The Ambassador (13 page)

‘Who?’

Marius glanced about warily and lowered his voice. ‘Who do you think? Who is in charge, has been for millennia?
Not
elected,
not
public figures, nameless and unknown. Protected from prying eyes. Invisible, immaculate, irreplaceable. Who do you think? Come on, Strether, you’re far from stupid. If I say “faceless”, does that help?’

‘Bureaucrats?’

‘Of course.’

Strether was deflated. He had expected something more – bizarre – to pass on to his President. Gently, with a half-crooked finger, Marius indicated the man next to the Belgian Speaker and slowly, one at a time, similarly dressed men and a couple of soberly suited plain-looking women, each with jewelled decorations, scattered at tables throughout the hall. ‘Them. Chefs de cabinet, Commissioners, Perm Secs, advisers.’

‘And every one of them went to ÉNA, I suppose.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Did everyone else here, too?’

Marius laughed again, but with an edge. ‘Apart from yourself and the cooks and waiters? Probably. That’s the cement which holds the lot together.’

‘That’s what Packer meant by the Énarchy, then. He mentioned it in London. The Perm Sec was not pleased with him.’

‘Packer is a tease. But he’s very much one of them.’

It was not till much later that Strether remembered that the Prince might have said, ‘one of us’, but hadn’t. He brooded through the coffee. The Crown Prince was at last helped to his feet; the assembly stood and politely clapped him out.

‘You are busy this evening, I suppose?’ Marius stopped as if it were a sudden thought.

Strether calculated. ‘Embassy reception at six then I’m free, if I wish to be.’

‘Splendid. Then you’ll dine at our club, the Forum – I believe I may have mentioned it. You will have to dress for dinner.
À vingt heures
– eight o’clock, then. Good.’

He would have preferred dinner with Lisa. Strictly speaking,
another
dinner with Lisa. The previous evening had indeed been spent in her company, tucked in a corner table at the Pont de la Tour restaurant, with the magnificence of Tower Bridge picked out in blue and pink light bulbs in the background.

She had arrived in a fluster, apologising for being late. The journey down-river to near Greenwich, the new location for the extended bridge, had involved two changes. Not for the first time Strether wondered why such an inaccessible spot had been chosen to celebrate the millennium in England. Matters had not improved in a century.

But she looked wonderful, and instantly it was he who was flustered. She wore a
dress, the first time he had seen her in one; and she turned male heads, for most females in the dimly-lit restaurant wore trouser tunic suits that graced their slim figures. As she walked quickly towards him he could not help noticing once more the trim calves and neat ankles. She stopped, pointed a toe and swirled her skirt, showing off girlishly. Strether could not stop himself blushing.

‘I have a cattleman’s eye for a fine leg, Lisa,’ he confessed, as he helped her to her chair. ‘You’re not going to start berating me again for paying you a compliment, are you?’

‘No, not now I’m off-duty.’ A waiter leaped forward and lit a waxless candle, which flickered, then settled and glowed softly. She smiled: the dimples caught the light.

For the next hour Strether was a happy man. Whatever he ordered, Lisa welcomed. Whatever he said, she found amusing or intriguing. When he swayed one way or the other with the enthusiasm of a subject, she seemed to sway in sympathy. He told her of his ranch, and of his love for his homeland, and the peculiar coincidences that had made him Ambassador to London. With a little encouragement he told her more about his marriage and the exquisite, mystical woman who had been his wife; and how, even as he held her hand in death, he had felt that he had never entirely understood her, nor could follow where she walked. And Lisa spoke, but simply, of the fellow student she had wed, and the sense that they had never touched souls at all.

It struck him that both were operating with the greatest delicacy, taking trouble to say nothing negative about themselves or those they had loved. Maybe he was absorbing a restrained, polite European style. Coming from a world in which carping was more commonplace Strether was fascinated, and began to relax.

‘I’m so glad you could come. I hope this won’t be the only time,’ he said at last. Then it came out, too bluntly, and he wished he had not said it: ‘A man can get lonely, you know.’

Her eyes widened. The candlelight made them golden, like a marvellous cat’s. She bowed her head and pushed the remains of her food around on her plate with a fork.

