Europa

by Tim Parks

  Then one says, I went on, more confidently now, seeing sombre faces nodding in agreement, one says, ‘an infinitely milder form’, but the truth is that discrimination, however apparently mild in comparison, is always discrimination, and always ugly, especially when perpetrated along ethnic lines. One population keeping another out. One population denying another the equal right to a job. The loss of one’s livelihood, I said to the sombre faces of the Petitions Committee, the loss of one’s vocation - for this is what I am here to talk about - can cause immense suffering, mental and physical, even in situations of apparent well-being, even when the victims do not risk hunger and violence. The woman in particular, I noticed, was taking notes. One of our members, for example, I said, had to return urgently to Milan in the early hours of this morning because the mother of his child had suffered another disabling crisis in her ongoing muscular dystrophy. You can see, I said, how the loss of financial security in such a case could prove disastrous. Not to mention the humiliation, I said, for a man in his forties who loses his ability to care for those close to him. The Committee listened. Another member confessed to me this morning, I invented, that he had not slept for weeks because he was anxious about losing his job, a job he has held and faithfully performed for more than ten years. The only job he really wished to do, he told me. Perversely, I was beginning to enjoy this. The only job he honestly felt he was suitable for, I insisted. I was beginning to feel powerful. His concern being, that since he was living in a foreign country, supporting a family in that country, a family made up of Italians it must be said, it would be far more difficult for him than for a local national to find another form of employment. If not impossible. I paused. I’m referring to one of our group who should have been presenting our case here now, in my place, to the person indeed who organized our petition to the European Parliament, but who in the end felt too nervous even to be present, so much is at stake.

  The job of the Committee is to hear about people suffering, I thought. One must impress upon the Petitions Committee that people are suffering. And then identify a guilty perpetrator of that suffering. This was what was in the air, I thought. Not unlike Black Spells Magic.

  Let us go on to consider, then, ! proceeded, marvelling at how easy it all was, the simple though sly injustice that is being perpetrated at our expense, the subtle discrimination that the Italian state is operating to the benefit of Italian citizens and the detriment of those from other areas of the Community, a Community that the Italian government is always and so hypocritically the first to uphold, as it is likewise always and so destructively the first to flout.

  There was silence in the audience now, and, I could sense, genuine admiration, not only on the faces of Sneaky and Plottie, but likewise on those of Luis, whose Spanish pesetas were worth more lire with every moment that passed, and Barnaby Hilson too, and Doris Rohr, who had probably never been more convinced than now that she was a victim of racism. And I remember, here, now, in the Meditation Room, how, as I went on to describe the way we were subject to rules relative to the termination of our employment which no Italian in the state sector was subject to, singled out, that is, for an entirely different and harsher treatment than any other state employee, I remember being overtaken by a sort of exhilaration, a sort of restrained hilarity, as if drunk and dazzled by the facility, the credibility, the power of these words that, though true, in the sense of factually accurate, I nevertheless did not believe in at all, could not believe in, and would never have sunk to speaking save into a microphone and on behalf of my feckless colleagues. Drunk too, and spurred on by her frequent, light touches of my leg. Her approbation. Her encouragement. Was it all about to start again? Was it? I was so excited. Then I had just reached the whole delicate question of salary, entirely convinced that I would have no problem at all in making it appear that we lived a life of extreme poverty, and even toying, at the back of my mind, with the idea that I might conclude by quoting, if only to satisfy Sneaky-tottie, Pericles when he says: As for poverty, no one need be ashamed to admit it: the real shame is in not taking practical measures to escape from it. Yes, I was seriously considering winding up with this remark, however ludicrously inappropriate, in order to explain, to justify, as it were, our extraordinary and dramatic decision to come to Strasbourg, to present our grievance to the highest authority, insisting, I suddenly realized I might then add, on those principles of liberté, égalité and fratenité which more than any other lay at the heart of Europe - and certainly everybody was going to say, for I could feel this, what a talented public speaker I was and why had I never offered to be representative in the past? - I was just about to launch into this preposterous conclusion when Dimitra came rushing back into the auditorium.

  Dimitra banged through the double doors, almost knocking over the Welsh MEP’s secretary. Distraught and tight-lipped, she raced down the shallow steps of banked seats, skipping and stumbling, until finally she threw herself against the battleship table at the front.

