The Irregulars by Jennet Conant

Source of book: I own this.

Did you know that before he was a beloved children’s author known for subversive and quirky books that independent-spirited kids have loved for decades, Roald Dahl was a British spy? And not only was he a spook, but he spied on the United States on behalf of Britain?

Neither did I.

But it is true. Dahl was injured in an airplane crash while part of the RAF early in World War II, and was assigned to the British Embassy in Washington D.C. as part of a public relations campaign in support of the Lend Lease program. While he was touring and telling his stories (and writing the famous Disney wartime propaganda book, The Gremlins), he was recruited by the British Security Coordination (BSC), a thinly disguised spy agency headed by Canadian William Stephenson.

Dahl ran with the social set in DC, and spent time with the Roosevelts and other politicians, newspaperman Charles Edward Marsh (who astonishingly does not even have a Wikipedia page, despite his influence which rivaled William Randolph Hearst), actors, and a plethora of socialites in and around Washington. His job was two-fold. First, he was to keep his ears open for interesting information - and there is evidence he passed along plenty of that. His second was to engage in counter-espionage - particularly by countering the narrative of the “American First” elements and other Nazi-sympathetic groups. It was interesting to read of the BSC from the other side: I had already read Winston Churchill’s World War II series, and he mentioned the work done through official and unofficial channels, but this gave a better “on the ground” view.

Reconstructing this story was not terribly easy, as good spies don’t leave behind incriminating evidence, and their own stories of what they did are not, shall we say, likely to be the most reliable. However, Ms. Conant pulls from a variety of sources to reconstruct a good deal of what happened from what Dahl was allowed to write down and what others in the business had to say afterward.

Dahl was hardly the only literary figure. Noel Coward worked in the same agency. Ian Fleming (of James Bond fame) worked fairly closely with Dahl. There were a number of other names that I recognized, both British and American. The line between friend and foe was a bit fine, particularly because Roosevelt was generally on the side of the British interests, and encouraged the BSC. Likewise, the official diplomats tended to hate the spooks, and tried to undermine them. It is rather fascinating stuff. 

The other characters in this book are interesting as well, from author-turned-congresswoman Clare Boothe Luce to actor Gregory Powers. Ms. Conant takes time to explore the lives of many of the close associates of Dahl, and how they fit into the political and social structure of the time. 

 Dahl and Hemingway

Also of particular interest to me, with my love for aviation and knowledge of the history of the airlines was the negotiations between the British and the Americans over the future of commercial aviation. Long before the war ended, the two bickered over the use of airfields built by each party around the world, whether commercial aviation should be a monopoly or a free for all. Complicating this was the fact that Pan Am was politically powerful, and the Brits were probably right that the negotiations were largely dictated by corporate lobbyists.

A few observations from this book: if anything, politics is even dirtier than spy work. Good lord, the skulduggery. I felt like taking a bath after reading some of this stuff. Also, anyone who tells you sexual mores are worse now hasn’t really read much history. Our current president would have fit right in with the 1940s culture, where rich men could marry and discard women at will, harassment was accepted as a matter of course, and nobody blinked at the history of abortions beautiful women had to hid their affairs. Pretty sordid stuff, and a reminder that in matters of morals, the only question that really mattered (and to a large degree still matters) is how much money and power you have. A star really could get away with just about anything.

There are also some outstanding quotes in this book, that are worth it even if they weren’t part of a larger narrative.

Lord Mountbatten’s distant nephew, Ivar Bryce, was a friend of Dahl’s, and not the most reputable one either. Bryce was born into wealth, and never really had to grow up. Mountbatten once said of him:

“It’s terrible, the advantages he’s had to overcome.”

David Ogilvy was another young spook who figures prominently in this story. He spent time working with George Gallup, who was essentially inventing the art of polling at the time, and later observed about research:

“There is no great trick to doing research. The problem is to get people to use it - particularly when the research reveals that you have been making mistakes. Most people have a tendency to use research as a drunkard uses a lamppost - for support, not for illumination.”

Isn’t THAT the truth.

