People in Glass Houses Page 7

  Both Mordie and Mervyn were somewhat senior in grade to Swoboda, and both had encountered Mr Bekkus during their careers at the Organization.

  ‘I bet Bekkus blighted your life,’ Mervyn remarked one day.

  Swoboda’s reserve would have produced some non-committal reply, had Mordie not seconded this view. ‘Ah — Bekkus. I too recall him as a Life-blighter. How long were you in his office?’

  ‘Nearly four years. Ever since Specific Cases Unit was merged with Overall Policy.’

  ‘Christ, Stan, why did you stick it?’

  There was no answer to this — unless Swoboda were to allude to the nature of his tragedy. Slowly, however, his life with Mr Bekkus was unfolded to his new friends. Mordie and Mervyn were able to size up the situation in their respective ways and to savour the triumph of Swoboda’s final interview with Mr Bekkus.

  ‘Stanislas, you did right.’

  ‘Good on you, Stan.’

  ‘Not’, went on Swoboda, ‘that we parted on bad terms. That, indeed, would have introduced a new sincerity into our relations. Far from it. Not knowing my new telephone extension, Mr Bekkus pointed out that I should have to call him in order for us to, as he put it, get together.’

  ‘And will you?’

  Swoboda paused. ‘On my last day, Mr Bekkus walked with me to the elevator. He put his hand on my back and said “Remember, Swoboda, it will be your fault if we don’t get together soon.”’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Swoboda smiled modestly. ‘I said — “That’s right.”’

  Mordie’s smile shot up to his ears.

  Mervyn slapped his hand on the desk. ‘Stan the Man! The Original Man!’

  Mordie said, ‘Stanislas, I confess to a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘You would have expected me to weaken?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I thought perhaps you are one of those who gives in for the good old times’ sake.’

  ‘That expression, Mordie,’ said Mervyn, ‘is “for old times’ sake”. Nobody ever said it was good old times’ sake.’

  Swoboda was also kindly treated by Miss Shamsee and, though he saw less of her than of Mordie and Merv, not a day passed without his exchanging some friendly words with her or consulting her about his work.

  Miss Shamsee had been ten years with the Organization and was now a little over thirty. Her face had the gloss of a ripe olive. Her black hair was flat, parted in the middle and drawn back in an immaculate knot. She invariably wore a sari — sometimes a beautifully bright one, sometimes a drab and flimsy one — and this graceful garment contributed a stateliness, though she was not tall. She had a remarkable walk — it was the curving, sinuous walk of Hazlitt’s Sally Walker — which, combined with the semicircular folds of her dress, gave her an effect of coiling and uncoiling as she passed through offices and down corridors, as she glided between filing cabinets or along cafeteria queues.

  In addition to these physical advantages, Miss Shamsee possessed a good mind and pleasant manner. She should, by any fair standard, have been an attractive woman; yet it cannot be said that she was. All the elements were there, but Miss Shamsee was like a resort town in bad weather: some spark, some animation, some synthesizing glow was missing. She had been too long with the Organization.

  Girls like Miss Shamsee pursued, year in, year out, their stenographic or clerical duties at the Organization, and were to be seen each day lunching in the cafeteria with two or three of their kind. Their salaries were low, but every year they earned a little more money, and every ten years or so they went up a notch in the clerical scale. No professional advancement was offered them, except over such a length of time as to invalidate it. Marriages were rare, resignations even rarer (for, somewhere about the age of twenty-seven, they started to be concerned over the drawing of their eventual pension). If fortunate, they might be assigned to one or two Organizational meetings abroad; if desperate, they mighty apply for long-term service in the less technically oriented lands.