  Ine fovero, she screamed, her voice only half amplified in the directional mikes. Aftoktónisse. O trelos! Aftoktónisse, O theotrelosl

  Sobbing for breath, her big breasts pressed and heaving against the desk, Dimitra shouted these words, and ‘others, two or three or four times, apparently not understanding why we didn’t understand, until the tall, lean member of the Petitions Committee in the front row hurriedly pulled off his headset and in a heavily accented English demanded, Who has hanged himself? Where?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vikram Griffiths lived alone in a dilapidated third-floor apartment in Via Pastrengo. But roomy. Thus I describe to myself my colleague, my acquaintance, sitting here with my bag beside me in the Meditation Room of the European Parliament. He did not die with the lectors’ petition pinned to his tweed jacket as this morning’s European claimed. Nor was the petition signed by more than a thousand names. Pastrengo was a battle, as I recall. Another Napoleonic triumph. Unless that was Marengo. Or both. When I phoned his wife - I think both - she asked was this what the British called a practical joke?

  But to say he lived alone is to give the wrong impression. Everybody on the coach returning from Parliament to hotel was eager to rehearse, in lower voices than before, though the driver had not forgotten to turn the radio on, their memories of Vikram Griffiths. And for most these focused around the time they had rejected, or in one or two cases accepted, a pass from him. For the men it was a question of recalling times they’d got blind drunk and he had told his life-story before they fell asleep on his floor. Only two men said Vikram made passes at men as well as women. It is inexplicable, I thought, travelling back to the hotel on the coach, how strong my desire for Georg is. How much I wish that he were here. He made a pass at me last night, she said. Most of the women remembered he went quite brutally for the hand up the skirt. And they laughed about it, as if it were a minor and indeed endearing misdemeanour. He’d had a couple of drinks, one student explained. But when had he not had a couple of drinks? And she said, If only I had accepted, last night, perhaps none of this would have happened. She had tears in her eyes, speaking to four or five people, and her accent was more French than ever. The Ys, the Ts. Why on earth didn’t I accept? she said. Because you were fucking Georg, most probably, I thought, before he was called away to the mother of his child. A cordial fuck, I thought. How can I wish so hard that he were here? But I do. I like Georg, it occurs to me now. We were good friends after all, she was saying. What difference would it have made? I should have gone to bed with him, she said, apparently with real remorse at a generous deed undone. Then she said we must make a collection for Vikram’s widow and his orphaned child. We must make a collection. Though the two were not connected. She wanted to find a hat or something there and then and make a collection, in the coach on the way back from the Parliament only a couple of hours after the body had been found. It would be important for her to see she had our solidarity, she said, even though they were engaged in acrimonious separation proceedings,
even though the second wife had apparently testified on behalf of the first in their bitter child-custody battle. And she actually began collecting money, holding out a small plastic bag of the variety they put cheese and sliced meats in at. the supermarket. She began to go up and down the aisle of the coach as it drove around the Strasbourg ring road to our remote and cheap hotel with its cheap reproductions of modern masterpieces. Goya’s Executions perhaps. You could see into her cleavage when she bent over. Guernica even. She knew it. Her black dress was quite short above her slim knees. The poor woman will be frantic, she said. Her heels dug the purple carpet of the aisle. It’s the least we can do, she said, bending over Colin with her plastic bag. Everybody was eager to give, as befits people who have lost a friend and leader. But nobody had any currency. What with the collapse of the Lira, the decisions of the Bundesbank. Better to wait till we’re back at the University, Barnaby Hilson said. A student asked where the dog was. We should start a fund, the Irish novelist said. Certainly the creature wasn’t in the coach. Doris Rohr promised to give generously, though she was apparently the only female lector Vikram Griffiths had never made a pass at. He seemed so full of fun last night, Plaster-cast-tottie said. Sitting beside her, the Avvocato Malerba said there were special rules for setting up funds of this kind and he would be glad to sort out the legal side.

