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KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

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Chapter Six
Guido, Bio-fests and Al Zahir

'If Europe had stood firm and NATO had approved [the US] resolution for a nuclear strike, many Christian and Muslim lives would have been saved. The war would have ended, not in the appeasement of evil, but in victory for the forces of good. Al Zahir would still be burning in hell as I write; instead, the devil is amassing arms for a new assault on the free world. I have no doubts about this.'
'Life's a Gamble' by Steve Tarbuck (2065)

For most of Homo sapiens' history an individual could count himself very lucky if he survived for 50 years or more. By the middle of the 21st century, though, it was possible to hope ­ if you were rich or had managed to secure a reasonable life-long pension ­ that your life was only halfway through. When people greeted me, on my 50th birthday, with the usual medley of comments implying I had only reached the halfway stage, and that life would be as long in the future as it had been in the past, I laughed or smiled and tried to avoid a disdainful reply. Centenarians were already ten-a-penny (one of Tom's expressions) by 2050, but I could not see myself growing that old. And, even if I could have done, I would have had no desire to spend decades doing little more than managing my health and monitoring my funds. Besides, although we all tried to live and work in the belief that the world would become, with the right policies and enough effort, a better place, there was scant evidence to support such convictions.

Perhaps if I had known I would live this long, I might have stopped to take account of the mid-life moment. But I doubt it. For most of my days, I've had too many external preoccupations to waste time in self-examination. There was that uncomfortable period of cam-psychology or cam-quackery, as some called it, with Harriet, and later, after the break-up with Diana, I took a helpful course in musical psychotherapy. But even in retirement I kept fairly busy, thanks in part to Lizette (who was also responsible for the idea of writing these Reflections and thus for keeping me occupied in extreme old age, beyond my dotage).

In retrospect, I can confirm that in many significant ways my life was more than half over by 29 December 2049. The drama, joys and despairs, the achievements and disappointments, the important events and meetings of a life stand out, as it were, as if they were extraordinary buildings in a dark landscape caught by the sun. But the sunlit memories from the first 50 years of my life far outnumber those of the second 50. And, although there have been many dramas, joys, despairs, achievements, disappointments, events and meetings in my post-50 years, they came after earlier experiences and so rarely registered in the memory as firmly; thus they seem to catch less light, to glisten less. An independent biographer might, however, put more emphasis on my later achievements (within the International Fund for Sustainable Development and during the war years) since I worked at a higher and more important level than I did when younger. Furthermore, there was nothing insignificant about my relationship with Lizette, which filled up much of the second half of my life. But, to put it another way (and to mix and match my metaphors), change and movement in one's early years create memorable landmarks while routine and habit in later years are accompanied mostly by dull visits to old monuments.

Thus, and I do wish to explain this, the chapters dealing with the latter half of my life may ­ although I can't be sure at this stage ­ be blander than those already gone by; and the reflections to come may be more artificially selected than those I have already recorded. For instance, to start this chapter, I am going to visit, as briefly as I can, two fifty fiestas, Diana's and my own, even though I went, sometimes on sufferance, to other parties which, in their own way, might have been more memorable. For the year 49 alone, I could write about the UN-sponsored reception in a tulip palace to celebrate Indonesia's centenary at which Diana and I were forced to lie on the ground by a protester brandishing what turned out to be a toy gun, or Peter de Roo's barge extravaganza which indirectly led Guido and I to buy our own barge. Also that year we went to the Rocard ball in Paris and Amy Mistral's Third Man centenary event in Amsterdam, both of which would certainly have featured in Diana's Reflections had she ever written any.

Diana decided years in advance that she would celebrate her 50th birthday by hosting a bio-fest. As happens so often with cultural trends, bio-fests emerged in the alternative artistic world, and then became popular among celebrities, which in turn led everyone else to try and emulate the idea. But there were bio-fests and bio-fests. At one end of the scale, Hollywood actors would hire bio-fest contractors to manage a package deal, including netsite broadcasts, books and, occasionally, high-cost ticket entry for strangers (although attempts at staging bio-fests outside the home, as an exhibition, never caught on). At the other end of the scale, A N Other would put up a couple of 20th century photos of his grandparents and play childhood camclips on the screen and call it a bio-fest. Diana's bio-fest fell somewhere in-between the two extremes. Personally, I could not help thinking such demonstrative displays of self were mostly vulgar, a dressed-up way of bragging, of swaggering. I could, though, forgive Diana and other artists this vanity, since bio-fests were often no more than another means of self-expression.

Diana used up much of her spare time over a period of months in preparation for the occasion. Guido and I became fully involved a couple of weeks before the (Easter) weekend of her birthday, in April 47 (this was the year before our puppet festival trip to Barcelona). All the rooms in our house, and most walls and surfaces in those rooms, were given over to some aspect of Diana's life. Our bedrooms and Diana's studio became exhibition spaces for the models and designs of her most successful shows, demonstrating her early, middle and later periods respectively. The screens in each area carried sequences from the plays themselves and from broadcast interviews with Diana about her work, while printed reviews, praising her sets, had been enlarged and posted nearby the relevant models. Various awards, certificates and trophies (some dating back to school and college and some more prestigious) were on display. Guido had been given a fairly free hand to prepare a mini bio-fest for his own room, since Diana felt that he was an extension of herself. Nevertheless, she tried to guide him and this led to a few loud arguments which Diana, gracefully, let me adjudicate. In my office, we covered the walls with photos of Diana's friends, going back as far as her primary school, but trying to make sure there would be at least one picture of everyone who had been invited. The bathroom was decked out with paraphernalia she had kept from Tic-tac-toe, the barge she'd once owned and shared with Karl. Since Karl had been such a large part of Diana's life, I was quite relieved to see his presence confined to the bathroom. The hall, dining and large lounge areas downstairs were taken up with family and domestic photos and mementoes, along with the very best of Diana's own framed photos and designs (mostly theatre related), and the most treasured art works acquired from friends (such as the Rocard puppets). In the lounge, the big wallscreen showed a silent loop of family photos and camclips. Photo-collages and Guido-drawings of Diana, Guido and me dominated the kitchen.

The bio-fest spread across the whole weekend, with family and neighbours mostly visiting on Saturday, and friends coming on Easter Sunday. We hired a mini-marquee (with heating fan) which was easily attached to the back of the house and accessed through the lounge door. Diana had wanted to solicit friends to look after the food and clearing up, but I insisted on hiring help for both days. We put food and drink for the adults in the marquee, and for the kids in a couple of tents in the front common garden area. Both days went smoothly ­ with two exceptions. On Saturday we had the garage roof crisis: Guido confidently led two girls, younger than him, across Oldwijkgaarten to the garage area, up some stepped brickwork and a wall, and onto a roof. Once there, the girls refused to follow Guido down. Tears, rescues, and recriminations followed in succession but were then soon forgotten when Guido promised to make the girls a paper jumping frog each. (While other boys had been learning to play football, Guido had nurtured an interest in origami!)

And on Sunday we had the Anders crisis. This is Diana's story more than mine, and replete with names that I will not use again, but Jay was moved by it when I told him a few days ago, as we all were at the time. To recall this accurately, I need to play the camclip someone helpfully took of the bio-fest exhibits.

The photos displayed along the hall from our front door start with Diana's parents Powles and Neeltje Oostlander, both of whom were long since dead. Powles had trained as an architect, become diverted by architectural history and ended up as curator of a local history museum in Utrecht. Neeltje, too, assisted Powles at the museum, but not before she had spent most her life working as a nurse fitting in different kinds of jobs around her child-rearing responsibilities. Next on the wall are Neeltje's parents (Diana's maternal grandparents), Anders and Claudine van der Klein. There is one photo of them standing outside the Utrecht house, the same one Dominique occupied for much of her life (which is a long story in itself although it had a happy ending, inasmuch as Dominique and Diana never fell out over the inheritance), and another one of them at a flower market. There is only one photo of Powles's parents (Diana's paternal grandparents), Eduwart and Maartje, but two of Powles's sister, Saartje (Sarah) and her English husband Anthony Nash, both with Liam their son. This is because Diana knew that Liam, her cousin, would be flying over from Bristol in England for the bio-fest. He proved to be a most interesting man. On inheriting a water pump business from his father, he had eschewed the chance of making millions by selling the manufacturing plant, and instead used the regular profits to invest in research and the development of cheap and ultra-efficient filter technologies. Whenever it was possible, he had opened up the patents for his designs and techniques through, as it happens, an IFSD-sponsored technology-transfer netzone. But this is a complete digression.

Anders and Claudine had four daughters, of whom Neeltje was the oldest. On the bio-fest camclip I can see there are several photos of the daughters together and some of their offspring. Two of Neeltje's sisters (Diana's aunts), Betje and Kaatje, were alive at the time. Then, in the dining area, there are the photos of Powles and Neeltje's children: the four Ds. The oldest was Demeter, known as Dimi, then aged 59. She had married young, gone to live in the north of Holland, and worked as a family doctor her whole life long. Emulating her mother, she too had four girls (plus several grandchildren, perhaps the girls who got stuck on the roof). Dana, in her early 50s by that time, had emigrated to New Zealand when young, married, and was running a local chain of pharmacies in Whangarei. She sent Diana a camclip of herself and her husband riding horses along a beach, which we found quite bizarre. Diana was the third daughter, and Dominique the youngest. The bio-fest camclip shows all kinds of photos of the four Ds, with and without Powles and Neeltje, as toddlers, juniors, teenagers and adults, some funny, some beautiful and some enchanting. Many, but not all of these, had been sent to Diana by Dimi who kept the largest collection of family memorabilia.

All the photos were much admired during the Saturday, but it was not until the following day that the festivities were disturbed by Helene's discovery. The Rocard family had driven from Paris for a few days holiday in Leiden to coincide with the bio-fest. Helene was a hobby genealogist, which might or might not explain why she examined Diana's family photos with more zeal than most of us had done. During the afternoon, when the kids were taking advantage of the spring sunshine, and the adults had settled into conversation cliques, she noticed, among the half dozen photos of the four Ds as babies, photos of five different children. At first she assumed Diana had mixed them up and included a cousin or nephew with Neeltje's offspring. She called in Diana, who admitted that she could barely tell the difference between the babies' faces, but, on closer examination, agreed that one of them did look more boyish and different from the others. Dominique (who, with Waltar, was present on both days) was summoned next. She could shed no light on the matter. The three of them went to Diana's room and computer to examine the store of photos that Dimi had sent. The toddler in question had been clearly labelled, by Dimi, as Dana, but when they looked at other photos of Dana, there was no resemblance. After a camphone conversation, Dimi promised to have a closer look at the archive. While waiting for her to call back, Helene, Dominique and Diana came to find me. I was refereeing a volleyball free-for-all in the garden. They were showing me the photos and explaining the mystery when Dimi rang to say she had found one other similar printed photo, but there was no name attached. And so Diana called Neeltje's sisters. The youngest, Betje, who had been there on the Saturday with her son, was suffering from an early form of senile dementia and her memory was very unreliable. Kaatje, however, who was immobile but happily ensconced in a nursing home near Arnhem, was still very alert. She solved the mystery immediately, without any fuss. Before having Dimi, Neeltje had given birth to a son, but he had died from meningitis when only about 18 months old. It was a great family tragedy at the time. The boy had been called Anders.

