So who could it be? If only Connie was alive, he could seek her advice. It could only be one of the old guard, and yet they are all either too old or dead. Still, it can only be one of them. Animosity doesn't always diminish with age. If anything, if they wanted revenge they were running out of time. Only one of the two; his closest ally - Toby Esterhase - and his fiercest enemy - Karla.
Smiley always knew that which he would never admit to - Esterhase wasn't an ally. They were on the same side but he would never consider Toby and ally. Being an ally implies equality. Smiley always considered himself superior. Esterhase was the muscle. Smiley was the brain. The former being subservient to the latter. Executing orders. Getting his hands dirty. Worse, and Smiley felt unease having to admit this even to himself, Esterhase was never 'one of us'. Yes, he was risking his life for Britain on a daily basis. Still, he was a foreigner. A Hungarian. One of those countries that lacked any real identity. Lacking spine. It was never overtly mentioned, but Esterhase always felt it. And Smiley knew Esterhase must have resented it. Resented him, Smiley, for at once never fully trusting him yet taking him for granted. This was Toby's one chance to turn the tables. No longer subservient. At the death the Muscle has triumphed over the Brain. Literally and without any subtlety. The Esterhase way.
Or could it be Karla? They're lives interlinked. In a way they grew up together, through the ranks, on opposite sides. They were connected. They only met a few times, but there was a level of intimacy between them that was not according to protocol. Smiley was running through those moments in his mind.
Delhi. In an interrogation cell. Karla captured in a prisoner's uniform. And still, he had all the power. Smiley trying to cajole him into talking. Into giving anything away. Sweating. And Karla just sitting there. Silent. Smoking. Then he did the unimaginable: when Smiley offered him a light, Karla slowly, knowingly, took the lighter and, looking defiantly at Smiley, put it in his pocket.
Bern. In a secluded mental health clinic. Smiley visiting Tatiana - Karla's daughter. Gentle and considerate, Smiley taking the role of a loving uncle. Every show of tenderness mirroring the cruelty of using this fragile young women to lure Karla into defection. His defection being Smiley's biggest triumph.
And it is this triumphant feeling that Smiley was now regretting. He never stopped to think that his triumph was Karla's downfall. It did not bring them together. Did not align them on the same side. Karla did not betray his beliefs. He did not disown his ideology. He defected despite them, putting his obligations as a father ahead of his obligations to his country. Only now did Smiley realise that he never stopped to think how Karla must have felt. How he must still be feeling. And it is this realisation that brought Smiley to discount Karla as a suspect. Karla would have wanted Smiley to feel as torn as he did. A bullet to the back of the head brings an end to doubt and guilt. It brings an end to suffering, not cause them.
To be continued . . . .
PS 960km down. 40km to go.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Saturday, 27 November 2010
The misty Heath - continued
The ground was cold. Freezing cold. He was breathing heavily but could not move. Suddenly, he heard the sound of steps and felt the warmth of breath over his face. Then the thick, sticky tongue of a panting dog. A Cocker Spaniel. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, Smiley was alive. The bullet missed the spine and went out out of his left cheek bone.
3 months later and Smiley was sitting in his room in the Royal Free Hospital. An armed PC at the door and Ann by his side. She was always there when it mattered most. His large thick, heavy glasses hanging from the end of his nose. The left lens black, to hide the scar that was all that's left of his eye. His mind was racing trying to explain what happened. The cold war was over. And, even back then, no one would ever order this sort of operation. No one would target the man at the top. Especially not 10 years into his retirement. This could not have been an operation. This was not part of the East vs West battle. This was personal.
Nonetheless, Smiley could not afford to be emotional. Whilst he was raging inside, his animal instincts urging him to track down the assailant and avenge him with his bare hands, he knew his attacker was merely a pawn in a bigger game. Two questions rang constantly through his head: "who?" and "why".
Smiley was running through the list of those who might be behind the attack. It was long. Very long. It's an awkward prism through which to view one's life. One which makes it difficult to feel proud of yourself. What does one have to do to have so many people not only wishing you were dead but actually willing to ensure that you are?
