Elusive Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  Mrs. Pollifax said in alarm, “You poor boy, you look terribly pale and your speech is slurred. I think you’re really ill.”

  “Dubrovnik,” he said dreamily. “That’s where we were and that’s where I’d like to be.”

  “I’ve just come from there,” Mrs. Pollifax told him, nodding. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? I was there for the Music Festival.”

  He turned and looked at her. “You, too? Man, that was something, wasn’t it? Those rock walls, the sea, the sky like velvet–” He abruptly yawned. “Damn it, now I’m sleepy–one extreme or the other, dysentery or stupor.”

  “The right medicine would cure both,” she told him sternly.

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “I’ll get some. Do you have any idea what this says?” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “I can’t even tell what language it is.”

  Mrs. Pollifax glanced down at the wrinkled, narrow slip of paper on which several sentences had been printed, followed by a series of numbers. “That’s the Cyrillic alphabet, isn’t it?” she said, frowning over it. “It looks rather like a pass to a swimming pool, or a lottery ticket. Where did you get it?”

  Phil laughed. “I picked somebody’s pocket.”

  At that moment the loudspeaker system crackled with life and began to announce the departure of the TABSO flight for Sofia in four different languages, the voices echoing and re-echoing through the terminal. Further conversation became impossible and Mrs. Pollifax held out her hand to the young man. “Emily Pollifax,” she shouted at him over the din. “Delighted to have met you. And please–do see a doctor about your dysentery.”

  He arose, too, blushed slightly and extended a hand in the manner of one remembering a nearly forgotten ritual. “Philip Trenda,” he shouted as they shook hands. Abruptly a new system of pain crossed his face and he doubled up.

  The American girl with the waist-length hair–they had called her Debby–was suddenly at his side. “Phil, this is awful–you’re really sick.”

  “I’ll walk to the plane with you,” he said.

  “That’s stupid. You ought to sit or lie down, not walk.”

  His mouth tightened. “I’m not sick and I’m going to walk you to the plane.”

  “Your piece of paper,” called Mrs. Pollifax.

  He vaguely gestured it aside as he shouldered his pack and joined the girl. Mrs. Pollifax dropped the slip of paper into her purse, picked up her flight bag and followed the group of young people toward the gate. There she saw them re-group–yes, and resume their quarreling.

  With a shake of her head Mrs. Pollifax gave up her ticket, received her seat number and boarded the plane. The young people arrived several minutes later and noisily made their way to the plane’s rear. The young man name Philip was with them.

  She thought, He shouldn’t have let them talk him into coming. Not with dysentery. But that was the way travel was: a series of chance encounters, fleeting involvements, motives never explained, endings never known. Firmly she put aside all thought of the young American and fastened her seat belt. As they taxied down the runway for takeoff she opened a tattered copy of Newsweek.

  But as the plane lifted, Mrs. Pollifax realized that printed words were lifeless to her at a moment when she was about to begin another courier assignment. She put down the magazine and gazed out of the window, wondering what she would be like when she finished this job because it seemed to her that each one left her changed. Now, once again, she was leaving behind friends, identity, children, possessions–everything secure–for another small adventure. At her age, too. But this was exactly the age, she thought, when life ought to be spent, not hoarded. There had been enough years of comfortable living, and complacency was nothing but delusion. One could not always change the world, she felt, but one could change oneself.

  The plane had begun to decelerate. Glancing at her watch Mrs. Pollifax saw that it was much too early for them to be reaching Sofia. A voice began an announcement over the loudspeaker in Bulgarian, then in French, in German and at last in English: they were making an unscheduled stop in Rumania. The delay would be brief. No one was to leave the plane.

  They landed. From her window Mrs. Pollifax could see a sign at some distance that said TRIASCA REPUBLIC SOCIALIST RUMANIA in huge red letters. Down the aisle an Englishman grumbled to his companion. “They never explain things in these countries. Or apologize.”

  “Police state, of course. I always wonder if they’re going to arrest someone aboard or search our luggage. I say, it looks as if this stop’s for someone special.”

