Now she was cautious. With the vindictiveness of the weak, he was likely to repay her behaviour with Charles; and given any opportunity, he would sink her with some appalling truth.
‘A great man,’ Clarence repeated firmly. ‘He’s not self-seeking. He’s generous. He’s a big person.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet.
‘You’re jolly lucky to be married to him.’
‘I suppose I am … in a way.’
‘What do you mean: “in a way”? You’re damned lucky!’
Harriet let it pass. The café produced a sandwich for her. As the sun passed off the outdoor tables, the cold returned. Though the damp breeze smelled of spring, and almonds and apricots were in bloom, an icy tang came into the air at twilight. The nights were cold enough for snow.
She left earlier than she need to go to the office. When she returned, Clarence had moved inside. He had been drinking cognac and his gloom had lifted. He now accorded her his old romantic admiration.
At eight o’clock Ben Phipps, on his way to the Stefani Agency, entered and came to the table, doing a favour but not willingly. He had a message from Guy and his delivery was off-hand: ‘He says he’ll have to rehearse the chorus again. But you’re to go to the Pomegranate and he’ll join you there.’
‘Why the Pomegranate?’
‘Don’t ask me. That’s what he said.’
‘How long will he be, do you think?’
‘God knows. You know what he’s like.’
Clarence asked Phipps to join them for a drink, but Phipps, humorously patronizing, somehow implying that to him a lieutenant-colonel was a joke, said: ‘Haven’t time, old chap. I have to work for my living,’ and went.
The Pomegranate was a night club and an odd choice for Guy. He may have thought that, as Clarence in his new glory could afford it, it would be an especial treat for Harriet.
She said: ‘It’s expensive, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh well! If the food’s good …’
‘There’s no such thing as good food these days.’
‘You mean, not at any price?’
‘Not at any price. But they have a singer who’s very good; and it’s run by a eunuch. A real one; one of the last of the old Ottoman empire.’
‘Oh well! That’s something.’ Clarence got unsteadily to his feet.
The hallway of the Pomegranate was lit by an indefinite inkish glow from bulbs hidden inside paper pomegranates. The eunuch who sat there collecting the entrance fees was not fat as his kind are said to be, but marked by an appearance that resembled nothing but itself. His face was grey-white, matt, and very delicately lined, like crackle ware. It was fixed in an expression of profound melancholy. He appeared unapproachable. A walking-stick, resting between his legs, showed that he was a cripple. Harriet, who felt for him the same anguish that had been roused in her by the deliberately maimed beggar children of Rumania, had once seen him making his way like a wounded crab down University Street. People walked round him, avoiding him not because of his awkward movements but because he had been separated from human kind by an irreparable injury. He seemed to have retreated from society like someone who had been a centre of scandal and would not risk another brush with life. But he purveyed life of a sort. He had started the night club, the best in Athens, and, sitting in a basket chair at the door, watched all who came and went.
Those who entered found a vapid, colourless little hall with a dance floor. Most of the tables were taken. Any still unoccupied were marked ‘reserved’. The ‘reserved’ ticket was taken off for Clarence and Harriet, and Clarence said: ‘I hope this table wasn’t intended for anyone else. I dislike being given special treatment because of my rank.’
His expression was smug and Harriet said: ‘Don’t worry. You are favoured not because you’re an imitation colonel, but as a guest and an ally. The Greek army is professional: rank has nothing to do with class, only with proficiency. The Greek soldiers go wherever they can afford to go, so I hope the British command will stop all this nonsense about Other Ranks.’
‘I’m pretty sure they won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s obvious.’ Clarence spoke peevishly, disliking the discussion. The Athens streets had been noisy with the newly arrived troops who, coming in from camps, wandering about, lost in the darkness, blundered in between the black-out curtains of any door that seemed to offer a refuge. They had not managed to pass the eunuch at the Pomegranate. His fee was too high.
‘You don’t want them in here, do you?’ Clarence asked. ‘For one thing, there isn’t room.’
