It was six when I got the call that took me overseas. I hadn’t heard from Villiers in some time, and yet he left an indelible footprint on all he encountered, however briefly. I sat and smoked by the window, overlooking the comings and goings of Oakley Street; not much, it was a Monday. I’d been in this state of play for some time, ever since graduation and what came after. A failed foray into office work, a failed play. It had been a year since I threw and caught my cap. 

I’d heard the telephone ring, and had assumed on good authority that it was not for me, rather my uncle with whom I had almost worn out my gift of hospitality. He was a clumsy man, bespectacled and with a walrus moustache, and he made his living, inexplicably, from collecting art. His noisy and misshapen footsteps danced on the floorboards in the hall and seemed to crash ever-so-slightly into my door. “There’s a young fellow on the phone for you, laddy.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite. He’s a rambunctious fellow, sounds like he’s calling from a shindig of sorts. Though where he’d be having such a jolly old time at six on a Monday evening is beyond me.”

It had to be Villiers. 

“Ivan? Ivan? Is that you, Ivan?”

“Villiers,” I said with an air of duality, that said he was my mortal foe and my dearest friend. “I didn’t know ghosts could talk.”

“I’m contrite, Ivan. I’ve let your friendship fall to the wayside and I cannot quite figure out how to forgive myself.”

“Is that so?”, I asked with a chuckle. “Where are you? It’s awfully loud.”

“A party, I think. I’m frightfully bored however, I’ve been spoiled, you see. Are you still a member of the Alumnus Club?”

“Yes.”

“Would you dine with me, Ivan? Tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful! Oh, that’s just wonderful! I shall meet you at the Club, say in an hour? I shall have to go and make myself throw up, wash up a little, and then I’ll see you there.”

He was gone before I could answer. My thoughts then turned to dress. Villiers and I were both alums of Royal Northern, and were therefore eligible for membership of the Royal Northern Alumnus Club, or the Arnak as we called it. Membership, as per the Club’s handbook, was reserved for alums of our great institution, who have gone forth and conquered. Neither Villiers or I had achieved much in the way of conquest, but our fathers had, which was enough. It was a small building, in the cluster of London’s great clubs. It sat on Chesham Place in Belgravia. There were three floors; a parlour bar, a tea room, a smoking room, a library, and a dining room. 

In keeping with the rules of the London Clubs, there was a dress code of formality. My shoes, by good fortune and perhaps a hint of premonition, had been polished the day before and my suit was still intact from a wedding the week prior, though I hadn’t a tie.

“D’you have a spare tie, uncle?”, I asked, walking into the drawing room where my uncle was examining photographs of a Hopper, due for exhibition at the Wallace Collection. “I’ve only a dickie bow.”

“Hm?”, he asked, rousing from the picture, which had seemingly taken up his entire afternoon.

“A tie. May I borrow one?”

He answered only by means of looking down at himself. He was a fat man, there’s no two ways about it. “My dear boy,” he began. “I cannot wear a tie and a belt at the same time, lest I choke. I’ve a thin scarf. Perhaps you could fashion something out of that?”

He’d left me with little choice but to agree. The shops would be shut, and a clandestine search of his room yielded nothing. The man simply did not possess a tie. 

“What do you even need a tie for?”, he asked, when I re-emerged with a scarf tied clumsily around my neck. “Do you have a date? Can you hurry up and marry her? Your father worries.”

“I don’t have a date, uncle. I’m going to the Club.”

“Are you a member?”

“Yes, somehow.”

He scoffed. “Your father has done much for you, dear boy. Does this mean that you’ve finally decided to do something.”

“I’ve done plenty, uncle.”

“Oh, yes. That play. You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve much on my mind. This Hopper is a fake.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. There’s a television. See?”

“Well, I mustn’t keep my friend waiting.”

In my dire straits, I hadn’t the money for the Underground, and so walked from Chelsea to Belgravia, through the winding thickets of overgrown concrete and screeching cars, matched and exceeded only by the tawdry sounds of the socialites and hoorah Henry’s. And when I arrived, five minutes late for our appointment, I was met and disrobed at the door by a teenage host.

“Evening, Thomas. How are you?”

“Just fine, sir.”

“Are we busy tonight?”

“No, sir.”

Thomas had always spoken to me in an air of contempt, that I hadn’t noticed until some time later. He was a boy of seventeen, who had once greeted me fondly, and spoke openly of his militaristic dreams, though this reception had soured, inexplicably, over time. He died on foreign soil two years after that night.

