43 pages • 1 hour read
The Berlin Wall features in the first, last, and near-exact middle chapter of the novel. Although it only divides one city, it represents the stark divide between the Western and Communist countries, and to pass from one side to another is tantamount to entering a different world. The checkpoint is also an incongruous mixture of crowdedness and isolation. It is a busy place, with a cacophony of voices speaking in different languages, and yet it is also imposing and inhospitable. The safety and calm of darkness can instantly transform into the peril of the spotlight. While John le Carré avoids any explicit judgment on the merits of the two systems, the world west of the Wall is far more populated with crowded offices and city streets, restaurants, and hotels. The world east of the Wall is far more confined, with small rooms and empty town halls, where relief comes in walking with nature rather than society. The juxtaposition offers an ironic contrast to the purported ideologies of the two sides. The individualistic West is a noisy and crowded place that swallows up the individual, and the collectivist East is able to isolate the individual and subject them to the unchallengeable power of the state.
Mundt is first introduced through a photograph on a dossier, and when Leamas and Mundt finally comes face to face, Leamas recognizes him right away because of “the eyes. Smiley had told him about them” (173). The eyes are often described as the window to the soul, and in Mundt’s case they speak to the total absence of an inner life. They are at the center of a face possessed of a “frightening directness; it was barren of humor or fantasy” (176). He does not speak at the tribunal, instead watching the proceedings with an eerie calm, even as the loquacious Fiedler denounces him in terms that are as damning as they are true. It becomes clear that Mundt is predator who has fixed his prey, and can defer his own movements until the very last second because he anticipates when and how the prey will step into the point of maximum vulnerability. Once the tribunal is over, one look at Mundt’s eyes is enough for Leamas to understand “the whole ghastly trick” (231), because they convey the full depth of his malice and his utter certainty regarding the strength of his own position.
In retrospect, the code name of Leamas’s handler is perfectly on the nose, as he really is controlling every step of the novel’s plot. The initial impression of Control contrasts strongly with his name: He is described as a milquetoast with a “shabby brown” cardigan made by his wife, whom Leamas regards as a “stupid little woman” (21). His constant questioning of whether Leamas has had enough strongly suggests that he himself has had enough, and he describes the perilous mission of defeating Mundt in vague, halting terms. Once Leamas is in the field, the voice of Control periodically comes in as a mentor, providing Leamas with assurance at points of stress or doubt. Given the extent of Leamas’s transformation, Control’s voice also serves as a reminder that Leamas is indeed putting on a role, albeit a highly convincing one. Control’s voice reminds Leamas that interrogations are supposed to be combative, that “they want to deduce in spite of you” (107), and are thus more likely to believe in information they think they have extracted from Leamas against his will. As Leamas goes even deeper behind the Iron Curtain, Control’s voice deserts him, and Leamas can only trust that Control had everything planned out. Leamas is right, but he lacks Control’s direct or indirect guidance because he has reached a phase of the plan beyond his own knowledge. Ultimately Control is less of a character than a human manifestation of the idea itself.
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By John le Carré