Love and the Art of War

by Dinah Lee Küng

  ‘Tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine. More rice?’

  So Jane told Dan about The Gilchrist Warring States Period. She tried to stay calm and at least she didn’t burst into tears. The nicest surprise, after disclosing that Bella’s cross-hairs were aimed at Joe, was Dan’s confused: ‘She’s big on local TV?

  ‘Everyone in this room would know her name,’ Jane said. She gazed at the lonely clerks, chattering Chinese shop girls, and quartets of noodle-gobbling mainland currency traders—and she apologized, ‘Well, maybe not this room. But I assure you, the average English housewife considers her a star.’

  ‘Well, if it makes you feel better, I never heard of her and you’re lookin’ at one hot grill-meister here. Come on, give me that little smile, the one you toss me in class when Nigel’s being a real asshole.’

  ‘I was afraid I’d start crying, but you make me feel better. You really never heard of her?’

  How wonderfully big was the world beyond NW1 and Shepherd’s Bush, the Bookworms, Lorraine’s luvvies and Bella’s stew pot—there was a whole planet beyond Jane’s domestic woes! Were the Dan’s of this world just visiting from parallel universes, like Philip Pullman characters cutting with their Subtle Knives from one dimension to another? Was London unique in its self-devouring amour propre? Was this the only city where Bella could freeze Joe’s loving soul with a shard of a vanity mirror trapped in his eye—like the chip of icy glass that alienated the boy Kay from his love Gerda in Hans Christian Andersen’s Snow Queen?

  Dan’s dimension seemed like a simpler, cachet-free sanctuary. Could she ever live in such a place? Or, might it turn out the same, just trapped in parallel grids of celebrity references, job pettinesses, shrinking budgets, tumbling house prices, and diminishing vision?

  ‘To tell you the truth, it’s a surprise to me she’s chasing him, after all these years of being platonic friends. He’s wonderful, but he’s not amazing. I don’t know what she sees in him.’

  ‘Whatever you saw in him.’

  Jane recalled the first bolts of shock at Joe’s attentiveness and his logrolling, tree-felling, hockey-playing body stretched out in bed alongside her plump nakedness.

  ‘Bella wants money, A-lists, country weekends, recreational drugs, free designer rags. I wouldn’t put Dancing with the Stars past her. Anyway, that’s not Joe.’

  ‘I’ll bet it’s the Triangle Effect.’ He explained. ‘You two are buddies, right?’

  ‘Were.’

  ‘So this Bella sees Joe through your eyes. Your love enhances his value. Like the way Kevin gets women to buy weird fashions. You wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress, then you see it worn by your best friend and suddenly you gotta have it. Anyway, he’s still coming home every night? Maybe it’s just your imagination or her wishful thinking.’

  That gave Jane more to chew on with her sugared seaweed. Meanwhile, Dan dove into the food. He seemed a hungry sort of person. Was he Tom Jones lusty or Mr Pickwick gluttonous?

  ‘And your secret, Dan?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not so secret, just a secondment to cooperate with my local counterparts. Lots of New York cops work liaison in foreign offices.’

  ‘Fraud? Internet porn?’ She fished.

  ‘An American boy has got in over his head over here with some Muslim preachers. Everybody knows these terrorist websites are global and viral. We’re worried—not just about what he’s doing here, but what he’s feeding back to buddies in the States.’

  Jane was duly impressed. Wambaugh wasn’t his author after all, nor was Ian Fleming—Dan didn’t have the tuxedo body or dry martini lips. Really, what kind of a librarian was she turning into, if she couldn’t muster the name of one cheerful thriller writer with a good appetite?

  ‘Who’s your favourite author?’ she blurted out.

  ‘You mean, for research?’

  ‘No. Poolside reading.’

  ‘Don’t have a pool. Okay, I’ll play. Nelson DeMille. Elmore Leonard. Don DeLillo. Richard Ford. And it might surprise you, Chinese poetry.’

  ‘So why are you taking this class?’

  ‘Because I’m lonely, okay? Over here for six months, working all day with no one to talk to at night. My son Skypes and my ex-wife sends me one little postcard about her nifty scuba-diving in Crete, but I was just looking for something familiar. Sun Tzu’s an escape.’

  ‘Not a refresher for your job?’

