The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘You saw Maria Marten. It is only a joke. You know Pinkrose. Can’t you persuade him to be reasonable?’

  As she spoke, she saw on Charles’s face the resentment of a deprived child. He said: ‘I don’t think he’d be influenced by me,’ and looked away. He would have to return to the office.

  Harriet, though she was due back herself, let him go and delayed her own departure as a gesture of sympathy with Guy. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ she asked.

  ‘Ben Phipps saw you come in here.’

  Did he, indeed! She looked over to where Cookson and Callard had been sitting and was thankful to see they had gone. She suddenly felt impatient of Guy’s quandary, knowing he was more than able to meet this situation without her aid.

  She said she had to go to work. To her surprise he said he would meet her at seven o’clock. They could go home together. She had expected to see Charles, who had made a tentative suggestion, not confirmed, that they should hear the singer at the Pomegranate. If Guy wanted, for once, to go home, she could do nothing but agree.

  The following morning carried an atmosphere of moment. Pinkrose and Alan Frewen, summoned to the Legation, went off in separate taxis. The News-Sheet, in preparation, carried nothing more immediate than raids on Cologne and a ‘brush’ in Libya. No one knew what was happening, but Yakimov and Miss Gladys gumshoed about the Billiard Room, conversing in choked whispers as though they were being stifled beneath a blanket of secrecy.

  At mid-day, when she found Charles waiting for her, Harriet gave him no opportunity to sulk. Seizing on him, she asked excitedly: ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Well … something.’ He tried to maintain reserve but he, too, was stirred by events. ‘It looks as though our chaps will be here in a day or two.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll leave Athens?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not immediately, anyway. Come to the hotel for lunch. I’m supposed to remain on tap.’

  When they reached the Corinthian, they were disconcerted to find Guy and Ben Phipps seated in the sunlight at one of the outdoor tables. Guy jumped up as if he had been waiting for them, and Ben Phipps, with unusual cordiality, pulled Harriet down to the seat beside him and asked her what she would drink.

  The invitation did not include Charles who stood by the table, uncertain whether he had lost her or not. Ben Phipps grinned up at him. ‘Well, you’re a right lot of bastards! You’ve done for us this time.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘What do you think? Hitler’s waiting to go into Bulgaria. We’ve only to move and he’ll be on top of us in a brace of shakes.’

  Trying to look knowledgeable but uncommunicative, Charles said, ‘It’s on the cards that they’ll move first.’

  ‘Maybe; and then what’ll you do? The last offer was a force “not large but deadly”. So bloody deadly, in fact, it couldn’t frighten pussy. No wonder it was turned down. But how can you improve on it? What have you got?’

  Charles maintained an impassive air, but he was too young and inexperienced to stand up to Phipps. He could not pretend to know anything Phipps did not know. Disconcerted, he said: ‘There must be men available now Benghazi is in our hands.’

  ‘A few units. What about supplies?’

  Charles made an uneasy move away from the argument. ‘The top brass know what they’re doing.’

  ‘If you think that, you’re cuckoo.’

  Charles gave Harriet a cold and angry smile, then ran up the steps into the hotel.

  ‘Thank God we’ve got rid of that toffee-nosed bastard,’ Ben Phipps grinned connivingly at Guy, but Guy did not look happy. He picked up one of Harriet’s hands and caressed it with his thumb as though to erase memory of Phipps’s brash and pointless attack on Charles. Harriet had lost weight and her hands, normally thin, now looked too delicate for use. ‘Little monkey’s paws,’ he said.

  Harriet watched the hotel door. The last time she had seen Charles disappear in that way, he had come out again almost immediately. This time he did not come out. Her impulse was to follow, to exonerate herself, but of course she could not do that.

  Guy also knew she could not do that. He gave her hand a benedictory squeeze and dropped it. Charles had been routed and the two men were free to return to matters that interested them.

