(no subject)
Anthony had long excelled at hiding in plain sight. That was a necessary skill in a spy - one couldn't be noticeable, but one had to be in view enough to notice others. Popular ideas of spying always seemed to include lots of fancy technology, or at the least hiding in the ceiling or some such nonsense. But the real skill wasn't being invisible - it was being quite visible and utterly unremarkable. Or, if you were Guy, remarkable for the wrong reason.
In his early days on the island, he had kept up the habit of watching without taking part. He had done it for so long that it had become commonplace, that was part of it, but also he had been curious about his fellow islanders. But that curiosity had long faded to annoyance, and then indifference. Now he hid in plain sight only because it was the easiest thing to do.
He was taking his usual corner of the sofa in the rec room, grading final exams, coolly oblivious to anyone else in the room - even to the room itself. He might have been back at Courtald, where he surely would have been doing precisely the same thing this time of year. But just as he was finishing the last exam, the jukebox sprang to life. But what emanated from the obnoxious little music box was no song, no familiar ditty or mocking lyrics, but voices. A conversation.
It took Anthony a few moments to realize that it must be a radio play, and a minute more for him to glean the context. Two men were discussing a painting, an unattributed Titian or something. Then, in the next scene, the same character was talking to a policeman of some kind, identifying photographs. No names were spoken, but suddenly Anthony plainly, without a doubt, who the character was. It was him.
The story might have been imagined, or it might have been some dramatization of something that had not yet happened to him. Without a doubt this was that future him that he dreaded, the one who was finally discovered and who agreed to help the intelligence services. There was an unlikely conversation with the Queen, an art lecture heavy with foreshadowing and symbolism. This Anthony Blunt, fictionalized or no, was running from a fate he knew would catch up to him soon. It was sharply, painfully familiar.
He sat tensely as the jukebox continued on for an hour. Though he showed no real sign of listening, his pen barely moved over the exam in front of him.
Finally, thankfully, the little parable, the window into his future life, seemed to be coming to an end. The policeman character was speaking. Anthony gave into the impulse to look up-
"I came to give you a warning. There is a time coming soon when your anonymity will cease to be in any practical sense useful."
And then,
"You will be an object to scrutiny. Explanations sought after, your history gone into. You will be named. Attributed."
It had all the cool foreshadowing of good theater, absurd when talking about a real life. Not for the first time, Anthony imagined this future of scrutiny that awaited him. Some would say that it was nothing, no less than he deserved. Some would say he deserved greater punishment, considering his crimes. But for a man for whom privacy had been a built-in impulse and secrets carefully cultivated, who had survived by compartmentalizing his many lives, the public revelation that would come and the wild attention that would accompany was no less than an awaiting hell.
The radio play ended. The rec room went silent.
[The jukebox is playing A Question of Attribution, a radio play by Alan Bennet that is about Anthony Blunt. For more details, see the slated post here. Your pup can tag in when it has finished or any time in the middle of it. I have to run off to work, so immediate slowtime, but I will return for tags this evening.]
In his early days on the island, he had kept up the habit of watching without taking part. He had done it for so long that it had become commonplace, that was part of it, but also he had been curious about his fellow islanders. But that curiosity had long faded to annoyance, and then indifference. Now he hid in plain sight only because it was the easiest thing to do.
He was taking his usual corner of the sofa in the rec room, grading final exams, coolly oblivious to anyone else in the room - even to the room itself. He might have been back at Courtald, where he surely would have been doing precisely the same thing this time of year. But just as he was finishing the last exam, the jukebox sprang to life. But what emanated from the obnoxious little music box was no song, no familiar ditty or mocking lyrics, but voices. A conversation.
It took Anthony a few moments to realize that it must be a radio play, and a minute more for him to glean the context. Two men were discussing a painting, an unattributed Titian or something. Then, in the next scene, the same character was talking to a policeman of some kind, identifying photographs. No names were spoken, but suddenly Anthony plainly, without a doubt, who the character was. It was him.
The story might have been imagined, or it might have been some dramatization of something that had not yet happened to him. Without a doubt this was that future him that he dreaded, the one who was finally discovered and who agreed to help the intelligence services. There was an unlikely conversation with the Queen, an art lecture heavy with foreshadowing and symbolism. This Anthony Blunt, fictionalized or no, was running from a fate he knew would catch up to him soon. It was sharply, painfully familiar.
He sat tensely as the jukebox continued on for an hour. Though he showed no real sign of listening, his pen barely moved over the exam in front of him.
Finally, thankfully, the little parable, the window into his future life, seemed to be coming to an end. The policeman character was speaking. Anthony gave into the impulse to look up-
"I came to give you a warning. There is a time coming soon when your anonymity will cease to be in any practical sense useful."
And then,
"You will be an object to scrutiny. Explanations sought after, your history gone into. You will be named. Attributed."
It had all the cool foreshadowing of good theater, absurd when talking about a real life. Not for the first time, Anthony imagined this future of scrutiny that awaited him. Some would say that it was nothing, no less than he deserved. Some would say he deserved greater punishment, considering his crimes. But for a man for whom privacy had been a built-in impulse and secrets carefully cultivated, who had survived by compartmentalizing his many lives, the public revelation that would come and the wild attention that would accompany was no less than an awaiting hell.
The radio play ended. The rec room went silent.
[The jukebox is playing A Question of Attribution, a radio play by Alan Bennet that is about Anthony Blunt. For more details, see the slated post here. Your pup can tag in when it has finished or any time in the middle of it. I have to run off to work, so immediate slowtime, but I will return for tags this evening.]