There certainly wasn’t much room. The people present resembled those who had been at Cookson’s party. The dance floor was packed with couples clinched face to face and barely able to move. Among them Harriet saw Dobson with the widow of a shipping magnate, whom he was trying to marry.
‘What shall we drink?’ Clarence asked, insisting on happier things. He ordered retsina and when the third bottle was opened his smile had become mild, placatory and rather mawkish: ‘Come on and dance,’ he said, but Harriet was not dressed for dancing. When she refused, he said: ‘If you won’t, then I’ll dance with that pretty girl over there.’
‘She’ll refuse you. Greek girls don’t dance with foreigners.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It’s out of loyalty to their own men at the front.’
‘Loyalty?’ Clarence brooded on the word then added with feeling: ‘Yes. Loyalty. That’s the thing. That’s what we need.’ An impassioned gloom came over him and Harriet knew he would now be willing to talk.
She asked gently: ‘How is it between you and Sophie?’
‘How do you think? The last time I saw her she was coming out of Sicorel’s. She’s just bought a thousand pounds’ worth of evening dresses.’
‘You’re joking. Surely you’re not as rich as that?’
‘Rich? Me? You don’t think I paid for them?’
‘Who did, then?’
‘A silly little Cherrypicker with a title and money in the bank. He paid for them and probably paid for a lot of other things as well.’
‘You mean, she’s left you?’
‘Yep. Not surprising, is it? What had I to offer a girl like Sophie?’
‘How long were you married?’
‘Week. It took a week to get her passport, then she looked round, sighted something better and was off like a greyhound from a trap. I admit things were grim. I had no job – we had only one room, in a dreadful pension. She hated me.’
‘Oh, come!’
‘Hated me!’ Clarence repeated with morose satisfaction: ‘Anyway, off she went. In next to no time she’d got herself a poor devil of a major. Not that I pity him. A bloody ordnance officer, feathering his nest while better men rot in the desert. She didn’t stick him for long. She went on to an Egyptian cotton king, but he was only an interlude. She didn’t intend to lose a valuable passport just to go and live in the delta. I don’t know who came next … I lost sight of her. Cairo is the happy hunting ground for girls like Sophie. They can pick and choose.’
‘Are you divorcing her?’
‘I suppose so. She said she might want to marry this last one. She does love dressing up. As she came out of Sicorel’s, her face was glowing. It’s the only time I ever saw her really happy.’
‘But what can she do with so many evening dresses? Is Cairo like that?’
‘O Lord, yes!’ Clarence glanced critically at Harriet’s plain suit, then stuck out his lower lip at the women with their faded dresses on the dance floor. His eyes ceased to focus. Lost in memory, he suddenly laughed: ‘Sophie had something,’ he said: according a benevolent admiration. ‘She really was a little trollop.’
‘You knew that when you married her.’
‘Of course I did.’ Clarence stretched back in his chair, relaxed and fired by wine, and smiled aloofly, having reached now the stage of philosophical titubancy which granted him insight into all things. ‘You just don’t understan
d. You simplify life too much. Things are subtle … complex … frightening … One does things because one does things. You’re so clever, you don’t know what I mean. But what a fate! Really, when you come to think of it. I don’t envy her.’
‘Who?’
‘Sophie. He won’t marry her. They never do. She’ll be stuck there with her British passport. In a few years’ time she’ll be just like all those raddled Levantine wives who got left behind in Cairo after the last war. She’ll keep a pension …’
‘It’s an old story.’
‘Yep. Life’s an old story. That’s what’s wrong with it. Still, it interests me. I interest myself.’
‘I’d never have thought it.’
‘Hah!’ Clarence turned his moist reminiscent eye and now the admiration was for Harriet. ‘You’re a bitch. Sophie was only a trollop, but you’re a bitch. A bitch is what I need.’
