Miri spent his time in stinking, unventilated cells—six feet by ten with twenty-five men crammed inside. And who were these men? The professor giggled mirthlessly. Not the expected combination of common criminals mixed in with intellectuals. They were mostly very ordinary people, held for not showing a car licence plate, or because they got into an argument with a man who turned out to be a Party official, or because their children were coaxed at school into reporting their parents' unappreciative remarks at the dinner table about Saddam. Or because they refused to join the Party during one of the many recruitment drives. Another common crime was to have a family member accused of deserting from the army.
Also in the cells were security officers and policemen. The various security services existed in a state of nervous competition with each other, and agents had to work harder and harder to show how diligent they were. Whole branches of security could come under suspicion. The torture was routine—Miri and his companions heard the screaming from their cells, and waited to be called. Beatings, electrocution, anal rape, near-drowning, thrashing the soles of the feet. Everyone, from top officials to street sweepers, lived in a state of anxiety, constant fear. Henry saw the scars on Taleb's buttocks and thighs where he was beaten with what he thought was a branch of some kind of thorn bush. The men who beat him did so without hatred, only routine vigour—they were scared of their supervisor. And that man was frightened for his position, or his future liberty, because of an escape the year before.
“Everyone hates it,” Taleb told Perowne. “You see, it's only terror that holds the nation together, the whole system runs on fear, and no one knows how to stop it. Now the Americans are coming, perhaps for bad reasons. But Saddam and the Ba'athists will go. And then, my doctor friend, I will buy you a meal in a good Iraqi restaurant in London.”
The teenage couple head off across the square. Resigned to, or eager for, whatever she's walking towards, she lets the boy put his arm around her shoulder and her head lolls against him. She's still digging away with a free hand, along her waistband and into the small of her back. That girl should be wearing a coat. Even from here he can see the pink trails made by her scratching. A tyrannical fashion compels her to bare her umbilicus, her midriff, to the February chill. The pruritus suggests that her tolerance of heroin is not yet well developed. She's new on the job. What she needs is an opioid antagonist like naloxone to reverse the effect. Henry has left the bedroom and has paused at the head of the stairs, facing the nineteenth-century French chandelier that hangs from the high ceiling, and wonders about going after her with a prescription; he is, after all, dressed for running. But she also needs a boyfriend who isn't a pusher. And a new life. He starts down the stairs, while above him the chandelier's glass pendants tinkle and chime to the vibrations of the Victoria Line tube train far beneath the house slowing into Warren Street station. It troubles him to consider the powerful currents and fine-tuning that alter fates, the close and distant influences, the accidents of character and circumstance that cause one young woman in Paris to be packing her weekend bag with the bound proof of her first volume of poems before catching the train to a welcoming home in London, and another young woman of the same age to be led away by a wheedling boy to a moment's chemical bliss that will bind her as tightly to her misery as an opiate to its mu receptors.
The quality of silence in the house is thickened, Perowne can't help unscientifically thinking, by the fact of Theo deeply asleep on the third floor, face-down under the duvet of his double bed. Some oblivious hours lie ahead of him yet. When he wakes he'll listen to music fed through his hi-fi via the Internet, he'll shower, and talk on the phone. Hunger won't drive him from his room until the early afternoon when he'll come down to the kitchen and make it his own, placing more calls, playing CDs, drinking a pint or two of juice and messily concocting a salad or a bowl of yoghurt, dates, honey, fruit and chopped nuts. This fare seems to Henry to be at odds with the blues.