  Dan emptied his rice bowl with quick shovels of his chopsticks. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can you talk about it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘But I can give you a theoretical. There are about thirty plots being cooked up in the UK and agents monitoring more than 1600 potential terrorists. The local help is stretched way beyond belief.’

  ‘But they hired lots of new security agents—’

  ‘And they can always use more, especially when it involves an American. For example, imagine an American boy in the back rooms of an informal prayer meeting in Trenton seduced by CNN glory, hot-and-cold running virgins, the usual bait for one of the Lost Boys. Suddenly Jersey Boy gets a trip to London, all expenses paid. You’d want to keep an eye on him, wouldn’t you? Watch where he turns up.’

  ‘Theoretically?’

  ‘Just hypothetical. Stratagem One. Persuade the emperor to cross the sea without knowing it? You cultivate one of the Muslim good guys, a moderate imam working up in Luton. He’s already refused to host two inflammatory preachers to these green shores. You get your Good Imam to recommend to the owner of the London outfit that he hire his “nephew” as a low-paid salesclerk.

  ‘That nephew being your New Jersey boy?’

  ‘No, no, no. That nephew being a second-generation local. His parents were booted out of Uganda. Let’s call him Gilbert Sullivan.’

  Jane smiled at the reference. ‘For He Is An Englishman. Any London outfit I might recognize?’

  ‘Let’s say, for argument, a religious bookstore.’

  ‘I begin to see.’

  ‘Stratagem Two, Besiege Wei to Rescue Zhao? Harass the Park Road mosque, keep’em distracted, just to eclipse little problems cropping up over at the bookstore—missing files, mislaid pamphlets. Then, Number Six comes in handy: Clamour in the East, Attack in the West. That might mean a little visit to install surveillance equipment during a prayer meeting out in the street. Break it up, gently, issue a warning, tie them up taking down ID numbers . . . ’

  ‘I saw that meeting! It is our bookstore! My mother got pushed around during that,’ Jane exclaimed.

  ‘Must be a coincidence. I’m just talking what if’s. Three, Kill with a Borrowed Knife? Our Gilbert plays the impassioned new acolyte. He gets the bookstore owner all worked up over different interpretations of the Koran with the neighbouring mosque—pushes the bookstore owner into accusing the mosque leader of apostasy. We make sure the mosque hears about that.’ Dan snapped a rice cracker in two.

  ‘Why am I not surprised? I felt fear, but I assumed it was fear fed by prejudice—’

  ‘Just your imagination. I’m making this all up.’

  ‘Four, I forget, what was Four? Exhaust the Enemy?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. Dog the rival imams with security tails that break all the rules of competence. That’s what the Pakistani security services do to make’em nervous. Give the mosque guy trouble with his outdoor prayer permits. Harass our own Gilbert on visa details. Tell each one it’s the other’s guy’s fault for screwing up the community profile but then, we jump to Number Nine, watching tigers fight it out.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘Just a theory.’

  ‘I understand. How about Number Five, Loot the Burning House?’

  ‘Computer hacking. I couldn’t go into that, even if I understood it, but it’s about data theft. I’m sure Winston’s cousin would get it.’ Dan smiled at his private vision of a destructive computer worm. ‘Here come the sizzling prawns, I thought they’d forgotten those. Hmm, smell those babies. Thanks
.’

  ‘Don’t stop, please.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see, more Clamour in the East . . . distractions to deflect any suspicion that we’re watching Jersey Boy by hassling our poor Gilbert out in the street, making a huge scene in plain view, sticking him in the cooler overnight. Result? Gilbert gets heat for what he might have squealed and God knows that’s enough. Meanwhile, we’re slowly approaching our genuine little convert with velvet gloves.’

  ‘I love the way you link these all together. Something Out of Nothing, Number Seven? Winston and I tried to impress his father with a last-minute printing order, but it was all Winston could do to play the game.’

  ‘Something Out of Nothing,’ Dan examined the halo of unfashionable frizz surrounding Jane’s tired blue eyes widened in awe. ‘Maybe I’ll start a rumour you’re dating Winston.’

  When Jane laughed, he added, ‘I warned you, I get bored in a rented room, watching reality shows that have nothing to do with reality.’

  ‘And what about the Honeyed Knife?’

  ‘Oh, that one.’ He arched his back and adjusted his belt, a very primate move. ‘Well, lunch, courtesy of the New York taxpayer? Charming patter? I’ve done my best. What do you think I have in mind, Mrs Gilchrist?’

