Grolsh says, “Please! I am not here to arrest you but please, we must now talk.”
“I will call you in when I have adjusted my clothing,” says Rudi merrily. Switching off the phone he tells Vera, “You can hide in bed with me or under it. I suggest in, on the far side.”
He pulls his long legs up to make a tent-like bulge under his duvet, then flings them back on the side opposite the bedside table. Vera frowns grimly for a moment, nods, goes round the bed and slips in with him. He covers her small body with the duvet without straightening his legs, then warbles in a loud sing-song, “Enter, Comrade Grolsh.”
The door is opened by someone who enters and closes it carefully behind him. He looks like any European or American businessman, in an expensive suit that does not fit him very well. He approaches the bed and, sitting in the chair where Vera sat, clasps his hands between his knees and stares gloomily at the floor. Rudi, pleased to see him like this, says, “Care for a drink?”
Grolsh nods.
“Then help yourself.”
Grolsh fills a tumbler near to the rim with vodka, swigs from it and says, “This building has been the President of Fredonia’s residence since the time of Looper Firefly in 1933. Even then this was the President’s bedroom. Did it never occur to you that State Security would have this room bugged?”
Rudi, chuckling, says, “Strange as it may seem, it never did.”
Grolsh, sighing, says, “I know that Vera Zazulich, leader of the Decembrist group, is somewhere near with a gun she will shortly point at my head.”
Vera, uncovering, sits up gun in hand as he predicted and tells him, “Yes, Comrade Grolsh, I have just learned that you are mainly responsible for the present state of Fredonia. If you call in your henchmen I will certainly put a bullet in your brain.”
Grolsh shrugs and says, “Had I feared that I would have sent them in before me. A sudden clean death by bullet is the least I fear nowadays.”
Laughing heartily, Rudi says, “The poor fellow must be in serious trouble, Vera. Who is after you, Grolsh? Will they attach electrodes to your genitals? Or work all over you with pliers and a blowtorch?”
“Don’t joke!” says Grolsh, wincing. “Yes, I am in trouble, and a deal with you two may be my only way out of it. And I promise both of you will benefit hugely by playing ball with me because Grolsh is a man of his word.”
“I am past playing ball games Grolsh, but go on! Go on! You are beginning to interest us. To your health Comrade!”
Rudi, stretching out, clinks his glass against that of Grolsh who glumly swigs from it, sighs and says, “I wish I had left Fredonia in 1989 but it was never easy to take currency out of a Communist nation. In the rest of the world any corrupt politician or businessman can open a big account in a Zurich bank, but left-wing regimes were notoriously stingy. Then came the Liberal Revolution that made you President, Rudi, and everything in Fredonia was for sale! I admit that went to my head. It was an intoxicating time. Never, in the history of Capitalism, has so much been sold to so few by so few. I sold land, factories, coal, tin and copper mines, power stations, reservoirs, schools, drugs, justice, everything. I lost count of what I sold and now alas, now it appears I sold some things more than once to different global companies.”
Again Grolsh sighs. Rudi says cheerfully, “But Grolsh is a man of his word! He must know some way to compensate two or three world-wide companies for buying the same mines and power stations.”
“It can be done,” says Grolsh nodding solemnly. “There is a way of doing it that will delight you Rudi, and you too, Vera Zazulich. The Liberal Revolution, my friends, has now obviously gone too far. It hugely enriched a new middle class at the expense of the workers and the poor, but a trade recession is starting to hurt professional people too, so it is time for everyone to enjoy a New Deal. And working together we three can achieve this by seizing the reins of government and forming a new political party – the New Dealers Party!”
“What will it do?” asks Rudi merrily.
“It will make you more than a mere figurehead. You will be able to keep some promises you made in your greatest speeches. You will at last achieve the Socialist Democracy you suffered by defending.”
