by Ursula Bloom
‘Why do they always spoil it all by those boots?’ asked Hugo as he and Isolde went to a table.
‘It comes of living amongst the mountains, and that is why they walk that particular way, galump, galump, galump. Flat and square, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to climb.’
‘I’m glad you don’t climb.’
‘I’d love it, but have no head for heights. I turn dizzy if I get on to a chair; that wouldn’t see me far.’
A small, round-faced man, enormously fat and moist, ushered them pompously to a table. He greeted them as an old friend, with disarming enthusiasm; his name, it seemed, was Ferdinand, and everybody knew him. He was over attentive. ‘Flowers for Madame, a souvenir. The best wine. Only the best wine,’ said Ferdinand, and bustled off again having sighted Americans coming in, and if English people were jam, Americans were honey to his appetite.
‘It’s all amusing,’ said Isolde, settling herself down to the table. ‘So amusing.’
Three waiters twittered expectantly towards Hugo, and a girl, young, very gay, came up proffering a tray. On it was a strange assortment of gingerbread hearts, and of Tyrolean dolls, and edelweiss, attractively arranged.
‘A gingerbread heart for you,’ said Isolde, and took one up. It was large and suffered from fatty degeneration. On it was written in white sugar, Liebst du mich? ‘You must wear it, Hugo.’
She hung it round his neck by an unsuitable chain of paper flowers, which embarrassed him, but the girl only laughed and applauded, and he saw that most of the men wore them.
‘Isolde, what a wizard place!’
‘It is fun, isn’t it?’
The Tyrolean band, seated on a dais at the far end, burst into vivacious music. The inevitable dancers appeared, finger snapping, thigh whacking, and head rocking; there was a slapstick dialogue, and all the time Hugo and Isolde sat there drinking the sweet red wine Ferdinand had insisted upon, and eating cheese tartlets, and fruit.
‘It’s the company that’s so odd,’ said Hugo, ‘the atmosphere of the place seems to affect the people who come here.’
‘What do you suppose the man over there is? The one with the little ginger beard, dancing a pas seul with a pot of petunias?’
‘He looks like an artist, or an escaped monk.’
‘He is probably a sober city man in everyday life, but the continent has this way of giving people that joie de vivre which we haven’t got.’
‘All the same,’ said Hugo suddenly, ‘I don’t care for the young fellow at the next table.’ He had originally noticed the young man when he first came in. A tall, brown-skinned German, in a white linen Bavarian suit, with green and white Lederhosen, and green fanciful braces. He watched Isolde casually, his eyes unblinking in complete disregard of the two men who were with him, and who apparently had given up any attempt to talk to him.
‘He’s probably Nazi. The Nazis seem to think they can do what they like,’ but Hugo thought that she reddened.
‘It doesn’t do to fall foul of them.’
‘No, poor little Dolfuss found that. I do think that was the most iniquitous thing.’
Rather afraid, he said, ‘We mustn’t talk politics. Let’s talk about ourselves. Anyway we’re much more interesting. We’ll dance.’ They danced again, but all the time Hugo knew that the young Bavarian was watching Isolde, his eyes still did not blink, and his mouth opened. The admiration which he displayed was that of a child avid for a sweet it wishes to eat; it was lust. Hugo was getting annoyed about it, and the Liebfraumilch had gone to his head, so that he wanted to tell the young man to get out, save that he was reluctant to start a scene.
‘I wish he’d stop it,’ he said.
‘It’s no good getting annoyed. We’ll pretend that he isn’t there. It isn’t much good, I know, but we can try.’
‘These foreigners are always so anxious to advertise if they get keen on anyone.’
‘Forget it,’ she said.
They finished dancing, and went back to the table again, she sitting down intentionally not looking at her neighbour. The band started to play. People climbed on to their tables, held hands and danced. The girl attendants came out again, and hung them with paper roses, crowning the men with bright blue jockey caps, and offering appallingly vulgar souvenirs, which made him uncomfortable.
‘It’s all fun,’ said Isolde.
She looked radiant in her white frock. They climbed off the table again, drank more of the Liebfraumilch and joined in the singing. Both of them had forgotten the man next door, until he leant forward, speaking in excellent English.
