He stepped forward, bowed and handed the paper to Inchcape.
‘I take it,’ said Galpin, ‘we’ll get our money back?’
Ionescu gave his head a sharp shake: ‘No money back.’ He wagged a finger before his nose. ‘This is, as the English say, a little lesson. You have all been very naughty, you know.’ He moved back to the rope and, catching it with either hand, swung on it.
‘Like a bloody parrot on a perch,’ whispered Galpin.
Ionescu’s smile widened. ‘You must remember,’ he said, ‘you are guests of a neutral kingdom. Here we are peaceful. We wish no quarrel with our neighbours. While living here, you must behave like good children. Isn’t it so?’
Turning in his chair, Tufton asked his neighbours: ‘How long’s this nonsense going on?’
A voice from the back asked: ‘What fantasies? What’s biting him?’
‘Ah, dear friends,’ said Ionescu, ‘am I perhaps mistaken? Did no one here invent the story that the assassins were Guardists in German pay? That the Germans had planned an invasion? That a certain foreign diplomat was under house arrest, having been found in possession of a cheque with which to reward the assassins?’
‘Is von Steibel under house arrest, or isn’t he?’ asked Tufton.
Smiling, Ionescu said: ‘He is in bed with influenza.’
‘He’s been ordered to leave the country, hasn’t he?’
‘Tomorrow he returns to Germany for a cure.’
Questions now followed one another rapidly. In the confusion Ionescu straightened himself, raised his hands in alarm and waved for quiet: ‘A little moment, ladies and gentlemen. There is a more serious matter of which I am compelled to speak.’ His face grew grave and his voice became portentous. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is scarcely to be believed. Had I not seen with my own eyes the cable, I would have said such an invention was not possible.’
Having made this statement, he paused so long that Galpin said: ‘All right. Let’s have it.’
Ionescu said: ‘A reputable journalist, representative of a famous paper, invented a story so scandalous I hesitate to speak of it. In short, he accused our great and glorious King, father of culture, father of his people, of being behind this fiendish murder. This journalist, we learn, is a sick man. He was wounded while driving out of Poland. He suffers, no doubt, a fever and we tell ourselves this story comes of delirium. No other explanation is possible. Nevertheless, as soon as he is capable, he will be ordered to leave.’
Several present looked at Yakimov but Yakimov showed neither by expression or movement that he connected this reproof with anything he had permitted to be sent in McCann’s name. Having administered this reproof, Ionescu relaxed and smiled again.
‘Nearly three o’clock,’ said Tufton.
‘One more little moment,’ said Ionescu. ‘We will now answer questions.’
The American woman asked: ‘M. le Ministre, you have said the assassins were students. Isn’t it possible they were Guardists, too?’
Ionescu smiled on her in pity: ‘Chère madame, was it not announced by His Glorious Majesty himself that not a single Guardist remains alive in this country?’
The French woman journalist now said: ‘It is widely rumoured that the assassins were in the pay of Germany.’
Said Ionescu: ‘It is being widely rumoured that the assassins were in the pay of the Allied Powers. You must not believe café gossip, madame.’
‘I never go to cafés,’ said the Frenchwoman.
Ionescu bowed to her: ‘Then you must permit me to take you to one.’
Tufton broke in on this exchange to ask with ponderous slowness: ‘And may we enquire who executed the assassins – no doubt without trial?’
Ionescu grew grave again. He recited quickly: ‘The military, mad with grief and indignation at the murder of a beloved Prime Minister, seized the young men and, unknown to the civil authorities, shot them out of hand.’
‘Is that official?’
‘Certainly.’
Someone asked: ‘Are you aware the bodies are being displayed at this moment down in the market-place? Do you approve of that sort of thing?’
Ionescu shrugged: ‘The military here is powerful. We dare not interfere.’
‘I saw the bodies,’ said Galpin. ‘They looked to me pretty old for students.’
‘In this country we have students of all ages. Some remain at the university all their lives.’
