by Paul Theroux
That walk through London humbled me. I began to feel less like an adventurer – a grand cartographer – than someone in a smaller role. I played with the idea that we were like gardeners. We were sent to maintain this garden, to keep the grass cut and the weeds down, to dead-head the roses, encourage the frailer blossoms. We could not introduce new plants or alter it. We watched over it, kept it watered; we dealt with enemies and called them pests. But our role was purely custodial. Each of us, in time, would go away. It was the image of a harmless occupation.
But of course in London there was a difference. It was a city without front yards. This was not America, with a low-maintenance lawn around every house. The garden was not a boasting acre here to advertise prosperity to passersby. In London, all gardens were behind the houses. They were hidden. ‘Plots’ was the word.
Briarcliff Lodge had once belonged to a duke. It rose up from its surrounding hedge, a graceful monument of creamy floodlit walls and tall windows. What an earlier age had managed with stone, we had with light – floodlights, spot-lights, bulbs behind cornices and buried in the ground, wrapped in vines and under water. It was beauty as emphasis, but it also afforded protection. Inside and out, Everett Horton had restored Briarcliff Lodge at Embassy expense. He had hired six waiters tonight, and two front-door functionaries. I handed the first my raincoat – apologizing for its being wet – and gave my name to the second man. But I was not announced. I was early and, after all, I was the guest of honor.
‘Mr Horton will be down shortly.’
‘Excuse me, where’s the –?’
‘Just behind you, sir. One flight up.’
In such circumstances the British are telepathic.
Then I heard a child’s voice from the upper floor.
‘Are the people here yet, Dad?’
‘Not yet, but they will be soon. Better make it snappy.’ It was Horton’s voice. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Now, do you want to do a tinkle or a yucky?’
I began to back away.
‘Both,’ the child said.
‘All right,’ the diplomat said patiently. ‘Take your time.’
All happy families have a private language. The Hortons’ was just about as useful and ludicrous-sounding as any other. But if Horton could be that patient with his child, I had little to worry about; and if he was happy, he was more than human.
The rooms in this house were enormous – a gym-size drawing room (perhaps once the ballroom), a library, the dining room to the right, and behind it the morning room and conservatory. A foyer, a cloakroom, a wide staircase. And this was only the ground floor. It was ducal splendor, but Horton was no duke. He lived, I knew, with his wife and child in an apartment on the third floor, at the back of the house. Servants’ quarters, really – their little yellow kitchen, microwave oven, dishwasher, toaster, Blooming-dale’s furniture, their TV, and five telephones. Horton had not taken possession of the house – he was its custodian. He lived like any janitor, like any gardener. Such is the fate of a career diplomat.
Some minutes later, he came downstairs.
‘We’ve got rather a mixed bag tonight,’ he said. He was formal, a bit stiff-faced. He had a reputation for affecting British slang, and it was hard for me now to think of him as the same man who had just said a tinkle or a yucky.
The front door thumped shut.
‘Mr and Mrs Roger Howlett,’ said the functionary from the hall. There was both dignity and strain in his announcing voice.
‘The publisher,’ I said.
‘Good show,’ Horton said. ‘I’m glad you had a chance to swot up the guest list.’
He was being tactful – I had done little else for the past week. It had been, so far, the whole of my job, that guest list with its fifty names – and more: occupations, ages, addresses, and (if applicable) political leanings. It was a comprehensive list, like ‘Cast of Characters’ at the opening of a Victorian novel. Learning it was like cramming a vocabulary list for a language exam. The only danger at such a reception was in knowing too much – startling the innocent guest by seeming overfamiliar with him.
Until then, my overseas experience had been in Uganda and Malaysia. Prudence, but not much subtlety, had been required of me in those places. Uganda wanted money from us; Malaysia wanted political patronage. Both deviously demanded that we be explicit and suspected us of being spies. Here in London we were regarded as high-living and rather privileged diplomats, a bit spoiled and unserious. But in fact every officer at the London Embassy was in his own way an intelligence gatherer. There were too many secrets here for any of us to be complacent. This garden was not ours, and it contained some strange blooms. And maybe all good gardeners are at heart unsentimental botanists.