Initially, Diana was angry because this important piece of family history had been kept secret. She forgot her guests and the bio-fest and made several more calls, to her sisters and her aunts, accusing each of them in turn of a conspiracy of silence. But Kaatje was clear that Neeltje had made the definite decision not to talk about Anders or to remember him in any way, and so there was never any reason for her, Kaatje, to do otherwise.

Suffused with guilt, for having chosen such a doomed name for her first child, and for not remembering our own Anders in her bio-fest, Diana's mood shifted from anger to despair. She broke down. We all tried to comfort her in different ways, but it was Dominique's idea to re-assemble the Anders co-op (since we were all there) that provided the necessary healing balm. Taking a photo to record the co-op took longer than expected since we could not agree on whether to smile or look sad. Eventually, serious won the day, and Diana prepared and printed the photo out on her high-spec machine. She then juggled the pictures on one of the lounge walls to make room for it. It was a cathartic experience for Diana. Thereafter she never referred to her bio-fest but only to Ander's Day.

***

My own 50th birthday party, two and half years later, was also memorable for different reasons. Most years, we either got together with Peter de Roo and his family (and/or others) for a meal on 29 or 30 December, or subsumed a birthday celebration into some theatrical new year's eve party or other. But, for my 50th, Diana decided we should mark it more deliberately. I suspect she felt this was necessary, despite my protestations, because we had all put so much effort into her own bio-fest. We chose the afternoon of 1 January so our gathering would not clash with new year's eve (new half-century's eve), and because it was a Saturday.

In contrast to Diana's Day, this was no bio-fest, and there were no theatrics, unless you count Imam Al Zahir's new year message, which I shall come to all too soon. But it was a very special day, simply because of who was there. Not ever before or after were so many of my friends and family all gathered together in one place.

It was the only time, for example, that all three of my children met together: Guido had just turned 11; Bronze was about to turn 22; and Arturo was already 27. Since Arturo had been back in Brazil for more than a year (and, thus, was taking no money from me at all), I offered to pay his fare and living expenses for two weeks over the Christmas holidays. But the three boys had nothing in common ­ except me, and these staged photos that I have on my screen now. I don't believe they developed any brotherly bonds, or ever sought each other out in life. Here is Bronze, smiling but still managing to look miserable, and Arturo with a face full of mischief. They are kneeling down slightly apart, and Guido is standing on tip-toes in-between them. All their heads are at roughly the same level, making for an awkward looking picture. There is another photo, even less elegant, of all four of us. Both these photos make me feel sad. They do not remind me of the one day when we were all together, which was, as I say special, but of the fact that, on a personal level, my life has been chaotic and defective.

All our regular friends were there, including the Meijers and the de Roos, as were several neighbours and a few colleagues from the IFSD. My uncle Alan and his partner Anna Mastepanov came from St Petersburg, bless them. They stayed for several days, which allowed me more time with Alan than I'd had since I was child. He looked weary, but had lost none of his calm or wisdom. I must have spent half our time together enthusiastically seeking his views on various issues (as if I were 12 again and he 40) that had already crossed my desk as the IFSD's new environment director. I also attempted to persuade him to take on light duties as a paid advisor for my department. Whether Alan was interested or not, I never found out, since Anna firmly vetoed the idea.

My mother, against the advice of doctors, made her very last trip overseas. Bronze, dutifully, drove her. It was a strain for both of them and for me. Bronze and I had nothing to talk about. He didn't seem to trust me, and my questions only ever elicited meaningless replies. I let him lock my office for an hour so he could use the screen to join in prayer time with his church; and, later, Diana caught him preaching to Guido. During the journey over, Julie reported to me, Bronze had revealed details about his current life, details that I would not have discovered otherwise. On leaving college with an inferior degree in sociology, he had worked for a religious marketing company. After nine months he had got bored and left (although Julie, reading between his lines, thought he might have been sacked for prolonged illness, whether imagined or not). A period of unemployment followed until he was recruited by an organisation called the New Crusaders, and given a place in a hostel near Newbury. He was working as a net-recruiter, and learning Arabic. Life was 'a bliss', Bronze had told Julie.

Also from England came Horace, already by then a cranky backbencher (Spoon's coalition had fallen early), with his partner of several years; Miriam and Doug Turnbull, who were back together after Miriam's sorry affair with a family friend; and Pete Sampson with a new youngish wife (Clarity) and one year old baby (Joan).

Furthermore ­ and this is partly for Chintz, who wanted to know the other day if there were any famous people at the party ­ I should mention Oakley. Although he had a Christian name, Finbar, he was universally known as Oakley. Diana worked with him years earlier when Karl directed the German productions of two his plays. He was about ten years older than me, and had emerged as a formidable playwrite around the time I was leaving school. While other writers were stuck in a 20th century time warp churning out self-obsessed material about their failed relationships with people or drugs or possessions, Oakley opened up a new and rich genre of theatre: the theatre of international politics. He was far from prolific, producing only one play in three or four years, but the majority of them proved to be masterpieces. Many imitators followed, but few managed to equal his ability to blend the political with the personal and create dramas that resonated so loudly with people's concerns for their own backyard and the world beyond. Angelika Stockmann, who Diana also worked with, was one of Oakley's more successful followers.

Oakley came to live in Amsterdam in the 30s. He and I met, thanks to Diana, at a press night. Thereafter, Oakley initiated several meetings (lunches in The Hague mostly) because he wanted to research some of the mechanics and politics behind the IFSD's work. At his request for a contact in West Africa, I put him in touch with Alfred. Consequently, we are both thanked, recognisably but anonymously, in the play script for Pilgrimage to The Hague. This is one of his most controversial plays, and the only one to tackle religion head on. It tells the fantastical story of three African men ­ one Christian, one Muslim, one a believer in tribal gods ­ who go in search of financial salvation for their peoples. Oakley wrote it in the early 40s, round about the same time I was working on the Alfred/Ojoru mission. But that does not necessarily mean I would know why he elected to use the IFAD, the UN's agricultural aid agency, to thump home messages about corruption, inefficiency and bureaucracy!

After Pilgrimage to The Hague was finished and throughout the 40s, Oakley and I continued to meet once a month. This was usually at his instigation, for I rarely initiated any social contact with anyone. But I soon came to look forward to our lunches. We rarely talked about anything other than the main political issues of the day, but, whereas I dealt with the world's ills in the way a doctor deals with a patient's pain, he seemed to feel the ills himself. I guess it gave it him some relief to analyse and diagnose the causes of the pain with someone in the medical profession, if that makes any sense. Over time I came to love him for his combination of intelligence and humanity. He hated being a celebrity, nor was he the slightest bit flattered or interested in the theatre world's sycophants. He never married, and as he got older he found socialising more and more onerous. He accepted my invitation on 1 January 50 not because he wanted to, for by then he was already finding any kind of festive gathering uncomfortable, but out of friendship for me, and because I'd never made any such demands on him before.

Oakley's last play, produced in London in 53, bombed, as they say. One cruel tabloid writer said that Oakley had finally 'vanished up his own varnished arse'. In truth, even before the war, the middle-class public had long since grown tired of being reminded of the world's troubles, what with the FTM riots, the climate disasters and the suicide epidemic. For more than a decade, they had been flocking to farces and musicals. Oakley never wrote another play, and he himself never recovered. He returned to England in the mid-50s, bought an isolated cottage on Dartmoor, and lived as a recluse until grief ­ grief for mankind ­ drained all life out of him. I believe he may have suffered more than those wounded and killed in the war that he, personally, had failed to prevent.

I had not planned to write about Oakley in this chapter. But, now I have, I should record that I did try to contact him several times over the years; and once, because he would never respond to my calls and emails, I borrowed a friend's car and drove to the cottage. It was a pretty enough house, in a charmingly wild location, but neither the gardens nor the property itself showed any signs of maintenance. I hammered on the door for several minutes before Oakley answered it. He looked the part, an anchorite with long hair and a beard down to his chest. But I was not welcome. He spoke to me as if I were an annoying nosy neighbour, saying he was busy and had no time to invite me in. Come again another year, he said, and closed the door in my face.

Because Oakley turned his back on society and culture, the middle classes, the artists, the intellectuals, the media all in their turn rejected and ignored him for the best part of 20 years. The few biographies published during his life, largely failed to reveal the man or to assess confidently his worth, which is not surprising since the authors had no access to the man or his papers. Ironically, it was not until his death, in 63, that his reputation as one of the most important playwrites of the century began to solidify. Chintz, who in common with most youngsters these days, studied Oakley at school, would be pleased to know that my excellent medical care, and thus my ability to be writing these Reflections, has been made possible, in part, by the royalties from Pilgrimage to The Hague. Oakley left clear and unambiguous instructions in his will that I should inherit all the rights for the play, and that I should use the income 'not for humanity for which I can do nothing, but for a human man, a man that was my friend'. I have much appreciated the additional income (and Jay will benefit until the copyright runs out), but there was an unexpected bonus to the inheritance. For more than 30 years, I've had biographers of all types, whether students or heavyweight academics, seek me out for information, and this has allowed me some slight influence over their feelings about, and opinions of, the great writer.

***

And so, to conclude these specific recollections of my fifty fiesta, I must unfortunately move on to Imam Al Zahir's 'new year message for the United States, the Europe Union and their NATO allies'. The first signal was a call from Tommy Chowdhury on my phone. Seconds later, Oakley darted into the lounge urging me to switch a newsfeed onto the screen. So as not to disturb the party, a group of us went upstairs to my bedroom where we watched a live broadcast from Esfehan, Iran. Most historians came to consider Al Zahir's speech that day as the starting gun for, what in the West we now call, the First Jihad War.

By this time, Al Zahir, Iran's effective leader since the late 30s, had spent more than ten years trying to unify the Islam world. Early success came through Iran's United Brothers Treaty with Iraq and Pakistan, which effectively defused the chronic friction between the two main Muslim camps. This he managed, Encyclopaedia Universal tells me, largely because of his status as a Hujjatul Islam ('a living proof of the reality and the veracity of the message of Islam') which allowed him to be seen as transcending the differences between the Sunni and Shia. Then he set about uniting the Arab nations in the International Islam Brotherhood for Peace (IIBP). In response, the Christian world became increasingly two-faced: it kept a diplomatic smile fixed on the laudable stated aims of the IIBP; and it concealed a strategic grimace at the IIBP's success and growth, especially as Arab governments turned fundamentalist and less tolerant of non-Muslim minorities or neighbouring countries, and more willing to abuse international rules, whether on issues of trading, immigration, the environment, armaments, crime or whatever. As they had always done, European and other NATO member countries gave preferential treatment to the more moderate governments within the IIBP whenever it was politically acceptable to do so. Most of the time, however, Europe, with its many divided interests, looked to the United Nations to find compromise solutions wherever possible. An increase in development aid and the expansion of the IFSD was one of the few areas where compromises and progress had been found over the years. It is also worth recalling that, throughout the 40s, there was an unholy alliance between the US and the Russian secret services which intervened regularly to undermine the most fundamentalist Arab regimes, and to fund opposition and underground parties favourable to the West, and that these actions were consistently opposed by senior United Nations representatives and by most leaders in Western Europe.

