2

The second event that led to George Smiley's resurgence took place a few weeks after the first, in early September of the same year, not in Paris, but in Hamburg, a city that was once an ancient, liberal member of the Hanseatic but today is almost overwhelmed by its own prosperity. But it is undeniable that the Alster, which has so far been undrained or filled with concrete, is unrivalled by the splendor of its golden-orange waterfront at the turn of summer and autumn. George Smiley, needless to say, certainly can't see this lazy autumn beauty. On the day of the incident, Smiley was sitting at his usual desk in the London Library in St. James's Square, plucking up his strongest convictions and working on the case. Looking out from the window lattice of the reading room, there are two slender trees. He might say that his only connection to Hamburg – if he tried afterwards to establish a connection, but he did not do so – was to seek the spiritual source of German Baroque poetry, for he was writing a treatise on Opitz at the time, and was trying to find a true passion in the voluminous literature of the period.

On that day, at around 11 a.m. in Hamburg, the path leading to the embankment was covered with fallen leaves and dappled sunlight. The mirror-like surface of the Outer Alster Lake is covered with a layer of mist, and through the mist, the protruding east embankment seems to be a little green on the horizontal plane. Along the shores of the lake, many red squirrels are hopping and hopping, busy preparing for winter. But the slender young man standing on the path, dressed in tracksuit and jogging shoes, who looked like an anarchist, did not notice the squirrels with his eyes and mind. His eyes were red, and he stared at the approaching steamboat, his expressionless face even darkened by the fact that he had not shaved for two days. He had a hamburger newspaper under his left arm, but any pair of perceptive eyes as George Smiley would immediately notice that it was yesterday's newspaper, not today. He clutched a rush basket in his right hand, but it seemed more appropriate for the stout Madame Ostrakova than for the weak, sweaty, seemingly hopeful athlete who could jump into the lake at any moment. At the top of the basket showed traces of several oranges, a yellow Kodak envelope printed in English, lying on top of the oranges. The little goodbye was nowhere to be seen, and the fog on the water deepened his loneliness and alienation. All he had at his side was the timetable of the steamboat and an old proclamation that presumably survived the war, telling him how to save his life in a half-drowned state. All that hovered in his mind was the general's instructions, which he repeated over and over again as if in prayer.

The steamboat glides across the shore and the young man jumps on the boat, like a child playing a dance game – a frenzied footstep and then stands still, waiting for the music to play again. For forty-eight hours, day and night, he was single-minded and only thought of this moment—the present. He drove all the way, keeping his eyes on the road, his wife and daughter flashing in his eyes, and he imagined the unfortunate consequences of any mistake. He knew he had a talent for wreath. When he stopped for coffee, he repacked the oranges into the basket again and again, no less than ten times, and put the envelope straight and sideways—no, this angle is better, it is more appropriate, it is easier to take. Approaching the edge of the city, he began to collect change to pay the boat fare without having to give change – what if the conductor caught him and gossiped with him? He had so much to do, and so little time. He had bothered to think about it, and he wouldn't say a word of German. He would murmur, smile, and apologize, but remain silent. Or the few words he had of Estonian—a Lutheran-influenced childhood before his father insisted that he learn Russian, and that he memorized some words from the Bible. But now, with the clock looming, the young man suddenly realized that the plan was still in the way. What if other Estonian passengers came to his aid? Hamburg, a multilingual city, is just a few miles to the east, so any six people can get together and speak several languages! It's better to remain silent and indifferent.

He wished he had shaved. He wished he hadn't looked so striking.

