The Quiet Saboteur

CHAPTER I

Before he left for the day, Mr. Sydney left his shop in the hands of his brother-in-law. That was possible because there wasn't much work to be done at any time, and almost none before dinner. Mr. Sydney didn't really care about his business. Besides that, his wife was taking care of his brother-in-law.

Both the shop and the house were pretty small. It was one of those dirty brick houses that lived in a lot of London neighborhoods before they were rebuilt. The store was shaped like a square box, and the front was covered with small windows. During the day, the door stayed shut, but at night, it stood open in a way that seemed odd.

There were pictures of mostly naked dancing girls in the window, along with plain packages that looked like patent medicines, very thin yellow paper envelopes with heavy black numbers that read two-and-six, some old French comic books hanging on a string to dry, a dirty blue china bowl, a black wood case, marking ink bottles, rubber stamps, some books with titles that made you think something was wrong, and some copies that looked old. The two gas jets inside the panes were always turned down, either to save money or make things easier for the customers who were using them.

They were either very young men who stood by the window for a while before breaking in, or they were older men who didn't seem to have any cash on them. There were people in the last group whose jacket collars were turned up all the way to their mustaches. The bottom of their pants had mud spots that made them look very old and not very valuable. The legs inside them didn't seem to be very important either. They ducked in sideways, one shoulder first, like they were scared of setting off the bell. They had their hands deep in the coat pockets on the sides. The curved steel band that held the bell on the door made it hard to get around. It was badly broken, but one evening, at the smallest provocation, it shattered behind the customers with rude vehemence.

It squeaked, and when that happened, Mr. Sydney would quickly come out of the back room through the dirty glass door behind the painted deal counter. He had naturally dark eyes, and he looked like he had been lying in bed all day without making it. For another man, that kind of looks would have been a big problem. A lot of what makes a retail transaction go smoothly rests on how friendly and interesting the seller is. But Mr. Sydney knew what he was doing and wasn't bothered by any kind of question about how he looked. With a firm, steady gaze that seemed to hold back the threat of some horrible threat, he would sell something over the counter that looked obviously and scandalously not worth the money that was exchanged. For example, he would sell a small cardboard box that didn't seem to hold anything inside, one of those carefully closed yellow flimsy envelopes, or a dirty book with a promising title. Every once in a while, one of the faded yellow dance girls would be sold to a beginner as if she were still alive and young.

When the cracked bell rang, Mrs. Sydney would sometimes show up. Lizzy Sydney  was a young woman with wide hips and a big bust. Her hair was neat. She stood behind the bar with her eyes closed, just like her husband. She seemed utterly uninterested in everything. The young customers would suddenly feel uncomfortable having to deal with a woman, and he would angrily ask for a bottle of marking ink that was worth sixpence (but only cost one-and-a-sixpence in Sydney 's shop), which he would then sneakily throw into the gutter when he got outside.

The evening guests, men in stiff collars and soft hats smashed down, gave Mrs. Sydney a friendly nod and then muttered a greeting as they lifted the flap at the end of the bar to get into the back parlour, which led to a passageway and a steep set of stairs. The door to Mr. Sydney 's house was the only way to get in and out of his business as a seller of shady goods, his job as a society guardian, and his personal growth as a good husband. These last ones were said. He had been completely tamed. He didn't need to go far away because of his spiritual, mental, or physical wants. He felt better in his body and in his mind at home, where Mrs. Sydney cared for him as a wife and Mrs. Sydney 's mother treated him with respect.

