A Kafka-esqe scene ensues. Nobody
can tell you precisely what this
mysterious clearance is or how you set
about obtaining it. The shifty brown eyes peer at you. It is your move now. You ask what the fee for the clearance would
be if one knew where to obtain it. A figure
is named. You ask if, as a special favour, you may
deposit this sum so that, when more is
known about it, the clearance may be obtained for
you. There is a shrug, then a grudging
assent. The eyes watch sullenly as you count the money out. You agreed too quickly. He is wishing he asked for more and wondering if it is too late. No, it is not. He made a mistake. He
forgot the price of the Government stamp. You
smile politely
and pay that, too.
There is no answering smile. Other brown eyes have
observed the transaction and there will be a
share-out when you have gone.
Note: Not quite this kind of Fan Dance (Link) these days, but arduous
and stressful enough. It
seems like the time of the season
of the witch.
Text: Eric Ambler, The
Night-Comers, 1956
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