‘Well, can you come?’
‘But how can I? I must first have my bath. Then I must dress. It will take a long time because I meet a friend for lunch. And my fingernails. I must put on more varnish.’ Sophie spoke as though these activities might be a little selfish but were all the more endearing for that. She gave a laugh at Harriet’s blank face and rallied her: ‘You can see the landlord by yourself. You are not afraid?’
‘No.’ With a sense of giving Sophie a last chance, Harriet said: ‘The trouble is, I do not speak Rumanian.’
‘But the landlord will speak French. I am sure you speak very well French?’
‘I hardly speak it at all.’
‘That is extraordinary, sure-ly?’ Sophie’s voice soared in amazement. ‘A girl of good family who cannot speak very well French!’
‘Not in England.’ Harriet stood up.
Sophie encouraged her on the way out: ‘The landlord will not eat you. He will be nice to a young lady alone.’ She laughed, apparently delighted at the thought of it.
Harriet did not see Guy again until the evening. She told him she had come to an agreement with the landlord. She had taken the flat for six months.
‘And what did Sophie think of it?’
‘She did not see it.’
‘She dealt with the landlord, of course?’
‘No, she could not come. She wasn’t dressed when I called.’
‘But she promised to go with you.’
‘She said she hadn’t understood.’
Guy’s expression left Harriet in no doubt but that Sophie had understood perfectly. He routed his dissatisfaction with a burst of admiration for Harriet: ‘So you did it all alone? Why you’re wonderful, darling. And we have a flat! We must have a drink to celebrate.’ And Harriet hoped that for a few days, at least, she would hear no more of Sophie.
10
When they moved into the flat, the Pringles discovered that in negotiating with the landlord Harriet had not been as clever as they thought. Some of the furniture was missing. The bedside rug had been taken away. There were only two saucepans left in the kitchen. When telephoned, the landlord, with whom she had dealt in a mixture of English, French, Rumanian and German, told Guy he had explained to Doamna Pringle that these things would be removed from the flat.
They also discovered that if they wanted electricity, gas, water and telephone, they must settle the bills of the previous tenant, an English journalist who had disappeared without trace.
The flat was on the top floor of a block in the square. From the sitting-room, which was roughly coffin shaped, five doors opened. These led to the kitchen, the main bedroom, the balcony, the spare-room and the hall. The building was flimsy. What furniture remained was shabby, but the rent was reasonable.
When they took possession, on a day of exceptional cold, the hall-porter who brought up their luggage put a hand on the main radiator and grinned slyly. Noticing this, Harriet felt the radiator and found it barely warm. She told Guy to ask the man if it was always like this.
Yes, the flat was hard to let because it was cold. So the rent was low. The boiler, explained the porter, was not big enough to force the heat up to the top floor. Having made this revelation, he became nervous and insisted that the flats were of the highest class, each having attached to it not one servant’s bedroom but two. He held up two fingers, pulling first one, then the other. Two. One was behind the kitchen, the other on the roof. Harriet said she had not noticed a bedroom behind the kitchen. The porter beckoned her to follow him and showed her a room some six feet long and three feet wide, which she had mistaken for a store cupboard. Guy surprised her by showing no surprise. He said most Rumanian servants slept on the kitchen floor.
When they had unpacked, they went out on to the balcony and surveyed the view that was their own. They faced the royal palace. Immediately below them, intact among the disorder left by the demolishers, was a church with gilded domes and crosses looped with beads. Apart from the Byzantine prettiness of this little church, and the palace façade, which had a certain grandeur, the buildings were a jumble of commonplaces, the skyline mediocre: and much was in ruins.
It was late afternoon. A little snow was falling from a sky watered over with the citrous gleams of sunset. Already, as the Pringles watched, the buildings were dissolving into dusk. The street-lamps came on one by one. At the entrance to the Calea Victoriei could be seen the first windows of the lighted shops.
A trumpet sounded from the palace yard. ‘Do you know what that says?’ Guy asked. ‘It says: Come, water your horses, all you that are able. Come, water your horses and give them some corn. And he that won’t do it, the sergeant shall know it: he will be whipped and put in a dark hole.’
