Working Title. Excerpt from Chapter 1 - „In the land of the blind“

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Saturday morning. Marylebone, London, 1961.

Michael was looking forward to this day all week. Before closing the door, he quickly put on his hat and went downstairs. It was pouring outside. As he was walking towards the bus station, he badly scuffed his black brogue to a cobblestone on the street. He couldn't stop thinking about it right until the moment he entered Savile Row...

Michael Keynes was well liked at his work place. Perhaps due to his father like figure, colleagues and people in his circle would seek personal advice from him. Michael was satisfied with his way of life even though he did not have a family himself which according to his mother defines a man. He was a creature of habit. He knew that being complacent is probably the worst realization one could make, let alone be happy about it. But he was. He liked picking up that overpriced Daily Mirror from a neighbour boy on his way to work. He enjoyed feeding those pigeons at the Trafalgar square on Sundays. He even loved observing the beggars near the underground stations. They were predictable, as was Michael.

Michael was a commercial paper clerk at Barings bank. Despite being average at his job, he had been gradually promoted to a manager, managing a Kingdom of chopped up wood with numbers on it as he liked to say. Michael was ordinary in all ways but one. Wearing a suit that fits you well is like having a natural extension of one self, one that tells you who you are and where you come from before you open your mouth. This pearl of wisdom was imparted by his late father who Michael held to a high regard. Visiting a tailor was not a chore, it was a privilege. Michael loved being a part of the ritual where pieces of cloth were crafted for him and no one else. It was personal. After all, without clothes, we are just animals, he pondered...

Henry, Michael's tailor, was just off Savile Row but it didn't stop him from advertising as being based in the famous street. The assistant opened the door for Michael.

- Morning, Mr. Keynes. Can I take your coat?
- Good Morning. Sorry, I have not met you before, you must be new.
- Yes Sir. Name's Albert.
- Good to meet you, Albert. Here you go - Michael handed over the coat and went ahead.

In the lounge, there was a man sitting with his legs crossed, smoking and reading a newspaper. He was holding a corner of the page with his right hand as if about to turn to read the international section. The man was dangling his left foot and his loafer was about to fall off. It was not his first time here. But all Michael could think about was whether he bought that newspaper from a boy in his neighbourhood... Michael turned to Albert.

- Tell me, Albert, how did you know it was me at the door?
- Henry told me, Sir, you'd be here 10: 15 sharp.
- Well-oiled machine you have here.
- Yes Sir. Tea or Coffee, Sir?
Michael smiled.
- Tea it is.
- Thank you, Albert.
Michael found it peculiar that the boy didn't take his hat as well so he put it on the table for Albert to see.
- Chilly out there? The man in the lounge asked as he was folding the newspaper.
- Reasonably.
- I am Winston Grimes, friend of Henry's.
- Michael Keynes, long-time customer. Nice to meet you, Mr. Grimes.
- Likewise.
After few seconds of silence, Grimes spoke
- These Ruskies... I do not understand them - he said exhaustingly pointing at a headline in the newspaper... - It is as if mutually assured destruction does not deter them.
- When you do not have anything else to lose... - Michael replied. He was distracted, looking around the room.
- What about their life? Their children's lives…
- You assume, Mr. Grimes, that life is the ultimate price to pay.
- I do not assume anything… What do you do for a living, Mr. Keynes?
- Michael, please.
- Splendid. What's your job, Michael?
- I shuffle papers at a bank, make sure things add up... And yours?
- I suppose, I make sure things add up as well. The only difference is, I can subtract too when they don't.

Michael was not sure what Grimes meant. He knew, however, Winston was not Henry's client. For one, the shirt was too small for such a well-built man – the buttons looked as if they were about to shoot out... Funnily enough, the suit jacket was too loose on the waist and the material... Well, it was not Henry's way... Probably the best suit one could afford on a civil servant's salary, Michael thought...

- Do you work in the government, Mr. Grimes?

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