The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Lord Bedlington?’

  ‘Could be. Bedlington! Sounds familiar. Anyway, it looks as though Lord P.’ll be promoted. Sad for Alan. He didn’t say a thing, not a thing, but I thought he looked a trifle huffed.’

  ‘Understandably,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Ummm.’ Fearful of committing himself, Yakimov made a neutral murmur. In recognition of Harriet’s presence, he had lifted himself a few inches out of his chair but now cried out piteously: ‘Do sit down. I’d offer you an ouzo but I’m not even sure I can pay for this little lot.’

  Harriet sat and Yakimov relaxed into his chair and squeezed lemon over the shell-fish. ‘Why don’t you order some? Give yourself a treat?’

  Harriet, convinced she had only to eat a single shell-fish to be laid out with typhoid, asked: ‘What are they?’

  ‘Sea-urchins. Used to get them along the front at Naples. Quite a delicacy. I suggested them to the head waiter here and he said: “People wouldn’t eat them.” I said: “Good heavens, dear boy, when you think what people do eat these days.”’ Tackling the urchins with avidity, he spoke between sucks and gulps. ‘Try them; try them,’ he urged her, but Harriet, who feared strange meats, ordered a cheese sandwich.

  ‘Who are those women in the Billiard Room?’ she asked.

  ‘The Twocurrys. Gladys and Mabel. Mabel’s the batty one. Just a pair of old trouts.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘Unsolved mystery, dear girl.’

  ‘Alan thought he could give me a job in the office.’

  ‘Why not?’ Yakimov, having downed the urchins as rapidly as Diocletian had downed the squid, mopped the remaining juices with the corners of bread. ‘Excellent idea!’

  ‘But I wouldn’t want to work for Pinkrose.’

  ‘War on, dear girl,’ Yakimov dismissed her qualms in a lofty way. ‘Can’t pick and choose who you’ll work for, y’know. Look at me. Must do one’s bit.’

  Having eaten, he sat for a while with eyelids drooping, then slipped down inside his great-coat. ‘Time for beddy-byes,’ he said and began to doze.

  Harriet, uncertain whether to remain or go, looked round for the waiter and saw Charles Warden descending from the balcony restaurant. He was looking in a speculative way in her direction and came straight to Yakimov’s side. Yakimov opened an eye and Charles Warden said: ‘I have a permit to visit the Parthenon. Why don’t you come with me?’ He turned to include Harriet: ‘Both of you,’ he added.

  Roused out of sleep, Yakimov sighed: ‘Not me, dear boy. Your Yak’s not fit … overwork and underfeeding … the years tell …’ He resettled himself and slept again.

  Charles Warden looked to Harriet with a smile that seemed a challenge and she got to her feet.

  They walked without a word through the Plaka. While each waited for the other to speak first, Harriet observed him from the corner of her eye, seeing his firm and regular profile lifted slightly, as though he were preoccupied with some solemn matter; but she was aware of his awareness. She wanted to say something that would startle him out of his caution, but could think of nothing.

  She noticed as they went through the narrow, confusing streets, that he led her with unhesitating directness to the steps that climbed the Acropolis hill. On the way up, he asked abruptly: ‘Where do you live in Athens?’

  ‘Beside the Ilissus. It’s a classical site.’

  This remark amused him and he said: ‘The Ilissus runs right through Athens.’

  ‘It doesn’t!’

  ‘I assure you. Most of it’s underground, of course.’

  ‘We are a long way out. Half-way to the Piraeus. A rather deserted area, but not so deserted as I thought at first. You can see a few little houses on the other side of the river and, of course, people live near the Piraeus Road. They’re quite friendly; they recognize us because we employ Anastea. I like it better now. It’s home of sorts.’

  He said: ‘I’d be quite happy to have a home of any sort.’ He told her he had stayed, when he first came, at the Grande Bretagne, but had been crowded out when the Mission arrived. They had had to find him a room at the Corinthian.

  ‘That’s nothing to complain about.’ From nervousness, she spoke rather sharply and he looked disconcerted, supposing she intended some reflection on young military men who manage to get themselves billeted in the best hotels. He stared into the distance, and she knew they would return to their difficult silence if she could not think of something to say. She said: ‘You seem to know Athens quite well.’

