The Russian Interpreter

He smiled lugubriously, and pulled vigorously at his right ear – with his left hand this time, since he was holding the mug of Nescafé in his right. When he stopped, Manning noticed with a shock that his right lobe was visibly longer than his left.

‘What do you deal in?’ asked Manning.

‘Oh, pictures, fashions, musical instruments – all the little unconsidered trifles that no one else thinks of as coming from Russia. And people.’

‘People?’

‘Yes, quite a large proportion of my business is in people. I expect you’ll think that means I’m a theatrical agent?’

‘I can’t think what it means.’

‘It’s a conclusion a lot of people seem to leap to. But in fact I don’t touch the theatrical profession at all. I’m not a literary agent, either – that’s another common mistake people make. I don’t handle authors, in the normal sense of the word.’

Proctor-Gould gazed thoughtfully into the brown dregs of his Nescafé, as if brooding upon human error and delusion.

‘No, Paul,’ he said, ‘I deal exclusively in ordinary people – the more ordinary the better. And this is where I want you to help me.’

7

‘The point is,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘there’s a tremendous demand for ordinary people. The Press and television in Britain and America are crying out for good human material. You might think it’s strange at first sight, but producers and editors find it very difficult to meet people outside the entertainment industry. They simply don’t come across them. It’s easy enough for them to get hold of professional personalities, of course – novelists, pop singers, beauty queens, politicians, that kind of person. But they want to get away from the professionals. They want to get at the real flesh-and-blood people who make up the other 99·9% of the world. There’s a market all right. And of course there’s a plentiful source of supply. All you need is a middleman to bring the two together.’

He put his mug down, warmed his hands at the radiator behind his back, raised himself on his toes, and let himself sink slowly back on to his heels again.

‘I hope I don’t sound mercenary,’ he said. ‘For me this isn’t just a way of making money, I assure you. It’s something I believe in very deeply. You see, Paul, I think professional personalities aren’t the only interesting people around. I believe that everyone is of interest to the public. I believe that everyone has a story to tell, a point of view that’s worth putting across, a personality that the public would be interested to explore.’

He hesitated, and smiled anxiously.

‘I don’t know whether that seems just a lot of absolute balls to you?’ he asked,

‘No,’ said Manning. ‘Oh, no.’

‘It seems a lot of absolute balls to some people.’

‘Really? Not to me.’

‘No, well, it doesn’t to me, of course. But I know from experience that it does to some people.’

He picked up his mug again, and ate a spoonful of the syrupy, half-dissolved sugar at the bottom.

‘I said that everyone is of interest. In theory that’s perfectly true. But time and human patience being limited, in practice one has to select only people who can put themselves across. That’s why a skilled agent is needed. That’s what I earn my modest margin for.’

‘How do you tell who can and who can’t?’

‘It’s a knack, Paul. It’s just one of those funny old knacks. I can tell within a few minutes of meeting someone whether they’re suitable or not. For instance, you’re not, if you don’t mind my saying so. You wouldn’t come over at all.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologize. It’s not something you can control. It’s like being pigeon-toed, or colour-blind.’

‘I see. So I can’t really help you after all?’

‘Oh, that’s not why I wanted you. Though I’ve always got my eyes open, of course.’

He opened his great mournful eyes very wide to demonstrate. Manning suddenly had a vision of Proctor-Gould as he must have been before he had gone up to John’s and bought his first double-breasted blazer in Bodger’s the outfitters. He saw him living in his parents’ semi-detached house in Anerley or Edgware, filling the box-room with pieces of radio transmitter, writing to pen-friends in Tanganyika and New Zealand, building a home-made sports car out of a motor-cycle engine and beaten biscuit tins.