Galpin grunted and looked at Tufton. Tufton said: ‘We’re wasting our time.’
Galpin rose, and the rest, needing no further encouragement, began to leave their seats. Roused by the squeak of chairs, Yakimov started up in wild hope. He blundered forward into Ionescu.
‘Permit me,’ said the Minister, unable to hold back the surge, and, unhooking the cord where it joined in the middle, he admitted his guests to the buffet.
With a restraint that was painful to him, Yakimov awaited his associates. Tufton was slow in getting to his feet. ‘A slap for Rumania’s kind friends,’ he said to Galpin. ‘A playful slap, but a significant one. Something has reminded them that Hitler is uncomfortably close.’
Galpin said: ‘Those bastards accepted our guarantee after the Germans occupied Slovakia.’
Tufton was up now. As he began to limp towards the buffet, he said: ‘So did the Poles.’
That evening the autumn set in. The Pringles, leaving their hotel restaurant, where the air was hot and heavy with smoke, came out into an unexpected freshness. Rain had fallen. In the distance, wetly agleam, were the cupolas of the Opera House, where the Prime Minister lay in state.
Guy was in an exuberant mood. He had been exuberant all evening. It was now accepted – in most cases unwillingly accepted – that only the Russian occupation of Eastern Poland had kept the Germans out of Rumania. It was also believed that the Russian move had been the result of foreknowledge of the German plot. All this seemed to Guy a triumph for his political ideals. He said to Harriet: ‘Even the Legation must realise now that the Russians know what they’re doing.’ To hearten Harriet he drew in his notebook a map that proved that the Germans could reach Rumanian soil only by violating Hungarian neutrality.
‘And they won’t do that,’ he said. ‘Not yet awhile.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’ve got enough on their plate already.’
Harriet smiled, this new sense of security coming to her like a gift. As they reached the street, they took hands, electrified by the changed air, and ran towards the Opera House, from which light fell through open doors. A queue had been moving all day. Now there was no queue. They took the opportunity to enter.
Inside the vestibule, where grey stone figures flew and gestured, there was a smell of wet rubber from the soldiers’ capes. The floor shone with footprints. Within the auditorium, that had been cleared of seats, the bier, lit by candles, hung with purple and silver, stood islanded in spacious gloom. At its head and foot stood priests, black-bearded, black-robed, veils falling from their high head-gear. They were muttering prayers.
When he came within sound of them, Guy whispered ‘Mumbo-jumbo’, and would have turned on his heel had not Harriet held to his arm and led him to the coffin. There was nothing to be seen but the Premier’s nose, grey-white, with a sheen like putty.
The Pringles paused for a moment, then went to look at the wreaths. These, of immense size, were propped in a wide circle round the bier. The two largest, gigantic, towering like idols in the gloom, stood side by side behind the coffin’s head. They were shield-shaped, formed of red carnations, one swathed with red, white and blue ribbon; the other with black and red. The black and red ribbon carried a swastika.
Galpin was gazing at these rival expressions of grief, a grin on his face. At the sight of him, Guy hurried forward to ask: ‘What price the old Russkies now?’
Galpin’s mouth bunched itself in self-congratulation. He stared up at the ceiling, that was as obscure as the roof of a cave, and said: ‘It all happened more or l
ess as I said. Thanks to the Russkies, we’re not in Gestapo hands at this moment.’
‘You think we’re safe, then?’ said Harriet.
‘Safe?’ Galpin’s mouth collapsed again. He eyed Harriet in bleak ridicule. ‘Safe? – with the Russian army massing on the frontier? Believe me, they’ll be here before the winter sets in.’
Guy said: ‘We needn’t worry. We’re not at war with Russia.’
‘I hope they give you time to tell them that.’
Out in the street again, Harriet attempted philosophy: ‘Wherever one is,’ she said, ‘the only thing certain is that nothing is certain.’
