Jake Arnott - The House of Rumour

And gambling is certainly a huge problem here. American gangsters use our country as a playground with all their casinos in Havana. Come the day, we will kick every one of them out. But Cubans are not immune to gaming tables themselves. We’ll probably keep the lottery after the revolution (one of the few nationalised industries, after all, though terribly corrupt). And there are so many people involved in the business that there’ll have to be a transitional period. We discussed it in a meeting last week and called for the appointment of a Commissar for Games and Chance (I’m already thinking of applying).

Seriously, though, Cuba’s curse is that it has become a bountiful source of pleasure for others. We are so good at indulging vice in what we produce: sugar, rum, tobacco, prostitution and, of course, betting. This place is a Garden of Earthly Delights for foreign tourists, while so many of our own people live in poverty. But now we have a chance to change everything and create our own utopia. Nowhere has there been a greater opportunity for a genuine revolution, a permanent revolution. I feel such optimism that it almost scares me, Larry. Remember how I said when we first met that I had always been too late, historically speaking. Too late to join the militias in Spain; too late to meet Trotsky in Mexico. Well, now my time is here, I’m sure of it. I’m in absolutely the right place at the right moment. A real jonbar point, if you like. I wish you could be here to see it, my friend. Come, if you can.

Because the struggle has to be international, universal. I truly believe that change here can change everything. The whole world is watching, and maybe beyond too. Remember I told you and Mary-Lou about Tommaso Campanella and his uprising in Calabria. In the dialect there they had this word for it: mutazione (like mutation, remember those ‘mutant’ stories in Astounding ?). Anyway, mutazione means not only a worldly revolution but also an astronomical shift, a time of cosmic change. And there are signs of it in the sky.

Yeah, I know you think I’m crazy but I’ve seen them again. There is definitely extraterrestrial activity close by, observing. I’ve seen UFOs over the Florida Straits on a couple of occasions. And I think I know now why they didn’t make contact before, in America. They simply weren’t interested. If they detect a real civilisation that they can communicate directly with, or at least the possibility of one, then we might see something spectacular. Now, with the launch of the Sputniks, and the demonstration that socialism can beat capitalism into orbit, we are surely ready for extraordinary advancements in science and society. Maybe we are not alone (and I’m not alone with my mad interstellar ideas — there has been much discussion of these concepts among the Latin American Bureau of the Fourth International). Perhaps we can solve that old conundrum of ours: we can change the world and build spaceships.

Back on earth the struggle continues. Batista’s regime is collapsing. Castro now controls almost all the countryside in Oriente. Cienfuegos and Guevara are advancing rapidly westwards through Las Villas. The people of Havana are ready to rise up and take control of the city. The future holds many risks and uncertainties in this glorious venture. This has always been the biggest gamble in history. That great spin of the wheel that we call the Revolution.

Hasta la victoria, siempre (a Rebel Army slogan),

And affectionate regards,

Nemo

He closes his eyes on a true darkness, submits his will to nothingness. The void. The empty, parallel world where he is zero. Everything descending into blackness: matter, energy, information.

Now.

He is on his knees, face at her feet in calm supplication. Nose up against toes that flex and creak in polished hide. He tries to kiss the glossy leather but she shifts her weight to stoop down over him. With gloved hands she loops the collar around his neck, buckles it, clips the dog leash on. She straightens up.

‘Hup!’ she commands with a swift tug of the lead.

His head jerks back. He feels a jolt of power run through him. That almost forgotten impulse of desire. Good Lord, he thinks with a wistful smile, there’s life in the old dog yet.

‘Open your eyes,’ she tells him.

He looks up. Booted and stockinged legs bestride his face. He sets his gaze on her pelvis thrusting forward, girdled in black lace. She grabs a meagre fistful of his wispy grey hair. Pins and needles tingle his scalp.

‘Naughty boy.’ She holds his head an inch or two from her crotch. ‘You want this, don’t you?’

‘Please,’ he whimpers.

‘But do you know what I’ve got for you there?’

He thinks for a moment. She glares down at his wrinkled, frowning face.

‘Whatever you care to give me, Mistress.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Good boy.’

Marius Trevelyan had first spotted her on his way to Curzon Street on the morning he was recalled by the Service. She was tip-toeing up Shepherd Market on high heels. A short black bob, a fur-trimmed jacket, buttocks twitching in a tight skirt with that absurd erotic waddle. It was just before 9 a.m. but she wasn’t on her way to work, he decided. Oh no, on her way back, more like. He picked up his stride and followed at a discreet distance. All his years in retirement hadn’t blunted his appetite to pursue and observe. He felt a twinge of lust and an odd sense of recognition. She had finished for the night. She was coming off the game.

Coming off the game. Just as he had so many times. Only to be pulled back by the Service to consult on some little project or other. They never quite let you go, just kept you dangling. Trevelyan noted the hint of a swagger in this tart’s gait. A little too much emphasis in the upper body, he thought. Yes, that was interesting. Maybe this one really was in the same trade as he was.

The Curzon Street offices were not as changed as he had feared. He had imagined banks of computers replacing the musty confusion of Archive and Registry, the gloom of partitioned offices torn down and replaced in a bright and unforgiving open-plan. But as he made his way along the corridor, it seemed still the same dank labyrinth he had known from his days at Information Research.

The director of his old department was a woman. That was the shock he could not quite adjust to. Oh, he knew he had to. After all, there had been eight years of a female prime minister. They were everywhere in power these days. He remembered this one from when she was an assistant desk officer fresh from the Colonial Service. She’d had long hair then, and a habit of wearing exotic Indian silks. Now she had a cropped fringe and a skirt suit with shoulder pads. He noted the flat shoes when she stood up to greet him. Sensible shoes, isn’t that what they called them? She had beady, intelligent eyes.

‘Thank you so much for coming in, Sir Marius,’ she said, shaking his hand.

‘Not much choice,’ he retorted a little too sharply, baring his teeth in a grin. ‘You know, one is never completely retired. Just in suspended animation.’

She offered him a drink. Not a real one of course. That was another thing of the past.

‘There’s not a problem with this recall, is there?’ she asked him.

‘No, no.’ He shrugged.

‘You’ll be reporting directly to me, but if there is any, well, difficulty, we now have a staff counsellor.’

‘A what?’

‘It’s a new post. An independent officer that any member of the Service can consult with, concerning any problem that they might not feel able to discuss with their line management.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘We set it up after that officer from Counter-Subversion went to the press about being asked to carry out inappropriate investigations.’