Smiley looked up and noticed the PC standing next to him. He must have been standing there for a while. He had a brown envelope in his hand. It had only one word written on it. One name. Max. Smiley took the envelope with haste, his fingers fumbling to tear it open. Only a handful of people ever new Smiley's alias. In it was a case of a 9mm cartridge. No one could ever mistake its origin - the Pistolet Makarova. The list of suspects has just been cut short. Very short.
To be continued . . . .
PS 950km down. 50km to go.
3 months later and Smiley was sitting in his room in the Royal Free Hospital. An armed PC at the door and Ann by his side. She was always there when it mattered most. His large thick, heavy glasses hanging from the end of his nose. The left lens black, to hide the scar that was all that's left of his eye. His mind was racing trying to explain what happened. The cold war was over. And, even back then, no one would ever order this sort of operation. No one would target the man at the top. Especially not 10 years into his retirement. This could not have been an operation. This was not part of the East vs West battle. This was personal.
Nonetheless, Smiley could not afford to be emotional. Whilst he was raging inside, his animal instincts urging him to track down the assailant and avenge him with his bare hands, he knew his attacker was merely a pawn in a bigger game. Two questions rang constantly through his head: "who?" and "why".
Smiley was running through the list of those who might be behind the attack. It was long. Very long. It's an awkward prism through which to view one's life. One which makes it difficult to feel proud of yourself. What does one have to do to have so many people not only wishing you were dead but actually willing to ensure that you are?
Smiley looked up and noticed the PC standing next to him. He must have been standing there for a while. He had a brown envelope in his hand. It had only one word written on it. One name. Max. Smiley took the envelope with haste, his fingers fumbling to tear it open. Only a handful of people ever new Smiley's alias. In it was a case of a 9mm cartridge. No one could ever mistake its origin - the Pistolet Makarova. The list of suspects has just been cut short. Very short.
To be continued . . . .
PS 950km down. 50km to go.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Who cares?
A few days ago the news broke that two twenty-something year olds of limited achievement are engaged to be married. Surprisingly, the news sent waves beyond their immediate families. And I am not talking about Auntie Rose or Uncle Dermot. I am talking worldwide audiences. As you will have guessed by now, I am referring to Will & Kate.
At first I didn't pay it much attention. After a while I realised W&K were dominating the news cycle, and then taking over the national agenda. The first question that came to mind was: "Who cares?" or, to be honest, "Who the f*** cares?". Not me and naturally I assumed none of my friends. Boy did I get that one wrong. You see, every conservation I had this weekend started with the words: "What do you think about the Royal wedding?"
So, let's examine this a bit further. It could be that my friends think I am interested and are playing to the audience. Well, that means they don't know me at all, which is a bit worrying. Maybe they think I have a general interest in current affairs and are therefore discussing it in the same way they would mention Tiananmen Square. Well, whilst this is a complement, it would mean that they think too highly of me which implies that don't know me well enough, and we are back at square one. Another option is that they have run out of things to talk with me about. Well, that could be because (a) they think I am dull - true indeed, but something I hoped would take them longer to realise - or (b) that they themselves are, which would reflect badly on me and is, therefore, an unthinkable. The only possible explanation, having scientifically ruled out all other theorys, is that they are genuinely interested in the topic.
So, the answer to the question: "Who the f*** cares?" is simple: everybody!
The real question, however, is "Why?", and I think I have the answer. It is not that everybody is a Royalist. Most people are not. It is not because people believe in the divine right of the kings; they don't. Nor is it because of an allegiance to the sovereign. The reason is, once again, simple; W&K are interesting because they are red-hot juicy celebrity gossip. What differentiates them from Jordan & Peter is that they are legit, bottom shelf, BBC News, Guardian-front-page celebrity gossip. J&P are much more accomplished and probably more interesting people than W&K. Different to J&P, however, you can read about W&K without feeling embarrassed.
