The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Hum!’ said Clarence, hiding his annoyance under an expression of superior doubt, then he jumped up, claimed he had a luncheon appointment, and went without saying his good-byes.

  David looked after him, smiling in amused pity. ‘Poor old Clarence,’ he said. ‘He’s a bit of a half-baked intellectual, but a good fellow, really. Yes, quite a good fellow!’ and he returned to his condemnation of British policy in Rumania.

  PART FOUR

  The Fall of Troy

  19

  The Iron Guard amnesty was announced as the thaw set in. The thaw, arriving late, bringing with it deluge and floods, was the more discussed. The announcement of the amnesty led, not to uproar and revolt as Clarence had predicted, but to a change in the Cabinet and the appointment among the new Ministers of the Guardist leader Horia Sima. The King assured the Allies they need have no fears. The amnesty meant nothing. A few new jokes went the rounds of the cafés. The Rumanians, it seemed, were prepared for anything now.

  But the thaw was another matter. As the snow melted and ran from eaves and balconies, the whole city dripped beneath a leaden sky. Most people went about under umbrellas. When the iced surfaces on roads and pavements began to crack, people sank, without warning, deep into slush. Soon the roads were nothing but slush, ice-cold and filthy, that was sprayed by the speeding traffic on to the passers-by.

  The sky grew darker and sank lower until it split beneath its own weight and the rain fell in torrents. Rivers overflowed their banks. Whole villages were drowned in a night. Conscripted peasants, having begged leave to help their families, wandered about in search of their homes, finding nothing but a waste of waters. The destitute survivors crowded into the city to replace the beggars that winter had killed.

  The Finnish peace treaty was signed. Russia was free for another adventure. The citizens of Bucharest, cooped up in cafés, watching the downpour, passed round rumours of invasion. A reconnaissance ’plane was said to have sighted troops crossing the Dniester. Refugees were streaming towards the Pruth. Detailed descriptions were given of atrocities committed by Russian troops on Rumanian and German minorities. People went fearful to bed and rose to find everything much as they had left it. The rumours of yesterday were denied, but repeated the day after.

  During this time there appeared in Bucharest an English teacher called Toby Lush who declared that all Bessarabia was in a ferment, the Russians being expected that very night.

  It was thought at first that Lush came from the University of Jassy. Clarence and the Pringles felt much sympathy for any Englishman in a frontier town since hearing that the British Council lecturer at Ljubljana had been seized in the street one night by a German patrol car, taken over the frontier into Austria and never heard of again. However, when they started to talk to Lush, they discovered he came not from Jassy but from Cluj. He had thought that, things being as they were, he would be safer in the capital. After a fortnight, during which all the frontiers remained unviolated, he rather sheepishly said farewell to his new acquaintances, got into his car and returned to his pupils in Cluj.

  One morning before Easter, when a gleam was lightening the puddles and the chestnut buds were breaking, Yakimov stood in the Calea Victoriei and stared into the window of a small restaurant. He was indifferent to the indications of spring. He was indifferent, too, to the gypsies, crowding back to their old pitch with baskets full of snow-drops, hyacinths, daffodils and mimosa, who were calling out excitedly to passers-by as though to old friends. One of them slapped Yakimov’s arm, spinning him round and greeting him with fervour: ‘Bună dimineată, domnule,’ and he smiled, murmuring vaguely: ‘Dear girl,’ before he returned to his contemplation of the raw steaks and pork chops behind the glass.

  He was without a hat, and his hair, fine, fair and in need of a cut, stirred in the cold March wind. Though the pavement snow was reduced now to a thin layer of something like wet and dirty sugar, his shoes were soaked. The hem of his coat, becoming unstitched, dipped down to his heels. He had a cold in his head; but none of this meant much compared with the fact he was tormented by a longing for food.

  Guy, going home for luncheon, saw him and stopped and spoke. He drew his gaze slowly from the chops and tried to look blank. ‘How nice to see you, dear boy,’ he said. His voice was hoarse.

  ‘Aren’t you well?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Touch of la grippe.’ He tried to blow his nose without taking off a glove and the hard, wet, broken leather, prodding his inflamed nostrils, brought a tear to his eye.