Horton’s drawing room was soon filled. I stood at the door to the foyer. In this, the most casual setting imaginable, no one could be blamed for thinking that mine was the easiest job in the world. But every American in that room was hard at work, and only the British people here were enjoying themselves. Once again it struck me how cooperative party guests were – it was perhaps the only reason Embassy receptions were ever given, to enlist the help of unsuspecting people, to find out whether the natives were friendly, to take soundings, to listen for gossip.
I entered the room – penetrated London for the first time – and set to work.
‘Hello. I don’t think we’ve met,’ I said to a young woman.
It was Mrs Sarah Whiting, second wife of Anthony Whiting, managing director of the British subsidiary of an American company that made breakfast cereal. Whiting himself was across the room, talking to Margaret Duboys from our Trade Section. The Whitings had no children of their own, though Mr Whiting had three by a previous marriage to an American woman still resident in Britain and still referred to by Vic Scaduto, our CAO, as ‘Auntie Climax.’ Sarah Whiting was something of a mystery to the Embassy; she had been married only a year to the managing director. She was still full of the effortful romance of the second marriage – or so it seemed. I got nowhere by inquiring about her husband’s business. Second wives are usually spared the details: the husband’s affairs were determined by another woman, long ago. Anyway, I knew the answers before I asked the questions.
She said, ‘You’re an American.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You look as if you belong here.’
‘Seeing as how I’ve been here only a week, I’m deeply flattered.’
‘Then you must be the guest of honor,’ she said. ‘Welcome to London.’
We chatted about the weather, the high price of apartments – I told her I was looking for a place – and the décor of this room.
She spoke knowledgeably about interior decoration (‘I would have done that fascia in peach’), and when I complimented her, she said that she was interested ‘in a small way.’ I was soon to find out how small.
‘I make furniture,’ she said.
‘Design it or build it?’
‘I do everything.’
I was impressed. I said, ‘You upholster it, too?’
‘Not much upholstery is necessary,’ she said. ‘Most of my furniture is for dollhouses.’
I thought I had misheard her.
‘You mean’ – I measured a few inches with my fingers – ‘like this?’
‘It depends on the house. Some are smaller, some bigger. I make cutlery, as well.’
‘For dollhouses?’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘Very tiny knives and forks?’
‘And spoons. And tea strainers. Why are you smiling?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in your line of work.’
She said, ‘I quite enjoy it.’
‘Your children’ – yes, I knew better, but it was the obvious next remark – ‘your children must be fascinated by it.’
‘It’s not really a child’s thing. Most of the collectors are adults. It’s a very serious business – and very expensive. We export a great deal. In
any case, I don’t have any children of my own. Do you have kids?’
‘I’m not married,’ I said.
‘We’ll find you a wife,’ she said.
I hated that – it was the tone of a procuress. I may have showed a flicker of disapproval, because she looked suddenly uneasy. Maybe I was queer! Bachelor means queer!
I said, ‘Please do.’
She turned to the woman next to her and said, ‘Sophie, this is the guest of honor,’ and stepped aside to make room.
‘Sophie Graveney,’ Sarah Whiting said, and introduced us.
Miss Graveney, thirty, was an Honorable, her late father a lord. Her brother had succeeded to the title. We knew little about her, except for the fact that she had spent some time in the States.
I said, ‘We were just talking about dollhouses.’
‘Sarah’s passionate about them.’
‘If things go on like this, I’ll have to get Sarah to rent me one to live in.’
‘You’re looking for a place, are you?’
‘Yes. Just an apartment – a flat.’
‘What location?’
‘I’m near the river at the moment, near Chelsea Embankment. I think I’d like to stay down there.’
‘Chelsea’s very nice. But it’s pricey. You might find something in Battersea. It’s not as fashionable, but it’s just across the bridge – South Chelsea, the snobs call it. There are some beautiful flats on Prince of Wales Drive, overlooking the park.’