“He remembers my sufferings Vera! How kind he is!” snarls Rudi with a venom Grolsh ignores, jubilantly urging Vera, “While you! – leader of the Decembrists! – will openly represent all those young idealists who still have faith in liberty, equality, fraternity. We will put you in charge of education, broadcasting, culture, fashion, anything you like. You can be home secretary and create a Ministry of Feminism. And at last I will emerge into the limelight and manage boring economic matters that no high-souled people ever understand – things like trade and finance.”
“And you think such an alliance will save your soul?” demands Vera scornfully.
“To hell with my soul!” cries Grolsh violently. “I fear for my body. I want to die painlessly of old age.”
Rudi asks, “And what will our splendid new government do?”
“We will give Fredonia back to the Fredonian people!”
“How?” cry Rudi and Vera simultaneously.
“We three left-wingers understand Marxist historical logic do we not?” says Grolsh with a strained enthusiasm he obviously hopes will infect them. “Thesis! Antithesis! Synthesis! The state Communism that collapsed in 1990 was our thesis. It provoked the state Capitalism that is also starting to crumble. Our New Deal will renew Fredonia by synthesising both systems.”
“Into Capitalist Communism?” asks Rudi, grinning, and “No! Communist Capitalism!” says Vera, also amused. Grolsh says, “Exactly, exactly, exactly! We will renationalise all industry and public services that do not profit the present owners.”
“Wonderful,” says Rudi, “so the Fredonian tax payers will compensate the global corporations for the mines and railways you sold them, including those who paid simultaneously for the same ones.”
“That must certainly happen,” Grolsh tells them solemnly. “Our new government will not last a week if it is distrusted by the International Monetary Fund.”
The other two laugh heartily. Vera says, “Rudi, give me that glass – I’ll have a drink after all.”
He hands it to her and fills another for himself.
“What is this big joke you laugh at?” asks Grolsh grumpily. “You,” says Rudi.
“We don’t believe in you,” says Vera and Rudi adds, “You have lurked so long in the shadows, Grolsh, that you have become one. You are no longer solid but a phantom – a ghost of a mirage of an illusion.”
“You are both terribly wrong!” cries Grolsh. “I still wield power, terrible power, and can prove it.”
“Do you mean that the outré harpooners still trust you?” says Rudi.
“Yes! Because I am one of them. Also, I have international contacts of immense strength and intelligence ...”
Grolsh is interrupted by the first six chords of a famous national anthem.
Rudi and Vera, astonished, look around and see no source of the noise then notice Grolsh is cowering and that his face has gone very white. The chords are followed by an implacable voice saying: “This is the U.S.A. talking to European agent pee cue zero six nine otherwise known as Vladimir Grolsh. Agent Grolsh, you are in breach of the contract forbidding you to form new political alliances without previous C.I.A. clearance.” In feeble tones Grolsh cries, “I had no time to inform you of the useful alliance I have just proposed – I only conceived it half an hour ago – but I am delirious with joy that you know all about it now. Please congratulate the C.I.A. for wiring this room without my knowledge.” “We have not wired it. You are being addressed over a new satellite system which gives us total powers of surveillance and interference anywhere at any time. Ours is the only operating system of its kind in the world.”
“No quite the only operating system,” says a suave voice with a Sicilian accent. “This is the Cosa Nostra speaking. Under clause 312 of the C.I.A. and Mafia In
ternational War on Terror Treaty, Cosa Nostra agents only need clearance from us. Our Fredonian agent Grolsh received clearance from us twenty minutes ago.”
The room vibrates to the sudden boom of a heavily struck gong, and a new voice says, “But agent Grolsh has not received clearance from the Chinese Central Intelligence Agency!”
“And if I might be allowed to put in a word ...” says an Oxbridge voice –
“You may not!” says the voice of America, but the Englishman continues pleasantly, “I realise the United Kingdom is a junior partner in our alliance, but the City of London is still the Western world’s biggest money-laundering centre, and we feel agent Grolsh is now a useful link between all of us, including the Muslims. Is that not true, Grolsh?”
“No deals with the enemy,” says America.
