by Morris West
‘We’re not in court, Gil. The rules of evidence don’t apply. Tell me what’s on your mind.’
I told him about the card, the message signed ‘M’ and the fact that Marta had denied any previous knowledge of Vannikov. I told him why I had not pressed the question. He nodded absently and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He looked suddenly a great deal older than his years. Finally, he opened his eyes again and faced me across the desk. He said deliberately: ‘Marta Boysen is contracted to me. It is my responsibility to deal with what you have told me. I shall consult with Tanaka, of course, but the decision is mine. I know these disclosures have been painful and embarrassing for you. From this moment I want you to step right back. Observe all the social courtesies with Marta Boysen but for the rest, do nothing, say nothing. The issue is out of your hands. I’m sure Tanaka will endorse what I am saying.’
That’s all?’
That’s all. It’s finished, done. You have much more important things to occupy you. I hope one day to express my thanks more eloquently.’
As an afterthought, I told him of my appointment with the ambassador. He nodded approval. His mind was obviously on other things. Mine was suddenly invaded by the dream-image of my father declaiming into his brandy the second rule of existence: ‘Expediency and honour never conflict.’ I hoped to God he was right, because at that moment I felt as though I’d been sawn down the middle by one of Leino’s robotic butchers.
Six
Andrew Kealey, our Australian Ambassador to Japan, was one of the new breed: language-trained, culture-conditioned, committee-modified. I respected him. I liked him. I understood at least some of his problems as the representative of a small but vocal Pacific nation occupying a huge landmass, the envy of Asia with its teeming millions and diminishing physical resources.
He was doing well or badly, according to your point of view. Japanese capital was still flowing in. Our real estate was still being alienated; our coal and iron and timber were still being stripped out; golf courses were still being built to attract Japanese tourists; megacities were being planned to accommodate their aged and infirm; while our wheat farmers and pastoralists and tourist operators went down like dominoes, month after month. It was not his fault. Nobody seemed to understand that, finally, we had become one world. The only surprise was that we were not all brothers and sisters, but still tribal packs, preying on each other.
Kealey’s welcome was warm. He asked whether I would mind having two or three of the staff in on our discussion. He confessed, with a certain ingenuous charm, that it would save time and paperwork, since they were the ones who would ultimately process my submissions. I told him that I was not making submissions, but offering suggestions from which I stood to profit not at all. However, by all means, wheel in the auditors.
There were three of them. The First Secretary, the Commercial Attaché and someone called Arnold whose surname and appointment seemed to lose themselves in the shifting air. It is a familiar phenomenon in diplomatic circles. You either insist on a repeat or you ignore the ploy altogether. Since I had nothing to sell, I chose to ignore it. My private guess was that Arnold – whoever, whatever – was a special category man like, for example, Max Wylie.
We talked about Australia first. We were in a hell of a mess. The international tariff agreements had broken down. Our farm products were priced out of the market by US and European subsidies. Our value-added industries could not compete against low-cost Asian labour. Since our frigates were helping to blockade the Gulf, the Iraqis were not paying for the wheat we had shipped and we certainly were not shipping any more. Australian citizens were being held hostage in Baghdad. We went through the whole litany of grief and came to the inevitable questions: where do we go from here, what are you offering us, Mr Langton?
‘I’m offering nothing. I’m pointing to a window of opportunity. We have food in abundance. We want to sell it, raw, part-processed, fully processed. The Russians need it, because they do not have year-round production as we have, nor adequate means of conservation and distribution, which is what this enterprise is about. If the German/Japanese consortium puts in the plants, if our own Pavel Laszlo gets to organise the distribution system, Australia can become a natural source of supply, Sydney to Vladivostok by sea, for example.’
We kicked that idea around the floor for a while and then Arnold Whoever made a sudden very aggressive entry into the talk.
‘Why didn’t you come to us with this idea in the first place?’
‘Because it isn’t my idea. It isn’t my project. I come to you by indulgence of my principals. Besides, the overall cost is far beyond our national resources. This is exactly what I said it was, a window of opportunity. I can’t climb through it for you.’
The Ambassador waved a calming hand over the troubled waters.
‘We all understand that, Gil. I think Arnold is aware of the importance of your suggestion. Our problem is very clear. We’re fighting a trade war about agricultural subsidies. We can’t destroy our case by introducing subsidies ourselves. They’d ruin us!’
‘We’re damn near ruined anyway,’ said the First Secretary. ‘My family have been on the land since the year dot. Now they’re all vassals and villeins of the banks.’
‘There are still options.’ The Commercial Attaché was suddenly there, bristling and combative.’Government to government credits, barter deals, you can trade anything if you set your mind to it and skip a few pages in the book of rules. I’d like to follow this thought with my people in Canberra.’
‘I have another thought, which I must express.’ Arnold Whoever was back again; milder now but, for that reason, more threatening. ‘It’s not a criticism, you understand, rather a question of clarification. You’re an Australian citizen. You’re an international publisher.’
‘Who brings ten million a year net income into the Commonwealth.’