Harriet, who had not heard this jingle before, made him repeat it. As he did so, they heard a creak of wood below. The church door was opening and a light falling on to the snow-feathered cobbles. A closed trăsură drew up. Two women, like little sturdy bears in their fur coats and fur-trimmed snow-boots, descended. As they entered the church, they drew veils over their heads.
This incident, occurring there at their feet, beneath the balcony of their home, touched Harriet oddly. For the first time she felt her life becoming involved with the permanent life of the place. They might be here for six months. They might even be allowed a year of settled existence – perhaps longer. With so much time, one ceased to be a visitor. People took on the aspect of neighbours. There was a need to adjust oneself.
She said: ‘We could have done worse. Here we are at the centre of things,’ and she felt that, like herself, he was more impressed by that position than he cared to admit.
‘We should buy things for the flat,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t we go to the Dâmboviţa?’
‘Why not?’ The term had ended. Guy was on holiday. With the high spirits of a move accomplished and refreshment due, he said: ‘First, though, we will go and have tea at Mavrodaphne’s.’
This was the newest, the most expensive, and so, for the moment, the most fashionable of Bucharest cafés. The Pringles had visited it before, but this visit was a gesture of belonging. They were going where everyone went.
The café was situated in a turning off the Calea Victoriei. This was an old street that had been renovated with black glass, chromium and marble composites so that the buildings gleamed in the street lights. Within the brilliant windows were French gloves and trinkets, English cashmere garments and Italian leatherwork, tagged with exotic words like ‘pulloverul’, ‘chic’, ‘golful’ and ‘five-o’clockul’. These shops stayed open until late at night.
The enormous windows of Mavrodaphne’s were steamed over by inner heat and outer cold. A colony of beggars had already established rights in the shelter of the doorway. They lay heaped together, supping off the smell of hot chocolate that came up through the basement grating. They roused themselves in a hubbub when anyone passed inside. Within the door was a vestibule where a porter took the greatcoats of visitors and a piccolo, kneeling at their feet, removed their snowboots. This service was imposed. Customers were required to enter the better restaurants and cafés as they would enter a drawing room.
When the Pringles arrived, the whole vast area of the café, warm, scented, tricked out with black glass, chromium and red leather, was crowded for the ‘five-o’clock’, which for most people here meant coffee or chocolate, and cakes. Only a few had acquired the habit of drinking tea.
There seemed to be no vacant table. Wandering round in their search, Guy said: ‘We are sure to see someone we know,’ and almost at once they came upon Dobson, who invited them to join him. He had dashed out, he said, on some pretext, life in the Legation being now such that the girls had no time to make a decent cup of tea.
When the Pringles were seated, he asked: ‘You’ve heard about Drucker, of course?’
They, having spent their day packing and unpacking, had heard nothing. Dobson told them: ‘He has been arrested.’
For some moments Guy looked bl
ank with shock, then asked: ‘On what charge?’
‘Buying money on the black market. Too silly. We all either buy or sell. They might have thought up a more substantial charge.’
‘What is the real reason for the arrest?’
‘No one seems to know. I imagine it has something to do with his affiliations with Germany.’
While they were talking, Guy was shifting to the edge of his seat, preparing, Harriet feared, to take some action. Not noticing this, Dobson chatted on, smiling as he did so: ‘I’ve heard for some time that Carol’s been plotting to get his hands on the Drucker fortune. He can’t do much because the bulk of it’s in Switzerland. The Government could claim that the money had been deposited abroad contrary to Rumanian regulations, but that wouldn’t cut much ice with the Swiss. No power on earth will get money out of a Swiss bank without the depositor’s consent.’
‘So they may force Drucker to give his consent?’ said Harriet.