‘You will dance with me?’ he asked.
‘Thanks, no.’ She said it deliberately and turned her back.
He flushed dully red under his tan, and then, unembarrassed, leaned nearer. ‘Fräulein, you will dance with me?’
‘I’ve told you I don’t want to dance with you. I’ve got my own partner.’
Apparently he had not expected a rebuff, and his friends nudged one another, grinning. He saw them, his eyes darkened with annoyance. ‘Just one dance, Fräulein?’
Hugo had had enough of it, and had to butt in. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said, ‘surely even you can see when you’re not wanted?’
The young man sprang to his feet, clicking his heels together. When he had been sitting down, Hugo had thought him inclined to podginess, but now he saw that though he might be stocky, he was athletic. ‘Shut up, you,’ he said.
‘Oh, go to blazes!’
There came a jabber of German, and, although in his heart Hugo was awed, he made a motion of indifference. Instantly he saw that the young man had caught impetuously at Isolde’s arm, and that her eyes had become scared. Before he could stop himself, he hit out. The man in the white linen suit crashed heavily to the floor, and clutching at the table took with him a bottle of red wine, which gushed in a formidable stream all over his jacket. Hugo was horrified when he saw what he had done. In an instant Ferdinand was on the scene, moister than ever, raising his hands to heaven, imploring everybody not to lose their heads, when his obviously was lost already.
‘It is the son of the Herr director,’ said Ferdinand, ‘Gott in Himmel! It is the most important guest. When he come here, he do what he will.’
‘He couldn’t start those tricks,’ said Hugo.
‘Mein Gott, what will to me happen?’ The sweat was in a smear on the fleshy face of Ferdinand. He had good reason to dread the Nazis, because he was of Jewish origin, and looked like it. ‘Go quick!’ he suggested.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Ja, ja, but you go.’ Ferdinand was now in a great hurry to be rid of them.
‘Yes, we’d better go,’ said Isolde.
Hugo glancing round him saw that everybody was looking at them, and he had the impression that the place was hostile. The band started again in a turbulent gipsy air, with twanging strings, and the conductor marching up and down in a clumsily ludicrous imitation of the soubrettes.
‘All right,’ said Hugo, ‘we‘ll get out.’
The car was not to be back for them until half-past twelve, and it was now only a quarter to. He did not fancy walking about the gardens hung with electric lights, and with the scent of the flowers and the lovers cuddling outrageously on the seats. The streets were full of people. Now he wanted to get Isolde out of this.
‘A taxi,’ he told the doorman in the pale biscuit uniform.
‘Ja, mein Herr.’
The taxi was patently the oldest in Innsbruck, and it is a city of ancient cars. A weather-beaten old man drove it slowly, rattling and quaking like a grandmother with asthma. It was dreadful. Hugo was horrified to find that when he got into its musty depths and settled himself beside Isolde, she was crying.
‘But that’s silly. It’s all right now, we’ve got away. I’m afraid it spoilt the evening, but we got away.’
‘I know. It’s the Nazis terrify me. You never know how far they can reach. I have a horrid idea that it hasn’t ended here. I don’t mean to cry,
it’s just my silliness, or I must have had too much of that Rhine wine. I’m sorry.’
‘It was very natural.’ He had an arm round her, and drew her closer. ‘Isolde dearest, I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world. I saw him pull at your arm and lost my head, that was what did it.’
‘I know. Hugo, you were terribly brave.’
‘It wasn’t bravery. I think that I made a fool of myself. I’m so fond of you, darling, that’s what it is. I’m so terribly fond of you.’
‘I’m very fond of you, Hugo.’
‘Isolde, what are we going to do about this?’
She put her arms round his neck. ‘I suppose one day we’ll get married?’ she said quite simply, accepting the whole situation, and hiding her small wet face in his neck. ‘I knew this would happen. I guessed you’d come into my life. Hugo, it seems as though I’d been waiting for you for such a long long time.’
He kissed her. The emotion was strangely different from the Muriel and Wynne episodes. This was the real thing. ‘What will your father say?’ he asked.