  ‘I was here before the war.’

  ‘Did you know Cookson then?’

  ‘He was a friend of my people. I was staying with him when the war started.’

  ‘It must be pleasant there in summer?’

  ‘Yes, but we had the war hanging over us.’

  ‘I know. And it was a beautiful summer. Were you on holiday?’

  ‘Not altogether. I came to learn demotic.’

  ‘You did languages?’

  ‘Classics.’

  ‘You’ve got a classics degree?’

  ‘No. I hadn’t time. I’ll go back after the war.’

  She realized he must be two, even three, years younger than she, and not much older than Sasha. His youth had an untouched brilliance like something newly minted. She felt he had done nothing; experienced nothing. The whole of his life lay ahead. To keep him talking, she said: ‘I suppose you were posted here because you speak Greek?’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave a laugh. She wondered if he found her questions inapposite or naïve? He looked at her, smiling, expectant of more, but she refused to say more.

  Walking round the base of the Acropolis, they were conscious of tension that could, in a moment, spark into misunderstanding.

  Since Harriet had last climbed up, a change had come over the rocky flank of the hill. The first rains had been enough to bring the earth to life. Every patch of ground was becoming overlaid with a nap of tiny shoots, so tender that to tread on them was to destroy them.

  Seen from this height the green spreading over the Areopagus seemed not a composite of yellow and blue but a primary colour, lucid and elemental.

  When they turned the corner and came in sight of the sea, Harriet was struck by the immense structure of cumulus cloud rising out of the Peloponnese. The sky visible between the Plaka roofs had shown only a meaningless patching of grey and white. At this height, the cloud capes of pearl and slate and thunderous purple could be seen swelling upwards like a cosmic explosion, while to the east a luminous undercloud, floating out like a detached lining, lay peach-golden against the blue.

  Observing this spectacle, yet oddly removed from it, Harriet felt she should stop and appreciate it; but Charles went on, behaving as though he were rather more displeased than not by such a distraction. Indeed, when they reached the Beulé gate, he bounded up the stones ahead of her as though enraged by the whole outing.

  The evzone sentry examined Charles’s permit, then looked Harriet over approvingly. When he returned the permit, he presented arms with as much exertion and clatter as his equipment allowed.

  This performance broke down Harriet’s nervous restraint. Laughing, she asked: ‘Are you entitled to a salute like that?’

  Charles flushed, then burst into laughter himself: ‘They lay it on a bit if you’re with a girl,’ he said.

  She was enchanted. Detached from limiting reality, lifted into a realm of poetic concepts, she saw Charles not as an ordinary young man – she had, after all, known dozens of ordinary young men, some of whom had been quite as handsome as he – but a man-at-arms to whom was due both deference and privilege. She was her own symbol – the girl whose presence heightened and complimented the myth. Enchanted, she was almost immediately disenchanted; was, indeed, amazed at finding herself dazzled by the cantrips of war. She was against war and its trappings. She was thankful to be married to a man who, whether he liked it or not, was exempt from service. She was not to be taken in by the game of destruction – a game in which Cha
rles Warden was a very unimportant figure. Giving him a sidelong glance, she was prepared to ridicule him; instead, as she found his eyes on her, she felt warmed and excited, and the air about them was filled with promise.

  They had the plateau to themselves. The wind blew fresh, singing between the columns, and the distances, sharpened by winter, were deeply coloured. The paving inside the Parthenon was brilliant. Again and again during the last weeks the slabs had been washed by rain and dried by wind until now the whole great floor, reflecting the gold and blue and silver of the sky, seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl.

  Harriet wandered about, amazed by the lustre of the marble which held, in its hollows, small pools of rain left by the morning showers, and when she returned to Charles she said: ‘If you hadn’t brought me, I would never have known it could be like this.’

  He was pleased by her pleasure, and for the first time she saw his simplicity. She had thought him vain and critical, and now she thought he was not only young but artless, almost as artless as Sasha. They moved around the Acropolis contained in a contentment like a crystal, that both excluded and burnished the outside world. Harriet exclaimed about everything. The view that in autumn had been flattened by dust and sun, now fell back to the remotest rises of the Argolid with the hills blue-black and violet, the gulf waters an ashy blue and stained with shadows as with ink.