  That took Jane’s breath away. She hadn’t set her heart on flirtation, but she had wondered whether lone wolf Dan’s motives were romantic. Then he continued: ‘I’d like you to keep your eye on that bookstore.’

  Ouch. So that was the reason he was cutting with his honeyed knife through her lunch hour. Jane felt awash in sadness. Women like her glamorous mother got long romantic runs, but Jane’s season had been a short one, it seemed, starring only Joe.

  She sighed. ‘Well, if I see anything really odd, I’ll tell you. Why don’t we split the bill?’

  ‘No way. It’s always nice to have a couple of eyes on the spot 24/7.’

  She got back to the library on time.

  ‘Carla was just in here,’ Chris whispered. ‘She’s rounding the last lap. Returned A Suitable Boy and the Frederica trilogy.’

  Jane rubbed her palms. ‘How did she look? Nicely haggard, grey of pallor, bleary-eyed, off her feed?’

  Chris grinned. ‘I’d say a mere shadow of her former self, but then there was a lot of her to start with.’

  On the way home, Jane stopped in front of the suspicious bookstore. She heard male voices, at least three. Although they didn’t sound sinister from where she stood on the darkened kerb, they certainly weren’t selling books behind those shuttered windows.

  Overlooking the street, the Painted Angel stood guard. His sword tip had turned into a painter’s brush that was just tailing off at the end of a phrase, worked in translucent blues, reds and yellows.

  It read, Thou Shalt Not Kill.

  Chapter Eleven, Li Dai, Tao Jian

  (Sacrifice the Plum Tree to Save the Peach)

  Chris swore at their new coffee machine—a trendy but tetchy donation from Westminster culture czars who voted extra money for those libraries that pulped old books to speed their devolution towards juice bar status. As he settled down to his hard-won post-prandial cappuccino, Jane was released to set off for a place famous for a set lunch of hefty steak sandwiches—it was either that or an inedible baked potato with mince from the Cypriots down the road.

  The steak was stringy. The curtains smelled of carbonized protein while the greasy menu card conjured up visions of stale Trollopian indulgence. The dank dining room fit Jane’s pessimistic outlook for The Bookworms session coming at the end of the day. The reading selection wasn’t the problem—they’d agreed on Orhan Pamuk’s Snow, which Jane hoped to finish now over her meal. She savoured its setting, the snowbound Kars, a Turkish town full of wilful ‘headscarf girls.’ But when the Bookworms finished with Kars, they’d still have to deal with Carla and her ‘new approach’ for coming selections.

  Jane couldn’t concentrate on Pamuk. Stratagem Eleven kept niggling: Sacrifice your silver to protect your gold. There are circumstances in which you must sacrifice small things to gain the long-term goal. Or let the scapegoat suffer, so that the others do not.

  Jane didn’t want anyone to suffer. She wasn’t willing to sacrifice silver, gold, nor so much as a blade of straw. Everything in sight was dear to her—Joe, Sammie, her job—and hadn’t she fought during the last budget row to keep the evening hours open for the Bookworm meetings? The Bookworms were the canaries down the mineshaft, the last bulwark against MP’s branding libraries as ‘kaleidoscopes of culture.’

  Chris was planning pre-emptive action—eliminating which books might have to go in advance of criticism that their stock was too fusty to be relevant. Jane had even caught Chris sacrificing their entire Noel Coward collection as he intoned, ‘Coward must go so that John Osborne might live.’ Stratagem Eleven under her very nose.

  Jane realized that a sacrifice would be called for if she wanted to save the Bookworms during the next budget skirmish. Not that the old dears cost a lot of money—a bit of extra heating and electricity, a few beverages, and Jane’s overtime didn’t amount to much—but Central Libraries had already reduced Chalkwood to three days a week, and now served Jane notice that the Bookworms’ membership hovered at the critical limit.

  That evening, she found a shivering Rupert and muffled Carla squabbling outside the locked entrance.

  ‘—Debate, fine. Opinion, fine. But why discourage someone’s passion for reading!’ Rupert argued through chattering teeth.

  ‘I’m not interested in mere feelings. Authors must be judged in an informed context,’ Carla retorted.

  Jane flicked on the strip lighting. The remaining Bookworms weren’t far behind, age being appreciative of punctuality versus squandered minutes.