‘A woman, too. But I’m not into casual relationships, Bill. I’m not a female who has to experience her life through men. European women are different, at least, upper-caste ones are. The most important thing to me is, and always has been, my work.’

‘Yes,’ he mused. ‘I can see that. Not a homemaker. Though you might enjoy having a home, and a family?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she answered, revealingly quickly. She recovered herself. ‘But not yet, I don’t think.’

A pause. Then he continued, ‘Your work. When we last spoke, you mentioned problems. I thought you were referring to, well, copies.’ His voice dropped as she darted a look around. The nearest camera was on the far side; that was why he had opted for this table. ‘But you said that wasn’t it.’

‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ She had smiled at him, then placed a hand swiftly over his, as if her next statement was offered to cement a bond between them. ‘The Porton Down experimental work. That’s where the queries are arising. I’m right in the middle of it. You’ll have to come and see.’

‘What – back to your laboratory?’ He was startled, and began mentally to juggle dates.

‘No. To the records centre. Ask Prince Marius. Maybe he’ll come too.’

‘Can I trust him?’

‘Who can say? Can you trust anybody, Bill?’ Then she laughed. ‘Except me, of course. Only be careful. I might just break your heart. Though not your pocket. You will let me pay my share, won’t you?’

Strether bit his lip. He twisted his head helplessly from one host to the other, then sat down wanly on the nearest red plush bench. ‘I can’t.’

He, Maxwell Packer and Prince Marius Vronsky were deep in the basement of what had once been the medieval Hôtel de Ville in Grand Place. One should be thankful, Strether supposed, that the style of the Forum Club was not sixteenth-century slashed velvet breeches and beribboned codpieces. Given the attire into which he was now being bundled, that might have been preferable. At least then his naked knees and calves, the bits of his body of which he was least proud, would have stayed hidden.

‘They won’t let you in without it, dear chap,’ Marius muttered crossly. ‘If I’d thought you’d any objections to the formal dress the offer would never have crossed my lips.’

‘But why do we have to wear togas?’

‘Because this is the Forum Club. Here gather, for conversation and conviviality, the elite of the Union, the rule-book says. By invitation only,’ Marius informed him, with a mere trace of mischief in his voice. ‘Since the model for the Union is the Roman Empire, we adopt the garb of the Senate. And its eating habits.’

Maxwell Packer was ready. Strether noted grudgingly that the media man’s full head of hair and tanned, muscular forearms and legs were splendidly set off by the cream cashmere cloak and metallised belt. Marius’s heavy silk cloak was sapphire blue with an embroidered border, and he wore a white tunic. About his head was a narrow gold band, the mark of his royal rank. Had there been more notice Strether could have acquired something closer to his own taste, instead of renting a club spare. Had he known about this in advance, he would have refused point-blank to come.

‘Come on, we’ll be late.’ Marius hauled Strether to his feet and set about pouching the striped toga over the belt and pinning the folds firmly to the left shoulder. ‘There, you won’t disgrace us. Or your country.’

Strether examined himself in the full-length mirror. Then he pulled back his shoulders and smoothed his ruffled hair. The middle-aged, rather paunchy man who stared back, he had to admit, could well have been a tribune on his way to declaim on an emperor’s birthday. He looked more closely: the image was familiar. Then he recalled the statue, in Parliament Square in London, of George Washington as a Roman, complete with laurel leaves and a breastplate. Strether sniffed, half mollified.

The dining room was a further revelation, but this time Strether held his tongue. The long, low room was furnished with fringed couches and
chaise-longues
upholstered in sumptuous fabrics, with plump tasselled cushions in piles. Thick plum velvet curtains had been drawn. Great vases held displays of flowers, lilies, white lilac and tuberoses, whose perfume hung heavily in the warm air. Light came from classical-style lamps on pedestals; real wax candles stood like sentinels on brass stands. A trio with harpist, lute and a zither-like instrument played, their plaintive notes mingling with the buzz of conversation.

About half of the sofas were occupied by men in togas reclining gracefully on one
elbow, sandalled feet tucked under their robes. Some had auto-translator implants. There was not a woman in sight, but most of the diners had that elongated, disciplined body, those bony hands and fingers and the pale blue eyes that Strether could now spot so readily. And this time he was sure it was not his paranoia.