Arriving on the first floor, he pauses outside the library, the most imposing room in the house, momentarily drawn by the way sunshine, filtering through the tall gauzy oatmeal drapes, washes the room in a serious, brown and bookish light. The collection was put together by Marianne. Henry never imagined he would end up living in the sort of house that had a library. It's an ambition of his to spend whole weekends in there, stretched out on one of the Knole sofas, pot of coffee at his side, reading some world-rank masterpiece or other, perhaps in translation. He has no particular book in mind. He thinks it would be no bad thing to understand what's meant, what Daisy means, by literary genius. He's not sure he's ever experienced it at first hand, despite various attempts. He even half doubts its existence. But his free time is always fragmented, not only by errands and family obligations and sports, but by the restlessness that comes with these weekly islands of freedom. He doesn't want to spend his days off lying, or even sitting, down. Nor does he really want to be a spectator of other lives, of imaginary lives—even though these past hours he's put in an unusual number of minutes gazing from the bedroom window. And it interests him less to have the world reinvented; he wants it explained. The times are strange enough. Why make things up? He doesn't seem to have the dedication to read many books all the way through. Only at work is he single-minded; at leisure, he's too impatient. He's surprised by what people say they achieve in their spare time, putting in four or five hours a day in front of the TV to keep the national averages up. During a lull in a procedure last week—the micro-doppler failed and a replacement had to come from another theatre—Jay Strauss stood up from the monitors and dials of his anaesthetic machine and, stretching his arms and yawning, said he was awake in the small hours, finishing an eight-hundred-page novel by some new American prodigy. Perowne was impressed, and bothered—did he himself simply lack seriousness?
In fact, under Daisy's direction, Henry has read the whole of Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary, two acknowledged masterpieces. At the cost of slowing his mental processes and many hours of his valuable time, he committed himself to the shifting intricacies of these sophisticated fairy stories. What did he grasp, after all? That adultery is understandable but wrong, that nineteenth-century women had a hard time of it, that Moscow and the Russian countryside and provincial France were once just so. If, as Daisy said, the genius was in the detail, then he was unmoved. The details were apt and convincing enough, but surely not so very difficult to marshal if you were halfway observant and had the patience to write them all down. These books were the products of steady, workmanlike accumulation.
They had the virtue, at least, of representing a recognisable physical reality, which could not be said for the so-called magical realists she opted to study in her final year. What were these authors of reputation doing—grown men and women of the twentieth century—granting supernatural powers to their characters? He never made it all the way through a single one of those irksome confections. And written for adults, not children. In more than one, heroes and heroines were born with or sprouted wings—a symbol, in Daisy's term, of their liminality; naturally, learning to fly became a metaphor for bold aspiration. Others were granted a magical sense of smell, or tumbled unharmed out of high-flying aircraft. One visionary saw through a pub window his parents as they had been some weeks after his conception, discussing the possibility of aborting him.
A man who attempts to ease the miseries of failing minds by repairing brains is bound to respect the material world, its limits, and what it can sustain—consciousness, no less. It isn't an article of faith with him, he knows it for a quotidian fact, the mind is what the brain, mere matter, performs. If that's worthy of awe, it also deserves curiosity; the actual, not the magical, should be the challenge. This reading list persuaded Perowne that the supernatural was the recourse of an insufficient imagination, a dereliction of duty, a childish evasion of the difficulties and wonders of the real, of the demanding re-enactment of the plausible.
“No more magic midget drummers,” he pleaded with her by post, af
ter setting out his tirade. “Please, no more ghosts, angels, satans or metamorphoses. When anything can happen, nothing much matters. It's all kitsch to me.”
“You ninny,” she reproved him on a postcard, “you Gradgrind. It's literature, not physics!”
They had never conducted one of their frequent arguments by post before. He wrote back: “Tell that to your Flaubert and Tolstoy. Not a single winged human between them!”
She replied by return of post, “Look at your Mme Bovary again”—there followed a set of page references. “He was warning the world against people just like you,”—last three words heavily underscored.
