be seen by Miss Kingslake from where she sat, planted with his back to the window and his feet wide apart. He had taken off his sun glasses for the firs
t time.

  Miss Kingslake got up from her desk and brought a mirror out from her handbag. Walking over to the light, she touched the discreet contours of her hair with an accustomed hand and took the opportunity to put on face-powder. When this was done, she held the mirror up and made a face into it. In a high voice, as if mimicking a child, she said ‘Pazienza.’ After a moment she added, also out loud, ‘What-have-you and so on.’ Standing there in a square of sunlight, she rocked back and forth on her sensible heels.

  She put the mirror away and came back to her desk. She made up a large number of cardboard files, feeling ashamed of herself.

  Miss Kingslake sat in a chair by Grilli’s desk, a notebook in her lap, while he spoke on the telephone. Grilli talked loudly in order not to be afraid, like a person in the dark. If he does a good job, she reasoned, why should I be concerned about his personality? She wished she were less exacting. She wished she were more—

  ‘Outgoing.’ Grilli dictated a cable, turning loose sheets on his blotter all the while. He drafted a short letter to his section at Headquarters. ‘Date that today,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I mean Sunday. Not “20th” — but “Sunday 20th”, get it?’

  He slapped down a handwritten list on the desk by Miss Kingslake’s arm. ‘Mr Rees is throwing a party for the government officials here. Invitations to go out today, champagne party at the hotel, Wednesday, six o’clock.’

  Miss Kingslake placed the list on her knee, under her notebook. ‘Any special wording?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Grilli read from the reverse of the paper on which Rees had written the commandant’s name. ‘To express heartfelt gratitude, profound appreciation for cooperation, etc., you fix it.’

  ‘Shall I put “R.S.V.P.”?’

  ‘R.S.V.P.? Christ no. If they don’t want to come and drink champagne they can go to hell.’ His quivering hand passed unimpeded over the top of his head. ‘What a day.’

  ‘You’ve been busy?’

  ‘Nothing to what it was before, of course.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘The first couple of weeks. Just me, Noreen and the Cap. Kept going on coffee and cigarettes. The Cap’s a great guy, don’t you think? A rough diamond.’

  ‘They don’t make them like that any more.’

  ‘Knows this region like the back of his hand. You should hear him. Not much of a talker, but when he gets going.’

  Miss Kingslake said, ‘He has a singular verbal tic.’

  She could not tell whether she had said something unspeakable or merely incomprehensible. Grilli stared at her. ‘I’m trying to get him recruited into the Organization. A senior post, of course. He’s wasted in the Army. I’ve spoken to Mr Rees about it. The Organization, that’s the place for him.’

  Miss Kingslake said, ‘He seems so at home in B.O.Q.’

  Grilli returned to his papers. ‘A lot to do. Been a big strain, this job. Not the work, even, but the responsibility.’

  As long as he does his job. Miss Kingslake’s pencil was at the ready.

  ‘Being on your own, that’s what gets you. Anything goes wrong, you’re responsible.’

  ‘That’s what I imagine.’ She lowered her pencil again.

  ‘Dealing direct with the big brass. They want something — they want it now, like this.’ He snapped his thumb and forefinger twice.

  ‘Frightening, sometimes.’

  ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Can’t talk all day. I’ve got a job to do.’ He tipped his chair back and locked his hands behind his head. He looked expansive — not only in the physical sense, for his face assumed a contented anticipatory smile. ‘A letter. For today’s pouch.’

  Miss Kingslake poised her pencil.

  ‘One flimsy.’

  ‘Just one.’ She made a note.

  ‘White.’ Grilli gazed upward, his eyes — half-closed in the act of composition — rotating over the motionless ceiling fan. His lips moved once or twice before he actually spoke.

  ‘Dearest Mom,’ he began.

  8. The Separation of Dinah Delbanco

  Cornelia Fromme said, ‘The thing is, Dinah’s got money now. Try one of these.’

  ‘As if the Organization could care less.’ Millicent Bass rolled her chair up closer to her desk. ‘No thanks, I like the soft centres. Does anyone know how much it is?’

  ‘Hard to formulate a valid idea. It can’t be much, since her uncle lived to be ninety-four. And then, Dinah’s ambivalent, you know. Says she’d like to go on working for the Organization, but that she’s got to have this upgrading.’

  ‘Think of Dinah making demands. I remember when she first came to Social and Anthropological. I remember when she could scarcely function within a given situation.’

  ‘And now she wants a Step Two.’

  ‘In the Specialized Category.’ Millicent Bass went on, ‘Of course, Dinah’s a good person —’

  ‘Oh, humanly speaking, Dinah’s a good person.’