Which brings me to the following conclusion: everyone is interested in celebrity gossip, they are simply too embarrassed admit it. Like artistic nude photo books, W&K find themselves on the same coffee tables of educated, middle class people, which would never see an OK, News of the World or a porn magazines. As is clear from the interest in W&K, however, we would all love to see them there.
PS 940km down. 60km to go.
PS2 Apologies to MGF M. The cake from yesterday's blog-post is not a poor-man's 36-egger, it is made with 48 eggs. My sincere apologies.
At first I didn't pay it much attention. After a while I realised W&K were dominating the news cycle, and then taking over the national agenda. The first question that came to mind was: "Who cares?" or, to be honest, "Who the f*** cares?". Not me and naturally I assumed none of my friends. Boy did I get that one wrong. You see, every conservation I had this weekend started with the words: "What do you think about the Royal wedding?"
So, let's examine this a bit further. It could be that my friends think I am interested and are playing to the audience. Well, that means they don't know me at all, which is a bit worrying. Maybe they think I have a general interest in current affairs and are therefore discussing it in the same way they would mention Tiananmen Square. Well, whilst this is a complement, it would mean that they think too highly of me which implies that don't know me well enough, and we are back at square one. Another option is that they have run out of things to talk with me about. Well, that could be because (a) they think I am dull - true indeed, but something I hoped would take them longer to realise - or (b) that they themselves are, which would reflect badly on me and is, therefore, an unthinkable. The only possible explanation, having scientifically ruled out all other theorys, is that they are genuinely interested in the topic.
So, the answer to the question: "Who the f*** cares?" is simple: everybody!
The real question, however, is "Why?", and I think I have the answer. It is not that everybody is a Royalist. Most people are not. It is not because people believe in the divine right of the kings; they don't. Nor is it because of an allegiance to the sovereign. The reason is, once again, simple; W&K are interesting because they are red-hot juicy celebrity gossip. What differentiates them from Jordan & Peter is that they are legit, bottom shelf, BBC News, Guardian-front-page celebrity gossip. J&P are much more accomplished and probably more interesting people than W&K. Different to J&P, however, you can read about W&K without feeling embarrassed.
Which brings me to the following conclusion: everyone is interested in celebrity gossip, they are simply too embarrassed admit it. Like artistic nude photo books, W&K find themselves on the same coffee tables of educated, middle class people, which would never see an OK, News of the World or a porn magazines. As is clear from the interest in W&K, however, we would all love to see them there.
PS 940km down. 60km to go.
PS2 Apologies to MGF M. The cake from yesterday's blog-post is not a poor-man's 36-egger, it is made with 48 eggs. My sincere apologies.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
The Slava
MGF M is celebrating the Slava (Слава) tomorrow - the Serbian Orthodox tradition of the ritual celebration, veneration, and observance of a family's own patron saint. Sounds very devout, doesn't it? In reality the Slava is a humongous, day-long food & drink fest.
The Slava revolves around a pig. The pig itself revolves - over the grill, which in turn is smoking from the dripping fat and is fuelled by the vapour of alcohol in the air. The alcohol in turn is absolutely necessary in order to dissolve the proteins. As MGF M would say: "Can you believe this cake? Not 12, not 24 but 36 eggs!" And not any alcohol. I've made an effort you see. It has to be a Rakija - a clear fruit-based distillation: Sljivovica - plum, Lozovaca - grape, Viljamovka - pear, or Jabukovaca - apple. And lots of it.
Now, M takes this very seriously. He has a glass of Rakija for every one of his guests. You'd imagine that's a lot. More than 100 guests easily translates to more than 100 shots. And it is A LOT. The thing is, he has a shot with every shot he pours to any of his guests. And that's a number so big I do not have enough space for here. How he ends the evening standing God only knows. I guess his family saint is looking after him.
PS 930km down 70km to go.
