The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  29

  When, after luncheon next day, Harriet came upon Yakimov, she felt jolted.

  She had been wandering about the unfamiliar streets in a transport of release from all she had left behind. The previous evening she had gone to the cinema where the news-film had shown not the inexorable might of the German panzer divisions, but a handful of British sappers planting a mine among scrubby bushes somewhere in North Africa. At the back of her mind was the determination to return to Bucharest, but meanwhile there was the solace of this new world where to be English was to be welcome.

  Yakimov, perched like a grasshopper on an old-fashioned bicycle, interrupted a dream, reminding her of the past. He leapt from the machine at the sight of her and came running downhill crying: ‘Dear girl! But this is wonderful! What news of the Hispano?’

  ‘It has been sold.’

  ‘No!’ He fetched up breathlessly beside her and began excitedly mopping his face. ‘Just when your poor old Yaki was asking himself where he could get a bit of the ready! What did she fetch?’

  ‘Sixty thousand.’

  ‘Dear girl!’ His large, pale, shallow eyes seemed to brim their sockets in delight, so she had not the heart to tell him that his sixty thousand was now worth less than ten pounds.

  He was wearing his tussore suit and his Indian yellow shirt. The dark patches beneath his arm-pits had become darker and now had an edging of salt crystals. A leather strap over his shoulder held a leather satchel filled with roneoed sheets. She asked what he was doing, bicycling in the heat of the early afternoon.

  ‘Got to get these delivered,’ he said: ‘news-sheets put out by the Information Office. Important job. They roped me in as soon as I arrived. Probably heard I’d been a war correspondent. Couldn’t refuse. Had to do m’bit. Well …’ He prepared to remount, holding the bicycle away from him as though it were not only unmanageable but vicious. ‘May say, you’ve got out just in time.’

  She caught his arm. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Well, there’s this rumour of a German occupation.’

  ‘But Guy is still in Bucharest.’

  Yakimov, one foot on the upraised pedal, blinked at her, disconcerted, then said: ‘I wouldn’t worry, dear girl. You know what these rumours are.’ He gained his seat and, trembling forward, attempted his baby wave. ‘We’ll meet again,’ he said. ‘I’m always at Zonar’s.’

  Harriet stood in the road, looking after him. It was some minutes before all her old disquiet immersed her and she wondered how, in this strange place, where even the alphabet was unknown to her, she was to discover what was happening. Her hotel was small, staid and cheap, a resort of English residents. Someone there might be able to tell her something.

  In the residents’ sitting-room, four women sat, each in her separate corner. The gaunt one drinking tea could only be English, Harriet decided and, usually diffident with strangers, she addressed her now without apology or excuse: ‘Can you tell me, please? Is there any news about Rumania?’

  The woman looked startled, then reproving of Harriet’s anxious informality. There was a pause before she replied: ‘As a matter of fact, we have just been listening to the news. The Germans have occupied Rumania.’

  Clearly it was a matter of no concern to these women. Feeling that she alone knew the reality behind this announcement, Harriet burst out: ‘My husband is there,’ and she remembered how she had thought she might never see him again.

  The woman, to whom she had spoken, said: ‘He’ll be put into a prison-camp. You’ll have him back after the war. My husband is dead,’ and having administered this rough comfort, she poured herself another cup of tea.

  Harriet went to the hall and asked the clerk to direct her to the British Legation. She made her way through the deserted streets in the afternoon dazzle of salt-white walls, and found that at that hour no one was in the Legation but a Maltese porter. She told him her story, saying: ‘There’s no knowing what the Germans may do to my husband. He’s on a list of people wanted by the Gestapo.’ She pressed her hands over her eyes and choked in anguish, feeling an appalled remorse that she had left him without reflecting on what she might be leaving him to.

  The porter, kindly and willing to help, said: ‘Perhaps nothing has happened at all. You know how these stories get around. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll telephone Bucharest. I’ll get through to the Legation and ask for news. I’ll ask particularly about your husband.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘An hour, perhaps two hours. Have tea at a café. Go for a walk. And when you come back, I think there will be good news.’