‘They may certainly try. Pressure could be brought to bear.’ Dobson gave a laugh at the thought. ‘Dear me, yes. We’ve felt for some time that Drucker was sailing too near the wind. His system of exchange was all in Germany’s favour. The Minister of Finance told H.E. that the bank was ruining the country. Drucker claimed to be pro-British. You know what they said about him: that his heart was in England but his pocket was in Berlin …’
‘The point was,’ Guy broke in, ‘he had a heart.’ Like Dobson, he spoke of Drucker in the past tense. He asked when the arrest had been made and was told ‘Early this morning.’
‘What about the other members of the family?’
Dobson had heard nothing about them.
As the waiter arrived to take their order, Guy rose. ‘I must go and see them,’ he said. ‘Sasha will be in a terrible state.’
Harriet pleaded ‘Why not go after tea?’, but Guy, looking like one on whom a heavy duty lay, shook his head and was gone. Harriet felt herself abandoned.
Dobson, startled by Guy’s abrupt departure, turned and smiled on Harriet saying: ‘You will stay, won’t you?’ apparently so eager to retain her company that her composure was somewhat restored.
Feeling she might excuse Guy by echoing his concern for the Druckers, she said: ‘This is terrible news, isn’t it?’
Dobson continued to smile: ‘Terrible for Drucker, of course, but you must remember his bank was serving the German cause.’
Harriet said: ‘I suppose he’ll soon buy his way out?’
‘I don’t know. This is a contingency against which he failed to provide. His wealth is outside the country. He could go to it, but it can’t come to him.’
The waiter brought tea and toast for Harriet, then, unasked, put on the table a plate of ball-shaped chocolate cakes pimpled over like naval mines. ‘Siegfrieds,’ he announced.
‘Not our line,’ said Dobson, imperturbably, in English.
At once the waiter whipped away the plate, retreated a few steps, returned and put it down again. ‘Maginots,’ he said, and went off well satisfied by Dobson’s amusement.
Beaming on Harriet, Dobson said: ‘I love these people. They have wit.’
Harriet wondered if she would ever love them. She watched two girls, usually to be seen here, called, so Guy had said, Princess Mimi and Princess Lulie. They had just arrived and were making their way between the tables, faintly acknowledging their Rumanian friends. Keeping close together, their bodies seeming to melt and fuse, they had the air of lovers, too absorbed in each other to have other interests; but out of this confining intimacy, their glances strayed in search of someone to pay the bill. One of them saw Dobson. Somehow the fact of his presence was conveyed to the other. They moved towards him, all smiles now, then they noticed Harriet. The smiles vanished in an instant. They veered away.
Dobson glanced regretfully after them. ‘Charming girls!’ he said.
‘You prefer the Rumanians to other races?’ Harriet asked.
‘Oh no.’ Dobson talked quickly and willingly, used to doing his duty in important drawing-rooms. Harriet had heard people speak of his charm and she was grateful for it now she had been left on his hands, but she had noticed a curious thing about him. When he laughed – and he laughed very readily – his round, bright blue eyes remained as expressionless as the eyes of a bird. He was saying: ‘I love the French and the Austrians. And I simply adore the Italians. And,’ he added after a pause, ‘I’ve known some delightful Germans.’
Harriet, feeling her conversation should be brighter, said: ‘Where do you think we met your friend Yakimov the other day?’
‘Where? Do tell me?’
‘Walking in the Cişmigiu.’
‘No, never! I can’t believe it. Was he actually taking a walk?’
‘Not voluntarily.’ She told the story of Yakimov’s ejection from McCann’s taxi and was gratified by Dobson’s reception of it. His eyes grew damp and he shook all over his plump, soft body as he laughed to himself: ‘Ho-ho! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!’
Her success was such, she felt she might safely question him about Yakimov, who had aroused her curiosity.
She asked: ‘Have you known Prince Yakimov long?’
‘Oh yes. For years. He used to live in London, with Dollie Clay-Callard. They gave tremendous parties. Simply tremendous.’
‘I suppose you went to them?’
‘Well, I went to one. It was fantastic. Out of doors in winter. The garden was floodlit and buried in artificial snow. We were told to wear furs, but, unfortunately, it was a muggy night and we were stifled. Yaki wore his sable-lined coat, I remember.’
