Cyril and the Spook

By Daniel Francisco O'Brien-Kelley

An enchanting potpourri of dialogue between an Oxford professor and a deep cover intelligence agent, both retired and living on Northern Spains Costa Brava. The pair meet almost daily for Caf and croissants at Carlos Caf where they are frequently joined by other regulars of varying nationalities. Cyril and the spook are very likeable intellectuals each of whom would deny that epithet out hand. What they say however is amusing, absorbing, and often too intellectually shocking. Like any other book this one can be put downbut not without great effort.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481799447

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© 2013 by Daniel Francisco O’Brien-Kelley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/04/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9942-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9943-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9944-7 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Preface

Author’s Note

The Book Floggers

The Student

An Age Of Innocence*

Lola

The King’s English*

Mrs. Wilson’s Revenge

Mediterranean Diet

Mary And The Mini

Cyril And The Cyclops*

The Oscar

Stateless

A Change In Perspective

All Square

The Pro

Crossing The Bar*

The Brogues

As You Like It*

Neighborhood Banking

Madame Michelin

The Book Club

Harold And The Revolution

Gallophobia

Three Star Harold

Harold Redux

Oh, To Be In England*

The Automatic Dishwasher

Out Damned Spot*

On First Looking

Into Gibbon*

Medieval Medicine

Impersonal Computers

The Word

Blessed Be The Rich

Gottdemmed Spenishers

Nur Spass

Eternal Damnation

The Only Thing

Regateo

The Clarence Caper

Wineless In Gaza*

The War Zone

The Cuckold

Mr. Chips

Margaret And The Magic Mountain*

The Press Release

Crime And Punishment*

Geezers

Sea Fever*

PREFACE

Cyril and I are two old dudes living for ages in neighboring villages on Spain’s Costa Brava. Both towns date from the Twelfth Century and are within sight of the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees which separate us from France.

Ours is a part of Cataluña possessing the culture which goes with the medieval villages which abound in this area and a year-round mild varying climate. It’s a combination which for me at least makes living elsewhere more or less unthinkable.

It was here that I wrote most of American Emeritus, a narrative, largely episodic, recounting my experiences as an athlete, spy, international business executive, and country store keeper, all over the course of many years and several continents.

Perhaps more importantly, the story explains how these varied activities eventually led to my belated resurrection as a student.

Although writing has been very much a part of my careers with both the Government and private sector, American Emeritus is unique to the extent that it was my first attempt to write for myself as opposed to writing for others.

In short, I enjoyed the experience, finding it spiritually liberating and loath to have it end. As a consequence I decided to have a go at writing essays, thinking perhaps of Montaigne and Orwell whose writings I greatly admired.

I attempted to make them short, aphoristic, and humorous and, having finished a few, sent them off to Jane Ganahl, a San Francisco journalist and author.

Jane read them and encouraged me to continue. She observed, however, that the pieces sent her were not essays in the strict sense of the word, but rather musings.

Although Juliet may have had it nailed with the Rose metaphor, I decided to back off on the essay approach and go with the Muses.

Grateful as I was for the high marks Jane had given the writings, I felt they would be pithier if they involved dialogue.

Needing someone with whom to converse, I came up with Cyril, a retired Oxford professor, blessed with a modest demeanor and a wry sense of humor.

Margaret, Cyril’s attractive over-achieving wife, was next to come into play, along with several other local Catalan and foreign prototypes.

The Cast of Characters, although relatively short, is ample enough to give Cyril and me fodder for our daily chat at Carlos’ Café, likewise invented.

As for my own role, I am simply Cyril’s friend and contemporary, identified solely as a Spanish National American-born Spook Emeritus

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Carlos’ café where Cyril and I meet on an almost daily basis required no invention since prototypes can be found in almost any of the surrounding villages. All offer good strong coffee and freshly baked bread with Carlos getting an extra accolade for croissants unrivalled even by those baked by our nearby French neighbors. Carlos, a Basque, has, in fact, an extraordinary flair for baking and no one appreciates his skill more than Cyril and I.

Although Carlos’ bar gets a lot of play, the ambience is nevertheless conducive to conversation and Cyril and I make the most of it. He and I also get along splendidly sharing liberal views rare to men of our age. We are also both academically oriented; Cyril by profession, and I by choice.

Our respective personalities will surface over the course of these writings, most of which include dialogue between him, the Professor and me, a former Intelligence type, both emeritus.

Creating this handful of characters has provided me with great amusement and unexpected companionship, sentiments which I am hopeful my readers will come to share with me.