Finally, there is one rather chilling and prescient passage. Stephenson believed that Americans were easily duped, and that therefore, he had to do his best to dupe them better than the opposition. To this effect, he employed some pretty ludicrous propaganda, including astrologers to predict Hitler’s fall. As he said about it later:

“It is unlikely that any propagandist would seriously attempt to influence politically the people of England, say, or France through the medium of astrological predictions. Yet in the United States this was done with effective if limited results.”

This is a lesson that was apparently not lost on certain foreign powers in the runup to our last election. I found I had seriously overestimated the ability of my countrymen to identify obvious falsehoods and fake news, but so many preferred to believe propaganda that supported their political preferences.

This is a fascinating look at a complex man, interesting times, and a lesser-known facet of a famous conflict.

The 39 Steps as adapted by Patrick Barlow

Perhaps most people are familiar with this story because of the Alfred Hitchcock movie from 1935. A few, like my wife, read the original book by John Buchan (I haven’t, I’ll admit), which naturally contains additional scenes that didn’t make it into the story.

Hitchcock’s film is one of the best known from his earlier British period, and is a definite classic. (For what it’s worth, my favorite early Hitchcock is I Confess, which explores the conflict between conscience, confidentiality, and self preservation.)

This adaptation of the movie (which is already an adaptation of the book) dates from 2005. Barlow’s twist was to make a serious spy suspense movie into a comedy, and have all the parts played by only four actors. This means that the lead part is played by one, the three younger female parts are played by one, and the remaining two actors have to cover everyone else, man, woman, and child. In some productions, this can run to nearly 100 characters. As one might imagine, this requires lightning quick costume changes, and several scenes were the change of a hat alone changes the character.

The particular production that my wife and I went to see was a local one here in Bakersfield, at the Stars Theatre Restaurant, a local dinner theater which specializes primarily in musicals. The major draw for me was the fact that Kevin McDonald would be playing the lead part. I have mentioned his work at The Empty Space in You Can’t Take It With You as the uptight parent of the normal daughter’s love interest, and his outstanding turn as Malvolio in Twelfth Night.

Also in this production was Bethany Rowlee, playing Annabella, Pamela, and Margaret, and Bob Anderson and Bruce Saathoff playing everyone else. I hadn’t seen Saathoff in anything in quite some time, but I recall in my pre-kid days (late 1990s?) playing in the orchestra for a production of Hello Dolly in which he portrayed Cornelius. Good memories. 

Kevin McDonald, Bruce Saathoff, Bethany Rowlee, and Bob Anderson

Photo by Peter Beckman, Stars promotional photo. 

Anyway, all four members of the case were solid, and brought the requisite degree of physical comedy to a play that lacks enough witty dialogue to rely solely on that for laughs. This isn’t due to lack of skill on Barlow’s part, but is more because the original source contains more suspense and atmosphere than dialogue.

What Barlow does bring to the script is an abundance of clever references to other Hitchcock works, and careful and creative staging to bring out the humor of the multiple parts.

The story is something like O Henry in one of his darker moods might write: Richard Hannay, a nondescript Englishman with a pencil mustache (this is played for definite laughs) is at the theater, when a shot rings out. The beautiful and foreign woman next to him appears to be terrified, and talks him into taking her home for the night. She tells a tale of dangerous spies and a secret vital to national security. Hannay thinks she is crazy, and sleeps on the couch. Later in the night, she staggers in, morally stabbed, and warns him of “The 39 Steps” and a man missing part of a finger, and urges him to go to Scotland to save England.

The rest of the movie is spent with Hannay on the run from the police, who think he murdered the woman, while at the same time trying to foil the spies so he can clear his name. This was, of course, a fertile idea for suspense and thrills, as well as psychological drama. After all, the veneer of civilization is thin, as Hannay discovers when he must do things he would never have dreamed in order to stay alive. Likewise, few people are who they seem at first glance, from the fake “policemen” that work for the 39 Steps to the country bumpkin married to a ravishingly beautiful woman half his age. Hannay himself is unbelievable - except that he is telling the truth. So he has to tell lies because those are more plausible than what he has actually experienced and done.

