A Dead Man In Trieste

by Michael Pearce

  Maddalena looked doubtful.

  ‘Well, I don’t really think they’re the sort who would want to - ’

  ‘That depends on what they wanted to go for. Suppose they wanted to go for the same reason as you went to the Piazza Giuseppina and messed up that statue? To play a prank? And suppose Lomax found out? That might have been the reason why he didn’t want to take them. And if he was a student he would have had to be taken. He wouldn’t have been able to get there any other way.’

  ‘Well, it is a thought,’ said Maddalena.

  ‘Just a thought, perhaps. But worth trying. If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I would be glad to,’ said Maddalena, pleased.

  And then I would have an excuse for seeing you again, thought Seymour. But that thought, too, he suppressed.

  He returned to the Consulate. Koskash was working away earnestly. What on earth did he find to work on? Seymour was not aware of much mail coming in. Paperwork to do with the ships, Seymour supposed.

  Or the seamen.

  He found an excuse, later, to send Koskash out of the office for a moment and, while he was away, glanced at the papers on his desk. They were, as he had suspected, seamen’s papers. There were two sets. He didn’t really have time to scrutinize them and wouldn’t really have known what to look for if he had. They seemed normal enough. Two ordinary British seamen.

  But British seamen. He made up his mind to watch out for them when they came to collect the papers.

  But then the thought struck him that perhaps he wouldn’t be here when they came for them. Suppose they came, as the other one had, late in the evening?

  And then he realized. Koskash was staying on this evening, working late. He made up his mind not to go to the lecture after all.

  At around eight he went out, telling Koskash that he was going for a meal. Instead, he walked round the block. The trilby hat fell in behind him. Seymour wasn’t having any of that. He could do without that this evening. It was easy, with his experience, to shake the man off.

  He returned to the Consulate and took up a position in a doorway across the street.

  It was getting dark but this evening was still heavy with heat. The breeze, which had been such a feature of earlier evenings, bringing to the streets even up here in the city the smell of sea mixed with the smell of flowers, was absent and there was nothing to stir the air. Around the Consulate the streets were deserted.

  The moments went by. It was hot in the doorway. He felt himself sweating and put up his hand to wipe his sweat from running into his eyes.

  He heard footsteps. Two men were coming up the street. They went to the side door of the Consulate and knocked quietly. The door was opened by Koskash and the two went in.

  Seymour stepped out of his doorway and walked across the street towards the Consulate.

  And then, suddenly, there was the piercing blast of a police whistle, very close. It was answered by another, and then another, converging on the door.

  The door opened and two men rushed out. They didn’t try to run away, however, but stood there, smiling.

  The street was suddenly full of policemen. Seymour pushed past them. The door of the Consulate was open and through it Seymour could see Koskash, sitting at his desk, his face buried in his hands.

  Chapter Nine

  Koskash was taken away by the police; and the next morning Seymour went to the police station to find out what had become of him. He went first to Kornbluth. Kornbluth looked uncomfortable and said: ‘It is nothing to do with me,’ After a moment he added: ‘You will have to see Schneider.’ And Seymour realized that this was one which involved the other sort of police. ‘There are two sorts of police in Trieste,’ Alfredo had said: the ordinary ones, the municipal police, and the special sort that you didn’t have in England.

  ‘Yes, we are holding him,’ said Schneider.

  ‘On what charges?’

  ‘He has not been charged yet,’ said Schneider, ‘but they will include committing acts which are against the interests of the State. These are serious charges. And there are others.’

  ‘May I see him?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘I shall, of course, be sending a report to London.’

  ‘And we shall, of course, be lodging a formal protest about the Consulate’s behaviour.’

  This, thought Seymour, was looking increasingly like something the Foreign Office was going to have to sort out and not him. In fact, he would need to tread very delicately. If he didn’t watch out he would be drawn far beyond any of the roles he was supposed to be filling, whether of King’s Messenger or of policeman.

  ‘What would be the nature of your protest?’ he asked.

  ‘Allowing diplomatic premises to be used for improper purposes.’

  ‘I am not sure it was allowed. Whatever Koskash was doing, he was doing on his own.’

  ‘Of course you would say that.’

  Seymour was silent: because, of course, if what Koskash had said was true, it had been allowed: by Lomax.

  ‘I am just a Messenger,’ he said, ‘and it would not be proper for me to anticipate what my government’s response will be.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Schneider.

  ‘I am merely making enquiries so that I can report more accurately what has happened.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Actually, I am not quite sure what did happen. Perhaps you can inform me.’

  ‘First,’ said Schneider, ‘there is something that you must explain: your own presence there.’

  Seymour hesitated, then decided that nothing was to be lost by telling the truth: up to a point.

  ‘I suspected that something might be occurring that was in need of explanation.’

  Schneider nodded.

  ‘We, too. We have been watching the Consulate for some time. There was a suspicion that Consulate staff had been assisting people of interest to us to leave the country illegally. Through the provision of false papers. I arranged for two of my men to present themselves to the Consulate - ’

  ‘One moment; not to the Consulate but to a person in the Consulate, who was acting without the Consul’s authority.’