  But when she returned there was no news. The porter had been unable to contact Bucharest. ‘They’ve brought down “the blanket”,’ he said, keeping up a show of optimism, but she could feel his uncertainty. This isolating ‘blanket’ was proof that something had happened or was about to happen inside the country. He promised to try again, and again she set out to wear away time by walking first in one direction, then in another.

  As evening fell, she was back at the Legation. The porter could only shake his head. ‘Later,’ he said, ‘I try again.’

  Too tired to walk farther, Harriet sat on a bench in the chancellery hall and watched people come and go. The staff had returned and the porter had duties to which to attend. No one spoke to her and she was reluctant to speak to anyone. She could do no good by pestering busy officials. If there were news, the porter would bring it to her. Some time after dark, he came out of his room and looked at her. Embarrassed now because he could do nothing for her, he said: ‘Better go home. Come back in the morning. Perhaps tonight we can get through.’

  ‘Is someone here at night?’

  ‘There is always someone here.’

  ‘Then I can come back later?’

  ‘If you wish. You might try about eleven o’clock.’

  Forced into the street again, she longed to confide her misery and could think only of Yakimov. Suddenly, she saw him as a friend – an old friend. Unlike the women at the hotel, he knew Guy and would sympathise with her dismay.

  She ran down the hill to the city’s centre. In the main road she set out to search the cafés, not knowing one from the other. Earlier in the day, people had been sitting out on the pavements, but the evening had become chilly. The chairs were empty. She went into one café after another, hurrying round them, becoming almost frenzied in her search. By the time she came on Yakimov she was trembling in a distress that was near despair.

  He rose, shocked by her appearance, and said: ‘Dear girl, whatever is the matter?’

  She tried to speak, but, fearful of bursting into tears, she could only shake her head.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’

  Yakimov’s companion was an elderly man, heavily built, whose white hair looked whiter in contrast with the plum-dark colour of his skin. To give her time, Yakimov said genially: ‘Meet Mustafa Bey. Mus, dear boy, this is Mrs Pringle from Bucharest. She doesn’t really approve of poor old Yaki.’ He smiled at her. ‘What will you drink? We’re having brandy, but you can get anything here. Whisky, gin, ouzo – whatever you like. It’s all on Mus.’

  She chose brandy and, as she drank, regained herself sufficiently to talk. ‘About the German occupation of Rumania,’ she said, ‘it must be true. They’ve brought down a “blanket”. You know what that means.’

  Mustafa Bey nodded his sombre, heavy head. ‘It is true,’ he said.

  Harriet caught her breath and said: ‘What will happen to Guy?’

  ‘Guy’s no fool,’ said Yakimov. ‘He can look after himself, y’know.’

  ‘Our flat was raided the night before I left.’ Harriet saw, as she spoke, a tremor touch Yakimov’s face, and she thought of the oil-well plan. The tremor betrayed him. She knew who had taken the plan, but it scarcely mattered. She had much more to worry about.

  Yakimov was saying: ‘The Legation’ll look after the dear boy. They got all sorts out of France and Italy.
Dobbie’s fond of Guy, and Dobbie’s a good chap. He’d never abandon a pal.’

  Harriet said: ‘Dobson’s in Sofia.’

  ‘No? Dear me!’ No doubt thinking of his sixty thousand lei, Yakimov said to Mustafa Bey: ‘I could do with another, dear boy.’

  Mustafa Bey lifted a large mauve hand and signed to the waiter. More brandy was brought.

  Harriet, her agitation suspended, felt very tired. She watched the clock on the wall behind Yakimov while he talked of the pleasures of Athens. Food, he said, was plentiful.

  ‘And there are a lot of our friends here: Toby Lush, for instance.’

  ‘Is Toby Lush here?’

  ‘Yes. In a very influential position, I’m told. So’s his friend Dubedat. And a Lord Pinkrose has just arrived from Bucharest. You’ll feel quite at home here when you get settled.’

  Harriet nodded. She thought of Guy and thought of Sasha. She wondered if, without them, she would ever feel at home anywhere in the world again. She asked how long Yakimov had been in Athens.