The Slava revolves around a pig. The pig itself revolves - over the grill, which in turn is smoking from the dripping fat and is fuelled by the vapour of alcohol in the air. The alcohol in turn is absolutely necessary in order to dissolve the proteins. As MGF M would say: "Can you believe this cake? Not 12, not 24 but 36 eggs!" And not any alcohol. I've made an effort you see. It has to be a Rakija - a clear fruit-based distillation: Sljivovica - plum, Lozovaca - grape, Viljamovka - pear, or Jabukovaca - apple. And lots of it.
Now, M takes this very seriously. He has a glass of Rakija for every one of his guests. You'd imagine that's a lot. More than 100 guests easily translates to more than 100 shots. And it is A LOT. The thing is, he has a shot with every shot he pours to any of his guests. And that's a number so big I do not have enough space for here. How he ends the evening standing God only knows. I guess his family saint is looking after him.
PS 930km down 70km to go.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
To vent or not to vent?
Our house is divided, straight down the middle, on a very important question: "what should one do if someone close to them upsets them?" MBH comes from a long and thick line of psychotherapists. Talking about it, whatever 'it' happens to be is the default answer. I come from a much longer line of "if-it-ain't-nice-don't-say-it" believers. Their God is Freud, ours is . . . well, common sense.
Now, in theory, I get the "it's-good-to-talk" perspective. In theory, not only does it allow the cathartic joys of venting one's anger and frustrations, it actually resolves issues. Now that's all good, assuming the person on the other end is properly equipped: i.e. they can and want to listen as well as take criticism constructively. Unfortunately, more often than not, in my experience, most people are not of this ilk. Once the venting is over you end up, at best, with a torrent of abuse coming your way, at worse, with deadly silence and eternal grudge bearing.
So, what is it? To vent or not to vent? Is that the question? Hell no. That's only where it starts. You see, adhering to the "if-it-ain't . . ." school of thought is not only a life choice, it is, in the eyes of the "it's-good-to-talk" school an admission of guilt - obviously you cannot listen and or take criticism. All of which leaves me in a catch-22, which makes me increasingly angry and frustrated yet, to be absolutely clearly, I do NOT want to talk about it!
PS 920km down. 80km to go.
Now, in theory, I get the "it's-good-to-talk" perspective. In theory, not only does it allow the cathartic joys of venting one's anger and frustrations, it actually resolves issues. Now that's all good, assuming the person on the other end is properly equipped: i.e. they can and want to listen as well as take criticism constructively. Unfortunately, more often than not, in my experience, most people are not of this ilk. Once the venting is over you end up, at best, with a torrent of abuse coming your way, at worse, with deadly silence and eternal grudge bearing.
So, what is it? To vent or not to vent? Is that the question? Hell no. That's only where it starts. You see, adhering to the "if-it-ain't . . ." school of thought is not only a life choice, it is, in the eyes of the "it's-good-to-talk" school an admission of guilt - obviously you cannot listen and or take criticism. All of which leaves me in a catch-22, which makes me increasingly angry and frustrated yet, to be absolutely clearly, I do NOT want to talk about it!
PS 920km down. 80km to go.
Schadenfreude
A few years ago I competed for a role at work. I was made for the job and the job was made for me. Really. I was the one who recommended its creation to the board. It was just my thing; a combination of strategy and execution, relationships and hard revenue targets. The works. As you may have guessed, I didn't get it.
Now, there is a strong likelihood that you are thinking I am a delusional idiot for not realising I clearly wasn't the man for the job. And you'd be right too. Otherwise I would have gotten it. Still, it hurt. Especially so since, as much I thought I was "the man" I genuinely thought my competitor - let's call him W - wasn't. It really hurt.
A year passed and W did not do as well as he expected. Spectacularly so; W managed to get himself, and his entire team, sacked. Or should I use the more PC term "made redundant". Within minutes I started getting calls from dozens of people who thought I would be interested to hear about it. They were right. I was. With every call a wonderful feeling spread further through my veins - the wonderful Schadenfreude.