  “Some high mucky-muck, eh?”

  “Looks it.”

  “Isn’t that General Ignatov? You were in Sofia last year. Bloody tiresome the way his picture was in the party newspaper week after week.”

  General Ignatov? Mrs. Pollifax turned to her window and saw a number of people making their way across the field to the plane. There was a comic-opera look about the procession. It was led by a tall, darkly handsome man wearing a uniform that fairly dripped medals. He was walking with long strides and cutting the air with a walking stick. Behind him two army officers had to break into a trot to keep up with him. Following them came a swarm of men in business suits.

  Under Mrs. Pollifax’s window the general halted, the others surrounded him and everyone shook hands. As the general moved slightly apart she saw him clearly. What a powerful face, she thought in surprise. He was laughing now, his teeth very white against his dark skin, his head thrown back in a posture of amusement, but she did not believed he was amused. She had the impression that he had taught himself to laugh because otherwise he would be all arrogance, cruelty, tension and energy.

  A moment later he boarded the plane and she glimpsed him again as he paused in the space between tourist and first-class. He was issuing sharp orders now to the stewardess; the charm had vanished and he looked only brutal.

  Mrs. Pollifax shivered. There was nothing comic-opera about this general. She suddenly understood that she was entering an iron curtain country, and that she was going to contact there a group that was defying all the power this man represented. She realized that General Ignatov could squash that group under the heel of one boot. He would squash her, too, if she crossed his line of vision. And under the bird in her hat she carried eight very illicit passports.

  5

  No one was allowed to leave the plane in Sofia until General Ignatov and his two officers had disembarked. Mrs. Pollifax spent these minutes in anchoring her hat more securely and in trying to forget that she carried contraband. She remembered saying to Carstairs in her apartment, “I suppose in a country like Bulgaria these passports are the equivalent of gold.”

  “Not gold,” he’d said. “Tell me first what the equivalent of a human life is, and perhaps then we can measure their value. Perhaps.”

  Once passengers were allowed to leave, Mrs. Pollifax descended from the plane and followed the others into the terminal. As she approached Customs she reminded herself that she was only a tourist, and fairly experienced at dissembling. She was also–thanks to retired police chief Lorvale Brown–moderately adept at karate, but still she could not remember when she had felt so nervous. She watched her suitcase opened and a pair of hands methodically sift its contents. The Customs man then looked at her, his eyes narrowing as they came to rest on the bird atop her hat. Mrs. Pollifax braced herself. A look of astonishment crossed his face, he smiled, nudged his companion and pointed to the bird. Two pairs of eyes regarded her hat in surprise, and then the first officer gave her an admiring grin and signaled her to move on. Happily she obeyed. She had passed Customs. There was only Balkantourist left to confront, and presumably in time her knees would stop trembling.

  Carstairs had described Bulgarians as the realists among the Balkan people. “Also the most trustworthy,” he had said crisply. “They’ll never knife you in the back.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Mrs. Pollifax had said.

  He had a
dded gravely, “They’ll wait instead for you to turn around first.”

  She was reminded of this by the Balkantourist representative who awaited her beyond Customs. The square, compact young woman greeted her with a hearty manner, but her eyes were surprisingly indifferent, almost contemptuous. Her face was high cheekboned and boyish and devoid of makeup; she wore a wrinkled khaki dress with insignia at each lapel. “I am Nevena,” she said in a husky voice, heavily accented, and turning her back on Mrs. Pollifax she continued joking vivaciously with several of the Customs men. This left Mrs. Pollifax to cope with her luggage. She locked her suitcase, put away her passport and, luggage in hand, waited. Apparently Nevena was well known. Obviously she was in no hurry.

  It was tiresome standing first on one foot and then the other. Mrs. Pollifax’s glance strayed from Nevena and toward the dwindling line at Customs. Her eyes fell upon the group of young travelers from the Belgrade air terminal and she saw that again they appeared to be having problems, this time with Customs. Philip was propped against the counter smothering a yawn. Debby looked discouraged. Nikki however, was still gesturing, his face livid as he argued with the man behind the counter. All of this Mrs. Pollifax noted in the flash of a second, just as a new official arrived to resolve the quarrel. He directed the group out of line and herded them to a far corner of the hall.