‘Daddy will be very pleased. What about yours?’
‘He’s never pleased with anything. I should think that he’ll be horrible.’
For the moment he refused to think of James Blair; he would not come to earth and recognise that his salary between two and three hundred a year was an impossibility for marriage. No mundane facts should spoil the beauty of this moment, it was too precious! The windows of the taxi were down, and beyond them lay the blue of the Austrian night, with the bright silver of moonshine, and the magic of shadows.
‘I know that my mother would have liked it,’ he said, ‘somehow I’m sure of that.’
‘Shall we tell Daddy directly we get in?’
‘Yes, directly we get in.’
He kissed her again. They had forgotten about the unpleasant scene in the Schwarhaus.
Mr. West was not downstairs in the lounge, nor in the cosy little bar, where there was always music, and the ebb and flow of life, which was entertaining. They went to his suite along the corridor with the shiny waxed floor of golden wood. The light was burning strongly inside his room, and Isolde tapped, her other hand in Hugo’s. There was no reply. Hugo knew that something was wrong; before they ever opened the door, he knew that it was sinister, even as they stood there, with the strong sweet-smelling yellow wood which was perfumed with the tree that grew it, and the yellow painted walls, and the distant sound of music and chatter from the bar.
Isolde opened the door, and Hugo found his intuition had been right. Mr. West was sitting in the easy chair by the window, staring before him almost as though he were a corpse. He seemed to have sunk into the chair, or the chair seemed to have become suddenly enormous and to enclose him. His mouth had been open when they entered, it had apparently dropped with death, and only waited a kindly hand to close it for ever. He turned to them incredulously, jerked his mouth together, and as he did so, Hugo saw a silver dribble at the lip corner. The older man’s eyes were the only living things in a face that was dead. They were tortured with fever. He stared at them as though he could not be sure that they were really there, then he spoke, haltingly, with a jerk.
‘You’re early?’ he said.
Isolde gave a gasp. ‘Daddy, you’re ill.’
‘I’m perfectly well. It’s just that I had some bad news from London, that’s all.’
Tentatively he put out a hand to the reading table beside him, made of the same golden wood, and uncovered. On it was a reading lamp, and a little pill box, the lid beside it. Hugo saw it, and felt his knees sag a trifle, because he realised what it betokened. For the second time this evening he felt quite sick. Mr. West’s hand closed over the box, and took it up. Then Hugo spoke.
‘Please give me that? I will take great care of it.’
Like an obedient child Mr. West handed it over. It was Isolde who knelt down beside him and put her arm round him. ‘Daddy, what is it?’
‘It’s the business. It’s finished.’
‘We can start again, Daddy, right at the beginning. It will be fun. We may be poor but we’ll have each other, and whilst we have each other we’re strong.’
The first tinge of life came back to the face which had been like a death mask. ‘You’re a dear child.’
‘Hugo and I are in love, Daddy, did you know?’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘Some day we’re going to get married. Not yet of course, but some day. We had an awful row in the Schwarhaus, because a perfectly beastly young German wanted me to dance with him. Hugo knocked him down.’
‘I’m afraid I lost my temper, sir.’
More animation came back into the face that had stiffened. ‘Perhaps then it is as well that we shall have to go back to-morrow. Hugo had better come with us. Rows with Germans these days have nasty repercussions.’
‘Daddy, surely we’re not going home?’
‘I’m afraid we must. This is very bad news, Isolde, and we’ve got to get back to face the music.’
‘But Hugo’s holiday isn’t over?’
‘Never mind,’ said Hugo quickly, ‘I shouldn’t want to stay on here without Isolde. I’d much rather come back with you both; besides, I might be useful.’
‘We shall have to start very early.’
Isolde was obviously disappointed. ‘Oh dear, and there was so much that I wanted to say.’ Then, ‘Daddy, you haven’t said much about us. Is it that you aren’t glad?’
‘I’m very glad. There isn’t anybody I’d like better for a son-in-law. You do understand that, Hugo?’
He said, ‘Yes, I understand.’
