Expo 58: A Novel by Jonathan Coe Read Free Book Online

by painting her fingernails green.
    ‘Coffee for me, please,’ said Mr Wayne, politely but firmly. ‘White, two sugars.’
    ‘And the same for me,’ said Mr Radford. ‘Foley, what will you have?’
    ‘I don’t really drink much coffee,’ said Thomas.
    ‘Three white coffees, two sugars each,’ said Mr Wayne.
    ‘And put some of that frothy milk on top, if you would,’ said Mr Radford. ‘You know, the way the Italians drink it.’
    ‘We’re all continentals now, I suppose,’ said Mr Wayne, as he sat down.
    ‘Quite,’ said Mr Radford, joining him, and shaking some of the rain off his overcoat. ‘All the European nations starting to come together.’
    ‘Treaty of Rome and all that.’
    ‘Very much what this Brussels business is about, when you think about it.’
    ‘Quite. Bit of history in the making.’
    ‘Lucky to be a part of it.’
    ‘What’s your view, Foley?’
    ‘My view?’
    ‘On this Belgian shindig. Expo 58. Do you regard it as a historic opportunity for all the nations of the world to come together, for the first time since the War, in a spirit of peaceful cooperation?’
    ‘Or do you consider it little more than a sordid marketplace powered not by idealism at all, but by the forces of capitalism?’
    Thomas had barely had time to sit down himself when these questions were fired at him. His clothes were soaking even after such a short walk, and he could feel the steam rising off his body.
    ‘I shall . . . Well, I shall have to think about that,’ he said.
    ‘Very good answer,’ observed Mr Wayne approvingly.
    ‘Spoken like a true diplomat.’
    The waitress arrived with the sugar bowl.
    ‘Coffees’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said. ‘The machine’s on the blink. We can’t seem to get any heat out of it.’
    On her way back to the counter she stopped by a jukebox and inserted a few coppers. A burst of music followed after a few seconds: it was fast and driving, with loud drums pounding out a rhythm beneath three or four simple chords, and a male vocalist half-shouting, half-singing something about a Streamline Train over the whole din. Mr Wayne put his hands over his ears.
    ‘Good God.’
    ‘What a cacophony.’
    ‘What on earth is it?’
    ‘I believe they call it “rock’n’roll”,’ said Mr Radford.
    ‘Sounds more like skiffle to me,’ said Thomas.
    ‘Well well,’ said Mr Wayne. ‘I had no idea you were an authority on musical trends.’
    ‘Who, me? Not at all. My wife listens to this sort of music occasionally. I’m more of a classical man, myself.’
    ‘Ah, yes. The classics. Nothing like a bit of classical music, is there? I expect you like Tchaikovsky?’
    ‘Of course. Who doesn’t?’
    ‘What about the more modern bods? Stravinsky, say?’
    ‘Oh, yes. First rate.’
    ‘Shostakovich?’
    ‘Haven’t heard much.’
    ‘Prokofiev?’
    Thomas nodded, without really knowing why. He couldn’t see where any of this was leading. The waitress brought their coffees and they all stirred in their sugar and took their first sips.
    ‘Of course,’ said Mr Radford, ‘a lot of chaps would rather read than listen to music.’
    ‘Curl up with a good book,’ agreed Mr Wayne.
    ‘Do much reading?’
    ‘A bit, yes. Not as much as I should, probably.’
    ‘Read any Dostoevsky? Some people swear by him.’
    ‘What about Tolstoy?’
    ‘I’m afraid I’m rather parochial in my tastes. I like Dickens. I read Wodehouse, for a bit of light relief. Do you mind telling me what this is all about? You seem to be asking me an awful lot of questions about Russian writers and composers.’
    ‘We’re just trying to build up a picture.’
    ‘Finding out about your likes and dislikes, that sort of thing.’
    ‘It’s just that I need to get home to my wife before too long.’
    ‘Of course, old man. We understand that.’
    ‘You’ll probably be wanting to see as much of her as you can, in the next few weeks.’
    Thomas frowned. ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘Well, after all,