In the late 40s, Al Zahir and the IIBP extended their ambitions and influence beyond the Middle East and North Africa. A preliminary step was Turkey, which had tried to dance with Europe so many times and been jilted once too often. Then came Indonesia. Supported, bribed and armed by the West, a secular government had held on to power for one year after the summit that agreed the Djakarta Settlement, but it had then fallen to a popular coup led by Islamic fundamentalists. Within weeks, Indonesia's new leaders signed up the country to be a full participating member of the IIBP, inclusive of mutual defence treaties. Furthermore, by the late 40s, and since Ojoru's complete retirement from politics in 47, the countries of sub-Saharan Africa had begun to fall under the influence of Al Zahir.

There was no doubt that Imam Al Zahir's rhetoric had been hardening, albeit slowly, over the years. But he knew how to talk to Western leaders, how to deal with the Western media, and how to explain away, to the millions of Muslim followers, his apparent friendship with the West. Up until new year's day 50, whenever doubts were raised publicly about Al Zahir's long-term aims, whether by archbishops, popes or the leaders of right-wing political parties in the Western world, commentators were obliged to admit that there was no real evidence that the man was anything other than an enlightened leader of the Muslim peoples. If the IIBP was challenging the Western invented and regulated institutions this was not, in itself, reprehensible from an objective point of view. If the IIBP was legitimately encouraging and helping Islamic-run states, this may have been unpalatable for Washington, Tokyo and Brussels but why shouldn't the IIBP countries help each other, the independent commentators asked. And, if Muslim communities across Europe were gaining in strength and demanding proper representation at every administrative level, then this too was but equality at work. Nevertheless, it was not only American nationalists and Christian zealots that feared the future, many people in Europe especially, on both the left and the right, were not blind to the direction of world events and the lessons of history.

Al Zahir picked new year's day because he knew it was a traditional time for Western leaders to deliver their own messages, and he chose the late afternoon to ensure coverage across Europe and the US. Here are some quotes from that famous speech.

'Islam is the guardian of human rights and nobility. Islam is the religion of justice, freedom, salvation, wisdom and knowledge. Islam is the religion of life. Islam is the religion of innovations and new ideas. Islam is the religion of civility, science and development. Islam is the religion of logic and rationalism. Islam is the religion of sacrifice and tolerance. Islam guarantees and protects ethical precepts and moral decency. Islam is the religion of unity, fraternity and world peace. ... Those who try to depict Islam as a religion against human rights, civility and security, are launching the most ignominious lies and accusations against our religion. These tactics are intended to justify the brutalities committed against Muslim nations and peoples. ... The Eastern and Western regimes speak with untrustworthy tongues. ... In the Name of Allah, the All-beneficent, the All-merciful, we reject unity with those that would oppress us, those that would seduce our youths, steal our food, take our wives, slander our beliefs, and with those that would be rich when others are impoverished. ... The officials of Islamic states, be they in legislatures or executives or judiciaries, or armed forces or anyone who is working anywhere, must overcome their weaknesses. The way to ensure prosperity for our nations and peace for the world is through the Koran. ... Mohammad, the Messenger, and those who are with him must remain firm against the unbelievers. Did he not say: "I have been ordered by Allah to fight with people till they bear testimony to the fact that there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is his messenger, and that they establish prayer and pay Zakat. If they do it, their blood and their property are safe from me." ... A new horizon is opened, where from we are able to see more visibly, hear and understand better the way to eternal salvation. The blossoms of knowledge and Islamic fraternity, and divine guidance flourish and appear before our eyes. ... We have struggled for 20 years and still the rich in the West are unbelievers, and still they rule some of our precious lands, and still they refuse to pay their Zakat. In the name of Allah, Islam is the religion of Jihad.'

Apart from other expletives muttered under the breath of those collected in my bedroom, a collective gasp went up at the word 'Jihad': since becoming Iran's leader, Al Zahir had never been heard to utter it in public. But we had no time to comment on this, for he went on to inform the world that the IIBP would, within the next few days and 'after 100 years of conflict', be considering a request from the Kashmir liberationists for a final and decisive offensive against the last remaining India-held territories. This simple statement lightly disguised two messages: within the IIBP, Pakistan had finally agreed to an independent Islamist Kashmir state, and, secondly, the IIBP nations were willing (never mind the 'request' terminology) to declare war on India alongside Pakistan and the guerrilla organisations fighting for Kashmir's independence. And we all knew this meant NATO ­ which only months previously had celebrated its centenary ­ would be obliged to respond in support of India.

There was no quick fix for my mood that day, as there had been for Diana's on Ander's Day. Even the Marc Ferrez print that Diana gave me as a birthday present could not lift my spirits. When the last of the guests had departed or retired, I spent a few minutes alone in my office. I was tempted to tune into the BBC for some analysis on the Al Zahir speech, but then I saw the book-sized package on the shelf, still partially gift-wrapped. I had deliberately left it there and not prepared it for the cool storage because I knew I would want to re-examine its contents. There were many things wrong with the (175 year) old gelatin print. The photo itself was over-exposed, the print was flawed with flecks, and the corners were bent and cracked. But it was a genuine Ferrez. Diana never told me how much she paid, but it would have been over 1,000 euros. It wasn't a picture of a deserted Copacabana beach (I would have to wait nearly 40 more years to get my hands on one of those), but it was a Ferrez, and I had longed for one since the early days of my interest in old photographs. This photo (it had no name) showed a man sitting on the ground, between a track and a creek, by a small thin-trunked tree rising up, at a crooked angle, into, and silhouetted by, a cloudy sky full of dark foreboding clouds. My eye wandered across the postcard-sized photo searching for some artistic merit, but, as there was none, it kept returning to the man seated on the earth. I could barely see his face, the detail being lost in the darkness of the print, but, I thought, he was weighed down with thoughts. It was a magnificent possession, especially when I contemplated the fact that this fragile item had once been in Ferrez's very own hands. Yet it was a depressing picture: the black clouds, the morose man, the half-fallen tree. I carefully placed it between two acid-free transparent membranes, inside a sealable transparent bag, and then inside another sealable but opaque pouch. The whole thing then joined dozens of others in the specially-designed cool storage trays on top of one of my filing cabinets, to be removed and touched only rarely in the years to come.

Diana was already asleep when I went to bed (Julie was in my bed, and Bronze was sleeping in the lounge). I kissed her lightly, lovingly on the cheek, not wishing to disturb her, but she drifted back to consciousness. I said thank you for the party and for the Ferrez; and I told her dark clouds were coming.

Having already delved into my photo databases to remind myself of the Ferrez, I am tempted now to access Portia and look through some of the very earliest war photographs, all dating from approximately 200 years prior to the First Jihad War: Hippolyte Bayard's haunting images of the French Revolution, Roger Fenton's gentlemanly look at the Crimean War, Felice Beato's artistic pictures taken during the Indian Mutiny and the Second China War or Matthew Brady's documentary photos of the American Civil War (not forgetting the most famous early war photograph of all, Timothy O'Sullivan's Harvest of Death). But I must resist the ongoing temptations to be diverted by history or antiquarian photographs and proceed with my own story, such as it is. I've promised myself to complete this manuscript by the end of the year, the end of the century, and my time is running out.

I have had a rush of visitors in the last few days. Lovely Josephine came on Monday, bustling as ever with news of the Collection, her fund-raising activities, and of mutual acquaintances. She brought a large bunch of roses (flame-coloured) which, later, Chintz carefully arranged in the over-speckled vase that dominates the windowsill in this room. Then, on Wednesday, by coincidence or not, Belinda came, offering me gossip of a more mundane kind about The Josephine Collection museum and about herself. On Tuesday, Irene and Yewla, two of Jay's cousins (Lizette's nieces), came together. I like them both very much, but not together. They have visited before, on their own, and then I could cope. They're all the same, these media creatures, they seem to live in a faster (and dare I suggest shallower) river than the rest of us.

***

In early 50, I was still coming to terms with the tasks and responsibilities of my position as environment director; and the IFSD itself was still re-establishing itself after the Djakarta Settlement decisions and the shake-up created by the new director-general. I spent most of the day following my fifty fiesta, a Sunday, on the phone with IFSD advisers and various other colleagues (not least Alfred whose star had unfortunately fallen with Ojoru's departure from power in the late 40s). Much of that working week I sat in emergency conferences, with my staff, with the IFSD director-general, with internal and external UN committees, with the main financial donor countries and with the representatives of some very anxious recipient countries and regions. Despite all the feverish activity, and the sketching out of dozens of horrible and not-so-horrible future scenarios, information on which to base practical decisions was hard to find initially. Before long, though, Pakistan stated it no longer would claim Kashmir for its own, and was prepared to mobilise all its armed forces to fight to give the region nationhood once and for all. Several leaders of Islamic states issued statements supporting Pakistan's 'decisive move' to bring stability to the region. By April, the IIBP nations had agreed unanimously that, unless India acceded to an independent Kashmir, they would go to war 'for peace'.

During these months I tried to focus my time and energy fairly across all my tasks, but Kashmir was in the news every day; and, almost every day, there were new elements to discuss or decide on. Luckily or not, depending on which way I look at the matter, I had Tommy Chowdhury running the Kashmir desk. We had become friendly during my final year at uni through the Government Club, but then lost touch. After a miserable period working for a multinational in Lahore, he spent time with Amnesty International before moving on to run an independent information netsite about Kashmir. The responsibilities of a wife and children drove him to find better-paid work. Given his skills, he had no trouble getting a post with the IFSD as a project manager. In the early 40s, he was assigned to the climate response division; he then moved to the poverty alleviation division. Not long after my appointment as environment director, I poached him to come and work for me. He was much relieved to get back to analysis and to using his intelligence for preparing policy advice instead of sifting contractor proposals and monitoring project performances. What Tommy did not know about Kashmir, its history, politics, organisations, was not worth knowing. And, given the chronic troubles in the entire region, successful project development and implementation in the area relied heavily on detailed and local policy advice.

Already as a student, Tommy had decided to disguise his heritage so that no-one knew if he came from a Muslim or Hindi background. His surname was no definitive guide, and he adamantly refused to claim a particular faith. Personally, I never observed any bias in him to one side or the other. He did not care about the territory, but only about the people whatever their nationality or religion. Because there were never any pat solutions, his private views on the political situation changed as the century wore on. He had once thought, for example, that a repartitioning of the region between Pakistan and India would be the best solution. Then he had come round to accepting the Chinese plan for a jointly-administered protectorate (though this was much opposed in Washington). Tommy believed an independent state would be the best outcome in the long run, yet he also understood the costs of getting there, and of holding independence, would be very high.

During that year, 50, Tommy moved heaven and earth to provide me with the detailed arguments for maintaining IFSD funding and projects in the Kashmir region. It was a great asset to have someone so knowledgeable about the subject; but it took extra time to manage him and the passionate approach he took to the job.

By the spring of 51, the matter was out of our hands. It had been decided at the highest level. The IIBP pronouncements had led to a series of emergency summits between the three major international groupings (I've checked the encyclopaedia to ensure I get this right): the G13, representing broadly the biggest and most important industrialised countries (US, Japan, Germany, France, Italy, GB, Canada, Russia, Spain, the Netherlands, Australia, Ukraine and Korea) most of whose armed forces were largely united through NATO; the I9, the Islamic nine, representing the largest and most important of the IIBP nations (Iran, Indonesia, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Algeria, Pakistan, Egypt, Bangladesh and Morocco); and the non-aligned four (China, India, Brazil and Nigeria), which at times expanded to eight (with Mexico, Thailand, Vietnam and the Philippines). All kinds of international deals and fixes were proposed, some in secret, some in public, but Al Zahir played his cards ­ the demands for Zakat from the West, and a string of territorial claims ­ as efficiently as a poker player with a rigged deck. He did not want to win, he wanted war. At times, it appeared the IIBP was on the verge of some compromise with the G13, but then it would become clear that Al Zahir had simply been trying to stir up conflict within the G13 and between it and the non-aligned countries, especially China. In early 51, one G13-I9 summit broke up in disarray, and a subsequent one was cancelled. Meanwhile, the main IIBP nations suddenly all signed non-aggression pacts with China, thereby tacitly approving its claim to the Indian state of Ladakh, north of Kashmir. Immediately, orders came down from on high for all IFSD (and other UN) activities connected with Kashmir to be frozen, and all personnel in the region to be withdrawn.