  Harriet guessed that Phipps was behind all this. She had no doubt that it was he, with his sharp and suspicious awareness, who had seen her about with Charles and advised Guy to take action. It would be Guy’s idea to recall her with a claim on her sympathy; Phipps had evidently enjoyed himself and yet – why was he concerning himself in Guy’s affairs? Not out of love for Guy. There was something in his manner that caused her to relate his behaviour to himself. He had to have controlling power somewhere. Ousted from the Phaleron circle, he had taken over Guy and he wanted no distracting gesture from Harriet.

  If he could not keep his friends away from their wives, he could at least control the wives and put a stop to what he called ‘attention-getting ploys’. She was certain he had never considered her as a separate personality who might have just cause for revolt. She was a tiresome attachment that must be pushed into the background and kept there.

  Catching her fractious eye, Guy said: ‘I think we’d better find Harriet some food.’

  Phipps rose, zealous on her behalf: ‘Shall we try Zonar’s?’ He and Guy, unnaturally attentive as though she were near mental or physical collapse, walked her round to Zonar’s where Ben Phipps had a talk in Greek with one of the waiters. The waiter went off to see what he could do and returned with the promise of an omelette. The men were delighted. Seeing her served with a small, lemon-coloured omelette, they seemed to think they had solved all Harriet’s problems and removed her last cause for complaint. Ceasing to worry about her, they returned to a more crying need: the need to reform the world.

  Although Guy had had to agree that Phipps was ‘a bit of a crook’, he respected him as one of the ‘politically educated’. In a wider society Guy would have been entertained by him, but would not have chosen to associate with him. Here in Athens, each felt fortunate in finding anyone who shared his radical preoccupations. However much a crook Ben might be, Guy felt that he had more to offer the world than some fellow like Alan Frewen who merely wanted to lead a quiet life.

  Ten years Guy’s senior and an established left-wing figure, Phipps was adept at ferreting out the authors of misrule and was ready at any time to talk about the mysterious forces that had brought the world to its present pass. Some of these – such as the Zoippus Bank, the Bund and certain Wall Street Jews who had financed Hitler in the hope of forcing the whole Jewish race to move to Palestine – were new to Guy. Phipps sometimes said he had uncovered them by personal investigation. He could prove (Harriet had heard him do it more than once) that were it not for the machinations of bankers, big business, financiers, shareholders in steel and certain intrigants of the allied powers who were still, through the medium of the Vatican, in unnatural conclave with German cartels, Hitler would never have come to power, there would have been no casus belli and no war. It seemed to Harriet that for Phipps this contention had become a gospel to which life itself was simply a contributing factor. Referred to, it answered all questions. It might have some sort of basis in truth, but a basis on which Phipps had built his own fantasy; and political fantasy bored her even more than politics.

  When she had eaten the omelette, she became restless and thought of going for a walk. Guy put his hand over hers and held to her, saying: ‘Listen to Ben.’

  Ben, alerted by Guy, turned his gaze on her but could not keep it fixed anywhere for long. In ordinary exchanges he kept up an attitude of confident repose but when excited by his own disclosures, his pupils dodged about, black and small as currants behind his heavy lenses.

  Harriet seized on a moment’s silence to inquire about the revue. Guy said that Alan Frewen had undertaken to speak to Pinkrose. Harriet attempted another question but Guy motioned her not to interrupt Phipps. At last
Phipps reached his usual conclusion and paused to let Guy expose his own belief that had the forces that brought about the war used their wealth and energy to further the concepts of Marx, the earthly paradise would be well established by now.

  Both Guy and Ben Phipps were proud of their inflexible materialism yet, Harriet decided, Phipps had a mystic’s insight into the workings of high finance, while Guy read Das Kapital as the padre might read his Bible. Seeing them hold to political mysteries as other men held to God, she told herself they were a pair of hopeless romantics. Their conversation did not relate to reality. She was bored. Ben Phipps bored her. Guy and Phipps together bored her. Would the day come when it was Guy who bored her?