  No, to say that he lived alone, I reflect, sitting in the tiny Meditation Room of the European Parliament with its thick blue carpet, its disturbing plexiglass mural backlit with neon, its odd white lectern - to say that he lived alone would be as misleading as to say that his first wife was a psychopath. Though he himself liked to use these words. I live alone, he would say, my first wife is a psychopath. He liked their drama. Vikram Griffiths was addicted to drama, I reflect, as he was addicted to drink. And to public meetings. He was addicted, perhaps, to the nervous coercive fervour of drink-inspired drama. His second wife was a witch, he said. And I reflect that it wasn’t so much a good decision, on my part, not to return to Milan on the coach with the others, as a necessary decision. An imperative. You could not have returned on the coach to Milan with the others, I tell myself. It was impossible. You simply could not have climbed up the steps of that modern coach and worked your way down the purple aisle between the blood-red seats to the back. You would have vomited. Barnaby Hilson playing Irish laments on his tin whistle. Or Men of Harlech perhaps. Colin recalling what an extraordinary tottie-man Vikram was. At some point you would have vomited. But then by the same token, I reflect, you could not have not come on this trip in the first place. That too was impossible. To climb on the coach and set out for Strasbourg was an imperative, I reflect, just as now not to climb on the coach for the return to Milan is an imperative. So there was no merit in my obeying this more recent imperative, I tell myself, in my deciding that I would die, that something inside me would die, if I stepped on that coach for the return journey to Milan, to the University, to the Vikram Griffiths Memorial Fund, if I had to listen to Barnaby Hilson’s Irish laments, on a variety of tin whistles, and perhaps some sad cross-reference to the narrative astuteness of the suicide in Dead Poets Society, Or to a further discussion of the spy. The spy! Vikram Griffiths didn’t live alone, I thought, there on the coach driving back to the hotel for another night with Picasso’s lovers. And he certainly didn’t kill himself because Robin Williams had urged him to carpe diem but his parents wouldn’t let him go to drama school. I should never have made that ridiculous speech, I thought. I made a perfectly ridiculous, sublimely hypocritical speech to the Petitions Committee of the European Parliament, a speech worthy of the very best drama school, and I even felt proud of myself, I remembered, and powerful, and on for it, and this precisely as Vikram Griffiths was knotting two ties round his thick neck. Beneath his stubborn chin. Vikram Griffiths carped the diem every day, I thought. He didn’t live alone. Almost every day he brought someone back to his dilapidated, unheated apartment rented to him by the husband of an ex-mistress (in her late fifties) who couldn’t afford to renovate. Quite apart from the parentheses of his marriages, the safer company of his dog. It was, it is, a beautiful apartment. It has ancient oak beams and the remnants of frescoes, but at the last stage of dilapidation, as only apartments in Milan can be. The only time I visited him there, I remember, after the first wife, before the second, we were drinking beer on sofa cushions and after about half an-hour a tiny girl he had made no mention of emerged from the bathroom in a robe too long for her. A tiny girlie. Plus the grandmother he boasted paid him to shag her. Money helps you get it up, he boasted, when he’d had a lot to drink. But when had he not had a lot to drink? Though on every issue bar women he was political correctness itself. He was the revolution permanente in person, Vikram Griffiths. He would have agreed with her about the children of Bosnia, I thought. And here in the Meditation Room beside my packed bag it occurs to me that his decision to kill himself wasn’t a decision, perhaps, but, like mine, an imperative. For some reason he had to kill himself, as for some reason I knew that I could not step on that coach and face the journey back to Italy, beside Doris Rohr, or Sneaky-tot-tie, or beside Colin saying perhaps that Vikram Griffiths should be remembered not just as a tottie-man but as a tottie-master. There is no merit in choosing to do something, if the decision is imposed upon you, I tell myself. No merit at all. But on the other hand it is ridiculous at the point I’m at to be worrying about merit. To be constantly judging what I do. Why on earth should I care about accruing merit? After making a speech like that. But now I recall that she also said, She couldn’t help herself. He phoned so often, she said, and sent so many flowers, how could I refuse? She also claimed the excuse of the imperative. Perhaps there is merit, thee, it occurs to me, in the kind of imperatives we impose upon ourselves. But it is ridiculous to hear yourself talking about merit after abandoning your wife and daughter, I tell myself. The Greeks, I reflect, understood these things better than us. Only the gods can be causes. Thus Priam to Helen at the Scaean Gate as Troy fell. Only the gods. Unless it’s a question of health, perhaps. Your decision not to go back on the coach, I tell myself, should perhaps be seen as a more healthy decision than hers to sleep with a man just because he insisted so much, than Helen’s to run off with Paris, than Vikram Griffiths’ decision to knot two ties around his thick neck beneath his theatrical sideburns. A more healthy imperative. But how can someone who lives in your state of mind talk about health! Someone whose head is a constant fizz of contradictions. It’s laughable. You promised not to make comparisons, I remind myself. Comparisons are pernicious, you said. Helen of Troy and Vikram Griffiths! As the coach pulled into the parking-lot of the hotel, I asked Doris Rohr how old exactly Vikram was. She didn’t know, but Dimitra in the seat behind said, Forty-five.

