table.’
‘I see. Yes, that would have been awkward.’
‘Well, do help yourself to a drink. There’s a few bottles of fizz. I should get a couple of glasses down before it runs out and we have to fall back on the standard French plonk.’
Thomas took a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses and, realizing at once that it would be hard to get into conversation with any of the already tightly knit groups that had formed through out the room, he wandered over to one of the vast plate-glass windows. It didn’t bother him, for now, that his invitation to this dinner had obviously been an afterthought, or that nobody here had any interest in him. He could have stood for ever by that window, sipping champagne and looking down on the multicoloured lights of this incredible new metropolis: so busy, so modern, shimmering with life and promise. He felt that he was looking into the future, from the clearest and loftiest vantage point that the technological ingenuity of man could devise. He felt like a king of the universe.
For dinner, he took his allotted place at a table for four. The entire restaurant seemed to have been booked out for this occasion, and although Thomas’s table – like all the others – was next to a window and offered the usual panorama of the Expo site, it was also about as far removed from Sir John Balfour and the other VIPs as it was possible to be. He found it surprising, then, that he was seated next to James Gardner, the designer of the British pavilion: for Thomas, this felt like a special and very intimidating honour. Also at the table were one Roger Braintree, introduced as Secretary to the Commercial Counsellor of the British Embassy in Brussels, and a tall, softly spoken Belgian lady called Sylvie: Sylvie Bonniel, who held some position (never quite explained) on one of the committees responsible for advising on the musical component of the different nations’ contributions.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Gardner to the other three, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to Expo 58. By golly, we made it! Here we are, bang on time, and only a few more nails and screws to bash in before Thursday. Nothing short of a miracle, if you ask me. Let’s allow ourselves a small pat on the back.’
‘To Expo 58,’ Thomas echoed.
‘And to Great Britain,’ said Miss Bonniel gallantly, ‘whose contribution will, I’m sure, be one of the finest.’
They began to eat. The first course involved prawns, and onions, and something liquid and grey: closer identification than that was difficult. Thomas found it rather pleasant. Roger Braintree ate his portion quickly and determinedly, with a scowl of concentration on his face. He seemed to regard it as an unwelcome interruption, rather than a conversational overture, when Miss Bonniel turned to him and said: ‘And will you be attending the opening ceremony on Thursday, Mr Braintree?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ he replied, through his latest mouthful.
Miss Bonniel flinched slightly, as if from an insect bite.
‘You don’t want to be present, on this historic occasion? Something to tell your grandchildren?’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course. An opportunity to see our King. To hear his speech.’ Roger Braintree grunted and speared another prawn. ‘Being British, I would have thought you enjoyed a certain amount of pomp and pageantry.’
‘Well, we get plenty of that at home.’
‘But this , Mr Braintree . . . Surely this is unique, and unrepeatable? So many nations coming together, when a few years ago we were all fighting each other. America and the Soviet Union, stand ing side by side. The exchange of ideas, the declaration of com mitment to a shared vision of the future . . .’
Roger Braintree said nothing at first. Then, after dabbing at his lips with a napkin for a few moments, his only comment was: ‘You have a very European way of looking at things.’
‘The British are part of Europe, I think?’
‘Yes,
‘I see. Yes, that would have been awkward.’
‘Well, do help yourself to a drink. There’s a few bottles of fizz. I should get a couple of glasses down before it runs out and we have to fall back on the standard French plonk.’
Thomas took a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses and, realizing at once that it would be hard to get into conversation with any of the already tightly knit groups that had formed through out the room, he wandered over to one of the vast plate-glass windows. It didn’t bother him, for now, that his invitation to this dinner had obviously been an afterthought, or that nobody here had any interest in him. He could have stood for ever by that window, sipping champagne and looking down on the multicoloured lights of this incredible new metropolis: so busy, so modern, shimmering with life and promise. He felt that he was looking into the future, from the clearest and loftiest vantage point that the technological ingenuity of man could devise. He felt like a king of the universe.
For dinner, he took his allotted place at a table for four. The entire restaurant seemed to have been booked out for this occasion, and although Thomas’s table – like all the others – was next to a window and offered the usual panorama of the Expo site, it was also about as far removed from Sir John Balfour and the other VIPs as it was possible to be. He found it surprising, then, that he was seated next to James Gardner, the designer of the British pavilion: for Thomas, this felt like a special and very intimidating honour. Also at the table were one Roger Braintree, introduced as Secretary to the Commercial Counsellor of the British Embassy in Brussels, and a tall, softly spoken Belgian lady called Sylvie: Sylvie Bonniel, who held some position (never quite explained) on one of the committees responsible for advising on the musical component of the different nations’ contributions.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Gardner to the other three, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to Expo 58. By golly, we made it! Here we are, bang on time, and only a few more nails and screws to bash in before Thursday. Nothing short of a miracle, if you ask me. Let’s allow ourselves a small pat on the back.’
‘To Expo 58,’ Thomas echoed.
‘And to Great Britain,’ said Miss Bonniel gallantly, ‘whose contribution will, I’m sure, be one of the finest.’
They began to eat. The first course involved prawns, and onions, and something liquid and grey: closer identification than that was difficult. Thomas found it rather pleasant. Roger Braintree ate his portion quickly and determinedly, with a scowl of concentration on his face. He seemed to regard it as an unwelcome interruption, rather than a conversational overture, when Miss Bonniel turned to him and said: ‘And will you be attending the opening ceremony on Thursday, Mr Braintree?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ he replied, through his latest mouthful.
Miss Bonniel flinched slightly, as if from an insect bite.
‘You don’t want to be present, on this historic occasion? Something to tell your grandchildren?’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course. An opportunity to see our King. To hear his speech.’ Roger Braintree grunted and speared another prawn. ‘Being British, I would have thought you enjoyed a certain amount of pomp and pageantry.’
‘Well, we get plenty of that at home.’
‘But this , Mr Braintree . . . Surely this is unique, and unrepeatable? So many nations coming together, when a few years ago we were all fighting each other. America and the Soviet Union, stand ing side by side. The exchange of ideas, the declaration of com mitment to a shared vision of the future . . .’
Roger Braintree said nothing at first. Then, after dabbing at his lips with a napkin for a few moments, his only comment was: ‘You have a very European way of looking at things.’
‘The British are part of Europe, I think?’
‘Yes,
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