Walking into the main cabin of the steamboat, the young man did not look at anyone. He lowered his gaze. Avoid eye contact, the general so ordered. The conductor was chatting with an elderly woman, ignoring him. He waited awkwardly, trying to look calm. There were about thirty passengers on board. He was impressed by the fact that both men and women, both men and women, wore green coats and green felt hats, and they were all quite unimpressed with him. It was his turn. He stretched out his sweaty palm. One mark, one fifty pfennig, and a tenth. The conductor was busy with himself and didn't say a word. The young man fumbled his way between the seats and walked to the stern. The dock faded away. They must have suspected that I was a terrorist, the young man thought. He had engine oil on his hands, and he wished he had washed it off. Maybe I have it on my face too. Must be indifferent, said the general. Leave yourself unnoticed. Don't smile, don't frown. Make yourself look ordinary and normal. He glanced at his watch, trying to keep his movements slow. He had rolled up the cuff of his left arm beforehand, especially so that the watch could be exposed. The young man, who was not very tall, lowered his body and suddenly walked to the stern part. Due to weather permitting, the stern part of the boat was partially open, and only the canopy was opened. It's just a matter of seconds, not days or kilometers, not even hours, but seconds. The hands of his watch fluttered through the six. When the hands come to six in the next turn, you move. The breeze was blowing, but he didn't pay any attention. Time is a big problem for him. As soon as he was excited—he knew it—he lost his sense of time altogether. He was afraid that by the time he found out, the second hand had already circled twice, turning one minute into two minutes. The aft seats were empty. He hurried to the last row of benches, his hands clasping the basket full of oranges in front of his belly, and tucking the newspaper under his arm: This is me, look at my mark. He felt like a fool. Orange is clearly too suspicious. Why would a young man in an unshaven and sportswear carry a basket of oranges and yesterday's newspaper? The whole ship must have noticed him! "The captain - the young man - there he is a bomber! He has a bomb in his basket, and he wants to hold us hostage, or he wants to blow up and sink this ship! A couple stood by the railing, holding hands and facing away from him, staring at the mist on the lake. The man was small, shorter than the woman. He wore a black coat with velvet trim at the neckline. They turn a blind eye to young men. The further back you go, the better, and make sure you sit down the aisle, the general said. He sat down, secretly hoping that his prayer would be fulfilled for the first time, without any retreat. "Becky, I'm doing it for you!" He whispered to himself, thinking of his daughter, remembering what the general had said. Despite being a Lutheran, he wore a wooden cross given by his mother around his neck, which was hidden by the zipper of his coat. Why hide the cross? So that God would not witness his misdeeds? He didn't know. All he wanted was to drive back on the road and keep driving until he gave up or arrived home safely.

Don't look anywhere, he remembers the general saying this. He didn't look anywhere, just stared ahead. You are the passive party. You don't have to do anything, just provide opportunities. No passwords, nothing, just baskets, oranges, yellow envelopes, and newspapers under your armpits. I don't agree, he thought. I put my daughter, Betsy, in danger. Stella will never forgive me. I'm going to lose my nationality, I'm gambling everything. Do it for our goals, said the general. General, I don't understand: this is not my goal, but yours, my father's. Because of this, I dropped Orange off the boat.

But he didn't. He threw the newspaper on the creaky bench beside him, and found it soaked with sweat - the armpit he had been holding the newspaper on was also stained with ink. He looked at his watch. The second hand points to ten. The watch is stopped! It's only been fifteen seconds since the last time I looked at my watch – it's simply impossible! He looked anxiously at the shore of the lake, convinced that the steamboat had sailed to the middle of the lake. He looked at his watch again and saw that the second hand was slipping past eleven. Stupid, he thought, calm down. He leaned to the right, pretending to read the newspaper while constantly staring at his watch for seconds. Terrorist. Only terrorists, he thought, had read the title twenty times. Undoubtedly, other passengers must have thought I was one of them. This is their big manhunt. He thought it was unbelievable that he could remember so much German. Do it for our goals.

The basket containing the orange was carefully leaning against his feet. When you stand up, put the basket on a chair so that you can take a seat, said the general. What if the orange pours out? In his imagination, he saw oranges rolling around on the deck, yellow envelopes scattered in between, and photographs scattered all over the place, all of which were pictures of Becky. The second hand skips six. He stood up. Right now. A chill ran through his abdomen. He pulled down his coat to cover his abdomen, but inadvertently exposed his mother's wooden cross. He zipped up. Take a leisurely stroll, don't look anywhere, and pretend you're the kind of person who loves to dream,said the general. Your father will not hesitate for a moment, said the general. Neither will you. He carefully placed the basket on the bench, steadied it with both hands, and then leaned back on the chair to make the basket more stable. Then test it. As for the Hamburg Evening Post, he didn't know what to do with it. Should I take it away, or should I leave it in my chair? Maybe the subject he's stinging hasn't seen the signal yet? He picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

He returned to the main cabin. A couple walked up to the stern, probably to catch a breath, they were older and very calm and composed. The first couple was sexy, even from behind them – the small man, the woman with a good figure, and the grooming of both of them. You know the two of them have a wonderful bedtime time, just take a look at it. To him, the second couple is like a pair of policemen; The young man was convinced that there must be no fun in their boudoir. Where is my mind wandering? He thought frantically. The answer was to my wife, Stella. Drift to the ultimate joy that we may never have again. He followed the instructions and took a leisurely stroll along the walkway that led to the enclosed cockpit. It is not difficult not to look at anyone, all the passengers sit with their backs to him. He walked to the front, allowing the passengers to move to that end. The driver sat on his left, on a raised platform. Approaching the cockpit window, complimenting the beautiful view. Stay there, a minute. The cabin roof here is lower; He had to bend down. Through the windshield, the trees and buildings are constantly moving. He saw an eight-man boat rowing by, followed by a dinghy with a beautiful blonde sitting alone. The chest was like a statue, he thought. To look more nonchalant, he propped one of his jogging shoes on the platform of the cockpit. Give me a woman, he thought fervently, at the moment of crisis; Give me my Stella, in the early morning twilight, lazy, reverie-inducing Stella. His left wrist rested against the railing, his watch still in sight.