This girl's mother was fat, wheezy, and had a big brown face. She wore a white cap over a black wig. Her swollen legs kept her from moving. She thought she was French, which might have been true. After many years of marriage to a more common type of licensed victualler, she made money during the years she was widowed by renting out furnished apartments to gentlemen near Vauxhall Bridge Road in a square that was once very fancy and is still part of the Belgravia district. This fact about the area helped her advertise her rooms, but the women who stayed at the good widow's weren't exactly trendy. Because they were that way, her daughter Lizzy helped take care of them. Lizzy also had signs of her French ancestry that the widow was proud of. They were clear from the way her shiny, dark hair was styled in a very neat and artistic way. Lizzy also had other attractive qualities, such as being young, having a full, round body, and a clear skin. Her unfathomable reserve, which never stopped people from talking, made the lodgers laugh and joke around, and Lizzy herself was friendly. It's possible that Mr. Sydney was interested in these things. Mr. Sydney was a supporter sometimes. He went back and forth for no clear reason. He usually came to London from the Continent, like the flu, but the press didn't give him much attention when he got there, and his visits were very bad. Every day, he ate breakfast in bed and stayed there with a quiet air of enjoyment until noon, or sometimes even later. When he went outside, though, he seemed to have a hard time getting back to his temporary home in the Belgravian square. He left it late and came back to it early, as early as three or four in the morning. When he woke up at ten in the morning, he greeted Lizzy while bringing in the breakfast tray with the jokey, worn-out politeness of a man who had been yelling for hours. His big, heavy-lidded eyes rolled sideways in a romantic and lazy way. The sheets were pulled up to his chin, and he had a dark, smooth moustache covering his big, honeyed lips.

Lizzy 's mother thought Mr. Sydney was a very nice person. After working in different business houses all her life, the good woman had taken with her into retirement an idea of how gentlemanly people should act like they do in private-saloon bars. Mr. Sydney came close to that goal; in fact, he reached it.

Lizzy had said, Of course, we'll take over your furniture, mum.

The guest house had to be given up. It doesn't look like it would answer to keep going. Mr. Sydney would not have been able to handle it. His other business would not have been able to work around it. He wouldn't say what his business was, but after he had promised to marry Lizzy , he got up before noon and went down the basement stairs to make friends with Lizzy 's mother in the breakfast room, where she was lying still. He petted the cat, poked the fire, and had lunch there. Though he clearly didn't want to leave the slightly stuffy comfort, he did so anyway and stayed out until late at night. It would have been nice of him to offer to take Lizzy to the movies, but he never did. He had things to do in the evenings. They talked about how his job was political one time. He told her that she should be nice to his party friends.

She replied with a straight, incomprehensible look that she would be, of course.

It was impossible for Lizzy 's mother to find out how much more he told her about his job. They took her over with the furniture after getting married. She was surprised by how mean the shop was. She had trouble with her legs when she went from the Belgravian square to the tight street in Soho. They got very big very quickly. She, on the other hand, felt completely free from material worries. The heavy good nature of her son-in-law made her feel completely safe. It was clear that her daughter's future was safe, and she didn't need to worry about her son Johnson either. Even though she tried to hide it, she knew that poor Johnson was a terrible burden. But because Lizzy cared about her weak brother and Mr. Sydney was a nice, giving person, she thought the poor boy was pretty safe in this dangerous world. In her heart, she may not have been upset that the Sydney s did not have any children. Since Mr. Sydney didn't seem to care about what was going on and Lizzy felt close to her brother like a mother, maybe this was for the best for poor Johnson .

Because that boy was hard to get rid of. He was delicate and, in a weak way, handsome, though his lower lip hung down empty some of the time. Even though his bottom lip looked bad, he had learned to read and write thanks to our great system of mandatory schooling. He did not do very well as an errand boy, though. He lost his messages and was easily distracted from his duty by stray cats and dogs, which he followed down narrow alleys into shady courts; by the comedies of the streets, which he watched with open mouths, which hurt his boss's interests; or by the tragedies of fallen horses, whose sadness and violence made him shriek painfully in a crowd that didn't want to be bothered by sounds of distress in its qui It was often clear that poor Johnson had forgotten his home when he was being led away by a grave and protecting policeman. A rude question made him stutter so badly that he thought he was going to choke. He used to squint awfully when he was shocked by something confusing. He never had any fits, though, which was good news. And when his father got irritable, he could always hide behind his sister Lizzy 's short skirts. In other words, he might have been thought to be hiding a stash of recklessly bad behavior. When he was 14, a friend of his late father who worked as an agent for a foreign company that kept milk hired him as an office boy. One foggy afternoon, while his boss wasn't there, he was found setting off fireworks on the stairs. And very quickly, he set off a bunch of angry Catherine wheels, fierce rockets, and loudly exploding squibs. Things could have gone very badly. The whole building was filled with terrible fear. Clerks with wild eyes and choking ran through the smoke-filled tunnels in silk hats, and old businessmen could be seen rolling down the stairs on their own. It didn't look like Johnson was getting any pleasure from what he had done. It was hard to figure out why he did this brilliantly original thing. After a while, Lizzy finally got him to confess in a cloudy and confusing way. It looks like two other office boys in the building put him in a tizzy by telling him stories of unfair treatment and abuse that made him feel so sorry for them. But, of course, his dad's friend quickly fired him because he thought he would ruin his business. After that selfless act, Johnson was made to help wash dishes in the kitchen in the basement and to black the boots of the men who came to the Belgravian house. It was clear that this kind of work had no future. The men gave him a shilling tip every once in a while. Mr. Sydney proved to be the nicest lodger ever. But none of that added up to much in terms of gain or prospects. That's why, when Lizzy told her mother that she was going to marry Mr. Sydney , her mother couldn't help but sigh and look towards the scullery, thinking what would happen to poor Stephen now.