  She remembered when she had wanted him to take over her life. That phase did not last long. She had soon decided that Guy might be better read and better informed, but, so far as life was concerned, her own judgement served her better than his. Guy had a moral strength but it resembled one of those vast Victorian feats of engineering: impressive but out of place in the modern world. He had a will to believe in others but the belief survived only because he evaded fact. Life as he saw it could not support itself; it had to be subsidized by fantasy. He was a materialist without being a realist; and that, she thought, gave him the worst of both worlds.

  Ben Phipps’s talk came to a stop when he noticed the time. He had to return to write up events. Guy, speaking as one conscious of new responsibilities, offered to take Harriet that evening to the cellar café, Elatos, and asked: ‘How about you, Ben?’ Ben said: ‘I’ll join you but, things being as they are, I’ll have to keep near to a telephone.’

  It seemed that Guy did intend to take over her life. But too late. Much too late. And Phipps came with them wherever they went.

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you can stand so much of him.’

  Guy was astonished. ‘He’s a most lively, stimulating companion.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to listen to him. Especially now, when things are happening here.’

  ‘If more people had listened to him, none of this need have happened at all.’

  ‘How can you be so ridiculous!’ She was beginning to fear she had married a man whom she could not take seriously.

  ‘Besides,’ Guy added with reason: ‘Ben knows what’s going on here. He knows more than most people. He told me that British troops were disembarking on Lemnos, and he was right. Now he’s found out they’re moving to the mainland. I don’t suppose even your friend Frewen could have told you that.’

  ‘He could, I don’t doubt; but he didn’t. I imagine it’s inside information.’

  ‘Well, if you want inside information, you’d better stick to Ben.’

  Important visitors arrived in Athens. The Parthenon was opened to them and Ben Phipps, intending to report the occasion, obtained tickets and took the Pringles with him. The British Foreign Secretary stood at the Beulé Gate and smiled at Harriet as she passed. Harriet, smiling back at the youthful, handsome, familiar face, was transported as though some part of England itself had come to be with them here in their isolation.

  Ben Phipps kept silent till they were upon the plateau, then he grinned round to Guy, his eyes sparkling with ironical glee, his whole square, heavy body twitching in his eagerness to shatter the moment’s awe. He began to say: ‘I bet …’ and Harriet said: ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Your wife’s a bloody Conservative,’ he complained.

  ‘Oh no,’ Guy put an arm round her shoulder, ‘she’s merely a romantic.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so. Romantics are relatively harmless.’

  Harriet moved from under Guy’s restraining arm and made her way among the officers and officials who stood about on the hilltop in the last of the afternoon sunlight. Charles was not among them. She ran up the Parthenon steps and stood between the columns, watching Guy and Phipps crossing the rough ground; Phipps, in brown greatcoat, rocking heavy-footed on the stones, like a stout brown bear.

  They decided to go to the Museum. As they walked inside the Parthenon, Charles, with two other officers, climbed the steps at the eastern end and came towards them. He saw Harriet. He looked at her companions and looked away. He smiled to himself. Neither Guy nor Ben Phipps noticed him. At the steps she managed to glance back, but he was already out of sight.

  Not much was left in the Museum but enough to detain them. Harriet stood for a long time gazing at the archaic horses with their gentle curving necks, and thought: ‘It doesn’t matter. It was an impossible situation.’ Now, thank goodness, it was over.

  When they came out the sun was sinking and the important visitors had gone. The last of the officers were wandering, shadowy in the later light, towards the gate. Outside the gate Alan Frewen was making his way cautiously down the rocky slope to the road and Ben Phipps asked: ‘What’s the great man doing here?’

  Alan laughed: ‘I expect you know as well as I do.’

  ‘Would he stand for an interview?’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘Where’s he now?’

  ‘Probably half-way to Cyprus.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back.’

  When Ben dropped Harriet and Alan at the office, Guy arranged to pick her up again at seven o’clock. He and Ben were taking her to supper at Babayannis’.

  Even octopus was scarce now. At Babayannis’ the menu offered lung stew and the laced up intestines that had given Harriet a chronic stomach disorder.

