Blame It on the Bossa Nova Read Online Free PDF Page A

an alien intelligence shouted ‘Hands Off Cuba’ into my face. The cry turned into a chant which diminished as I turned the corner towards Oxford Circus. The whole effect was to vaguely depress me. The ‘Ravers’ as they were known made a strange contrast with Bryant and his world as it had been portrayed to me by Toby. But they had a bond in the security of companionship; little sub-cultures spinning along adjacent to each other, like twin universes oblivious of the other’s presence.
    Back in the flat, with the coming of night my mood had not improved. I tend to wallow in my bouts of introspective depression. Everything was wrong. I had entered into this Bryant adventure light heartedly, not believing it would ever come off, and not greatly caring. But then I’d experienced the shock of realizing that financially I was up against the buffers. Cambridge was a machine geared to creating an endless series of loans; one was embarrassed by would-be creditors fighting in the queue outside one’s door. But London was different. Here was definitely no honey still for tea. And bread and butter was in short supply. Then I’d got the crush on Pascale and everything had pointed to going along with this Bryant business. It was so easy and it unlocked all the doors, perhaps Pascale would even come to Greece with me, so I had agreed to do it. And now, it was obvious to me that I could never deliver on that particular deal. I picked up a copy of the Evening Standard and looked down the jobs page. The only one I reckoned I could stand was barman. I rang a number advertising a part-time job. But the money they were paying was ridiculous - ten bob a night, and was I big? They had trouble at weekends. That was no good to me, but it was all I could do. I put the phone down even more depressed. There was a television in the room, I turned it on but the screen was a snowstorm and, when I tried to adjust it, it turned into an animated Bridget Riley. It had a certain internal dynamism but after four seconds its attraction started to pall. In England, Indian summers have cold nights so I turned on the one bar electric fire. It was the first time I had used it, so hectic had been my social drinking, and I smelt burning as the accumulated dust and fluff of the summer months frizzled merrily away. By now the blackness really got a hold on me. I wandered into the kitchen to make myself a cup of Nescafe and saw a radio on top of a washing machine. It responded to the touch and I turned it to the Home Service. The news was on. The Cuba crisis seemed to have faded away. In Southern Rhodesia some terrorists had got together and called themselves ZAPU. The Z stood for Zimbabwe, said the newsreader, the ‘African name for Southern Rhodesia’. ZAPU promised violence and death until their goal of independence was achieved. I had no doubt that would not be long. An American general, Maxwell Taylor, had made a speech in Saigon. South Vietnam had just been pacified by a string of strategically placed hamlets, built to protect the people against terrorists. Now America could divert its aid into social and economic fields, he said. Edward Kennedy was running for Senate. He was accused by his rival for the Democrat Primary of trading on the family name...... And Stravinsky was going to visit Russia.
    Such was the state of the world when the phone rang. I ambled back into the living room to take it, leaving the radio on in the kitchen.
    “Hello.”
    “Hello, can I speak to Alex Marshall.”
    “This is Alex Marshall speaking.”
    “Alex, I didn’t recognise your voice, this is Christopher.”
    “Christopher?”
    “Christopher Bryant.” I’d had the presence of mind to leave my number with his receptionist and he’d had the presence of mind to ask her.
    “Look, I know this might sound strange, but are you free Thursday night?”
    “Why should it sound strange?”
    “I don’t know. Some people might think we weren’t all that well acquainted. Look