“I haven’t got a dinner jacket.”
“Gheorge is your size. He will lend you one.”
“All right,” I said, and made my escape.
Lisa was waiting for me.
“I have put your rucksack in your room,” she said. “I will show you where it is. Is that all the clothes you have?”
“Every stitch,” I said. “But I can soon buy some more.”
“Have you got some money?”
“Lots of money.”
“Good. There is a little man in Steinbruck will make you some clothes. It will take about two days.”
“I wish I could introduce him to my tailor,” I said. “He has never made me the simplest garment in less than two months. What about lunch?”
“We had better have that in the town. No one here eats much until the evening. Lady has some sandwiches sometimes when he is working very hard.”
“You ought to have warned me.”
“Of what?”
“He’s a poisonous little man.”
Lisa looked at me, cold astonishment in her eyes.
“But he is not poisonous,” she said. “He is a great man.”
“He couldn’t be greater than he thinks he is.”
“Philip, don’t be so—” she cast round her diligently for the most wounding word in her vocabulary “—so insular. Just because he does not behave in a hearty manner and slap you on the shoulder and say, “Old boy, old boy.”
“If he had I should have assumed he was a confidence trickster.”
“What’s wrong with him then?”
“Nothing really,” I said. “He dresses like a shopwalker and uses scent and has got an ego the size of a balloon – apart from that he’s all right.”
For a moment Lisa looked as if she was going to be angry. Then she laughed.
“Poor Phee-leep,” she said. “You have always to be indignant about somebody. Yes? I remember. That is because you are a Martian.”
“You still go in for that fiddle-faddle?”
“Because you do not understand it is no need to mock it.”
My room was a nice one. I unpacked my rucksack, washed my face and put on my other collar. Whilst I was in the middle of these simple preparations there came a knock at the door and the gnome-like servitor came in. Thinking he had come to turn down the bed or something, I stood politely aside. But no. He had something to get off his chest. Having wound himself up, he pressed the button, and something came out which sounded like “affamissage”.
“In case it’s any help,” I said, “I do speak Hungarian.”
A broad smile split his oaken face.
“That is well,” he said, with evident relief. “I have a message for you from your compatriot.”
“From—?”
“From the Herr Studd-Thompson, yes. It is a message in writing.”
“He left a letter?”
“Not for you, by name. He said to me, if I should go away, perhaps they will send someone in my stead. If it should be a little man, with brown skin and very light blue eyes and brown hair turning grey, then you will give him this letter.”
I walked over to the glass. “Looks like me,” I said.
The gnome grinned, and handed me an envelope. It had nothing written on it. I tore it open. Inside were two sheets of paper covered with Colin’s neat, affected writing.
“I gather you got my first message, or you would hardly be reading this. I’m afraid I’ve been rather naughty, but you must put down some of it to boredom, and the rest to two interviews with that blazing ass Forestier. What I told him was that if anything should happen to prevent my playing my part in this business, then you were the best possible person to take my place. That’s all. What he said to me was – (a) they couldn’t possibly agree to my telling anyone anything about it (in the circumstances I can understand that), (b) that if someone else had to be roped in, it would be one of their own department, not you, and (c) if I made any attempt to communicate with you in any way, I should be for it, and you would be prevented from leaving England. That sounded to me like a threat. To which, assisted by my connections on The Times, by Henry (splendid woman) and by Herr Godinger of Cologne (provided he is still out of prison) I have devised, I venture to say, a fairly simple answer. Whether they will succeed in keeping you in England is a matter of opinion. My guess is no. Well, Philip, God bless you. I can’t give you a more intelligent brief since I’ve no idea what I shall be doing, or what will be happening when this reaches you. Except that I shall be temporarily out of commission. Herewith I pass the torch to you.”
I read it through twice. Then I became aware that the gnome was still with me.
“It is good news. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “More or less.”
“Not bad news?”
I gathered that he had become fond of Colin.
“Not bad,” I said. “Certainly not bad.”
Downstairs I found Lisa waiting for me impatiently.
We walked into Steinbruck together. Lisa, like a lot of upper class Hungarians, is a profound believer in Astrology. She herself favoured the “onamantic” method, which was tied up with numerology and seemed to me to be even more haphazard than the “scientific” method.
“I suppose you’ve worked out Lady’s horoscope.”
“But of course. He is a Jupiter. Loyalty, sincerity and inherent greatness.”
“That seems to me sufficient proof that your system wants overhauling. What was I?”
“I told you. You are a Martian. Combative and quarrelsome. Also you are under the influence of Fish.”
Before I could think of a suitable reply we were entering the town. Viewed as we came down into it from above, it looked larger than I had thought at first. A sprawling hotch-potch of architecture. Streets of new buildings sprung up, like a fresh undergrowth, under the white towers and gables of the older Austrian buildings. It had all the charm of a town built on a slope between a mountain and a river. Some of the streets were mere flights of cobbled steps. Its air of settled but agreeable melancholy was even more remarkable at close quarters.
“They live in dreams,” agreed Lisa. “Like Brighton.”
We had our lunch in a restaurant overlooking the river. After two of my attempts to talk about Colin had been deftly turned aside I gave it up.
