The Ambassador (3 page)

‘Do you know Sir Lyndon Everidge, our Prime Minister? And this is Maxwell Packer, one of our media tycoons and a great supporter of the monarchy. Our friend from the military is Mike Thompson, my attaché.

‘And lastly, this splendid chap is Sir Robin Butler-Armstrong, the Perm Sec. That stands for Permanent Secretary – he’ll be around years after the rest of us have come and gone. He is head of the civil service in London.’

‘Which means he runs everything, along with his mates in Brussels and Frankfurt,’ added Sir Lyndon, as he greeted the Ambassador. The Prime Minister was a squat, solidly built man with thick jowls and piercing eyes; about seventy years old, Strether judged, but vigorous, almost bullock-like in presence. His suit was made from a shiny metalloid fabric that hissed as he moved, as if hinting at its wearer’s slippery character.

The civil servant bowed slightly. He was older than the Prime Minister and quite similar in appearance to the Lord Chamberlain. Startled, Strether saw how a desired (perhaps, fashionable) genetic pattern could begin to make too many men look like brothers. But the Prime Minister was of different stock – or, since his eyes were exactly the same light colour as Sir Robin’s, was he? Strether began to feel confused. He knew he must stop himself dwelling on the issue, or he would lose track of what they were saying – and of the job in hand.

The attaché was the tallest, a rugged, muscular figure, with regular features and a calm, disciplined manner. He appeared to regard himself as a lower rank than the others, and busied himself rather as Marius had, moving chairs and ensuring that the King and the geriatric Lord Chamberlain had everything they wanted. The strong, silent type, Strether reckoned, as he concentrated on the others.

The media owner had a knowing, sardonic air. He was trim, of medium height with long-lashed dark eyes, not dissimilar to Marius’s. Maybe there was some eastern European blood in both. Packer seemed not to blink at all, but gazed coolly from King to Ambassador and back again without a word. Strether immediately resolved to guard his tongue in the man’s presence. The camera on the opposite wall had already registered their arrival and was swivelling silently from one to another. Strether wondered crossly who was looking at them, and whether anyone in Europe was guaranteed privacy if even the King was not.

The eight men settled themselves at the white-clothed table where they were served by the sole footman and the maid. In deference to himself as guest, Strether noted, the wines were Californian, though modern taste would have condemned the climate as too hot to compete with the world’s finest. He’d have preferred a cold beer.

Maxwell Packer was speaking, with a faintly colonial twang. ‘Don’t take any notice of them, Ambassador, when they talk like that. They all went to the same school. They’ve been plotting how to run Europe since they learned to walk.’

‘Call me Bill,’ Strether invited diffidently. ‘It is my name. Lambert William Strether.
The Fourth. But Bill for short.’

‘Ignore Max, Strether,’ the Prime Minister responded. ‘He may be half-Australian, but he went to our school too, though he was in the class of seventy-eight whereas I was there in forty-nine and our Perm Sec, who knocks everyone into a cocked hat age-wise, stalked the famous corridors in thirty-five or thereabouts.’

‘Which school is that?’ Strether inquired, his mouth full of oat bread. The starter was smoked farmed tuna, which tasted cheap; the menu card offered a choice of main course, kangaroo, shark or the vegetarian dish, roast truffles, all local produce. At home he could live for ever on beef – or lamb, at a push – but both had long since disappeared from European menus, to the grief of American and antipodean exporters.

‘ÉNA, of course,’ the King answered. ‘I refused to go, and fortunately my grandmother was indulgent. What do I need to know about administration? Not my role – it’s theirs. A rough Scottish upbringing suited me. I’m one of the few people in Britain allowed a hunting licence to keep down the deer, and it wouldn’t be much use if I couldn’t shoot.’ Strether was looking blank. The King took pity. ‘ÉNA. The school.
The
school. It’s French. The École Nationale d’Administration. Oh, you explain it, Marius.’

‘Set up in nineteen forty-five by General de Gaulle,’ the Prince took up the line. ‘It started as a university in France for administrators and politicians. All parties. That’s why the French were so dominant at the start of the European Union; you could say that the Énarques were the driving force behind the whole achievement. Students from other countries attend also. Anyway, it’s now the supreme academy for everyone who counts throughout Europe. If you’re not a graduate, you’ll find it much harder to get to the top. And if you do –’

‘You’ll float up there effortlessly!’ the King finished. Strether could see that Sir Robin was not amused, while the Prime Minister regarded the exchange with more indulgence. Maxwell Packer was laughing softly and crumbling a bread roll without eating it, as if he had heard the joke many times. Opposite Strether Prince Marius half smiled.