‘The one the Czar gave his father?’
Dobson gave a burst of laughter: ‘The very one. And there was artificial ice. People skated and were pushed about in sleigh-chairs, carrying lanterns.’ He paused, reflected, and said: ‘Really, it was all rather charming. And there was a real Russian sleigh. At least Yaki said it was Russian. I wouldn’t know. It was blue and gold and drawn by a pony with an artificial mane.’
‘Was everything artificial?’
‘Everything that could be. The vodka was real enough. Dear me, I was younger then. I’d never seen anything quite like it. Soon afterwards Dollie and Yaki moved to Paris. Her money was running out. They couldn’t live on that scale for ever.’
‘Where is Dollie now?’
‘Dead, poor dear. She was much older than Yaki – twenty years or more. And looked it. But a wonderful old girl. We all loved her. We thought Yaki would inherit a fortune, but there wasn’t a sou. Up to her eyes in debt. It must have been a shock to him.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Travelled about. He never came back to England.’
‘So you never knew him really well?’
Dobson’s eyes widened in surprise at this audacity, then he laughed again. ‘Oh, everybody knew Yaki.’ No one, it seemed, needed to know more than that.
She realised she was alarming him with this spate of questions, but there was one more she must ask: how did Yakimov live now? Perhaps suspecting what was coming, Dobson said quickly as she opened her mouth: ‘Here comes Bella Niculescu. Such a nice woman!’
Harriet let herself be distracted. She wanted to see Bella Niculescu.
Tall, broad-shouldered, her blonde hair knotted at the nape, Bella was a classical statue of a woman wearing a tailored suit. She was in the late twenties.
‘She’s very good-looking,’ said Harriet, thinking that Bella’s over-stylish hat looked like a comic hat placed askew on the Venus de Milo. Behind her trotted a dark, moustached, little Rumanian Adonis. ‘Is that her husband?’
‘Nikko? Yes. But surely you’ve met them?’
‘No. She disapproves of Guy.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ Dobson laughed, contradicting her with good-humoured confidence. ‘No one disapproves of Guy.’ He stood up to give his hand to Bella.
Bella’s chief interest was in Harriet. When introduced, she said: ‘Someone told me that Guy had brought back a wife.’ Her tone and her use o
f Guy’s Christian name seemed to Harriet an offer of friendship – one that Harriet felt inclined to accept.
Dobson, his admiring smiles now all for Bella, asked if the Niculescus would join him. But Bella refused. ‘We are meeting some Rumanian friends,’ she said, with a slight emphasis on the word Rumanian.
Dobson detained her with flattering interest: ‘Before you leave us, do tell us what lies behind Drucker’s arrest. I’m sure you know.’
‘Well,’ – Bella straightened her shoulders, not displeased that the Legation came to her for information – ‘a certain lady – you can guess who! – discovered that Baron Steinfeld’s holdings in Astro-Romano were in fact owned by Drucker. You know, of course, that all these rich Jews have foreign nominees so that they can avoid taxation. No need to tell you what those shares are worth at the moment! Well, the lady invited Drucker to supper and suggested he might care to make the holdings over to her as a Christmas present. He treated the suggestion as a joke. He had no holdings – in any case, Jews did not give each other Christmas presents, etcetera, etcetera. Then she tried other tactics. (I must say, I would have liked to have been a little mouse in the room, wouldn’t you?) But Drucker, having a new young wife, was not susceptible. Then she became angry and said if he were not willing to hand over the shares, she would see they were confiscated. He thought, with his German connections, no one dared touch him – so he simply laughed at her. Twenty-four hours later he was arrested.’
‘I suppose,’ said Dobson, ‘the arrest could be something of an anti-German gesture.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ Bella’s voice rose excitedly. ‘I must tell Nikko that. He’ll be delighted. He’s so pro-British.’ She waved to where Nikko had now joined his friends and said: ‘I must leave you.’ She gave her hand to Harriet. ‘I could never persuade Guy to come to my parties. Now you must bring him.’
The Balkan Trilogy Page 14