“I’m here to meet a friend,” I said, handing over my membership card to be scanned. “By the name of Henry Villiers. Is he here?”

“Henry Villiers,” the host repeated, checking an entry book. “Yes, he’s here. Though where I don’t know. Is—is that a tie?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t look like a tie,” he pressed.

“Yes it does.”

It was then that a voice cut through, from the direction of the Parlour, which was on the ground floor. “I say, dear chap, I don’t know if I believe you.”

“That’ll be him,” I said to Thomas with an unreciprocated grin. “Of course he’s in the Parlour.”

“Will that be all, sir?”, Thomas asked.

“Indeed. You take care, Thomas.”

“And you, sir.”

Thomas brushed past me to greet, with a prior-withheld warmth, and elder guest who had entered during our conversation. I took my leave and walked into the Parlour, where Villiers had perched himself at the end of a table, with two men of middle age hunched over pints of dark beer, seemingly uninterested in his company. “Ivan!”, he cried out, startling one of the men into dropping his cigarette into his beer. “Oh, I am sorry. I’ll get you a replacement, but only one. Would you care for a new beer or a new cigarette?”

We shared a drink in the Parlour, while the heavily-weighted questions of his haunts and whereabouts sat on the tip of my tongue, but a million miles from his mind as we chatted idly. By half-past we were taken to the dining room and sat by the window, as per Villiers’ request. He watched me keenly as wine was carted over by the bottle. “Do you like it?”, he asked, after my first sip.

“I do. What is it?”

“They call it Anglo Noir. It’s a blackcurrant wine from the Malvern Hills. I got a taste for it before I went abroad, and have craved it since. I think it’ll go nicely with the caviar.”

“So, you’ve been abroad?”

“Of course. If I’d been in London this whole time, I doubt I’d have taken it upon myself to invite you to dinner.”

It was now my turn to watch him keenly, as he breathed in the English wine to his satisfaction, and whimpered with glee as the first mouthful of food went in. He ate greedily and unsympathetically, for it was not the sort of food that the ordinary man ate. I had refrained from heavier topics of conversation until, at last, our mains came. It was a pork steak with sautéed potatoes, a pea paste, and triple-cooked carrots. I waited until he had a mouth full of food, as his fluster brought me great amusement in our college years. “So, come on then Villiers, out with it.”

“Out with what?”, he said, with a full mouth.

“Not your dinner. Chew, Villiers. Chew, and swallow, and then tell me where you’ve been for the last year.”

He did as I commanded, before clearing himself with a gulp of wine. “I’ve been in the West Indies.”

“Is that so?”

“T’is. Haven’t we caught up once since college?”

I disarmed him with a smile, before giving my answer. “No.”

“How rude of me. Are you cross?”

“No. But do tell me more. What have you been doing in the West Indies?”

“Drinking, cricketing, shagging, and occasionally sparing the blushes of the Crown.”

“What could you possibly mean by that?”

He took a moment to scan the room, so as to ensure that no-one was listening, such was the pause that I briefly allowed myself to believe that Villiers had become a spy, and spent his days hunting terrorist and traitor alike. His answer, however, was something of an anticlimax. “I’m in the Diplomatic Service.”

“The Diplomatic Service?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a diplomat?”

“Of sorts. I mean, I don’t do any of the actual diplomacy, I’m in comms. But, I work in the embassy, attend the suarees, and bed the local women, which is a sort of diplomacy of its own.”

“How’d you swing that?”

“My surname is Villiers, Ivan. Everything about me is finely tuned for public service. Well, I could’ve gone to Camford, I probably would’ve been posted to America or China if I had, but it’s better this way. Do you want to know what the greatest job in the world is?”

“Sure.”

“Mine. I work in the British Embassy of an inconsequential Commonwealth realm, where it’s cricket season all year round. I bed the locals in the winter, and the Americans in the summer. I thought college was as good as it gets. How wrong I was. Anyway, what have you been up to?”

“Very little.”

“Yes, I heard about your play. It’s actually what made me resolve to see you.”

“That was six months ago.”

“Well, yes. I know that. It’s just taken me this long to get back to Blighty. I was busy.”

“Drinking, and cricketing, and shagging?”

“Precisely,” he grinned, before continuing. “D’you think it’s the sort of thing you’d be up for?”

“Which bit? The hedonism or the diplomacy?”

“Whichever one tickles your fancy when you wake up in the morning.”

“Yes, I think I would fancy it. It isn’t the sort of thing I’d considered before, but I think I could do it. How does one go about doing it?”