‘So how influential is it? For example, how many people round this table went to ÉNA, are – what did you say? – Énarques?’ Strether asked. He struggled to pronounce it as they had –
Ayna. Aynark
.

Five hands went up. The King, the attaché and Strether were the odd men out. The officer shrugged. ‘Sandhurst. And Oxford, I’m afraid.’ He said no more.

‘Bit like the playing fields of Eton, I fear.’ Marius caught Strether’s eye. ‘But in reality ÉNA is superb. We’ve tried setting up rival establishments elsewhere; there’s an annexe in my home town of Budapest, and the LSE up in Hemel Hempstead. The press have their own college, but still the most ambitious families like Maxwell’s send their offspring to ÉNA. The network of contacts, the intense training – ideally suited to the gifted students selected to go there – makes the place invaluable. Max is absolutely correct. ÉNA’s contribution is not merely a matter of past glories. It’s still the driving force behind the Union. Even more so, these days.’

‘We are governed by an Énarchy, you might say,’ Packer murmured mischievously. ‘Everything’s decided behind closed doors. Even what I can broadcast.’

There was a split second’s hiatus. Strether saw Sir Robin cast the newsman a sharp glance. It seemed to contain a mixture of annoyance and warning.

The conversation had moved on. Behind them river boats plied for trade, their occupants sheathed against the midday sun by full-sleeved shirts, Hong Kong straw hats and wrap-around sunglasses. Tourists trained vids on the palaces and craned to peek through the windows. A pink-eyed seagull cried and flapped at the glass before wheeling away. The boats’ wash made a soft plopping sound against the palace wall beneath the bay window.

At last Strether felt able to put down his fork. The kangaroo was supposed to taste like venison, but it was too bland and stringy, as if from overbred rather than wild stock. The staff cleared plates and brought exotic fruits and water ices. A delightful Estonian port began to circulate. Sir Robin dabbed his mouth with his folded napkin.

‘This house’ – his beautifully manicured hands and pale eyes directed Strether’s gaze to the rococo ceiling, the exquisite chandeliers –’is probably older than anything you’ve been in before, isn’t it? It was built around 1702, we believe, and acquired by King George III as a family home. It became known as the Queen’s House. At that date your country was still a collection of unattached colonies.’

‘He wasn’t mad, you know,’ the King said quickly. ‘Not that one. He’s the King George you Americans are supposed to hate. But there was nothing he could do.’

‘Quite,’ said Sir Robin. ‘Once the colonies knew their own strength, it was obvious that they would break away from the mother country. Such a pity.’

Strether gaped. They were talking about the crises of history as if they had happened yesterday, as if barely a moment ago the personages involved had walked out and slammed the nearest door: the echoes still floated in the air. American habits were exactly the opposite. Whatever had occurred fifty years or more before was ignored or ridiculed. As for household or personal items, everything more than two summers old was thrown out and replaced. It had always been thus. To do so was patriotic, providing jobs for American workers. Here, they seemed to prefer old things. He shifted his weight on the creaky antique chair and, to reassure himself, reached for a ready-peel baby pineapple.

‘They kept rebuilding the house so they never had a chance to enjoy it,’ the King added. ‘The first monarch to live here was Queen Victoria.’ His lips were smeared with fluorescent water-ice: children’s food. But, then, he was the host. ‘D’you know, during the interregnum it was used as a twilight home. And down in the basement was the Metropolitan Police’s arsenal. The crumblies wouldn’t have slept so sound in their cots had they seen the flame-throwers and bombs a few metres below!’

‘A bad time,’ the Prime Minister growled. His face had darkened; he seemed to have taken offence at the King’s jocular reference to the aged. Strether was reminded of the President’s caution about age discrimination. The port was passed swiftly around. ‘Thank heaven the voters saw sense. Here, and in much of the rest of the Union.’

‘And now we have more crowned heads than at any time since the Union’s establishment.’ Maxwell Packer smiled at the young King. ‘Isn’t that right, sir?’