There was something more that he understood too. He was now sure that the West firm had crashed completely; he was convinced that if he and Isolde had not come back early by accident, Mr. West would have taken that pill. Although it was now in Hugo’s possession, there was nothing to stop Mr. West getting another one, and he might be determined to do this. He saw the clock, and knew that if they were to start really early, it was already over late.
‘You run along to bed, Isolde, and let me talk to your father?’ he suggested.
He and John West sat there alone. The music had died down in the bar, although there was still the occasional chatter, whilst outside there was the whisper of fir trees, and the air coming in through the open window where the blown curtain was heavy with the scent of resin.
‘You needn’t tell me anything more than you wish, though I’ve guessed most of it already,’ said Hugo quietly. ‘But all the same I would like to help if I can, and if you tell me nothing, I certainly can’t.’
‘Nobody can help. The business has crashed. There are no pieces to pick up; nothing. I took a chance and lost, that’s all. I don’t mind for myself because I can get out, but there’s Isolde.’
‘I’m seeing after Isolde. At the moment I’ve got only my wretched salary, but I can stand by her. She’ll take it on the chin, sir, she’s tough. When you’re young, I don’t believe things hurt so hard, you know.’
‘When you’re old, it is hell to have to admit failure.’
‘Things may not be as bad as you think.’
‘My experience of life is that when things are bad they are always as bad as you think, and sometimes worse.’
‘I wonder.’ Hugo hesitated, afraid to tackle the subject. ‘When we came in, sir, well, I couldn’t help it, but I could see what was happening. I don’t blame you, but it wouldn’t have helped Isolde.’
‘I feel a fairly useless sort of a chap.’
‘Nobody is useless. You’re very important to Isolde, and if ‒ well, if anything like that happened, she’d not get over it.’
He said nothing. Just sat there twisting a glass of whisky round in his hands. ‘It’s foul whisky they give you abroad,’ he said at last. ‘Can’t think why I ordered it. Can’t think where they buy it.’
‘It’ll do you good.’
‘Or not.’ He paused again. ‘All right, Hugo, I promise you no
t to take that step. I promise you that I’ll go on. I’m afraid of being a useless clog. I’m afraid of the future for her. Poverty’s pretty grim.’
‘There are three of us in this now; that’s better than two. We’ll get straight back to England and see if something can’t be put straight. There must be a way out.’
He said, ‘Yes,’ very slowly, and then: ‘If we motored to Munich we could get the night train from there to-morrow. The car can come back with the chauffeur.’
‘I’ll go downstairs and look up the train for you,’ said Hugo.
He went downstairs to the bar, where the white-coated attendant was busy; he spoke all languages, all badly, and had an inherent knowledge of difficulties likely to occur to hotel guests and intrepid travellers. He was wiping glasses industriously, and whistling softly to himself.
‘Ah, Mr. Blair. There is a note for you, sir, it came but five minute. I did not give orders you to awaken. I say mein Herr is alseep.’
He handed the note over, it looked painfully like a bill. ‘The railway guide,’ said Hugo, ‘I want to see about a night train from Munich.’
‘England for?’
‘Yes, for England.’
The man did not pause from wiping the glasses, but went on flourishing his napkin, and mechanically stating the trains. ‘There is the five o’clock which is a rapide, it is most difficult to make upon it a reservation. There is also the eight o’clock, it is a rapide and connect with the boat at Ostend, and more easy to make the reservation.’
‘I’ll ask Mr. West which he prefers, and when he has decided, perhaps you could telephone for us?’
‘Certainly I must telephone. I will make the arrangement. I have a friend Heinz at the office. My friend Heinz will arrange. It is gut.’
Time apparently did not matter to him, and no trouble was too much. He expected to work for twenty-four hours, considering it to be all part of his job.
Hugo went down the passage again, and as he did so he tore open the note that was handed to him. He read it, and at the same time felt his hair rising on the back of his neck, like spines along a gorse sprig. How this had ever reached him he did not know, and so soon. It had his name in full. Herr Hugo Blair, and the address, and the letter was a challenge to fight a duel with Herr Kurt Freiberger, whom he had insulted this night at the Schwarhaus.