saying. Any bloody fool could manage it.’
‘Bernard knows Vienna,’ said Dicky.
It wasn’t true by any means but I didn’t contradict Dicky, and he knew I wouldn’t. It simply wasn’t done to contradict your boss in front of a superior. ‘Do you, Bernard?’ said Stowe. There was a fat old fly buzzing round his head. He waved it away with a rather regal gesture.
‘I was there with Harry Lime,’ I said.
Stowe gave me a brief disparaging smile. ‘Vienna is only part of it,’ he said. He was not an easy man to fool, although perhaps that wouldn’t have been so evident to anyone meeting him for the first time. Stowe was wearing a grey three-piece suit of curious weave, a lumpy knitted tie and zip-sided high boots. All of his clothes looked like theatrical costume rummaged from the hamper of some long-defunct repertory company. Even his wristwatch was an unusual trapezoid shape, its crystal discoloured brown, so that to see the time he had to bring his wrist close up to his face.
To peer at his watch he’d taken off his heavy tortoise-shell glasses. The stylish spectacles were an incongruous aspect of Stowe. One would have expected him to wear small circular gold-rimmed glasses, bent and perhaps secured with a piece of flesh-coloured sticking plaster. These spectacles were expensive and modern, and after looking at his wrist-watch he brandished them as if wanting to make the most of them.
‘And Bernard has good Russian,’ said Dicky.
‘They will all speak English,’ Stowe said, looking again at his watch.
‘Not amongst themselves,’ said Dicky. ‘Bernard will be able to understand what they say to each other.’
‘Ummm,’ said Stowe. ‘What’s the time?’ He was twisting the crown of the watch to adjust the hands.
‘Ten fifty-two,’ said Dicky.
‘You’re not empowered to make any concessions,’ Stowe told me solemnly. ‘Listen to what these hoodlums have to say. If you think it’s all baloney, come back and say so. But no deals. And come straight back. No sightseeing tours on the blue Danube, or tasting the May wine at the heuriger houses in Grinzing. Right?’ Even Stowe could not resist telling us he’d been there.
‘Of course,’ said Dicky. The fly buzzed round Dicky now. Dicky gave no sign of noticing it and it flew away.
‘And lastly, I don’t want any of our bloody Yankee friends mixed up in it,’ said Stowe as he opened a folder and turned its pages. Dicky looked at me and gave me a fleeting smile. I saw then that Dicky was not intimidated as much as dis composed by Stowe. He didn’t know whether to respond with Stowe’s same bar-room vernacular or keep him at his distance with deference and good manners.
‘How would they get mixed up in it?’ asked Dicky.
Stowe referred to his notes. The fly alighted on a page and walked insolently across the heading. ‘They’ll be on to any of our people arriving in Vienna. They’ll be on to them right away.’ With a surprising speed his hand shot forward. His fingers flicked and closed tightly upon the fly, but when he opened his fingers there was no fly.
‘Do you think so, Gus?’ said Dicky.
He gave a crafty smile. ‘I’m bloody sure so. I worked with the Yanks in Korea. Corps headquarters: I know what they’re like.’ He wiped his hand on his trouser leg just as if the remains of the fly had been upon it. Perhaps it itched.
‘What are they like?’ said Dicky, dutifully providing the cue for which Stowe waited.
Stowe looked at Dicky, and sniffed in the contemptuous manner of a practised lecturer. ‘It is in the character of your average American, an aspect of his history, that he is curious by nature, resourceful by upbringing and empirical by training,’ said Stowe. ‘In other words: Yanks are nosy interfering bastards. Stay clear of them.’ He made an unsuccessful grab at the fly, and then waved at it angrily as it flew away. ‘And I don’t want one of you big spenders checking into the Vienna Hilton with
‘Bernard knows Vienna,’ said Dicky.
It wasn’t true by any means but I didn’t contradict Dicky, and he knew I wouldn’t. It simply wasn’t done to contradict your boss in front of a superior. ‘Do you, Bernard?’ said Stowe. There was a fat old fly buzzing round his head. He waved it away with a rather regal gesture.
‘I was there with Harry Lime,’ I said.
Stowe gave me a brief disparaging smile. ‘Vienna is only part of it,’ he said. He was not an easy man to fool, although perhaps that wouldn’t have been so evident to anyone meeting him for the first time. Stowe was wearing a grey three-piece suit of curious weave, a lumpy knitted tie and zip-sided high boots. All of his clothes looked like theatrical costume rummaged from the hamper of some long-defunct repertory company. Even his wristwatch was an unusual trapezoid shape, its crystal discoloured brown, so that to see the time he had to bring his wrist close up to his face.
To peer at his watch he’d taken off his heavy tortoise-shell glasses. The stylish spectacles were an incongruous aspect of Stowe. One would have expected him to wear small circular gold-rimmed glasses, bent and perhaps secured with a piece of flesh-coloured sticking plaster. These spectacles were expensive and modern, and after looking at his wrist-watch he brandished them as if wanting to make the most of them.
‘And Bernard has good Russian,’ said Dicky.
‘They will all speak English,’ Stowe said, looking again at his watch.
‘Not amongst themselves,’ said Dicky. ‘Bernard will be able to understand what they say to each other.’
‘Ummm,’ said Stowe. ‘What’s the time?’ He was twisting the crown of the watch to adjust the hands.
‘Ten fifty-two,’ said Dicky.
‘You’re not empowered to make any concessions,’ Stowe told me solemnly. ‘Listen to what these hoodlums have to say. If you think it’s all baloney, come back and say so. But no deals. And come straight back. No sightseeing tours on the blue Danube, or tasting the May wine at the heuriger houses in Grinzing. Right?’ Even Stowe could not resist telling us he’d been there.
‘Of course,’ said Dicky. The fly buzzed round Dicky now. Dicky gave no sign of noticing it and it flew away.
‘And lastly, I don’t want any of our bloody Yankee friends mixed up in it,’ said Stowe as he opened a folder and turned its pages. Dicky looked at me and gave me a fleeting smile. I saw then that Dicky was not intimidated as much as dis composed by Stowe. He didn’t know whether to respond with Stowe’s same bar-room vernacular or keep him at his distance with deference and good manners.
‘How would they get mixed up in it?’ asked Dicky.
Stowe referred to his notes. The fly alighted on a page and walked insolently across the heading. ‘They’ll be on to any of our people arriving in Vienna. They’ll be on to them right away.’ With a surprising speed his hand shot forward. His fingers flicked and closed tightly upon the fly, but when he opened his fingers there was no fly.
‘Do you think so, Gus?’ said Dicky.
He gave a crafty smile. ‘I’m bloody sure so. I worked with the Yanks in Korea. Corps headquarters: I know what they’re like.’ He wiped his hand on his trouser leg just as if the remains of the fly had been upon it. Perhaps it itched.
‘What are they like?’ said Dicky, dutifully providing the cue for which Stowe waited.
Stowe looked at Dicky, and sniffed in the contemptuous manner of a practised lecturer. ‘It is in the character of your average American, an aspect of his history, that he is curious by nature, resourceful by upbringing and empirical by training,’ said Stowe. ‘In other words: Yanks are nosy interfering bastards. Stay clear of them.’ He made an unsuccessful grab at the fly, and then waved at it angrily as it flew away. ‘And I don’t want one of you big spenders checking into the Vienna Hilton with
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