In the early 1970s I worked as a consultant for Slater Walker, an investment conglomerate often criticised in the City for its raiding methods and asset-stripping policy. Even so, its phenomenal success was at one point the envy of the financial square mile. Its co-founder, Jim Slater, was a god-like figure. He was also a reclusive character, seldom to be seen in public, except at general meetings of shareholders or on rare occasions to explain his stock-market philosophy.
Mrs Thatcher was reputed to have used Jim as her financial guru when she became leader of the Conservative party. I was destined never to be Mrs Thatcher’s favourite person, because by the time she graduated to Prime Minister I was already owner of Quartet Books. With the brilliant satirist John Wells, the editorial team there dreamed up a project in a pub called Mrs Thatcher’s Handbag (a collector’s item today). The squib consisted of a cardboard kit containing, among other things, a wonderfully funny 45 r.p.m. record of two songs by George Melly, which included such lines as:
I’m Maggie, I’m Maggie, and my teeth are gleaming white. They shine out like a beacon through the naughty Labour night. But as Mr Heath can tell you they inflict a nasty bite. So you’d better cast your vote for Maggie Thatcher.
Also in the kit was a guide to etiquette, purporting to be by Margaret Hilda Th*tcher, whose dicta included: ‘[Tories] are socially responsible because they own property. Tories who matter own a great deal of property and are that much more socially responsible.’
There was a naked Mrs Thatcher cardboard doll, to be dressed in frousty style for different occasions; and a poster of Mrs Thatcher’s string of pearls of wisdom, quoting her actual sayings, of which this is a sample:
‘I can’t understand all the fuss about student grants. Carol managed to save out of hers. Of course, we paid for her ski-ing holidays…’
The Handbag was brought to Mrs Thatcher’s attention. She was utterly enraged, demanded to know who was responsible, and was told it was Naim Attallah. No harm came to me as a result; in fact it did me nothing but good.
To return to Jim Slater, I was fortunate to have had direct access to him. Very few could have said as much. It was a good working relationship to boot. For some strange reason, Jim had a wish to see me wearing a top hat, and providing an invitation to his box at Royal Ascot was one way of getting me to wear one. It took a great deal of persuasion before I agreed, but there in the box I met David Cotton, a young man who was curator of the Slater Walker collection of paintings. David was affable, but with a neurotic nervousness. He was also accident prone to such a degree that, when he was in a cab one summer’s day, coming to see me at my then office at Wellington Court, a wasp made its way inside his open shirt and stung him on a nipple. He arrived in agony. The girls in the office had to dab ice on the inflamed nipple to try to give him some relief, which was alas only of a medical nature.
The reason Jim wanted me to meet David was for the three of us to explore the possibility of opening an office in Tehran, under the umbrella of my own company, Namara, and not Slater Walker. This was to offload some of the paintings from the collection. A secondary objective was to use the office as a sounding board for investment opportunities in Iran. David already knew Tehran well, and I was looking forward to exploring new territory since it was a city I had never visited. The venture was doubly attractive, given that the capital required to set up Namara in Iran would be provided by Slater Walker.
The immediate problem was finding someone to run the new office on a daily basis, but David already had a girl in mind. Her name was Jill Harrison-Smith. She was in her late twenties, recently divorced, looking for a fresh challenge and said to be highly professional, even frighteningly efficient. I liked her at once when she came for an interview at Wellington Court. She was good looking, slim and rather tall, and had a graceful way about her. This went with an icy kind of look, which sent out a clear warning that no nonsense would be tolerated from anyone.
It took a few weeks to establish the Namara office in Tehran. David Cotton went out for some time to oversee the completion of formalities and Jill rented a spacious flat that doubled up for use as an office. In the early 1970s Tehran was a bustling city enjoying an economic revival under the Shah of Iran, who had arrogated god-like powers to himself and was revered or despised, depending on whose opinion you sought. The one sure fact of life was the Shah’s secret police. They were everywhere and free speech was not an option. Democracy, as it is understood in the West, was non-existent.