Now you may have noticed Schadenfreude is not an olde English word. Naturally, it is German. The interesting thing is that there is no English translation. You need a minimum of 6 words to do it justice - "satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune".
You see, Schadenfreude is not very English. One should not take pleasure in someone else's misfortune. Not very nice is it? The closest English word is . . . well, there isn't one. The online thesaurus draws a blank. A related word is 'comeuppance' - "deserved reward or just deserts, usually unpleasant". One can justly end up suffering for their actions but, you know, no one should enjoy it.
And yet, I enjoy Schadenfreude immensely. Actually, whenever I can. You see, the thing about Schadenfreude is that it only applies when you have nothing to do with the other person's downfall. Any hint of responsibility and it is no longer Schadenfreude, it is just being mean. Schadenfreude is merely bad. And a little bit of bad I don't mind. Well, clearly I am not English.
PS 910km down. 90km to go.
Now, there is a strong likelihood that you are thinking I am a delusional idiot for not realising I clearly wasn't the man for the job. And you'd be right too. Otherwise I would have gotten it. Still, it hurt. Especially so since, as much I thought I was "the man" I genuinely thought my competitor - let's call him W - wasn't. It really hurt.
A year passed and W did not do as well as he expected. Spectacularly so; W managed to get himself, and his entire team, sacked. Or should I use the more PC term "made redundant". Within minutes I started getting calls from dozens of people who thought I would be interested to hear about it. They were right. I was. With every call a wonderful feeling spread further through my veins - the wonderful Schadenfreude.
Now you may have noticed Schadenfreude is not an olde English word. Naturally, it is German. The interesting thing is that there is no English translation. You need a minimum of 6 words to do it justice - "satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune".
You see, Schadenfreude is not very English. One should not take pleasure in someone else's misfortune. Not very nice is it? The closest English word is . . . well, there isn't one. The online thesaurus draws a blank. A related word is 'comeuppance' - "deserved reward or just deserts, usually unpleasant". One can justly end up suffering for their actions but, you know, no one should enjoy it.
And yet, I enjoy Schadenfreude immensely. Actually, whenever I can. You see, the thing about Schadenfreude is that it only applies when you have nothing to do with the other person's downfall. Any hint of responsibility and it is no longer Schadenfreude, it is just being mean. Schadenfreude is merely bad. And a little bit of bad I don't mind. Well, clearly I am not English.
PS 910km down. 90km to go.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The-worse-is-behind-me
10 days in and 41 to go. The 51 days from the day we turned the clocks back from BST to GMT to the shortest day of the year. Always the most difficult time of the year for me. I don't mind coming back home at night - I do most days - but I hate leaving home when it is still dark. Hate it.
So, here is the question: how come is it that it is these 51 days rather than the shortest 51 days of the year that I find so difficult? The 20th of December should feel similar to the 22nd - they are equally short days, are they not? Clearly. And, super-extra-clearly, how can the 1st of November be worse than the 22nd of December, which is almost 2 hours shorter? Makes no sense. Indeed. It makes no sense. And still, that's how I feel about it. You see, I am a "the-worse-is-behind-me" sort of guy. I am in most things. For example, running; the first half is always more difficult than the second, even though the body should be more tired having run half the way already.
Same goes with the Great Recession. By no means are things getting easier. The longer it lasts the more will all of us be eating into our reserves. Many of us to breaking point. At the same time I think the likelihood of failure of one of the large economies is much smaller. The big bank-collapses are hopefully behind us. By God, even Ford Motor Company made a profit last quarter.
So, I can end this post with an optimistic note. Whilst it is still 41 days before the days start getting longer, we are more likely to afford candles for Hanuka and turkey for Christmas.
PS 905km down. 95km to go.
So, here is the question: how come is it that it is these 51 days rather than the shortest 51 days of the year that I find so difficult? The 20th of December should feel similar to the 22nd - they are equally short days, are they not? Clearly. And, super-extra-clearly, how can the 1st of November be worse than the 22nd of December, which is almost 2 hours shorter? Makes no sense. Indeed. It makes no sense. And still, that's how I feel about it. You see, I am a "the-worse-is-behind-me" sort of guy. I am in most things. For example, running; the first half is always more difficult than the second, even though the body should be more tired having run half the way already.
