never give up.” She grinned at him. “We're still in the restoration game.”
Ross's head jerked back. He frowned. “I'm no into that,” he said.
“What are you into?”
Ross tapped a thumbnail on his lapel badge. “Labour Party,” he said. “Clause Four Labour Students. Democratic socialism, an' that.”
“Like, what's just lost in a landslide to Margaret Thatcher?”
“Aye, well, nobody said it would be easy. Anyway, we support the dissidents and reformers in the Eastern bloc.”
Amanda waved a hand. “That's just talk.”
“It's not just talk,” said Ross, vehemently and indignantly.
“So what is it then, apart from talk?”
Ross relit his pipe. The smoke still smelled good. He looked at her through a cloud of it.
“I can't talk about that,” he said.
Very interesting , Amanda thought. She had plenty to not talk about herself.
She smiled and stood up, stretching. “Let's get another drink,” she said. “And if you don't want to talk about that, let's talk about something else, shall we?”
They did. They went on talking.
That's a considerable expansion of the story my mother told me when I first asked how she'd met my father.
It's the true story. It's not the whole story.
2.
Three nights into the job. I sat in the Reference Section of Edinburgh Central Library and tapped notes into my laptop from the books stacked in front of me. The time was 7:30 p.m. and I'd come here from the office—less than five minutes' walk away—at five. I'd miss out on the Friday after-work drinks with the lads, at the Doctors' on the corner. The library closes at eight and I wanted to make the most of it. My back ached. I was hungry. My jacket kept sliding off the curved chairback. Eventually I folded it and held it on my lap like a cat. There was some comfort in that.
I needed comfort because researching Krassnia for the game had turned into something else. I already had enough detail from The Krassniad and from a map of the Caucasus I'd found in a huge Times Atlas to get the place-names and the landscape nailed down.
This wasn't the first time I'd looked at Krassnia on a map. I'd looked it up on Google Earth as soon as Amanda had put the phone down the night she'd called—last week, which already seemed a long time ago. And from looking at that map, I even thought I'd found an answer to the question I'd tactfully not asked Amanda: what's with the CIA's sudden interest in Krassnia? Simple geography: Krassnia lies south of the western end of the Caucasus, and includes a pass—high and difficult, but wider than the Roki Tunnel—into Russia. Whoever holds Krassnia is within a hundred klicks of the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan oil pipeline, across open terrain.
The same night I'd found one Reuters reference to an upcoming election in early September, which the ruling Social Democrats were (“according to the opposition Liberal Democrats and a wide spectrum of civil society organizations”) expected to rig. As soon as I saw the phrase “a wide spectrum of civil society organizations” I'd thought: Aha! Colour Revolution!
Which explained what the CIA wanted the game for: as soon as it was on sale it would (like all other games in that part of the world) be pirated to all the Internet cafés and campus servers, where its virtual spaces would make a very good place for the wide spectrum of civil society organizations to…organise, away from the prying eyes of the Krassnian security police (FSB, prop.). The revolution would not just be televised: it would be computer-gamed.
The trouble was, I'd gone on looking for references to Krassnia and found far too many , none of them of any use. It always worked the same way. I'd pull down a relevant book, look up “Krassnia” or “Krassnian” in the index. Sure enough, there it was. Add the book to the pile in the crook of my arm. When the pile got too heavy to add anymore to, I'd take it back to the table, sit down, and start chasing page numbers.
Always with the
Ross's head jerked back. He frowned. “I'm no into that,” he said.
“What are you into?”
Ross tapped a thumbnail on his lapel badge. “Labour Party,” he said. “Clause Four Labour Students. Democratic socialism, an' that.”
“Like, what's just lost in a landslide to Margaret Thatcher?”
“Aye, well, nobody said it would be easy. Anyway, we support the dissidents and reformers in the Eastern bloc.”
Amanda waved a hand. “That's just talk.”
“It's not just talk,” said Ross, vehemently and indignantly.
“So what is it then, apart from talk?”
Ross relit his pipe. The smoke still smelled good. He looked at her through a cloud of it.
“I can't talk about that,” he said.
Very interesting , Amanda thought. She had plenty to not talk about herself.
She smiled and stood up, stretching. “Let's get another drink,” she said. “And if you don't want to talk about that, let's talk about something else, shall we?”
They did. They went on talking.
That's a considerable expansion of the story my mother told me when I first asked how she'd met my father.
It's the true story. It's not the whole story.
2.
Three nights into the job. I sat in the Reference Section of Edinburgh Central Library and tapped notes into my laptop from the books stacked in front of me. The time was 7:30 p.m. and I'd come here from the office—less than five minutes' walk away—at five. I'd miss out on the Friday after-work drinks with the lads, at the Doctors' on the corner. The library closes at eight and I wanted to make the most of it. My back ached. I was hungry. My jacket kept sliding off the curved chairback. Eventually I folded it and held it on my lap like a cat. There was some comfort in that.
I needed comfort because researching Krassnia for the game had turned into something else. I already had enough detail from The Krassniad and from a map of the Caucasus I'd found in a huge Times Atlas to get the place-names and the landscape nailed down.
This wasn't the first time I'd looked at Krassnia on a map. I'd looked it up on Google Earth as soon as Amanda had put the phone down the night she'd called—last week, which already seemed a long time ago. And from looking at that map, I even thought I'd found an answer to the question I'd tactfully not asked Amanda: what's with the CIA's sudden interest in Krassnia? Simple geography: Krassnia lies south of the western end of the Caucasus, and includes a pass—high and difficult, but wider than the Roki Tunnel—into Russia. Whoever holds Krassnia is within a hundred klicks of the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan oil pipeline, across open terrain.
The same night I'd found one Reuters reference to an upcoming election in early September, which the ruling Social Democrats were (“according to the opposition Liberal Democrats and a wide spectrum of civil society organizations”) expected to rig. As soon as I saw the phrase “a wide spectrum of civil society organizations” I'd thought: Aha! Colour Revolution!
Which explained what the CIA wanted the game for: as soon as it was on sale it would (like all other games in that part of the world) be pirated to all the Internet cafés and campus servers, where its virtual spaces would make a very good place for the wide spectrum of civil society organizations to…organise, away from the prying eyes of the Krassnian security police (FSB, prop.). The revolution would not just be televised: it would be computer-gamed.
The trouble was, I'd gone on looking for references to Krassnia and found far too many , none of them of any use. It always worked the same way. I'd pull down a relevant book, look up “Krassnia” or “Krassnian” in the index. Sure enough, there it was. Add the book to the pile in the crook of my arm. When the pile got too heavy to add anymore to, I'd take it back to the table, sit down, and start chasing page numbers.
Always with the
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