Tommy was devastated. Unlike most of us, he had continued to believe that a war in the region could be avoided. Because we all hoped any conflict would be over shortly, with as few lives lost, and as little damage to the region's infrastructure as possible, I kept him assigned to the Kashmir desk producing daily, and then weekly bulletins. But as the war moved through the usual stages, from smart bombing to peace talk attempts, from random bombing to peace talk attempts, from air battles to peace talk attempts, and to the inevitable ground and guerrilla war, so Tommy became increasingly unstable, and emotional. If my secretary stalled his calls, he would come storming into my office, his spiky black hair all disarranged, spectacles in one hand, papers in the other, with some vital piece of news which was of no relevance to our work at all. Having persistently failed to follow my advice or that of a senior personnel officer to take holiday, he disappeared without notice. I waited a few days for him to contact me, and then I called his wife, Tamarind, a deeply serious woman who had often worked as a volunteer for one of the Dutch religious tolerance organisations. She told me Tommy had gone to Amritsar, India, to the Red Cross base there to replace an operations manager who had been killed on a mission. When I expressed anger at his failure to inform me, Tamarind defended him, saying he was a man of many divided loyalties, and that he had not wanted to let me down. The next day I received a short email in which Tommy apologised. He explained that he had been going mad pushing paper, and doing nothing. He sounded like someone who had been let out of prison. I called the personnel department immediately and pulled rank to ensure he was given an immediate six month sabbatical (three of them on full pay). Thankfully, he had been with the IFSD long enough to allow such a leave of absence. He came back after five months, shell-shocked, far less driven, more stable, very grateful to me, and more than ready to play his part in keeping our work going in those areas of the world where we could make a difference.

Al Zahir's forces, as they were often called by the media, continued to make slow advances in Kashmir, winning territory through the attrition of men. Indian nationals were dying at ten times the rate of NATO soldiers, but it was the NATO deaths and the prospect of losing the Kashmir war that, finally, in early 53, led the US hardline Republican President Steve Tarbuck (who had taken over the White House from the Democrat Betty Arklington in 51) to press for the nuclear option. There was much head-banging, especially between the European leaders, before NATO made two class C nuclear strikes on military-dominated towns in Iran and Pakistan, killing a total of 21,000 civilians and military personnel. As is well documented, this action played right into Al Zahir's hands. Intelligence material had indicated the IIBP alliance would fall apart if faced with the realities of nuclear devastation and this claim had been crucial in convincing the European doves to accept the class C strikes. However, it transpired that the intelligence material was not only flawed but wrong in almost every detail.

The two nuclear bombs led the IIBP to set in motion immediately a series of devastating suicide bomb missions on Tel Aviv and ­ horrifyingly for those of us safe and cosy in Europe ­ on Constanta and Athens. It announced Turkey would be sending more armoured troops to the Kashmir front. It called to arms terrorist warriors lying low in the more hawkish European countries. It further restricted oil and gas supply to NATO members. And, worst of all, for this is what many in the world had feared, the IIBP declared the rich West had left no alternative but for an extension of the Jihad into other areas where unbelievers were suppressing the Islam message. Three weeks after the nuclear missiles, Al Zahir pronounced that the IIBP had received (i.e. had agreed) requests for military support from the Islam Liberation Front in Mindanao, from Sudan to support the Muslim rebel movement in Chad, and from Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan for border disputes with Kazakhstan.

What Al Zahir pronounced usually came to pass. From halfway through 53 the conflict between NATO and the IIBP escalated rapidly. As with the Cold War 100 years previously, open wounds and hidden sores of the conflict could be found across the world's geography. Although in Europe we were largely free of any direct experiences of the war, we quickly became accustomed to a new level of terrorist alert, to seeing and dealing with racist tensions (some countries demanded oaths of allegiance from Muslim nationals and expelled non-nationals), and to a steady stream of dead youths returning home in body bags. Moreover, the anti-war movement flourished, and this led to some of the largest protest demonstrations seen since the First Tuesday Movement peak two decades earlier.

NATO found itself neutered by an inability to use its most destructive weapons, and the IIBP ratcheted up the pressure. Every week, there was talk of fresh attempts to solve one crisis or another, or to find a global solution, but the IIBP's demands continued to escalate, always to a level beyond that which the Christian nations were prepared to give.

For the first two or three years (this was in the period when the war was confined to Kashmir) I was able to make a reasonable contribution in my new position as environment director. Apart from Tommy, I established a good team of policy advisers and heads for the regional departments. I should mention Ninel Horeva who was never given sufficient backing from Moscow to get a top posting herself. She sat comfortably at my side, so to speak, for many years, and provided invaluable advice on Ukraine and the Russian sphere countries. And there was Chidi Naiambana, a shiningly intelligent Nigerian ex-diplomat that Alfred, through Ojoru, had managed to parachute (meaning the normal channels were not followed) into the IFSD. He was tall, although not to Alfred's standard, with thin gracile features and long fingers which he wiggled around when trying to make a point. In addition, I redesigned the organisational structure of the whole division, so as to allow us to channel our energies efficiently into the new priorities which had been established by the Djakarta Settlement.

I did, though, spend too much time on infighting, a chronic disease of the UN, and a speciality of the IFSD which had grown so large and powerful at the expense of other international organisations. Two times, once in the 20s and once in the 40s, the world's major management consultancies (different ones each time) had clubbed together in an altruistic mission (taking several years) to help streamline the UN system. On each occasion, the recommendations were only partially implemented due to entrenched interests and the growing political divides which led to increasing levels of distrust at all levels. In particular, the UN's failure to reform the agricultural agency (IFAD), in the late 30s, meant it had become no more than a political tool for certain countries. The situation had resulted (partly thanks to Alfred and me, as I have recounted) in the IFSD moving into the same policy territory as the IFAD. And, like it or not, the Djakarta Settlement had turned the IFAD into little more than an advisory arm for the IFSD ­ and like it, the IFAD did not. Much of the IFSD's responsibilities for sustainable agriculture and training/education for same fell under my command. The IFSD director-general and the UN Secretary General washed their hands of the whole dispute, and so it was left to me to find a way of breaking down the barriers between our two organisations. Pravit Krishnamurty, who I wrote to now and then seeking his wisdom, commented: 'Well, my friend, you know it is all reaping and sowing. Not much has changed in 10,000 years.'

I took no pride in the task, nor did I employ any special skills. I simply persevered with calm patience, and used any opportunity to expose the IFAD's intransigence and failings. In this, the journalists Bobby Jespersen and Ike Davidson (who had moved to Brussels to cover, among other things, the NATO command side of the war) proved useful. After a widely publicised but unwarranted counter-attack on me, the IFAD's chief retired early, and his replacement (who eased out several obstructive deputies without much difficulty) proved more willing to cooperate.

***

Although Diana and I recovered some stability in our relationship, around the time of the Barcelona trip and for two or three years thereafter, my IFSD promotion and the global conflict brought with them new personal tensions. It is possible that, without the war, we might have stayed the course through to old age. I make this assessment in retrospect, and only after reading writers such as Gregory who have never been short of a theory or two to put us mere mortals in behavioural boxes. Gregory rehashed a theory on how war was responsible for leading individuals into more short-termism ('decisions driven by passion rather than consideration') but this can only partially explain, if at all, Diana's decision to leave me in 55.

As Guido moved into his teens and no longer needed to be looked after by us or Elly, so our time and logistic problems evaporated. Nevertheless, Diana liked me to be around, to be there in the evenings and weekends to discuss ideas, to consider some new design, or to accompany her to an opening night; and she became increasingly intolerant of my absences. I too was growing old and more selfish and less tolerant, and I became less able to cope with her egotism. Moreover, for years I had never acknowledged any frustration concerning her disinterest in my work or international politics. Yet, soon after my promotion, it began to rankle seriously for the first time; and then, with the war preoccupying my working day and all my spare thoughts, this frustration took on a life of its own. Thus, despite my best intentions, I slipped back into old habits of working late at night and on Saturdays.

And on Sundays, I gravitated to spending most of the day with Guido, tinkering about on Ginquin. Peter do Roo had grown tired of my idle musings about buying an old boat and learning how to repair and rebuild it, so on the day of his barge extravaganza in 49, when I was a touch glossy, he provoked me into accepting an offer for him to find us a boat. Both he and his son Rudy promised to help with advice and contacts, and Guido, who really enjoyed using his hands, was very keen on the idea. Within a few months we had acquired a small and shabby motorised skutsje, along with a mooring less than a kilometre from Peter's. It was Guido's suggestion to rename the barge after our cat, Ginquin, who had died months earlier. (We were given Ginquin in the mid-40s by a couple, originally from New Zealand, living in Oldwijkgaarten who then moved to the US.) Initially, Diana approved of the project wholeheartedly and took part in our plans and helped with a few of the early tasks, but before long she lost interest. The first year also tested my resolve. Even with Peter's support, we were way out of our depth. The boat had to be dry-docked twice (the second time because I had failed to deal knowledgeably and efficiently with the professionals at the yard). Moreover, we ended up employing various tradesmen (mechanics and fitters, for example) although I had imagined we would persevere with much of the work ourselves.

In March 53, Diana went to Berlin for three full weeks, the longest she had ever stayed away on a job at one time. Guido, at 14, was already highly responsible and could be trusted to get on with his homework and prepare his supper if I wasn't home. If he knew I was going to be late, he would sometimes go to a friend's house. We lived well in the house together, albeit in a practical way, very quietly and humbly, yet, whenever Diana was absent for more than a few days, we tired of the novelty quickly and missed her presence acutely. As it happened, she was away when the IIBP bombers shocked the world with the retaliation suicide bomb raids on the two European cities. This led Guido to insist on a reassuring camphone conversation with his mother (we didn't usually bother with the camphone), even though she was only 500 kilometres away, while Constanta and Athens were 2,000 kilometres away on the other side of the continent.

After Guido had gone to bed, I went to Diana's desk. It was only later that I worked out my motives. I had seen a painting in the room where Diana was sitting during her conversation with Guido. The style was similar to a picture, painted by Karl, Diana had owned. I had first seen it hung in a cabin on Tic-tac-toe. It was stored somewhere in our Oldwijkgaarten house. The visual clue must have unconsciously triggered some anxiety I had kept buried for years, probably since the night we went with Peter and Livia to see the Stockmann play in Antwerp. With no particular motive, I flicked through a number of files in her cabinet: financial receipts, supplier account statements, project proposals, reviews, business letters and so on. I did feel guilty about this especially as we had always respected each other's privacy, and knowing she would be horrified if she discovered I had trawled through her papers. What I really wanted to do was to look at her emails. But, if I switched on her computer console, she would surely know someone had used it in her absence, and neither Guido nor I would have any reason to do so. It took me 24 hours to decide on the details of an elaborate excuse to use if necessary, and then I returned to her computer. Thus it was I learned she was working and staying with Karl in Berlin ­ and had done so before.

