Free The Closed Circle by Jonathan Coe Page A

to Emily—and himself—by proceeding further down this treacherous path. It had begun as a fantasy, and would probably have stayed that way: but Benjamin lived for his fantasies—had done all his life: they were as solid to him as the contours of his working day or his weekend trip to the supermarket; and it seemed cruel, bitterly cruel, to have even these pale imaginings snatched away from him. He felt coils of despair beginning to wrap themselves around him, and at the same time a familiar hatred for his brother crept into his bones.
    â€œSo what you’re trying to argue, as I understand it,” Paul was saying, “is that political discourse has become a kind of battleground, in which the meaning of words is disputed and fought over, every day, by politicians on the one hand and journalists on the other.”
    â€œYes—because politicians have become so careful about what they say, and political utterances have become so bland, that journalists now have the task of
creating
meaning out of the words that they’re given. It’s not what you guys
say
that matters any more, it’s how it’s
interpreted.
”
    Paul frowned, and licked the last traces of liquid chocolate off the back of their spoon. “I think you’re being too cynical,” he said. “Words have meanings—fixed meanings—and you can’t change them. Sometimes I wish you could. I mean, look at what I said to the
Mirror
guy this afternoon: ‘Those who seek to make capital out of human lives should look to their consciences.’ There’s no getting out of that, is there? It’s going to sound nasty, however it’s presented.”
    â€œOK,” said Malvina, “but supposing you claimed that you’d been quoted out of context?”
    â€œHow could I do that?”
    â€œBy saying that you weren’t talking about the victims’ families at all. What you were doing—as someone who supports railway privatization, by and large—was firing a warning shot at the new railway companies, telling them not to make ‘capital’ out of human lives by putting profit above safety. So that
they’re
the ones who should be looking to their consciences.” She smiled at him: a quizzical, challenging smile. “There—how does that sound?”
    Paul looked at her in astonishment. He didn’t quite understand what she was saying, but somehow she had already made him feel better about this afternoon’s gaffe, and he could feel a huge burden of anxiety starting to slip from his shoulders.
    â€œThat’s what’s so clever about the word you used,” Malvina continued. “ ‘Capital.’ Because that’s the danger, isn’t it? That people start to see everything in terms of money. It was such a smart use of language. So ironic.” That smile again. “You
were
being ironic, weren’t you?”
    Paul nodded, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
    â€œIrony is very modern,” she assured him. “Very
now.
You see—you don’t have to make it clear exactly what you mean any more. In fact, you don’t even have to mean what you say, really. That’s the beauty of it.”
    Paul remained silent and immobile for a few moments, mesmerized by her words, her certainty, her stillness. By her youth. Then he said: “Malvina, will you come and work for me?”
    She laughed incredulously. “Work for you? How can I? I’m just a student.”
    â€œIt would only be for one day a week. A couple of days, at the most. You could be my . . .” (he searched his mind for a suitable phrase) “. . . media adviser.”
    â€œOh, Paul, don’t be silly,” she said, looking away, and blushing. “I’ve got no experience.”
    â€œI don’t need someone with experience. I need someone with a fresh pair of eyes.”
    â€œWhy do you need a media adviser?”
    â€œBecause I