The Shah embodied the state and its legislation was his whim. Perhaps he was badly advised. People in the street were fearful of being overheard, for the least whisper of criticism could land them in prison.
Nevertheless businessmen from all over the world came to Tehran and hotels were continuously full to capacity, irrespective of the season. Trying to secure a room in a first-class hotel was a monumental task. More often than not, a reserved room would turn out to have been allocated to someone else, either through political influence or because of a hefty back-hander. Holding a confirmed reservation gave no guarantee whatsoever that you would succeed in occupying your room. All you could do was trust to providence that someone with more political clout than yours would not want your room on the same night.
Air flights to Tehran were similarly overbooked as a matter of routine. It was not unusual to find yourself unable to board an aircraft, even though you had a reservation in your hand. In other words, demand outstripped availability. These were all problems that I had to cope with as I became a regular visitor to Tehran.
Despite these difficulties, I grew fond of the people of Iran. I was well aware of how oppressive the authorities were during the last few years before the ousting of the Shah. One felt uncomfortably conscious that darker days were to follow. The rest is history. The majority of the people one encountered, however, were very hospitable and culturally had a great deal to offer to the whole region and beyond.
The Iranian experience was well worth the effort, and in many ways I have felt enriched by it. I was both fascinated and engrossed by the spectacle of the majesty of their heritage in every form: art, architectural splendour, literature, poetry, carpets and even culinary refinements. Their culture stands shoulder to shoulder with the best that Western society can provide.
(Further information about my Iranian experience is to be found in my book, In Touch with His Roots, which is readily available.)
The adage that the world, despite its gigantic size, is a small place where people are concerned, is not only true but manifests itself in various ways. For many years afterwards I was bereft of any Iranian connection. Then, following a chance meeting at a book launch, it was all revived.
This came about through a brief encounter with Maryam Sachs, a charming lady, an Iranian exile living in Paris and a consummate traveller, who gave me a copy of her first novel.
Sans Te Dire Adieu had recently been published in France, and she said she was looking for a British publisher. Since my primary education was in French, I promised to read the book and let her know what I thought.
The next day I literally devoured the book, totally won over by its elegance and sensitivity, and a story line that captivated the imagination and encapsulated the raw feeling of being an exile in a foreign country. It expressed no bitterness, yet showed perhaps a diffused sorrow and a barely concealed yearning for what was or might have been.
Quartet has published many original French novels in translation over the years, in line with its eclectic list. Some of these are still in print: Herve Guibert, Blindsight, Paradise and To the Friend Who Did Not Save My Life; Yves Navarre, Little Rogue in the Flesh, Our Share of Life and A Cat’s Life; Cyril Collard, Savage Nights; and Marcelle Lagesse, Isabelle.
It is an acknowledged fact, on the other hand, that most French novels, however skilfully translated, are like a good wine that does not travel well. Some of their impact seems so often to be lost.
Maryam’s book, now translated into English as Without Saying Goodbye, is a lyrical evocation of a forlorn love between two exiles that has lost none of its vibrancy in the transition. Its English text has proved to be the equal of the French original. Each edition has its own allure and each retains the spirit and thrust intended by the author.
Maryam Sachs has the gifts of a fine novelist, with an ability to seduce the most reluctant reader. No one with a literary interest can afford to pass over this little gem of a book, which to my mind offers the true currency of Christmas, for its worth cannot dwindle, even in the current recession, as the following extract illustrates:
I look at my hands, covered with blood, and his hands, the other passenger’s, this fine spring night: thin, bony, with nearly transparent skin. They too are stained with blood. I press my silk scarf to his wounds, wanting the softest of bandages for him, the finest veil, like a caress he might remember when he awakens. I am holding his wan face, with its closed eyes, in the crook of my arm. I have the overwhelming sensation of rocking a child and can think only of one thing: I must protect him. Like nearly all Middle Eastern women, I was born a mother and daughter at the same time, a child yet also a woman.
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