The Romanian Question

STRIKE LIKE LIGHTNING

I took up residence in the Athenee Palace Hotel and later in the morning after my arrival, I took stock of this most notorious caravanserai in all Europe. It was exciting to realise that here I was in the meeting place of the Continental spies, political conspirators, adventurers, concession hunters, and financial manipulators. Here at the crossroads, as it were, dividing Europe from Asia, in the centre of the Balkan cockpit, were hatched most of the plots and devilments that, in days gone by, upset a government here, fomented a revolution there and, on occasion, planned an assassination.

King Carol, Hitler and Lupescu

MISS BRUNNER WAS beside herself. “We put a stop to all that,” she said.

“We made a land where the English middle classes could bray with confidence.”

“Oh, it’s not such a bad old world.” Gratefully Sir Kingsley lifted another pink gin to the kind of triangular sphincter which was his mouth. In fact, things were looking up, all in all, he thought, at The Jolly Englishman.

He stared bleakly at his white, puffy fist and longed for his old pals. Most of them had failed to make it into the decade. Come to think of it, he reflected with a mourning grin, so had he.

Miss Brunner thought his attitude defeatist. “You might be enjoying the decline, Sir K, but some of us aren’t going to stand for it.”

“Fair enough.” The embodiment of the nation’s literary aspi-rations offered her a weary leer. “Bend over, darling.”

She couldn’t resist power, no matter how deliquescent it had become.

She giggled and ordered him another double. “You were honoured,” she reminded him admiringly, “for services to your country.”

“For services to Time, actually.” He accepted the gin.

“I do love you intellectuals.”

“Bugger Jane Austen.”

“Fuck George Eliot.”

“Pat Norman Mailer on the bottom.” At this, he recovered himself.

“Naturally.” On trembling palm she offered him her pork scratchings.

“How’s your little boy?”

Not everything, she consoled herself, had gone to pot.

“I heard they named a pub after me in Magalluf,” said the old penman proudly. Then, almost immediately, he grew gloomy again.

“My luck, it’s full of blokes in pink underpants drinking Campari Soda.”