‘I’ll consider anything except the sort of place that’s described as “delightfully old-fashioned.” That always means derelict.’
‘Those are lovely,’ she said. ‘Do you jog? Of course you don’t, why should you?’ And she gave me an appraising stare. She had soft curls and wore lip gloss and I could see her body move beneath her loose black dress. She was also very tall and had large feet. Her shoulders were scented with jasmine. ‘I do jog, though. For my figure. Usually around Battersea Park at the crack of dawn.’
Sarah Whiting laughed and said, ‘Tell him your story about that man.’
‘Oh, God,’ Sophie said. ‘That man. Last summer I was out jogging. It was about seven in the morning and I’d done two miles. I was really mucky – pouring with sweat. An old man stepped in front of me and said, “Excuse me, miss, would you care for a drink?” I thought he meant a drink of water. I was out of breath and sort of steaming. I absolutely stank. I could barely answer him. Then he sort of snatched at my hand and said, “I’ve got some whiskey in my car.”’
Her eyes were shining as she spoke.
‘Do you get it? There I am in my running shoes and track suit, drenched with sweat, my hair hanging in rat tails, and this foolish old man is trying to pick me up! At seven o’clock in the morning!’
‘Incredible!’ Sarah said.
‘Then he said, “I want to be your bicycle seat,” and made a hideous face. I jogged away,’ Sophie said innocently. ‘I didn’t fancy him one little bit.’
‘If I get a flat near Battersea Park I can watch you jogging,’ I said.
‘Yes. If you get up early. Isn’t that thrilling?’
A waiter passed by with a tray of drinks. Sophie took another glass of white wine and, seeing that I did not take any, she looked somewhat disapproving.
‘Oh, God, are you one of those people who don’t drink?’
I said, ‘I’m one of those people who’re cutting down.’
‘Oh, God, you don’t smoke either – how boring! I smoke about two packs a day.’
‘Do you?’ I said. ‘Now that’s really interesting.’
‘Is that funny?’ she said, and blinked at me. ‘I never know when people are joking.’
There was a dim suspicion in her voice and a moment of stillness, as if she had just realized that I was a perfect stranger, who might be mocking her. She looked around and smiled in relief.
‘Terry!’ she said, as if calling for help.
She had seen a friend. She introduced him to me as Lord Billows, though he insisted I call him Terry. I recognized him from the guest list – he ran a public relations firm that had a New York office. We talked for the next ten minutes about smoking, its hazards and pleasures: he represented a tobacco company and was very defensive about its sponsorship of mountain-climbing competitions – teams of climbers racing up mountainsides, a sport I had never heard of. To change the subject, I told him I had spent the past two years in Malaysia. He said he knew ‘Eddie Pahang.’ Very chummy: he was referring to the Sultan of Pahang.
Lord Billows said, ‘Your Ambassador in KL gave marvelous parties.’
‘So they said. I seldom got to KL. I was in Ayer Hitam, with the stinking durians and the revolting rubber tappers. You’ve never heard of it. Nobody has. On the good days it was paradise.’
‘Who was your sultan?’
‘Johore.’
‘Buffles – I knew him well. Buffles was a real old trooper. A magnificent polo player in his time, you know. And a greatly misunderstood man.’
‘He used to come to our club once a year,’ I said. ‘One of his mistresses was in the drama society. She was a Footlighter. That’s what they called themselves. They loved being in plays.’
Lord Billows had been grinning impatiently at me through all this. Then he said, ‘I’m going to ask you a very rude question,’ and fixed his face against mine. ‘But you probably won’t consider it rude. You Americans are so straight forward, aren’t you?’
‘That is rather a rude question,’ I said.
Lord Billows said, ‘That’s not the question.’
‘Ask him,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘The question is, are you in fact a member of a club in London?’ Lord Billows turned aside to Sophie and said, ‘You see, in the normal way one would never ask an Englishman that.’