“Which part?”, he asked. “The hedonism or the diplomacy?”

“I suppose it would be the getting to the point of having such a decision to make.”

“Well,” he began, as the pork steaks were taken away and replaced with duck pate. “My father made the arrangements for me.”

“That won’t do, Villiers. Your father’s money is old money, my father’s fortune is a hatchling child.”

“I’m sure he can find something for you.”

“Who? Your father or mine. Mine fired me, if you recall my letter.”

“It’ll have to be mine then. He’s upstairs as it happens, having a drink with the Foreign Secretary. Would you like to meet them?”

“Shall we finish our meal first?”

“Yes,” he said, raising a glass of our English wine. “To us; Henry Villiers and Ivan Meir - drinkers, cricketers, and shaggers extraordinaire.”

Our glasses clinked, and we said little for the rest of the dinner. I thought back to that evening with Villiers, many years later and after my tenure with the Diplomatic Service was at an end. It seemed to me, on that night of premature Middle Age, that Villiers had come to me much as the Archangel Michael had to Adam, showing me premonitions of days to come, in which I didn’t feel the dearth of life that I had come to feel in London. Through Villiers, I saw man in his natural state; happy and idle, and I knew the moment I saw him, that I wanted whatever it is that he had. We finished our puddings and the wine, and were laughing about old college days when he suggested we go up and introduce ourselves. “Of course,” I said. “I just need to make a phone call first.”

I excused myself, and moved downstairs, while Villiers moved up, and entered the reception, where Thomas read a magazine. “Are you sure that’s a real tie, sir?”, he asked with an air of mocking.

“Yes, it’s a real tie, Thomas. It’s just—French.”

“Right,” he said. “French.”

“May I use the telephone?”

He said nothing, and simply gestured at the bank of phones that lined the hall.

“Hello?”, my father said, in a tired and irritated tone. “Who is this?”

“Father, it’s me.”

“I have four sons. Which one would you be?”

“Ivan.”

“Oh. I don’t recognise this number. Have you gotten yourself arrested?”

“No, father.”

He sighed. “Do you need money?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. Why then?”

“Father would you be opposed to my going into public service?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On if public service is a euphemism. Your play was anything but.”

“Well, it’s just that—an opportunity may have arisen, for me to go into the Diplomatic Service, and I wanted to know if that would be okay with you.”

“Okay? Okay with me? My dear boy, I don’t care what you do, so long as you do something. You’re my youngest, Ivan. You won’t get the company, and I won’t marry you off in the pages of Tatler. The only onus on you is to not be a total fuck up. If you want to join the Diplomatic Service, Ivan, by all means go ahead. It’s a fine line of work. Just don’t go and get yourself killed. I hate the sound of your mother’s crying.”

And so, with the will to continue and the consent of my father, I ventured upstairs to the smoking room. There, Villiers had made himself comfortable in an armchair. The room was technically a patio, with a grated-wood roof that exposed the inhabitants to the elements, and fell bitterly cold in the winter. It was customary for club members to retrieve their coats for their sojourn to the third floor. Villiers sat in one chair with his father, then the Minister for some thing or another, and the Foreign Secretary too, who was a man of such minute stature that I hadn’t noticed he was there until I had rounded the armchair, and sat on his lap.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” the Foreign Secretary exclaimed. “Not this act again. When’ll they source some more appropriate chairs?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”, I cried out, fumbling over my words and causing a scene, much to Villiers’ amusement.

“You’ll have to drag one other, Ivan my dear,” he stuttered out between mighty laughs. 

Taking his word, I scanned the room and found one that wasn’t spoken for in the far corner. Just as I had dislodged it from the carpet, and had begun to drag it over to the others, a gloved hand rested itself on my shoulder, I wheeled to see that it was Thomas. “Allow me, sir,” he said in an impatient tone. I walked with him in lock-step as he dragged the armchair over to the others, at great physical expense. And when he was done, he was red in the face and sweating moderately. He ignored my offers of assistance, and walked away muttering to himself. “It’s a fake tie, I know it’s a fake tie.”

By this point in the evening, the smoking room was scarce, and the Foreign Secretary felt at ease to speak mightily and carelessly on matters of state. At each pause, Villiers would attempt to speak on my behalf, only to be interrupted. The elder Villiers’ knew better than to interrupt the Foreign Secretary in his stride. “And of course,” he’d begin. “We’re losing realms left, right, and centre. The pee-em doesn’t seem to mind all that much, of course. He’s hardly in the room, not with the divorce to contend with. Oh, golly, I’ve spoken out of turn. Do forget what I just said. It—must be the wine. Yes, the wine. Do tell me more of the wine, Villiers.”