I have not seen Flora for more than a week. Chintz says she's had a relapse and the doctors are worried about her condition.

'She was flying too high, anyone could see that,' I said.

'Don't understand much, me, but I do know it's tough to get the pill menus right, every person's so different, and their metabolisms shift and change with the weather and the food and the company. And then some want more than others. It's more luck than judgement. That's what I think. But don't tell.' She has such a twinkle in her eyes.

'I'm doing well, I hope.'

'You? You'll be here forever, you're the fittest one in this place. You don't look a day over 50. What you got on the movies tonight darlin'? Anything I might enjoy?' she asked in a mock cockney accent.

'Chintz, don't you have a boyfriend to go home to? It's none of my business, but I'm worried what might happen if you hang around us dead folk too long?'

'Loving's for those needing heartache. You should know that, watching all those Movie Martyr flicks.' She turned away to check the display on a monitor, and then turned back. 'But if I had had just one sweetie same as you, a couple of years younger maybe, I might've put on the white.' Later, when her shift was over she returned and we watched a very old film called Niagara, with Marilyn Monroe playing a deceitful wife.

Which put me in the right sort of mood to try and record my conversation with Diana. I collected her from Schiphol Airport on a Saturday afternoon, and drove home in near silence. Guido was out but had left an origami bird for Diana with the message 'welcome home' written inside the beak. I started speaking in Dutch but soon switched to English. Yet even in my mother tongue, I was unable to find adequate words or phrases to communicate the anger I felt and the sense of betrayal.

'You've been with Karl.'

'So what?'

'You've been with Karl, staying with him, and this is not the first time.'

'So what? It's not your business?'

'Not my business? You spend three weeks in Berlin, working with your ex-husband, living with your ex-husband, screwing your ex-husband, and it's none of my business?'

'Yes, it's none of you business. I'll work where I want to work, I'll stay where I want to stay, and I'll screw who I want to screw. All right, English man, are you happy.' Diana flew out of the room and up to her office, where she soon discovered my own deceitfulness. She stamped back down into the lounge to find me by the back doors staring into the garden, my fists and teeth were clenched.

'So, now you are a spy, a dirty grubby snipper,' she paused, it would have been funny at any other time, 'no, I mean snooper. That's what children ­ humans who have not grown up ­ do, they snoop in other people's belongings.' There was no protection against my shame about this, all I could do was let my rage ride on.

'And what do adults do? Lie, cheat, slip off whenever they can to fornicate behind their partner's back. Very grown-up. You know what I've been thinking about this last week, since I found out? About that big row we had six or seven years ago when you were working in Antwerp. That was about Karl wasn't it, you wanting to be with him. It's been going on since then hasn't it. Or longer. Is it longer?' And, as I was saying the words, the worst scenario was dawning on me. 'Did you ever stop seeing him, did you ever stop screwing him?' Diana dropped down into one of the lounge chairs and curled up, as she did sometimes when upset, but never before as a result of me being angry.

'Make some chocolate please,' she whispered.

So I made hot chocolate. This is the person I was, who I had always been, and who I would always be. I was not one of those Hollywood or soap opera husbands who, when discovering they have been cuckolded, unleash violence on their surroundings. I made hot chocolate. By the time I came back with the drinks, Diana had dropped her defenses and become meeker than I had ever known her. Although it was possible to construe her story as an attempt to blame Karl, I understood this was not her intention. She was trying to make sense of the situation for her and for me. Yes, she had worked with Karl on four plays, starting with the one in Antwerp, and each time she had fallen back into his arms. She had never planned to, or wanted to. Before accepting each commission she had sworn to herself not to get involved, and she had made him promise ­ very touching this ­ not to try and seduce her. But he was her first serious love, and it was as if he held a spell over her that she was powerless to resist. Once working together, and in each other's company, Karl had broken his promise and re-unleashed her passion for him; and she had been weak, unforgivably weak.

After the confession we talked for a long time. It was the most earnest, honest and loving conversation we had had for many years. Diana promised she would never work with or see Karl again. I believed in the sincerity of the promise, but I doubted whether she would be able change who she was, any more than I could change who I was.

***

In June that year (53), and on the back of a series of meetings, I spent five days in England. I met up with Arturo, who was in London to speak at a commercial conference on advances in human cloning. This was the first time I had seen him in the flesh since my fifty fiesta. In only a few years, he had matured from playboy student to besuited scientist, yet was as beguiling as ever. Given his respectable appearance I invited him to accompany me to the 500 year anniversary celebrations at my old school (once called Witley Academic). I had planned to take my mother, Julie, but she was not well enough to go. On our way there, Arturo and I talked about the latest developments in the war, his girlfriend Edna (who was shortly to become his wife), Guido, and his work. Once we arrived, and prior to the main event, Arturo was content to wander around on his own leaving me to meet up with old school buds. Horace Merriweather found me soon enough and we circulated together enjoying the occasional exuberant cry of 'my word, it's Hip and Kip'. When Arturo suddenly appeared with a huge grin, Horace went as white as a sheet, especially when my son pressed a kiss on his cheek.

It was a great occasion with several highlights, not least the short performance by the 30s popidol, Gold Spencer, one of Witley Academic's most famous sons, and, as I have already recalled, the tumultuous applause for our old history teacher Philip Liphook. After the main presentations, Arturo left to return to London under his own steam. Horace and I spent the early evening with others from our Witley Academic cohort at the famous Greensand Retreat near Chiddingfold, courtesy of Jeff Zimmerman who was a member. Jeff lived nearby in a palatial mansion. He had made a good living as a corporate lawyer, but, in so doing, had become overly dependant on material possessions. As previously agreed, Horace and I drove (in Horace's sleek two-man Darkstar!) south. First to Winchester to dine at one of his favourite taverns, and then to Parsonville, where he dropped me off at Julie's before heading on to his Southampton house. We had much to discuss, not least what had become of so many of our old friends, but I wish to recall only one particular topic.

As a right-of-centre politician, albeit one closer to the centre than many, Horace was opposed in principle to taxing the rich heavily to give to the less well-off, whether at home or far away, and this had naturally led him to a chronic scepticism towards the role of the IFSD. When in government, as one of Spoon's lackeys, his scepticism had apparently hardened into a policy of obstruction against its operational enlargement. But, by this time, Horace had been a backbench MP for some years, and a liberal tendency had begun to show through his conservative front. Moreover, the war was affecting him deeply. When our conversation moved round to my current preoccupations, I expected the usual teasing cynicism and challenging criticisms of our work at the IFSD. Instead Horace was full of genuine interest and questions. He even came close to explaining (if not apologising for) his past attitude. Much as I appreciated this mellowing of his politics, he knew as well as I that the IFSD had already been badly weakened by the war, and its future role looked very uncertain. Unkindly, I thought it was typical of a Tory to pretend sympathy for a wounded opponent, so long as the sympathy did nothing to help that opponent's recovery. However, his conversion, if I can put it that way, did have consequences, inasmuch as some years later Horace helped to protect my position within the organisation (although whether that was a good or bad thing for the IFSD is for others to judge).

I had forewarned my mother I might be late, so she had organised for a key to be left at the Parsonville reception/security centre. I crept into the bungalow very quietly, but she heard me anyway. I spent a few minutes by her bedside, before retiring, and then stayed with her until the following afternoon. The retirement village was well serviced with doctors, nurses and carers, so long as you had the right insurance policy package, which she did. Mostly, we talked about the past and especially my teenage years when the two of us lived together in Godalming, and about Alan. I also went on at some length about Guido, his various theatrical exploits, his all-average school reports, and about our working together on Ginquin's renovation.

From Parsonville, I used a combination of taxibuses and trains to arrive at Chapel Chorlton in the Midlands, where Pete Sampson lived in a pretty lane-side cottage nearby an oak wood. Pete's ex-wife had held on to their previous house in Stoke-on-Trent where I'd stayed several times over the years, while Pete himself had set up a new home with Clarity and their daughter Joan. Pete had done well. As professor of modern history at Keele University he had managed to expand and improve his department bringing it onto a par with the best in the country (except for Oxford and Cambridge, 'the impregnable bastions of excellence, a work of history themselves' ­ Pete's own assessment). It attracted substantial sponsorship from commercial sources, and occasionally advised Britain's foreign ministry. Clarity, who was 15 years younger than Pete, had unknowingly followed in his footsteps, studying with Wilma Johnson at the London School of Economics. She had then gone to Keele to do a doctorate under Pete on the history of Kurdistan. Her father, a Kurdish intellectual, came to Britain during the early years of the century, married a Welsh lass in Chester, and brought up his only daughter with a good command of the Kurdish language. Pete and she had had a very brief affair while she was his student. They had come together seriously only after Clarity's father had died, when she had finally shed her fixation on all matters Kurdish, and gone to work as a lecturer in Pete's department.

In my honour, Clarity convened a dinner party on Sunday night, which is how I first came to meet Lizette, one of Clarity's friends.

During my short stay in England, I saw the Turnbulls, and caught up on their news. Years earlier Doug had taken over as head of the section (from Jude Singleton) and then moved sideways to another department (after a spat involving the Spoon government environment minister). Miriam took much pleasure in telling me about the progress of her daughters. Lucy had become an accomplished violin player and been taken on by the London Symphony Orchestra. Susannah had gone into publishing and married her boss in a whirlwind romance. A grandchild was already on the way. They also told me, with some concern, that my son Bronze had been in touch recently. They hadn't seen him since he was a young teenager, but he had called them wanting phone numbers for Lucy and Susannah. Both daughters had then reported back to Miriam that Bronze had attempted to recruit them to the New Crusaders.

***

Bronze. I also met up with my son that visit. He had been too busy to see me until the Tuesday evening, so we met then, at a Scandinavian beanplace he suggested (I forget its name). He arrived half an hour late, and did not apologise. I barely recognised him. He had cut his dark hair short and sported a tidy beard. He wore a cream jacket (school blazer-like with an insignia on the top pocket), a dark polo neck sweater, and well-pressed white flannel trousers. Overall, the impression was of a holiday camp entertainer. The New Crusader look, I learned on making enquiries, had been chosen deliberately to appear amusing and thus unthreatening, which was useful, in different ways, both at recruitment and official levels. It did not last. A point came, later that year, when the New Crusaders claimed to have established 500 churches in Great Britain and to have signed up over a quarter of a million members. When the media stopped describing the uniform as 'comical' preferring to use adjectives such as 'sinister' and 'ominous', it was discarded rapidly.

Until that evening, I had heard almost nothing about the New Crusaders. Bronze had joined the church more than three years previously, but, on the very few occasions we had met or spoken since then, he had never wanted to talk about it or much else. This time, though, he did. After working on a volunteer basis, recruiting and training recruiters for the New Crusaders, and being paid scarcely more than pocket money, he had recently been taken on as a full-time employee. He worked under the admin department with a small team of computer experts setting up, or helping purchase, whatever systems the organisation needed. Mostly, he said, he was moving around the country providing networking advice and expertise for newly-acquired church buildings. Each one had to be technically adapted so that the screens, member consoles and payment pouches for smart cards (at the entrance and at the sitting booths) were all directly connected to the central networks. Enthusiastically, Bronze explained how cleverly the whole system functioned to ensure members paid well for the privilege of membership (church attendance, nurture groups, Crusader counselling, beneficent personalised messages ­ they went on and on).