Servants in short tunics glided between the diners. Strether saw guinea fowl carried past, a haunch of venison, an enormous poached shark-salmon, several mega-lobsters, and a boar’s head with tusks intact, its mouth stuffed with a white-fleshed peach, its crisp skin studded with cloves like black diamonds. A polished carvery dish laden with dripping roast beef, crown of lamb and veal, steamed its way tantalisingly around the room. Its chef, a burly man in a floor-length apron, looked capable of wrestling a bullock to the ground single-handed. It dawned on Strether that much of the menu was banned elsewhere, but here, apparently, the usual rules and codes did not apply.

Strether, Marius and Maxwell Packer were shown to an arrangement of sofas. Cold starters (extremely rare North Sea herring,
foie gras
, quails’ and ducks’ eggs, oysters in champagne, baby octopus unobtainable in the markets, caviares absent from European catalogues) and breads appeared. Soups and hot entrees were offered, here dressed with walnut oil, there with balsamic vinegar or the finest emerald olive oil from Cyprus. A
kir royale
sparkled brilliantly, pink and inviting, before him. A voice in his ear murmured choices of other aperitifs and wines; Strether experienced the odd feeling that he wanted to refer to the staff as ‘slaves’ but checked himself quickly.

‘So, do we get dancing girls and gladiators, too?’ he inquired jocularly.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Marius had reclined on a sofa as to the manner born with a goblet of purple wine. ‘This is a gentlemen’s club. Your main contribution tonight, Bill, will be the quality of your discourse. We’ve invited the Perm Sec and Sir Lyndon, the English Prime Minister, to join us. They’re all members here. Sir Lyndon sometimes makes jokes about the club in private, but I warn you Sir Robin doesn’t. Here they come.’

But it was three, not two, men who approached. In his dazzling white robe and tunic Sir Robin seemed even taller and skinnier than before; his age showed in the tiny lines about his face and in the pale hairs on his thin arms and legs, as if the vitality had begun to drain from the furthest parts of him. The Prime Minister wore a black tunic and a silvery toga, which created a flashy effect. On his forehead he sported a wreath of some kind; as the evening wore on it slipped askew and gave him a rakish air. The third man, however, was new: trimly elegant like Sir Robin, but in his young sixties, with a mass of blond hair and a piercing gaze. Packer and Marius leapt to their feet.

‘Strether, this is Graf von Richthofen. How good to see you, Heinrich. Will you join us? Chef de cabinet to our President, Herr Lammas.’

‘And a companion of the President since childhood. How do you do, Ambassador?’ The Graf was courteously, effortlessly dominant. It was instantly obvious that he was the most important person present, despite the use of his first name.

Within the hour Strether was hooked and had begun to toy with ideas of starting such a club in Washington. He watched and imitated as other diners motioned for their food to be cut so that it could be eaten with a fork, one-handed, or with the fingertips. The waiters were ever-attentive, noiseless. The lilting music, some modern composition, seemed exactly right. Smells of meat
jus
, garlic, cardamom, fenugreek, balsam, cinnamon, roses and something
else, more delicate – the personal perfumes of the guests, perhaps – filled Strether’s nostrils. Candle flames leaped and guttered, casting shadows into the corners, making fruit glow richly in its golden bowls. His head buzzed with something akin to longing, and with tantalised awe. These diners certainly knew how to look after themselves. The place seemed to operate under different rules from those imposed on the
hoi-polloi
. He wondered how one might be proposed for the club, and if there was a waiting list.

The Graf wiped his fingers on a napkin and nibbled at a grape. ‘So, Ambassador, how do you find our club?’

Strether was more than a little drunk. ‘It’s brilliant. How come I’ve never heard of it?’

‘It’s private. No press, except Maxwell here, one or two other owners and editors, distinguished men in their own right. It does not advertise. No need.’

‘Yeah,’ Strether muttered. ‘But d’you have to be an NT to get in? Or an Énarque? Or both? Why aren’t there any women? Any …’ he peered around ‘… any blacks? Why do so many of the guests look the same?’

‘The club abides by the anti-discrimination codes, my dear Strether.’ Sir Robin reached for a handful of nuts and dextrously wielded a silver-backed nutcracker. ‘But you should have realised by now that those of us blessed with good genes and the finest education are proud of both.’