The line, though, between thrill and suspense on the one hand, and comedy on the other, is fine indeed - the reason that spoof movies remain endlessly popular. Hannay’s journey is nothing if not ludicrous, and the sinister characters practically parody themselves. The distance of years, too, makes a difference. In 1935, Nazi Germany was on the rise, but the full extent of the threat and looming disaster for the world was not yet realized. But it was entirely plausible that German agents would seek to steal British technology. Here, from the safety of 2016, when “German” and “technology scandal” brings to mind not ruthless spies, but cheating auto emissions programmers, there is a whiff of the ridiculous to what was once deadly serious. And so the comedy fits.

In addition to the character changes, which were well executed and quite amusing, I must mention one joke that is perhaps specific to this production. Richard Hannay is described in the police bulletins as being dashingly handsome, about six feet tall, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and, let us not forget, “a very attractive pencil mustache.” But Hannay isn’t these things at all. Kevin McDonald does indeed sport the mustache, but he has lighter brown hair, is, well, not quite leading man material, and most importantly, is the shortest member of the cast by an obvious margin. As a “fun sized” guy myself, I sympathize. But it is quite hilarious to hear those attributes accompanied by McDonald hamming it up on the suave and dashing as he is described. Good fun.

I’ve said before that Bakersfield has a vibrant local theater scene for years, and this production was a good example. We are located close to Los Angeles and the Bay Area, and Utah is a mere day’s drive away. But don’t forget the local productions, intimate venues, and reasonable prices. There’s good stuff here too: you just have to get out and see it.

The Truelove by Patrick O'Brian

Source of book: I own this.

The Truelove is the 15th book in O’Brian’s Aubrey and Maturin series. I have already introduced the author and the series in previous reviews. I began the series some years before I started blogging, so my reviews start rather in the middle. While some series, like the Hardy Boys can be picked up anywhere, these books need to be read from the beginning and in order, or the plots make little sense. In many of the books, the plot will arc across at least three books. Here are the previous reviews:

The Letter of Marque (#12)

The Thirteen Gun Salute (#13)

The Nutmeg of Consolation (#14)

The Truelove picks up where the previous book left off. Jack is back in command of the Surprise, and has just shoved off from Australia, headed east once more. Stephen has recovered from his near-fatal run in with the platypus, and is once again at work with his fellow doctor, Martin, and his servant, Padeen, who he has sprung from the penal camps.

All is not well, however. One of the young officers-in-training has snuck a woman aboard - another escapee with a mysterious past. For the first part of the voyage, Jack has no idea what is wrong with his crew, who seem to be at odds with each other and disrespectful to him. When he finally does figure out what is going on, he must figure out how to restore order on the ship, and deal with his least favorite scenario: a woman aboard.

This also isn’t just a pleasure cruise. The ship has been sent on a mission to a remote south Pacific island. For the first time in many books, this is a purely military assignment, rather than one driven by Stephen’s job as a secret agent. Indeed, Stephen is not made privy to the orders, because of his political leanings in favor of Irish independence and his Catholic religion.

In essence, two rival tribes on the island are at war with each other, but are now being made into proxies for the colonial aspirations of the French and English. Jack’s job is to make sure the “right” side wins. That is, the one who will pledge loyalty to King George.

This is a morally dubious goal, at best, but it is unfortunately necessary, as the French have already interfered. Worse yet, the Frenchman who is interfering apparently has his own goal of setting up a utopian community - with the natives as servants, naturally. As a bonus, there is the potential rescue of the Truelove, a British merchant ship taken captive by the French.

As usual, O’Brian tells a tale full of moral challenges, of the bonds of friendship and the bonds of duty. The characterization is as excellent as usual, with few clear villains or heroes. Everyone has human failings, even the best of men - and women.

