Tom Rachman - The Rise & Fall of Great Powers

“I know you didn’t, Humph. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, please. Don’t thank me,” he said. “I can’t bear it if you thank me. Please, don’t thank me.” He leaned forward, rested his hand atop hers, head bowed, and she saw the crown of his rumpled gray hair.

She exhaled, very slowly.

“I’d like to make you coffee,” he said.

“Let me.”

“Would you?” he responded, as if amazed at such generosity. “Thank you, do. Thank you, do.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, dry lips grazing her fingernails.

She walked fast to the communal bathrooms, hugging herself to stifle her distress. She splashed water on her face. He had been forced to use these toilets, these filthy shower stalls, for years. She returned with his mug. This time he drank not in big drafts but slowly, sipping like a connoisseur, like one who wants to pay attention.

As she patted his veiny old hand, it occurred to her that not only would he soon not exist but that, when she no longer existed, no trace of this man would remain anywhere. It would be as if Humphrey, now pulsing before her, had never been. Within a generation or two, not even your photo was identifiable: just a person, at some forgotten event, in old-fashioned clothes, the distractions and appetites of that day lost, an image framed halfway down a stairwell, or stuck in a drawer, or saved in digital code. Once you; in time, a stranger to all.

Upon leaving the building, she dialed Fogg, needing to be transported from this time and this place. As the call clicked through the circuits — in that instant of hissing quiet — she anticipated his buoyant voice. Yet by the first ring, regret gripped her. She had to tell him definitively.

It was the first time they’d spoken in weeks, and Fogg had much to recount. “Where do I even start? We’ve had drama of the highest order here in Caergenog: police are investigating criminal damage to two pushed-over fence posts on Dyfed Lane.”

She smiled. “I miss being there.”

“Yes, yes — what torment,” he said, “you living it up there in New York City.”

“Did you talk to any bookstores in Hay yet?” she asked. “I told you — sparkling reference from me, whenever you want.”

“That’s settled then, is it? You’re not coming back?”

She shook her head, said nothing. “I have to stop your wages soon. I’m so sorry, Fogg. World’s End is yours for a penny, if you want it. All stock included. You’d still have to cover the rent. And utilities. Probably, I should pay you to take the place. Would if I could.”

That evening, she lay in bed, remembering Xavi — lately, she kept thinking of him. She went upstairs to help herself to a drink, and awoke one of the McGrorys’ laptops. She typed in his name: Xavier Karamage. As ever, the only result was a middle-aged white businessman with a red mustache, the director of a company at the International Financial Services Centre in Dublin.

She called the number. There was no answer — it would be dawn on the other side of the Atlantic. So she waited. At 4:12 A.M. Connecticut time, she tried again. A receptionist picked up. It was good luck, the woman remarked, since the company staffed the office only one day a week. Tooly asked if Mr. Karamage was present. He was not. Further questioning indicated that he didn’t often appear — indeed, the receptionist had yet to meet him, despite having worked there for two years.

“The name is so unusual,” Tooly said. “African, right?”

“No, no. American, I think. But, sorry, what can I help you with?”

Tooly asked for a number where Mr. Karamage might be reached, but the receptionist wasn’t disclosing it. Tooly could leave a message, and Mr. Karamage would reply at his leisure. The problem was, Tooly explained, she’d been ordered by her boss to send a birthday present to Mr. Karamage. The courier required a phone number to take the delivery. And the gift had to get there on time, or her boss would murder her.

“Sorry. Can’t give out his number.”

The receptionist suggested that Tooly send the gift to the office. Though, of course, it was hard to say when he’d receive it, since he hadn’t been there in two years. After much coaxing, the receptionist gave a long sigh, then put Tooly on hold, returning finally with a mailing address in rural Ireland. She was not giving out any phone numbers, but Tooly could try sending the gift there.

Tooly stayed awake for another hour until Duncan arose. She asked if he might arrange for Yelena to do more hours with Humphrey that week, and if Bridget could make alternative arrangements for Mac. She apologized profusely, but there was a crisis at the shop — she had to fly back immediately.

But it wasn’t to Wales that she flew.

TOOLY KNELT ON A CHAIR at the sink and turned on the taps, organizing dirty plates and cutlery. Steam rose and sweat trickled down her brow as she gazed into the swirling dishwater. Briefly, the name of this city was lost to her. What was outside this house? She dropped a knife into the water, its surface sliced with a plop, tossing up a grape of liquid that peaked, flopped back within itself, the suds sliding closed. How strange, she thought, that there were people doing other things right at this moment in different places. Everyone she’d ever known was alive somewhere, thinking different things.

“Can I have coffee again today?” she asked Humphrey when he entered. In her early days here, Coca-Cola had been her morning refreshment, but she had copied him lately, drinking instant coffee with cream and lots of sugar, establishing a way of taking it that was uniquely hers. Nothing felt quite so grown-up as having ways particular to oneself.

During her time in this house, she had discovered not only coffee but extraordinary books, too. Much of what Humphrey lent bemused her: blocks of text, abstractions about “will” and “reason” and “negative potentialities”; or grim histories about the NKVD and the Nazis. She did her best to read a few pages — just enough to pose questions. Today, he was explaining politics in Russia.

“There is long tradition,” he began. “First, we must have bald leader. After, hairy leader. Bald, then hairy. Tsar Alexander II, he is bald. Then, Nicholas II. He got hair. Next comes Lvov. Bald like cucumber. Then Kerensky. Lots of hair. Lenin is very bald. Who must come next? Stalin.”

“He was hairy?”

“This is reason he wins leadership battle. Trotsky also has fool head of hair, so it is close race. But Stalin has more. Also, he is more idiot. So he wins. After hairy Stalin, they need bald. They look around Politburo and see Khrushchev — perfect! Then Brezhnev, also fool head of hair. Then Andropov: bald. Chernenko: hair. Gorbachev: bald.”

“With the stain on his head?”

“Yes, but you don’t make fun of. It’s not nice.”

“I wasn’t making fun of,” she said. “Humphrey?”

“Yes, darlink.”

“You know more than anyone I ever met.”

He shied away from this, as if tickled under the chin. “When I was little boy like you—”

“I’m not a little boy.”

“Little girl.”

“You weren’t a little girl.”

“Tooly, stop. I am trying to instruct in historical materialism. When I was little boy like you, we have horse at bottom of garden and get fresh milk every morning.”

“You milked a horse?”

“No, no, no. We milk cow. Also, there is orchard for eating fruit. Once, I throw middle bit of apricot — what this is called?”

“The pit?”

“I throw pit in eye of girl by mistake. I am very frightened that she is blind and I go to prison.”

“You did go to prison.”

“Not for apricot pit. Because of Communist Party idiots.”