Regarding the Name

I took the name for this blog from a wonderful short novel about an Englishman in the '50s making a living in Havana with a tiny struggling vacuum cleaner business. After being pushed into spying for the British government, he finds himself with nothing to report on, and so starts inventing stories to justify the salary of himself and his imaginary network of contacts. It's a well-written book filled with great characters. Here's an excerpt with one of my favourites, a part begging to be played by Stephen Fry in a movie adaptation.

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'I would be in favour of establishing a radio-unit if he proves to be a good man. He could expend his office staff, I suppose?'

'Oh, of course. At least — you understand it's not a big office sir. Old-fashioned. You know how these merchant-adventurers make do.'

'I know the type, Hawthorne. Small scrubby desk. Half a dozen men in an outer office meant to hold two. Out-of-date accounting machines. Woman-secretary who is completing forty years with the firm.'

Hawthorne now felt able to relax; the Chief had taken charge. Even if one day he read the secret file, the words would convey nothing to him. The small shop for vacuum cleaners had been drowned beyond recovery in the tide of the chief's literary imagination. Agent 59200/5 was established.

'It's all part of the man's character,' the chief explained to Hawthorne, as though he and not Hawthorne had pushed open the door in Lamparilla Street. 'A man who has always learnt to count the pennies and to risk the pounds. That's why he's not a member of the country club — nothing to do with the broken marriage. You're a romantic, Hawthorne. Women have come and gone in his life; I suspect they never meant as much to him as his work. The secret of successfully using an agent is to understand him. Our man in Havana belongs — you might say — to the Kipling age. Walking with kings — how does it go? — and keeping your virtue, crowds and the common touch. I expect somewhere in that ink-stained desk of his there's an old penny note-book of black wash-leather in which he kept his first accounts — a quarter gross of india-rubbers, six boxes of steel nibs...'

'I don't think he goes quite as far back as steel nibs, sir.'

The chief sighed. 'Details don't matter, Hawthorne,' the chief said with irritation. 'But if you are to handle him successfully you'll have to find that penny note-book. I speak metaphorically.'

'Yes, sir.'

'This business about being a recluse because he lost his wife — it's a wrong appreciation, Hawthorne. A man like that reacts quite differently. He doesn't show his loss, he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve. If your appreciation were correct, why wasn't he a member of the club before his wife died?'

'She left him.'

'Left him? Are you sure?'

'Quite sure, sir.'

'Ah, she never found that penny note-book. Find it, Hawthorne, and he's yours for life. What were we talking about?'