《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

9、【Special 1】S00E01 Yuletide Obligation

　　【Special 1】 S00E01 Yuletide Obligation
　　24th December 1979, Christmas Eve.
　　Within a brightly lit London ballroom, awash with shimmering gowns and dark dinner jackets, flowed a trickle of champagne and a far more exhausting torrent of platitudes.
　　Alistair Cavendish was fulfilling a Yuletide obligation.
　　A polite smile, a perfectly judged nod, a brief, watertight response. He moved like a finely calibrated instrument, maintaining an impeccable social grace amidst the din.
　　At last, in the lull between topics, he found an opening and, without drawing attention to himself, slipped out of the noisy vortex.
　　He retreated to a relatively secluded corner at the edge of the ballroom, his back resting lightly against a cool marble column. He had barely begun to allow his taut nerves to relax when an unwelcome guest approached, exuding an excess of both spirits and enthusiasm, a near-empty glass held aloft as he made a beeline for Alistair.
　　Alistair's gaze swept over the man, his memory instantly retrieving the relevant file: Jeremy Winterbottom, a Conservative backbencher. Insignificant constituency, boisterous, with views less radical than simply ill-considered.
　　Evidently, Jeremy had just emerged from a debate at the other end of the room concerning some trivial committee vote, and fancied he had achieved a 'victory' of sorts.
　　A complication, catalysed by both alcohol and cheap success.
　　Jeremy strode up to Alistair and, with the boozy warmth of a man proclaiming triumph, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, declaring in a voice loud enough to penetrate several nearby conversations, "Victor! Old chap! I knew you were on my side! See? Struck dumb, the lot of them! Now that's what I call a victory! Well done!"
　　'Victor'?
　　The unexpected name and familiar physical contact caused Alistair's body to tense almost imperceptibly, but his mind remained sharp, completing its assessment: a drunken, unimportant politician who had mistaken him for someone else.
　　To correct an inebriated man in high spirits? That would be to willingly step into a pointless social quagmire, inviting only more unwanted attention and vapid pleasantries.
　　No trace of surprise at being misidentified, nor any hint of annoyance at the interruption, appeared on Alistair's face. He merely raised an eyebrow, the slightest of movements, and offered Jeremy the briefest of polite, yet entirely frigid, nods. From his throat emerged a non-committal hum, an ambiguous sound somewhere between an acknowledgement and a question, which skilfully maintained the semblance of engagement while yielding no substantive ground.
　　Then, drawing upon years of experience navigating complex networks and subtle cues, Alistair steered the triumphant drunkard back into the main fray with a few well-chosen platitudes that sounded agreeable yet meant nothing, much like guiding an errant barge back into the main channel. He let out a near-inaudible sigh and, with a discreet movement, brushed his shoulder where he had been clapped, as if dusting away an invisible mote.
　　This entire tableau, as it happened, was observed by Charles Hyde, who, having just escaped a garrulous banker, was now drifting aimlessly along the ballroom's periphery. Jeremy's theatrical slap on the back and booming voice had drawn his attention, and his gaze had locked onto the man being accosted.
　　Alistair stood at the boundary of light and shadow. His slicked-back platinum hair caught the cool gold of the chandeliers, and a slim, single-breasted dinner jacket with satin peak lapels perfectly accentuated his tall, lean frame. A flawless black silk bow tie was knotted at the collar of a crisp white shirt, and from his breast pocket peeked the corner of a meticulously folded white linen square.
　　He was surrounded by an aura of quiet, reserved grace that was utterly at odds with the ballroom's glitzy frivolity, like a relic from a bygone era.
　　Intriguing.
　　Charles raised his glass, the amber liquid swirling within. After Jeremy had staggered away, he made his way directly towards this gentleman called 'Victor'.
　　"Good evening." Charles stopped at a respectable social distance and raised his glass in a small gesture. "That was a masterclass in social judo."
　　Alistair turned, his grey-green eyes appearing particularly deep in the artificial light. He surveyed this new, uninvited visitor—Charles Hyde, the brilliant but maverick rising star of the Liberal Party, a strong contender for the next leadership, though he himself seemed to profess little interest in it.
　　"Mr Hyde?" He inclined his head slightly, his voice steady and low, with a unique cadence, addressing Charles by his correct name.
　　"Charles Hyde, Liberal MP," Charles introduced himself. "You can call me Charles. Or, if you don't mind, Charlie."
　　His voice carried an undisguised appreciation and a hint of inquiry. "To use minimal force to elegantly return an errant object to its proper place. I was about to applaud, Mr Victor. Or is it...?"
　　"Victor will suffice," Alistair replied curtly, offering no surname.
　　"Just Victor?" Charles raised an eyebrow. "An interesting choice for an occasion such as this."
　　In a room where everyone was eager to exchange calling cards, to use only a first name was a statement in itself.
　　"A name is merely a label." Alistair—or 'Victor'—tilted his head slightly. "In this hall, it is the function one serves that matters, not the title one bears."
　　"A philosopher?" Charles's interest was piqued. "Or simply another spectator, weary of the circus?"
　　"An observer," Victor corrected, the corner of his mouth curving in a barely perceptible arc. "The circus has its purpose. The question is whether one wishes to be the performer, the audience, or... the ringmaster."
　　Charles swirled his drink, the amber liquid clinging to the glass. "I'll let you in on a secret, Mr Victor. That garrulous banker I was just with? I told him I was leading a secret inter-departmental study on the 'negative impact of bankers on the nation's mental health'. He found someone more important to talk to immediately."
　　"A more… offensive manoeuvre," a flicker of interest crossed Victor's grey-green eyes. "Efficient, certainly, but with potentially… widespread side effects. By tomorrow, an informal minute regarding this 'study' may well appear in certain corners of the Treasury."
　　"Then let them wonder. Chaos has its uses, does it not?" Charles smiled. "Speaking of which, which 'Victor' are you, precisely? None of the Victors I know can practise the art of bureaucratic tai chi with such pleasing aesthetics."
　　"Perhaps you haven't met enough Victors," he replied, deftly sidestepping the question and guiding the conversation towards safer, and duller, territory. "Speaking of committees, what are your thoughts on the new task force for energy efficiency? I hear that…"
　　Charles stopped himself from pressing further. He watched as the man nonchalantly attempted to steer an interesting skirmish back onto the well-trodden, platitude-paved track of Whitehall, and found his own excitement for the mystery, far from diminishing, had only grown stronger.
　　The subject was tedious, but the subtext was not.
　　He enjoyed this game.
　　This gentleman named 'Victor' was like a beautifully wrapped, intricately constructed puzzle box, and he wanted to take it apart.
　　Their conversation unfolded over the next half-hour, ranging from political philosophy to the mechanics of Whitehall, from the situation in Europe to the future of Britain. In the cut and thrust of the discussion, Charles discovered the gentleman possessed a startling perspicacity and a fascinatingly detached perspective.
　　"You work in government?" Charles finally couldn't resist asking.
　　"In a manner of speaking," the reply was as vague as ever. "I serve… order."
　　As they parted, Charles offered his card. "In case the 'Observer' doesn't object to being pulled from the stands from time to time."
　　Victor took the card, glanced at it, then produced a blank card and a fountain pen from an inside pocket.
　　He handed the card over. "Perhaps we will meet again."
　　Someone seemed to call to him from across the room. Victor gave a slight nod and melted back into the crowd, as if he belonged there and yet had never been there at all.
　　Charles looked down at the card in his hand: a string of numbers. No name, no department, no title.
　　He smiled and slipped it into his pocket.
　　"Intriguing."