  She said: ‘Why must they close the Acropolis to visitors?’

  Charles did not know. In the seventeenth century the Parthenon had been hit by a Venetian cannon ball and he thought perhaps the Greeks feared more destruction.

  She spoke of the golden patina on the columns and asked why he supposed it was darkest on the seaward side. She watched him while he examined the marble. His expression grave and inquiring, he placed his hand on the surface as though he could divine by touch the nature of the marble’s disorder. His hand was square, the fingers no longer than the palm, an intelligent and practical, but not a visionary, hand. Her dislike had changed – and changed suddenly – to a sense of affinity. She was amazed and worried as though by something supernatural.

  With his hand starred out on the column, he said he thought the salt wind had drawn some mineral from the marble. ‘Iron, I should think. It’s a sort of rust, in fact. The marble has been oxidized by time.’

  She watched him, not really listening. When he turned and found her eyes fixed so intently on him, he smiled in surprise; and she saw how this sudden, unselfconscious smile transformed his face. As they looked at each other, a voice said: ‘Love me.’

  Harriet did not know whether he had spoken or whether the words had formed themselves in her mind, but there they were, hanging on the air between them, and conscious of them, they were moved and disquieted.

  She said: ‘I must get back. I’m seeing Alan Frewen at five.’

  ‘I must go, too.’

  They returned as they had come, without speaking, but now their silence was luminous and unnervingly fragile. A sentence could corroborate their expectations, if it were the right sentence. Neither would take the risk of speaking; anyway, not then, not at that moment.

  As they approached the centre of the town, Harriet felt this suspended anticipation more than she could bear. In Hermes Street, fearing to be caught in further, she planned her escape. She would buy – what? She thought of writing-paper, but before they reached the stationer’s shop, she felt the vibration that preceded the air-raid warning. She stopped. Charles paused in inquiry. They were held an instant as though the tremor were some tangible assertion of their nervousness, then the sirens broke out.

  She said: ‘I’m supposed to take cover.’

  Charles, though exempt from the order, caught her arm and looked round for shelter. The street was clearing. They followed the others into the basement of an office block that had been left unfinished when war began. They went down a flight of steps and through a swing door. On the other side, they were in darkness.

  Though they could see nothing, they could feel the breathing presence of people and, uncertain what was ahead, came to a stop just inside the door. As a precaution against panic, it was forbidden to speak during a raid, but the whole shelter was alive with small noises, as though the floor ran with mice. The traffic had been stopped and the city was still. The noise, when it came, was shocking. One explosion followed another, each uproarious so it seemed that bombs were bursting overhead. The concrete shuddered and a moan of terror passed over the crowded basement. Harriet felt a movement and, afraid of a possible stampede, she put out her hand and met Charles’s hand outstretched to touch her.

  He whispered: ‘It’s nothing. Only the guns on Lycabettos.’

  ‘Are there guns on Lycabettos?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a new anti-aircraft emplacement.’

  The raid was a long one. The air grew hot. Whenever the Lycabettos guns opened up, the same curious moan filled the shelter and fear, like a breeze, passed over it, rustling the crowd. As Harriet pressed against the door, it opened an inch and, seeing the twilight outside, she whispered: ‘Couldn’t we stand out there?’ They slipped quietly out.

  Two other people were on the basement stair: a woman and a small boy. The woman, not young, was seated with the boy on her knee. She was pressing the child’s cheek to her bosom and her own cheek rested on the crown of his head. Her eyes were shut and she did not open them when Harriet and Charles came out. Aware of nothing but the child, she enfolded him with fervent tenderness, as though trying to protect him with her whole body.

  Not wishing to intrude on their intimacy, Harriet turned away, but her gaze was drawn back to them. Transported by the sight of these two human creatures wrapped in love, she caught her breath and her eyes filled with tears.

  She had forgotten Charles. When he said: ‘What is the matter?’ his lightly quizzical tone affronted her. She said: ‘Nothing.’ He put a hand to her elbow, she moved away, but the all clear was sounding and they were free to leave.

