Smiley’s People by John le Carré

From a distance, it might have been a castle, or one of those small farmsteads which sit on hilltops in the Swiss wine country, with turrets, and moats with covered bridges leading to inner courtyards. Closer to, it took on a more utilitarian appearance, with an incinerator, and an orchard, and modern outbuildings with rows of small windows rather high. A sign at the edge of the village pointed to it, praising its quiet position, its comfort, and the solicitude of its staff. The community was described as ‘interdenominational Christian theosophist’, and foreign patients were a speciality. Old, heavy snow cluttered fields and roof-tops, but the road which Smiley drove was clear. The day was all white; sky and snow had merged into a single, uncharted void. From the gatehouse a dour porter telephoned ahead of him and, receiving somebody’s permission, waved him through. There was a bay marked ‘DOCTORS’ and a bay marked ‘VISITORS’ and he parked in the second. When he pressed the bell, a dull-looking woman in a grey habit opened the door to him, blushing even before she spoke. He heard crematorium music, and the clanking of crockery from a kitchen, and human voices all at once. It was a house with hard floors and no curtains.

‘Mother Felicity is expecting you,’ said Sister Beatitude in a shy whisper.

A scream would fill the entire house, thought Smiley. He noticed pot plants out of reach. At a door marked ‘OFFICE’ his escort thumped lustily, then shoved it open. Mother Felicity was a large, inflamed-looking woman with a disconcerting worldliness in her gaze. Smiley sat opposite her. An ornate cross rested on her large bosom, and while she spoke, her heavy hands consoled it with a couple of touches. Her German was slow and regal.

‘So,’ she said. ‘So, you are Herr Lachmann, and Herr Lachmann is an acquaintance of Herr Glaser, and Herr Glaser is this week indisposed.’ She played on these names as if she knew as well as he did they were lies. ‘He was not so indisposed that he could not telephone, but he was so indisposed that he could not bicycle. That is correct?’

Smiley said it was.

‘Please do not lower your voice merely because I am a nun. We run a noisy house here and nobody is the less pious for it. You look pale. You have a flu?’

‘No. No, I am well.’

‘Then you are better off than Herr Glaser who has succumbed to a flu. Last year we had an Egyptian flu, the year before it was an Asian flu, but this year the malheur seems to be our own entirely. Does Herr Lachmann have documents, may I ask, which legitimize him for who he is?’

Smiley handed her a Swiss identity card.

‘Come. Your hand is shaking. But you have no flu. “By occupation, professor,” she read aloud. ‘Herr Lachmann hides his light. He is Professor Lachmann. Of which subject is he professor, may one ask?’

‘Of philology.’

‘So. Philology. And Herr Glaser, what is his profession? He has never revealed it to me.’

‘I understand he is in business,’ Smiley said.

‘A businessman who speaks perfect Russian. You also speak perfect Russian, Professor?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘But you are friends.’ She handed back the identity card. ‘A Swiss-Russian businessman and a modest professor of philology are friends. So. Let us hope the friendship is a fruitful one.’

‘We are also neighbours,’ Smiley said.

‘We are all neighbours, Herr Lachmann. Have you met Alexandra before?’

‘No.’

‘Young girls are brought here in many capacities. We have god-children. We have wards. Nieces. Orphans. Cousins. Aunts, a few. A few sisters. And now a Professor. But you would be very surprised how few daughters there are in the world. What is the family relationship between Herr Glaser and Alexandra, for example?’

‘I understand he is a friend of Monsieur Ostrakov.’

‘Who is in Paris. But is invisible. As also is Madame Ostrakova. Invisible. As also, today, is Herr Glaser. You see how difficult it is for us to come to grips with the world, Herr Lachmann? When we ourselves scarcely know who we are, how can we tell them who they are? You must be very careful with her.’ A bell was ringing for the end of rest. ‘Sometimes she lives in the dark. Sometimes she sees too much. Both are painful. She has grown up in Russia. I don’t know why. It is a complicated story, full of contrasts, full of gaps. If it is not the cause of her malady, it is certainly, let us say, the framework. You do not think Herr Glaser is the father for instance?’