“No,” said Laura. Her mind was made up. “I have no statement to make.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“Allow me, then, to show you your way back to the consulate.”
“You have chosen the right moment to visit the Tyrol,” said Hofrat Humbold. “In Lienz we call this Bellermanswoch. The Bellerman is the old man who goes round after the feast is over, cleaning up the tables and snuffing the candles.”
He said this in the dry tones of a schoolmaster leading his class over well-worn tracks of exposition. He had a prim mouth, gold spectacles, hair running back in a neat fan from a point in the centre of his forehead. She could picture him in some small country schoolhouse, on a somnolent afternoon, rapping with his pointer on his raised desk to keep the sleepy children attentive.
“But when the Bellerman has finished his work, when he has extinguished the last candle, the snow will come.”
“I hope I shall still be here,” said Laura. “I love the snow.”
“You are a skier?” This was from the fourth member of the dinner party. Describing him, Charles had said, “Helmut Angel. In England or America I suppose he’d be called a playboy, but on the Continent a young man seems to be allowed to live on the money his father has accumulated without attracting derogatory descriptions. He’s a good climber. He was one of the four men who went up the north face of the Wetterstein last year. He drives a French Facel Vega very fast indeed, and he has a chance of being in the Austrian team for the International Winter Sports.”
Upon which she had said, “You’re not trying to put me off him, by any chance?”
But Helmut had confounded her. He was far from good-looking. He was chunky. He looked as if the Creator had put him together in an absent-minded mood, had then rather liked the finished product, and had carefully sandpapered off the rougher pieces, without being able to disguise the fact that the basic blueprint was misconceived. His face was certainly brown but could scarcely have been described as bronzed. It was brown in the way that a very old portmanteau is brown. The nose was wide, the mouth big, but not full, and there was positively and unmistakably a dimple in the middle of the rounded chin.
“I have skied a little,” she said. “I like it, but I fall down a good deal.”
“Everyone falls down,” said Helmut. “I once fell, head downward, into a crevasse, and hung there, supported only by my skis.”
“I thought that happened only in comic papers, like getting hitched up on punt poles.”
“There was nothing comic about this, I assure you. I hung there for more than an hour.”
“How did you get out?”
“I decided, in the end, that I should either hang there until I froze, or I must fall into the crevasse. The second seemed the better alternative. I succeeded in wriggling out of the boot straps, and fell. Fortunately I landed on a ledge not too far down. Then I climbed out. It was a lesson.”
“A lesson?”
“A lesson not to go into the mountains alone. In the mountains you meet a host of enemies. Loose snow, brittle ice, strong winds, cold, vertigo. It is stupid to add loneliness to them as well. I prefer, now, to go with two or three companions.”
“You’re the third person today who has warned me against the mountains. Both my brother and his housekeeper seemed to think that I should wander off into them, and never be seen again.”
Humbold had been following this conversation closely, rotating his head toward each speaker in turn.
He said, “You should not disregard the warning, Miss Hart. There are wild men in the mountains. They live in caves and holes in the mountainside, like beasts. Occasionally we have a drive to clear them out. But it is difficult. They live close to the frontier, and have only to cross it to be safe. Many of them are Italians.”
“There was that woman tourist, only last February,” said Helmut. “The one they found under a rock – but I apologize.” He caught Charles’ eye on him. “It is not a very pleasant conversation for the dinner table.”
“How are your preparations going forward for tomorrow, Herr Humbold?” asked Charles.
“Our preparations are complete.”
“Do you anticipate trouble?”
“There will inevitably be trouble. Trouble with crowds coming to and from the square. Trouble with traffic. Trouble with the extra security measures we shall have to impose.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“We are a new state. I feel that we are on trial in this matter. The safety of a Bundesminister and a cardinal bishop has been entrusted to us. It is a heavy responsibility.”
Laura had a clear vision of Miss Sennett, her late headmistress. “Tomorrow we are expecting Lord Penticost, our chairman of governors. Every girl is on her honour to uphold the good name and traditions of this school–”
“By trouble,” said Charles, “I really meant racial trouble. I couldn’t help noticing a slight increase of rowdiness – slogans printed on walls, that sort of thing.”
“There is a subversive Italian element in Lienz. It is small, but troublesome. I have sometimes suspected that it receives support from our political opponents.”
“Political opponents will always fish in troubled waters,” agreed Charles. “Had you anyone particular in mind?”
“Radler had an Italian grandmother.”
“Ernst Radler? The Socialist leader? Surely he would not lend himself–”
“A man who will not lend himself will sometimes sell himself,” said Humbold.
“Surely, you don’t suggest–”
“Not for money, no. But for power. There are men to whom power is more precious than money.”
“In my book, then, they’re mad,” said Helmut. “Money brings pleasure. Power brings headaches.”
Laura said, “Have you really got a troublesome Italian minority here?”
Humbold swivelled his head round and awarded her one of Miss Sennett’s most transfixing glances.
“What do you mean, Miss Hart?”