‘Of course. So you’ll understand we see a certain anomaly in your function as a paid mediator between three foreign corporations, which …’
‘Which once were our enemies. That’s the nub of the question, isn’t it?’
‘If you like to put it that way, yes.’
I looked around at the small audience. The First Secretary and the Commercial Attaché were studying the sunspots on the back of their hands. Arnold Whoever was doing his best to face me down. The Ambassador was hoping I would exercise my right of reply.
‘I’m a free citizen who travels and works abroad. I have a talent which, like the talent of a musician, a painter, an inventor, I negotiate in a world market. When my own country has chosen to employ that talent I have offered it freely. But I think I hear familiar echoes in this room. Could I be right, Andy?’
‘Echoes of what, Gil?’
‘I’m sure you read the weekend press and your own Intelligence summaries. The Uruguay round of talks on tariffs and trade have broken down. Europe is split over farm subsidies. American farmers have lost their markets in the Middle East. So, Australia is carrying the can. We’re committed to a pro-America line in foreign relations, but Washington is cutting our throats with subsidised foreign trade. They’re compounding that by a not too subtle smear campaign against competitors. It’s a short-sighted policy and our friend here seems to be aiding and abetting it. I leave you with a practical suggestion, Andy. Call your minister, have him talk to Sir Pavel Laszlo before he leaves for Bangkok at the weekend. He’s a much more lively advocate than I am. Thank you for your time, and yours, gentlemen.’
I stood up to leave. Kealey pressed me to stay for a few moments. The staff filed out with polite murmurs and handshakes. Arnold Whoever was the last to go. His exit line was a classic.
‘I’m sure you know there was nothing personal in my remarks, Mr Langton. It’s just part of the dialectic, you know, the clash of contraries.’
I did not say anything. This was a good ole boy, Australian style, impervious to reason or experience. Andy Kealey held me back for a few final words.
It hit me as the Ambassador walked me out to my car. I had just heard, in Australian vernacular, a repeat of Kenji Tanaka’s earthquake warning. Watch out! The earth plates are shifting. The pillars of the world are rocking. The roof beams are creaking. Any minute now they may fall in and bury you.
This was an experience for which all my father’s love and counsel and companionship had not prepared me – the loneliness and hostility of the gypsy road. I was beginning to learn how poignantly he had experienced it, with what extraordinary love he had tried to protect me against it. And yet, and yet… Here I was, rich, respected, with work to do around the world, a talisman of language to walk me across every frontier and into most tribal enclaves. Yet suddenly I was a threat, a maker of alien magic.
Which recalled another fragment of our days among the Basques in Navarra, when my father retold the terrible tale of the witches of Labourd and the campaign of extermination waged against them by the magistrate Pierre de Lancre in the seventeenth century. Even today the country folk will tell you that the Basque women practise sorcery. It was Kenji Tanaka, a very civilised man, who warned me against the fox-women of Japan. And my own compatriot, a Down-Under pragmatist if ever there was one, had lapsed unconsciously into his own Celtic yesterdays, when he admitted that my talent for languages made me – how did he put it? – a golden-tongued demagogue leading the ungodly against the faithful.
I could not call it superstition or bigotry. I was conscious of certain mysterious elements in myself and in the talents I exercised. To this day I cannot tell you precisely how or why the trick of language works for me. Of course, I am trained and drilled in all the logic of the process, all the rules and all the variables. But the final step into understanding does not work like that. It is as if I am standing, staring at a high blank wall and suddenly I know, with total conviction, that I can walk through the wall and that what is on the other side of it will be familiar to me.
There is another aspect of the phenomenon which still gives me the occasional shiver of apprehension. When we are speaking our own language among foreigners we assume that it is a cloak of invisibility, keeping us private from all viewers. As a young man – sadly it does not happen now – I have sat listening to gaggles of girls, Arab, Thai, Greek, Swiss, making bawdy talk about what I looked like, what I might look like without clothes, how I might perform in bed. I learned very quickly not to reveal too abruptly that I understood their talk. The cloak of invisibility is not a matador’s cape. You do not make bravura passes with it, otherwise you are likely to be gored.
It was lunchtime when I got back to my office. I hoped to spend a quiet hour dealing with my own affairs. Instead, I was handed an urgent message: Tanaka and Leibig were lunching at the Bankers’ Club. I should call Tanaka immediately. His response was relaxed and cordial.
‘We are discussing the problem of the lady. Have you heard from her this morning?’
‘No. I’ve just got back to the office. Have you made any decisions yet?’
‘Carl proposes to call her in for a quiet chat. Your name will not be mentioned. We are both grateful for your frankness. We are hoping that there may be a quite reasonable explanation which will enable us to continue her services, in isolation from the crucial discussions. However, what is more important is that the Soviet ambassador called me just on lunchtime. Vannikov has arrived. He is resting for a few hours, but he wants you to call him about three and set a private meeting before the end of the day.’
‘That’s a surprise.’
‘We were surprised, too. Then, on reflection, it seemed to make sense. It is his responsibility and yours to prepare the ground for the principals in the discussion.’
‘Do you have any objections to our meeting?’
‘None.’
‘Tomorrow’s luncheon at the Embassy?’
