Note No. 10

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the same
way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on C.S. Forester,
or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once
knew I have tried to make a theatre for the larger world
we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search
for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and
to the desk where I’m sitting now.
– JOHN LE CARRÉ, THE PIGEON TUNNEL

August 2020

Just when did the synapses reach, grasp, cling and weld? When?

I write this now in this red-covered notebook in the Kilburn Library, oppressed by the ranks of books glaring accusations at me. On the table in front of me, open at a new chapter where I have paused before, another Le Carré book. Why? I have read them all, have I not? Twice? Thrice? Why? Because I was – I am? – a spy, an officer of intelligence. Yes, Intelligence needs intelligence. It should. Le Carré knows this, knew this. He also knew that we are fallible. Sometimes wasted. Often wasted.

Yes. Synapses. In my case, in my grappling with the realness behind phenomena, I have an image of synapses flailing about restlessly, angrily, each seeking out a mate. And when they do – if they do – I hear them exhale quietly, like a gentle zephyr, relieved finally. Connected. Joined in holy ...

But when, I need to remember, when did these particular synapses wed? The visit to Freire? The trunk with the yellow ‘O’? A meeting on a dirt road with an envelope? Should I have got it sooner? Would that have changed the world, changed history – the red pen doing its thing?

But I knew. There was a moment when I knew. Unproven, yes, but I knew. I guess, as I’ve always known. The Signs. The Signs.