“It doesn’t matter. I quit my poetic studies, took a few courses at HEC, then went back to the States and landed a job as a customs official. That was my revelation. I learned that bureaucracies are designed to kill innovation in the name of predictability; and that the pleasure and purpose of customs offices are to implement rules that are meant to keep things from happening. That meant they were domains ripe for the kind of permanent revolution that I’d glimpsed in Paris during that wondrous month of May.
“One day I spotted in the classified pages of The Economist the announcement of a vacancy in the municipal offices of this very town: that of Mercantile Assessor for the Borough. I called the number supplied in the ad to find out what these words meant, and after a lot of prodding deduced it was to run a local board of trade. I sent in my application and to my amazement I was hired for the job. Perhaps I was the only candidate — why would even a moderately ambitious man or woman want to be confined in a place at the end of the world, with no major financial center nearby, no prospects of advancement, and with a job description that sounded like a career’s dead end?
“Well, I was full of beans, I had to start my active life somewhere, and so after two final interviews with a New Zealand banker (from Dunedin, of all places) and a municipal representative, who both probably took me for a harmless airhead, I made the journey to this charming town. I stormed into my job with undiplomatic fury, fired three of my staff of four before anyone noticed, and to replace them brought in competent friends from the civilized world with promises of fun and games. I’m told things have improved.” Andreas: “Geoff, I learned all about you. You took an office basking in routine and turned it into a dynamo. You ‘promoted trade’? You invented the global village! Look what you did for Paul, our recalcitrant twin. I don’t think even he realizes how you connected him with his markets overseas.” (Berenice thought, ‘Kepi Kaps in every pub in Glasgow!’) “Maybe. The main thing is, here’s where I met Margot.” By now she was sitting in his lap with her arms around his neck. Geoffrey: “I know, I know I should have —” “No, it’s OK like this. At last I know why you bring all those strange books to read in bed.” Andreas surmised: “Ceravolo, Violi, Charles North?” “Yes, also Pastior and Cavalli! You know these people?” “I’m mad about poetry, too. I just can’t afford to publish it. We can compare notes, I trust.” “You bet. And thanks for getting me out of my chain-mail pajamas. Well, that’s my story.”
Berenice: “But what about Malachi?” “I declined his proposal as courteously as I could. Naturally, I never saw him again.” “Don’t you even know his last name?” “It’s infuriating. I’ve forgotten it, and every time I try to remember it, the only thing that turns up is that the proportion of consonants to vowels in his name is 7 to 2 — somewhat unusual, but not all that unusual, and no help at all in getting his name back.” “But you must have taken some interest in him.” “I emailed him once (at [email protected] — I remember that). His answer gave me hope he might be slipping out of the stranglehold of his past. He’d let a princess move in with him. But not a Jewish princess — a shiksa! How about that? Now, who goes next?”
7
Geoffrey’s question would go unanswered for the next two weeks. Captain Kipper kept his promise to alert Wicheria and did so promptly. She phoned Berenice and Andreas two days after Geoffrey had told the tale of Malachi. She suggested meeting them at the Hunting Horn — “the food’s not great but not bad and they have a pretty good combo.” Were they free next Saturday? “I’m working nights till then, Sunday I’m meeting friends up the coast. I really want to talk to you about the two boys. My guess is you may have the wrong take on them.” Andreas and Berenice agreed to Saturday at 9 p.m.
Andreas had an earlier date that same day: lunch with Geoffrey, who at the Malachi dinner had agreed to explain why he had given up the kingdom of poetry for life in an office. They met at a seafood restaurant reputed for its shellfish chowders and its deep-sea stews. Andreas was as curious as ever about Geoffrey’s transformation. At that moment, nothing could have been farther from Geoffrey’s mind. As he sat down he was almost giggling with excitement over some new event which, he insisted, he had to tell Andreas about. Andreas: “You as much as promised —” “And I’ll keep my promise. But first —” “At least explain one small thing.” “If I have to.” “What did you mean by ‘your chain-mail pajamas’?” “Oh, that! It was a silly kind of portmanteau metaphor, as if not telling my secret was like hiding inside a suit of armor, but it wasn’t solid armor just chain mail, and not even a suit, just pajamas. I was only poking fun at myself for being such a ninny, not telling friends like you, not even telling Margot. I thanked you for putting an end to such nonsense. Will that do?” “Sure. So what’s got you so agitated today?”
“Do you know Sean Davies?” “The alderman?” “The alderman. As you know, we have no