  She interrupted Nevena firmly. “I’m going back through Customs,” she announced. “I see that some friends of mine are having trouble over there, they may need help.”

  Nevena’s frown was not encouraging. “Help?” she said gruffly.

  Mrs. Pollifax pointed. “In the corner, see?”

  Nevena’s gaze followed her hand and then swerved back to give Mrs. Pollifax a quick, hard scrutiny. “Those peoples are known to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Nevena shook her head. Her eyes rested again on Mrs. Pollifax, curious and a little startled. “The man speaking with them is not a Customs man. We go now.”

  “But I really think—”

  “We go,” Nevena said sharply, and tugged at Mrs. Pollifax’s elbow, propelling her toward the door.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Pollifax, resisting.

  Nevena stopped just outside the building. “If they are in trouble you cannot help them.”

  “Why should they be in trouble?”

  “That is a man from security questioning them. You wish to be in trouble, too?”

  “Security?” echoed Mrs. Pollifax.

  “The car is here,” Nevena said sternly, pointing and opening the door. “Come–inside.”

  Mrs. Pollifax hesitated and then remembered that trouble was a luxury she couldn’t afford and that security was a synonym for the secret police. With a sigh she climbed into the car. “What kind of trouble?” she persisted as Nevena joined her.

  Nevena shrugged. “Maybe the visas are in disorder?”

  Mrs. Pollifax relaxed. If that was the case then the group would be flown back to Yugoslavia and their squabbles over visiting Bulgaria would be ended. Nevertheless she had been reminded that it was not healthy to be singled out by the police here. She really must be cautious.

  “Now,” said Nevena as she started the car, “I speak to you of Sofia, which is some five thousand years old and is capital of Bulgaria. It is fourth Bulgarian capital after Pliska, Preslav and Tarnovo. The Thracians called it Serdika, the Slavs called it Sredets, the Byzantines, Triaditsa. Although destroyed and burned by Goths, Magyars, Huns, Patsinaks and Crusaders, Sofia is today a beautiful modern city. With its original historical and cultural monuments and numerous mineral springs our capital is a great attraction for tourists.…”

  Oh dear, thought Mrs. Pollifax, suppressing a yawn, and in revolt she began her own assessment of Sofia, whose low silhouette lay stretched out ahead of her in the clear sparkling air. It was a sprawling city that encircled the foothill of a long high mountain range. The air was bracing and everything looked clean and fresh. Along the road grew clumps of Queen Anne’s lace, oddly endearing to her after the brief chill that had visited her. She decided that she really must halt that droning, mechanical voice at her side. It was time to assert.

  “There’s a gentleman I would like to call on tomorrow,” she told Nevena. “If you’ll advise me how to find him.”

  Nevena’s face tightened. “You know someone in my country?”

  Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. Speaking each word slowly and clearly she explained, “I don’t know this man. He’s not even Bulgarian. His name was suggested to me by a friend, in case I wanted to learn more about your country. His name is Carleton Bemish.”

  “Oh–Mistair Beemish!” laughed Nevena, and her face sprang to life, gamine and suddenly pretty. “The funny one! Everyone knows Bemish.” She said firmly, “He would be the good man for you if he is not busy. Maybe he have time. For myself I have not enough time, but you could join a group I begin tomorrow. At 1 P.M. sharp they tour Sofia in Balkantourist bus. Very nice bus.”

  “I’m renting a car while I’m here,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

  “Oh–” Nevena slapped a hand to her forehead. “You are accurate! Eleven tomorrow.” She slowed the car. “Mr. Bemish live there,” she said, pointing to a narrow, modern cement building punctuated by very symmetrical balconies. “Only five squares from your hotel. I write the address for you in Bulgarian when you wish.”