When we had finished our meal Lisa said: “I suppose now you will call on your representative.”
“What representative?”
“Of your Government. I can show you his office. You will wish to report yourself?”
“Why should I report to anyone?” I said. “I’m not in the Army. I’m in Steinbruck as a tourist.”
“We are rather far east for tourists,” said Lisa. Her eyes had gone up as she spoke. From where we sat we could see the mountain edge, not very high, but sharp and defined, along which ran the last real barrier left in Europe.
“In any event,” said Lisa, “if you do not go to see him he will hear of your arrival and will wonder. Major Piper is a very nice man. He will not eat you.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” I said. “If you think I ought to go, of course I will. Only, for various reasons, I think I’ll not mention my real name.”
“A new name. That’s fun. What shall we christen you?”
I was devoid of inspiration.
“According to your natal sign, it should be Mr. Fish.”
I drew the line at Fish. We compromised with Waters.
Major Piper had his office above a wine store. A faded board outside still showed the Sailing Ship which was the Corps Sign of the formation that had occupied Carinthia in 1945. Below it the letters A.M.G.O.T. had been painted out and ‘H.M. Consular Agent’ substituted; above it an arrow pointed down the passage. At the end of the passage a second arrow pointed us up the stairs.
The office of the local representative of H.M. Government was in two parts. In the outer part, at a table, sat a lady. Her hair was blonde, her proportions were generous,
and she was asleep. Even in her sleep she managed to preserve a certain calm dignity.
We paused, irresolute.
Fortunately at that moment the old fashioned telephone at her desk rang.
She woke up and went into action without any appreciable intermission. I have seen cats wake like that, but never human beings.
“Hullo. Mitzi here. Yes.” Then to us, “Please sit down,” and to the telephone, “He is very busy now, could you possibly make it later?”
The telephone sounded irritated.
“But certainly he is busy,” said the girl. “Poor man, he was up all last night.” Here the telephone evidently made an unkind suggestion. Mitzi said: “Certainly not. He was working,” and rang off sharply.
“I’m sorry he’s busy,” said Lisa. “Perhaps we had better come back later.”
“Only busy to that pig,” said Mitzi. “I will tell him. What name?”
“This is Mr. Waters – an Englishman.”
“I deduced it from his clothes,” said Mitzi, and disappeared into the inner office. The partition was thin and it was clear that she was now waking up Major Piper. Presently she beckoned us in.
The Major was a small, spare figure of a man. He could hardly, I thought, have been less than sixty. His flattened nose and broad, squashed face gave him the look of one of those peculiar Tasmanian mammals whose name I can never remember. His cheeks were rosy with interrupted sleep.
“Ah, hullo Lisa,” he said. “Nice to see you. And you, Waters. We don’t see many tourists here. Not enough attractions, you know.”
“I have rarely seen a town I liked so much at first sight,” I said, and meant it.
“Not really. You mean that? Well, I must say, I’m fond of it myself. I’ve been here ten years. A bit sleepy, perhaps. It wasn’t like that when I first came here. I was in A.M.G.O.T. Plenty of life then.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said. “I hadn’t realised that the eastern boundary of our zone ever ran so far beyond Volkermarkt.”
“I don’t believe it was meant to be here,” admitted the Major. “Result of a mistake – like the rest of the British Empire. I’m told it was a second Lieutenant in the 17/21st who couldn’t read a map. No cavalry man ever can read a map. He was sent out to make contact with his Russian opposite number. Went to quite the wrong place. Finished up here. Of course, things were very fluid just at that time, with the Russos steamrollering in from Hungary, and the Yugos coming up from the south, and the Eighth Army popping in from Italy three days ahead of schedule. Very off-putting for the politicians. Everything had to be decided on the spot in those days.”
He sighed wistfully.
“You must be almost the furthest east of any neutral territory,” I said.
“That’s it,” he said. “An outpost.” The idea seemed to please him. “Of course, the real chap who matters here is the Soviet Trade Counsellor. Name of Palantrev. You won’t meet him. No one ever does. For years I didn’t believe he existed, and then one evening I ran across him at a cocktail party. Funny little man. Small, fat and frisky, like a biscuit-fed mouse.”
“You say he’s the real power,” I said. “How’s that? There aren’t any Russian troops here.”
“Not here,” admitted the Major. “Not as far as I know. Plenty over the border, though. Line-of-communication troops they call them. They looked fairly operational to me the only time I saw them. Of course, they’re not meant to be there at all. They were only supposed to be there whilst the occupation was on.”
“Which no doubt accounts for the fact that they weren’t in any hurry to sign a treaty with Austria.”
“No doubt,” he said, and looked at me sharply, as if I was the one who had been being indiscreet. “Where are you staying, Mr. Waters?”
“He’s staying with us,” said Lisa. “We’ll see he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“An ethnographer, eh?”
“Mr. Waters is one of the leading experts on the correlation of Slavonic and Teutonic racial characteristics.”
“Ah, that accounts for it,” said the Major. “I thought I recognised his name when you mentioned it. I’ve no doubt I’ll run across you both from time to time.”