‘Is confirmed.’
Then I’ll call Vannikov in an hour and suggest we meet for drinks or dinner tonight.’
‘Call me at home after you’ve met.’
‘If it’s dinner it could be quite late.’
‘At any hour. How did your meeting go with the Australians?’
They have an obvious interest, and even more obvious financial problems. They did, however, tell me that there is overt opposition in Washington to our project and that I am being cited as a potential troublemaker.’
‘I warned you this would happen, Gil.’
‘I’m not worried.’
‘Carl and I are concerned for you. We have decided on certain security precautions, both here and in Bangkok.’
‘That’s not necessary.’
‘Don’t argue, Gil. We’re carrying heavy insurance on you. The policy requires we give you adequate protection. Good luck with Vannikov.’
The message from Vannikov troubled me. Tanaka’s easy agreement to our meeting troubled me even more. I did not for one moment accept that the protocol was normal. The Vannikov I had known was an agreeable companion, but I had never seen him yield an inch of financial or psychological advantage. In the jealous ranks of the Soviet apparat he was more vulnerable than I to mistakes, misjudgments and the malice of colleagues.
Moreover, after my weekend episode with Marta I, too, was gun shy. There are always two versions of a private dialogue and each can be made to sound as improbable as the other. If Vannikov brought a witness, in the shape of his female assistant, I would have to bring one too. I could notuse Marta Boysen. I could not introduce an outsider into the circle. I need not have bothered. Vannikov’s needs were very simple.
‘A quiet night, Gil. A good dinner. Friendly talk, someone to drive me home if I drink too much sake.’
‘You’ve got it, Boris. Do you want to bring anyone? Your assistant perhaps?’
Thank you, no. Tanya’s good at her work, and in bed. But she’s starting to nag me like a wife. We need a rest from each other. I’ll come alone. What time?’
‘I’ll call for you at seven. Leave a note at the guardhouse so that I can drive in and pick you up.’
‘Thanks, Gil. I’ve been beating my brains out for weeks. I can’t tell you how much I need a quiet night.’
When I put down the phone, I called a place which I used very rarely because it was so damned expensive. It was, and is still, an old-fashioned tea-house where the most powerful men in Tokyo meet to entertain their favoured guests. I have privileged entrance because I am a friend of Tanaka, but also because, in the faraway days of the occupation, my father, who was then interpreting at the Japanese war crime trials, used to come here in his off-duty hours. He paid the score with food and liquor bought at the PX, and the o-kami-san, who was then a girl serving food in the private rooms, worshipped the ground he walked on. Tonight she promised me a good room and the two best girls in the house to serve our dinner.
After that, it was all work time for Polyglot Press. When I left the office to bathe and change, there was still no word from Marta Boysen. I wondered how she and Max Wylie would be spending the evening.
The name of the tea-house was Bird in Plum Blossom Tree. It was one of those exotic enclaves which still survive, by miracles of money and influence, in the devouring megalopolis of Tokyo. To the street it presented only a high brick wall, pierced by a narrow wooden gate which opened to a push-button code given to the guest when he made his reservation. Once past the gate you found yourself in a traditional garden, so convolute
d that it seemed twice as large as it actually was and so cunningly lit and shadowed that the garish neon world of Tokyo was instantly obliterated from the memory. The timbers of the tea-house were dark and luminous with age. The tatami was smooth under our stockinged feet. The only sounds inside our private world were the thin thread of samisen music that trailed like vapour in the air and the rustle of the girls’ kimonos as they laid the table before us. I had ordered the food and the liquor in advance so that there would be the least possible intrusion into our talk.
Vannikov’s appearance shocked me deeply. I remembered him as an elegant, vigorous fellow with a ready smile and a swift, passionate reaction to whatever pleased or displeased him. The man I saw that night was grey and haggard, seeming to hold himself together by sheer strength of will. When I commented on the change he made a weary gesture of resignation.
‘I know. I look terrible. I feel terrible after that bastard of a flight from Moscow. Aeroflot is an exponential disaster. I had a medical checkup before I left. My doctor says ‘I’m still organically sound but dangerously overworked. But who isn’t these days? That’s really why I need your first reading on Bangkok. If it’s going to turn into a dog fight, I don’t think I’m up to it. I’ll have to call for reinforcements.’
I gave him full marks for the opening gambit and a nice, frank answer to reward him.
‘So far as I’m concerned, Boris, I’ve been given an open brief: get the heads of agreement as quickly as possible and sort out the difficulties later. You know, and I know, it’s never as easy as that; but I’m not going to be turning this into a dog fight or a chess game. The way things are in the Gulf, we’re all at five minutes to midnight. We can’t afford to waste time or goodwill.’
Thank Christ for that!’
He tossed off his sake at a gulp and washed it down with a beer. While the girl refilled his cup and glass he palmed his eyes as if to rub away the vestiges of a bad dream.
Your brief is simpler than mine, of course, because you’re answerable only to your two principals and both are autonomous. I’ve got to cope with a dozen different groups of apparatchiks. But you can take it that my approach will be the same as yours – to clear the road, not put up new obstacles.’