Jorge Luis Borges: El libro de la arena (The Book of Sand) / "Lejania" (From a distance) / The poisoner

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Tourists ride in the Valle de la Muerte in Chile’s Atacama Desert: photo by Tomas Munita for The New York Times, 6 January 2017



Tourists ride in the Valle de la Muerte in Chile’s Atacama Desert: photo by Tomas Munita for The New York Times, 6 January 2017

Jorge Luis Borges: El libro de la arena

...thy rope of sands... 

George Herbert (1593-1623)

La línea consta de un número infinito de puntos; el plano, de un número infinito de líneas; el volumen, de un número infinito de planos; el hipervolumen, de un número infinito de volúmenes... No, decididamente no es éste, more geométrico, el mejor modo de iniciar mi relato. Afirmar que es verídico es ahora una convención de todo relato fantástico; el mío, sin embargo, es verídico.

Yo vivo solo, en un cuarto piso de la calle Belgrano. Hará unos meses, al atardecer, oí un golpe en la puerta. Abrí y entró un desconocido. Era un hombre alto, de rasgos desdibujados. Acaso mi miopía los vio así. Todo su aspecto era de pobreza decente. Estaba de gris y traía una valija gris en la mano. En seguida sentí que era extranjero. Al principio lo creí viejo; luego advertí que me había engañado su escaso pelo rubio, casi blanco, a la manera escandinava. En el curso de nuestra conversación, que no duraría una hora, supe que procedía de las Orcadas.

Le señalé una silla. El hombre tardó un rato en hablar. Exhalaba melancolía, como yo ahora.

- Vendo biblias - me dijo.

No sin pedantería le contesté:

- En esta casa hay algunas biblias inglesas, incluso la primera, la de John Wiclif. Tengo asimismo la de Cipriano de Valera, la de Lutero, que literariamente es la peor, y un ejemplar latino de la Vulgata. Como usted ve, no son precisamente biblias lo que me falta.

Al cabo de un silencio me contestó:

- No sólo vendo biblias. Puedo mostrarle un libro sagrado que tal vez le interese. Lo adquirí en los confines de Bikanir.

Abrió la valija y lo dejó sobre la mesa. Era un volumen en octavo, encuadernado en tela. Sin duda había pasado por muchas manos. Lo examiné; su inusitado peso me sorprendió. En el lomo decía Holy Writ y abajo Bombay.

- Será del siglo diecinueve - observé.

- No sé. No lo he sabido nunca - fue la respuesta.

Lo abrí al azar. Los caracteres me eran extraños. Las páginas, que me parecieron gastadas y de pobre tipografía, estaban impresas a dos columnas a la manera de una biblia. El texto era apretado y estaba ordenado en versículos. En el ángulo superior de las páginas había cifras arábigas. Me llamó la atención que la página par llevara el número (digamos) 40.514 y la impar, la siguiente, 999. La volví; el dorso estaba numerado con ocho cifras. Llevaba una pequeña ilustración, como es de uso en los diccionarios: un ancla dibujada a la pluma, como por la torpe mano de un niño.

Fue entonces que el desconocido me dijo:

- Mírela bien. Ya no la verá nunca más.

Había una amenaza en la afirmación, pero no en la voz.

Me fijé en el lugar y cerré el volumen. Inmediatamente lo abrí. En vano busqué la figura del ancla, hoja tras hoja. Para ocultar mi desconcierto, le dije:

- Se trata de una versión de la Escritura en alguna lengua indostánica, ¿no es verdad?

- No - me replicó.

Luego bajó la voz como para confiarme un secreto:

- Lo adquirí en un pueblo de la llanura, a cambio de una rupias y de la Biblia. Su poseedor no sabía leer. Sospecho que en el Libro de los Libros vio un amuleto. Era de la casta más baja; la gente no podía pisar su sombra, sin contaminación. Me dijo que su libro se llamaba el Libro de Arena, porque ni el libro ni la arena tienen ni principio ni fin.

Me pidió que buscara la primera hoja.