  Guy said: ‘Are you eating anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Why, no, dear boy.’ At the prospect of food, Yakimov began to shake slightly and a second tear followed the first. He sniffed and said: ‘Not to tell a lie, I’ve been rather let down. Was luncheoning with my old friend Hadjimoscos, but apparently he’s been called to his estate.’

  ‘Good heavens, has he an estate?’

  ‘Heavily mortgaged, of course.’ Yakimov shifted hastily from the estate back to the subject of food. ‘Bit short of the Ready, dear boy. M’remittance held up again. Was just wondering what I’d do for a bite.’

  ‘Why not come back and eat with us?’

  ‘Delighted.’ All pretences fallen in the emotion of the moment, he tripped as he turned and had to catch Guy’s arm for support. Walking towards the square, Yakimov’s sufferings poured from him.

  ‘Difficult times,’ he said. ‘Your poor old Yaki’s homeless. Been turned out. Thrown out, in fact. Literally thrown out by m’landlady. A terrible woman. Terrible. And she’s kept all m’belongings.’

  ‘She can’t do that.’ Guy was indignant, but on reflection added: ‘Unless, of course, you owe her some rent.’

  ‘Only a few lei. But that wasn’t the main trouble, dear boy. It was a ham-bone I found lying about. Feeling a bit peckish, I picked it up – and she caught me with the bone in m’hand. You know what’s on a ham-bone, dear boy! Scarcely a mouthful, but she went mad. Mad. She hit me, kicked me, beat me over the head, screamed like a maniac: then she opened the front door and shoved me out.’ He shuddered from cold or fear and glanced about as though in danger of renewed attack. ‘Never knew anything like it, dear boy.’

  ‘But you got your coat.’

  ‘Happened to be wearing it. It happened last night. I’d just come in.’ He touched the coat with love. ‘Did I tell you the Czar gave this coat to m’poor old dad?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you staying now?’

  ‘Nowhere. I just spent the night tramping the streets, dear boy. Just tramping the streets.’

  When Guy brought Yakimov into the flat, Harriet, who had been sitting by the electric fire, rose without a word, went into her bedroom and slammed the door. She remained so long that Guy went after her. She turned on him angrily, saying: ‘I’ve told you I will not have that man in the flat.’

  Guy reasoned with her: ‘Darling, he’s ill; he’s hungry; he’s been turned out of his lodgings.’

  ‘I don’t care. He insulted you. I won’t have him here.’

  ‘When did he insult me?’

  ‘On Christmas night. He said your limerick was in bad taste.’

  ‘Really, darling!’ Guy laughed at her absurdity. ‘Listen! He’s not well. I’ve never before seen him looking so thin and ill.’

  ‘I don’t care. He’s a scrounger and a glutton.’

  ‘Yes, you do care.’ Guy, holding her by the shoulders, shook her affectionately. ‘We must help him, not because he’s a good person but because he needs help. You understand that.’ She let her head fall forward against his chest and, pleased by her capitulation, he gave her a final squeeze and said: ‘Come into the room. Be nice to him.’

  When Harriet entered the sitting-room, Yakimov looked apprehensively at her. He put her hand to his lips and said: ‘How kind of Beauty to feed her poor old Yaki.’

  Harriet, sufficiently recovered to be polite, was touched, in spite of herself, by Yakimov’s appearance. He looked ill, aged and underfed.

  H
e ate fiercely, saying nothing throughout the meal. When replete and revived, he looked up brightly. ‘Dear boy,’ he said to Guy, ‘I could put you on to a good thing. Had hoped to do the like for m’old friend Dobson, but he’s been out of sight these last weeks. Keep dropping in on him but his secretary says he’s busy, for some reason. Want him to get me a Yugoslav transit visa, then all I need’s m’train-fare, a few thou and a C.D. number-plate. Once there I’d redeem m’poor old Hispano-Suiza and drive her back. Anyone who financed the trip would be quids in. With a C.D. number-plate, there’s a packet to be made running stuff over frontiers. Take currency, for instance …’

  ‘I’m sure Dobson couldn’t get you a C.D. number-plate,’ said Harriet.