Guy looked surprised. ‘There are several things of which I am completely certain,’ he said.
‘What for instance?’
‘Well.’ He considered the question a moment, then said: ‘Among other things: that freedom is the knowledge of necessity and there is no wealth but life. When you understand that, you understand everything.’
‘Even the universe? Even eternity?’
‘They’re unimportant.’
‘I think they’re important.’ Rather resentfully, Harriet took her hand from his. ‘Imagine the possibilities of eternity. This life is limited, whatever you do with it. It can only end in death.’
‘All these religious concepts,’ said Guy, ‘are only a means of keeping the poor poor; and the rich rich. Pie in the sky. Accept the condition it has pleased God to put you in. I am not interested in eternity. Our responsibilities are here and now.’
They walked a little apart, divided by the statements of their differences. Before them there shone on a street corner the glass prow of the café they had set out to visit. This was the Doi Trandafiri, said now to be the meeting place of those turned out of the demolished Napoleon. Guy imagined he would find there all sorts of old friends. Harriet feared that he would. Imagining him disappearing into their embrace, she felt eternity to be doubtful and the universe black in its inhuman chill. She slid her hand back into his.
She said: ‘We’re together. We’re alive – anyway, for the moment.’
Squeezing her hand, he asked: ‘When shall we be more than that?’
He pushed through the doorway into brilliance and she left the question unanswered.
7
Inchcape had rented an empty shop, which he was fitting out as the British Information Bureau. The shop stood in the Calea Victoriei, immediately opposite the German Information Bureau. This, that he described as ‘the rival establishment’, displayed pictures of the Siegfried Line and troops on the march. Inchcape said that so far he had been sent only a bundle of posters proclaiming ‘Britain Beautiful’ and advising tourists to ‘See Britain First’. He told the Pringles they might view Călinescu’s funeral from one of the upper windows of this office, and invited them to come beforehand to his flat for a drink.
Inchcape, when the Pringles arrived, made a grimace of disappointment. He had hoped they could take their drinks out to the terrace. ‘But today,’ he said, ‘even the sky mourns.’
He had switched on two yellow-shaded reading lamps in his sitting-room: now he went round switching on three more. While the Pringles watched him, he studied the effect of this imitation sunlight on the white walls, the delicate gold and white furniture, the white pianoforte, and the books on their white shelves, then he smiled to himself. He insisted, he said, that Harriet come out for just a moment and view the park. She went out with him to the terrace and from there he turned and smiled back at the radiant room.
In the wintry, out-of-doors light, the concrete face of the flats, designed to reflect the sun, looked blotched and gimcrack. The geraniums were shedding their flowers, but Harriet, feeling that admiration was important to her host, admired everything. He touched one of his collection of large-leafed, fleshy plants and said: ‘Soon they must all come indoors. And that, in a way, is a good thing.’ When she looked at him in enquiry, he explained: ‘The snow will come soon and here we shall be, tucked away safe and sound.’
She still did not understand.
He gave an exasperated little laugh: ‘Surely, my dear child, you know that no one invades in the winter! The time to invade is the autumn – after the harvest and before the snow blocks the passes.’
‘Why not this autumn?’
‘Invasions take time to prepare, and there are no preparations. The patrol ’planes report all quiet on all fronts.’
‘That is something to be thankful for.’
Rather to her surprise, he touched her arm. ‘Didn’t I tell you there was no cause for alarm? I do not for a moment believe that anyone wants to invade this country. If they do, it won’t be for six or seven months. A lot can happen in that time.’
He smiled, very amiably. He was, she felt, being more than necessarily pleasant to her, not because he liked women, but because he did not. She suspected, also, that he was relieved to find they could get on so well. She was relieved herself: but she imagined it would always be a relationship that called for careful handling.
While Inchcape leant over the rail and pointed down through the trees to his glimpse of the lake, Harriet heard someone talking quickly and excitedly in the room behind them.
‘Who is with Guy?’ Harriet asked.