“Well,” began the elder. “It’s an English wine, I believe. Made from blackcurrant.”

“English, you say? I’d ought to get a bottle or two for the pee-em, Lord knows he’d need it. Not with the divorce and all. Oh, crumbs. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Someone stop me, I can’t seem to stop talking about the Prime Minister and his bloody divorce. Word has it she’s after Chequers, if you could imagine such a thing. Oh, for God’s sake. Someone change the subject. You,” he said, snapping a finger at me. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognise him?”, the younger Villiers began, giving me a knowing look. “Surely you do, Mr. Foreign Secretary. This is Ivan. He’s one of your diplomats.”

“Is he? Where are you stationed, chap?”

“Well,” said Villiers, interrupting me with a raised palm. “That’s the issue, isn’t it Ivan? Ivan here has fallen victim to one of our unfortunate computing errors. Haven’t you, Ivan?”

“Well—yes. Yes I have. A computing error.”

“Do go on,” said the Foreign Secretary. Just then, the elder Villiers became privy to the rouse at play, and saw fit to not intercept. 

“He was stationed with me, on Tierra de Suerte. And then he returned home on leave, and that’s when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“The computing error of course. I don’t know what on Earth happened, but he was the sole victim. It wiped his file completely.”

“And how comes I wasn’t made aware of this?”, asked the Foreign Secretary.

“Well,” Villiers began. “I can imagine you’ve got plenty on your plate, not with the——“

“The Prime Minister’s divorce. Yes, you’re quite right, young Henry. I dare say it’s been much on my mind. Did you know that she’s demanding a peerage, under threat of going to the press? Oh, it’s all just too horrible. Too macabre. She’s a money grabbing bitch, even if the pee-em won’t bring himself to see it.”

He then turned to me. “I’m dreadfully sorry to hear of this. Ian, was it?”

“Ivan,” I said.

“Right, Ivan, yes. And to which tribe do you belong, Ivan?”

“Tribe?”

“Yes, your lodgings, as it were.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite follow.”

“Perhaps I’ve been too verbose in my wording. I mean to know your line.”

“My line?”

“He’s asking what your surname is,” said the elder Villiers.

“Oh. It’s Meir.”

“My God. I wouldn’t suppose you’re a relation of Rufus Meir?”

“He’s my father.”

“Good gracious. You are from a line of esteem. Rather recently though, I might add. Your father was the son of a goldsmith, yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But is that not the pride of modern Britain incarnate?”, he asked, taking on a softer disposition. “Your father was the son of an Israelite goldsmith, and you are the son of a magnate. I’m so dreadfully sorry to hear of your predicament, Ivan. Trust in me, that is shall be rectified with precision.”

“What on Earth were you thinking?”, I hissed at Villiers, when his father and the Foreign Secretary had retired for the evening. “Duping the Foreign Secretary?”

“It worked, didn’t it? While you may be miffed now, just imagine how many millions of miles away it’ll feel when you and me are sipping on cocktails in the eight o’clock sun.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I dare say this will come back to bite me.”

Villiers looked past me, towards his father, who gave a stern nod in return. “No,” he said. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Villiers was right, and I received a call from the Foreign Secretary himself. In a display of how twenty-four hours can change one’s disposition, I made for the living room as soon as I heard the call. I was, however, slower to the punch than my uncle, who was yelling into the phone when I came in. “Oh that’s very funny, very funny indeed. If you call this number again, I shall call the police and report you.” 

He hung up the phone with a slam, and turned to face me, trembling with rage. “Little shit called and tried to have me on that he was the Foreign Secretary. I mean, why? Why go to such expense just for a silly little prank call.”

“No,” I said, with eyes widened. “No, uncle. That actually was the Foreign Secretary. I’ve been expecting his call.

“Oh. Well, you should have said. How was I supposed to know that you’d be getting a call from that funny little man from the telly? I suppose you’d better call him back.”

“Was that you?”, the Foreign Secretary barked. “How dare you if it was. I’d remind you that I occupy a great office of state.”

“It wasn’t me. It was my uncle. We don’t get many calls.”

“Right. Well, I shall overlook this. Young Henry was telling me about your exploits. It’s impressive enough for me to retain you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yes. There is one issue, however.”

“Oh?”, I asked.