What troubled me most was not Bronze's allegiance to a church. He was far from alone in needing a religious framework to give his life meaning, and god was a preferable route to salvation than the one Crystal had chosen. No, it was his allegiance to this particular church, as he was describing it, that made me uneasy. The New Crusaders claimed to be a Protestant church, loosely affiliated to the Church of England neither particularly high nor low. Its beliefs were rooted in traditional interpretations meshed with ways of dealing with modern insecurities and political realities. I paraphrase Bronze's way of putting it. In particular, the New Crusaders believed it was necessary to stand up for Christian beliefs in a very uncertain (and un-Christian) world. The New Crusader organisation criticised other Christian churches for not taking a strong enough stand behind the one true god, and for their appeasement talks with infidel religious leaders. It called for the World Council of Christian Churches to launch New Missionary Endeavours; and, according to Bronze, it had announced a plan to send a preliminary wave of its own missionaries to countries considered on the verge of falling to the false prophet Mohammed. Bronze took my silence for approval and, having finished his salt-free lentil bake (or similar, Bronze's dietary demands changed with the weather), became exuberant and indiscreet.

'This war is brilliant.' Yes, my son actually said this. 'This war is brilliant Dad, it's opening people's eyes to what is really happening in the world.'

'And what is really happening?'

'The devil has stepped out from the shadows.'

'The devil?'

'Yes, and his henchman Al Zahir, and his troops.'

'His troops?'

'Muslims.'

'You believe Muslims are the devil's troops?'

'Don't you? What is the Jihad but a war to kill off the true God. At last now, good people, Christians everywhere can see the truth, there's no hiding the devil's intentions. The New Crusaders believe in action, not inaction.' He paused for a moment, looked round to check that we were not being observed, and then whispered a few words which I recognised as Arabic. 'It means, I am a New Crusader.'

'Why Arabic?'

'I shouldn't tell you but my nurture mother has promised ...'

'Nurture mother?'

'Oh she's wonderful, an adviser, a counsellor, not everyone chooses to be part of a nurture group ­ but it's worth every cent. Any how, she says that if I learn to speak Arabic well enough, I could be chosen for mission work.'

'And that's what you want?'

'If it's my calling. Right now I'm needed here. There is so much to do. You'll be hearing a lot more about the New Crusaders in the near future.'

White citizens across Europe, especially in those countries with sizeable Muslim populations, flocked to the New Crusaders and its sister organisations. By and large the bulk of its members came from other Protestant denominations, but the church also drew in new adherents to the Christian faith, and it converted lazy non-denominational Christians into fervent believers. Mostly its members were attracted by the church's willingness to take a firm and definitely right-wing political stance. The bigger it got, the more legitimate it seemed, the more members it attracted, the more money it had, the more power it wielded. By the mid-50s, with the Jihad war having spread to a dozen different arenas around the world, the New Crusader Church was claiming over ten million members in Northern Europe. It had a turnover, in Great Britain alone, of 100 million euros, all declared and above board. Its public relations department was as professional as that of any multinational business, and its spokespersons and leaders could regularly be seen and heard on the media. It was a very slick operation which exploited a real hunger for spiritual food with political substance; and it had a significant influence nationally and internationally. Nationally, the New Crusaders campaigned for a tightly-monitored register of all aliens and first generation immigrants from Muslim countries, never mind the financial and social cost. Indeed, the New Crusaders helped stoke anti-Muslim sentiment whenever they could thereby contributing to a steady rise in violent religious clashes. Internationally, the New Crusaders lobbied for a complete block on Western aid to Muslim nations, severe sanctions against all active IIBP members, a massive build up of NATO military forces in the war zones (using conscription if necessary) and a willingness to employ nuclear bombs to end the war quickly. Although these objectives were never met, they did sway public opinion and politicians, more in some countries than others, and thus affect, slightly but noticeably according to historians, NATO's policies.

***

In the IFSD, as in most other UN agencies, the war took its toll on our ability to function. As each new front of the war evolved, so our operations in that area had to close down and retreat. Furthermore, while religion-based animosities were uncommon within the organisation itself, they often erupted in the various committees of experts, civil servants and lower level politicians, through which our policies, operations and projects were developed and approved. This hindered our effectiveness even in the areas without conflict. Over time, the IIBP nations became deliberately obstructive. In order to balance the stoppage in funds to Muslim areas, their representatives constantly sought ways of stalling projects in Christian areas (South America being a favourite target).

By 55-56, the other IFSD directors ­ how can I put this? ­ had lost the will to fight the IFSD's cause. They went through the motions, but there was little incentive to strive against the current: the highest level UN authorities, other international groupings, and governments were all preoccupied with military matters, diplomacy or terrorism and civil disorder. For some reason (perhaps my break-up with Diana, a matter I shall come to shortly) this was not the case for me. I worked longer hours than I had ever done before, and I expected my staff to do the same and ensure the ethic passed right down the line to our secretaries and office boys. Many a project could be saved by the right combination of persistence and pressure on the budget release mechanisms, for example, or the contractor insurance policies. Moreover, there was plenty of mileage in the basic quid pro quo system, it just took time and effort and cross-departmental communication (which I was very keen on). Because there was a war under way, this did not mean that water desalination plants, irrigation projects, flood-prevention drainage, solar roofing, sustainable agricultural training programmes and so on, were no longer needed. If anything, the reverse was true, the world needed a commitment to sustainable development more than ever. In my division, we would not let a project go until the door was slammed shut and bolted. I record this, not to brag, but to provide an explanation as to why I might have made enemies.

I should explain that all personnel at my level within the UN system were officially, in theory, appointed on merit. In practice, though, due regard was given to nationality. My own appointment at director level (as Pravit Krishnamurty's replacement in 44) had depended not only on the director-general wanting me (thanks to Pravit's recommendation), but on there being a suitable opening for a British subject, and on a nod of approval from the British government. Incidentally, someone within the centre-left Fuller coalition (the British administration at the time) had given me this nod on the basis of affidavits from, among others, Jude Singleton and Matt Fortune MP. It was good to know one's friends. Had Pravit stepped down a year later, it is far from clear whether the right-wing Spoon-led government would have backed my promotion. Although director of the environment division was a bigger job in every respect than director of the future policy division, officially it held the same UN rank, and thus switching from one to the other had not required so much political fuel. In any event, Spoon and the Conservatives had returned to the opposition benches by then.

Given that my appointment could be considered, loosely, a political one, it meant my removal could be effected through political manoeuvring. In 56, the British electorate threw out the coalition of Liberal Democrats and European Socialists that had opportunistically held on to power for eight years, and it ended up with a coalition which included the Conservative Alliance (led by the suave Paulina Worcester), the European Conservatives and the Christian Faith Party. The latter vehemently denied any connection with the New Crusaders or what it termed 'policies of the far right' (one of which, incidentally, was to close down all IFSD operations in Islam-dominated countries). Nevertheless, it did manage to position itself closer to the New Crusader ideas than any other political grouping, and therefore catch most of the New Crusader votes.

In early 57, not long after I had returned from a gruelling trip to Bangkok, Phnom Penh and Vientienne, I was suddenly faced with a plot (no other word suffices) to remove me. The first I heard of it was from Tommy, who had a good bush telegraph line to the British civil service. One of his friends had a colleague who worked as an adviser for the minister of finance. The new British government, the rumour went, was keen to see the IFSD undermined, and easing me out would help this cause. I might have been flattered at the idea of being considered so important, if I wasn't so fearful of the consequences for me and for the IFSD. Very charitably, Tommy reaffirmed his loyalty to me, and, in effect, appointed himself my campaign manager. Both Ninel Horeva and Chidi Naiambana rallied round, and proved themselves loyal colleagues. Within days Tommy had set up, through his operational level contacts, an information network across the world. We know, he advised me, that most of our clients appreciate your loyalty to the IFSD and your determination to keep things moving, so we need to ensure they make noises here and there in your favour. And we also know, he added, how determined Worcester and her chums are to remove you. Tommy said he would do what he could at his level, but suggested I call in favours among relevant European and American politicians. Even one or two might make the difference, he said. And he advised me to work my British connections to the full. So, under cover of IFSD business, I went to London to meet with several friends and colleagues I hadn't seen for years. Some promised to put in a good word where possible, others saw no immediate future for the IFSD.

My most important contacts, though, were Matt Fortune and Horace Merriweather. Matt, a podgy genial family man with bushy sideburns but no hair on top, offered me his support eagerly. He suggested taking soundings with a view to forming a group of IFSD-friendly MPs. Horace, too, positively enthused about taking up my case, which heartened me. As a Conservative, he could be more influential with this government than Matt. Moreover, Horace had made a name for himself, not so much because he had been a minister, but because of his speaking ability. His voice was much sought after by campaigners of whatever ilk; and, caring less and less about the party whips, he had supported some unlikely causes. As we spoke, he was already looking through his diary to see what parliamentary debates were forthcoming and how he might use one or other to weave in a mention of the IFSD, and to promote the idea that the work of the British environment director reflected well on the British government. Before leaving the Commons zini bar, I called Matt in his office and asked him to come over and meet Horace (they only knew each other by sight). I wasn't sure they would get on, but my worries were in vain. Between them, they did a remarkable job in establishing a linkage between the plot to dislodge me and wider issues to do with the war. As a consequence, those who might not have raised a finger in my defence under normal circumstances were willing to do so as a means of opposing the excesses of the Worcester government and the right-wing Christian fanatics.

On my return (and therefore long before I could know how well Horace and Matt might do), I dined at Lake Toba a couple of times, once with Ike Davidson and once with Bobby Jespersen. Tommy and I had employed the services of the division's press team, but it was only geared up to deliver factual operational news. The most we could do with the IFSD's own facilities was beef up my profile, with quotes and photos, in the press and media packs that went out on a regular basis. But with Ike and Bobby, the situation was very different. They were able, if willing, to deliver articles that could be very influential.

Lunch with Ike was a trial. To be honest, I had never taken to the man. In the early days of my relationship with Diana, when we went on holiday together, I had found him boorish. In particular, his humour, which had endeared him to Diana (and to his wife obviously), struck me as crass and very North American. But, I suppose, because Diana's friendship with Augusta had seemed more important than my coolness towards her husband, I never allowed my feelings to show transparently. After the disastrous holiday in East Timor, Ike and Augusta came to stay with us once in Leiden, but I excused myself from most of Diana's social arrangements on the grounds of some work crisis. I'm sure there were arguments about that, as there were about the summer trip to Canada in 43, the one I never took with Diana and Guido. In fact, Diana returned from that holiday, her first visit to the Davidson home, less convinced of Ike's charms and with stories of his over-drinking and rudeness, both of which had grown in parallel to his reputation as a news journalist. A few years later, so Diana told me, Augusta kicked him out. In the early 50s, he was posted to a top job in Brussels. From there, he had called Diana and me trying to inveigle himself into our social world. But, having learned more about him from Augusta post-separation, Diana had declined to return his calls. Nevertheless, there remained a personal connection between us, which both he and I had employed to our professional advantage several times since his Brussels placement. I had personally briefed him on issues by camphone, and, once, we had met up for a drink when I was in Brussels.