Likewise, O’Brian never candy-coats the past. The limitations of the medicine of the time are on full, awful display. Including the use of mercury as the closest thing they had to an antibiotic at the time, at least in their minds. Not only that, but the realities of sex and gender. O’Brian writes about the Regency era from a thoroughly 20th Century mindset, so there is no Victorian delicacy, shall we say. I wouldn’t say that the writing is particularly graphic, but it is unflinching. There are no lurid sex scenes, but sex is noted - typically by Stephen, the doctor - in clinical and matter-of-fact fashion.

In this book, there is particularly the matter of the woman, Clarissa Oakes, who isn’t eager to tell of her past. Except to Stephen. What is more, she is shockingly unembarrassed of her body - a peculiar thing for the time. As Stephen learns, she was raped by her guardian from childhood, and ended up, as “sullied” women of the time usually did, in prostitution. And yet, she was educated, and upper class. And so, she is both far more sophisticated than most on board, and yet emotionally detached from the sex act. Her treatment of her own body is a striking parallel to the way that Stephen treats - and indeed must treat - the bodies of those he attempts to cure. Just flesh. O’Brian slowly brings this analogy to light gradually as the plot unfolds. His pacing is superb, giving just a little information, then a little more, always keeping the frisson in the background.

In addition to the ethics of the Prime Directive (Star Trek reference…), the other dilemma that faces Jack is that of the means of maintaining discipline. Jack has the reputation as a humane captain, one who can run a tight ship without resort to violence. This particular case, though, forces his hand. The insubordination finally reaches the point where he must act - and in accordance with the law of his time. Which means that the lash is used. One of the best books I read in my teens was Richard Henry Dana Jr.’s epic non-fiction work, Two Years Before The Mast. That book, with its graphic description of the beatings common in the time actually led to the outlawing of the practice a few decades later. (Dana, a lawyer, was instrumental in this.) But back in the day, it was still very much the thing. (Churchill was supposed to have said that naval tradition was nothing more than “rum, sodomy, and the lash,” although the sentiment probably predated him.)

O’Brian’s books also have plenty of humor, of a delightfully dry sort. If you are into puns, Jack is simply awful, even by pun standards. Stephen has a wry way of observing events which is amusing. But in many places, there are little sparkles, such as the following exchange.

“Upon my honor, ma’am,” he [the awkward Mr. Adams] said when it was his turn to greet her, “I have never seen you look so well. You fairly light up our dim and shabby dining-room.”

“Dim and shabby dining-room,” said the gunroom steward to Killick in a sea-going whisper, “Did you ever hear such wickedness?”

“That is what we call a genteel compliment,” said Killick. “Which it ain’t meant to be believed.”

The cantankerous Killick, Jack’s steward, is one of the best characters in the series, and his acid remarks pepper this book.

One bit that one can either take to be humorous, or disturbing, depending on one’s point of view, occurred near the end, when Jack is choosing the members of the crew for combat with a French sortie. He is careful not to choose any “ancients,” meaning anyone under 35. Yet another reason I am glad to live in the 21st Century, when my middle aged self is still useful - and not “ancient.”

One final bit. Clarissa is as non-squeamish about most things as she is about her body. To Stephen, this is a real plus, as he collects specimens - as did other “amateur” scientists of his time, the ones who used their leisure time to further knowledge. Chief of them all is Sir Joseph Banks, a real person who appears in the series thinly disguised as "Sir Joseph Blaine." In fact, the real-life Banks was one of the greatest scientists of all time, although there is no evidence he was part of the intelligence community for Great Britain as "his" character is in the books. In any event, Stephen needs to send some important information to Blaine, and he uses Clarissa as his courier. Along with a letter with national security information in it, he sends some beetles he has collected on the voyage, both as cover for the real message, and as a genuine gift to Blaine. 

[A great book on Banks and other scientists of the era is The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes, reviewed here.]

Stephen expresses his gratitude that Clarissa doesn’t shy away from the insects.

“Very good. I do hate women that cry out ‘Oh beetles! Oh serpents! Oh mice or centipedes!’ and long to knock their silly affected heads together.”

Fortunately, I am married to a woman who has no such affectation. And my three daughters are likewise fond of things that creep and crawl.

The Truelove is another thrilling installment in the series, which is, in my opinion, one of the finest modern adventure stories.