  Vikram Griffiths didn’t live alone. And the numbers were not for me, I thought. Four five. I saw the numbers, but they were for him. Omens were ever deceitful, I thought. The oracles were always a mockery He told me his life-story one August Bank Holiday, I mean the Italian holiday, Ferragosto, when he came to dinner. That I can use the expression ‘came to dinner’ indicates that this was the period when I was still with my wife. He brought his little boy, apparently abandoned earlier on in the day in the entrance to his dilapidated palazzo by his, as he put it, psychopathic ex-wife, always plunged into the most extreme of depressions by the hot August weather. The boy was about four and disturbingly silent, hugging a fluffy puppy-dog. Perhaps I could at least go to dinner with my wife when I return to Milan, I reflect. The wife was furious about the dog, it seemed, a birthday gift from Vikram. He chuckled. But perhaps I won’t return. We spoke on the phone for some reason and he said his present wife was with relatives, he had nothing in the fridge and all the restaurants closed for Ferragosto. Fucking Italy. Fucking hot, he said. We laughed. For a bloke brought up in Merthyr Tydfil. It annoyed him his wife felt she had to visit her parents, he said. I invited him to dinner. He said his mother had died only hours after childbirth and he had always felt
guilty. This was in Coventry, where his father had gone to work. She called him Vikram, after her brother, then haemorrhaged and died. Father took him back to Wales. He knew he wasn’t guilty, but he had always felt he was. That was a strange state of mind. He felt he bore the mark of Cain, he said, he laughed, and this had to be explained to my wife and to Suzanne, who, being good Catholics, know nothing of the Bible. My wife was visibly embarrassed. He meant his colour, of course. She served the meal she always served when we had guests, an excellent risotto ai funghi, and she wouldn't let him smoke. Martino, the son, kept getting up to look on the balcony where my wife had banished the puppy, to stop him dirtying. But that meant closing the big french window. The creature rubbed its nose against the glass. The heat was suffocating. It had been his evangelical aunt, Vikram said, told him he bore the mark of Cain. Always with that nervous tic of clearing his throat, drawing in catarrh. His sainted aunt, he laughed. Suzanne gave Martino a Magicube to play with. That is to say, his father’s younger sister. My wife said people could join the dog on the balcony if they wanted to smoke. Dilys still lived with her parents, his grandparents, and it was she who brought him up, Welsh as Welsh, they spoke Welsh, always telling him he bore the mark of Cain. A miserable, plain woman, Vikram laughed. He had thick brown forearms on the table. She was terrified that no one would marry her, he said, she was always in church. And the turning-point in his life had been, he said, when in his early teens Dilys raped him. My wife almost choked up her risotto, appalled of course for what Suzanne was hearing. She makes no attempt to check up on the lesbian literature she reads, I reflect, three or four years on, but she was appalled then at Vikram’s confession of a coercive incestuous relationship practised by a woman upon a man. Vikram was by now deep into the second of the four bottles of wine he had brought and he admitted he had only realized this, brought it to consciousness that is, with the help of analysis. Only with the help of analysis, he said, had it dawned on him that his problems began in his incestuous relationship with his religious aunt who always used to say he bore the mark of Cain. Martino took his Magicube to the balcony door to gaze at the dog, but by now Suzanne was totally concentrated on Vikram’s story. At this point then Vikram felt guilty not only for his mother’s death but likewise for what had happened with his aunt. Since she claimed he had seduced her. For a while she came to his bed every night. This when he was thirteen or fourteen. As he talked on, I also became embarrassed. Like my wife. She cried and made love, he said. I was wishing I had never invited him. How can you respond, I asked myself, to people who start telling you this sort of thing in front of your then fifteen-year-old daughter, your propriety-obsessed wife and a four-year-old boy who may or may not understand everything? Certainly the child was muttering things under his breath through the glass to the dog. But then it was Ferragosto, in Milan, and the weather suffocating. She was good at making love, he said. The dog whined and scratched. The heat was unbearable. Vikram wore a loose T-shirt, the neck open on a froth of black chest hair, cotton shorts above thick knees. I found it impossible, I remember, to meet his eyes. I kept looking down at my risotto, wishing I hadn’t invited him. Even if one