I won’t be intimidated, said Laura to herself. This is my brother’s dinner table. Technically I’m on British territory. I am not a small girl. “I meant,” she said carefully, “that national minorities sometimes get blamed for a lot of trouble that has nothing to do with them.”
“Really, Laura–” said Charles.
“They form a sort of useful whipping boy.”
“Or scapegoat,” suggested Helmut.
“How long have you been in Lienz, Miss Hart?”
Laura looked at her watch. “Exactly twenty-six hours.”
“Then I must suggest that people who have been studying the problem for a quarter of a century would be likely to have a more balanced view of it.”
She glimpsed, on one side, Charles frowning and caught, on the other, a flash of encouragement from Helmut. “We have a saying,” she said, “that it is sometimes difficult to see the woods for the trees.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Well–” What did it mean? “It implies that if you get too immersed in a problem you might, conceivably, find it difficult to take an overall view of what is going on.”
“The spectator,” said Helmut, “sees most of the game. Yes?”
Humbold transferred his attention briefly to Helmut, who smiled at him, and then turned back to Laura.
“And in your twenty-six hours of being a spectator of our national game you have come to the conclusion that we have not got a troublesome Italian minority.”
“I didn’t quite mean that,” said Laura. “But it occurred to me that the Italians might be having their own troubles too.”
“And when did this thought come into your mind, Miss Hart?”
“About an hour ago when I happened to see an Italian being beaten up by three Austrians.”
She described the incident.
“Did you report the incident, Miss Hart?”
“I told the first policeman I saw.”
&nb
sp; “His name?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Surely, when you were at the police station, making a statement, you discovered his name.”
“I didn’t go to the police station. And I didn’t make a statement.”
“Why not?”
“I–”
“It was, as you describe it, a serious assault. A criminal assault. Surely it was your duty, as a witness, to make a statement.”
Laura felt herself getting hot. Charles was silent. His expression said, “You’ve got yourself into this. You can get yourself out of it.”
“The policeman,” she said, “didn’t seem to want to take it very seriously.”
“He discouraged you from making a statement?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Did he invite you to make one?”
“Yes – as a matter of fact he did.”
“And you refused.”
“He said it was probably apprentices or students. He evidently thought I was exaggerating.”
“Yes,” said Humbold.
“Coffee in the next room,” said Charles hastily.
4
The Bishop Speaks
“Really, Laura,” said Charles.
“I can see I’m not cut out to be a diplomat,” said Laura, “but you must admit he provoked me.”
Herr Humbold had left on the stroke of ten. After his departure the atmosphere had lightened. Helmut had accepted another glass of brandy and had proceeded to entertain them with stories of motor racing and the International Winter Sports set. At eleven o’clock he, too, had gone, leaving brother and sister together.
“I thought you provoked him.”
“It wasn’t what he said. It was just that he reminded me of Miss Sennett.”
“Miss who?”
“The headmistress at Highside.”
“Really, Laura.”
“He pursed his lips in exactly the same way that she did. And he treated me as if I was a child.”
“He’s got a lot on his mind just now.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, there really has been trouble over the South Tyrol. It’s not imaginary. And it could turn quite nasty.”
“What I don’t understand is, just who’s making the trouble. South Tyrol belongs to the Italians. Yes?”
“It doesn’t belong to them. It was awarded to them, after the First World War. They were on our side in that war.”
“But they were against us this time. So why didn’t they have to give it back?”
“The only people they could have given it back to was the Austrians. They were on the losing side too.”
“I think it’s horrible,” said Laura, “trading countries across the table as if they were counters. Why don’t they ask the people who live there? They’re the ones who should decide.”
“A plebiscite?”
“Why not?”
“If they had a plebiscite of Bolzano Province – which is the one most of the argument is about – I can tell you exactly what the result would be. A two-to-one vote for coming back to Austria.”
“All right, then–”
“On the other hand, the Italians say that Bolzano shouldn’t be considered by itself. They would be quite prepared to have a plebiscite of the whole of the Region – that’s Bolzano and Trento.”
“Because there are enough Italians in Trento to swing the vote the other way.”
“Quite right.”
“The whole thing’s a swindle,” said Laura. “The only answer is to make them completely independent. Like Switzerland. I’m going to bed.”
She added, as she made for the door, “I suppose there’s no truth in the rumour that the trouble’s being stirred up by ex-Nazis?”
For the first time a ripple broke the surface of Charles’ diplomatic calm.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Who put that idea into your head?”
“An American called Joe,” said Laura. “I met him on the train. He has an infallible nose for trouble. He told me so himself.”
“Going to the parade, Miss Hart?”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr Keller. Yes, I’m meeting my brother there.”
“Join me in a cup of coffee first.”
“I’d love to,” said Laura. “But do you think we ought? It’s due to start at eleven o’clock and it’s five to now.”
“It’s a full-dress military shebang. There’ll be half an hour of forming line and marching and countermarching before business begins. You’ve got a ticket for the VIP seats, I suppose.”
