He’d been working at this listening post for several months by now, and perhaps his perceptions had become rather dulled. There were plenty of reasons why they might have done so: the length of time he’d spent cut off from normal life; the isolation; the mountain range of ice all round him, the hopeless sky above, the earth below — all so smooth and featureless that there was nothing for the mind to catch hold of. It was a landscape that stripped you of everything and gave you nothing in return but solitude and unfathomable distance. No wonder he often oversimplified things. He only had to look down — as it seemed to him — at the world: most countries were riddled with debt, and that was why they were always squabbling and grumbling, slandering and accusing one another. Krushchev was dead, Mao was ill, and so was Franco: the ranks of the tyrants were clearly thinning out, an-d maybe the death of these spectres would eventually make the world go round more merrily. But for the moment all that arose from below was a tissue of nonsense.
He put his headset on again. The search for the two lost names was still in full swing. As if they’d really be missed! There wouldn’t have been nearly as much fuss if they’d been a couple of innocent doves, like the ones children play with in spring! But what can you do? He was going to have to start listening to that idiotic buzzing again. Especially in a couple of hours. time, after midnight, when the diplomatic receptions were over and the ciphers started up again worse than ever.
In Paris on this evening in late November, twenty-seven diplomatic receptions were being held. It was nine o’clock. A fine rain was falling. The headlights of the last tardy guests swept over the railings in front of the various embassies concerned. In the Rue de la Faisanderie, Juan Maria Krams found a parking space just big enough for his car, slammed the door, and made a dash for the Cuban Embassy. It was clear the party was at its height. But he made his way round both the drawing rooms without finding anyone of interest to talk to. Two waiters, probably realizing he’d just arrived because of the drops of rain still sparkling in his hair, both offered him drinks and petits fours at the same time. He took a whisky, but just held the glass in his hand, without drinking. He’d wasted almost an hour at the Cambodian Embassy, where everything was very dead. There were plenty of people he knew there, but not a single conversation of any interest. All the guests had looked lethargic, and though he’d hoped things might improve in due course, they’d only got worse. It was very different here, though he was surprised not to see any familiar faces. Perhaps they’d drop in later, but he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want to fritter away the whole evening.
He was invited to three other embassies — the Albanian, the Romanian, and the Vietnamese — and he couldn’t afford to waste time. He looked at his watch. A quarter past nine. Without more ado he made for the door, In the hall he realized he was still holding his glass of whisky. He put it down on a table, beside a telephone, and left.
It was still raining. As he got into his car he wondered whether to go to the Albanian or the Romanian Embassy next. It was the Albanians’ national holiday, so their reception would probably go on longer than the others. The Romanians just had a kind of exhibition on, if he remembered rightly. But as the Albanian Embassy was quite close by, he decided to go there first. He had to call in on the Albanians anyway, even if it meant he wouldn’t get to the other two receptions: they were the ones most concerned with what he wanted to know.
He drove round the Etoile without thinking, and found himself in the Avenue d’Eylau. But although it wasn’t unusual to find out more about what interested you at a different embassy from the one directly concerned, Juan Maria Krams pressed on. When he reached the little Place de Mexico, he had to slow down as usual to find the turning that led to the Albanian Embassy. The narrow Rue de Longchamp was wet and empty. He was soon in the Rue de la Pompe.
The reception was very lively, but with a liveliness he didn’t care for. The guests seemed unnaturally cheerful, and couldn’t stick to any one subject, He made several attempts to talk about third-world problems to some Albanians he knew, but got the impression they didn’t want to get involved in that. If this had been due to lack of expertise he wouldn’t have minded, but in fact they seemed irritated and made little attempt to hide it. One of them, after trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, said playfully:
“Comrade Krams, couldn’t we talk about something more serious? All those other problems are so boring…Typically Chinese discussions, I’d call them!”
“What!” exclaimed Juan. “Do you think discussions can be categorized according to…?”
The other smiled broadly and gave a vague wave of the hand.
“Is is really worth cudgelling one’s brains over things like that? You should take my advice and stop worrying…”
“Is that so?” said Juan coldly.
Well, that’s putting it plainly enough, he thought. His last doubts were removed. For some time he’d been noticing the signs…
He made for a quiet corner, but even there he wasn’t out of range of the hum of conversation, the flashing of jewels, the bursts of laughter. He gazed absently at the guests as they came and went, most of them brandishing a glass as if it were a candle lighting their way — the way to the abyss!
A hand on his shoulder roused him from his musings.
“Comrade Krams? Good evening.”
The speaker’s face looked even swarthier and more wizened than it really was under its mop of black curly hair.
It took Krams a few moments to remember who he was. They’d met for the first time a couple of years before at an international gathering at which the Moroccan had represented a movement involved in the Sahraoui question. Then Krams had come across him again at another conference, where he represented a completely different school of thought, which, though it still had something to do with the Sahara, advocated other views and put forward other claims.
“How’re things?” asked Krams,
“Not too good…We’ve had lots of dissension lately. We’re reforming hard now.”
In other circumstances Krams would have been interested ina conversation like this, but when, about a year before, he’d studied a sheaf of documents about the Sahraoui movement, he’d got so muddled up he’d given up hope of ever understanding anything about it. It really was difficult to discern the logic behind all the changes of policy, and Krams had come to the conclusion that to look for it was as hopeless as trying to read the traces left by the wind on the desert sands.
To stop the other going into explanations of the inexplicable, Krams asked him if he’d heard anything about the U.S. president’s projected visit to China.
“Yes,” said the Moroccan, “I have heard some rumours. But as far as Î can make out, it’s only bluff.”
“Bluff?”
The Moroccan nodded.
“Yes. You can say “bluff in French, can’t you? Anyway, a great booby-trap, just like the business of the hundred Mowers.” He laughed.
“Who told you that?”
“A friend I can trust, Mao intends to find out who’s pleased at the news and who’s going to try to take advantage…And then — bang! Like the last time. They’ll strike without mercy, obliterate, destroy. There’ll be another Cultural Revolution even more terrible than the first. And those who escaped the typhoon last time won’t be able to escape this,…”
“Really?” said Krams thoughtfully. “So there’s not going to be any visit?”
“I don’t know about that,” the Moroccan answered. “The visit may go ahead, but it won’t make any difference — the trap will work anyhow.”
For the first time Krams smiled faintly.
“You’ve given me good news, ShkretëtirsI named you that because of the Sahara…Sorry if I offended you. People sometimes give me nicknames, and I must say I couldn’t care less.”