Apoyé la mano izquierda sobre la portada y abrí con el dedo pulgar casi pegado al índice. Todo fue inútil: siempre se interponían varias hojas entre la portada y la mano. Era como si brotaran del libro.

- Ahora busque el final.

También fracasé; apenas logré balbucear con una voz que no era la mía:

- Esto no puede ser.

Siempre en voz baja el vendedor de biblias me dijo:

- No puede ser, pero es. El número de páginas de este libro es exactamente infinito. Ninguna es la primera; ninguna la última. No sé por qué están numeradas de ese modo arbitrario. Acaso para dar a entender que los términos de una serie infinita admiten cualquier número.

Después, como si pensara en voz alta:

- Si el espacio es infinito estamos en cualquier punto del espacio. Si el tiempo es infinito estamos en cualquier punto del tiempo.

Sus consideraciones me irritaron. Le pregunté:

- ¿Usted es religioso, sin duda?

- Sí, soy presbiteriano. Mi conciencia está clara. Estoy seguro de no haber estafado al nativo cuando le di la Palabra del Señor a trueque de su libro diabólico.

Le aseguré que nada tenía que reprocharse, y le pregunté si estaba de paso por estas tierras. Me respondió que dentro de unos días pensaba regresar a su patria. Fue entonces cuando supe que era escocés, de las islas Orcadas. Le dije que a Escocia yo la quería personalmente por el amor de Stevenson y de Hume.

- Y de Robbie Burns - corrigió.

Mientras hablábamos yo seguía explorando el libro infinito. Con falsa indiferencia le pregunté:

- ¿Usted se propone ofrecer este curioso espécimen al Museo Británico?

- No. Se lo ofrezco a usted - me replicó, y fijó una suma elevada.

Le respondí, con toda verdad, que esa suma era inaccesible para mí y me quedé pensando. Al cabo de unos pocos minutos había urdido mi plan.

- Le propongo un canje - le dije -. Usted obtuvo este volumen por unas rupias y por la Escritura Sagrada; yo le ofrezco el monto de mi jubilación, que acabo de cobrar, y la Biblia de Wiclif en letra gótica. La heredé de mis padres.

- A black letter Wiclif - murmuró.

Fui a mi dormitorio y le traje el dinero y el libro. Volvió las hojas y estudió la carátula con fervor de bibliófilo.

- Trato hecho - me dijo.

Me asombró que no regateara. Sólo después comprendería que había entrado en mi casa con la decisión de vender el libro. No contó los billetes, y los guardó.

Hablamos de la India, de las Orcadas y de los jarls noruegos que las rigieron. Era de noche cuando el hombre se fue. No he vuelto a verlo ni sé su nombre.

Pensé guardar el Libro de Arena en el hueco que había dejado el Wiclif, pero opté al fin por esconderlo detrás de unos volúmenes descabalados de Las Mil y Una Noches.

Me acosté y no dormí. A las tres o cuatro de la mañana prendí la luz. Busqué el libro imposible, y volví las hojas. En una de ellas vi grabada una máscara. El ángulo llevaba una cifra, ya no sé cual, elevada a la novena potencia.

No mostré a nadie mi tesoro. A la dicha de poseerlo se agregó el temor de que lo robaran, y después el recelo de que no fuera verdaderamente infinito. Esas dos inquietudes agravaron mi ya vieja misantropía. Me quedaban unos amigos; dejé de verlos. Prisionero del Libro, casi no me asomaba a la calle. Examiné con una lupa el gastado lomo y las tapas, y rechacé la posibilidad de algún artificio. Comprobé que las pequeñas ilustraciones distaban dos mil páginas una de otra. Las fui anotando en una libreta alfabética, que no tardé en llenar. Nunca se repitieron. De noche, en los escasos intervalos que me concedía el insomnio, soñaba con el libro.

Declinaba el verano, y comprendí que el libro era monstruoso. De nada me sirvió considerar que no menos monstruoso era yo, que lo percibía con ojos y lo palpaba con diez dedos con uñas. Sentí que era un objeto de pesadilla, una cosa obscena que infamaba y corrompía la realidad.