“Surely,” pleads Grolsh piteously, “surely in this free market world of ours a man may sell himself to everyone who can afford him? And the U.S.A., the Mafia, the U.K. and China are allies. You are not at war with each other!” The gong booms once more and China announces, “Every nation must be prepared for every eventuality.”
“You can say that again!” says America, so China says it again.
“You had better come back to Sorrento, Grolsh,” says the voice of Sicily.
“No way!” says America. “When Grolsh leaves the President’s bedroom he will be coshed, chloroformed, rolled in a carpet and sent for debriefing at Abu Ghraib.” Rudi, much amused by the conversation, has been quietly singing the Fredonian national anthem to himself, but a terrible wail from Grolsh silences him.
“Mercy, England! England, please have mercy! Surely your renowned sense of fair play will come to the aid of poor old Grolsh, your most faithful of Fredonian agents?” “Sorry Grolsh old bean. Our prime minister is Scotch and has just given permission for your extraordinary rendition through Prestwick airport.”
“Vera!” screams Grolsh. “You were going to put a bullet through my brain – pity me! Pity me and do it now.”
In a girlish way Vera smiles on him and pleasantly says, “No.”
“Then give the gun to me!” he begs, and she hands it over saying with a hint of apology, “There are no bullets in it.”
“Rudi!” he yells, weeping. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
Rudi kindly raises the duvet on Grolsh’s side of the big bed. Grolsh grabs a vodka bottle, dives in and burrows as far down as he can while Rudi covers him up.
This little drama distracts all three from what the other voices are discussing, but that international squabble at last ends with the terrible boom of the Chinese gong.
MIDGIEBURGERS
STREETS OF BUNGALOWS are called suburban when part of cities, but exist in many much smaller British places. A wife sits in a bungalow beside an electric fire, knitting with the concentrated fury of one with no other outlet for her energies. A husband sits opposite, examining magazines received that morning with a bulky weekend newspaper. Discarding the one called Sport he leafs unhappily through Lifestyle, Homes, Travel, Arts and Entertainment, but every page seems to have colourful photographs of glamorous young people in richer, more exciting surroundings than his own. He leaves the magazines, goes to a window and looks out for signs of other life, but in the pale grey sky above the bungalows opposite not even a bird is visible. He says, “I can’t make out what the weather is like.”
“Where?” she demands.
“Outside.”
“Go and look.”
“No. I am insufficiently ...” (he thinks for a while) “... motivated. You’re lucky.”
“Why?”
“You can knit. Shop. Do housework. Retirement has made me ...” (he thinks for a while) “... an appendage. I should cultivate something.”
“What?”
“A hobby perhaps. Friends perhaps.”
“Friends are not cultivated,” she tells him. “They grow naturally, like weeds.”
“I bet I could cultivate one,” he says with sudden enthusiasm. “This is a free country. I can go into any pub, see someone interesting, walk straight up to them and say: Excuse me for butting in, but you look like a man of more than average intelligence and I need advice. Jim Barclay’s my name, tax avoidance expert, retired, and I’m looking for a hobby to cultivate.”
He falls silent for a while, then says, “If I was American it would sound much better: Howdy stranger. Jim Barclay’s the name, and tax avoidance is the game. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Woods don’t have necks,” she tells him.
“Not around here, anyway,” he says, sighing. Returning to the fireside he sits down again and at random opens a magazine at a page advertising an expensive gown. This looks like bunches of glittering rags not quite covering a glamorous, charmingly worried young woman in what seems the boiler room of an obsolete factory. He studies her wistfully for a while, then the doorbell rings.
“Somebody’s arrived! Somebody’s arrived!” he says exultantly, striding from the room, opening the front door and crying, “My God, it’s you!”
“Yes, it’s me,” says someone modestly.
“Come in, come in, come in!” Jim says, ushering the visitor through and closing doors behind him. “Linda, this is old ... old ... old ...”
He snaps his fingers to encourage memory.
“Bill,” says the newcomer pleasantly. He is the same age and professional type as his host, and adds, “I was driving north on business, saw I was near here and thought I’d call in.”
