Lionel Shriver - Game Control

Copyright Table of Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen endpapers about the book Praise for Game Control About the Author Also by Lionel Shriver About the Publisher

Dedication Table of Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen endpapers about the book Praise for Game Control About the Author Also by Lionel Shriver About the Publisher

The most dignified thing for a worm to do is to sit up and sit still. Henry Adams Table of Contents Cover Table of Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen endpapers about the book Praise for Game Control About the Author Also by Lionel Shriver About the Publisher

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

endpapers

about the book

Praise for Game Control

About the Author

Also by Lionel Shriver

About the Publisher

Not on the list,” the askari declared grandly.

“Perhaps …” the other voice oiled, deceptively polite, “one of the organizers … Dr. Kendrick?” Exaggerated patience made a mockery of good manners.

With the bad luck that would characterize the next five days, Aaron Spring was just passing the entranceway. Swell . The last thing any population conference needed was Calvin Piper.

The Director bustled brusquely to the door. “It’s quite all right,” he assured the African with a sticky smile. “This is Dr. Piper. Is there some problem with his registration?”

“This man is not on my list,” the askari insisted.

“There must have been some oversight.” Spring scanned the clipboard. “Let’s enter him in, so this doesn’t happen again.”

The Kikuyu glared. “Not with that animal.”

Reluctantly, the Director forced himself to look up. Wonderful. A green monkey was gooning on Calvin’s shoulder, teeth bared. Spring slipped the askari twenty shillings. That was not even a dollar, but the price of this visit was just beginning.

The interloper looked interestedly around the foyer, as if pointing out that he had not been here for some time and things might have changed.

“So good to see you.” Spring shook his predecessor’s limp hand.

“Is it?”

“You’re just in time to catch the opening reception. What happened with your registration, man?”

“Not a thing. What registration?”

“There must have been some mistake.”

“Not a-tall. I wasn’t invited.”

Spring winced. Piper had a slight British accent, though his mother was American and he’d spent years in DC. The nattiness of Piper’s tidy sentences made Spring’s voice sound twangy and crass.

The Director led his ward through the sterile lobby. The Kenyatta International Conference Centre was spacious but lacked flair—wooden slatted with the odd acute angle whose determination to seem modern had guaranteed that the architecture would date in a matter of months. Kenyans were proud of the building, the way, Spring reflected, they were so reliably delighted by anything Western, anything they didn’t make. All the world’s enlightened élite seemed enthralled with African culture except the Africans themselves, who would trade quaint thatch for condos at the drop of a hat.

“Couldn’t you at least have left the monkey home?” he appealed.

“Come, Malthus is a good prop, don’t you think? Like Margaret Meade’s stick.”

God rest her soul, Spring had always abhorred Meade’s silly stick. “Just like it.”

Spring hurried ahead. Having assumed the leadership of USAID’s Population Division six long, fatiguing years before, surely by now he might be spared the pawing deference the Director Emeritus still, confound the man, inspired in him. He reminded himself that much of his own work that five years had been repairing the damage Piper had done to the reputation of population assistance worldwide. And by now Spring was well weary of his own staff’s nostalgic stories of Piper’s offensive mouthing off to African presidents. Why, you would never guess from their fond reminiscences that many of those same staff members had ratted on this glorified game-show host at their first opportunity. All right, Spring was aware he wasn’t colourful—he did not travel with a green monkey, he did not gratuitously insult statesmen, he did not detest the very people he was employed to assist, and his pockets did not spill black, red and yellow condoms every time he reached for his handkerchief.

Behind his back Spring vilified Piper, but perhaps to compensate for going all gooey face to face. Here was a character whose politics, having veered so far left they had ended on the far right instead, Spring deplored as uncompassionate and irresponsible. Spring aspired to despise Piper, but he would never get that far. He would only be free to dislike the urbane, unruffleable, horribly wry has-been once sure that Piper adored and respected him first—that is, never.