‘It’s Pauli, my Hungarian. All the best servants here are Hungarian. The Saxons are also good, but dour. Mean people, the Saxons; not much liked; no fun.’
Pauli came out to them, putting his hands over his face then dropping them to express his delight at the story he had to tell. He was young and very good-looking. He bowed to Harriet, then shot out a hand at her, almost touching her as he begged her to listen. Speaking rapidly in Rumanian, be told all over again the story he had been telling Guy.
Watching him, Inchcape’s smile softened indulgently. When the story was finished, he gave Pauli’s shoulder a small push, dismissive and affectionate. As he made off, Pauli turned several times to comment excitedly on his own story.
Pretending impatience, Inchcape called after him: ‘Where are the drinks?’
‘Ah, ah, I go now and get,’ cried Pauli, shaking repentant hands in the air.
‘That,’ said Inchcape, ‘is the latest story going round about the King. A drunk in a café was reviling the King – calling him lecher, swindler, tyrant; all the usual things – when a member of the secret police, overhearing him, said: “How dare you speak in this manner of our great and glorious Majesty, your King and mine?” “But, but,” stammered the drunk, “I was not speaking of our King. Far from it. I was speaking of another King. In fact – the King of Sweden.” “Liar,” roared the policeman, “everyone knows the King of Sweden is a good man.”’
They returned to the room where Pauli was putting out bottles and glasses. Realising his story was being retold, he stood grinning appreciatively until called away by a ring at the front door.
Clarence had arrived. He entered rather stiffly, greeting Guy and Inchcape, but keeping his glance averted from Harriet.
‘Ah,’ said Inchcape, now both his men were present, ‘I have something to tell you: I shan’t be able to view the funeral with you.’ He rubbed his brow into his hand and laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘The fact is, your humble servant has been invited to attend the funeral. I shall be in one of the processional cars.’
Guy, too startled to restrain himself, said: ‘Good heavens, why?’
‘Why?’ Inchcape was suddenly serious. ‘Because I am now in an official position.’
‘So you are!’ said Guy.
Clarence, staring down at the carpet, grunted once or twice. This noise seemed to sting Inchcape, who said, off-handedly: ‘It’s a bore, but quite an honour for the organisation. The only other members of the English colony invited are the Minister and Woolley.’
Clarence grunted again, then said with sudden force: ‘Talking of honours, I hope you won’t object to my accepting a little job that’s just been offered me by the Legation?’
‘Oh! What would that be?’
&n
bsp; ‘The administration of Polish Relief. A large sum has been allocated by the Relief Committee at home and I’ve been recommended as a possible organiser. No salary. Just expenses and use of car. What about it?’
‘Why you?’
‘I did relief work in Spain. I was with the Council in Warsaw. I speak Polish.’
‘Humph!’ Inchcape locked his fingers tightly together, examined them, then snapped them apart. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said.
‘So you don’t object?’ Clarence persisted.
‘I do object.’ Inchcape swung round on him. ‘No one can do two jobs properly. You’ve been seconded by the British Council to our organisation. Now you’re recommended for this work.’
‘It’s war work. Someone must do it. I’ll see the two jobs don’t clash.’
‘They’d better not. Well, help yourselves. I must go.’ He went from the room, and a little later they heard him slam the front door as he left the flat.
At the sound, Clarence jerked his head up and accidentally caught Harriet’s eye. He coloured slightly but seemed relieved that he had acknowledged her presence at last. His manner eased. As he poured out the drinks, he laughed and said: ‘When we were merely outcast purveyors of British culture, Inchcape outdid us all in contempt for officialdom. Now, what a change is here! The next thing, he’ll be dining with Woolley.’
Clarence was wearing a tie decorated with the small insignia of his college and a blazer with the badge of his old school. Before they left the flat, he wrapped himself up in a long scarf knitted in the colours of a famous rowing club.
The Balkan Trilogy Page 10