  ‘Just a week.’ Yakimov had regained the simple grandeur of manner with which he had first assailed Bucharest society, and seemed at home himself in his new haunt which had not yet found him out.

  As the hand of the clock neared eleven, she could scarcely breathe; then, suddenly unable to bear more of it, she jumped up saying: ‘I must get back to the Legation.’

  Yakimov rose with her. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She was surprised. ‘Please don’t bother,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very kind, but …’

  ‘Of course I shall come, dear girl. Your poor old Yaki isn’t as bad as you think. Not unchivalrous, y’know, not unchivalrous.’ His sable-lined coat had been hanging on the chair behind him. He now draped it round his shoulders, taking on an air of rakish elegance, and said to Mustafa Bey: ‘I shall be back quite soon.’

  Mustafa Bey nodded with a leaden solemnity.

  ‘Delightful place,’ said Yakimov when they were in the street. ‘The nicest people. Mustafa is a dear old friend. Dollie and I stayed with him when he had a house in Smyrna. Used to be a millionaire or something. Now he’s on his uppers, just like your poor old Yaki.’

  Reminiscing about happier days, he walked with her up the hill to the Legation villa. When they reached the door, she said: ‘Would you go in and ask?’ somehow feeling that a shock might be less shocking transmuted through another person.

  Yakimov trotted in as though to show by his willingness that there was nothing to fear. She leaned against a lamp-post. The street was empty and, except for the glimmer in the chancellery, there was no sign of life. She watched the door through which Yakimov had entered. He was scarcely in when he came out again, smiling like one who bears gifts. Her spirits leapt as he said gaily: ‘Just as I thought, dear girl. Everything’s all right. Bucharest is quiet. It’s true an army of occupation is expected, but no sign of it yet. The Legation’s staying put and they say British subjects won’t be molested. My guess is, you’ll have the dear boy with you in a brace of shakes.’

  Suddenly emptied of qualms, too tired to speak, she started to weep. She wept for Sasha, for her red kitten, for Guy alone on the airfield, for the abandoned flat, the damaged books left on the floor, for war and an infinity of suffering and the turmoil of the world.

  Yakimov, saying nothing, led her gently down the hill. When she started sniffling and blowing her nose, he asked where she was staying.

  At the door of the hotel, he said: ‘A good night’s rest will make all the difference.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ Harriet said. ‘I wish I could do something for you in return.’

  He laughed in modest amazement. ‘Why, dear girl, look what you have done! You took Yaki in. You gave him a home. Who could do more?’

  ‘I’m afraid that was Guy’s idea.’

  ‘But you fed me. You let me stay.’

  She felt ashamed that what she had done, she had done so unwillingly. She said: ‘I see you still have your wonderful coat.’

  He eagerly agreed, ‘Yes,’ and, turning the front hem, revealed by the light from the hotel door the shabby sable inside. ‘Did I ever tell you the Czar gave it to m’poor old dad?’

  ‘I think you did tell me once.’

  He lifted her hand and put his lips to it. ‘If you need me, you’ll always find me at Zonar’s.’ Patting her hand before dropping it he said: ‘Good-night, dear girl.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  He waved before turning away. As he went, the fallen hem of his greatcoat trailed after him along the pavement.

  VOLUME THREE

  Friends and Heroes

  To

  Dwye and Daphne Evans

  PART ONE

  The Antagonists

  1

  When the hotel porter rang to say a gentleman awaited her in the hall, Harriet Pringle dropped the receiver and ran from the room without putting on her shoes.

  She had sat by the telephone for two days. Her last three nights in Athens had been sleepless with anxiety and expectation. She had left her husband in Rumania, a country since occupied by the enemy. He might get away. The man in the hall could be Guy himself. Turning the corner of the stair, she saw it was only Yakimov. She went back for her shoes, but quickly. Even Yakimov might have news.

