So I had signed at the hotel and filled up the various forms with a first creeping sense of confidence. One hears frequently of the liar who tells his story so often that he begins to believe it himself.
After dinner out again. In the semi-darkness of St. Mark’s Square the murmur of voices was like the movement of the sea. As I walked across it one of the café orchestras began to play “ Sibella”. Venice, like a popular woman surrouded by her suitors, was anxious that sterner preoccupations should not hure them away.
At the Café Florian I ordered coffee, but the waiter said coffee was not obtainable and brought a substitute. I sipped it, and it was not good, so I drank the ice-cold Dolomite water that came with it. War, I thought, was exposed as the ludicrous thing it was when it enforced rationing and blackout curtains in the square where Tintoretto and Tital had walked—or, equally, I suppose, gas-masks at a Buckingham Palace levée.
But not this war. There could never really be anything ludicrous about this war, however it manifested itself.
The mori swung back their hammers to strike nine o’clock on the Torre dell’ Orologio, and then the great mellow bell of the Campanile took up the note, to be followed by all other clocks of ther city having their moment’s chatter before silence was imposed again.
I got up. Time to go.
I left the square by the Piazzetta, but after crossing the Rio di Palazzo turned sharply into the town by way of a narrow street lined with wine shops. Here the Venetians and the less well-off come to sit and drink and gossip in the narrow alleys and behind darkned windows filled with gaudy bottles and fiascos of chianti. In a few minutes I came to a square empty and quiet. I crossed it and the humped bridge beyond, where dark green viscous water lapped bits of refuse against the edges of the steps.
As always Venice was quiet away from the hubbub of the Piazza. An occasional figure passed me, boots clattering on the stone flags. A cat, angular and nervous, stared at me from empty tin. Two children, pale and bony-legged, marched past whistling “ Sibella”.
I had had no reason on earlier visits to seek out the Campiello di Giovanni, but I had bought a map in the hotel, and in another three minutes I stood at the corner of the square. It was flanked with tall old houses and with a café on the corner, from which came the amplified music of a radio. The square was stone-flagged right across, and in the centre was an old stone well-head from which the inhabitants had once drawn their water supply.
Dim light came through the blinds of the café, but I passed it and made a slow circuit. An old crone whispered at me from a doorway. Five lire changed hands and her complaints died away. In an upper room of a house nearby someone was playing a piano.
I went to the centre and sat on the stone wall of the well. The sky was clearing again, and the night breeze as it came in from the sea had a chill in it. Grotesque statues, moon silhouetted, peered over the roofs from a church near by. The pianist lived on the opposite side from the café, about four storeys up.
He was playing “ Tales from the Vienna Woods”. A couple of sailors walking across the square took up the refrain and could be heard whistling it as they disappeared down a narrow alley. He played quite well—some foreigner, probably come to Vienna on slender means to study and to enlarge his spiritual horizon. So on would have thought.
A piece by Handel or Bach was begun, but half way it faltered as it inspiration was lacking, changed to Chopin. One of the waltzes. A Flat Major, was it?
I walked over towards the corner to hear it better. It was third floor after all, not fourth. The window was open and chinks of light could be seen as the breeze stirred the curtain.
A door without number or name. Turn and go in. A small dingy hall: the low-powered electric bulb shielded with brown paper showed doors, a telephone, a pot fern, stairs. I went up them.
On the second floor a door was open and light striped the worn linoleum of the landing. A child in a white muslin nightdress was sitting in the open door trying to mend a doll. I did not offer help, though she looked as if she expected it. Four doors on the third floor, but light under only one. I trapped.
Chopin went on. Exuberant trills and octaves were leading up to the finale, I tapped more loudly.
The music stopped.
“Chi cosa dite?” a voice called.
I went in.
Chapter Four
A big untidy room that looked as if a jackdaw had been collecting newspapers. Wicker chairs and Turkish rugs, lace curtains behind blackout curtains; a baby grand and a fat man with a stump of a cheroot between his irregular discoloured teeth.
He had started on the music again and I waited until the piece was over, standing self-consciously in the open doorway.
“That was very fine,” I said in Italian. “ You must play it for me again sometime.”
He got up and shut the window, then walked over and shut the door behind me.
“I’m damned if I do. They might have chosen something less hackneyed. You’re four days late, Signor Catania.”
We stared at each other.
“Mussolini’s navy was not able to issue a navicert,” I replied.
I had of course known that the pianist would be no long-haired, fine-featured student; but the reality really was rather a disappointment. A man in the middle forties, of medium height, with small self-confident black eyes, a sallow skin that would never stay shaven long enough to look clean. A smart but greasy blue suit with pin stripe, big blue and white spotted the and spotted handkerchief to match, too much of it showing. He looked like a man with a deficiency of ascorbic acid, one who took too little exercise and ate too many sweets. A prosperous bookmaker or the manager of a high-class brothel. But his fat was not soft fat.
“Sit down,” he said in English, speaking with an intonation I couldn’t place. “Name of Andrews. So you’re Mencken.”
“Edmondo Catania,” I said. “Would you wish to see my passport?”
