One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling Page A

meet the man who is so skilful with his hands, but know nothing of business or formfilling or administration – they’re not so rare.”
    â€œDaniel Doyce – well, you give him good advice. Will he be able to follow it? Flexible enough, enough sap in him? Will he bend, or break?”
    â€œHe’s a classic, isn’t he, and they’re often a wet mess, and one can’t tell. I suppose he’s likely to remain a wet mess whatever happens and whatever I say. One has known so many like that. Monasteries are always full of them; they incline to religion. Or Alcoholics Anonymous.”
    â€œThere should be a Businessmen Anonymous. I think in Paris at least there is, existing to help bewildered ex-executives exist. To coin a phrase.”
    â€œI’ve a nasty feeling I haven’t heard the end of him. One should get them to go and read Carlos Castaneda – Don Juan has such very good advice for them. Too dangerous though; they’re far too fatally inclined as it is to topple over into Transcendental Meditation.” She had cooked a large and successful supper, to make up for the soft-boiled egg at lunch, to make up for the cup of coffee Xavier had given her, and the rather small sympathy she’d given him. She felt a good deal better.
    She had come home, in fact, much depressed. Luckily Arthur had felt that a half day’s work was not better than none at all; was in fact rather worse; had come home early too; had done some shopping; was in a cookery mood. Why don’t we both do it? – something nice and long and complex? Now while we’re at it, why don’t you tell about all these mysterious errands you’ve been upon?
    â€œSuch a boring story,” wailed Mrs Davidson. “Or rather, about ten boring stories. All those failures.”
    â€œNow come on. You’re supposed to be building up. Motivating yourself. Winding your spring. Whatever they call it.”
    â€œI’m getting more and more frustrated. All these people and nothing whatever I can do about it. There was the little man who disappeared in the Rhine. That man over on the coast who did away with Rebecca – you were drunkenly facetious and I was very greatly vexed. Since we’ve been home, barely two days: that poor wretch I was too late to stop killing herself. The woman whose son was killed. These silly Germans andthat poor limp boy telling himself stories about his heroic father. This drink of water, Xavier.”
    â€œCome on; you’re not doing yourself justice. The girl who, the woman who, the drink-of-water who, you’re talking as though they were all dead. Like actors one hears complaining about those awful fish faces in the front row: without them, they wouldn’t be functioning at all; they wouldn’t even be alive. Same with you. Without all these people, you wouldn’t be getting anywhere with Xavier. You told him to act like a man for once in his life and that’s excellent advice. Been plenty of times in my own life when I stood gravely in need of it. This is a lot of grit, no doubt, but you’re like a hen’s digestion, you don’t work properly without grit. If you’re going to be any use to Madame Bartholdi or Xavier, or Subleyras, you’ve got to accept a high percentage of failure.”
    â€œSubleyras – marvellous man I thought then – beset by doubts, now.”
    â€œIf you weren’t beset by doubt, you’d be another self-satisfied prick like our President.”
    â€œI do realize,” still in a tearful tone, “but, it’s all one thing after another.”
    â€œOdtaa,” said Arthur comfortably, “good old English expression that. Title likewise of delightful book to which I am much attached – I wonder whether that would find a reader, now. Have a drink – those wretched Germans tired you.”
    â€œI had much too much, already this morning.”
    â€œThen have some