but to manage as best they could without him!
'Sorry, I have to- go,' said Adrien. 'Duty calls. I've got a big job waiting for me.'
Back in his office, he stared at his fingernails and sighed. An incompetent like Castro! He laughed bitterly as he recalled the draft of a letter which the ignoramus had begun with an 'I write to officially state' and ended with a 'mihtate these drawbacks'! And they were about to make an ass like him a grade A with a leather armchair, a glass-fronted lockable bookcase and a Persian carpet! If they did, then the denizens of this rotten hole would have seen the lot.
Dipping from time to time into the box of fondants he had taken out of Limbo, he mused dreamily about whether he should buy a monocle. Huxley was terribly smart with his. Too bad if a monocle was less convenient than glasses, he'd just have to get used to it. Only how could he prevent his colleagues thinking he was making a spectacle of himself? One glimpse of him turning up one morning wearing one and they would laugh, especially for the first couple of days. Huxley was a different matter altogether. They had been used to seeing him with a monocle ever since he had first joined the Secretariat, and anyway he was related to Lord Galloway. Heller too was frightfully smart with his. Those two had all the luck. According to Kanakis, Heller was a baron, an ancestor of his having been raised to the peerage by the Emperor of Austria. Baron de Heller. Baron Deume: now that would be something!
'I'll have to find some dodge to help the monocle go down. Could I say my optician has discovered that my sight is weak in my right eye only? Maybe, though it's a shade premature. Wait until I'm an A, I'll have more nerve then. Anyway, a monocle might annoy that stinker Solal. What on earth did he do to manage to get himself appointed Under-Secretary-General? A Jew-boy born in Greece who now has French nationality, it's enough to make anyone puke! Obviously, the Jewish mafia! In any case, if it really is true that Castro's going to be put up to an A through sheer, rotten influence, then I'm not going to take it lying down! I'll stage my own go-slow, oh yes! And halve my productivity!'
When he had finished the last fondant, he gave a little whinny of pleasure. The day after tomorrow was the opening meeting of the Tenth Session of the Permanent Mandates Commission! He loved the sittings of the PMC. No need to stay stuck in an office, you could listen to the debates and feel at the centre of politics with all that string-pulling in the lobbies, all those confidential tip-offs, and no VV bothering you with draft letters or sending over more files, you could give your full attention to the Commission, it Was fun, it was high drama, comings and goings, quick fetch a document, come back andsit at VV's right hand, whisper a word in the ear of some high-up on the Commission, smile knowing smiles, savour the double-dealing and above all chat on an equal footing, well almost, with the delegates during the recesses, hands in pockets, trickling over to VV to repeat something said in confidence by a delegate, in short it was high politics. Very subtle that move of his with Garcia. The really clever bit was getting hold of the latest slim volume of poems by the Argentinian delegate and learning one by heart.
'Ambassador, may I venture to say how very much I admired "The Galleons of the Conquistador"?' and he would go straight into a recitation of his putrid poem, intone it with eyes downcast, a big performance long on emotion, it should come across very sincere, in short lay it on thick and then something about how the French Academy honoured itself by honouring him, etc. He'll love it, we'll talk about books, we'll see each other again, we'll have lunch together, and at our third meeting I'll let slip I'm at the top of grade B! He'll have a word with Sir John and I'm in!'
He gave a stage snigger, like a triumphant villain in a play, then laid his head on the desk
'Sorry, I have to- go,' said Adrien. 'Duty calls. I've got a big job waiting for me.'
Back in his office, he stared at his fingernails and sighed. An incompetent like Castro! He laughed bitterly as he recalled the draft of a letter which the ignoramus had begun with an 'I write to officially state' and ended with a 'mihtate these drawbacks'! And they were about to make an ass like him a grade A with a leather armchair, a glass-fronted lockable bookcase and a Persian carpet! If they did, then the denizens of this rotten hole would have seen the lot.
Dipping from time to time into the box of fondants he had taken out of Limbo, he mused dreamily about whether he should buy a monocle. Huxley was terribly smart with his. Too bad if a monocle was less convenient than glasses, he'd just have to get used to it. Only how could he prevent his colleagues thinking he was making a spectacle of himself? One glimpse of him turning up one morning wearing one and they would laugh, especially for the first couple of days. Huxley was a different matter altogether. They had been used to seeing him with a monocle ever since he had first joined the Secretariat, and anyway he was related to Lord Galloway. Heller too was frightfully smart with his. Those two had all the luck. According to Kanakis, Heller was a baron, an ancestor of his having been raised to the peerage by the Emperor of Austria. Baron de Heller. Baron Deume: now that would be something!
'I'll have to find some dodge to help the monocle go down. Could I say my optician has discovered that my sight is weak in my right eye only? Maybe, though it's a shade premature. Wait until I'm an A, I'll have more nerve then. Anyway, a monocle might annoy that stinker Solal. What on earth did he do to manage to get himself appointed Under-Secretary-General? A Jew-boy born in Greece who now has French nationality, it's enough to make anyone puke! Obviously, the Jewish mafia! In any case, if it really is true that Castro's going to be put up to an A through sheer, rotten influence, then I'm not going to take it lying down! I'll stage my own go-slow, oh yes! And halve my productivity!'
When he had finished the last fondant, he gave a little whinny of pleasure. The day after tomorrow was the opening meeting of the Tenth Session of the Permanent Mandates Commission! He loved the sittings of the PMC. No need to stay stuck in an office, you could listen to the debates and feel at the centre of politics with all that string-pulling in the lobbies, all those confidential tip-offs, and no VV bothering you with draft letters or sending over more files, you could give your full attention to the Commission, it Was fun, it was high drama, comings and goings, quick fetch a document, come back andsit at VV's right hand, whisper a word in the ear of some high-up on the Commission, smile knowing smiles, savour the double-dealing and above all chat on an equal footing, well almost, with the delegates during the recesses, hands in pockets, trickling over to VV to repeat something said in confidence by a delegate, in short it was high politics. Very subtle that move of his with Garcia. The really clever bit was getting hold of the latest slim volume of poems by the Argentinian delegate and learning one by heart.
'Ambassador, may I venture to say how very much I admired "The Galleons of the Conquistador"?' and he would go straight into a recitation of his putrid poem, intone it with eyes downcast, a big performance long on emotion, it should come across very sincere, in short lay it on thick and then something about how the French Academy honoured itself by honouring him, etc. He'll love it, we'll talk about books, we'll see each other again, we'll have lunch together, and at our third meeting I'll let slip I'm at the top of grade B! He'll have a word with Sir John and I'm in!'
He gave a stage snigger, like a triumphant villain in a play, then laid his head on the desk
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