Pensé en el fuego, pero temí que la combustión de un libro infinito fuera parejamente infinita y sofocara de humo al planeta.

Recordé haber leído que el mejor lugar para ocultar una hoja es un bosque. Antes de jubilarme trabajaba en la Biblioteca Nacional, que guarda novecientos mil libros; sé que a mano derecha del vestíbulo una escalera curva se hunde en el sótano, donde están los periódicos y los mapas. Aproveché un descuido de los empleados para perder el Libro de Arena en uno de los húmedos anaqueles. Traté de no fijarme a qué altura ni a qué distancia de la puerta.

Siento un poco de alivio, pero no quiero ni pasar por la calle México.

FIN

 
Emirati men walk with their camels across the Liwa desert, some 250 kilometres west of the Gulf emirate of Abu Dhabi, during the Liwa 2017 Moreeb Dune Festival today: photo by Karim Sahib/AFP, 6 January 2017



Emirati men walk with their camels across the Liwa desert, some 250 kilometres west of the Gulf emirate of Abu Dhabi, during the Liwa 2017 Moreeb Dune Festival today: photo by Karim Sahib/AFP, 6 January 2017

UAE - Emirati men walk with their camels across the Liwa desert, during the Liwa Moreeb Dune Festival on January 6 #AFP photo by Karim Sahib: image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 6 January 2017

UAE - Jockeys compete in a race for purebred Arab horses at the Liwa 2017 Moreeb Dune Festival in the Liwa desert. By Karim Sahib #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 3 January 2017

Jorge Luis Borges: The Book of Sand

…thy rope of sands…

George Herbert (1593-1623)

Lines consist of an infinite number of points; planes an infinite number of lines; volumes an infinite number of planes, hypervolumes an infinite number of volumes… No, this, this more geometrico, is definitely not the best way to begin my tale. Affirming a fantastic tale’s truth is now a story-telling convention; mine, though, is true.

 

I live alone, in a fourth-floor apartment on Calle Belgrano. One evening a few months ago, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it and in walked someone I had never met before. He was a tall man, of indistinct features. My myopia perhaps made me see him that way. Everything about him spoke of an honest poverty. He was dressed in grey and carried a grey valise. I sensed immediately that he was a foreigner. At first I thought him an old man; later I noticed that what misled me was his sparse hair, an almost-white blond, like a Scandinavian’s. Over the course of our conversation, which would last no longer than an hour, I learnt that he hailed from the Orkneys.

 

I showed him his seat. The man paused a moment before speaking. He exuded a melancholy air, as do I now.

 

“I sell Bibles,” he told me.

 

Not without pedantry I responded:

 

“In this house there are several English Bibles, including John Wyclif’s, the first of all. I also have Cypriano de Valera’s, Luther’s — which, as a piece of literature, is the worst of the lot — and a copy of the Vulgate in Latin. As you can see, it’s not Bibles I have a need for.”

 

After a brief silence he responded:

 

“I don’t sell only Bibles. I can show you a sacred book that might interest you. I aquired it in the outskirts of Bikanir.”

 

He opened his valise and placed the book on the table. It was a clothbound octavo volume which had undoubtedly passed through many hands. I examined the book; its unexpected heft surprised me. On the spine was printed Holy Writ and below that Bombay.

 

“From the nineteenth century I’d hazard,” I observed.

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never known,” was the response.

 

I opened it at random. The characters were unfamiliar. The pages, which appeared to me worn and of poor typographic quality, were printed in two columns like a Bible. The text was cramped and arranged in versicles. In the upper corner of each page were Arabic numerals. It caught my attention that the even-numbered page bore, let’s say, the number 40,514 and the odd-numbered page that followed 999. I turned the page; the overleaf bore an eight-digit number. Also printed was a small illustration, like those in dictionaries: an anchor drawn in pen and ink, as though by a child’s unskilled hand.

 

It was then that the stranger told me:

 

“Study the page well. You will never see it again.”

