Expo 58: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

experience. No longer a mere government pen-pusher, he would become, for six short months, something much more interesting, and indeed glamorous: a player (however small) on the international stage. The idea appealed to her – even titillated her. And perhaps it was this knowledge, more than anything else, that lightened his step that Tuesday afternoon, and added a few imaginary inches to his height as he strode across the footbridge towards Birdcage Walk. He felt a sudden, unexpected kinship with London’s seagulls as they swooped low over the water beneath him, revelling in the freedom of flight.
    Half an hour later, Thomas was seated in Conference Room 191 of the Foreign Office, as close as he had ever come in his life to a centre of power.
    The conference table was huge, and every seat was taken. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Some of those present Thomas had already met in the waiting room downstairs. Others were public figures whom he recognized: Sir Philip Hendy, director of the National Gallery; Sir Bronson Albery, the famous theatrical manager; Sir Lawrence Bragg, the physicist and director of the Royal Institution. Several times in the last few months, back at the COI’s Baker Street offices, Thomas had caught glimpses of James Gardner, designer of the British pavilion; but he had not, until today, met the man with whom Gardner spent most of the meeting locked in combat – Sir John Balfour, GCMG, Commissioner-General for the United Kingdom’s participation at Expo 58.
    The trouble began early on. Thomas could tell that there was a general sense of panic in the air. The fair was due to open in three months’ time, and there was obviously a good deal of work still to be done. Sir John had a thick pile of paperwork on the table in front of him, the very sight of which seemed to fill him with a palpable disgust.
    ‘Now I have to say,’ he began, crisply but with an edge of weariness to his voice, ‘that our Belgian friends have been most prolific with their communications over the last few weeks. This mountain of paper represents but a small proportion of their output. And we have been more selective still in making copies for everyone. So perhaps it would be in order for me to summarize. Let’s start with the musical side of things, shall we? Is Sir Malcolm here?’
    Sir Malcolm Sargent, chief conductor of the BBC Symphony Orchestra and musical advisor on the British contribution, had not been able to come to the meeting, it transpired.
    ‘He’s in rehearsals, I’m told,’ said a young man in a pin-striped suit, whom Thomas took to be a junior clerk. ‘Sends his apologies and all that. But the concert programmes are well in hand, he says.’
    ‘Did he give you any details?’
    ‘A few names were mentioned. Elgar, obviously. A bit of Purcell. The usual suspects, by the sound of it.’
    Sir John nodded. ‘Ideal. I must say there are some pretty . . . peculiar ideas coming out of the Belgian side.’ He glanced at the uppermost of his sheets of paper. ‘A week-long festival – week -long, it says here – of electronic music and musique concrète , featuring world premieres by Stockhausen and – how the devil do you pronounce this – Xenakis?’ He looked around the room, frowning incredulously. ‘Has anyone heard of these chaps? And what is “concrete music” when it’s at home, I’d like to know? Can anyone enlighten me?’
    There was a general shaking of heads around the table; in the midst of which Thomas became distracted, on suddenly becoming aware of two curious figures seated at the far end. What was it about them, in particular, that caught his attention? They were following the discussion as closely as anybody – perhaps more closely – and yet they seemed somehow detached from it. Although they never spoke to each other, or appeared to acknowledge each other’s presence, they were sitting rather closer to each other than was strictly necessary, and gave the impression of