  Mrs. Pollifax turned, affixing the look of the building in her mind. “Thank you,” she said, and began to make a mental note of the corners they passed.

  Within minutes they entered a plaza lined with modern shops and dominated by a towering granite and glass building. “Your hotel,” pointed out Nevena proudly.

  And despite the lettering across the front that in no way resembled Rila, it proved to be the Hotel Rila. Nevena parked at a side entrance with stairs leading into a small side lobby. “It is now 3 P.M.,” she said with a stern glance at her wristwatch. “I register you at hotel and then there is time for me personally to show you Sofia. Maybe one and a half hours, very quick but–”

  Very politely Mrs. Pollifax said, “Another day that would be pleasant, but I’d really prefer to rest now.”

  Nevena gave her a sharp glance. “You are old?”

  “Very,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

  Nevena nodded. “You give me passport, I register you.” At the desk she spoke severely in Bulgarian to the clerk and then turned to Mrs. Pollifax. “Okay, I go now. At 11 A.M. tomorrow sharp I meet you beside this desk when car arrives. The man who brings car speaks no English.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “This man who takes suitcase up for you, give him only a few stotynki, you understand? This is not a capitalist country.”

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded and watched her march out of the lobby. She wondered what someone like Nevena–so stolid, so efficient–would do with the two free hours she’d just been given. Certainly not rest, she thought, but then Mrs. Pollifax had no intention of resting either. Having just won herself a few hours of unexpected privacy, she thought it an excellent time to begin her sub rosa work. She would visit Durov’s tailor shop.

  6

  Nothing in this hotel district of Sofia was shabby. Everything was clean, bare, new, the boulevards almost empty of traffic. Map in hand, Mrs. Pollifax crossed Vasil Levski street to number nine and studied the word printed across the glass window it said . This was not particularly helpful. She peered through the glass. Seeing the bolts of fabrics hanging along the walls, she walked inside to find two men and a woman bent over the hems and seams of fabric in their laps. The stolid-faced woman with gray hair left her sewing machine and walked to the counter. “Do you speak English?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  The older man in the rear looked up suddenly. Without a word the woman returned to her machine and the man came forward. “Pliss?” he said cautiously. “I speak the English.”

  “I would like to take home a man’s sheepskin jacket or vest,” she told him.

&nb
sp; “Ah–we have fine skins,” he said, nodding.

  “Good.” She met his eye before adding, “I want a brown vest for a friend in America.”

  “A brown one!” he said with pleasure. “Not black?”

  She shook her head. “Brown. Here are the measurements.” She offered them on a slip of paper.

  The expression on his face remained totally unchanged. He copied the measurements arduously, chewing on his underlip as he labored. He lifted his head. “You stay at a hotel?”

  “The Rila,” she replied, and aware that the sign on her hotel bore no resemblance to the word, she brought out the hotel’s leaflet and showed him its picture.

  “Yes. Your name?”

  “Mrs. Pollifax.”

  “Pollifax.” She noticed that he made no move to write down either her name or the name of her hotel. “Excuse, pliss?” he said formally, and abruptly disappeared into the back room. Over the whirring of the sewing machines she could hear him speaking, perhaps on the telephone for she heard no answering voice. A few minutes later he returned. “The vest will cost”–he pursed his lips thoughtfully–“maybe twelve leva, maybe eighteen.”

  “Wonderful,” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax, quite carried away by the thought of paying only six or nine dollars for a sheepskin vest until she remembered it was an imaginary vest they discussed.

  “We let you know. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” For the first time he gave her a glance that she could read as meaningful, and she nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said, and left.

  Mrs. Pollifax walked slowly back to her hotel, pausing to look into a number of stores to prove that her interest was not limited to tailoring shops, should anyone be following her. When she reached the hotel and her room on the sixth floor, she discovered that she felt a great deal lighter: a grave responsibility had been lifted from her, she had found the shop and notified the Underground of her arrival. The rest would be up to the man named Tsanko now, and in the meantime she could relax and begin to enjoy Sofia.