  ‘— but very competitive.’ Millicent opened the top drawer of her desk, handed one paper napkin to her friend and wiped her own fingers on another. ‘There are tensions there. Plenty of staff members at the Subsidiary level are holding down Specialized jobs — there’s no discrimination in her case. She’s being highly subjective.’ Miss Bass, a Step Four in the Specialized Category, appealed in the voice of reason. ‘After all, are we properly graded, Cornelia, you and I, in terms of performance? We could all make demands if we chose to. Just one more, then.’

  Millicent Bass, a large woman, belongs to a recognizable era in her profession. Her younger colleagues do not attire themselves, as Miss Bass does, in outmoded suits and golfing shoes. They no longer boast, as Miss Bass does, of caring for their complexions exclusively with soap and water. Their stockings are seamless, they have been known to dye their hair. They are, to use their own expression, changing their image. This metamorphosis not having as yet extended to their vocabulary, a conversation with one of them gives an impression less of change than of something having gone underground.

  Cornelia Fromme had been Miss Bass’s closest friend and colleague for eleven years, and should logically have been a slighter person. Instead, she too was a big woman with a penetrating voice. Nevertheless, she was the weaker of the two, and in that way the balance was preserved. Had she been of smaller stature, friction between the two ladies might have been less violent, Miss Bass being encouraged by her friend’s stalwart appearance to treat her as a sparring partner of equal weight. Miss Bass made the most of a slender intellectual advantage over Miss Fromme; on the other hand, there had been a fiancé in Cornelia Fromme’s past, and when driven to the wall she would appear with a small star-sapphire on her left hand. Their quarrels were famous and acrimonious, and always resolved in the same way: one or the other — but more often Cornelia — would come to the office even earlier than usual and leave a tastefully wrapped present on the blotter of the other. The presents were thoughtful — a chain with fastenings by which spectacles could be hung around the neck when not in use, a clear plastic rainhat disguised with clusters of white daisies, a rubber clothesline, complete with pegs, that could be fixed above a bathtub. The latest disagreement, a minor one, had resulted in the box of chocolates they were at that moment sharing.

  During their temporary rifts, Miss Bass and Miss Fromme would circle the Section independently, each recounting the shortcomings of her friend. Newcomers to the office were sometimes misled into agreeing on these occasions, and even into adding their own parallel observations on the matter. All criticisms garnered by this means were subsequently exchanged by the two friends as part of their ritual of reconciliation.

  ‘It’s hard to understand Dinah’s motivations. Obviously she won’t resign, and she’ll get herself marked as a troublemaker with Personnel. It’s all so negative.’

  ‘Of course she won’t resign. Nobody resigns. Even supposing this inheritance paid her rent, she
couldn’t live off her separation pay. And what would she do with herself? She needs a group relationship, like the rest of us. She needs work she can identify with. Say what you like about the Organization, Cornelia, it’s meaningful.’

  ‘This is true.’

  ‘It spoils us for work elsewhere, our involvement here with a realistic system of values.’

  ‘And Dinah does work hard, of course.’

  ‘That’s just over-compensating. Compulsive.’ Miss Bass shook her head. ‘All right, I can’t resist, but this is the last.’

  ‘She says herself that she wants to go on with her work here.’

  ‘That proves that this inheritance can’t be much. No, Dinah’s simply trying it out. When she adjusts to her new situation, we won’t hear any more about it. All she’ll have done is to defer her chances of a Subsidiary D. It’s self-destructive.’ Miss Bass lit a cigarette.

  The two friends sat quietly for a moment. Then Miss Bass said, ‘But Dinah’s a good person.’

  Miss Fromme nodded. ‘A warm human being.’

  ‘Yes, come in, Lidia.’

  Lidia Korabetski shut the door and, since Gregory was still writing, sat down in the chair opposite his desk. Gregory was her chief. His desk was heaped with the spoils of chieftainship — a stack of memoranda for signature, each with file attached, a pile of flagged reports in manuscript, another pile of freshly mimeographed ones. These trophies at no place overlapped: Gregory was an orderly man.

  ‘Sorry, had to get this out.’ Gregory was a polite man. He pushed the routing slip he had written under a paper-clip on the front of a file and tossed the file into the Out-tray. ‘Now look, I wanted to tell you — your friend did ask to see me, and I’ve just had a talk with her.’

  Lidia put her hand on the grey curve of the desk edge. ‘Thanks so much, I know how busy you are with the Governing Body. I wouldn’t have suggested it if she weren’t someone special.’

  ‘Well of course, you’re absolutely right — she’s preposterously under-graded, and she could be doing better things in any case. Since she’s worked on reports practically her whole twelve years in Social, she could be very useful to us here.’