  When she came down again, he was drooping like an old horse under his brim-broken panama and the sight roused her worst apprehensions. Unable to speak, she touched his arm. He lifted his sad, vague face and, seeing her, smiled.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘The dear boy’s on his way.’ So eager was he to reassure her that his large, grape-green eyes seemed to overflow their sockets: ‘Got a message. Got it on me somewhere. Must be here. Someone in Bucharest phoned the Legation. One of our chaps said to me: “You know this Mrs Pringle, don’t you? Drop this in on her when you’re passing.”’ His fingers were dipping like antennae into the pockets of his shantung suit: ‘Bit of paper, y’know. Just a bit of paper.’

  He tried his breast pocket. As he lifted his long bone of an arm, she saw the violet silk of his shirt showing through the tattered shantung of his jacket, and the blue-white hairless hollow of his arm-pit showing through his tattered shirt. The pockets were so frayed, the message could have fallen out. Watching him, she scarcely dared to breathe, knowing that any show of impatience would alarm him.

  Their relationship was happy enough now, but it had not always been like that. Yakimov – Prince Yakimov – had installed himself in the Pringles’ flat and would not be dislodged until Bucharest became too dangerous for him. She had disliked him and he had feared her, but when they met again in Athens, they became reconciled. He was the only person here who understood her fears and his sympathy had been her only consolation.

  ‘Ah!’ he gave a gasp of satisfaction: ‘Here we are! Here it is! Got it safe, you see!’

  She took the paper and read: ‘Coming your route. See you this evening.’

  The message must have been received hours before. It was now late afternoon. Guy would already have touched down at Sofia to find, as she found, that the Rumanian plane would go no farther and he must continue on the Lufthansa. The German line had agreed to carry allied passengers over neutral territory, but she had heard of planes being diverted to Vienna so that British subjects could be seized as enemy aliens. Harriet herself had not been at risk but Guy, a man of military age, might be a different matter.

  Seeing her face change, Yakimov said, abashed: ‘Aren’t you pleased? Isn’t it good news?’

  She nodded. Sinking down on the hall seat, she whispered: ‘Wonderful,’ then doubled over and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Dear girl!’

  She lifted her head, her eyes wet, and laughed: ‘Guy will be here at sunset.’

  ‘There you are! I told you he could look after himself.’

  Confused by exhaustion and relief, she remained where she was, knowing the suspense was not over yet. She had still to live until sunset.
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br />   Yakimov looked uneasily at her, then said: ‘Why not come out a bit? Get a breath of air. Do you good, y’know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’d like to.’

  ‘Then get y’r bonnet on, dear girl.’

  She entered the daylight as though released after an illness. The street was in shadow but at the end she could see a dazzle of sunlight. As Yakimov turned the other way, she said, ‘Could we go down there?’

  ‘There!’ he seemed disconcerted: ‘That’s Constitution Square. Like to stroll through it? Adds a bit to the walk, though.’

  ‘But are we going anywhere in particular?’

  Yakimov did not reply. They entered the square where there was a little garden, formal and dusty, with faded oranges upon orange-trees. The buildings, Yakimov said, were hotels and important offices. Some were faced with marble and some with rose-brown stucco. At the top of the square was the parliament house that had once been a palace and still had the flourish of a palace. Beside it were the public gardens, a jungle of sensitive bushy trees from which rose the feathered tops of palms. Four immense palms with silvery satin trunks stood across the garden entrance. Buildings, trees, palms, traffic, people – all were aquiver in the fluid heat of the autumn afternoon.

  ‘Athens,’ Harriet thought: ‘The longed-for city.’

  Bucharest had been enclosed by Europe, but here she had reached the Mediterranean. In Bucharest, the winter was beginning. In Athens, it seemed, the summer would go on for ever.

  If they could survive till evening, she and Guy would be here together. She imagined his plane where it would be now: in the empyrean, above the peacock blue and green of the Aegean. She willed it to stay on course. He had left the unhappy capital and the maniac minions of the New Order, and now she had only to wait for his safe arrival. Trying to keep her mind on this, her imagination eluded her control. She thought of those who had been left behind. She thought of Sasha.

  Yakimov, acting as host and guide, was pointing out places of interest. Modestly conscious of being in a position of vantage, his manner had a touch of the grandiose.