The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

passionately: he was a gentleman. Her soft closing of the door seemed to indicate that, in her eyes at any rate, one swallow made a whole summer.
    D. took off his shoes and lay down on the bed, not waiting to wash the blood off his face. He told his subconscious mind, as if it were a reliable servant who only needed a word, that he must wake at eight-fifteen, and almost immediately was asleep. He dreamed that an elderly man with beautiful manners was walking beside him along a river bank; he was asking for his views on the Song of Roland, sometimes arguing with great deference. On the other side of the river there was a group of tall cold beautiful buildings like pictures he had seen of the Rockefeller Plaza in New York and a band was playing. He woke exactly at eight-fifteen by his own watch.
    He got up and washed the blood from his mouth; the two teeth he had lost were at the back. It was lucky, he thought grimly, for life seemed determined to make him look less and less like his passport photograph. He was not so bruised and cut as he had expected. He went downstairs. In the hall there was a smell of fish from the dining-room, and the little servant ran blindly into him, carrying two boiled eggs. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Some instinct made him stop her. ‘What is your name?’
    â€˜Else.’
    â€˜Listen, Else. I have locked the door of my room. I want you to see that nobody goes in while I am away.’
    â€˜Oh, nobody would.’
    He put his hand gently on her arm. ‘Somebody might. You keep the key, Else. I trust you.’
    â€˜I’ll see to it. I won’t let anybody,’ she swore softly while the eggs rolled on the plate.
    The Entrenationo Language Centre was on the third floor of a building on the south side of Oxford Street: over a bead shop, an insurance company, and the offices of a magazine called Mental Health . An old lift jerked him up: he was uncertain of what he would find at the top. He pushed open a door marked ‘Inquiries’ and found a large draughty room with several arm-chairs, two filing cabinets, and a counter at which a middle-aged woman sat knitting. He said, ‘My name is D. I have come for a specimen lesson.’
    â€˜I’m so glad,’ she said and smiled at him brightly. She had a wizened idealist’s face and ragged hair and she wore a blue woollen jumper with scarlet bobbles. She said, ‘I hope you will soon be quite an old friend,’ and rang a bell. What a country, he thought with reluctant and ironic admiration. She said, ‘Dr Bellows always likes to have a word with new clients.’ Was it Dr Bellows, he wondered, whom he had to see ? A little door opened behind the counter into a private office. ‘Would you just step through?’ the woman said, lifting the counter.
    No, he couldn’t believe that it was Dr Bellows. Dr Bellows stood in the little tiny room, all leather and walnut stain and the smell of dry ink, and held out both hands. He had smooth white hair and a look of timid hope. He said something which sounded like ‘Me tray joyass’. His gestures and his voice were more grandiloquent than his face, which seemed to shrink from innumerable rebuffs. He said, ‘The first words of the Entrenationo Language must always be ones of welcome.’
    â€˜That is good of you,’ D. said. Dr Bellows closed the door. He said, ‘I have arranged that your lesson – I hope I shall be able to say “lessons” – will be given by a compatriot. That is always, if possible, our system. It induces sympathy and breaks the new world order slowly. You will find Mr K. is quite an able teacher.’
    â€˜I’m sure of it.’
    â€˜But first,’ Dr Bellows said, ‘I always like to explain just a little of our ideals.’ He still held D. by the hand, and he led him gently on towards a leather chair. He said, ‘I always hope that a new client has