So far, Daisy's reading lists have persuaded him that fiction is too humanly flawed, too sprawling and hit-and-miss to inspire uncomplicated wonder at the magnificence of human ingenuity, of the impossible dazzlingly achieved. Perhaps only music has such purity. Above all others he admires Bach, especially the keyboard music; yesterday he listened to two Partitas in the theatre while working on Andrea's astrocytoma. And then there are the usual suspects—Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. His jazz idols, Evans, Davis, Coltrane. Cézanne, among various painters, certain cathedrals Henry has visited on holidays. Beyond the arts, his list of sublime achievement would include Einstein's General Theory, whose mathematics he briefly grasped in his early twenties. He should make that list, he decides as he descends the broad stone stairs to the ground floor, though he knows he never will. Work that you cannot begin to imagine achieving yourself, that displays a ruthless, nearly inhuman element of self-enclosed perfection—this is his idea of genius. This notion of Daisy's, that people can't “live” without stories, is simply not true. He is living proof.
By the front door he picks up the post and the newspapers. Walking down to the kitchen he reads the headlines. Blix telling the UN the Iraqis are beginning to cooperate. In response, the Prime Minister is expected to emphasise in a speech in Glasgow today the humanitarian reasons for war. In Perowne's view, the only case worth making. But the PM's late switch looks cynical. Henry's hoping that his own story, breaking at four thirty, might just have made the late editions in London. But there's nothing.
No one's been in the kitchen since he left it. On the table are his cup, Theo's empty mineral water bottle and, beside it, the remote control. It's still faintly surprising, this rigid fidelity of objects, sometimes reassuring, sometimes sinister. He takes the remote, turns the set on and pushes the mute button—the nine o'clock bulletin is several minutes away yet—and fills the kettle. What simple accretions have brought the humble kettle to this peak of refinement: jug-shaped for efficiency, plastic for safety, wide spout for ease of filling, and clunky little platform to pick up the power. He never complained about the old style—the sticking tin lid, the thick black feminine socket waiting to electrocute wet hands seemed in the nature of things. But someone had thought about this carefully, and now there's no going back. The world should take note: not everything is getting worse.
The news comes on while he's grinding the beans. The new anchor is an attractive dark-skinned woman whose plucked, widely arched eyebrows express surprise at the challenge of yet another new morning. First, pictures from a motorway bridge of scores of coaches bringing marchers into the city for what is expected to be the biggest display of public protest ever seen. Then a reporter down among an early gathering of demonstrators by the Embankment. All this happiness on display is suspect. Everyone is thrilled to be together out on the streets—people are hugging themselves, it seems, as well as each other. If they think—and they could be right—that continued torture and summary executions, ethnic cleansing and occasional genocide are preferable to an invasion, they should be sombre in their view. The airplane, Henry's airplane, is now second item. The same pictures, and only a few more details: an electrical fault is suspected to be the cause of the fire. Standing with some policemen, the two Russians—the pilot, a shrivelled fellow with oily hair, and his co-pilot, plump and oddly merry. They look suntanned, or perhaps they're from one of the southern republics. The fading life-chances of a disappointing news story—no villains, no deaths, no suspended outcome—are revived by a dose of manufactured controversy: an aviation expert has been found who's prepared to say that it was reckless to bring a burning plane in over a densely populated area when there were other options. A representative of the airport authority says there was no threat to Londoners. The government is yet to comment.
He turns the TV off, pulls up a stool and sets himself up with his coffee and the phone. Before his Saturday can begin, there's a follow-up call to make to the hospital. He's put through to intensive care and asks to speak to the nurse in charge. While someone fetches her he listens to the familiar background murmur, a porter's voice he recognises, a book or folder slapped down on a table.
Then he hears the expressionless tone of a busy woman say, “ICU.”
“Deirdre? I thought Charles was on this weekend.”
“He's away with the flu, Mr. Perowne.”
“How's Andrea?”
“GCS is fifteen, good oxygenation, not confused.”
“EVD?”
“Still draining at around five centimetres. I'm thinking of sending her back to the ward.”
“That's fine then,” Perowne said. “Can you let the anaesthetist know that I'm happy for her to go.” He's about to hang up when he adds, “Is she giving you any trouble?”
