The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss

I am myself a connection. I have to find if that is why you and your wife seek me out. If not, I will not be of use to you. Among other things, I am a connection between East and West, and that is an important connection for our times.’

      He looked squarely at Squire. His mouth was wide and blunt, and bracketed powerfully at either end with lines that ran from the flanges of his nostrils.

      ‘I like both yoga and demystification, Dr Saloman, though I’m not sure whether I like them in conjunction. Why do you see the connection between East and West as important at present?’

      Dr Saloman put the end of his cigarette in the glass ashtray on his desk and spread his palms wide, so that Squire could see he concealed nothing.

      ‘There are answers to suit cases. I will put one to your case. In the West, there are many old dead ideas which people still cling to. For instance, the idea that the poor must struggle to overthrow the rich is long dead; yet it is kept alive by many petty demagogues who have no other slogans to mouth. Once-living ideas die and become embalmed into single words – Marxism, socialism, liberalism, democracy. Of course I don’t speak politically, that’s not my sphere. But this is an age of new possibilities. In different circumstances, we must behave differently in order to think differently. Then salvation is not far away.’

      A door opened, and a young Indian woman in a bright blue and orange sari entered, bearing a tray. She placed the tray before Dr Saloman, and smiled and nodded at the visitors. He watched her with his dark eyes and his blunt mouth as she left.

      While the doctor poured coffee, Squire looked about the room. There were lace curtains at the two tall windows, making the air dim. Everything in the room, including Dr Saloman’s enormous desk, was new, gleaming, foreign. Elaborate psychedelic acrylic pictures adorned one wall; there was also a photograph of somewhere that could have been a clinic in Buenos Aires. Perhaps the birthplace of Demystified Yoga, Squire thought.

      His wife rose, walking over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

      ‘I don’t want any coffee,’ she told the doctor. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk. I have some shopping I have to do.’

      Squire rose to his feet. ‘We won’t be long, Tess. Hang on.’

      ‘I’ll see you,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Dr Saloman.’

      Dr Saloman made no comment. He came round the desk and gave Squire a cup of coffee. The cup was small and gold-rimmed; its fragile handle was difficult to grasp.

      ‘My wife gets rather restless,’ Squire said, by way of apology. ‘I’m very interested in what you say about our being surrounded by dead ideas. I was born with a neutral mind, and consequently have trouble in deciding which ideas are alive, which dead. How does a meeting of East and West help? There are plenty of dead ideas in the East.’

      ‘Of course. We need cross-fertilization. I’ll give you another old idea – racialism. But racialism is really ancient, and still has power. It is a true idea although, like Siva, it can be destructive. We must use its power correctly. We must test ourselves on the diversity that still lives between races – use it like a cold shower for our health. Increased travel accords that opportunity. My belief is that inter-racial contact can gradually obliterate fascism and communism and the other -isms by generating new ideas. Have you been to India? You should go at once.’

      ‘It’s not so easy—’

      ‘Of course it’s easy. For you it’s easy. I can tell it just by the cut of your suit. I also see that you should take your wife with you, for her inner harmony.’

      After their conversation, Squire descended through the Lebanese hall and out into the London street. It was October and the leaves were falling. Everything was tranquil. There was no sign of Teresa. He walked slowly to the car, waiting by a parking meter, and climbed in. He allowed himself to relax and think nothing. Eventually she returned, dangling a carrier bag.

      ‘Sorry if I kept you waiting, darling. I’ve been shopping.’

      She settled herself into the passenger seat and showed him a small glass ornament she had bought.

      ‘That yoga man was too boring. He’s a real phoney – you won’t use him, will you? I couldn’t bear it when he went into religion.’ She rubbed against him and kissed him on his neck.

      ‘Did you have to walk out like that? It was impolite. Saloman was okay. He said that we should go to India.’

      ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. I wasn’t being impolite to him – or you. I just suddenly got fed up with being there. I suppose you would say it was ideological. I went there with you to please you; I sat there to please you. Suddenly I wanted to be central. You and he were having a great conversation, and I was just sitting there waiting for you to finish. I couldn’t bear being an appendage.’

      He looked at her with concern. ‘You weren’t an appendage. I don’t see why you didn’t enjoy it. He was interesting, was our Doctor.’

      ‘Not to me he wasn’t,’ she said.

      Squire frowned. ‘Really, Tess. Just for half-an-hour? You’re as involved with religious questions as anyone.’

      She put an arm around him. ‘Tommy, be nice to me. Don’t be grim. Religion’s just not something I wanted to talk about. In any case, I hated the way that man stared at me; he was sinister, and if you’d been a woman you wouldn’t have liked it either. He looks like a murderer.’

      ‘That’s silly, when—’

      She sighed. ‘All right, it’s silly. Let’s go back to the hotel. My feet ache, and I need a drink.’

      As he reached the British Consulate, he thought ruefully, ‘Well, there was a time when I also found religious talk extremely tedious.’ But perhaps that wasn’t what Teresa had been trying to tell him.

      The Consulate was an unimposing building in greying stucco, hiding behind a number of sabre-leaved shrubs which entirely filled the small garden. The gate was locked. He spoke into a grill; the gate opened. He was met at the door by a solid unspeaking man, and shown into a hall whose chief features were a small chandelier and a portrait of the Queen and Prince Philip.

      In a minute, James Rotheray appeared, rubbing his hands and smiling with his head slightly on one side in a manner that Squire remembered from schooldays. They shook hands. Rotheray put an arm round Squire’s shoulders and led him through the house to an enclosed courtyard where two men were sitting drinking. Rotheray introduced them to Squire and then led him to another table.

      ‘Lovely to see you, Tommy, you’re looking first-rate.’

      ‘And you, Sicily evidently agrees with you.’

      ‘Sicily’s splendid, full of antiquities. Getting a bit grey round the temples.’

      ‘Me too. And a bit thin on top. Do you still run?’

      ‘No. Jogging hasn’t caught on in Ermalpa. We sometimes manage a scratch game of cricket. I suppose the last time we met was at the Travellers.’

      ‘My Uncle Willie’s birthday dinner.’

      Squire and Rotheray both belonged to the Travellers’ Club.

      Rotheray brought drinks and concluded the pleasantries by saying, ‘It’s frightfully kind of you to come round. We have laid on just a few people for dinner – a dozen, no more – who are looking forward to meeting you and having a chat. It’ll all be jolly pleasant, and we have a really good chef. So before we go any further, if you like, we’ll talk about … what I know you want to talk about. I’ve got my secretary here, who can give you official advice. He’s a first-rate chap.’

      He called over one of the men at the other table, a young man with a massive handshake who was introduced as Howard Parker-Smith. Squire recognized the type, or hoped he did: well-muscled body under well-tailored suit, uncompromising attitude under well-bred politeness: and felt pleased that such men still prospered.

      ‘Bring