“Yes. As you were the target of a security breach, we cannot send you back to Tierra de Suerte. So, you’ve been repositioned.”

“That, uh—makes sense,” I said. Just then, I heard shallow and harsh breathing on the line, that couldn’t have been the Minister, for he was speaking when I heard it. Looking around, I saw my uncle on the phone in the kitchen, listening in.

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING’, he mouthed. 

‘I’LL TELL YOU LATER’, I mouthed back. 

“Where’ll I be posted to, sir?”

“Well, that’s the other thing. For the time being, you’re a security hazard. You will be posted, my dear boy, rest assured of that, but I cannot say over the phone. But I’ve made some calls, and we’ve stationed you to the Caribbean, so you shan’t have to change your wardrobe all that much. It’s just the next island over from Tierra de Suerte.”

“And what island would that be?”

“Don’t you know?”, asked the Foreign Secretary, affecting concern. 

“I left my globe in the last embassy.”

“Ah. Yes, that would explain it. Well, I’ve your paperwork ready, and shall be expecting you at the Foreign Office in the morning. When can you ship out?”

“As soon as I have my assignment.”

“Good. I’m sure you shall continue to make us proud, Mr. Meir. Do come and see me in the morning, I shall give you your posting then.”

And then he was gone. I lingered by the phone, gently beating my head into the wall. “Please don’t be Fortunia,” I repeated to myself. “Please don’t be Fortunia. “Please don’t be Fortunia.”

“What have you done?”, asked my uncle, who’d crept back into the room.

“I’ve got a job.”

It was just after noon when word came, from the upper deck, that the island was in view. It had been a journey of three days, two flights, and now a small yacht, where I had been asleep in the hold. As I stirred, footsteps approached on the creaky wooden floor, and the captain poked his head into my line of sight.

"Island's in view lad, won't be much longer now."

"And how is the weather?", I asked, as the groggy words limped out of throat. 

The captain said nothing, and laughed to himself as he retreated to the deck. I gathered my belongings and followed him up some narrow wooden steps, with great gaps in between. All I had was a bag of clothes, and a box of trinkets. On the deck I was met with the sun's kiss and the ocean's breeze. And as I followed the arrow of his finger, and saw the island. There were beaches of white sand, and a paper-thin canopy behind. Beyond that, I was told, lay a number of small villages that orbited the capital of San Medard. 

"That there is Fortunia. Our destination. What brings you to the island?"

“A job. I’m to be a diplomat.”

“For the British?”, he asked. He had a cold, Irish accent, much different to the warm one I’d heard from loyal Ulster men at my college.

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“No. I had you at my mercy while you were asleep, I’d have made a meal of you if it bothered me.”

“Irish humour?”, I asked. 

“No,” he said, laying a gargantuan hand on my shoulder. “Irish retribution.”

He began to laugh to himself mightily. Eager to move along, I pointed out the white beaches and commented on their beauty, which only made him laugh all the more. “That’s not sand.”

“It’s not?”

“No. That there is the Royal Hotel, or at least what remains of it.”

“What happened to the Royal Hotel?”

“It fell foul.”

“Fell foul? Fell foul of what?”

“The cosmic hat-trick,” he said. 

“The what?”

“Hurricane, failed coup, schism with the British. The hat-trick. It’s a hell of a time to get posted here.”

He began to chuckle again. I echoed his laughs, nervously, and fixed my gaze upon that distant ring on the horizon. Even just within its vicinity, I felt her cold and shuddering call, juxtaposed with the warm wind. And as the ship bobbed closer, it seemed more as if my entire life, twenty-two years, had been a journey, and at long last I was nearing its end.

"Listen here, lad," the Captain said, once a half hour had passed. "Ferrying folks out here is sort of my job, how I put food on the table if you know what I mean. So, any support would be appreciated.”

"Of course," I said, reaching for my pocket. 

"Not here," he quipped, placing a hand on my wrist as it circled the pocket's edge. "The winds have been known to snatch up loose change. There'll be plenty of time once we arrive ashore."

"That's very trusting of you, Captain."

"Well, it's not as if you’ll have anywhere to go."

"I suppose not."

The Captain, who at last introduced himself to me as Crispy Mulligan, had been my companion for the past two days. He’d picked me up from Miami in his little old ship, which he’d named The Orpheus. When I enquired as to why, he responded that it was his job to travel into the underworld, and bring the dead back to life. 

"What is it you did back in England?", he asked, as we grew nearer.

“Nothing.”

“And before that?”

"I was a student."