“Thanks, no. I know more about you than you do yourself. When did you get here?”
“Two o’clock this afternoon.”
“Any difficulties on landing?”
“No. They seemed to approve of my coming home to enlist.”
His cigar wagged and he showed more teeth. “We were getting that anxious, wondering what had happened to you. It’s been left pretty late now. You must meet Captain Bonini first thing in the morning.”
On the threshold of the task I suddenly found resolution failing again. Courage had come with me like a noisy crowd to a town gate: now, faced with the guards, it was melting away.
“Bonini?”
“Yes. Sit down and I’ll rell you about him. Cigar?”
I took one—not that I wanted one—sat down. His face was close to mine as he offered me a light. Garlic and cheap scent. His eyes were dogmatic but his cleft chin weak.
He said: “ You are half British, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the other half—German?”
“Austrian.” He must have known.
“Much the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Not to me.”
“Hitler’s a Bavarian. You’re part of the Herrenvolk.”
“I am not ashamed of my Austrian blood.”
“Ah, well, no.” He sat back and crossed his fat legs. “It takes all sorts to make a nation. I must confess I don’t exactly adore Germans. It’s a weakness, you know, a weakness in an agent to have likes and dislikes of his own.”
“I wouldn’t think that. It might be a mistake to prejudices.”
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “ I’ve got those too.”
Silence fell. I noticed a ladies’ fashion magazine open among all the newspapers, some French novels; calendars on the walls advertising Chianti and Valpolicella.
“Bonini,” I prompted.
“By the way, don’t call me Andrews. My name is Brevio. Michele Brevio. You feeling a bit het-up about all this?”
“I left England knowing practically nothing,�
�� I said, annoyed.
“All this cloak and dagger stuff. It must be unsettling, oh, I agree. But In fact most of it’s dreary routine. I hope yours will be. Try to look on it as that.”
I waited while he screwed out the last half inch of his cigar.
“Next week, this conference in Milan. It’s something quite separate from political discussions like meetings on the Brenner Pass and pow-wows between Keitel and Badoglio. Chief man at this meeting is Professor Brayda. Heard of him?”
“No.”
“About six weeks ago we got news that he was on the track of a new poison gas. He’s going to demonstrate it. Then another scientist has an electro-magnetic improvement for aerial torpedoes. We’ve already got most particulars of that. A top German scientist will be there, representing his government and following the general policy of pooling information.”
“And you expect me to attend? How can I?”
“Wait. I’m not sure of the number of people who’ll be at this conference, but apart from the half dozen scientists and their assistants, there’ll be officials representing the services. The Admiralty will send a Captain Bonini who’s attached to the Scientific Division of the Naval Staff in Venice. You will go as his secretary.”
So that was it. It would have been kinder for Colonel Brown to have told me. But perhaps Colonel Brown did not know.
“You are lucky,” I said, “ to have found a traitor so highly placed. Is he trustworthy?”
“Neither a traitor nor trustworthy by choice. Fortunately he has one hobby—beautiful women, and one preoccupation—himself. It’s a good combination, Mencken. I’ve been playing him, through an intermediary, for a couple of years. Perhaps it would reassure you if I told you about that first.”
“As you please.” Andrews had this slight accent but I could not place it. The inflexions of the various English counties still sometimes puzzle me.
“… he loves some woman and she has expensive tastes; so he must gratify them. But not only pretty girls can be exacting: so can creditors, so can the social demands of his position; he has risen quickly in the navy by his own scientific talents but he has no family, no money behind him. So he goes to a credit house recommended by a friend of mine, run by a friend of mine. He is given a loan on good security. He repays part of this but later borrows more—on less good security. He also repays part of this. But why worry?” Andrews spread his plump pale hands. “ Why worry? The rate of interest is low. The head of the credit house is tolerant and has become a personal friend. There is no hurry to repay. So the loan gradually increases.
“But eventually, quite suddenly, the source of the bounty dries up. The credit house would be glad of a substantial repayment. Captain Bonini cannot oblige. He is irritated. The house should know his position by now and also his expectations. The money is perfectly secure against his future salary. One cannot produce money out of a hat. So good. The matter is dropped. But three months later it is raised again. The credit house itself is to some extent embarrassed and must have some repayment. Bonini cannot make it. Dear, dear, this is very unfortunate. If he were to be bankrupted it would ruin his career. But stay; an idea. The head of the credit house has s brother who is head of a foreign news agency In Venice. The agency has asked his brother for particulars of the new Italian destroyer which has just been launched. Naturally he cannot get ithem. But if Captain Bonini were to get them they would share the payment when it was received.”