 

There was a threat in what he said, but not in his voice.

 

I took note of the page and shut the volume. I reopened it immediately.

 

In vain I searched for the figure of the anchor, page after page. To hide my discomfort, I said to him:

 

“This is a version of the Scripture in some Hindustani language, right?”

 

“No,” he replied.

 

Then he lowered his voice as if entrusting me with a secret:

 

“I acquired the book in a small town on the plains for a few rupees and a Bible. Its owner didn’t know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as an amulet. He was of the lowest caste; people couldn’t step on his shadow without contamination. He told me that his book is called the Book of Sand because neither the book nor sand possess a beginning or an end.”

 

He suggested I try finding the first page.

 

I placed my left hand on the cover and opened the book with my thumb and forefinger almost touching. All my efforts were useless: several pages always lay between the cover and my hand. It was as though the pages sprouted from within the book.

 

“Now search for the last page.”

 

Again I failed; I only managed to stammer in a voice not my own:

 

“This cannot be.”

 

Always in a low voice, the Bible seller said:

 

“It cannot be, yet it is. The number of pages in this book is exactly infinite. No page is the first; none the last. I don’t know why they’re numbered in this arbitrary way. Perhaps it’s to demonstrate that the terms of an infinite series include any number.”

 

Later, as if he were thinking aloud:

 

“If space is infinite, we are in no particular point in space. If time is infinite, we are in no particular point in time.”

 

 His musings irritated me. I asked him:

 

“You’re a religious man, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, I’m Presbyterian. My conscience is clear. I’m sure I didn’t cheat the native when I gave him the Lord’s Word in exchange for his diabolical book.”

 

I assured him that he had no reason to reproach himself, and I asked him if he was just passing through these lands. He replied that he was thinking of returning to his homeland in a few days. It was then that I learnt he was Scotch, from the Orkney Isles. I told him that I had a special affection for Scotland because of my love of Stevenson and Hume.

 

“And of Robbie Burns,” he corrected.

 

While we spoke, I continued exploring the infinite book. With a false indifference I asked him:

 

“Do you intend to offer this curious specimen to the British Museum?”

 

“No. I offer it to you,” he said, and offered a high price.

 

I replied, in all honesty, that the price was too high for me and I remained in thought. After a few minutes I had come up with a plan.

 

“I propose a trade,” I said. “You obtained this volume for a few rupees and the Holy Scripture; I offer you my retirement funds, which I’ve just been paid, and the Wyclif Bible in gothic lettering. I inherited it from my parents.”

 

“A black-letter Wyclif!” he murmured.

 

I went to my bedroom and I brought back the money and book. He turned the pages and studied the binding with the fervour of a bibliophile.

 

“It’s a deal,” he said.

 

I was astonished that he did not haggle. Only afterwards did I realise that he had entered my house with the intention of selling the book. He didn’t count the bills; he put them away.

 

We chatted about India, the Orkneys and the Norwegian jarls who had governed them. Night had fallen by the time he had left. I never saw him again, nor do I know his name.

I thought of keeping the Book of Sand in the space left behind by the Wyclif Bible’s absence. In the end I opted to hide it behind several misshapen volumes of Thousand and One Nights.

 

I went to bed and could not sleep. At around three or four in the morning I turned on the light. I searched for the impossible book and turned its pages. In one of them I saw printed a mask. In the corner the page bore a number — I don’t remember which anymore — that was raised to the ninth power.

 

I showed my treasure to no one. Against the joy of possessing the book grew the fear that it would be stolen, and later the suspicion that it was not truly infinite. Both these worries aggravated my already long-standing misanthropy.

 

I had few friends still alive; I stopped seeing them. Prisoner of the Book, I almost never left the house. I examined the worn spine and cover with a magnifying glass, and I discounted the possibility of some kind of artifice. I found that the small illustrations were spaced two thousand pages apart from one to the other. I noted them down in a small alphabetised notebook, which did not take long to fill. They never repeated. At night, in the scarce intervals insomnia withdrew its hold over, I dreamed of the book.