It looked like Mr. Sydney was ready to take him over, along with his wife's mother and all of their furniture, which was the family's entire wealth. Mr. Sydney grabbed everything that came to his big, friendly chest. All over the house, the furniture was set up in the best way possible, but Mrs. Sydney 's mother was stuck in two back rooms on the first floor. Johnson , who had no luck, slept in one of them. At this point, a growth of thin, fluffy hair had made his small, sharp lower jaw look like a golden mist. He helped his sister with housework out of pure love and obedience. There was a job that Mr. Sydney thought would be good for him. Drawing circles on a piece of paper with a ruler and pencil was something he did in his free time. His elbows were spread out and bowed low over the kitchen table as he worked hard at that hobby. He saw his sister Lizzy looking at him from time to time through the open door of the room at the back of the shop.

CHAPTER II

That was the house, the family, and the business that Mr. Sydney left behind when he left for the west at ten o'clock in the morning. It was unusually early for him, and he smelled like dewy freshness. His blue cloth overcoat wasn't buttoned up, his boots were shiny, and his freshly shaved cheeks had a gloss. Even his heavy-lidded eyes, which had been awake all night, gave off glances of relative alertness. From the park railings, these looks saw men and women riding in the Row, some couples cantering past in perfect harmony, others walking slowly, groups of three or four people hanging out, lone horsemen who didn't seem friendly, and a groom with a cockade on his hat and a leather belt over his tight coat following a group of women at a distance. There were a few Victorias with the skin of a wild animal inside and a woman's face and hat sticking out from under the folded hood. Most of the carriages were two-horse broughams. And a very London sun—all that could be said about it was that it looked bloodshot—made all of this look even better. It hung at a modest height above Hyde Park Corner and had an air of calm and punctual watchfulness. The sidewalk beneath Mr. Sydney 's feet had an old-gold tint to it because of the soft light. No wall, tree, animal, or person cast a shadow in it. Mr. Sydney was travelling west through a town with no shadows and a smell of old gold powder. The corners of walls, the roofs of houses, the panels of waggons, the coats of the horses, and the broad back of Mr. Sydney 's overcoat all had red, coppery shines that made them look dull and rusty. However, Mr. Sydney had no idea that he had become weak. He looked with approval at the signs of the town's wealth and luxury from the park fences. These people had to be kept safe. The first thing that wealth and luxury need is protection. They needed to be protected, along with their horses, carriages, homes, servants, and the source of their wealth in both the city and the country. The social order that made it easy for them to be lazy and clean also needed to be protected from the shallow envy of people who worked dirty jobs. Yes, it had to, and Mr. Sydney would have rubbed his hands in pride if he wasn't naturally against doing things that aren't necessary. Being lazy wasn't clean, but it worked out great for him. In a way, he was committed to it with a kind of quiet fanaticism, or maybe even a fanatical lack of action. Born to hardworking parents who expected him to work hard all his life, he had turned to laziness out of a deep, mysterious, and powerful urge, similar to the urge that makes a man choose one woman over a thousand others. He was too lazy to be a simple politician, a worker orator, or a labour boss. It was too much work. He was looking for a better kind of ease, or he may not have believed that any effort will work because of intellectual reasons. A certain level of knowledge is implied by this kind of laziness. There was some intelligence in Mr. Sydney . When he heard about a threatened social order, he might have smiled to himself if someone hadn't tried to make that look of doubt. He had big, noticeable eyes that didn't work well for winking. They were more the kind that closes gravely in sleep with a majestic effect.

