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It is one of the world’s most recognized phrased, one you might even hear in places where little English is spoken: "The name’s Bond, James Bond". I’ve heard it from a taxi driver in Ghana and a street sweeper in Paris, and I remember the thrill of hearing Sean Connery say it in the first Bond film I saw, Gold Finger. I was a Chicago schoolgirl when it was released in 1904. The image of a candy-coloured London filled with witty people stately old buildings and a gorgeous, ice-cool hero instilled in me a deep-rooted belief that Britain was OK. When Fan Fleming created the man with the license to kill, based on his own experiences while working for the British secret service in World War II, he couldn’t have imagined that his fictional Englishman would not only shake, but stir the entire world. Even world-weary actors are thrilled at being in a Bond movie. Christopher Walkon, everyone’s favorite screen psycho, who played mad genius Max Zorin in 1985’s A View to a Kill, gushed: "I remember first seeing DJ’No when I was 15. I remember Robert Shaw trying to strangle James Bond in from Russia with love. And now here I am trying to kill James Bond myself." Bond is the complete entertainment package: he has hot and cold running women on tap dastardly villains bent on complete world domination, and America always plays second string to cool, sophisticated Britain. Bond’s England only really existed in the adventures of Bulldog Drummond, the wartime speeches of Winston Churchill and the songs of Dame Vera Lynn. When Fleming started to write his spy stories, the world knew that, while Britain was victorious in the war against Hitler, it was depleted as a result. London was bombed out, a dark and grubby place, while America was now the only place to be. It was America that was producing such universal icons as Gary Cooper’s cowboy in High Noon ("A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do"); the one-man music revolution that was Elvis Presley: Marilyn Monroe, the walking, talking male fantasy married to Joe DiMaggio, then the most famous athlete in the world. Against this reality, Fleming had the nerve and arrogance to say that, while hot dogs and popcorn were fine, other things were more important. And those things were uniquely British: quiet competence, unsentimental ruthlessness, clear-eyed, steely determination, an ironic sense of humour and doing a job well. All qualities epitomized by James Bond. Of course, Bond was always more fairytale than fact, but what else is a film for No expense is spared in production, the lead is suave and handsome, and the hardware is always awesome. In the latest film, the gadgets include a surfboard with concealed weapons, a combat knife with global positioning system beacon, a watch that doubles as a laser-beam cutter, an Aston Martin VI2 Vanquish with all the optional extras you’ve come to expect, a personal jet glider.., the list is endless. There are those who are disgusted by the Bond films unbridled glorification of the evils of sexism, racism, ageism and extreme violence, but it’s never that simple. Which of the following is not typical of James Bond
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For my proposed journey, the first priority was clearly to start learning Arabic. I have never been a linguist. Though I had traveled widely as a journalist, I had never managed to pick up more than a smattering of phrases in any tongue other than French, and even my French was laborious for want of lengthy practice. The prospect of tackling one of the notoriously difficult languages at the age of forty, and trying to speak it well, both deterred and excited me. It was perhaps expecting a little too much of a curiously unreceptive part of myself, yet the possibility that I might gain access to a completely alien culture and tradition by this means was enormously pleasing. I enrolled as pupil in a small school in the center of the city. It was run by Mr. Beheit, of dapper appearance and explosive temperament, who assured me that after three months of his special treatment I would speak Arabic fluently. Whereupon he drew from his desk a postcard which an old pupil has sent him from somewhere in the Middle East, expressing great gratitude and reporting the astonishment of local Arabs that he could converse with them like a native. It was written in English. Mr. Beheit himself spent most of his time coaching businessmen in French, and through the thin, partitioned walls of his school one could hear him bellowing in exasperation at some confuse entrepreneur: "Non. M. Jones. le ne suis pas francais. Pas, Pas, Pas." (No Mr. Jones, I’m not, not, NOT). I was gratified that my own tutor, whose name was Ahmed, was infinitely softer and less public in his approach. For a couple of hours every morning we would face each other across a small table, while we discussed in meticulous detail the colour scheme of the tiny cubicle, the events in the street below and, once a week, the hair-raising progress of a window-cleaner across the wall of the building opposite. In between, bearing in mind the particular interest I had in acquiring Arabic, I would inquire the way to some imaginary oasis, anxiously demand fodder and water for my camels, wonder politely whether the sheikh was prepared to grant me audience now. It was all hard going. I frequently despaired of ever becoming anything like a fluent speaker, though Ahmed assured me that my pronunciation was above average for a Westerner. This, I suspected, was partly flattery, for there are a couple of Arabic sounds which not even a gift for mimicry allowed me to grasp for ages. There were, moreover, vast distinctions of meaning conveyed by subtle sound shifts rarely employed in English. And for me the problem was increased by the need to assimilate a vocabulary, that would vary from place to place across five essentially Arabic-speaking countries that practiced vernaculars of their own: so that the word for "people", for instance, might be "nais", "sahab" or "sooken". Each day I was mentally exhausted by the strain of a morning in school, followed by an afternoon struggling at home with a tape recorder. Yet there was relief in the most elementary forms of understanding and progress. When I merely got the drift of a torrent which Ahmed had just release, I was childishly clated. When I managed to roll a complete sentence off my tongue without apparently thinking what I was saying, and it came out right. I beamed like an idiot. And the enjoyment of reading and writing the flowing Arabic script was something that did not leave me once I had mastered it. By the end of June, noone could have described me as anything like a fluent speaker of Arabic. I was approximately in the position of a fifteen-year old who, equipped with a modicum of schoolroom French, nervously awaits his first trip to Paris. But this was something I could reprove upon in my own time. I bade farewell to Mr. Beheit, still struggling to drive the French negative into the still confused mind of Mr. Jones. It can be inferred from the passage that Ahmed was ______.
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