Paid and Loving Eyes

the treatment. Authority ruled; his, nobody else’s. My silence riled him. He rapped, “Answer!”

“The question…?” I wanted to obey in the meekest manner possible, do his job and exit smiling. Not much to ask.

Stupid to needle him but I couldn’t help it. He appraised me from under eyebrows borrowed off an albino beetle. Troude fidgeted. He wanted us all to go forward in harmony. Monique was impatient with the entire world. Some women give the impression that an execution is the only way out.

“Insubordination will not be permitted, Lovejoy.” He got the name right, so his English was wellnigh perfect. “This project requires absolute compliance. No discretion is permitted.”

He’d nearly said or else. I slipped it in to complete his meaning. Or else he’d shoot me? Then they’d lack a divvy, and they needed one.

“Very well.” And I added, “Sir.” I saw he said it inwardly with me, satisfaction easing his stalwart frame for a second. His military mind wanted only to talk to chalk, like a superannuated teacher. “What project?”

“Recovery of items from a location to be specified.”

“Very well.” The scent of fraud trickled in about here, ponging the nostrils. For recovery read robbery. “Sir.”

“You are not curious about the items? The location?”

“I know you will inform me when the time comes, sir.”

His eye glinted. “You have served?”

“In an army? Once. I was a famous coward. And ineffectual.”

No curled lip, but he hated the levity. “Ineffectual criminal and soldier!”

Troude’s sudden agitation warned me not to reply that maybe the two occupations shared lifestyles. I swallowed it.

“Is it the Commandant’s wish for me to leave the project?”

Monique started. Troude almost fainted. Marimee found himself in a quandary. Gratified at the title, narked by having to admit I was valuable, he found refuge in an order.

“You will continue until the mission is completed.”

His project had become a mission in half a breath. I sighed. My famous instinct was yowling for me to get the hell out, run like a hare, swim back across the Channel. Cissie was dying in the hospital, believing in my promise.

“Very well, Commandant.”

“There will be two phases. The first will be in Paris and possibly London. The second will take place in a certain location to be notified. Time-scale: immediate, and within three weeks respectively.” He leaned back. The room relaxed slightly. He looked at me hard, hands behind his head. Immediate did not mean instant, it seemed. “Questions are permitted.”

“I work alone?”

“No. You will have two assistants in Phase One. Phase Two is not for your ears until One is accomplished.”

“I will receive enough, ah, tools to carry it out?”

“Planning has been exemplary for both phases.” He shot to his feet, abruptly showing a non-punitive emotion for the first time. Troude looked wary, Monique irritated at some coming digression. I shrugged mentally. Okay, so I was not to query the perfection of his military mind. I’d not argue.

“Your nation, Lovejoy, is despicable!” he shouted.

Eh? Another mental shrug got me through that, but he was boss and implacable threats lay thick all about. I know when to bend with the gale. Marimee marched to the window, clear eyes seeking snipers out there on some distant hill. My whole nation! Maybe France’d just lost to us at cricket, whatever.

“Your tabloids speak of losing your empire, as if it was mislaid on your London buses! The truth?” He swivelled, fixed me, swivelled back, an animaloid gun turret. “The truth is you gave it away! You proved spineless in the crunch!”

This sort of stuff bores me to tears. Who the hell cares? So obsessional historians score points off one another. It’s no big deal.

“Your immigrants retain their national identities, n’est-ce-pas? Each group as distinctive as they were in Hong Kong, Kenya, India. Like,” he sneered without showing whether his lip was really curled or not, “the so-wonderful Americans.”

“I think it’s what they want to do,” I said lamely. He’d seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“It is behaviour without soul, Lovejoy! In France, we blend immigrants! They become French. We fight for principle! As we fight for our language. English is barbaric, a degraded hybrid! India alone claims six thousand of your ”English“ words. Your music is bastardized, assimilating Trinidadian…” I won’t give the rest, if that’s all right. It’s a real yawn. For God’s sake, I thought as my mind switched off his claptrap, if a tune’s nice, sing. If it’s not, don’t. It’s not exactly a proposition by Wittgenstein, for Christ’s sake.

His assault when it came frightened me off my chair. He leaned at me, yelling, “And you don’t care!”

“Er,” I said, returning. I’d almost shot out of the door. “Well, I know some folk do. There’s a lot of interest in ethnic dances and whatnot…”

“You surrender your national heritage!”