  ‘So you say. Yes. However - ’

  ‘And when they presented themselves . . .?’

  ‘Papers were issued to them. On that basis I ordered Mr Koskash’s arrest.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Nothing yet. We questioned him last night and we shall continue the questioning this morning.’

  ‘Are you in a position to tell me the identity of the people for whom the papers were being made out? In general terms, that is. Their nationality, for instance,’

  ‘They were Serbs. Students.’

  Seymour thought quickly. There was not much he could do about this. In fact, he had better stay out of it. It was definitely something for the Foreign Office to sort out. The only thing in this that concerned him was Lomax’s role in it; and, perhaps, the less said about that, the better.

  ‘I am sure London will be as distressed by this incident as I am,’ he said smoothly, ‘and while I cannot anticipate what they will say, I am confident that they will express their regret that one of their employees, a local employee, of course, should have behaved in such a way.’

  He felt slightly uncomfortable saying this. He quite liked Koskash and felt he was letting him down. But he could see no alternative. On this, Koskash was on his own. The most Seymour could do for him - and this was probably in the interests of Britain as well - was to play the thing down. ‘While, I am sure, they would not wish to condone the incident, I wonder if it should not be kept in proportion? After all, from what you say, these were only students - ’

  ‘Mr Seymour,’ said Schneider, ‘do you have the faintest idea what you are talking about?’

  Seymour swallowed. Perhaps he was not doing as well at the diplomatic business as he had thought he was doing.

  ‘I am, of course,’ he said hastily, ‘only a Messenger.’

>   ‘Yes. So you say. Well, Mr Seymour, here in Trieste students are not, perhaps, as they are in England. They are not schoolchildren. We are not talking about making faces at the teacher or throwing chalk. We are talking about throwing bombs. All across the Empire there have been incidents. And that is reality, Mr Seymour, not vague possibility.’

  ‘But why - ’

  ‘Serbian, Mr Seymour. Serbian. They were Serbian students.’

  ‘Yes, but - ’

  Schneider sighed.

  ‘You really do not know, do you? Perhaps you really are just a Messenger. Or perhaps it is Trieste is such a small place to people in London, perhaps they think that it is so small that nothing important can happen there. Well, let me tell you, Mr Seymour, that if they think that, then they are mistaken. Because one thing is bound to another thing and great things are bound to small.’

  He stopped and looked at Seymour questioningly.

  ‘You know, at least, that two years ago we took Bosnia under our protection?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Seymour, in injured tones, grateful to the newspaper seller for what he had learned from him. ‘Everyone knows that!’

  ‘They had, of course, been under our protection for the previous thirty years, but that was by international mandate. It was time to tidy things up. So, as I say, we took them - ’

  ‘Over,’ said Seymour.

  ‘They joined the Empire. Naturally there were people who were opposed. And not just people, countries. If you can call Serbia a country.’

  ‘Serbia was against it?’

  ‘Violently. In all senses. And especially the young. The students in the universities, the young officers in the army. Passionate without quite knowing what they were being passionate about. Now, of course, there are many students throughout the Empire, students of all nationalities: Hungarian, Slovakian, Montenegrin . . . We pride ourselves on that. And among them are Bosnian students, now part of the Empire, unwillingly, and Serbian students, always likely to cause trouble. So, well, they caused trouble. And, naturally, we have had to crack down on them.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Seymour, ‘but why crack down so heavily? Does not that, with the young, lead to more trouble? If you do it with too heavy a hand?’

  ‘Too heavy a hand?’ said Schneider, astonished. ‘But this is serious, Mr Seymour! We are not talking about regulating football on the playing-fields of Eton. Although from what I hear of English playing-fields . . . No, Mr Seymour, we are talking bombs. Bombs!

  ‘And we are not talking about bombs just in Trieste. Or even Vienna. We are talking about bombs right across Europe. Do you understand that, Mr Seymour? We are talking war. Because, you see, one thing is bound to another, and great things are bound to small. Let us say, for instance, that one day, in some small place, call it Trieste, some foolish student throws a bomb and kills someone important, a Governor, say, or a member of the Royal Family. And suppose we learn that a certain country is responsible. Call it Serbia. Then Austria-Hungary will not take that lying down. They will say to that country: you must do something about this. And if you don’t . . .

  ‘And now the problems really start. For Russia says: leave Serbia alone, we will not have this. And Germany, perhaps, says: you keep out of it, we stand by our Hapsburg allies. Countries are bound by treaties. They are obliged to act if the treaty is invoked by some country to which they are allied. One thing is bound to another, great things are sometimes bound to small. A bomb thrown in Trieste could set off a chain of events which could lead to war. Yes, war, Mr Seymour. I see you doubt me. But I am telling the truth, believe me. One little thing could pull in another bigger thing and then another thing. You go down to your taverna at night and you sit drinking and you think the world is secure, safe. There is order and you take it for granted. But I think that peace in Europe is like a house of cards. One card falls and then all the others fall with it.