 

Summer was coming to an end and I realised that the book was monstrous. There was no consolation in the thought that no less monstrous was I, who perceived the book with eyes and touched it with ten nailed fingers. I felt the book to be a nightmarish object, something obscene that slanders and compromises reality.

 

I thought of fire, but I feared that the burning of an infinite book would be just as infinite and suffocate the planet with smoke.

 

I remember having read that the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest. Before retiring I worked in the National Library, which housed nine-hundred thousand books; I know that to the right of the lobby a curved staircase descends to the basement, where the newspapers and maps are stored. I took advantage of the librarians’ inattentiveness for a moment to lose the Book of Sand in one of the humid shelves. I tried not to notice how high or how far from the door.

 

I feel somewhat relieved now, but I do avoid even passing by Mexico Street.^*

^*The National Library of Argentina is found on Mexico Street (calle México) in Buenos Aires (translator's note)

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986): El libro de la arena / The Book of Sand, from El libro de la arena (1975); English version by Antonios

A member of the Iraqi security forces holds a flower on Wednesday during a lull in fighting Islamic State militants in Mosul, Iraq: photo by Thaier Al-Sudani/Reuters, 4 January 2017

 

A member of the Iraqi security forces holds a flower on Wednesday during a lull in fighting Islamic State militants in Mosul, Iraq: photo by Thaier Al-Sudani/Reuters, 4 January 2017

 

Smoke and flames from the Qaiyara oilfields near Mosul, set afire by Islamic State militants and part of a patchwork of battlegrounds in Iraq's second-largest city: photo by Tyler Hicks/The New York Times, 6 January 2017



Smoke and flames from the Qaiyara oilfields near Mosul, set afire by Islamic State militants and part of a patchwork of battlegrounds in Iraq's second-largest city: photo by Tyler Hicks/The New York Times, 6 January 2017
 

Migrants watch as dozens of fires burn huts and makeshift shops at the camp known as the Jungle in Calais, northern France: photo by Mauricio Lima for The New York Times, 26 October 2016



Migrants watch as dozens of fires burn huts and makeshift shops at the camp known as the Jungle in Calais, northern France: photo by Mauricio Lima for The New York Times, 26 October 2016

 

Waiting along the road to Santiago de Cuba for Fidel Castro’s caravan at dawn: photo by Tomas Munita for The New York Times, 3 December 2016

Waiting along the road to Santiago de Cuba for Fidel Castro’s caravan at dawn: photo by Tomas Munita for The New York Times, 3 December 2016

"Lejania" (From a distance)

India - A Kashmiri man rows a boat during heavy snowfall on Dal Lake in Srinagar on January 6. #AFP Photo by @TauseefMUSTAFA: image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017

And what do we know of this man who rows?

Toward what does he row?

@AureliaBAILLY @TauseefMUSTAFA Et que sait-on de cet homme qui rame? Vers-ou rame-t-il?: tweet via Matthieu Bellinghen @matthieubell, 7 January 2017

India - A Kashmiri man rows a boat during heavy snowfall on Dal Lake in Srinagar on January 6. #AFP Photo by @TauseefMUSTAFA: image via 

Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017

 The consciousness of the chorus
is limited. They comment

on the action from a distance

of limited awareness.

Today's version of Nero fiddling #smog #Fuyang #China @ChinaDailyAsia @reuterspictures: image via Reading The Pictures @ReadingThePix, 4 January 2017

 

The wind stripped bits

of bleached bone on the beach

bespeak
a silent spring

Hazy meets swampy. Photo @billclarkphotos #instagram #115thCongress begins: image via Reading The Pictures @ReadingThePix, 4 January 2017

It's raining up here in the "Banana Belt" a little microclimate on the 395 at 120. @tonybarboza: image via Brian van der Brug @bvdbrug, 7 January 2017

SYRIA - White Helmets search for survivors amid the rubble of a building following an air strike on Maaret al-Numan. By Mohamed al-Bakour: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