Reading With My Kids: The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy

Source of book: Audiobook borrowed from the library

Believe it or not, I had never read this book - or anything by Orczy - before. I had heard of The Scarlet Pimpernel, of course, and had a vague idea of what it was about, but never actually got to reading it.

I suspect my wife suggested it to the kids for our trip, since it wasn’t specifically a kid-oriented book, and we haven’t talked about the French Revolution in history yet.

First a bit about the author. Emma Orczy, born in 1865, came from an aristocratic Hungarian family, who fled their estate in fear of a peasant revolt when she was a child. After bouncing around Europe, they settled in England. She studied music, then painting, at which time she met her husband Montague Barstow, a painter and the son of an English clergyman. She would later, near the end of her life, describe the marriage as, “for close on half a century one of perfect happiness and understanding of perfect friendship and communion of thought.” I am inclined to put them down as a notable example of a rather egalitarian marriage, particularly in light of the way they worked together professionally. 

The couple started out impoverished, but Emma started to assist her husband with his translations and illustrations. She also submitted a few short works to magazines and started writing novels.

Success came, however, with a play. Emma and Montague collaborated on a play about the Reign of Terror, entitled The Scarlet Pimpernel. It was a success, but was soon overshadowed by Emma’s novelization of the play. Numerous sequels followed, as well as some unrelated novels. Eventually, her writing enabled them to buy an estate in Monte Carlo, and thus return to the upper class lifestyle of her youth.

In discussing this book, I find I have to separate out the author’s opinions from the work itself. Orczy was unabashedly an aristocrat, fully believing in the superiority of the aristocracy and supporting British imperialism. This was, no doubt, a bit natural for someone with her background, but it still feels a bit grating - at least to this American. In fact, I made the false assumption that it was written in the true Victorian Era, rather than in 1904. With that late date, it feels a bit behind the times in its attitudes. Likewise, I find her treatment of women in the book to be quite retrograde. The story is mostly from the point of view of the female protagonist, and yet she is not given much to do. If anything, she is responsible for screwing everything up, and has to be rescued in the end. For someone like Orczy, who herself was fairly independent and accomplished much on her own, this is just odd. It’s not like stronger female characters weren’t saleable in 1904 either. I find it puzzling.

These gripes out of the way, let me praise the book itself. Whatever one’s opinions of the French Revolution or of class and caste in general, it is pretty hard to find anything good in the Reign of Terror, which mostly left dead bodies - including those of far too many children - in its wake. Also unforgivable was the senseless execution of Antoine Lavoisier, the groundbreaking chemist and a voice of moderation at the time.

Orczy does an admirable job of portraying the Terror, and the effect it had on whole families marked for the guillotine. The disruption to the nation, and the sense of fear it instilled was an early instance of the informing police state later to become endemic to the Nazi and Soviet regimes in time. It’s a bit beyond the scope of this review to get into the causes of the French Revolution and how it went so wrong, but I think G. M. Trevelyan had a point in England Under the Stuarts that a successful revolution requires “a State where wealth is well distributed, classes fairly balanced and kindly related, the common intellectual food wholesome, the imagination alive and the moral standard high.”

I’m afraid I have become distracted again from the book.

The Scarlet Pimpernel is above all, a rip-roaring yarn of intrigue, unparalleled gall, a memorable and delightful hero.

[spoiler alert!]

The Pimpernel himself is the forerunner of a whole host of comic-book superhero tropes. He disguises himself as a dimwitted, foppish British nobleman, all the while concealing his true powers. He is a master of costume, able to use anything as a weapon or prop at the right time, and has simply unmitigated chutzpah. His ability to look right into the eyes of his enemy and somehow come up on top through guile rather than violence is delightful. One might best compare him to Batman in that he lacks mutant powers, but has the brains and finances to function as if he did.

The book is also a pretty good early cloak and dagger story, with spy versus spy every bit as much as in a John Le Carre novel. (See my review of Our Kind of Traitor.) I haven’t read any James Bond, but I suspect there might be a similarity there too. The villain is likewise well-conceived and memorable.