“So you did! Linda, Bill and I were great pals when we worked for the old P.I.S.Q.S.”
“You’re wrong,” says Bill pleasantly. “It was for the old S.H.I.Q.T.”
“Are you sure?” asks Jim, surprised.
“Absolutely.”
“Anyway, it was one of those hell-holes and you saved my life, I remember that clearly enough.”
“It was my job,” says Bill with a modest shrug. “I was in charge of security.”
“Indeed you were, thank goodness,” cries Jim. “This calls for a celebration. Have a seat.”
“Only if you’re having one yourself.”
“Impossible. I’m too excited. But you must have one.”
So Bill sits.
“Tea or coffee, Bill?” asks Linda, who has risen hopefully to her feet.
“Neither. Sorry,” says Bill with a touch of regret, “my doctor won’t let me.”
Linda sits sadly down and carries on knitting. Her husband walks up and down, smacks his hands together, repeats, “This calls for a celebration. Orange juice? Beer? Gin? Vodka? Whisky? Drambuie? Tia Maria? Sherry? Port? Chateau Mouton Rothschild du Pape? I’m afraid we’re out of champagne.”
“Sorry,” says Bill, “I’m a health freak. I only drink water, and stopped at a pub for a couple of pints ten minutes ago.”
“O,” says his host, sitting down and wondering what else to say.
And at last asks, “Care to talk about being a health freak? I mean, you might manage to convert us.”
“No no,” says Bill, “you’d find the topic too bloody boring.”
“Ha ha ha, you’re right there!” says Jim, then adds in an apologetic, quieter tone, “Sorry I can’t ask you what make of car you drive, and tell you about mine and all the trouble
I have with it. Linda finds the topic too bloody boring.”
“Ha ha, she’s right there!” says Bill. This leads to another long silence broken by both men saying simultaneously, “What are you doing these days?” after which both laugh until Bill says, “You first!”
“No, you!”
“You! I insist.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I’ve ...” says Jim, but is interrupted by the first bars of Do You Ken John Peel? on a xylophone. With a murmured apology Bill takes a phone from his pocket, says to it, “Well?” and after listening for a moment tells it, “Listen, bitch, and listen good. There were no witnesses to that promise you allege I made, pills are cheap so your bastard is not my
concern. If you must whine, try whining to my lawyer. He’ll land you in Cornton Vale jail without your feet touching the ground and women commit suicide to escape from that place. So get out of my life!”
Pocketing the phone he says, “As a matter of fact you’ve what?”
“Taken early retirement.”
“But you used to be such a live wire.”
“Yes, but the firm made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“The swine,” says Bill sympathetically.
With a shrug Jim tells him, “Business is business,” then, struck by an idea, asks, “Have you noticed that every ten years since 1975 the number of millionaires in Britain has doubled?”
Bill nods. Jim asks, “Have you never wanted to be one?”
Bill says, “I am one.”
Not quite catching this Jim says, “It’s done by cashing in on the market whether it’s going up, down or sideways. Jack Rotter of the Porridge Union is coming to everyone’s neck of the woods next week so why not book a talk with him on rotporridge @ slash dot crash dot wallop yahoo dot com and get tips straight from the horse’s mouth? All terms and conditions apply.”
His wife, exasperated, looks up from her needles and says, “He’s already told you he’s a millionaire.”
“Did you?” Jim asks Bill, who smiles and nods.
“Dear me,” says Jim, “that ought to teach me something.” Linda says, “It should teach you to listen as much as you talk.”
Not quite hearing her Jim murmurs, “Yes it really ought to teach me something,” then sighs and adds, “But I wish they hadn’t pushed me out of tax avoidance.”
“I seem to remember you were damned good at it,” says his friend.
“I was, but even accountants don’t know everything.”
“Maybe some don’t, but mine at least is trustworthy.”
“You may be living in a fool’s paradise,” Jim points out, “because last year I was running to the seaside when the door of a parked car opened and smacked me into the middle of the road. I was left with nine broken ribs and a fractured pelvis.”
Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012 Page 74