With Ike I had to spell everything out, not because he didn't understand, but because he knew I was asking a favour and he wanted me to squirm (or that's how it felt). I had told him on the phone when arranging the meeting that any conversation would have to be 'off the record', but I did not press for him to acknowledge an understanding of this condition. Moreover, during the lunch itself, the one thing I failed to spell out was the importance of not implying that I had, in any way, been a source for the story. I saw no reason to do so, given the obvious sensitivity of my position and the fact that I had mentioned the condition on the phone. Also, it is probably true, I felt some awkwardness because of our friendship and did not want offend him. Three days later, Ike's syndicated story appeared in several US news media. It quoted me extensively (although Ike had not, to my knowledge, used a recorder or made many notes) with the headline 'Influential British IFSD director sacked?'. In Britain, the 'Sunday Telegraph' took Ike's story, firmed it up with a few extra calls to prejudiced contacts in the coalition government, and bulked it out with old photos and, yes, spurious facts from one particular 'Daily Truth' article, many many years ago. Ike's stories horrified me. For several days, I believed what he had written. I thought my career was over. The only good thing to have come out of that lunch was that I never had to meet with, or speak to, Ike ever again.

By contrast lunch with Bobby was easy and entertaining. I looked forward to her stories and rarely disagreed with what she wrote. On this occasion (the day after lunch with Ike), she saw the picture I painted very clearly, and understood instantly she would not be able attribute any information to me or the IFSD. Nevertheless, she was prepared to publish something helpful to me personally, on the basis of our long-standing 'fruitful relationship'. I suggested she call Horace if she wanted more on the politics, and Tommy if she needed testimonials from further afield. A few days after the 'Telegraph' article, the 'London Times' published an excellent analysis piece by Bobby. It drew attention to several dubious practices by the Worcester government aimed at undermining certain UN activities by stealth (its attempts to remove me being just one of these). She also insinuated the British government was prepared to halt all payments to the IFSD if it could find a good enough reason. Bobby's article went a long way to repairing the damage Ike had caused (or I had caused indirectly by dealing with him so inexpertly), and proved very helpful to the endeavours of Horace and Matt. Indeed, about three weeks after first hearing about the plot against me, Horace phoned to say he had been given assurances that my position was no longer under scrutiny by certain individuals in the government. In any case, he said, they said they had only be 'vaguely looking' at 'the IFSD situation'. I called Tommy to my office immediately to tell him, and to thank him profusely for all his energetic work on my behalf. He was delighted at the news and my gratitude.

***

By the time of these events in 57, I had already been separated from Diana for nearly two years. Surprisingly, after her three week stay with Karl in Berlin during March 53, our life together improved. Our sex life took a brief turn for the better as Diana tried to compensate for her guilt by making more of an effort again in the bedroom; and, in the summers of 53 and 54, we enjoyed two-week holidays at a rented villa near Grasse in the south of France with Dominique, Waltar and their youngest son Lukas. Although several years older than Guido, Lukas happily partnered him on day trips down to the coast to flirt with girls on the beaches. During the autumn of 54, Diana and I slipped further back into our chronic daily pattern of working long hours and rarely having much time for each other. As the war widened out from Kashmir and I became increasingly consumed by it, Diana was no more able to discuss international developments or politics or my work than she had ever been. And her betrayal with Karl lay in the background, always tempting me to make more of any disagreement or tension than I had done in the past.

In the summer of 55, Guido went to Paris to spend six weeks with the Rocard family: two weeks with Didier working (unpaid) on a community show; three weeks (paid) working with the Le Monde Fantastique de Marionnettes production team; and one week on holiday with Mireille. The Saturday after Guido left for Paris, Diana called me into the lounge for a talk about 'something serious'. She began by apologising, and by telling me how determinedly she had tried to be a loyal and loving partner. But, she said, it was no longer working, and she had decided, therefore, to go back to Karl. She had been thinking about it for some months, and her decision had not been taken lightly. When I protested, as one does, about the effect such a separation might have on Guido, she calmly asserted that he was old enough now for it not to matter too much. She had figured it all out. She would go to Berlin for the rest of the summer, then she and Karl would rent a flat in Amsterdam. Guido and I would continue to live in Oldwijkgaarten until Guido finished school the following year; then we would sell the house and share the proceeds. She wanted no income for herself, but suggested, since I earned much more than she, that I subsidise Guido until he was in full-time employment. I was shattered on the inside, yet there was nothing for me to say. I made no scene. I certainly did not plead for her to change her mind. I recognised the situation as a done deal, and that I had been excluded from any negotiations.

Rather cowardly I thought, Diana wrote to Guido in Paris to reveal her plans to him. Immediately, he called to see how I was. He offered to come straight home, which would have been a great sacrifice, but I told him I was fine. He then called Diana who tried to clarify herself on the camphone, but she broke down in tears. Guido told me this; and, on my request, he gave me a copy of her letter. As far as I was aware, Guido had not known of Diana's lengthy liaison with Karl, and therefore the news had come as a shock. On the other hand, I think that for years he had sensed an imbalance in the relationship between his parents, and had known that I was more in love with Diana than she was with me. I believe this had led him naturally to respect her for persevering with me, but also to love me marginally more than he might have done otherwise.

I was deeply hurt in different ways by Diana's departure. There was the loss of companionship. Although we argued at times and we talked about important things less than I would have wished, Diana was great company, she was involving, and full of fun and imagination. Life without her was dull. And I missed her touch, in the sense that when we weren't being tetchy, she was physical with me, as she was with most friends. There was also the psychological damage that comes with rejection, I suppose, which I cannot define in any detail. I understood that I ought to feel resentment and/or some anger, but when such feelings did arise, they were soon ousted by anxieties about what problems might be waiting for me at the office.

Our lives evolved much as Diana had commanded, but with one exception. Diana had planned, without telling me straightaway, that she would carry on using her workroom in the Oldwijkgaarten house during the day, travelling there from Amsterdam several times a week. In theory, I had no objection to this plan. Guido and I did not need the space; it would save Diana renting a workshop; and it would mean she would be around some days when Guido returned home from school. In practice, though, I soon found it impossible to cope. Returning home from the office, sometimes early to prepare food and eat with Guido and sometimes not, there were often unexpected reminders of Diana: her odour mixed with a vanilla-ish perfume lingering in the hallway, a fresh batch of foods in the kitchen, or design pads left in the lounge. Other times, I was disturbed because I noticed that she had taken a bundle of books from the shelves or a decorative item (replacing others to even out the space on the windowsill for example) or a practical implement from a cupboard she thought I would not need. Initially, I let these hints of Diana, these trails of her movements, pass over me as meaningless, but I over-estimated my ability to deal with them. I became increasingly depressed, without knowing why.

On the recommendation of Peter and Livia, who had both been very kind and supportive since Diana's departure, I put myself in the hands of a 'musical psychotherapist' ­ Eva Stibbe. I persevered for 20 weekly sessions, and, in that short time, was helped more than I expected. Firstly, Eva showed me how Diana's regular visits to the house might be contributing to the depression. Subsequently, she gave me the wherewithal to confront Diana, and, eventually, to insist she move out completely. Secondly, she introduced me to the therapeutic and meditative powers of classical music.

Astonishingly I had reached the age of 55 and been to no more than a dozen concerts, and those I had attended were usually part of some diplomatic function or other. I had no idea which orchestras I'd seen or what programmes they'd played. Moreover, and more to the point, I had never sat down on my own and done nothing else but listen to a symphony or concerto. Diana's tastes veered from smoochy schmaltz to smoky jazz, but mostly she listened to music because it was linked to her projects. As Guido grew up, his musical tastes matured from teeny pop to teen pop to pop, all of which needed the volume turning down (and, preferably, off). I did occasionally put music on to play, but it was invariably on my return from some corner of the world where I had been given a sample of the local musical heritage. Few of these odd sounds appealed to any of us, so they were usually passed on to Guido's school or a charity shop.

In the musical therapy sessions, Eva obliged me to remain inert and to listen quietly to different pieces of music. To begin with, she would let complete tracks finish, and we would discuss what I had been thinking about as they played (she trained me rigorously to divert my thoughts away from anything to do with work, which was hard, but achievable). As the therapy progressed, she would switch the music off suddenly and insist on knowing in great detail about whatever had been going on in my head at that moment. If there was nothing, she would peer at me steadily and smile as if trying to work out whether I was lying or not, say 'good' or 'excellent', and start up the music again. Matters linked to my own depression and Diana came up regularly for seven or eight sessions, but once I had dislodged Diana from the Oldwijkgaarten house, my mind freewheeled more expansively over the past. When the music stopped, I told Eva about Bronze and Crystal, or my photographs, or about Melissa and my sexual initiation, or about my father. Before long, though, I grew tired of the game, and could see it only as a self-indulgence, one I did not need to pay good money for. Instead, I spent time buying, downloading and storing on Neil high quality recordings of, among others, Bach, Mozart, Williams and Zanichelli. I also bought a Supremely Comfy set of blindfold and headphones, and became hooked, as they say, on my own personal music self-help sessions.

That winter, after Diana's move to Amsterdam and while I was still living in the Oldwijkgaarten house, my mother's health went downhill fast. She was well cared for in Parsonville, but, with no other relations nearby, I felt obliged to journey over to see her once a fortnight. I called each night on the camphone (except during an extended trip to China in November) to check on her after the visiting carer had gone. Early in the year, she was hospitalised for a few weeks with a severe bladder infection. One doctor thought she might die, so I messaged Bronze (who went to visit once), and, on one of my trips, I brought Guido with me. I contacted Alan too, who came as soon as he could from St Petersburg (without Anna who was unable to get away). By the time he arrived, Julie had recovered and been sent home in the care of a part-time nurse. Alan himself looked far from strong. He had shrunk in size, and flesh had fallen off his face leaving a bony lean visage behind the white beard. It was good to see him, albeit briefly. For some reason, I did not mention to him or my mother that I was no longer with Diana. I preferred not to give them any cause for concern on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when Alan declined my half-hearted invitation to return with me to Leiden for a few days. Alan stayed a week by Julie's side. He knew he was saying goodbye, for he told me as much in an email later.

My mother died during the night between Saturday and Sunday 14 May. I had left the camphone connected, as I did when I was most anxious about her. Early in the morning I watched the nurse arrive. She said 'hello' to the cam (having seen it was online one way and knowing it would be me at the other end) before moving to the bedside to check on my mother. I saw her feel for a pulse, examine her eyes, and then tense up as she steeled herself ready to turn and face the cam again to tell me my mother was dead. I waited to speak to the doctor, who came within half an hour, and then set off once again for England, this time by car knowing I would want to bring back some keepsakes. It did not take long to clear out the bungalow, distribute her things, bury her body, tidy up the life that was my mother. Everything works very smoothly and efficiently in Parsonville when someone dies.

I used to try and visit her memorial in the Parsonville remembrance garden once a year. Now I rely on a few photos. Here's one of my favourites again, from Monte Carlo in May 2003. Tom is sitting on the bonnet of a red racing car, I am on his lap wearing a baseball cap that says Ferrari. Julie is standing next to us laughing. She is wearing a light yellow frock, and a straw hat. She looks so pretty.

My mother died, and the world seemed to be dying with her too.