  Pamuk turned out to be a crowd-pleaser—topical of course, but universal enough to allow for Catherine—who never read a newspaper—to express her mere feelings. Carla offered much background on the Turkish genocide of Armenians but, for once, omitted citing The Dustjacket, an obscure blog devoted to new fiction. To Carla’s delight, The Dustjacket’s blogger often put paid to any Bookworm. Dustjacket expressed his opinions with an authority that Jane could never quite pin down. Moreover, Dustjacket was absolutely impossible for Jane to locate, although Carla had waved a long trail of hyperlinks down the narrowing footpaths of cyberspace.

  Rupert suggested they next tackle The Literary Review’s Bad Sex Prize Shortlist. Alma giggled. Catherine turned her hearing aid back up. Jane agreed a Bad Sex List was an unorthodox but original route to some very good authors. Even ancient Mrs Wilting seemed game for some light-hearted fumbling.

  Carla’s knuckles bleached white with tension as Rupert read from a clipping, ‘One winner compared a character’s breasts to a pair of Danishes, and another’s to “Two Space Hoppers”.’

  ‘What are Space Hoppers?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘A big balloon toy with handles. You sit on it and bounce around on your—,’ Jane paused, ‘your you-know-what.’

  Carla sputtered. ‘I’ve spent hours and hours vetting the books Jane suggested we do next. I thought Doris Lessing’s—’

  ‘Oh, Carla, let’s give Rupert’s list a try!’ Catherine burst. ‘I’m getting rather tired of these worthy sessions. Alma?’

  Alma fluttered her eyes with loyalty for Rupert and fear of Carla. In confusion, she turned to Jane. Four pairs of eyes came to rest on the librarian.

  Alarm bells rang in Jane’s minds: if Carla bails out we’re no better off than if Ruth does; we’ll be too few to retain the room. I can’t let Carla know she wields that kind of power.

  Jane would have to sacrifice silver to save the gold. ‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I must take some responsibility as monitor, especially as I did ask Carla to spend so much time reading ahead for us all.’

  Three pairs of woolly shoulders slumped. ‘You’re not proposing we do the entire Lessing oeuvre, are you, Carla?’ Jane pleaded. ‘We could zip through The Golden Notebook and jump to The Cleft?’
r />   ‘No bad sex?’ Alma whimpered.

  ‘Well, The Golden Notebook is full of sex,’ Jane said.

  ‘Good sex?’ Alma asked.

  ‘Well, not always,’ Jane admitted. ‘Some of it is quite unsatisfactory.’

  ‘Bad sex isn’t any fun.’ Alma rallied to Rupert’s sally against Carla, without realizing the stakes. ‘Bad sex writing does sound fun.’

  ‘Rupert can share his list later, dear,’ Catherine comforted her friend.

  Rupert looked stricken. He’d assumed his support for Jane in Hampstead had earned endorsement for his bouncing Danishes. He carried his cake plate home in silence.

  Lorraine was waiting up for Jane’s return. Even before Jane had shut the door to the street, her mother wailed over the banister, ‘Where’s Sammie? Has she texted you?’

  ‘Isn’t she home? Where’s Joe?’

  ‘The child’s mobile is dead. Just nothing. I expect she ran the charge down texting to her girlfriends all day. “I’m here. You’re there. We’re all teen-agers on Planet Stupid.” Now I can’t find her.’

  ‘Mother, don’t panic!’

  ‘You see! You see! You just called me Mother! You’re panicked, too. Don’t blame me. When she wasn’t home by nine-thirty, I gave her five extra minutes and then I started calling and calling and—’

  ‘Did she check in after school? Where’d she say she was going?’

  ‘Going round to study, she said. I assumed she meant with that pierced troll, Amy, but—’

  ‘What’s the number?’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve rung. She never went there. Amy’s parents laughed in my ear. Amy is in bed. Should we call the police?’

  ‘I don’t know. If she walks in the door in the next half hour, we feel like a couple of loonies, but if she never walks in the door again? There was that Suffolk maniac and that fifteen-year-old stabbed with a knife ten times outside Waterloo Station.’

  Joe pounded into the flat, his heavy shoes glistening with rain. ‘Is she back?’

  Lorraine detailed the sequence of frantic phone calls she’d made in the last twenty minutes to a list of girlfriends, ‘Including that Goth-y creature she studies Latin with.’