  Outside in the street, he said again: ‘What’s the matter?’ and added with an embarrassed attempt at sympathy: ‘Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Is one required to be happy?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. “Happy” isn’t the word. I don’t know what I meant.’

  She knew what he meant but said nothing.

  ‘Guy is a wonderful person,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t you feel you’re lucky to be married to him?’

  ‘You scarcely know him.’

  ‘I know people who know him. Everyone seems to know him, and speak highly of him. Eleko Vourakis said: “Guy Pringle will do anything to help anyone.”’

  ‘Yes, he will. That’s true.’

  Not enlightened by her agreement, Charles gave a laugh – the brief, exasperated laugh of a man who suspects he is being swindled. It occurred to her that her first impression of him had had some justification. Whatever he might be, he was not simple. She was relieved when they reached the Grande Bretagne.

  ‘Are you seeing Frewen now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I may get a job in the Information Office.’

  ‘Then you’ll be next door to me.’

  ‘It’s not settled yet.’

  ‘Have tea with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow.’

  ‘Then, when?’

  ‘Thursday is possible. I’ll have to see what Guy is doing.’

  He opened the hotel door and as the interior light fell on his face, she saw he was chagrined. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’ll let you know.’ She went off, scarcely knowing why she felt elated, and made her way back to the Billiard Room. This time the Misses Twocurry did not give her a look. The desks were overhung by two green-shaded bulbs pulled down so low there was nothing to be seen but the desk-tops and the outline of the women. Harriet asked for Mr Frewen and, as though too occupied to speak, the younger waved her towards a door.

  Alan and Yakimov were in a room marked News
Room. Filled with elegant little escritoires and gilt, tapestry-seated chairs, it had once been the hotel writing room. Every piece of furniture was hung with news-sheets Roneoed over with blocks of information that had either been marked as important or heavily crossed out.

  Alan was seated behind a massive desk that might have come from the manager’s office. He was working on the sheets with a charcoal pencil, scoring out or underlining information, then handing them to Yakimov who sat, with negligent humility, in front of the desk. Although, as a military establishment, the hotel was heated, Yakimov still had his coat about him. At the sight of Harriet, he struggled to his feet, delighted that she should not only see him working but interrupt his work.

  Alan was less sociable. He seemed ill at ease in the position of employer, but he was prepared for her arrival. He had books, maps, depositions and newspaper cuttings stacked ready, and started at once to explain how she must correlate the material in order to make a handbook for the troops who were preparing to invade Dodecanese. He was in the midst of this when Miss Gladys Twocurry entered and started to sort the letters in a tray. Alan stopped speaking and when Harriet began to question him, he lifted a hand to silence her. When at last it became evident that Miss Twocurry would hear nothing, she took herself off.

  Alan made no comment on this sally but said to Harriet: ‘I had hoped to put you in here with Yakimov, but apparently we are to have a Director of Propaganda.’

  ‘Lord Pinkrose?’

  ‘Yes. The Legation says his appointment is imminent. He has decided he must have my office, so I’ve had to move in here. There’ll be more space for you in the outer office. Don’t let anyone quiz you about your work. Simply say you’re not allowed to discuss it.’

  He gathered up Harriet’s impedimenta and led her back to the Billiard Room where he switched on a central light, disclosing a confusion usually hidden beneath the gloom of day or the shadows of night.

  As though scandalized by this, Miss Gladys Twocurry clicked her tongue.

  Alan passed her without a glance. The billiard tables, with their stout legs and little crocheted ball-traps, had been pushed against the walls and covered with dust-sheets. The sheets, intended to protect the baize, had fallen awry. Unfiled papers were heaped on the green surface which was growing grey with dust. Beside the billiard tables there were dining tables, bureaux, military trestle-tables and card tables; and every surface was covered with letters, reports, news sheets, newspapers, maps and posters, all thrown pell-mell together and growing écru with age. An open bureau was filled with rolls of cartridge paper, made brittle by the summer heat, and as Alan swept them to the floor, they cracked like crockery and Miss Gladys clicked again, more loudly.