So, as a story, I really enjoyed it. The kids took a while to get into it, because it does start slowly. I’m pretty used to that, but my 8 year old son isn’t quite there yet. (The Hardy Boys only need one chapter to set the scene…) However, but the last couple of CDs, everyone was eager to hear what happened next.

The ending is satisfying - and also interesting.

[spoiler warning!]

I wasn’t at all surprised that the Pimpernel turned out to be disguised as the old Jew. It was a brilliant move, and possibly the only serious option. In fact, the brilliance of it is the way that it played off of French anti-Semitism. A quick scan of the news shows an uptick in said sentiment in recent weeks. France (and Germany, for that matter) is in no way over its history of Jew hating and baiting. It’s ugly and a bit concerning to see. England isn’t exempt by any means, but it never got to the point that the continent did. At the time Orczy grew up, England even had a Jewish prime minister, which would probably still be unthinkable in France even now.

In that scene, then, there is again the balance of discomfort with great adventure. The scene is played well, and makes sense, but in light of later events, the nasty stereotype - even in the context of one played for laughs at the expense of the French - is still painful. On the other hand, it does make for a good conversation starter, similar to Tom Sawyer.

Anyway, a fun adventure, some cringeworthy moments, but well worth reading.

Note on anti-Semitism:

It is probably fitting that earlier this week, I had a guy going by a handle promoting Nazism attempting to comment on my post on Nietzsche, Nazis, and Narrative. As expected, he intended to raise the usual bile about Jews supposedly ruling the world and their religion destroying everything that is good, etc., etc. Since my blog is not a public forum, I’m not really interested in giving guys like that a voice, so those comments will not be appearing.

However, if you want to read more on the topic on this blog, I recommend the above link along with my review of They Thought They Were Free, and also my review of George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda.

Orczy’s paintings:

Although she made her name through literature, she actually got a few paintings exhibited. Here is the best known one, A Rural Courtship.

Note on Britishisms:

Some of these are so well known as to be part of our common culture. One wonders if Orczy was the first to popularize “I say!” as the dim nobleman’s trademarked phrase. Certainly P. G. Wodehouse popularized it afterward.

Also, this book has one of the best and most effective uses of “damn” ever. Of course, it must be in a British accent to work.

Just for Fun:

All this short has in common with the book is the silly name and a reference to snuff. There are plenty of other literary and movie references, though, for the discerning viewer. 

Daffy Duck - (Ep. 56) - The Scarlet Pumpernickel by cartoonNetworks

Our Kind of Traitor by John le Carré

Source of book: Book on CD borrowed from the library.

Originally, I wanted to listen to one of le Carré’s earlier works, preferably The Spy Who Came In From the Cold or Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Unfortunately, our library didn’t have these checked in when I need them, and really only had a few of his most recent works. This particular book was published in 2010, and is the author’s next-to-most-recent novel.

A bit about John le Carré. (Pronounced like “carry.”) His real name is David Cornwell, and he did indeed serve in MI6 before his books sold well enough for him to write full time. He draws on his experiences in intelligence work; a few books are believed to be partly autobiographical.

In contrast to Ian Flemming’s James Bond books, le Carré’s are morally ambiguous, and tend to feature everyday people. His spies wrestle with the ethics of what they do, and truly untainted good guys are pretty hard to find. These books are not really action books either. Sure, action does occasionally happen. Sometimes the action even involves the main characters. But they are not superhumans like Bond.

These books are also completely different from those written by another author believed to have spent time in the intelligence world, Patrick O’Brian, whose novels are set in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, rather than the present time.

I’m not sure how representative this book is of le Carré’s other works. After reaching the thoroughly abrupt and unsatisfying ending (more on this later), I did a little poking around on the web, and it appears that it has some unique characteristics. Also, the time difference between this book and the most famous works of the author is significant. Le Carré was a much younger man when he started writing. (He is now 81.) The world has changed dramatically from the height of the Cold War, alliances have shifted, and politics look much different. Certain social morés have changed as well, and I wonder if this book reflects that. I’m sure that, even in England, an unmarried couple would be less likely to vacation together in the 1960s; but the language may or may not have been different in a book set in those earlier times.

