Free Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer Page B

to see Bertrand.”
    “Is he expecting you?”
    61

    TIBOR FISCHER
    It’s very tempting to be sarcastic, or indeed violent. Fasting gets you high as the buzzards, but it does make you bad-tempered. I could take the barman easily, but the other two are very hefty. And it wouldn’t be very radiant. I suppose it’s a repetitive-strain injury from years of visiting strange workplaces.
    I always had an appointment. Shall we think about this? If you want a favour from someone is it a good idea or a bad idea to turn up unannounced? And what’s amusing is that while many of the clients I dealt with were self-important dullards, the receptionists were always the worst.
    Now, I’m doing Bertrand a favour. I have enough poisonous alkaloid with me to keep the whole club’s gums numb.
    “Yes,” I say. “I am expected.” And I remember to smile.
    Always smile.
    G
    Bertrand’s office is up on the second floor. He’s on the phone when I enter, and as there’s no one else around, I flash him the brick. He waves me in.
    “It’s a simple question,” he rambles on. “It’s a simple question.
    It is a simple question. So why didn’t they ask me? Why didn’t they ask me? Wh-y? Wh-y? All they had to do was ask. They ask me the question, I give them the answer. That’s not difficult is it?
    So, why, wh-y didn’t they ask me the question?”
    I peer out the window and scrutinize Miami. I see the light and the roofs. I love this city. I look out for several minutes as Bertrand gases away, and soon, much as I love looking out on Miami, I have to work hard to look as if I’m really keen on looking out of the window and not very impatient.
    “Okay, Opium Garden is big, it’s what’s you or I would call 62

    GOOD TO BE GOD
    big, but it’s not right to say that it’s really big. It appears bigger than it is, because of the way it’s divided up. But if you count up all the bars in Mynt, it’s bigger than Opium Garden. It doesn’t look bigger, but it’s bigger. Now, no… no, no, I’m not saying it’s a lot bigger than Opium Garden, but it is bigger. No, no, no.
    Let’s take Crobar. Crobar is actually the same size as Opium Garden. Yes it is, if, if you take into account all the stairs—”
    I make some I’d-urgently-like-to-hand-over-the-brick gestures, but Bertrand retorts with some wait-wait flapping.
    I stare out of the window pretending I’m savouring the view and not fuming. I think of my old boss, Bamford, and three years on, I understand why Loader asked for his telephone number.
    There are events and conversations which sometimes take me a year, five years, ten years, twenty years to unlock. I don’t know why, but suddenly the answer tumbles out.
    Bamford was a no-nonsense man. When his wife went mad
    – not a little peculiar, but dead-end insane – he had a week off work (and he took it as leave). One week off. He had his wife certified, found boarding schools for his kids, and never said one word about it. I’ve always admired those who could eat their greens without a murmur, because I can’t.
    The highest compliment from Bamford would be to call you a cunt, as in “I can’t believe you made that sale, you cunt”. That was if he liked you. If he didn’t like you he wouldn’t talk to you. Yes, he was from Yorkshire. On the other hand, if he was wrong, you could simply tell him to fuck off. His was a style of management almost extinct even then. Almost everyone liked Bamford, he was how you wanted God to be really – hard but fair.
    Bamford’s retirement lunch was one of the first times I had doubts about the whole running of the universe. What happens 63

    TIBOR FISCHER
    when you’ve worked at a company for thirty years, when you’ve essentially built the company? You get a retirement lunch and a farewell present. The retirement lunch was faultless, everyone turned up, colleagues who loathed each other were cordiality itself, the food was great. He got an expensive dust-gatherer to put on his