LITMIR.BIZ

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a problem that does not exist.

      ‘Or Washington.’

      ‘In your dreams.’

      ‘Well, thanks for your support.’

      It is still light outside. Saul puts down his fork and twists around. A flicker of eye contact, and then he looks away, the top row of his teeth pressing down on a reddened bottom lip.

      ‘Look. Whatever. You’d be good at it.’

      He doesn’t believe that for a second.

      ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’

      ‘No, I do.’ He plays with his unfinished food, looking at me again. ‘Have you thought about what it would be like to live abroad? I mean, is that what you really want?’

      For the first time it strikes me that I may have confused the notion of serving the state with a longstanding desire to run away from London, from Kate, and from CEBDO. This makes me feel foolish. I am suddenly drunk on weak American beer.

      ‘Saul, all I want to do is put something back in. Living abroad or living here, it doesn’t matter. And the Foreign Office is one way of doing that.’

      ‘Put something back into what?’

      ‘The country.’

      ‘What is that? You don’t owe anyone. Who do you owe? The queen? The empire? The Conservative Party?’

      ‘Now you’re just being glib.’

      ‘No, I’m not. I’m serious. The only people you owe are your friends and your family. That’s it. Loyalty to the Crown, improving Britain’s image abroad, whatever bullshit they try to feed you, that’s an illusion. I don’t want to be rude, but your idea of putting something back into society is just vanity. You’ve always wanted people to rate you.’

      Saul watches carefully for my reaction. What he has just said is actually fairly offensive. I say, ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting people to have a good opinion of you. Why not strive to be the best you can? Just because you’ve always been a cynic doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t go about trying to improve things.’

      ‘Improve things?’ He looks astonished. Neither of us is in the least bit angry.

      ‘Yes. Improve things.’

      ‘That’s not you, Alec. You’re not a charity worker.’

      ‘Don’t you think we’ve been spoiled as a generation? Don’t you think we’ve grown used to the idea of take, take, take?’

      ‘Not really. I work hard for a living. I don’t go around feeling guilty about that.’

      I want to get this theme going, not least because I don’t in all honesty know exactly how I feel about it.

      ‘Well, I really believe we have,’ I say, taking out a cigarette, offering one to Saul. ‘And that’s not because of vanity or guilt or delusion.’

      ‘Believe what?’

      ‘That because none of us have had to struggle or fight for things in our generation we’ve become incredibly indolent and selfish.’

      ‘Where’s this coming from? I’ve never heard you talk like this in your life. What happened, did you see some documentary about the First World War and feel guilty that you didn’t do more to suppress the Hun?’

      ‘Saul…’

      ‘Is that it? Do you think we should start a war with someone, prune the vine a bit, just to make you feel better about living in a free country?’

      ‘Come on. You know I don’t think that.’

      ‘So–what? Is it morality that makes you want to join the Foreign Office?’

      ‘Look. I don’t necessarily think that I’m going to be able to change anything in particular. I just want to do something that feels…significant.’

      ‘What do you mean “significant”?’

      Despite the fact that our conversation has been premised on a lie, there are nevertheless issues emerging here about which I feel strongly. I stand up and walk around, as if being upright will lend some shape to my words.

      ‘You know–something worthwhile, something meaningful, something constructive. I’m sick of just surviving, of all the money I earn being plowed back into rent and bills and taxes. It’s okay for you. You don’t have to pay anything on this place. At least you’ve met your landlord.’

      ‘You’ve never met your landlord?’

      ‘No.’ I am gesticulating like a TV preacher. ‘Every month I write a cheque for four hundred and eighty quid to a Mr J. Sarkar–I don’t even know his first name. He owns an entire block in Uxbridge Road: flats, shops, taxi ranks, you name it. It’s not like he needs the money. Every penny I earn seems to go toward making sure that somebody else is more comfortable than I am.’

      Saul extinguishes his cigarette in a pile of cold noodles. He looks suddenly awkward. Money talk always brings that out in him. Rich guilt.

      ‘I’ve got the answer,’ he says, trying to lift himself out of it. ‘You need to get yourself an ideology, Alec. You’ve got nothing to believe in.’

      ‘What do you suggest? Maybe I should become a born-again Christian, start playing guitar at Holy Trinity Brompton and holding prayer meetings.’

      ‘Why not? We could say grace whenever you come round for dinner. You’d get a tremendous kick out of feeling superior to everyone.’

      ‘At university I always wanted to be one of those guys selling Living Marxist. Imagine having that much faith.’

      ‘It’s a little passé,’ Saul says. ‘And cold during the winter months.’

      I pour the last dregs of my beer into a glass and take a swig that is sour and dry. On the muted television screen the Nine o’Clock News is beginning. We both look up to see the headlines. Then Saul switches it off.

      ‘Game of chess?’

      ‘Sure.’

      We play the opening moves swiftly, the thunk of the pieces falling regularly on the strong wooden surface. I love that sound. There are no early captures, no immediate attacks. We exchange bishops, castle king-side, push pawns. Neither one of us is prepared to do anything risky. Saul keeps up an impression of easy joviality, making gags and farting away the stir-fry, but I know that, like me, he is concealing a deep desire to win.

      After twenty-odd moves, the game is choking up. If Saul wants it, there’s the possibility of a three-piece swap in the centre of the board that will reap two pawns and a knight each, but it isn’t clear who will be left with the advantage if the exchange takes place. Saul ponders things, staring intently at the board, occasionally taking a gulp of wine. To hurry him along I say, ‘Is it my go?’ and he says, ‘No. Me. Sorry, taking a long time.’ Then he thinks for another three or four minutes. My guess is he’ll shift his rook into the centre of the back rank, freeing it to move down the middle.

      ‘I’m going for a piss.’

      ‘Make your move first.’

      ‘I’ll do it when I come back,’ he sighs, standing up and making his way down the hall.

      What I do next is achieved almost without thinking. I listen for the sound of the bathroom door closing, then quickly advance the pawn on the f-file a single space. I retract my right hand and study the difference in the shape of the game. The pawn is protected there by a knight and another pawn, and it will, in three or four moves’ time, provide a two-pronged defence when I slide in to attack Saul’s king. It’s a simple, minute adjustment to the game that should go unnoticed in the thick gathering of pieces fighting for control of the centre.

      When he returns from the bathroom, Saul’s eyes

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