It was a quaint and unsuspecting Sunday evening, the perfect time for an infiltration. Never in a million years did a halfbreed from across the world think he could find himself inside an institution built for London’s old money, a place that once ruled the world through night and day (after all, the sun never sets on the British empire). My father had grown up poor, and not just poor, but poor poor. The idea of his childhood home lacking running water and brandishing an outhouse out back felt worlds away from the silver and gold ornamented bathrooms of the Royal Automobile Club (RAC) – because it was.
Yet here I sat on a windy Sunday drinking an £8 pint in the terrace of a club where international deal-making regularly takes place. To say I “infiltrated” the RAC doesn't do it justice. It wasn't a break in, it was quiet, calculated. Hell, I even bought a brand new pair of leather shoes just to fit the part. But, rightfully so… Here, it would appear that even the pigeons remained on their best behavior in the presence of such nobility. Aggressive? No. Anxious? Yes. Restless? Surely. But just as this whole city works, they knew their place. Patiently they waited atop fresh trimmed bushes, never stepping out of line, never daring to interrupt. Silently, orderly they awaited their chance to pick at what scraps remained on the plates once the aristocrats had finished their lavish meals and retired back into the safety of the club. Once the chance presented itself they sprung like the wild animals they were conditioned to be, vigorously pecking at the crumbs; vigorously slurping the spilled wine up off of the cobblestone streets. Dickens exemplified this hierarchy in his novel A Tale of Two Cities, it was seemingly how this city, his society at large, functioned.
“In the city they say you’re never more than 6 feet away from a rat – I argue this rings more true for pigeons, for I rarely see a pigeon that can’t scale a wall. After all, in London you’re never more than six feet from a pigeon, no matter how large your trust fund is. ”
In reality pigeons have no concern for walls, and that should make sense; for these are walls you can’t touch. They are non-existent. They are made of manners, accents, and designer shoes. Physical? No. Rigid? Yes. Enforced? Surely. They are simultaneously there and not there, simultaneously infiltratable and not. The RAC felt like a contemporary projection of Telson’s bank: archaic in its style of clinging to a long gone system and pre-established order. Indeed it did feel “very small, very dark, and very ugly,” morally at least. A place frozen in time, an echo of an outdated caste system that is more concerned about the familiarity of your last name, the color of your skin, and, of course, the amount of commas in your bank account. Sadly, as mentioned, this order wasn't established or even particularly exclusive to the RAC. No, it was expansive across the city, a city built of borders that appear as walls. This was the sick genius behind London’s ancient order, their ability to mask the hierarchy behind politeness. Courteous enough to not bar anyone from entering these places, but firm enough to ensure you know you will never get in. Borders are something that are meant to be crossed — walls are not.
In his book Dickens highlights a pure-hearted French aristocrat as a protagonist. Darney – a man from exorbitant wealth that willingly and purposefully rejects this established order. He goes out of his way to shed anything that associated him with this system of privilege; his title, his family, even his last name. He chooses to infiltrate the working class looking for meaning in the pure and mundane. He wishes to earn what he has, and to be judged by his character, not his last name. I have this noble image of him in my head, taking one last stoic look back as he stands atop that strong wall, before finally throwing his rope down the other side and beginning his descent.
Meanwhile, while he infiltrates the working class, I am still on my mission to see what's on the other side of that wall as well. I've spent my life scaling that wall that Darney so wilfully repels down. After all, I knew the RAC didn't have anything so important that it would change my life. Did I need entry? No. Did I want it? Yes. Was I going to get it? Surely. In reality I hate fancy cigars and old whiskey (cheap tequilla and barefoot on a beach is more than enough for me). I wasn't scaling this wall for the power, or the money, or the prestige. I was scaling it to prove that it could be done – to see how it would seemingly dissolve once I reached the top. It takes a lifetime to build a ladder strong enough to reach the top of that wall, but it only takes a simple rope to descend it, to descend back into the ordinary. So as it would happen, on my way up that wall I pass Darney. Him descending his rope, me scaling my ladder. We lock eyes, exchange a silent nod, and then proceed in our directions respectfully. The kind of nod that says everything while saying nothing, the kind that says “I have to do this for reasons only I understand.” The same kind of nod I gave the concierge at the RAC on my way in. The only kind of nod that can simultaneously and wholeheartedly tell the tale of two cities.
As I gulped down the last swig of my pint I felt metaphorically distant from the well behaved pigeons that surrounded me. I was no pigeon. I was a Bedford Place fox. Quiet, calculated, persistent. Foxes don't beg for scraps – they come in the dead of night, memorize the land, the cracks in the walls, and return on their own terms. Patiently they await their chance at their target – sometimes prey, sometimes not. Skillfully they acquire what they want, even if it means going places they are not supposed to be.
A Belford Street fox I encountered on the stroll home.
And, perhaps, the real rats were – are – the aristocrats. The ones dining on the lavish meals. I recall, from my days in the corps, an old military flash tattoo inscribed with the words “Rats get fat while brave men die.” Luckily, when the time of reckoning finally comes, just as it does in the novel, the fattest rats are the easiest for the foxes to catch. I think Madame Defage would certainly agree.