With respect to the language, there is a significant amount of vulgarity and profanity in this book. (See note below for the difference. Yes, I care about this.) It is mostly limited to two main characters, but it is pretty constant with them. There is also some (non-graphic) sexual content. Less, in my view, than in James Bond.

The basic plot is this. (No significant spoilers.) English professor (actually a don, but that is a British distinction) Perry Makepeace is vacationing in Aruba with his girlfriend Gail when they meet a mysterious Russian, Dima. (Short for Dimitri.) After a tennis match with Perry, Dima decides to take Perry into his confidence. Dima is a big time money launderer, who has decided to cooperate with British intelligence after his friend and protegé is whacked by his fellow Russian mobsters. He thinks that Perry either is a spy, or knows one. Perry is talked into seeing what he can do.

Dima’s information implicates several important banking officials in England, including a member of parliament. Thus, the case is assigned to Hector Meredith on a semi-unofficial basis. Perry and Gail assist in the attempt to provide Dima and his family protection in exchange for his information. That much of the plot is on the back of the book, so I don’t mind revealing it.

Even from that bit of summary, it is pretty clear that the moral issues are as murky as they are in the real life version of intelligence. Dima is clearly a criminal, but he is also oddly sympathetic. His family, particularly the minor children, are even more so. They will likely be collateral damage if Dima’s gambit fails. One could certainly dislike the British government for multiple reasons. Its complicity with the big banks that were largely responsible for the near-collapse of the Western financial system is loathsome, of course. (Not that our own government was innocent - or that much of any government was. Is it okay to hate them all?) The dithering and political infighting that delays everything while lives hang in the balance. Actually, it is details like this that are the most realistic thing about this book. Anyone who has had to deal with an unresponsive bureaucracy will recognize the difficulties.

The two truly likable characters are Gail and Perry, the innocents who get in way over their heads in the whole caper. Unlike the others (the apparatchiks, as Dima calls them), they care about the humans involved as people, rather than just cogs in the machine of statecraft. (Not that the actual spies are callous, just that one can’t let personal stuff cloud one’s judgment.)

Things I liked about this book? Le Carré is a good, skilled writer. He has excellent command of the language, a great feel for pacing, and the ability to draw the reader into the world. I also loved that he is able to differentiate his characters using their dialogue. Each person has his or her own voice, vocabulary, favorite words and phrases, and so on. He is able to sustain pages of dialogue without identifying each speaker more than occasionally, but you always know who is speaking, because of how they talk. (All it takes is a book where the author fails to do this for one to realize how difficult yet crucial this is.)

I also thought that the events of the plot were interesting (and relevant). Russian capitalism and Russian gangsterism have been enmeshed since the fall of the iron curtain, and dirty money will always need to be cleaned in such situations. Even decades after his stint in the intelligence world, le Carré is able to capture the feel of the situations that develop.

Things I didn’t like as much? I thought that the first part was very strong, but that it got bogged down a little when the author had to fill in the backstory on the international stage and also on the agency’s internal politics. I suspect that it would have been easier to follow if I hadn’t been driving, or if I were British myself. Still that one is a minor quibble.

The one thing I really hated was the ending. Because it wasn’t an ending! It’s like the author just decided to end the book two chapters before he finished his plot. [Spoiler warning.] A disaster occurs at the end, but it only directly affects two characters. Sure, the fallout will affect everyone. But we never learn how. No loose ends are ever tied up. There are plenty of loose ends, too. What happens? We’ll never know.

Another book that ends like this is Giant by Edna Ferber. I wondered when I read that one if she couldn’t figure out how to end it, or if she just got tired of the book, and decided to stop abruptly.

The worst part of it is that, since both books had characters that I cared about, it was horrible to not know what happened to them. I mean, if you are going to kill them off, kill them off. Don’t just leave them dangling. 

I should mention a few lines worth remembering. (And I had to, since I was driving.)