Without showing any emotion and big like a pig, Mr. Sydney went on his way without rubbing his hands in happiness or smiling at his thoughts with skepticism. In general, he looked like a wealthy mechanic who worked for himself. He walked a lot on the sidewalk in his shiny boots. In a small way, he was a boss who hired people to do things like make picture frames or fix locks. But he also had an unmistakable air about him that no mechanic could have learned by dishonestly practicing his trade. It was the air of moral nihilism that people who run gambling dens and bad houses, private detectives and investigation agents, people who sell drinks, and even people who sell electric belts that make you feel better and people who come up with new ideas for them breathe. But I'm not sure about that last one because I haven't looked into it that deeply yet. It's possible that the meaning of these last words is completely evil. It shouldn't surprise me. I want to make it clear that Mr. Sydney 's words were in no way evil.

Before getting to Knightsbridge, Mr. Sydney turned left off of the busy main street, which was loud with swaying omnibuses and trotting vans but almost quiet with the fast flow of hansoms. As he wore his hat with a slight tilt backward, his hair was carefully brushed into a smooth, dignified style because he was in charge of an Embassy. In the meantime, Mr. Sydney , who was as steady as a soft rock, walked along a street that could properly be called private. It was as big, empty, and far-reaching as inorganic matter, which is something that never dies. A doctor's brougham stopped in a peaceful spot next to the curbstone was the only sign of death. The doorknobs were shiny and gleamed as far as the eye could see. The clean windows had a dark, dull shine. Everything was still. But in the distance, a milk cart shook loudly, and a butcher boy raced around the corner while sitting high above a pair of red wheels with the noble recklessness of an Olympic charioteer. A cat that looked guilty came out from under the stones and ran in front of Mr. Sydney for a while before diving into another basement. A thick police officer who looked like he didn't feel any emotions and seemed to be part of inorganic nature, jumped out of a lamppost and didn't pay any attention to Mr. Sydney at all. After taking a left turn, Mr. Sydney continued down a narrow street next to a yellow wall that had the number 1 Chesham Square written in black letters on it for some reason that no one could understand. At least sixty yards away was Chesham Square. Mr. Sydney , who was well-traveled enough not to be fooled by London's confusing geography, held on firmly, not showing any surprise or anger. He kept going until he finally got to the Square and made his way diagonally to the number 10. This was part of a large carriage gate in a high, clean wall between two houses. One of the houses had the number 9 on it, which made sense, and the other had the number 37. But the fact that the 37th house was on Porthill Street, a street that is well known in the area, was made clear by an inscription put above the ground-floor windows by whatever very good organization is in charge of finding London's lost homes. One of the mysteries of municipal administration is why Parliament isn't asked for the right (a short act would do) to make those buildings go back where they belong. Mr. Sydney didn't think about it much because his life's work was to protect the social system, not make it perfect or even criticize it.

Because it was so early, the Embassy attendant rushed out of his lodging while still adjusting the left sleeve of his livery coat. He wore knee-breeches and a crimson waistcoat, yet he seemed flustered. Being alert to the oncoming onslaught, Mr. Sydney merely waved an envelope bearing the Embassy's arms in order to divert their attention and continued on. To let the Butler inside the hall, he likewise showed him the same talisman and stepped back.

Standing upright in his evening attire, with a chain around his neck, an older guy looked up from the newspaper he held in both hands before his composed and austere face while a clear fire burnt in a fireplace. A different Servitor , clad in dark trousers and a claw-hammer coat with a thin yellow cord hemmed in, approached Mr. Sydney , heard a whisper of his name and then silently turned on his heel and started walking, never looking back. After being escorted down a corridor on the ground level to the left of the grand carpeted staircase, Mr. Sydney was abruptly signaled to step into a very cramped room that was adorned with a hefty writing desk and a few of seats. After the servant closed the door, Mr. Sydney was left alone. He remained standing. He looked about, one hand on his cap and stick, the other podgy, covering his bare, silky head.