SYRIA - A boy stands outside a shop in the rebel-held town of Douma, on the eastern outskirts of the capital Damascus. By @AbdDoumany #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

SYRIA - An elderly man prays outside his house in the rebel-held town of Douma on eastern outskirts of the capital Damascus. By @AbdDoumany #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

SYRIA - A boy takes a picture of his 13-year-old friend killed when a cluster bomb exploded in his backyard at morgue in Douma. By @AbdDoumany #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

Syria - Picture showing destroyed buildings in the rebel-held town of Douma, on the eastern outskirts of Damascus. #AFP Photo by @AbdDoumany: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017
 

Syria - Picture showing destroyed buildings in the rebel-held town of Douma, on the eastern outskirts of Damascus. #AFP Photo by @AbdDoumany: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017

AFGHANISTAN - Afghan youths play cricket in a field on the outskirts of Kabul. By @kohsar #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

AFGHANISTAN - A corn vendor waits for the customers at his roadside stall on the outskirts of Kabul. By @kohsar #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

TURKEY - A woman waits next to a booth on Istiklal avenue during snowfalls in Istanbul. By @yasinnakgul #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

Turkey - People walk under the snow at Eyup district in Istanbul on January 6. #AFP Photo by @ozannkosee: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017

 

TURKEY - A stray cat stays under the snow at Eyup district in Istanbul. By @ozannkosee: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 7 January 2017 

TURKEY - People walk under the snow at Eyup district in Istanbul. By @ozannkosee: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 6 January 2017
 

TURKEY - People walk under the snow at Eyup district in Istanbul. By @ozannkosee: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 6 January 2017
 

TURKEY - People walk under the snow at Eyup district in Istanbul. By @ozannkosee: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 6 January 2017

BETHLEHEM - A Palestinian scout stands next to a shop near the Church of the Nativity. By @hazemjbader1 #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

 

ROMANIA - Men take part in a horse race in the village of Pietrosani. By @bubulator2 #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017
   

BULGARIA - Men dance in icy winter waters in Kalofer as part of the Epiphany Day celebrations. By Nikolay Doychinov #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 6 January 2017

 
INDIA - A Kashmiri woman rows her boat during heavy snowfall on Dal Lake in Srinagar. By @TauseefMUSTAFA #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 6 January 2017

 Crooked Creek shack. A break in the weather as series of storms will resume dumping snow in the Sierra @LouisSahagun: image via Brian van der Brug @bvdbrug, 6 January 2017

 MALAYSIA - A boy travels through floodwaters in an improvised raft he made in Jal Besar. By @rasfan #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 6 January 2017

COSTA RICA - A view of ash spewed out by the Turrialba volcano in Cartago, 35 km east of San Jose. By Ezequiel Becerra #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 7 January 2017

Costa Rica - A tourist looks at the ash spewed out by the Turrialba volcano in Cartago on January 6 #AFP photo by Ezequiel Becerra: image via image via Aurelia BAILLY @AureliaBAILLY, 6 January 2017 

 The poisoner: "A little scandal, maybe”

Israeli diplomat Shai Masot is filmed in a Kensington restaurant during an undercover investigation of a covert influence campaign in Britain. In a series to air beginning 15 January Al Jazeera reveals discussions of Israel diplomat and British civil servant plotting to 'take down' anti-settlement politicians.: photo via Al Jazera, 7 January 2017

Israeli diplomat caught on camera plotting to 'take down' UK MPs: Shai Masot is recorded discussing how to discredit MPs in comments described by Israeli embassy as ‘unacceptable’: Ian Cobain and Ewen MacAskill, The Guardian, Saturday 7 January 2017

An Israeli embassy official has been caught on camera in an undercover sting plotting to “take down” MPs regarded as hostile, including foreign office minister Sir Alan Duncan, an outspoken supporter of a Palestinian state.

In an extraordinary breach of diplomatic protocol, Shai Masot, who describes himself as an officer in the Israel Defence Forces and is serving as a senior political officer at the London embassy, was recorded by an ­undercover reporter from al-Jazeera’s investigative unit speaking about a number of British MPs.