Daniel Francisco O’Brien-Kelley

Costa Brava

Spring 2013

THE BOOK FLOGGERS

Cyril hadn’t quite reached the counter when I said,

Cyril, you are one sly, sneaky dude.

Why is that? He asked, seemingly confused.

"In all these café-downing encounters, you never said a word about your having written a book, nor would I know about it now had I not accidentally seen it mentioned in the British Society Newsletter".

Why didn’t you say something? I asked, feigning slightly hurt feelings.

I was embarrassed, he replied.

Why the hell would you be embarrassed about writing a book? I asked, now the one confused.

Cyril, never at a loss for non-sequiturs, said simply,

"It’s a Mystery".

"I know it’s mysterious, Cyril, that’s why I’m asking".

No, he countered, You don’t understand; it’s a spy thriller.

That sounds great, Cyril, but why should a spy story be embarrassing?

Well, as you know, I have done a lot of writing over the years, but it’s all been academic stuff, more articles than I can count, and several books, all dealing with one aspect or another of ancient legal systems".

So, I said, You are no stranger to being a published author.

"That’s true, but only in a very limited and highly academic way, and always going through university presses, none of which would be interested in non-classical spooking".

I can understand your dilemma, Cyril, you had a book, but no publisher, but why the embarrassment?

"I’m getting to that! So, I was checking out publishing options on the Net and came across the name of an agency in London which offered a variety of services designed to wet-nurse writers, principally new ones, through the whole process".

"What whole process"? I asked.

"The various steps right up through publication and a bit beyond. Their packages seemed scaled to the degree of fame desired by the writer".

I detect a touch of irony, Cyril. What precisely were these steps?

"There is whole litany of them, starting with Domain Registration".

Sounds like something which could have been done in a few minutes on the Net, I speculated.

I suppose so, but I had no idea how these things worked and at least it was something concrete. Their other services tended to be somewhat nebulous.

Nebulous. In what sense? I asked.

"Well, they offered On-going Day-to-Day Support as the book was being created and published which proved to be absolute nonsense".

Why nonsense? I asked.

Because, as I later began to realize, none of their people every bothered to read the manuscript.

You mean they took your text without really knowing whether it was traitorous, blasphemous, subversive, indecent or just pure crap.

That’s what I finally concluded. The editor, for example, never made a single observation on the content of the narrative and only red penciled a few errors in punctuation. It was pitiful. Even more laughable was the film script.

"Film script"? I questioned with amazement.

"Yes indeed, it appeared among the services as Film Script Development Service. What a come-on! It almost had me reminding myself not to become overly emotional during my Oscar acceptance speech".

Amused by Cyril’s self deprecation, I asked what the film adaptation finally looked like.

It looked like something written by a Fourth Former who had forgotten she had a Book Report due the following morning.

Cyril, it sounds disastrous, but the book jacket forgives a lot. It was really first rate, attractive, and highly creative.

Thanks, but they didn’t do it. After seeing a couple of weedy non-creative examples of what they had done, I worked it out with a friend who is a graphics designer".

Don’t tell me you also wrote the Press Release.

"Not exactly, but I angered them by rewriting a cliché-ridden text filled with phrases like Hails from and Girl of his Dreams.

"As for the texts describing the narrative and myself, I was glad to do them since the agency hadn’t bothered to learn anything about me or the narrative.

"I simply decided to forego modesty and conjured up the flattery which eventually went on to the jacket. In essence, I performed practically all their services, except, of course, the distribution".

Distributing what, the Press Release?

Precisely, and that’s where I am damned sure they cocked up most seriously. They claimed to literally have contacts in the hundreds in both the United Kingdom and America, but what they had, in fact, was most likely a mailing list, probably obtained through Google and totally impersonal.

Despite being an Academic Cyril’s disillusion struck me as probably being totally justified, and I said,

"Cyril, I am getting the picture. The floggers are ostensibly and expensively developing and promoting the book you authored with the artwork you designed and with the Press Release you wrote to a bunch of people they have probably never met".

That’s exactly how I see it, Cyril replied, grateful for my understanding.

Continuing on, Cyril added,

"It all goes back to their never having cracked the book, nor having a clue as to what they were supposed to be selling. They would have done better with more knowledge, fewer contacts, and a personalized message commenting on the narrative, its author, and some key aspects in the Press Release".

Forgive my impertinence, Cyril, I said, now sharing what I presumed to be my friend’s totally understandable indignation,

You must have been terribly disappointed and very angry about having paid out so much for so little.

"Angry? Cyril replied defiantly. Why the hell should I, of all people, be angry"?

Cyril, I am trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to relate to you not being absolutely livid. What in God’s name did you really get from these people?

Nothing less than a published spy story and a career! He answered, looking at me as if I were non compos mentis.