At first, Mr. Sydney observed nothing more than black clothing, a bald head, and two wrinkled hands, with a hanging dark grey whisker on each side, as another door silently opened. The newcomer approached the table with a deliberate gait, twirling the stack of papers in front of him as he approached. Walter , Chancelier d'Ambassade and Privy Councilor, lacked long-term vision. As he laid the papers on the table, this honorable official revealed a face with a pasty complexion and a sad ugly ringed by a dense beard and long, thick grey hair. He was taken aback by Mr. Sydney’s look as he slipped on a pair of black-framed pince-nez over his flat, ungainly nose. Through the spectacles, his feeble eyes stared pitifully behind the massive eyebrows.

Neither he nor Mr. Sydney , who was clearly aware of his position, made a kind gesture, but a small shift in the overall shape of his shoulders and back hinted at a slight curvature of Mr. Sydney 's spine beneath his enormous coat. Subtle respect was the result.

The bureaucrat pressed the tip of his fingertip firmly against the papers as he remarked, I have here some of your reports. His voice was unusually gentle and weary. Mr. Sydney , who was familiar with his own penmanship, waited by his side in near-shock as he hesitated. We are not happy with the way the police are acting here, the other one said, clearly mentally exhausted.

Mr. Sydney 's shoulders, which remained still, gave the impression of a shrug. His lips parted for the very first time since he stepped out of his house that morning.

In a philosophical tone, he stated, Every country has its police. However, he felt compelled to add: Allow me to observe that I have no means of action upon the police here while the official from the embassy continued to blink at him intently.

"The man of papers indicated that what is desired is for something concrete to happen that will make them more vigilant.  Do you not see that as falling under your jurisdiction?

As soon as he attempted to put on a happy front, Mr. Sydney sighed Hepatically, and that was his only response. As if the room's low lighting were influencing the official, he or she blinked doubtfully. He whispered it again.

"The watchfulness of the law enforcement—and the strictness of the judges. Europe is scandalized by the generally lenient court system and the complete lack of any punitive actions. At this very moment, what is desired is the heightened intensity of the discontent, the fermentation that is surely present—

Absolutely, without a doubt, Mr. Sydney interjected with an oratorical tone that was so drastically different from his previous speech that his interlocutors was taken aback. "To a concerning extent, it is real. It is adequately evident from my reporting over the past twelve months.

State Councilor Walter started by saying, I have read your reports for the last twelve months. His tone was kind and impartial. I still don't understand why you wrote those.

For a while, there was a deafening quiet. It appeared as though Mr. Sydney swallowed his tongue, while the other stared intently at the documents on the table. Finally he pushed them just a little.

Assumption number one in your employment contract is that the situation you describe exists. At this very moment, what is needed is not literature, but rather the revelation of a clear, important, and even frightening fact.

Mr. Sydney stated, It goes without saying that all my efforts will be focused on that goal, using convincing modulations in his otherwise conversational raspy voice. He was uneasy, though, because he could see someone's eyes darting around the table from behind the glare of their spectacles. With an expression of unwavering commitment, he paused abruptly. It seemed as though some newly-born idea had impressed the useful, hard-working, albeit obscure, Embassy member.

You are quite plump, he remarked.

This observation, which was actually about psychology and was made with the subtle reluctance of an office worker who was more accused Vesper to working with paper and ink than with the demands of real life, hurt Mr. Sydney like a scathing personal attack. He took a small step back.

Huh? What? What were you pleased to say?" he demanded, his voice betraying his deep-seated hate.

The Chancelier d'Ambassade who was supposed to lead the interview appeared overwhelmed.

He then advised that she see Mr. Petrov Valentine. It is my firm belief that you should meet with Mr. Petrov Valentine. Go out with caution, being good enough to wait here, he added.

Mr. Sydney quickly ran his fingers through his hair. On his brow, a small bead of sweat had formed. Like a man blowing into a spoonful of hot soup, he let air escape from his pursed lips. Yet, Mr.