"Oh yeah? One of those Camford lads are ye'?"

"Would you hold it against me if I was?”

“A little. My people haven’t faired too well when confronted with Camford men.”

“Well, then I suppose it’s good fortune for us both that I went to Royal Northern.”

“They’re all the same to me, lad.”

“Are there many expats here?”, I asked, changing the topic with a gesture towards the island, that grew closer. "Just how many flee here?"

"Enough to make a modest man of me."

"You shall be remunerated, Captain. Rather kindly, too.”

"Like I said," he said, giving me a side-eyed glance. "You don't have anywhere else to go. I’ll find ye’.”

“Is that a threat, Captain?”

He didn’t answer the question. “I’ll fetch the rowboat. You’ll have to finish the journey yourself.”

It was the early afternoon when I made my landing, clumsily and with a shudder that knocked my box of personals into the water. Lugging my life, encased in a bag and box onto the shore, I happened upon the ruins of the Royal Hotel. It had been reduced to rubble, and only a sign bearing the name remained, limping on just enough power for the neon sign to twitch into life every few seconds. There was a man, a local of middle age, sat on a pile of rubble, smoking leisurely from a pipe. “Hello, sir,” he called to me with an ear-to-ear grin. “Would you like a room?”

I took me some time to find a taxi driver, though at last I stumbled across one in a bar by the port, who’d agreed to take me after his drink. As it happens, the drink was his fourth, and I made my piece with God and Christ my saviour as I was driven, quickly and violently from the port to the capital. At last, I arrived at the Embassy, four days after I’d departed from London. I was met at the reception by a clerk hunched over a desk, scribbling away furiously on a sudoku. “I can’t crack the bloody numbers. Blast this game and the man who invented it. Oh, hello. Have you lost your passport?”

“Uh, no. I’m here to work?”

“Here to what?”

“To work.”

“To worm? What is that? Is that another one of those young people sayings?”

“No, you’ve misheard me, I’ve a job here.”

“A gob? Yes, I can see that, you haven’t shut up since you walked in, now why are you here? Passport replacements are two-hundred a pop. Is it just you?”

“Just me?”

“Yes. Is it just you who’s lost a passport? Or have you come in a gaggle?”

“Madam, you’ve misheard me. I’ve got a job in the Embassy, this Embassy.”

“Have you? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“You should’ve had a wire through from the Foreign Secretary, he’s placed me here himself. I’m Ivan Meir, the new Press Officer.”

“A what from the who?”

“A wire from the Foreign Secretary.”

“A choir in the German Embassy? I didn’t even know they had one here.”

“What’s all this fuss about?”, called a voice in the other room.

“Well,” the receptionist called back. “This young fellow has lost his passport, and has decided to join the choir at the German Embassy, though why he saw fit to tell us about the last part is beyond me.”

“He’s what?”, the voice gave itself a face, as a balding and buck-toothed man in an ill-fitting suit came forth from a small door to the left of the front desk. He was tall enough, that he had to crouch from the doorway, but still caught the top of his head on the frame, and his hands jittered nervously as he stood before me. “I didn’t know there was a German Embassy on Fortunia.”

“There isn’t,” I said, growing irritated. “I’m not here from the German Embassy, and I haven’t lost my passport. It’s right here. I’m to work here, I was placed here by the Foreign Secretary himself, and he should have sent a wire to inform you.”

“We haven’t received any wire, young man. Are you sure there’s not a German Embassy. I’d suspect it’s the sort of thing they’d do.”

“I promise you, I’m not here from the German Embassy.”

“Well, we haven’t received any wire from the Foreign Secretary.”

Just then, a messenger boy burst through the door, panting and gasping as if he’d run for many miles. “Wi—wi—wire for you, sir. It’s from the Foreign Secretary, says you’ve got a new Press Officer from London. Name of—oh, God. Name of Ivan Meir.”

“And what’s your name, lad?”, said the Ambassador to me.

“Ivan Meir.”

“Oh, that settles it then. Thank you, Esteban, you can go now. Oh, and spread the word. The Germans have opened an Embassy on the island.”

It was an introduction to Diplomatic life that I shan’t forget in a hurry. While I had entertained myself on the long boat from Miami by imagining how I would introduce myself to each of my colleagues, that would not be necessary, as I had already met them. That was the staff at the British Embassy in Fortunia. John Boffin, the Ambassador; Patricia Spratt, the secretary; and me, the Press Officer.

“You’d better come in,” said the Ambassador, placing an arm around my shoulder. “We’ve much to do.”