One is by Gail, after a peculiar experience with Dimo’s wife, who is shell shocked and irrevocably damaged by the torture she underwent in the past, and has become compulsively religious. Gail notes that she has gone from being an Anglican atheist to being an Orthodox atheist.

Another line comes from a very minor character, one of Perry’s academic colleagues, who Perry seeks out when he wants to give his information to MI6, but has no idea how to start. This colleague has connections. He asks for Perry’s cell phone number, and writes it down. He says, “I never commit anything to memory. It’s insecure.” I love that! Paper can be shredded, but memories endure.

The unforgettable Hector gets the final line. Perry is trying to feel out exactly how truthful Hector is being as he tries to recruit Perry and Gail to assist in the case. After Perry suggests that he may be lying to save the country, Hector states that Perry is mistaking him for a diplomat. He then goes on to say that he also would not lie to save his own skin, which is the behavior of a different creature altogether: the politician.

This was an engrossing book. Perfect for driving. Just realize that the ending is missing, and enjoy it, I suppose. (I could also imagine that the author died before finishing it.)

Note on the audio:

This book is read by Robin Sachs, who was in Galaxy Quest and Ocean’s Eleven, among others. I think he did a really fine job with this book. He adopts different voices for each character, male and female, and he is convincing. The sounds fit the language (see above) and the personality in a marvelous way. A truly delightful book to listen to. 

Note on vulgarity, obscenity, and profanity:

Maybe it’s a lawyer thing. It bothers me when people use “profanity” when they refer to vulgarity or obscenity. So here are the distinctions.

Something is “obscene” in general when it offends the basic prevalent morality of its time and place. Thus, obscenity changes from time to time, and from place to place. Generally “obscenity” refers to the sexual, but it could conceivably apply to other things.

Legally speaking (here in the US), something is “obscene” if it appeals to the prurient interest and lacks artistic, literary, political, or scientific value. So, generally sexual.

Thus, references to sexual parts or acts might be referred to as an “obscenity. F---, for example.

An obscenity can also be a vulgarity, but there are vulgarities that are not obscene. Vulgarities can refer to sex, but also to bodily functions. Thus, “crap” is a mild vulgarity, but is not an obscenity.

Profanity, on the other hand, is language that is desecrating to the sacred. References to deities, holy things, and holy symbols are all profanity. (My favorite obscure profanity is “zounds,” which I discovered a few years ago to be an old word referring to “His (Christ’s) wounds. Who knew?)

So there you are. Whether you indulge in “colorful metaphors,” as Spock put it, or not; use the right word to describe it.

In this book, Dima and Hector are the two profane and vulgar characters. Dima’s language sounds menacing, but is also oddly comical. Swearing sounds more sinister in a Russian accent, just as it sounds completely laughable in French. But Dima also hasn’t really figured out the idiom in English. (“Jesus God!” Only Russian gangsters swear like that.)

The other is Hector, whose casual British vulgarity rolls off his raspy tongue naturally. (And, it is much more imaginative than Dima’s version. Nobody does vulgarity like the Brits. Americans pick a favorite word or two, and use it early and often. The Brits occasionally make one gasp with the audacity and creativity of their usage. And then you want to take a shower.)

Note on string bass players:

String bass players? Actually, I thought of this because one of our Symphony players is from Russia. Igor just looks like a gangster, with his bald head and thick neck. Igor is a fun guy, actually, with a delightfully dry sense of humor. He is also a great musician. But, if you needed someone to play a Russian gangster in your play, just paint a tattoo or three, and he would be ready to go.

It’s not just him, though. John looks like the long lost twin of my cousin-in-law Todd, the professor of theology. They could switch places, I’m sure. John just looks like he could be a priest, given a proper cowl.

And then there was Keith, who used to play for the orchestra when I was a new player. I swear, he looked like he belonged in the days of Sir Walter Raleigh. Except he would have been the evil duke. The beard, twirled mustaches, and the curly hair. It was amazing.

So there you go, within one string bass section, we had the Russian mobster, the evil duke, and the priest.

(I hope you guys don’t mind a little teasing. We rely on the bass section to keep us all together…)