  ‘M’sure he could, dear girl. Dobson’s an old friend, deeply indebted to poor Yaki. And he’d get his whack. Now you, dear boy, if you could let Yaki have a few lei – thirty-five thousand, to be exact – I’d see you didn’t lose by it.’

  Guy laughed, not taking the scheme seriously, and said he and Harriet were going to the mountains for Easter. They would need all the money they could spare for the holiday.

  Yakimov sighed and swallowed down his coffee.

  Guy turned to Harriet. ‘The flat will be empty while we’re away,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t we let Yaki stay here?’

  She gave him a look and said coldly: ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘He could look after the kitten.’

  ‘Despina will look after the kitten.’

  ‘Well, it’s always a good thing to keep a place lived in.’

  ‘We’re not leaving until tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s the spare room.’

  ‘With no bed in it.’

  Yakimov broke in eagerly: ‘Anything will do for me, dear girl. The arm-chair, the floor, the odd mattress. Your poor old Yaki’ll be thankful to have a roof over his head.’

  Guy looked steadily at Harriet, trying to melt her with consciousness of Yakimov’s plight. She got to her feet impatiently: ‘Very well, but he must find somewhere to go before we get back.’

  She returned to the bedroom, from where she heard Guy lending Yakimov the money to pay off Doamna Protopopescu and regain his possessions.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t come and face her with me?’ Yakimov asked.

  No. Guy would do many things, but he would not do that.

  After the two men had left the flat, Harriet wandered about, feeling fooled. She had refused to take in Dubedat, so this time Guy, grown cunning, had not given her the chance to refuse. He had circumvented her with her own compassion. Yakimov had been dishonestly imposed on her. She felt furious.

  She went to the arm-chair where the red kitten lay sleeping, and, as though to assert the true seat of her compassion, she held it to her face, saying: ‘I love you.’ She kissed it wildly. ‘And I don’t love anyone else,’ she said.

  20

  The thaw had reached the mountain village of Predeal just before the Pringles. The snow was wet and sliding wetly down from the rock faces above the houses. The hotels were emptying as the skiers went to the higher alps. On Easter Saturday the rain began.

  Guy cared for none of this. He intended, he said, to produce a play and the choice was among Macbeth, Othello and Troilus and Cressida, copies of which he had brought with him. He had spoken of this intention during the winter, but Harriet had hoped nothing would come of it. Now, she realised, it had attained reality for him.

  ‘I shall put it on at the National Theatre,’ he said.

  She looked at Troilus and Cressida and saw it contained twenty-eight speaking parts. Dismayed, caught into the difficulties of such a production as into the toils of a prophetic dream, she tried to reason with him, but he simply laughed, seeing no difficulties at all.

  She said: ‘Very few of the students are good enough to play Shakespeare.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll only take minor parts. There are other people – friends, the chaps at the Legation …’

  ‘Do you really think the Legation men will have time for amateur theatricals?’

  Guy merely replied: ‘There’ll be nothing amateur about my production.’

  ‘And the costumes! The expense, the work – and then, perhaps, no one will come.’ She spoke with an anguish which made him laugh at her.

  ‘It will be tremendous fun,’ he said. ‘Everyone will come to it. You wait and see. It will be a great success.’

  His confidence reassured her, but at the same time she suffered the possibility of failure. She tried to persuade him to moderation: ‘Why not just do a reading in the lecture hall?’

  ‘Oh no. We must do the thing in style. Rumanians only respond to snob appeal.’

  ‘And when are you thinking of starting it?’

  ‘As soon as we get back.’

  It was late afternoon when the Pringles returned to their Bucharest flat. Two days before they had sent Yakimov a warning telegram. When they entered the sitting-room, there was no sign of him.

  ‘There you are!’ Guy congratulated himself. ‘He’s gone. I knew we’d have no trouble with him.’

  Harriet, not so sure, went into the bedroom. She was stopped as she entered by its heavy, unfamiliar smell. The curtains were pulled close. She threw them open. The windows were shut. She opened them, then, looking round at the disordered room, saw on the bed, cocooned in blankets, huddled knees to chin, head buried, Yakimov, in the depths of sleep. She went and shook him angrily.

  ‘Wake up.’

  He came to consciousness slowly. She pulled the covers from his face and one eye looked at her with an injured expression.