“Too overwhelmed by it all, Mr. Perowne. We love her like this.”
He takes his keys and phone and garage remote control from a silver dish by the recipe books. His wallet is in an overcoat hanging in a room behind the kitchen, outside the wine vaults. His squash racket is upstairs on the ground floor, in a cupboard in the laundry. He puts on an old hiking fleece, and is about to set the burglar alarm when he remembers Theo inside. As he steps outside and turns from closing the door, he hears the squeal of seagulls come inland for the city's good pickings. The sun is low and only one half of the square—his half—is in full sunlight. He walks away from the square along blinding moist pavement, surprised by the freshness of the day. The air tastes almost clean. He has an impression of striding along a natural surface, along some coastal wilderness, on a smooth slab of basalt causeway he vaguely recalls from a childhood holiday. It must be the cry of the gulls bringing it back. He can remember the taste of spray off a turbulent blue-green sea, and as he reaches Warren Street he reminds himself that he mustn't forget the fishmonger's. Lifted by the coffee, and by movement at last, as well as the prospect of the game and the comfortable fit of the sheathed racket in his hand, he increases his pace.
The streets round here are usually empty at weekends, but up ahead, along the Euston Road, a big crowd is making its way east towards Gower Street, and in the road itself, crawling in the eastbound lanes, are the same nose-to-tail coaches he saw on the news. The passengers are pressed against the glass, longing to be out there with the rest. They've hung their banners from the windows, along with football scarves and the names of towns from the heart of England—Stratford, Gloucester, Evesham. From the impatient pavement crowds, some dry runs with the noisemakers—a trombone, a squeeze-ball car horn, a lambeg drum. There are ragged practice chants which at first he can't make out. Tumty tumty tum. Don't attack Iraq. Placards not yet on duty are held at a slope, at rakish angles over shoulders. Not in My Name goes past a dozen times. Its cloying self-regard suggests a bright new world of protest, with the fussy consumers of shampoos and soft drinks demanding to feel good, or nice. Henry prefers the languid Down With This Sort of Thing. A placard of one of the organising groups goes by—the British Association of Muslims. Henry remembers that outfit well. It explained recently in its newspaper that apostasy from Islam was an offence punishable by death. Behind comes a banner proclaiming the Swaffham Women's Choir, and then, Jews Against the War.
On Warren Street he turns right. Now his view is east, towards the Tottenham Court Road. Here's an even bigger crowd, swelled by hundreds disgorging from the tube stat
ion. Backlit by the low sun, silhouetted figures break away and merge into a darker mass, but it's still possible to see a makeshift bookstall and a hot-dog stand, cheekily set up right outside McDonald's on the corner. It's a surprise, the number of children there are, and babies in pushchairs. Despite his scepticism, Perowne in white-soled trainers, gripping his racket tighter, feels the seduction and excitement peculiar to such events; a crowd possessing the streets, tens of thousands of strangers converging with a single purpose conveying an intimation of revolutionary joy.
He might have been with them, in spirit at least, for nothing now will keep him from his game, if Professor Taleb hadn't needed an aneurysm clipped on his middle cerebral artery. In the months after those conversations, Perowne drifted into some compulsive reading up on the regime. He read about the inspirational example of Stalin, and the network of family and tribal loyalties that sustained Saddam, and the palaces handed out as rewards. Henry became acquainted with the sickly details of genocides in the north and south of the country, the ethnic cleansing, the vast system of informers, the bizarre tortures, and Saddam's taste for getting personally involved, and the strange punishments passed into law—the brandings and amputations. Naturally, Henry followed closely the accounts of measures taken against surgeons who refused to carry out these mutilations. He concluded that viciousness had rarely been more inventive or systematic or widespread. Miri was right, it really was a republic of fear. Henry read Makiya's famous book too. It seemed clear, Saddam's organising principle was terror.