  ‘So you see, Mr Seymour, this is not a matter of students playing games. They may be playing games, but I am not. I do not want that first card to fall here in Trieste. That first bomb to be thrown. And so ... so I take students seriously. And especially those students of yours, Mr Seymour. Because I know it is not chalk that they have been getting ready to throw, but something else,’

  Seymour walked away from the police station smarting, feeling that he had been given a history lesson which he didn’t need. Or perhaps he did need it. International politics hadn’t figured high on the curriculum of a policeman in the East End. Nor had Bosnia, Serbia and the rest of them - indeed, the whole Austro-Hungarian Empire - loomed large in what he had done at school. When Seymour had left school at fourteen, the teachers had not yet got round to Bosnia. Of course, he knew something about Central Europe from his work with immigrant families in the East End but there were gaps. Bucovina, for example, where was that? Hands up all those who could place Bucovina!

  Not Seymour. He was beginning to regret his lack of knowledge of the international scene. Perhaps he had better get along to the library with Maddalena and do some reading.

  But what a load of codswallop it was! All that talk about war! Not a chance, thought Seymour. The sort of rubbish that military-minded people, whether in the army or high up in the police, were always talking. And all that stuff about one thing being bound to another, great things to small! Suppose small things were small? Suppose the students were just making faces, throwing chalk? Overreacting as Schneider was doing would just make things worse, turn all the Maddalenas into real revolutionaries!

  No, it was all codswallop. And probably all Koskash had been doing, out of the misguided goodness of his heart, was giving some naive youngsters a helping hand. It had been wrong of him but not very wrong and Lomax had probably been right to go along with it. From what Maddalena had said, it was the kind of thing that he, with all his evident sympathy for people and underdog causes, would do. Not exactly what he should be doing as Consul, of course, but . . .

  All the same, Seymour was uneasy. What was it that Schneider had said at the end? That he knew that they were not just chalk throwers. Was that just talk? Or did he really know that? Because if that was indeed the case, then Koskash might have been doing rather more than giving some innocents a helping hand. And if Lomax had condoned it, then, perhaps, he, too, was in a lot deeper than he should have been.

  The trouble was that if it was just a question of helping relatively innocent students to escape, Seymour could see no reason why that should have led to Lomax being killed; whereas if Lomax had been involved more deeply in the kind of thing that Schneider was hinting at then Seymour could see quite a few reasons why he might have been.

  Yes, there they were again sitting at the table. Didn’t they ever do any work? Or were artists in Trieste al fresco too and just sat around drinking? A good life for some, thought Seymour.

  Marinetti was handing round some sheets of paper. He gave one to Seymour. Seymour read:

  Coffee

  Sweet memories frappées

  Marmalade of the Glorious Dead

  Roast Mummies with Professors’ Livers

  Archaeological Salad

  Stew of the Past, with explosive peas in historical sauce

  Fish from the Dead Sea

  Lumps of blood in broth

  Demolition Starters

  Vermouth

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he said.

  ‘It is the menu for the celebratory dinner after my Futurist Evening,’ said Marinetti. ‘You, too, are of course invited,’

  ‘Well, thank you. But . . .’

  He looked at the menu doubtfully.

  ‘It certainly whets the appetite,’ said Luigi; uncertainly, however.

  ‘But why does it do so, in a manner of speaking, back to front? asked Lorenzo.

  ‘Because my Evening will set out to reverse normality,’ said Marinetti.

  ‘Oh, I see. Silly of me not to spot it.’

  There was a little pause. Then Alfredo said:

  ‘Does tha
t mean that the Future is actually the Past?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Marinetti, annoyed. ‘It suggests that we enter the Future by embracing disorder.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Then Luigi said:

  ‘But why, in that case, are you having the dinner after the Evening? Why not have it before?’

  ‘Because,’ said Marinetti, glaring, ‘there are dozens of things I still have to do before the Evening can get off the ground. Otherwise there will be bloody chaos!’

  Seymour stood there, holding a copy of the menu in his hand, nonplussed.

  It was no surprise, when he got back to the Consulate, to find Mrs Koskash standing at the door. He let her in. She was dry-eyed and composed and sat down, apparently relaxed, in the chair he offered.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.

  When he had finished, she sat thinking.

  ‘Did they go into the Consulate?’ she asked. ‘Was he actually inside when they arrested him?’

  ‘They went in,’ said Seymour. ‘But then he came out. I think he was actually outside when he was formally arrested.’

  Mrs Koskash sighed.

  ‘The fool!’ she said. ‘If he had stayed inside they couldn’t have arrested him.’

  ‘I think he may have known that. He said, though, that he had done enough harm to the Consulate as it was.’

  Mrs Koskash sighed again. She sat for a moment looking down at her feet.

  ‘I should not have persuaded him,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Seymour. ‘And you did persuade him, didn’t you? He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t talked him into it. He is not a Serb, after all. But you are, aren’t you? And I think you were the one who thought it up. You’re practical, aren’t you, and committed. You organize things, not just for the Serbs but for the local Socialists. And perhaps others as well.’

  ‘I am active, yes,’ said Mrs Koskash. ‘A lot of people aren’t.’

  ‘And caring, I think. So I think you might well have set up an escape route for dissident Serbs.’

  She did not deny it.

  ‘I am sorry about using the Consulate,’ she said softly.