did feel sorry for him, I thought, it was surely wrong of him to start telling us these things. But then embarrassed as I was, I was also amused by my wife’s embarrassment, by her over-protectiveness towards my daughter, who must be exposed to the world, I thought, like the rest of us. Thus my laisser-faire attitude, before I began imagining lesbian relationships with her. Before analysis, Vikram Griffiths said - we protect people from what we’re scared of ourselves, I reflect - before analysis he had always imagined that the most important conditioning factor in his life had been the death of his fiancee in his first postgrad year at Cardiff. It was at this point that I remembered I was supposed to call her at eight-thirty. I was supposed to make a phone-call. He had been climbing with his fiancee in the north. Above Dolgellau. The days when one had fiancees, he laughed. His throaty laugh. Such a romantic word. The days when one climbed mountains in mist and rain. How could I leave the room to make that call? I thought. It was almost nine already. The days of Plaid Cymru. And what if she called when I didn’t? If she called here? He was the only card-carrying member of ‘coloured extraction', as they used to say. He shook his head. How could I answer in the sitting room with all the others right there in the kitchen? Anyway she had fallen, Vikram said, and smashed her skull. Suzanne let out a little cry. When he had got down to the rocks her brains were all over the shop. Literally. My wife fussed with some tiramisu. But then the autopsy said there had been signs of a struggle before her falling. Opening the third bottle, Vikram Griffiths was earnest and very nervous. Later I learnt he tells everybody this story as soon as he gets the chance. The autopsy said there were signs she had been pushed, he said. Clearly he was suffering. It was a hard story for him to tell. Clearly he was enjoying his performance. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t meet his eye. He dominated the table entirely. If I didn’t call her we wouldn’t be able to establish where to meet in Rheims, since she departed early tomorrow, and I was to join her two days later. They said I had killed her because she was pregnant, Vikram said. He spoke in Italian with his strong Welsh accent. Again my wife was appalled. How could anyone just come to dinner and tell us this? On Ferragosto of all days. A national holiday. Suzanne was fascinated. Martino concentrated on his puzzle now, as if the background were no more than television. It was almost nine and still no breath of air had come to relieve the August heat. The door to the balcony being closed against the dog. When I didn’t even know she was pregnant, Vikram protested. Of course later, he smiled, I realized that the whole thing had to do with the political situation. You know. The nationalist years. He sucked in catarrh. We were supporting the boyos burning second homes. Suzanne asked him questions. An iron foundry was working to rule, he said, the authorities were out to discredit him, they had paid some doctor. My wife fanned herself vigorously with a table mat. All over the papers, he laughed bitterly, but they never actually charged me. The heat was suffocating. If there’d really been signs of a struggle they would have charged me, Vikram insisted. He personally had never burnt anything. I said I had to go to the toilet and, walking instead to the bedroom, risked calling from there, but her number was engaged. I tried twice. It was what the analyst called a confirming experience, Vikram Griffiths was telling Suzanne on my return, and it occurs to me now that Vikram would have shagged my daughter if he’d had half a chance. The girl in his apartment that day, the young girlie, could well have been a schoolgirl. They were fascinated by his foreignness. Then I realized my wife might have realized I hadn’t flushed. Officially I’d been to the toilet, but there’d been no sound of flushing. In the sense, he explained, that it confirmed a paranoia he was unaware of having developed out of earlier traumas he had yet to come to terms with: his mother’s death, Father’s absence - back in England again - his aunt’s saying he bore the mark of Cain, especially after the incest. It confirmed his unconscious belief that the world was against him. Thus Vikram Griffiths at dinner Ferragosto in my house, explaining himself most authoritatively (this, ultimately, was why he had left the UK, he said, plus his disillusionment with Plaid Cymru), while I worried away at a phone-call and an unflushed loo I hadn’t pissed in. He felt hopelessly guilty, he said. He had tried to take his life on a number of occasions. Even after he realized it was all a set-up. Even though he knew he was not guilty and that people were merely getting at him because of his political involvement, and perhaps because of his colour. They let you become a member of the group because it was good for their image, their credentials, but they didn’t really want you. Still, he was proud that his son had his same features, he said. Proud as hell. Vikram sat across the table from myself and Suzanne and poured his heart out, fragile with alcohol, tiramisu on his dark lips, while my wife cleared the dishes and his son beside him, who didn’t resemble him at all, battled on with the Magicube, the dog forgotten. He had got all sides, but two to come out