I said, ‘I think the Ayer Hitam Club has a reciprocal arrangement with a London club.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Lord Billows said. ‘I have three clubs. The Savile might suit you – we have some Americans. I’m not as active as I’d like to be, but there it is. I put your chap Scaduto up for the Savile. I could do the same for you. Let me give you lunch there. You could look it over. I think you’d find it convivial.’
‘Is it delightfully old-fashioned?’ Sophie asked.
‘Exactly,’ Lord Billows said.
Sophie said, ‘He’ll detest it.’
‘When applied to houses, delightfully old-fashioned means a drafty ruin. When applied to clubs, it means bad food and no women.’
‘The Savile has quite decent food,’ Lord Billows said. ‘And most of the staff are women.’
‘I was in a club like that once,’ I said.
‘In London?’
‘The States. When I was eleven years old,’ I said. ‘No girls. That was the rule.’
Lord Billows stared at me for several seconds, as if translating what I had said, and then he said coldly, ‘You’ll excuse me?’ He walked away.
‘You shouldn’t have said that to him,’ Sophie said. ‘Why make a fuss about men’s clubs? I don’t object. I hate all this women’s lib stuff, don’t you?’
She had not addressed the question to me, but to Mrs Howlett – Diana – wife of Roger, the publisher, who was standing next to her. The two women began laughing in a conspiratorial way, and Roger Howlett told me several stories about Adlai Stevenson, and I gathered Horton had briefed him about me, because Howlett finished his Stevenson stories by saying, ‘Adlai was enormously good value – single, like yourself.’
‘Meet Walter Van Bellamy,’ Roger Howlett said, and tapped a tall rangy white-haired man on the arm. ‘One of your fellow countrymen.’
Bellamy showed me his famous face and celebrated hair, but his eyes were wild as he said, ‘You and I have an awful lot in common, sir.’ Then he moved away, pushing through the crowd with his arms up, like a sleepwalker.
‘He won all the pots and pans last year,’ Howlett said. ‘And here is one of our other aut
hors.’ He took hold of a large pink man named Yarrow.
‘I’ve written only one book for Roger,’ Yarrow said. ‘It was political. About land reform. I was a Young Communist then. You didn’t blink. That’s funny – Americans usually do when I say that. It was a failure, my literary effort.’
‘I’ve found,’ Howlett said, ‘that some of my authors actually get a thrill when their books fail. I’ve never understood it. Is it the British love of amateurism?’
I knew from the guest list that Yarrow was a Member of Parliament, but to be polite I asked him what his business was.
He hooked his thumb into his waistcoat pocket and sipped his drink and said, ‘I represent a squalid little constituency in the West Midlands.’
The way he said it, with a smirk on his smooth pink face and a glass in his hand and his tie splashed – he had sloshed his drink as he spoke – I found disgusting. If he meant it, it was contemptible; if he had said it for effect, it was obnoxious.
I said, ‘Maybe you’ll be lucky and lose your seat at the next election.’
‘No fear. It’s a safe Tory seat. Labour haven’t got a chance. The working class don’t vote – too lazy.’
‘I want him to do me a book about Westminster,’ Howlett said.
‘Europe – that’s the subject. We’re European,’ Yarrow said. ‘That’s where our future is. In a united Europe.’
‘What actually is a European?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what language does he speak? What flag does he salute? What are his politics?’
‘Don’t ask silly questions,’ Yarrow said. ‘I must go. There’s a vote in the Commons in twenty minutes. Rather an important bill.’
‘Are you for it or against it?’
‘Very much against it!’
‘What is the bill?’
‘Haven’t the faintest,’ Yarrow said. ‘But if I don’t vote, there’ll be hell to pay.’
He left with two other MPs. Howlett went to the buffet table, and I walked around the room. I saw Miss Duboys talking to Lord Billows, and Vic Scaduto to Walter Van Bellamy, the poet. A black American, named Erroll Jeeps, from our Economics Section, looked intense as he stabbed his finger into the transfixed face of a woman. Jeeps saw me passing and said, ‘How are you holding up?’
