《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, perfumed ballroom somewhere in London, there flowed a trickle of champagne and a far more exhausting torrent of platitudes.
　　Alistair Cavendish was fulfilling an inescapable Yuletide obligation.
　　A polite smile, a perfectly judged nod, a brief and watertight response. He was like a finely calibrated instrument, maintaining an impeccable social decorum amidst the clamour.
　　Finally, in the gap between one topic and the next, he caught a moment, extricating himself from the noisy vortex with an imperceptible movement.
　　He retreated to a relatively secluded corner at the edge of the ballroom, his back resting almost invisibly against a cold marble column. Just as he was about to allow his taut nerves a moment's respite, an uninvited guest, reeking of alcohol and excessive enthusiasm, approached him with a near-empty glass, his target clear.
　　Alistair's gaze swept over Jeremy in an instant, his memory immediately retrieving the relevant data: Jeremy Winterbottom, a Conservative backbencher, insignificant constituency, energetic, loud, his views less radical than simply ill-considered.
　　Evidently, Jeremy had just emerged from a debate on the other side of the room concerning some inconsequential committee vote, and had declared himself to have achieved some sort of "victory."
　　A complication, catalysed by a dual intoxication of alcohol and cheap achievement.
　　Jeremy strode up to Alistair, and with the boisterousness of drink and the swell of a declared triumph, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, announcing in a voice loud enough to pierce several nearby conversations: "Victor! Old chap! I knew you were on my side! See? Struck dumb, the lot of them! Now that's a victory! Well done!"
　　Victor?
　　The unexpected name and familiar physical contact caused the muscles in Alistair's body to tense involuntarily, but his mind remained sharp enough to complete the assessment: a drunk, unimportant, and mistaken politician.
　　To correct an emotional drunk on the spot? That would be to voluntarily wade into a social quagmire, inviting only more unnecessary attention and hollow pleasantries.
　　No trace of surprise at being misidentified, nor any hint of annoyance at being disturbed, appeared on Alistair's face. He merely raised an eyebrow by the slightest fraction, offered Jeremy a brief, polite but entirely temperatureless, almost perfunctory nod. At the same time, a non-committal hum, somewhere between an "mhm" and an "is that so," escaped his throat. It artfully maintained the semblance of engagement while yielding no substantive ground.
　　Then, drawing on years of experience navigating complex networks and subtle cues, Alistair used a few well-chosen platitudes that sounded agreeable yet meant nothing to successfully steer the politician, still basking in the glow of his "victory," back towards the noisy heart of the party. He exhaled an almost inaudible breath and, with a subtle gesture, brushed his shoulder where it had been clapped, as if dusting away an invisible mote.
　　This entire scene, as it happened, was witnessed by Charles Hyde, who, having just escaped a garrulous banker, was wandering the edges of the party in a state of boredom. He had been drawn by Jeremy’s exaggerated pat on the back and booming voice, and his gaze had subsequently locked onto the object of this entanglement.
　　Alistair stood at the intersection of light and shadow. His slicked-back platinum hair gleamed with a cool gold under the chandeliers. A slim-fit, single-button evening jacket with black satin peak lapels perfectly delineated his tall, rather lean frame. A flawless black silk bow tie was knotted at the collar of a crisp white shirt, and a meticulously folded square of white linen peeked from his breast pocket.
　　He was surrounded by an aura of quiet, reserved refinement, out of place with the party's ostentation, like a relic from a bygone era.
　　Intriguing.
　　Charles raised his glass, the amber liquid swirling gently within. After Jeremy had staggered away, he walked directly towards this gentleman named Victor.
　　"Good evening." Charles stopped at an appropriate social distance, raising his glass in a small gesture. "That was a masterful display of social judo."
　　Alistair turned, his grey-green eyes appearing particularly deep in the light. He appraised this new, uninvited visitor—Charles Hyde, the dazzling yet unconventional rising star of the Liberal Party, a strong contender for the next party leadership, though he himself seemed less than enthusiastic about the prospect.
　　"Mr Hyde?" he inquired, his voice steady and low, with its unique cadence, correctly identifying Charles.
　　"Charles Hyde, Liberal MP," Charles introduced himself. "You can just call me Charles. Or, if you don't mind—Charlie."
　　His voice held an undisguised appreciation and a hint of inquiry. "To gracefully guide an out-of-control object back to where it belongs with minimal effort. I was about to applaud, Mr Victor. Or...?"
　　"Victor will suffice," Alistair replied laconically, offering no surname.
　　"Just Victor?" Charles raised an eyebrow. "An interesting choice for an occasion such as this."
　　In a place where everyone was eager to exchange business 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, grown weary of the circus?"
　　"An observer," Victor corrected, the corner of his mouth curving in a barely perceptible arc. "The circus has its value. The question is whether one wishes to be a performer, the audience, or... the ringmaster."
　　Charles swirled his drink, the amber liquid clinging to the glass. "I'll tell you a secret, Mr Victor. That garrulous banker from a moment ago—I told him I was leading a secret inter-departmental study on the 'Negative Impact of Bankers on the National Mental Health.' He immediately found someone more important to talk to."
　　"A more offensive manoeuvre," Victor noted, a flicker of interest in his grey-green eyes. "Efficient, but perhaps... with widespread side effects. By tomorrow, an informal minute regarding this 'study' may well appear in certain corners of the Treasury."
　　"Then let them guess. Chaos has its uses, does it not?" Charles smiled. "Speaking of which, which 'Victor' are you, exactly? None of the Victors I know can practise the tai chi of bureaucracy with such artistry."
　　"Perhaps you have not met enough Victors," he replied, deftly evading the question and steering the conversation to safer, and more tedious, ground. "Speaking of committees, what is your view on the newly formed energy efficiency steering group? I heard that..."
　　Charles stopped himself from pressing the question. He watched the other man nonchalantly attempt to guide an interesting exchange back onto the well-trodden, platitude-strewn path of Whitehall, and found that his own excitement for discovery, rather than diminishing, grew stronger.
　　The surface topic was dull, but the subtext was not.
　　He enjoyed this kind of game.
　　This gentleman named Victor was like an exquisitely wrapped, intricately constructed puzzle box that he wanted to dismantle.
　　Their conversation unfolded over the next half hour, moving from political philosophy to the mechanisms of Whitehall, from the situation in Europe to the future of Britain. In the push and pull of the topics, Charles discovered that this gentleman possessed a startling insight and a fascinatingly detached attitude.
　　"You work in government?" Charles finally asked, unable to resist.
　　"In a manner of speaking," came the typically ambiguous reply. "I serve... order."
　　As they were about to part, Charles offered his card. "In case the 'Observer' does not object to being pulled down from the stands occasionally."
　　Victor took the card, glanced at it, then retrieved a blank card and a fountain pen from an inside pocket.
　　He handed the card over. "Perhaps we will meet again."
　　Someone seemed to be calling from a distance. Victor gave a slight nod and then melted back into the crowd, as if he had always belonged there, and yet had never been present at all.
　　Charles looked down at the card: a string of numbers. No name, no department, no title.
　　He smiled, and slipped it into his inner pocket.
　　"Interesting."