. In response to Suzanne, Vikram was talking about guilt. He had loved the girl, his fiancee. She fell entirely by accident, he insisted. He was twenty-three. He didn’t know she was pregnant, yet he felt terribly responsible, terribly guilty. He sat across the table staring at us triumphantly in thirty-five-degree heat and swallowed down another glass of something red. Wales had been crushed by the English, he said. It was nothing more than a holiday resort. But at that time, as I’ve said, I was at the height of my affair with her. I was reading the Greeks again. I was soon to depart for Rheims. I was euphoric, omnipotent, despite these minor problems with the phone. I knew I’d get through the next time I tried. And I knew there was no such thing as guilt or responsibility. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty for betraying my wife. So I began to explain this vision to Vikram Griffiths, the Greek vision. That only the gods can be causes. Guilt was an invention, I said. Likewise political responsibility. Feelings of guilt were solipsistic, I insisted, quite harshly perhaps. It was arrogant, imagining you had more freedom of action than you had. Really you were in the hands of the gods. Thus my spiel, at that time, based on all that had been said and read in bed with her. Suzanne had never heard me talk like this. My wife seemed weary with the whole evening. She fanned herself with a table mat. It was all very well talking about the Greeks, Vikram said, but he had two thousand years of Christianity and English domination to deal with. And most of all he had to deal with his father, who had more or less abandoned him with his grandparents, and his aunt, who had raped him and then made him go to the Congregationalists to pray for forgiveness. He felt hellishly guilty, even when he knew he wasn’t. He wasn’t guilty for anything of all that had happened. But he felt he was. Suzanne agreed with him. She often felt guilty. No, he felt damned, he said. That was the point. Feeling guilty when you weren’t was a way of being damned. In the end I just stood up and made my call directly from the sitting room, counting on my wife not to listen. She was so inattentive to everything I did. How could I ever have imagined she would notice I hadn’t flushed? And sitting here in the Meditation Room now, remembering that dinner when Vikram Griffiths told his life-story, and above all remembering how he claimed he bore the mark of Cain, how he felt guilty for his mother’s death, his aunt’s incest, his pregnant fiancee’s death, then his first wife’s manic depressions, his present wife’s abortions - remembering that evening, it occurs to me what an extraordinary intimacy there was between us at the table that night. And so much tension in the air. We really came together somehow that evening. It was extraordinarily intense: the silent young boy over his Magicube; the puppy scratching at the french window; my wife preparing the dinner she always prepared, generous but grim; Suzanne’s eagerness as she rushed forward to meet life, lapping up Griffiths’ tragedies, like the students on the coach lapping up sad love-songs; myself euphoric, blind, stupidly philosophizing, stupidly quoting, wildly confident, as I made my phone-call, my tottie-call as Colin calls them, planned this week away at the very acme of our affair, the high point of my entire life. Go to the Hotel Racine, she said. lt's a five-minute cab-ride from the station. She said it in French, no doubt, though I remember it in English. All the drivers know it, she said. Yes, there was an extraordinary intimacy, I tell myself, between us all that evening. And an impossible distance. Just as on this coach trip to Strasbourg. Between lectors and students. Men and women. Myself and Sneaky. Vikram and Georg. People and dogs. We live in great intimacy, great closeness to each other, and we are worlds apart, I tell myself. She was worlds apart from me that evening she told me to go to the Hotel Racine. The mosaic of friendship with Georg was already establishing its pattern, already circling in on the cock-piece. He phoned so often, she said. Perhaps it was Georg she was on the phone to when I called from the bedroom. Twice. I wish he were here now. The condition we live in is one of intimacy and distance, I tell myself. Intensity and incoherence. No wonder people believe in spies.