***

The following summer we sold the Oldwijkgaarten house. Guido, who had lived his whole life there and had many friends in the neighbourhood, was saddest about this. As Diana had predicted, he elected to go to Amsterdam University (after toying with the idea of the European University in Brussels), and decided to focus on drama. For a while, therefore, he moved into the large house Diana and Karl had bought together. I saw him once a fortnight on average. He either came to stay in the modern (and expensive) eco-roof apartment I had bought on Van Hogenhouckstraat in The Hague (not five minutes from the apartment I had once rented on Weissenbruchstraat), or else we would meet in Amsterdam for a meal and a film. When the weather was fine, we would take Ginquin out for a gentle cruise to one of the lakes or to a barge festival, or to visit other barge hobbyists we had met over the years.

My new life as a bachelor was lonely and depressing. I stayed long hours in the office, usually for no additional benefit. When at home, I watched news programmes, thought about the next day's tasks, or listened to music. My stomach filled out a centimetre or two, my hair receded and turned a fetching shade of ash grey. If obliged to walk up several flights of stairs, I panted. Yet, despite these signs of aging, my colleague (and subordinate) Ninel Horeva made a second pass at me, some 20 years after the first. This time I had no cause to reject her. Although she too had taken on more flesh and needed dye to keep the grey out of her hair she was still an attractive woman.

Ninel had always been good company (for a Russian!). I admired the way she never took life too seriously, as though the world really was about to end, but was able to work with commitment and verve. As one of my deputies, she was responsible for overseeing policy and programmes in the whole Russia/Central Asia region, an area much caught up in the Jihad war. On leaving a reception (organised for some dignitary or other), we bumped into one another at the cloakroom collecting our coats. She proposed that since it was early, and we were both alone, we go to a nearby bar. There we drank more, and laughed a lot about how sad our respective private lives were. It was Ninel who recalled, without any shame, her original proposition, and then asked if the timing was any better these days. I did not catch her meaning, and so she put her proposition more forthrightly, which left me flustered and speechless. But she made light of the whole situation and, faced with my hesitations, promised everything would be fine. In my defence, I was fairly glossy, and could think of no good reason to rebuff the advances. We took a taxi to her apartment in Delft where she gave me a further drink and led me to a bedroom with a four-poster bed and scarlet drapes. I stood there gormless, stunned like a fox caught in the headlights of a lorry. Suddenly I was so sober, so horribly aware of my sexual inadequacy and psychological insecurity that I could no more have coped with any stranger's bed, let alone one adorned with satin sheets and scarlet drapes, never mind that it belonged to one of my key members of staff. Ninel disappeared into the bathroom to shower, and returned wearing only a towel. I was sat, upright, on the bed as if in a trance. Ninel laughed, although not unkindly, pushed me over on top of the bed and proceeded to remove my clothes. And when, not many minutes later, she discovered why I had become so serious, embarrassed and stiff (although not in the right place), she cackled theatrically, which made me laugh, and consequently eased the torture.

As promised, Ninel made everything fine. From a drawer in a bedside cabinet, she took out a vibrator (a bigger thing by far than, in the best circumstances, I could have created) and instructed me on how to employ it. The distraction of following strict instructions and doing so with some success helped me relax and lose myself in Ninel's sexuality. For a few days, I worried how this night of mechanical passion would impact on our working relationship. But it didn't, not at all. So, when I received a private email from her with the one word 'Tonight?', I answered 'Yes'. Thenceforward, in this manner, we would arrange to meet, have dinner and sex about once a week. After two months, though, the emails stopped. She never told me why, and I never asked, and our working relationship carried on unperturbed, as evinced, a few months later, by her staunch support during the attempt to depose me from my job. Thereafter, occasionally, when I saw Ninel talking to colleagues I wondered if they too had experienced the four-poster bed.

By the late 50s, much of the UN system, including the IFSD, was close to collapse. As the tensions of the wars infiltrated our negotiating committees, so initiatives, projects and programmes of all kinds and at all levels were stalled or cancelled. Most large donors, such as Japan, the US and the European Union, progressively froze all their overseas development aid to Muslim countries and many more besides, citing the costs of war and severe economic depression. Contractors and all non-staff personnel were disengaged as soon as their projects ran out of funds or came to a standstill for some other reason. But, beyond that, a lack of administration funds began to choke the life out of us. Every few weeks I had to take decisions on which staff to make redundant. And those of us that remained were no longer working for the good of mankind, but simply to keep the IFSD functioning. My division had remained the most effective for the longest but, by 58, there was little I, or my skeleton department, could achieve.

Retirement was not an option. I had no more wish to stop working than I had to expire. I did consider stepping down, and trying to find another role for myself, but concluded, gloomily, that I had invested too solidly and exclusively in my work for the IFSD, especially having called in so many favours to hold on to the job a year or so previously. Ironically, it might have been better for me personally to have allowed the British government to bully me out of the IFSD in exchange for something else, something different. Moreover, I had been foolish to sacrifice so much of my life to the organisation and to my high position within it, meaning that, following my separation from Diana, I had very few friends and an impoverished social network. Most depressing of all, I recognised that there was no-one, not even Peter de Roo, with whom I could discuss my own personal problems and situation. Thus, in my own way, I was as closed off from society as my old friend Oakley.

Regrettably, I was not able to diminish my own despondency by comparing it to the suffering of millions in war zones and immigration camps beset with disease and poverty, nor by reminding myself that further millions were losing their lives, their homes, their loved ones because of climate change catastrophes, while I continued to sleep in a dry comfortable bed, and eat good food, and wash myself in clean hot water.

Then, suddenly in March 59, as is well known, the First Jihad War came to an abrupt end (in the sense that the IIBP and NATO stopped fighting each other, although of course the so-called left-over wars carried on regardless). We had all grown so accustomed to the media telling us about 'fresh peace talks' or another G13-I9 summit or an 'intervention' by this or that peacebroker, that we barely paid much attention. But, in 58, there had been a very significant escalation of the war when the IIBP's forces turned their full attention to Israel, as though they had been biding their time, and this had been their target all along. The NATO countries rallied to Israel's defence, although not very effectively. For most of the decade, they had already been sustaining financially and politically expensive campaigns in Kashmir, Central Asia and West Africa among other war zones, and their citizens were losing patience. The US, still led by President Tarbuck, tried to bully NATO towards the use of class B nuclear strikes as a last resort. Because this was acknowledged to be such a high risk strategy, it became known as Tarbuck's Gamble.

Sadly for Tarbuck, the Spanish government collapsed within weeks of suggesting it might support the US policy. Although there was a deep-seated fear in Spain of a new Moorish invasion, it was nowhere near as strong as the people's revulsion for weapons of mass destruction. Thereafter, the governments of most European countries, many with large Muslim populations, constant civil unrest and extraordinarily high levels of opposition to the use of nuclear or biochemical weapons, refused to back the US. Consequently, NATO found itself back-pedalling trying to hide its impotence with long declarations of threat and intent and offers of compromise. Israel, too, lost its nerve when faced with Al Zahir's threat to use every last IIBP atomic bomb in retaliation if Israel employed one single nuclear weapon.

Tarbuck's Gamble failed, and NATO members and affiliates began secret negotiations with the IIBP, China, the Philippines and other involved countries. A Peace Treaty was signed in Singapore on 25 March 59. China took over the north Indian state of Ladakh; Kashmir was declared an independent Muslim country (but later united with Pakistan after a rigged referendum ­ causing yet more bloodshed when the nationalists refused to accept the decision); the whole of sub-Saharan Africa shifted noticeably towards Mecca (with several secular governments giving way to Islamic administrations and new constitutions); and the Philippines agreed to an autonomous Islam region. According to Encyclopaedia Universal, the NATO group members achieved the following: peace (which was politically much more important to them than to the IIBP members); a confirmation of the primacy of the UN system (the Peace Treaty was subsequently enacted through UN declarations); the continued independence of Israel (although Palestine did make a significant territorial gain); and a limited increase of development aid by rich nations to poor nations up to 2% (not as much as the 2.5% Zakat demanded by the IIBP). (Although, the IIBP had demanded a bias towards Muslim countries in the distribution of this aid, it knew this would never win acceptance in the UN and so gave way during the elaboration of the complex donor/recipient formulae that underpinned the funding of the agencies, such as the IFSD.) Furthermore on the NATO side, Russia was appeased by the agreements that Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan signed with Kazakhstan.

It took a while for the UN declarations to be concluded, but once they were, I began restoring my division's staff levels, restarting projects and programmes, and negotiating new arrangements. I expected personnel changes at the highest level, but I didn't care to think about my own future. I'd done enough of that in the last year or two. I kept my head down and paid no attention to UN gossip.

In early autumn, Tommy came into my office one day to ask if I'd heard a rumour that I was being considered as a possible replacement for the director-general (who we all knew was on the way out). I told Tommy not to listen to tittle tattle. Instead, we discussed how quickly he could get a team to Srinigar to help the new government plan its aid programme tenders. When the phone rang, my secretary, MarySue, told me to hold for the private secretary of the British foreign minister (within the recently-elected centre-left government led by Charlie Venables). Tommy moved to leave me alone, but I gestured for him to stay. Would I, the lady asked, allow my name to go forward for the director-general post. I muted the phone for an instant and told Tommy 'not tittle tattle'. He gave me a thumbs up sign. Months later, after a horse-trading international summit and various high-level meetings within the United Nations system, a basket of new agency chiefs were decided, not least my own appointment as executive head, director-general, of the IFSD.

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE

Diana Oostlander to Kip Fenn
(freely translated from the Dutch original)

December 2049

It is no hard thing to be 50!!!

Can I suggest my English man that you get up on your feet, turn around, and clamber up that tree (you see it has been placed at a slant to make it easy for you). If you climb high enough, perhaps you will be able to see faraway, beyond the hills that block any normal view, towards those views of a wild and empty Copacabana Beach. Views that are, frankly, beyond my bank account and, no doubt, that of the IFSD too.

It's a small flawed thing; a small flawed token of my love.

Happy birthday. xxx

Diana Oostlander to Guido Oostlander-Fenn
(freely translated from the Dutch original)

July 2055

I have bad news. I should have told you in person but it has been a difficult time for me, and I thought it might be easier for both of us if I were to try and write to you first. I am leaving your father, so that I can return to live with Karl. We will rent a flat together in Amsterdam, and, during your last year at school, I hope you will be a constant visitor at the weekends. Perhaps, then, you will want to go to Amsterdam University and you could live with Karl and me. But that is for the future.

This is a hard thing for me to explain, and I want you to be clear that this is nothing to do with your father (or, of course, you), it is to do with me, my needs, my desires, but most of all my weaknesses. I can be a very selfish person, and for this I am very sorry.

It is possible that I have never stopped loving Karl. He was my very first love. He is a theatre director, a gifted one. We worked and lived together for many years. He was/is not an easy man, and he hurt me many times. But, we are both older, and I am certain now that we want the same thing.

This war is a terrible thing, and may get much worse. I do not know how to explain this properly, but I feel as though Karl and I have a common purpose in the way we are, and especially in our work. Now, I am going to Berlin for the rest of the summer, and we will prepare a show for the protest festival in September.

You must have sensed that I have no connection with your father in this way. He is a good man, a great man perhaps in his work, but I cannot share in this greatness, and I know he finds that difficult. He has grown distant recently, and I hope my move away will not distress him too much. But, in any case, I can rely on you to be a friend to him. You and he have established such a good connection in these last few years.

But I will be coming to Oldwijkgaarten often, to work in my studio many days during the week. We shall see each other all the time as before.

Let's talk on the phone when you've received this.

Give my love to Helene, Didier and the girls.

Very much love.

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Paul K. Lyons

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