‘I don’t think so. You need someone who can share your illusions …’
‘Go on talking. You do me good. You always despised me. Do you remember that night I came in drunk from the Polish party and David Boyd was there? You debagged me. The three of you. Guy and David held me down and you took my bags off.’
‘Did we do that? What shocking behaviour. But we were young then.’
‘Good heavens, it was only last winter. And before I left – do you remember? – I asked for those shirts I’d lent Guy and you were furious. Quite rightly. I didn’t really want them. I was just being bloody-minded. And you were furious! You took them out to the balcony and threw them down into the street.’
‘What a stupid thing to do!’
‘No, not a bit stupid. You were always doing extraordinary things – things no one else thought of doing. I loved it. I bet if I asked you, you’d get up on this table here and now, throw off your clothes, and dance the can-can.’
‘I bet I wouldn’t.’
Clarence sat up, urging her, ‘Go on. Do it.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ She wondered if Clarence had always held such an absurd view of her, or had she, with the passage of time, become a myth for him?
Clarence was pained and disappointed by her refusal but the waiter arrived and he forgot the can-can. Their meal was served. Clarence took a mouthful and put down his fork.
‘This is pretty terrible,’ he said.
‘It’s better than you’ll get anywhere else.’
‘Then we’ll need a great deal more to drink. Let’s go on to champagne.’
The floor cleared and the singer came out: a stout woman, not young, not beautiful, but it was for her that people came to the Pomegranate. She sang ‘Anathema’ and Clarence asked: ‘What is that song?’
‘A curse on him who says that love is sweet.
I’ve tried it and found it poison.’
‘God, yes!’ Clarence sighed fervently and filled his glass. He gave up any further attempt to eat.
The singer sang: ‘“I’ve something secret to tell you: I love you, I love you, I love you.”’
The pretty girl who had attracted Clarence closed her eyes, but a tear came from under one lid. Clarence gave her a long look and, dismally bereft, turned on Harriet:
‘That chap you were with today: what’s he doing here?’
‘He has some sort of liaison job. He won’t be here much longer.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Clarence maliciously agreed. He sat up, preparing an attack, but at that moment Guy arrived.
‘Ah!’ said Clarence, his voice rich with interest, ‘here he is at last.’
They watched Guy as he made his way round the room greeted by people Harriet did not know, talking to people she had never seen before. Dobson, dancing with the widow, flung out an arm as Guy passed and patted him on the shoulder.
‘A great man! A remarkable man!’ said Clarence, deeply moved.
Behind Guy came Yakimov, the hem of his greatcoat trailing on the floor.
Clarence said: ‘Hell!’ then added: ‘Never mind, never mind,’ and in a mood to accept anything, shouted: ‘Good old Yakimov.’ The reprimand intended for Harriet was delayed by the new arrivals and the need to order food and more of the gritty, sweet champagne. Eventually, when they had all settled down again, Clarence looked angrily at Harriet and said: ‘You’ve the best husband in the world.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed
‘You’re lucky – damned lucky – to be married to him.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘I’m telling you again. Apparently you need telling. What were you doing walking about holding on to that bloody little pongo?’
‘I like that. You’re a pongo yourself.’
Guy said: ‘Hey. Shut up, you two.’
‘I’m telling her,’ Clarence explained to Guy, ‘she’s married to the finest man I’ve ever known … a great man, a saint. And she’s not satisfied. She picked up with a kid one pip up …’
Guy said again: ‘Shut up, Clarence,’ but Clarence would not shut up. He continued to condemn Harriet and condemn Charles. He and Charles might have little enough in common, but both had an instinct for intrigue. To each, the very sight of the other had roused suspicion, and Clarence took Harriet’s guilt for granted.
She was angry but, more than that, she was shocked. She was particularly shocked that these accusations should be made in front of Guy who seemed to her, at that moment, like some one of an older generation, who must be protected against the atrocities of sex. When Clarence at last reached an end, she said to Guy: ‘You know this isn’t true.’
