Free The Call-Girls by Arthur Koestler Page B

between the Scylla of complacency’ (he tapped hard on the left side of the blackboard)‘and the Charybdis of panicky hysteria’ (tap on the right side). ‘Some of us try of course in our modest ways to heal the split by devoting part of our time and energy – and if I may say so, even more time and energy than we can afford – to the common weal, by trying to foster mutual understanding between races and nations through organizations such as UNESCO, the Peace Council, the President’s Advisory Council, the Civil Liberties Board, the Conservation Society, and similar bodies to which I have the honour to belong and the privilege to contribute my modest share, either in an executive or an advisory capacity; and if I may enlarge for a moment on the practical aspects…’
    Once launched, Bruno could no more be stopped than the engine of a motor car whose owner had locked himself out. He went on and on, mostly about his own modest contributions (which in fact were considerable) to the work of these illustrious bodies. He had been talking for fifty-two minutes when Solovief, who had been waiting for a gap, said in a weary voice: ‘It’s time for lunch, Bruno, if you don’t mind.’
    Bruno glanced at his watch with a slightly dazed look and became genuinely contrite. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, while his hands were nimbly engaged in stuffing papers into his case, ‘one does get so carried away.’
    His momentary confusion made him look quite endearing, but they knew that at the first opportunity he would be off again.
2
    When Sir Evelyn Blood had once been asked by a woman journalist at a literary cocktail party whether he found his surname an embarrassment and had ever thought of changing it by deed poll, he had answered with the calculated candour which he found so useful in dealing with the Press: ‘As a poet I cannot hope that many people will read my works, but I can at least hope that they will remember my name. Do you think the names of Auden, Thomas or Eliot mean anythingto the rabble? But Blood is a household word with them.’
    â€˜Do you mean,’ the somewhat dumb lady had insisted, ‘that they read you because of your name?’
    â€˜Nobody
reads
me, dear lady. But every bugger in this country knows my
name
.’
    That was no empty boast, and rather an understatement. Although nobody ever quoted a line by Blood, for he was not the quotable sort of poet, he enjoyed an international reputation, was invited to lecture at American, Indian and Japanese universities, and no international symposium was complete without his rumpled, but imposing presence. He was knighted at sixty by England’s gracious Queen (who was said to have grown pale with anger when Blood asked her before the accolade whether it would hurt), and was generally considered as the Call-Girl Laureate.
    He had arrived late on the previous evening by hired car, which he intended to charge to his travelling expenses. He was also late for lunch. At the entrance to the dining-room he paused for a moment, surveying the scene, his huge bulk nearly filling the door-frame, apparently unaware of the discreet academic stares, appraising him in his capacity as ambassador from the other culture. Then he got into motion, carrying that bulk on rather shuffling feet, but not without a certain elephantine dignity. He did not hesitate in his choice of a seat, but advanced with unwavering purposefulness, as if attracted by a magnet, to a table at which young Tony had been sitting by himself, gobbling with relish his soup, in which two fist-sized
Knödls
stood out like volcanic islands.
    â€˜I shall have to drink my soup cold,’ Blood said, inspecting the
Knödls.
He talked with an outrageous, plaintive, U-plus drawl; it was impossible to know whether it was meant as a parody or to be taken at face value. ‘Had to rush to the loo. Always before meals. It seems my bowels will only