  The previous year, Miss Shamsee had been sent to the Organization’s branch office in Geneva to assist at a summit conference of the less technically oriented. There she had met and fallen in love with an official of the World Geophysical Union, an international agency affiliated with the Organization. The man was married, and Miss Shamsee’s assignment was for six weeks only, but the affair was poignant and sincere. Towards the end of the conference they arranged, by intricate deceptions, to go away together for a brief time. (In this they were aided by the Organization holiday of Self-Determination Day, which, falling on a Monday, provided a long weekend.) Other cities in Switzerland being rendered perilous to them by the various headquarters of agencies of the Organization (the Global Health Commission at Lausanne, the Bureau of Legal Standards at Berne, and so on), and the Riviera being out of the question owing to a large Organization-sponsored Poverty Congress then in progress at Cannes, they decided on Milan as the neighbouring city least fraught with international aspirations. There they duly arrived by train and stayed at a large old-fashioned hotel near the station.

  These days were to be the most inspiring of Miss Shamsee’s life. She and the geophysicist walked about the city in a kind of trance, with arms linked. Although it was May, the weather was cold and Miss Shamsee wore a cardigan over her sari, and a grey woollen coat she had bought on sale in the Grand Passage in Geneva; ankle socks kept her feet warm in her sandals. Even thus modified, her rippling walk attracted much favourable attention. The air was filled by the spring seeding of the great poplar forests of the Lombardy Plain, with the result that tufts of soft white down fell throughout the city like a gentle, continuous snow. This, and the unexpectedness of sudden love, made the situation seem fantastic and spiritual.

  Their respective shares of the hotel bill having been carefully calculated by the geophysicist, they returned to Geneva by separate trains, and met only once more, for the following day was Miss Shamsee’s last on full per diem; she was due to fly back to Organization Headquarters that evening. They said good-bye in the Contemplation Room, where they could be sure of not meeting anyone they knew. The geophysicist asked her not to write to him. In her heart she knew this to be abject, but she gave him a look of understanding so as not to spoil things. They parted without touching. Thus ended Miss Shamsee’s meeting at the summit.

  Back at Headquarters, she did not repine. She was deeply moved, but triumphant. This at least had happened to her. Though she said nothing, it gradually became known that something of the kind had occurred, and it gave her prestige among her sad companions. Once in a while, when Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn dictated a letter to the World Geophysical Union, she could allow herself to think that her lowercase initials in the corner of the page might act as a message to her lover — that somehow, eventually, they might come to his attention as he thumbed through the relevant file. And one day at the beginning of winter, when for the first time she hung up her grey coat in the office, she found a scrap of white poplar-down in the sleeve. She pressed it that day in the Organization Yearbook.

  Swoboda discovered, through his companions, the varying degrees of esteem in which the rest of the DALTO staff were held — who was to be relied upon, who to be supported, who avoided. He also learnt of the existence of one or two natural enemies.

  ‘Take a dekko at this,’ Mervyn would say, holding up a sheaf of memoranda, each marked with a red HASTE sticker. ‘Bloody Battle of Hastings.’

  ‘Sadie Graine, I suppose?’ inquired Mordie. Miss Sadie Graine was the secretary of DALTO’s Chief Coordinator, Mr Achilles Pylos.

  Swoboda, who as yet knew the lady only by sight, dwelt on her name. ‘Sadie. I didn’t think women were called Sadie any more.’

  ‘Short for “Sadist”,’ Mervyn explained, sorting out the papers. ‘Affectionate diminutive.’

  (This is not the moment to relate in full the story of Miss Sadie Graine. In the history of the Organization, as in the annals of all organizations, that narrative has a place — for Miss Graine�
�s is a figure known in all large institutions, and even in some smaller ones. Her presence in any substantial office is as inevitable as that of filing cabinets and paper-clips; no departmental scene is complete without her. Her own position is subordinate, yet she commands, fearfully, inexplicably, the ear of authority. She accepts no criticism, she possesses no humour; her tyranny is self-righteous, her vengeance inexorable. The sole — and unwitting — contribution made by her presence is to join together those who would otherwise find no common ground. For concerning Miss Graine there can be no divergence of opinion. Before her, all stand united in adversity.

  The story of Miss Sadie Graine may yet be told.)

  In the new comradeship enjoyed by Swoboda, there was one element more remarkable, more sympathetic than all the others. And that was the bond that developed between Swoboda and Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn.

  Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn was, at the age of fifty-three, one of the most senior officials in DALTO. He was not the Chief Coordinator of the department — that office being filled by Mr Pylos — and his secondary position was shared with two or three others. Still, he was a person of authority by Organization standards — and more ample standards might only have augmented his prestige.

  The accidents of politics and geography which sometimes united to provide the Organization with its higher officials had seldom combined so happily as in the case of Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn. His was a mind of uncommon scope and flexibility. He was humorous, compassionate, and incorruptible — these invaluable qualities being here listed by order of importance. His sensibilities revealed themselves, as sensibilities will, continually; and not least in his mannerism of fingering a piece of music from time to time on an imaginary piano. And he was, to a degree unusual in the Organization, a cultivated man. There was, one felt, almost nothing he might not have done.

  Yet Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn had colleagues of less ability who had gone further; of less energy who had done more.

  In all Swoboda’s years with the Organization he had not encountered any official of this calibre. His natural kinship with Rodriguez-O’Hearn went beyond that which he enjoyed with Mervyn, Mordie and Miss Shamsee. Admiring as Swoboda was of Rodriguez’s gifts, he was also drawn to him by the inconsistencies he began to detect under Rodriguez’s thoughtful exterior.

  Confronted, for example, with some Daltonian dilemma, Rodriguez could instantly see what should be done. He would perhaps ask Swoboda to prepare such-and-such a draft memorandum to that effect. Swoboda would do so but, by the time the draft had reached the In-tray, a dozen fanciful doubts had been raised in Rodriguez’s mind and a dozen spectres of possible misfire sat about Rodriguez at his desk. The strength of the doubts appeared to be in direct ratio to the significance of the issue and the clarity of the proposed solution. ‘Thinking it over, Swoboda,’ Rodriguez would say, ‘I feel we should add …’ Swoboda began to dread these final paragraphs, these postscripts or parenthetical observations that so often merely served to draw attention to potential errors that would never otherwise have been committed. ‘Perhaps it should be pointed out’ or ‘I need hardly warn the members of the committee’ or, worst of all, ‘In order to avoid confusion’ frequently preceded a knockout blow to the argument so lucidly adduced in the body of the letter.

  Caution, concluded Swoboda, is a very dangerous thing.

  There were, in addition, issues that Rodriguez would perpetually and ignominiously evade rather than oppose — a multiplicity of useless regulations, an inundation of documents whose pages were more commonly committed to the wastepaper basket than to memory, the infringements of troublesome subordinates, the harassments of Miss Sadie Graine. (It would not have been accurate to say that Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn was afraid of Miss Sadie Graine, but it would have been so nearly accurate that it did not quite bear thinking about.)

  Rodriguez had a peculiarity, too, of gratifying — almost of acting out — another’s misunderstanding of him. With those who thought him unyielding, he would be at his most taciturn; with those who thought him irresolute, at his most discursive. Swoboda saw these things and, feeling he understood the matter, regretted them. Yet it cannot be said that they lowered Rodriguez-O’Hearn in Swoboda’s regard. They were authentic human aberrations, and Swoboda’s tolerance of them only increased the friendship which, for all its restraint, gradually grew up between him and his new chief.

  Swoboda had come to Rodriguez-O’Hearn as a virtually unknown quantity. It is true that his personal file had been sent to Rodriguez in advance, and that these dossiers were compiled in conformity with the latest administrative techniques. A form in the file had accordingly notified Mr Rodriguez that Swoboda was punctual and in good health, that he upheld the aims of the Organization, and that his output was high. The form was composed as a questionnaire, and against each question a series of boxes invited the appropriate tick — such methods as these having been painstakingly devised in order to avoid anything resembling a personal opinion. Since, in this modern world of incomparables, a tick in anything less than the topmost box for each item would have been highly damaging to a staff member, Rodriguez-O’Hearn also learnt — and expected to learn — from the file that Swoboda was of ineffable good humour, that his initiative was unremitting, his imagination inexhaustible, and his judgement invariably sound. Had the file contained a more reasonable estimate of Swoboda’s capabilities or suggested the slightest singularity, the implication would have been such that neither Rodriguez-O’Hearn nor any other Organization official would have felt justified in accepting him.