‘Of course it isn’t. Clarence is being silly.’ Guy rose as he spoke, looking for a refuge, and seeing Dobson leave the floor, hurried over to his table.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Harriet said.
‘What do I care!’ mumbled Clarence. ‘Someone had to say it,’ and self-justified and self-righteous, he sank into a despondent half-sleep.
Yakimov, who had listened to none of this, was waiting for his food. When it came, the waiter was sent to summon Guy who looked round, waved, nodded and went on talking to Dobson.
Yakimov, smiling blandly, said: ‘I think I’ll begin,’ and when his own plate was empty, peered at Guy’s: ‘Do you think the dear boy doesn’t want it?’
The food, some sort of lung hash, had fixed itself, cold and grey, on Guy’s plate. To Harriet with her disordered stomach it looked inedible, but nothing was inedible to Yakimov. She said: ‘You might as well have it.’
When Guy eventually returned, she told him: ‘I’ve given Yakimov your food.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Clarence began struggling up and calling the waiter. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said frantically.
‘Not yet,’ Guy protested. ‘I’ve only just got here.’
‘You got here nearly an hour ago,’ Harriet said crossly. ‘You spent all the time at another table.’
‘Why didn’t you come over?’
‘We weren’t asked to come over.’
‘Do you need to be asked?’
Clarence persisted that he must go. ‘My berth’s booked on the night train. I’ll be in trouble if I miss it.’
‘Oh, all right; but I’ve seen nothing of you.’
‘Whose fault is that?’
‘And I’ve had nothing to eat.’
Harriet said: ‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Really, darling, need you be so disgruntled? Clarence is only here for one night.’
‘I must go,’ Clarence moaned.
‘All right. Don’t worry. Harriet and I are coming with you.’
Yakimov was content to be left behind.
Outside in the passage, the eunuch had left his base. An Australian soldier was sitting in the basket chair weeping. Perhaps he had been excluded from the club, perhaps he could not afford to pay.
‘What’s the matter?’ Harriet asked.
‘Nobody loves poor Aussie,’ he wept. ‘Nobody loves poor Aussie.’
‘He’s drunk,’ Clarence said
in contempt. Stepping out to the street, he stopped a taxi in a businesslike way but, once inside it, fell across the back seat and lost consciousness.
The station was blacked out. The train, that used to be part of the Orient Express, stood darkly in the darkness. The station officials moved about carrying torches or oil lamps. One of the officials thought that Clarence must be the British officer who earlier in the day had left his suitcase in the cloak-room. Every man on the station joined in getting Clarence to his bunk. The two cases, whether they belonged to Clarence or not, were put up on the rack. Another British officer was leaning out of the window of the wagon-lit and it seemed that he and Clarence were the only passengers on the train.
Guy shook Clarence by the shoulder, trying to waken him: ‘We’re leaving,’ he said: ‘We want to say “good-bye”.’
Clarence shrugged Guy off and turning his face to the wall, mumbled: ‘What do I care?’
‘Isn’t there anything we can do for him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s another case of “Nobody loves poor Aussie”.’
The station-master warned them that the train was about to leave and Guy, suddenly upset, said: ‘We may not see him again.’
‘Never mind. We must regard that relationship as closed.’
But Guy could not regard any relationship as closed. All the way back to Monistiraki he spoke regretfully of Clarence, upset that he had seen so little of an old friend who held him in such high esteem.
‘I really liked Clarence,’ he said as though Clarence had departed from the world.
And, indeed, it seemed to Harriet that Clarence was someone who had disappeared a long time ago and was lost somewhere in the past.
23
March, as it moved into spring, was a time of marvels. The British troops were coming in force now, filling the streets with new voices, and the splendour of the new season came with them. The men were wonderful in their variety. As the lorries drove in from the Piraeus, bringing Australians, New Zealanders and Englishmen of different sorts, the Greeks shouted from the pavement: ‘The Wops are done for. When the snow melts, we’ll drive them into the sea.’
The Balkan Trilogy Page 92