Same goes with the Great Recession. By no means are things getting easier. The longer it lasts the more will all of us be eating into our reserves. Many of us to breaking point. At the same time I think the likelihood of failure of one of the large economies is much smaller. The big bank-collapses are hopefully behind us. By God, even Ford Motor Company made a profit last quarter.
So, I can end this post with an optimistic note. Whilst it is still 41 days before the days start getting longer, we are more likely to afford candles for Hanuka and turkey for Christmas.
PS 905km down. 95km to go.
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Many happy returns
50 years. Half a century! MBB is reaching a major milestone today.
Started with a decade of extremes: Warhol & Woodstock v the assassination of Martin Luther King, The assassination of JFK and the moon landing he initiated. Some Like It Hot and Marilyn's suicide. Israel went from existential peril to the euphoria following the 6-day war.
Then the 70s, and the end of the Vietnam war but also Watergate. Glam rock v Abba. The Godfather and Metzitzim v The Fiddler on the Roof. And Israel, coming from near annihilation in the Yom Kipur war to peace with Egypt and glorious wins in the Eurovision (twice) and the European Basketball Champions Cup (twice). To quote Tal Brody: "we are on the map and we are staying on the map!"
The 80s. Dynasty and big shoulder pads. Perestroika and the fall of the Berlin Wall v Tiananmen Square. Columbia, the first space shuttle took off and the Challenger never came back. Lennon was murdered. Punk. Not related. AIDS. Wall Street with Gordon "greed is good" Gekko. And in Israel, another war. This time a very long one.
Started with a decade of extremes: Warhol & Woodstock v the assassination of Martin Luther King, The assassination of JFK and the moon landing he initiated. Some Like It Hot and Marilyn's suicide. Israel went from existential peril to the euphoria following the 6-day war.
Then the 70s, and the end of the Vietnam war but also Watergate. Glam rock v Abba. The Godfather and Metzitzim v The Fiddler on the Roof. And Israel, coming from near annihilation in the Yom Kipur war to peace with Egypt and glorious wins in the Eurovision (twice) and the European Basketball Champions Cup (twice). To quote Tal Brody: "we are on the map and we are staying on the map!"
The 80s. Dynasty and big shoulder pads. Perestroika and the fall of the Berlin Wall v Tiananmen Square. Columbia, the first space shuttle took off and the Challenger never came back. Lennon was murdered. Punk. Not related. AIDS. Wall Street with Gordon "greed is good" Gekko. And in Israel, another war. This time a very long one.
Then the 90s. Clinton and Monica. The first Gulf war. Yugoslavia fell apart - war raged in central Europe for the first time in 50 years. The Rwanda massacre. Dolly the sheep and the PC. Seinfeld. Nirvana and the Spice Girls. Forrest Gump beating Pulp Fiction for best picture. The Oslo Accord - Arafat and Rabin shaking hands for peace. Rabin soon paid with his life.
A new millennium. 9/11. The World Trade Center collapsing live on TV. Al Qaeda. Iraq & Afghanistan. The decade of the mobile phone and the Internet. Google. iPhone. The decade in which Global Warming came to the fore. Tsunami, Katrina. The Human Genome and the LHC. The Euro. The great recession. China and the rest of the BRICS. Harry Potter. The Sopranos. The decade when TV made the movies irrelevant. A black man with a Muslim middle name - highly intelligent, uniquely articulate and extremely good looking but still, a black man, was voted American President!
50 years. And I am so happy for him.
And yet, really sad for not being there to celebrate with him. 4,000km is quite a distance. And I feel it even more today. Enjoy your day MBB. Hope to celebrate it with you when we meet next. Many, many happy returns.
PS 900km down. Only 100km to go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
