The 2084 Precept

by Anthony David Thompson

PARTNERS

  Suite 12, Royal Strand Towers

  The Strand

  London WC2N 5RS

  U.K.

  Jeremy Parker, Senior Partner

  Tel. 0044-77571404691

  Typical. Not only a fraudster but an amateur one. It doesn't tell you what they do, the suite address possibly denotes temporary office space and, oh dear me, a mobile phone number. But no doubt he picks up a customer here or there, there are always enough simpletons to be found on this planet and there always will be. This planet of ours contains a sizeable percentage of human beings with severely limited cerebral capabilities, no change century after century, today and tomorrow, being born right now as you and I drink our coffee. My estimate, in my opinion, is a pretty good one - 10% intelligent, 50% neither intelligent nor stupid, or intelligent only in certain ways and therefore not intelligent, and 40% stupid, thick as two planks. Not their fault, they don't make their own brains, they´re just born the way they are, you can see the differences already when they´re young, walk into any old school and take a good look, ask a teacher. All walks of life, good lawyers and lousy ones, productive factory workers and useless ones, good politicians and brainless liars and wafflers, you name it. The same percentages all through, more or less.

  You know those bars, cafés, restaurants where you can´t pay, no matter how much you try, and it can take you up to half an hour sometimes? That´s because the waiters and waitresses are morons or at least semi-morons. I don't mean that nastily—as I have just mentioned, they don't manufacture their own brains—I am merely employing the word factually as per the dictionary. They never come near your table, and whenever they appear somewhere else, they never look at you and so you can't attract their attention—unless you choose to shout across the intervening space in Mediterranean fashion, upon which they become haughtily offended and disappear again. These people are unable to grasp the fact that someone may be wishing to leave and that it is their job to facilitate this. They have no idea whatsoever of how long that person has been trying to leave. Their brains tell them that it has only been a minute or so and if the customer isn't prepared to behave normally and politely and wait for as long as he, the waiter, feels like, then he'll be treated as he deserves. Morons, as I say, as per the dictionary.

  But such is life. These things do not seriously disturb me. They are the flotsam and jetsam of our existence. They are not to be avoided but they cause no serious harm. And if I have a habit of making observations to myself on such matters, well…they cause no harm either.

  So I left some money on the table (no tip for a service not received), and not my problem if another human being steals it. Not that this type of waiter would care less if someone did. I stood up and headed off westwards down Curzon Street.

  I was still in a good mood, the sun was still shining, I had only about an hour's meeting to deal with, the weekend was coming up and life was definitely pleasant—pleasant, needless to say, within the restrictions prevailing on our particular revolving lump of rock.

  So…right into South Audley Street, a couple of minutes up the road, into the office building, up to the third floor (or fourth, if you are American), and into the offices of United Fasteners PLC, and a real grin for that swish, swish receptionist with the crooked smile.

  "Hi Susi, TGIF right? Need company for the weekend, platonic of course, boyfriend maybe on a foreign business trip, just let me know." Chuckle, chuckle, keep it light, just a joke, just in case.

  It pays to remain excessively polite with women you don't really know—most of them appreciate that, you are showing respect, it shows you are an educated male, maybe you even have true emotions in addition to your sexual ones. And in any case, as a consultant, you carefully toe the line to avoid unwanted situations with the client's employees, especially the female ones needless to say. It reminds me of one of my early trips to the U.S. when I greeted the boss's secretary with "Hi Cherry, you're looking dangerously fantastic this morning. How do you do it?" "Peter, do not," she replied in a whisper, "say things like that in such a loud voice. You may be European, but that doesn't change the fact that just about anything you say around here is capable of getting you into serious trouble for perceived sexual harassment." So I turned a few cubicle rats' heads when I shouted, "I meant your brain, Cherry, I meant that your brain is looking dangerously fantastic this morning." They can't put me in jail for that now, can they? Or can they? The way things are on this planet nowadays, you never really know.

  "You wish…" said Susi, "but perhaps another time, and in any case the question would need to be put in a more charming manner." A smile, the crooked smile. "And, Peter, I did ask you a few weeks ago to please call me Susanne, I don't like Susi."

  But with another smile, oh yes, another smile. Crooked and wicked. An offer if there ever was one. There are smiles and there are smiles and I am gifted, as indeed some of us are, at telling the difference. Usually, that is to say; if we want to be truthful, and we do, I have made a couple of mistakes here and there. But no doubt about this smile, enough to put my neurons off their stroke, send them into a minor frenzy. A minor sexual frenzy if you insist on my being explicit. One of the things which make life on this planet worth living, if you don’t mind my saying so.

  But I am digressing.

  "O.K. Susi, it's Susanne next time. Promise." A wink, on down the hall and into the office I've been given to use whenever I'm here. No way, I reminded myself, will I actually undertake anything with a headquarters employee. At least, not until the project is over and done with. And then perhaps she might become one of what my friend Steve refers to as 'blinking red lights', a few of which I have flashing away here and there around Europe, although not as many as Steve.

  I should explain that I was at the headquarters of the company which had hired me to get rid of the losses at one of its manufacturing subsidiaries in Slough, a few kilometers west on the M4. I occasionally turn up here in central London to give a presentation on what I've been doing, what effects are being achieved and what the outlook is. I've done four months already and things have gone fast, the company is already profitable and, we can rest assured, it is profitable on a permanent basis and there is more to come on top of that. Not that I am a genius. I am not. I just happen to be good. And no apologies for saying so. And if one were to insist, I would have to say yes, there are also plenty of things I am not good at, I am happy to keep the record straight.