We took our leave. Mitzi was boiling a large saucepan of chocolate on a gas ring in the outer office. She grinned at us.
“Might have offered us some,” said Lisa. “It makes me slaver at the mouth just to look at it. Come to the Schlossgarten.”
On the way to the Schlossgarten we dived down a close and up two flights of stairs to meet Lisa’s tailor. He was a nice old man, who worked in a small room which seemed smaller because of the number of children in it. During the process of being measured I counted eight, but there may well have been more.
I ordered a dinner jacket, a suit for rough wear complete with knickerbockers (‘le sporting’) and a sober suit of dark grey with a generous roll to the lapels which is the uniform of all respectable continental racketeers.
Then we went to the Schlossgarten and drank our chocolate sitting under a striped umbrella with moth holes in it.
As we sat there the sun started to go down and a long shadow crept over the town from the west. The mountain line to the east was still warmed by the level sun but the shadows were stealing up the lower slopes.
Lisa followed my eyes.
“It’s just like a fairy story,” I said. “Not the nice, pretty, Walt Disney sort, but an old German fairy story with woodcuts. Whilst the sun shines, girls and boys play. But when it starts to go down, and the long shadows begin to creep, all wise children go indoors and pull up the drawbridge, and the creatures of the night come out and play till cockcrow. The little wicked creatures who live in the trunks of trees, and the night birds who talk to each other in whispers, and worst of all, the men with fox faces. They look like men, and you can’t be sure of them until they take off their shoes and stockings and you can see the hair between their toes.”
Lisa said, “It is true. And in the morning, all the mountain line to the east is black and hard like the end of the known world. Then the sun comes up very slowly, and for a moment it turns everything red, like blood, before it comes flooding down into our valley, and life begins again.”
She gave a little shiver.
“I should have brought my coat. Come on, we will walk up the hill and warm our blood. Also, we must not be late for dinner.”
Gheorge’s dinner jacket was a reasonable fit. He was longer in the arm than me but not quite so broad in the shoulders.
I walked into the drawing-room a few minutes before nine.
There were five people already there. I identified without difficulty the Frau Baronin, a tightly corseted old lady with the face and bearing of Senior Treasury Counsel; (she was deaf but apparently in possession of all her other faculties). The Baron Milo, a vital septuagenarian, was in front of the fire, with his son, General Milo, beside him. I had heard of the General. He had started the War in command of a Panzer Division, but his reputation as an intellectual had diverted him from commanding troops and looking after Districts to more confidential, and, in the outcome, more harmless fields of work. He had steered clear with equal skill of the Assassination Plot, and the War Crimes Trials and if he had had an ounce of military ambition he could have had a top job in the new German Army. Colin had often spoken of him and I looked at him with interest. He regarded me blankly in return through his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
Gheorge was talking earnestly to Lady (who had confirmed my worst suspicions by putting on a dinner jacket with dark green velvet facings); and at that moment Lisa came in.
“All here,” announced the Baron, I could see him practically licking his lips. He jerked the bell beside the fireplace and a servant, who had evidently been waiting on the mark, swept open the inner doors and we passed, in an orderly rush, into the dining-room, Lady leading with the Frau Baronin, followed by the Baron and Lisa, Gheorge and myself, with the General whipping in.
Accounts of what oth
er people eat are generally boring, so all I will say is that the food at this and every other meal I had at Schloss Obersteinbruck was perfect beyond modern understanding. I am a parsimonious eater at the best of times, and the bulk and succession of the dishes was a little daunting but nobody worried if you said ‘No’. There was always something else to follow. I could understand how Colin had put on weight.
Until the very end of the meal we drank nothing but Tokay. Gheorge, who sat on my left, said, “The Baron is a great lover of wine. He imports his Tokay himself from Hungary.”
“And his girls from Yugoslavia,” said Lisa, in what was meant for a confidential aside, but fell embarrassingly into a gap in the conversation. Gheorge frowned at her.
After dinner we took our brandy with us into the drawing-room, where a card table had been set up.
“I am told you play bridge,” said Lady.
“Why, yes,” I said. I may have sounded a little surprised.
“Before you came,” explained Lady, “we were in a quandary. Three of us here are extremely fond of the game.” He indicated the General and Gheorge, who were both smiling.
Well, at last my usefulness was being appreciated.
The General spread the cards and we cut for partners. I found myself with Gheorge.
Bridge is a game that no one can really understand except its devotees, and they can live in it. Normally, perhaps, rather sombre and uninteresting characters, at the card table they come to life. During the magic hours when the game has them in thrall they attack and defend, plot and counter plot, use all the weapons of diplomacy and bluff, display their strengths and weaknesses, and lay bare their innermost souls. All in the deft handling of fifty-two pieces of pasteboard.
Gheorge was a sound player of a painstaking sort. General Milo was a scientist, pure and simple. But Lady had a touch of genius. He was neither to have nor to hold. After two rubbers I thought I had pinned him down to one particular deceptive play – only to find to my cost, during the third, that he had planted the idea with motives of his own. It occurred to me to wonder, for an uneasy moment, what stakes we were playing for, but the two following rubbers redressed the balance.
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