  ‘Didn’t you get our telegram?’ she asked.

  He dragged himself up, trying to smile. ‘Dear girl, how delightful to see you back! Did you enjoy your trip? Tell Yaki all about it.’

  ‘We expected you would be gone before we returned.’

  ‘Yaki is going: going this very day, dear girl.’ His face, swollen and damp from sleep, the skin pink like scar tissue, turned resentfully to the open window. ‘Dreadfully chilly,’ he said.

  ‘Then get up and dress. The bed linen will have to be changed.’

  Wincing at the cold, Yakimov came from under the covers, revealing pyjamas, torn and very dirty, made of flame-coloured crêpe de Chine. ‘Sick man,’ he murmured as he found, and tremulously covered himself with, a tarnished dressing-gown of gold brocade. ‘Better take a bath.’ He hurried off and shut himself in the bathroom.

  Despina had appeared by now, expressing delight at the Pringles’ return, but holding up her hands to warn her mistress that there had been catastrophe in her absence. The red kitten was dead.

  ‘No!’ Harriet cried, Yakimov and every other annoyance forgotten in the face of this news.

  Despina, nodding in sombre sympathy, related how the kitten had died. One morning, when she was cleaning the room, it had gone on to the balcony and run along the balustrade to the balcony of the next-door flat. There the servant (‘a Rumanian, of course,’ said Despina meaningfully) had hissed at it and flicked it back with a duster. Startled, it had lost its footing and fallen nine floors to the cobbles below. Despina went down and found it dead. It had, she was sure, died instantly.

  Harriet wept. The loss seemed to her unendurable. She stood crouched together, weeping with intent bitterness, in agony, as though the foundations of her life had been taken from her. Guy watched her helplessly, amazed at so much grief.

  ‘And the servant did it!’ she burst out at last. ‘The beastly peasant.’

  Guy remonstrated: ‘Darling, really! The girl didn’t realise what she was doing.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. They have the equipment of humans and the understanding of beasts. That is what one hates.’ She wept again. ‘My kitten, my poor kitten!’ After a while, she blew her nose and asked: ‘And where was Yakimov when it happened?’

  ‘Ah, that one!’ Despina spoke scornfully. ‘He was asleep.’

  ‘He would be asleep.’ Harriet’s anger with the peasant servant was now
carried over to Yakimov and Despina tried to divert her by encouraging it.

  ‘What has he done,’ she asked, ‘but eat, eat, eat and, sleep, sleep, sleep!’ She had, she said, spent all the housekeeping money the Pringles had left with her. She had managed to obtain credit at a shop where she was known to have English employers, but the credit was limited. On Easter Sunday Yakimov had invited in guests – another Prince and a Count – and had demanded a fine meal. Despina, afraid for the honour of the Pringles, was at her wits’ end. She had gone to Domnul Professor Inchcape and borrowed two thousand lei.

  ‘Did you tell him why you needed the money?’ Harriet asked.

  Despina nodded.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He laughed.’

  ‘I bet he did.’

  Despina broke in with another grievance, speaking so rapidly that Harriet could not follow her. Guy translated in a deprecating tone: ‘He wanted her to wash some clothes. She refused.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘A mountain of clothes,’ cried Despina.

  ‘He’s leaving today,’ Harriet promised her and sent her to make tea.

  When the tea was brought in, Yakimov appeared, dressed. His demeanour was so nervous that Harriet could say nothing. Despina had bought some iced cakes for the home-coming and he ate his way through them with absentminded sadness. After tea he sat on, huddled over the fire. Harriet, longing to see the back of him, asked where he had found a room.

  ‘Haven’t found one yet, dear girl.’

  ‘You’ve left it very late.’

  ‘Not been fit to trudge around.’

  ‘Aren’t you going now?’

  He answered brokenly: ‘Where is poor Yaki to go?’

  Despina was working in the bedroom. Harriet, half imagining Yakimov might take himself off in her absence, went to speak to her. A few minutes later Guy came in and spoke to her, quietly and urgently: ‘Darling, be charitable.’

  At the word, something turned over inside Harriet in self-accusation, yet she said: ‘This is my home. I can’t share it with someone I despise.’