The Israeli ambassador, Mark Regev, apologised to Duncan on Friday. An Israeli spokesman said Regev made clear that “the embassy considered the remarks completely ­unacceptable”.

The Israeli embassy said Masot “will be ending his term of employment with the embassy shortly”. 

Masot declined to comment or to elaborate on what he meant when he said he wanted to “take down” a number of MPs.

Masot had been speaking to Maria Strizzolo, a civil servant who was formerly an aide to another Conservative minister. Also present was a man they knew as Robin, whom they believed to be working for Labour Friends of Israel, a pressure group. In fact, Robin was an undercover reporter.

Strizzolo, discussing with Masot how to discredit MPs, said: “Well, you know, if you look hard enough, I’m sure that there is something that they’re trying to hide.” Later she added: “A little scandal, maybe.”

During the conversation, in October, Strizzolo boasted that she had helped to secure a promotion for her boss, the Conservative MP Robert Halfon. She had been his chief of staff when he was deputy chair of the Conservative party. Last year Halfon was appointed as an education minister and Strizzolo was appointed as a senior manager at the Skills Funding Agency. She continues to work part-time for Halfon.

In the footage, Masot agreed that Strizzolo had assisted Halfon and then asked whether she could also achieve the opposite effect. “Can I give you some MPs that I would suggest you would take down?” he asked. He went on to say that she knew which MPs he was referring to.

She asked him to remind her. “The deputy foreign minister,” he said. Strizzolo said: “You still want to go for it?” Masot’s reply is ambiguous but he said Duncan was still causing problems. Strizzolo asked: “I thought we had, you know, neutralised him just a little bit, no?” Masot answered: “No.”Masot did not elaborate on what he meant by “take down”, but it is normally used as meaning to engineer a downfall, possibly through discrediting them in some way.

The conversation then turned to the foreign secretary, Boris Johnson. Strizzolo said he was solid on Israel. Masot agreed, adding that Johnson just did not care. “You know he is an idiot …” Masot said.

Strizzolo returned to the subject of Duncan later in the conversation, suggesting he had had a run-in with Halfon in the past and that Halfon had reported Duncan to the whips. So never say never, she added. Masot replied: “Never say never, yeah, but …” Strizzolo said: “A little scandal, maybe.”

Sir Alan Duncan criticised Israeli settlement construction in 2014 and compared the situation in one West Bank city to 'apartheid': photo via The Independent, 7 January 2017

Other prominent Conservatives named during the conversation include Crispin Blunt, chair of the Commons foreign affairs select committee, who is also a vocal supporter of the Palestinians.

Blunt said: “Whilst this apparent activity of a diplomat of a foreign state in the politics of the United Kingdom is formally outrageous and deserving of investigation, the real questions should be for the state of Israel itself. Israel’s future peace and security is not being served by ignoring the substantial peace lobby in both Israel and the world wide Jewish community and working to undermine those foreign politicians who share that perspective”

In another conversation, Masot agreed that Blunt was among MPs that were “strongly pro-Arab rather than pro-Israel”. Strizzolo referred to him being on a “hitlist”.

UK ministers are understood to regard such plot talks as a matter of serious concern, crossing the line beyond normal diplomatic activity. Duncan declined to comment.

Although the Israeli embassy insists Masot was a junior embassy official and not a diplomat, his business card describes him as “a senior political officer” and his LinkedIn page lists him as having worked for the embassy since November 2014. He describes his work as being the chief point of contact between the embassy and MPs and liaising with ministers and officials at the Foreign Office.

He also describes himself as having been a major in the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) between 2004 and 2011 – serving part of that time on a patrol boat off Gaza – and still employed by the IDF as deputy head of the international organisations sector.

The disclosures comes at a sensitive moment, just over a week after Theresa May put  herself at odds with the Obama administration by expressing strong support for Israel in a row over the expansion of illegal settlements in the West Bank.