‘Well, we’re useful, that’s what it is, for the tourists, and ceremonial. I’m a fine figure on a horse, I told you. We don’t complain, we’re punctual, and we take a lovely photograph. Plus we’ve learned our lesson and we don’t cause trouble. How on earth do you manage, Strether?’

Strether spoke carefully. ‘The same way they do in France and Denmark. They elect their king for seven years like us, with many of the powers that medieval monarchs had. Only
ours is called a president. Checks and balances, for sure, to keep any excesses at bay. If he’s capable, he’ll be re-elected. Or she. Then that’s it. So the country can’t be saddled with an absolute disaster.’

‘
We
haven’t had any absolute disasters,’ the King objected. ‘Anyway, I can’t actually
do
anything. It’s down to Parliament for local questions, or Brussels for economics and stuff. Frankfurt for the money. Honestly, Strether, both the PM here and Prince Marius in the House of Lords have more clout than me. I can’t even vote.’

‘It doesn’t seem to bother you,’ Strether ventured, ‘that so little is decided in London. I mean, we Americans have had our battles over states’ rights, but you seem to have conceded far more to the – ah – the centre than we have.’

‘That’s an outdated debate.’ Sir Robin frowned. ‘Fact is, Britain was becoming a very insignificant place. On the fringes of the continent, isolated. Our culture was in danger of dying out. Our youngsters were leaving in droves for the richer shores of the mainland. Anyway, people eventually got fed up, always being left out.’

‘Or, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ the King added joyously. ‘So for the last eighty years my country – sorry, region – has given up any fantasy about independence and opted instead to be committed to the Union. Like your Rhode Island or Louisiana. And far better we are for it.’

‘Absolutely.’ The Prime Minister nodded vigorously. ‘And, Strether, we do bloody well out of it. Vast chunks of subsidy. Plus we practically run the place, you know. We provide many of the Union’s civil servants. Most senior officers of the European Armed Forces are from England – like Thompson here – and Scotland, and we train the lot at Sandhurst. The combined forces command uses English. So if they have to attack the Chinks, they’ll do it yelling, “God for England, Harry and St George!”’ He laughed uproariously at his own witticism, jowls wobbling.

‘Rubbish.’ The newsman rose good-humouredly to the bait. ‘Anglophile nonsense, Strether. Fortunately most of the regular soldiers are German, though I shouldn’t repeat that outside. And the Turks and Bosnians are fine, when we can get them off their prayer mats.’

‘You see the dilemmas?’ The Prime Minister grinned at Strether and spread his hands. ‘Your Union in America, Ambassador, has sixty states with two languages. Ours has forty-two former countries, forty-six regions, thirty-five languages. Thank heaven for auto-translators, though I loathe ’em. But Sir Robin is right. It works, somehow. Probably because of ÉNA. We’re prosperous beyond our imaginings; safe, with the Army securely in place at the frontier, where it belongs. And, whatever our distinguished newshound here implies, with English as the
lingua franca
.’

Maxwell Packer tapped his nose. ‘I publish in whatever language will sell. But in the Union we had a communications problem, and an obvious solution. With thirty-five languages the cost of translation was astronomical, Strether. Even so, that left out many regional dialects, like Catalan and Breton.’ (‘And Welsh,’ the King interjected.) ‘That was before those dreadful auto-translators. My father was in Brussels at the time. He told me interpreters seeking a bonus could halt proceedings at the drop of a hat by downing headphones. Then meetings had to be chaired by the Dutch, who understood everybody. So official translations were eventually limited to languages spoken in more than one region. Hence English, yes. But also German. And, when anyone can remember it, French.’

Language ability would have been high on the list when their parents selected their infant genes. It dawned on Strether that, with the exception of himself, the entire conversation could have been conducted as easily by the others in several living languages. And possibly in dead ones such as Serbo-Croat and Greek as well.

‘Nor should you assume, though I say it with respect in the King’s house, that it is the King’s English that is commonly taught.’ Packer continued easily. ‘As a practitioner I should know. The classic syntax of Milton and Shakespeare, the cadences of Dr Johnson, the novelistic style of the cult authoress Catherine Cookson have been obliterated. Modern English owes more, Ambassador, to your American-English, through the influence of Hollywood, civil aviation and Microsoft.’