  In any case, things can only go this fast when you have a very badly managed company, one with major problems that are easy to identify and when those problems, or at least some of them, can be easily and rapidly dealt with. Quick fixes, low-lying fruit, there is plenty of jargon for this. And such was the situation here. It is always a pleasant surprise to find a company like this, not that I tell it to the people who have hired me of course. And as for bad management, I never talk about that either unless pointedly asked to—and sometimes not even then—because, after all, you never know who is friends with whom in this world.

  The office was small and fairly ordinary, but it had everything I needed and in any case I am not a person who requires status symbols. I saw the note on the desk as soon as I walked in and I picked it up. TODAY'S MEETING POSTPONED UNTIL A WEEK ON MONDAY AT 9 A.M. APOLOGIES. ROGER CALLED AWAY AT SHORT NOTICE. COULDN'T CATCH YOU ON YOUR MOBILE. SEE YOU THEN. HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND, GEOFF.

  Roger was the Group CEO, Geoff the Group V.P. Finance. Friday, nice weather, Roger probably called away at short notice to his golf course down in Surrey. Actually, not fair. No proof. Maybe he's got his nose hard to the grindstone somewhere else, what do I know?

  You'll note the first names. Thank God, if you'll forgive the expression, that I am not back on my previous assignment, a bottling machine manufacturer in Stuttgart. Six months of Herr this and Frau that and please use the formal Sie version of you, Du would be far too familiar, and please don't forget to address Herr Karrenbauer as Herr Doktor Karrenbauer, thank you. They revel in their doctor
titles over there, a bit like the old English army majors still insisting on being called Major long after they've been shoveled back into civilian life or retirement. And some of the German docs have studied for so long that they have two Doktor titles and are quickly fitting in a modicum of work before having to retire. Then you are supposed to say "Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor Doktor von Heydecker". And before I am corrected on the "Morgen", it so happens that all of their nouns start with a capital letter. There must be a reason for that but I've no idea what it is. And some people have been sitting at adjoining office desks for over twenty years and still address each other as Herr this and Frau that. Amazing. Different culture. No problem. Respect it, don't have to enjoy it.

  So…no meeting. Never mind, I'll be paid my full day's rate for doing nothing—not that my work schedule will show that of course, it will show hours of analytical work back at the hotel—and nothing to do except turn up at the factory again on Monday morning. Another of life’s pleasant surprises, like landing in bed with a girl who’s told you she’s not like that. Even so, I would have liked to learn for how long they wanted me to continue. On the one hand it's easy money for me now, just implementing what is still pending, and on the other hand there is the possibility of another project for me down in Spain and if that materializes, I'll need to be able to tell the Spaniards when I can start.

  I sat down, fished in my pocket for the cigarettes, still an indoors habit after all these years, but wait till I get downstairs, yes they'll be banning it in the streets before we know it but not just yet, and I came across the visiting card. I pulled it out. A superior quality material at least, fine-woven and fairly stiff to the touch. A nice card, it helps to pull in one or two of the more brain-damaged punters no doubt. A jellyfish trap. But it would do nothing to entice people with a certain amount of intelligence. Such as myself. No sirree.

  No sir. No way. At all. But on the other hand…come to think of it—and it's a habit of mine to consider all possibilities, including way off-the-wall ones, makes me a good consultant—come to think of it, it could possibly be an amusing little event, another of life's minor anecdotes floating by on an undulating ocean wave, it would make a good bar tale and a true one as well.

  And it would be fascinating to hear his ploy for getting out of the €100,000 promise. Several possible versions come to mind. So…come to think of it again, why wouldn't I call and agree to a meeting? I've got the time, life's little adventures keep you fit, and why throw away a piece of fun when fun is what life is all about? Some of the time anyway.

  I took hold of my mobile and dialed.

  "Jeremy Parker speaking. How may I help you?"

  "Hi Mr. Parker, it's me, we met a short while ago in Curzon Street. I'm curious, I have changed my mind, I would be happy for us to meet."

  "Ah, well, that's good to hear Mr. O’Donoghue, indeed it is, yes. And I am sure you will find it interesting, if nothing else. If Saturdays are not inconvenient to you, we could meet tomorrow, at my office perhaps, say after lunch, would 2 o'clock be suitable?"

  "That will be fine, Mr. Parker. I'll be there. I look forward to meeting you again. Would you like me to bring anything with me, a résumé or whatever?"

  "Actually, your C.V. would not be a bad idea. Thank you. Tomorrow at two o'clock then?"

  "Indeed. See you then. Bye."

  I'm looking forward to the bit of fun tomorrow. Maybe a waste of time but what the hell, it won't take long. Back down the corridor, "Hey, Susi—sorry, Susanne—have a great weekend, got to rush, have an appointment, take care." Down in the elevator, out into the road, smoked a cigarette and then caught a cab in Curzon Street.

  I asked the driver to take me to the Royal Strand Towers. I just wanted to check out its exact whereabouts, It's bad to arrive late for anything and knowing where the location is in advance gets rid of one of the risks. The building turned out to be just past the Aldwych turnoff. Fine. The sun was still shining away, the sky was still blue, a pleasant short walk in the Covent Garden direction, into Tavistock Street, through the peeling doorway and up the creaky stairs and into the 'En Passant'.