  It was therefore without prompting of any kind that Rodriguez discovered Swoboda’s true nature. Rodriguez was a man of insight, and the significant outlines of Swoboda’s past gradually became as apparent to him as if he had been informed of them in detail. He valued Swoboda’s industry; he respected Swoboda’s discretion; he even came, little by little, to apprehend Swoboda’s tragedy.

  And so it came about that Swoboda thrived. With all his new colleagues he worked in the utmost goodwill. There was much to do, but no injustice corresponding to the SAGG documents darkened Swoboda’s days or lengthened his nights. His tendencies, though orderly, were ingenious, and he developed an uncomplicated system of shading in the progress of DALTO operations on the graphs entrusted to his care (so many experts sent to instruct needy nations, so many grants awarded to the less technical for orientation abroad — their shadow, on Swoboda’s charts, never grew less). Together with Mervyn and Mordie he drafted letters, added up columns, and filed cards. There was nothing novel or intriguing in this, other than the sense of being appreciated. All the same, Swoboda felt his life was moving forward again and, in his modest way, he was hopeful about the future.

  Towards the end of the year, when Swoboda had been some months with DALTO, the question of his promotion was once more raised in his mind. The Board was soon due to hand down its six-monthly decisions. He mentioned this to Merv and Mordie.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Mervyn assured him. ‘He likes you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old Rodrigo. Can’t think why, but he does.’

  ‘What has he to do with it?’

  ‘He’ll have to endorse you. That’s what happens when you move to another department. You have to get put up again for promotion by your new chief.’

  ‘It’s a formality,’ Mordie said. ‘They’ll bring it to his attention. Don’t worry.’

  A week or two later, Miss Shamsee whispered to Swoboda that Rodriguez had dictated to her the recommendation for promotion. Smiling, she showed Swoboda a page of cryptograms. ‘One of the best recommendations he’s ever given,’ she said. ‘It’s marvellous.’

  Swoboda thanked her, warmly but calmly, and walked away. In that moment, however, he was as close as he had ever been to exultation. He went down to the cafeteria and had a cup of coffee. There, leaning on the Formica table-top, absently stirring the sugar round in his thick cup and crumbling his Danish, Swoboda reflected on the goodness and ultimate meanin
g of things. How right he had been to stand up to Mr Bekkus. There was much in life that one must let pass, much that did not merit the taking of positions or the agitating of one’s breast; much, in fact, that it would be demeaning to take issue with. On the other hand, certain matters were not to be ignored unless one were to cast oneself away entirely, and here Swoboda had vindicated himself. He had repudiated Mr Bekkus’s treatment of him; he had demanded a more suitable standing in the world, and he had got it. He had, through his own fortitude, come forth into a new life of comradeship and esteem. He would receive a little more money, he would stand a little higher in the lowly lists of the Subsidiary Category. Swoboda was content. (It may be felt that he was easily content, but he is not the less to be envied for that reason.)

  In a sense, too — or so it seemed to him — the Organization itself stood to profit from this development. Having dedicated itself to the rights of man, the Organization was, in some subtly heartening manner, only as good as the way it treated Swoboda. One could not completely believe in any enterprise that required one’s own diminution.

  Thus Swoboda, as he lingered over his coffee in the cafeteria. Not since the departure from the cherry factory had his heart been so light.

  The days passed quickly at the end of the year. There was great activity in DALTO at that time. The deadline for submission of the DALTO annual report was drawing near, and Swoboda with his charts was deeply involved. As this vast report required some months in the preparation, it was always begun in the middle of the year it purported to cover. Necessarily incorporating an element of conjecture, it was an earnest effort for all that. It was Swoboda’s first experience of the reporting strategy and he was quick to grasp its tactics of defence: a programme, for example, was ‘particularly’ efficient; a situation had been ‘carefully’ examined; a success was ‘outstandingly’ successful — these adverbial badges of insecurity being designed to take the opponent by surprise.