Andrews took out another cigar and dipped the end. “ Captain Bonini does not like this idea at all: it savours of treachery, and Bonini is a patriot. But eventually after careful consideration he agrees. When the information is obtained he is pleasantly surprised at the amount paid him—and also secretly amused. For although details of the destroyer are not yet released to the Italian Press he happens to know that they are familiar to every Naval Attaché in the country, no attempt having been made to keep them secret. Otherwise he would in no circumstances have consented to obtain them. But naturally he does not tell his friend this. Am I boring you, Dr Mencken?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, you see, this goes on. From time to time now he yields to the temptation to earn easy money, and if now and then he refuses to do something because he thinks the release of the information is prejudicial to Italy—then no pressure is brought to bear on him. So everyone is satisfied. Captain Bonini keeps his conscience clear and his pocket not too empty. From time to time it has no doubt occurred to him that the information asked for is outside the scope of the ordinary news agency, but he thinks it better on all grounds not to inquire too closely. A nice balance, as you’ll appreciate. However, when Italy enters the war this is all changed. He calls a halt. It is the end. He is a patriot. No more informtions however innocuous. His conscience won’t allow it.”
A puffing and blowing at the cigar.
“For the first time my friend, the head of the credit house, shows his teeth. What of the money still owing, he asks? It will be found. When? In good time. Sometime will not do; it must be found at once. How? The usual way. No, no, it is impossible. Nothing is impossible except to back out now. Captain Bonini makes his last stand. Very well, he will go down for his principles. Let them bankrupt him for debt; he strikes an attitude; sooner that than betray his country. (Perhaps he thinks he is calling their bluff.) But suddenly they no longer, threaten bankruptcy; that is nothing. If he backs out now, information will reach the Fascist headquarters in Rome that for over a year he has been selling information to a foreign and now an enemy power. Corroborative evidence, painstakingly accumulated, will accompany the disclosure. It is not now his pocket or his pretty ladies, no indeed, nor even his career which are threatened, it is his life. Mussolini has a short way with traitors. Captain Bonini blusters and threatens, but eventually gives in.” An expressive gesture with two bent thumbs. “ The fish is landed. He can struggle no more.”
Andrews took out his bright spotted handkerchief and wiped his neck. The room was warm and the story had been told with energy.
“An unwilling traitor is always dangerous,” I said.
“All traitors are dangerous, Mencken, whatever their personal feelings. But that is how we live. That is how we have to live. I’ll give you his address and full instructions before you go. As his secretary you should be accepted without question. Once you’ve made contact with him you’ll be under his orders until you return to Venice. But I don’t think you need fear that Bonini will let you down, because on your safety depends his own.”
The smoke he had given me was really a cheroot and was strong and green. It tasted as if the leaves had been plucked about a week ago, and most of the time I let it burn like a dangerous fuse between my fingers.
“How do I make contact with you again?”
“Come to-morrow afternoon at six. Then not again until it is all over. You’ll be in Milan, I expect, about five days. And that Veronese product, Valpolicella, is in my opinion superior, signore, to most Bordeaux wines. Naturally it is a matter of taste, but given perfect conditions …”
He had changed not only the subject but the language. His hearing must have been very acute, because someone then knocked on the door.
“Come in,” said Andrews. “ What do you drink in Lisbon, signore? Not only Port, I hope. I find the flavour too heavy for my palate …”
A tall thin man came in. He leaned against the side of the door warily and looked at me with faded blue, bloodshot eyes. Then he closed the door and coughed.
“Hullo,” said Andrews. “ Hullo, Dwight.”
The thin man inspected the room with his eyes as if he thought it was going to jump out at him.
“Is this——”
“Yes, it’s Mencken. Here at last. I wondered if you’d come round.”
“Well, thank God he’s come. About time. Any trouble?”
“None at all,” said Andrews, for me.
“Thank God for that. So the gallop’s going through as arranged?”
&nb
sp; Andrews seemed to remember that I was not one of his wine calendars. “ This is Major Berczik, doctor. A colleague of ours.”
I got up uncertainly, put down the smelly cheroot, shook hands. Just bones gripped mine. A very thin man with cropped iron-grey hair and tight skin shiny and brown from the Italian sun. His long narrow face with its strong cheek bones had an equine look. I thought he sized me up as if I were the unexpected winner of a Selling Plate.
“Younger than I thought,” he said in English. “Much younger. Maybe that’s no matter. Mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, eh, Andrews?” His thin lips parted in an unsatisfactory smile. “See anything of the British Navy? Damned good job they didn’t sink your old tub.”
“I’ve been explaining the position to Dr Mencken,” said Andrews softly. “He will meet Captain Bonini to-morrow morning. Smoke?”
“Not one of your damned poisonous weeds. Smell like something out of the Sargasso Sea.” He continued to assess me. “You have my sympathy, old man. Hope you’ll finish the course. Big things may depend.”
“I’m a beginner at this work,” I said despondently. “Don’t expect too much.” I felt their attitude was too light-hearted and casual and, indeed, callous. It was not how I understood conspiracy.
“The British Intelligence,” said Andrews, “always expects too much. That’s how it gets results. Major Dwight has arrived from Rome on this job, by the way. He’ll be in Milan during the conference and you’ll be able to get in touch with him if things go wrong.”
The other man noticed the expression on my face. “ That’s me, y’know. Dwight by birth; Berczik by adoption. Major in either event. Dragon Guards, to be truthful.” He was filling his pipe, a worn old briar, but stopped and coughed, a loose rustling cough. “I’ve news for you, Andrews. The name of the German scientist who’s attending the conference. Dr von Riehl.”
Night Journey Page 3