  Guy said: ‘What does it matter? There’s plenty of wine!!’

  Both men preferred drink to food; but Harriet would rather eat than drink. Made irritable by hunger, she felt she had been imprisoned long enough by Phipps and Guy; and she was further irritated by Guy’s folly. Everything said seemed to confirm it. In the past she had complained because she did not have enough of Guy’s company. Now she had too much.

  Hacking away at the grey, slippery intestines, she heard Phipps repeat again Hemingway’s reply to Fitzgerald’s observation: ‘The rich are different from us.’

  ‘He said,’ said Phipps gleefully, ‘“Yes, they have more money.”’

  She fixed Phipps in a rage and said: ‘I suppose you agree with Hemingway?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t. I think his answer exposes both Hemingway and his limitations. He simply didn’t know what Fitzgerald meant.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Ben Phipps smiled indulgently: ‘And what did he mean?’

  ‘He meant that the rich have an attitude of mind which only money can buy.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed it.’

  ‘You should have noticed it. You hung around Cookson long enough.’

  ‘Cookson amused me.’

  ‘And you amused Cookson. I’m told you were the Phaleron court jester.’

  ‘I certainly laughed at him and his money.’

  ‘That was one way of defending yourself.’

  ‘Defending myself?’

  ‘Surely you know laughter is a defence? We laugh at the things we fear most.’

  ‘She’s joking,’ Guy said, but Ben Phipps knew she was not joking. He lost his indulgent air. His expression hardened and she saw him control, but only just control, the impulse to insult her.

  He disliked her as much as she disliked him, so why should she waste her life here, acting as audience to a man she despised? As for Guy, sitting there uneasily smiling, he seemed at that moment merely a gaoler who hemmed her in with people who did not interest her and talk that bored her. She had found no release in marriage. It had forced her further back into the prison of herself. Acutely conscious now of the passing of time, she felt she was not living but was being fobbed off with an imitation of life.

  As the evening went on, Phipps returned, inevitably, to the sources of the world’s mishap and Harriet, listening, reached a point of conscious revolt. At the mention of the mysterious Zoippus Bank, she broke in on him: ‘There is no Zoippus Bank. There nev
er was and never will be a Zoippus Bank. I’m quite sure no Jew ever financed Hitler. I know the Vatican was never involved with Krupps and Wall Street and Bethlehem Steel …’

  ‘You know fuck all,’ said Ben Phipps.

  Harriet met the hatred of his small eyes, and said with hatred: ‘You ugly little man!’

  His mouth fell open. She could see that she had hurt him.

  Guy was hurt, too. In shocked remonstrance he said: ‘Darling!’

  She jumped up, near tears, and hurried through the crowded restaurant. Guy caught her as she was leaving the front hall. He said: ‘Come back.’

  ‘No.’ She turned on him, raging: ‘Why do you drag me round to listen to Ben Phipps. You know I can’t bear him.’

  ‘But he’s my friend.’

  ‘Charles Warden was my friend.’

  ‘That was different …’

  ‘I don’t think so. You want Phipps’s company; I prefer Charles.’

  ‘But you don’t need Charles. You have me.’

  Harriet did not reply to that.

  Pained and puzzled, Guy reasoned with her: ‘Why do you dislike Ben? He’s much more amusing than the people you do like. I find Alan Frewen a dull dog; and as for Charles Warden! He’s a pleasant enough fellow, but he takes himself too seriously. He’s quite immature.’ Guy looked to her for agreement and when she did not agree, said: ‘But he’s good-looking. I suppose that means something to you?’

  ‘He is good-looking, it’s true; but that has nothing to do with it. In fact, when I first saw him, I thought he had a vain, unpleasant face.’

  ‘You don’t think so now?’

  ‘No.’

  Guy lowered his head, frowning to hide his distress, and asked: ‘Do you want to leave me?’

  ‘Good heavens, no; there’s no suggestion of such a thing.’

  Guy’s head dropped lower. Miserably embarrassed, he said: ‘I suppose you want to have an affair with him?’