The sting operation, which began in June and ran through to November last year, recorded conversations on a number of occasions that include a wide range of pro-Israeli activists as well as British politicians and Israeli embassy staff.

The recordings form the basis of four half-hour documentaries that al-Jazeera is to broadcast from 15 January.

Strizzolo sought to play down what had been discussed. Asked a series of questions by the Guardian, she issued a statement that said: “The implications the Guardian is seeking to draw from a few out-of-context snippets of a conversation, obtained by subterfuge, over a social dinner are absurd.

“The context of the conversation was light, tongue-in-cheek and gossipy. Any suggestion that I, as a civil servant working in education, could ever exert the type of influence you are suggesting is risible. Shai Masot is someone I know purely socially and as a friend. He is not someone with whom I have ever worked or had any political dealings beyond chatting about politics, as millions of people do, in a social context.”

A Foreign Office spokesman said: “The Israeli ambassador has apologised and is clear these comments do not reflect the views of the embassy or government of Israel. The UK has a strong relationship with Israel and we consider the matter closed.”

  

Diplomat Shai Masot, on the right of this picture taken at the Labour conference with Israeli ambassador Mark Regev, says he ‘takes care of political issues’: photo via The Mail On Sunday, 7 January 2017

 
Now, given that Masot said he worked for the Ministry of Strategic Affairs, who remembers this story?: image via Ben White @benabyad, 7 January 2017

Ben White Retweeted Yiftah Curiel 

Yiftah Curiel @yiftahc

PRESS RELEASE @IsraelinUK and @foreignoffice comments regarding remarks made by embassy employee

Ben White added,

I see that @AmbMarkRegev has already apologised, acc. to this statement released by @IsraelinUK @yiftahc: image via Ben White @benabyad, 7 January 2017

While @IsraelinUK @yiftahc call Shai Masot a "junior embassy employee", he was "senior political officer" - see this recent event info: image via Ben White @benabyad, 7 January 2017

The story is also covered in the Mail on Sunday: image via Ben White @benabyad, 7 January 2017

Edited transcript of meeting between Shai Masot (M), senior political officer, Israeli Embassy, London, Maria Strizzolo (S), leading pro-Israel Tory activist and an aide to Conservative Minister Robert Halfon, and an undercover reporter (R).

M: Can I give you names of MPs I suggest you take down?

S: If you look hard enough I’m sure there’s something they’re trying to hide.

M: Yeah. I have some MPs.

S: Let’s talk about it.

R: Yeah.

M: She knows which MPs I want to take down.

S: Yeah, it’s good to remind me.

M: The Deputy Foreign Minister [Duncan].

S: You still want to go for it?

M: ...He’s doing a lot of problems. 

S: Really?

M: Really. It sounds like a conspiracy.

S: I thought you had neutralised it a little bit?

M: No. Boris. He’s basically good.

S: He’s solid on Israel.

M: Yeah. He just doesn’t care. He is an idiot but has become Minister of Foreign Affairs without any responsibilities. If something real happened it won’t be his fault... it will be Alan Duncan.

Duncan is impossible to rebuff... he has a lot of friends.

S: Years ago, Rob [Halfon] was asking questions in Parliament about terrorist salaries...

M: When he [Duncan] was a DFID minister?

S: Yeah. He [Duncan] told him [Halfon]: if you don’t stop this I’m going to destroy you and all of that s***.  Rob told the Whips and they told him to calm down. So never say never.

M: Never say never, yeah but...

S: A little scandal maybe? Don’t tell anyone about this meeting.

M: Who would we tell?

M: Crispin Blunt [chairman of Commons Foreign Affairs committee]. Those are people you...

S: ...On the hit list? Yeah!

M. I don’t have any problems with them.

S: Some super pro-Arabist [Tory MPs]… I can’t stand [them], They’re horrible people - the two go together.

M: Yeah

via The Mail On Sunday, 7 January 2017

Israeli embassy official Shai Masot discussing 'taking down' pro-Palestinian MPs at a restaurant in London in October: photo by Al Jazeera via The Independent, 7 January 2017