“Row C. Wives and Ladies of the Diplomatic Corps.”
“That’s all right then. Plenty of time for a coffee. Let’s sit outside. Make the most of this sun while it lasts.”
As they took their seats, a stocky figure got up from one of the far tables and ambled across. It was Helmut. His brown face crinkled into a smile as he recognized Laura.
“I shall see you at the parade?” he said.
“Certainly.”
“The speeches will be dull for you, but it will be a fine spectacle.”
They watched him cross the pavement and get into the low-slung scarlet Facel Vega.
“I’ve a feeling I know that guy,” said Joe.
“Helmut Angel.”
“That’s right. Of course. Mountain climbing, ski jumping, racing cars. All the really expensive ways of breaking your neck.”
“If you’ve got a lot of money to spend, that sounds quite a – well, quite a healthy way of spending it.”
Joe looked at her thoughtfully, and then said, “Oh, sure. Sure. A great boy. He’s interested in politics too, I’m told.”
“What sort of politics?”
“Does the Tiroler Boden Bund mean anything to you? Or the name Berg Isel?”
“Nothing at all. I don’t even know who Berg Isel is.”
“Oh, Fame, oh, Fame, how short thy span! Short as the Memory of Man! Berg Isel was a battle. It was one of the greatest victories ever gained by irregular troops over a regular army. It’s a place near Innsbruck – a sort of tea garden now – where Andreas Hofer, of blessed memory, routed the Bavarian troops.”
“Is he the gentleman with the beard that they’ve got all the statues of?”
“That’s him.”
“And when did it all happen?”
“A hundred and fifty years ago – just about.”
“Oh, well,” said Laura. “You couldn’t expect me to know about a thing like that.”
“People around here know about it,” said Joe. “They’ve got long memories in these parts. Whenever something happens which they regard as a threat to the Tyrol – the historic Tyrol – Andreas Hofer burnishes up his arms – and people like your friend Helmut join the Berg Isel Bund, which is fairly respectable, or the Tiroler Boden Bund, which is definitely fanatical.”
“He’s not my friend,” said Laura. “I’ve met him precisely once, at dinner last night. All the same, I could hardly help liking him. He was such a pleasant contrast to our other guest.”
Joe paused for a moment in his endeavor to attract the attention of the elderly waiter and said, “Who was he?”
“Herr Humbold.”
“The Hofrat?”
“That’s right.”
“Well now,” said Joe. “What I wouldn’t have given to be there. That’s a man who’s come a long way in a short time.”
“And knows it.”
“Right, I’ve heard that modesty’s not his strong suit. But you’ve got to admit, he’s got something to buck about. At the end of the war he was an unsuccessful dentist in Vienna. Five years later he was a deputy. He was under-secretary for agriculture in the first Christian Democrat government, and minister of health in the second. Then the idea got about that he’d cast himself as prime minister in the next government. He was busy drumming up a coalition of all the parries of the Centre with an anti-Socialist programme–”
“He doesn’t seem to like the Socialists
,” agreed Laura.
“He’s a politician,” said Joe. She wasn’t sure from his tone of voice whether this was an excuse or an explanation.
“How did he get to Lienz?”
“It’s an old rule of politics. When a subordinate gets ambitious, you send him off to rule a distant province. The Romans thought that one up. Sometimes it works all right. Out of sight out of mind. Sometimes it backfires. The proconsul gets up such a head of steam in his own province that it blows him back into power in the capital.”
“He didn’t strike me as the sort of man who would be likely to make a mark in history. He wasn’t–” having got that far she could hardly say that her views on him were coloured by his resemblance to her late headmistress – “he wasn’t a big enough sort of man,” she concluded rather lamely.
“Most of the trouble in this world,” said Joe, “has been caused by small men. Napoleon was five feet two. Hitler was five foot three. If that goddam expert in slow motion who’s disguised as a waiter doesn’t hurry with the check, we shall miss the parade.”
It took them five minutes to push their way through the thickening crowd, sightseers rather than spectators, which had gathered round the approaches to the square, attracted by the Tyrolese band, which was in full blast. Once inside the square they ran into a more serious obstacle in the form of a cordon of auxiliary police. Unlike English policemen, Laura noted, they were facing the crowd they were intended to restrain, and had the particularly expressionless appearance of civilians suddenly called on to perform an official function. Joe selected the most sympathetic looking, and showed him his pass. The man shook his head. “But look here,” said Joe. “We’ve got to get in. This is a press pass. Newspapers. You understand.”
“It is too late to pass.”
“It’s not too late. The parade hasn’t started yet. That’s just the overture. Look here, try your pass on him.”
Laura produced her invitation. It was an impressive document, inviting Laura to take her seat in the places reserved for guests of the Diplomatic Corps, and it was topped by a large red bird, either a dove or an eagle, or a heraldic hybrid of both. The policeman showed signs of weakening and summoned an officer.
A foxy-faced man introduced himself as Inspector Moll.
After the Fine Weather Page 4