"Confusion worse confounded"! I said, stealing a line from Milton.

Not at all! He shot back, explaining,

"Thanks to these clever ineffective incompetents I now know everything I won’t have to do to make a go of it".

"For God’s sake, Cyril, what on earth are you planning to make a go of"?

Why book flogging! What else?

Need a partner?

THE STUDENT

Alone for the evening, I invited Cyril to dine at Mas Pou, a selection with which he was delighted since other friends had been insisting that he and Margaret give it a try.

He was further delighted to find that my habitual table had no neighbors and was in the midst of the wine cellar. It was in effect a private room walled in by racks of vintages, mostly our own, but some from our Gallic neighbors across the nearby Pyrenees.

Mas Pau, originally built to house an affluent Catalan family, dates back to the Seventeenth Century and, as absurd as it sounds, is among the newer buildings in the village, lapped by other stone structures, many of which are from the Twelfth Century.

Large as it is, there is no sensation of vastness since the dining areas are separated by stone walls providing each with a feeling of privacy. None, however, are quite as private as my corner of the bodega.

A mariner might well refer to Mas Pou as a Happy Ship. Diners entering are greeted warmly not only by members of the family, but also by tray-laden waiters passing back and forth from the kitchen, offering a hand if unoccupied or, if not, a friendly smile.

As we made our way into the cellar and headed towards its only table already prepared with a jug of red wine, olives, and a variety of cold sausages Cyril commented,

What a jolly nice place and such lovely people!

That it is and that they are! I agreed, adding,

And if you will let me order for you, I guarantee to enhance your initial impression.

Agreed! But, if you fail?

"I’ll exchange it for a Shepherd’s Pie or some other inedible English delicacy"!

In deference to Cyril’s largely conventional taste, I did not reveal that he was about to be served a salad of marinated raw cod followed by a pig’s cheek, both specialties and each uniquely delicious.

I settled happily for fresh green beans cooked with air-dried ham and a shoulder of baby lamb, thinking that if Cyril freaked out over the pig’s cheek, he could have my lamb as an option.

Having finished with the intrigue of ordering, I remarked,

Cyril, you look a lot more relaxed than when we first came in.

The wine helps, and I was admittedly a bit agitated after squabbling with Margaret about our books.

How the hell can books be conflictive, except perhaps for their content? I asked.

"It was not their content at all, but rather their presence".

"Their presence"? I asked, still not understanding the dilemma.

Yes, Margaret is trying to get rid of years of accumulated clutter and considers both her books and many of mine to be major contributors.

"Seeds of a double standard"? I half inquired.

Precisely but unfairly in this the case. Margaret, as you yourself have observed, is innately intelligent. She is also uniquely logical in her way of thinking and would have delighted Aristotle as a student had she not missed class by a couple of millennia. For the most part, however, she reads good books, but more for entertainment than for learning.

And you’re just the opposite. I interjected.

Almost totally, but that does not mean that my approach to reading is preferable to Margaret’s; it is simply different.

As are the books you read, I commented supportively.

"Therein lay the conflict. Margaret’s library is full of one-timers whereas almost of mine are for consulting and re-reading. Also, like Petrarch, I look upon my books as friends whose companionship I enjoy renewing".

I understand perfectly, Cyril, and agree that making the tip their last stop is unthinkable. What the hell! One way or another, you and Margaret will work it out.

Having no immediate solution for this minor marital blip, I was about to switch subjects when Cyril saved me the trouble, asking,

"Tell me, Old Boy, how did you to get to be an Academic without all the pain and suffering"?

Such a compliment can only come from an excess of the grape, I replied while re-filling his glass.

I mean it seriously, Cyril insisted, adding,

Having spent most of my life living in academic circles, I can guarantee that you would fit in very comfortably.

"It’s flattering you think so, Cyril, but, in all honesty, I have no pretensions about being considered an Intellectual. The fact is that I wasn’t even a very good student, only getting somewhat turned on to learning during my years at boarding school".

But you did earn degrees from a couple of universities?

"Cyril, I didn’t really earn them. They were simply awarded to me for perfunctorily fulfilling requirements. The truth is that I remained a dedicated sloth throughout my university years and for a couple of decades thereafter. An intellectual I was not"!

Simply a nascent one.

Not even that, Cyril.

I’m not so sure, Cyril replied and, as an afterthought, asked,

"Tell me, how do you personally define an Intellectual"?

Cyril, on an unbearably humid summer’s day, a couple of decades before Georgetown discovered the wonders of air conditioning, I was asked that same question while dozing during a lecture.

Dozing?

"Yes, Cyril, it was