"We're not cleaning up our boots here!" The driver roared.

The young man hurriedly put his feet on the deck. Now he knew I spoke German, he thought, and felt his face tingle with embarrassment. But they already knew, he foolishly thought, why else would I have a German newspaper with me?

Time's up. He straightened up again and turned to his seat. Although the mind still kept in mind not to look at other people's faces, it was useless, because the others were staring at him, disapproving of his beard that he hadn't shaved in two days, the tracksuit on him, and his rough appearance. His gaze swept over one face and then to another. He thought he had never encountered so many silent people with bad intentions. His tracksuit split a slit from his waist and abdomen, revealing a thin black thread. Stella washed too hard, he thought. He pulled down his coat again and strode to the stern of the boat, the wooden cross dangling from his chest like a medal. As he strides forward, two things happen almost simultaneously. On the bench, next to the basket, he saw the yellow pink mark he was waiting for, drawing two chair boards, as bright as a canary, and told him that the submission process had been successfully completed. As soon as he saw this scene, a feeling of glory immediately welled up in his heart, and he knew that it was an incomparable moment in his life, more perfect than the satisfaction that any woman could give him.

Why do we have to do this? He had asked the general; Why is it so carefully arranged?

Because this thing is unique in the world, the general replied, it is an unrivaled treasure, and the loss of this treasure will be a tragedy for the free world.

And he chose me to be the messenger, and the young man felt very proud, though deep down he felt that the old man had gone a little too far. He calmly picked up the envelope, tossed it into his coat pocket, pulled up the zipper, and pressed it with his fingers to make sure it was all sealed.

Almost at the same moment, he noticed that someone was watching him. The woman standing by the railing was still facing away from him, and he noticed again her very beautiful buttocks and legs. But her sexy companion in a black coat had turned to face him. The expression on the man's face made the beautiful feelings that the young man had just experienced disappear. He had only seen an expression like this once, on his father's deathbed at their first new English home, a room in Lyslip, a few months after arriving in England. He had never seen such despair, so deep and serious, so unprotected in anyone, never. More alarmingly, he knew—as Ostrakova knew—that this desperate demeanor contrasted sharply with the man's appearance, which had the air of a comedian—or, as Ostrakova thought, the air of a magician. Thus, the small, pointy-faced strange man looked in his eyes with deep meaning, with an earnest plea - "Child, you don't know what you are carrying!" Protect it with your life! This is the cry of the comedian from the depths of his soul.

The steamboat stopped. They have reached the other side. The young man clung to the basket, jumped ashore, and almost ran through the noisy crowds of shoppers, from street to street, without knowing where the streets would lead.

As the steering wheel pounded on his arm and the engine rumbled in his ears as he drove back, the young man saw the face on the wet road in front of him, and after so many hours, he couldn't help but wonder if the emotions he had been surging up during the submission process were purely imaginary. Most likely, the real contact is done by a completely different person, he thinks, trying to comfort himself. It could be one of the old women in the green felt hat, or maybe even the conductor. I was so nervous, he told himself. At that critical moment, an unknown man turned around and looked at me, and I made up the whole story about him, even imagining that he was my dead father.

By the time he arrived in Dover, he had almost believed he had driven the man's figure out of his mind. He threw the damn oranges in the trash; The yellow envelope lay comfortably in the pocket of his coat, the sharp corner piercing his skin, and that was it. So, did he deduce his accomplice? Forget about them. What's more, even if it was a pure coincidence, he happened to guess correctly, and the other party was the man with a hollow expression and fiery eyes - so what? It would be unwise to ask the general about this question, because in this way, in the eyes of the general, who is concerned about security issues, the young man is tantamount to a fantasist with fiery enthusiasm. Thinking of Stella became his most urgent desire. In the midst of the noisy journey, as the mileage increases, so does his desire. It was still early in the morning. He imagined her awake in his own caresses; He saw her sleepy smile slowly turn into enthusiasm.

That night, Smiley received a call to return to the game. Strange to say, although he couldn't sleep at all in this old age, he still let the phone ring by the bedside for a long time before answering it. He went straight home from the library and ate uncomfortably at an Italian restaurant on King Street, bringing a copy of Aurelius's Travels with him as an amulet. He returned to his residence on Waterfront Street and continued his dissertation work with the same concentration as a man with nothing else to do. A few hours later, he opened a bottle of burgundy, drank half of it, and listened to a botched play on the radio. Then, doze off and wrestle with the chaos of dreams. But the moment he heard Lacan's voice, he felt himself being pulled out of a warm and precious secret place, a place he wished he could stop forever and be undisturbed! At the same time, despite his swift movements, he felt as if it had taken him a long time to dress; He wondered if this was the old man's reaction when he heard the news of his death.