Cause for Alarm (6 page)

The drinks arrived, a fact for which I was heartily thankful.

He sniffed at his cognac and I saw his lips twist into an expression of wry distaste. I knew that the Parigi brandy was bad, but the grimace annoyed me. He put the drink down carefully on a side table.

“Personally,” he said, “I find this city unbearable except for the opera and ballet. They are the only reasons for which I come. It must be lonely here without any friends, Mr. Marlow.”

“I have been too busy so far to think about it.”

“Yes, of course. Have you been to Milan before?”

I shook my head.

“Ah, then you will have the brief pleasure of discovering a new city. Personally I prefer Belgrade. But, then, I am a Yugo-Slav.”

“I have never been to Belgrade.”

“A pleasure in store for you.” He paused. Then: “I wonder if you would care to join my wife and I in our box to-morrow night. They are reviving Les Biches, and I am always
grateful for Lac des Cygnes. We might all three have a little supper together afterwards.”

I found the prospect of spending an evening in the company of General Vagas singularly distasteful.

“That would be delightful. Unfortunately, I expect to be working to-morrow night.”

“The day after?”

“I have to go to Genoa on business.” This, it afterwards turned out, was perfectly true.

“Then let us make it next Wednesday.”

To have refused again would have been rude. I accepted with as good a grace as possible. Soon after, he got up to go. There was a copy of a Milan evening paper lying on the table. Splashed right across the front page was a violent anti-British article. He glanced at it and then looked at me.

“Are you a patriot, Mr. Marlow?”

“In Milan, I am on business,” I said firmly.

He nodded as though I had said something profound. “One should not,” he said slowly, “allow one’s patriotism to interfere with business. Patriotism is for the
caffè
. One should leave it behind with one’s tip to the waiter.”

There was a barely perceptible sneer in his voice. For some reason I felt myself reddening.

“I don’t think I quite understand you, General.”

There was a slight change in his manner. His effeminacy seemed suddenly less pronounced.

“Surely,” he said, “you are selling certain machinery to the Italian Government? That is what I understood from my friend Ferning.”

I nodded. He gazed at my tie.

“So. That would seem to raise a question in the mind.” He raised his eyes. “But, of course, I appreciate the delicacy of these affairs. Business is business and so logical. It has no frontiers. Supply and demand, credit and debit. I have myself
no head for business. It is a ritual which I find bewildering.”

He had lapsed into Italian again. We moved towards the door and I picked up his coat to help him on with it. We both bent forward simultaneously to pick up the hat and stick; but he was still settling his overcoat on his shoulders and I forestalled him. The stick was fairly heavy and as I handed it to him my fingers slid over a minute break in the malacca. He took the stick from me with a slight bow.

“On Wednesday then, Signore.”

“On Wednesday, General.”

At the door he turned. By the hard light of the electric chandelier in the corridor, the rouge on his cheeks was ridiculously obvious.

“Shall you be remaining here at the Parigi, Mr. Marlow?”

“I don’t think so. It is a little too expensive for me.”

There was a pause. “Mr. Ferning,” he said slowly, “had a very charming apartment.”

“So I believe. Mr. Ferning could probably afford it. I cannot.”

His eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Marlow.” He coughed gently. “To a man of intelligence, a business man, there are always opportunities.”

“No doubt.”

“It is a question only of whether he has the will to take them. But I must not take up any more of your time with these ideas of mine. Good evening, Mr. Marlow, and thank you for a pleasant meeting. I shall look forward to seeing you again next Wednesday.” He clicked his heels. “
A rivederci, Signore
.”

“Good evening, General.”

He went. I returned to my room but, for the moment, I had forgotten about my bath.

General Vagas puzzled me. I had, too, an uncomfortable feeling that there had been a point to his conversation that I
had somehow missed. I found myself wishing that I had known more about Ferning. There had obviously been something odd about him. His apartment, Vagas’ veiled hints … but Ferning was dead, and I had more important things to think about than effeminate Yugo-Slav generals. In a day or two I would write to the man and tell him that a business engagement prevented me from meeting him and his wife on the Wednesday. It would probably be true, anyway. I should have to present the letters of introduction that Pelcher had given me and make myself agreeable to the company’s excellent customers. Yes, that was my job—to make myself agreeable. If Spartacus were willing to sell shell-production machinery and someone else were willing to buy it, it was not for me to discuss the rights and wrongs of the business. I was merely an employee. It was not my responsibility. Hallett would probably have had something to say about it; but then Hallett was a Socialist. Business was business. The thing to do was to mind one’s own.

I had turned my bath on and was beginning to undress when there was a knock at the door.

It was the Manager of the Parigi in person.

“I must apologise profoundly for disturbing you, signor Marlow.”

“That’s all right. What is it?”

“The police, Signore, have telephoned. They understand that you intend to stay in Italy for some time. It is necessary to deposit your passport for registration purposes. The passport is retained for only a few hours and then returned to you.”

“I know. But I gave you my passport. You said that you would arrange these formalities.”

He fluttered uneasily. “Quite so, Signore. In the ordinary way—in the case of a tourist—but in the case of the Signore it is different. I have your passport here, Signore. If you would be so kind as to present yourself personally at the
Amministrazione
in the morning, the matter will arrange itself.”

“Oh, very well.” I took the passport. “I suppose this is usual?”

“Yes, yes, Signore. Certainly it is usual. The regulations, you understand. If the Signore were a tourist then it would be simple. In the case of a resident there are certain formalities. Quite usual, Signore, and according to the regulations. Good night, Signore.”

“Good night.”

He went and I put the matter out of my mind.

It was not until I was soaking blissfully in the steaming water that it occurred to me to wonder why General Vagas thought it necessary to carry a sword-stick.

I
T USED
to be the custom to commemorate moments of national humiliation or disaster by applying the adjective “black” to the day of the week concerned. The pages of European history are, so to speak, bespattered with the records of Black Mondays and Black Thursdays. It may be that, in this twentieth century, almost daily acquaintance with large-scale catastrophe has deprived the custom of its point. Black and white have tended to merge into a drab grey.

Yet, for me, there is a Wednesday which, in its sooty blackness, is easily distinguishable from the grey. It is the day following that upon which I met General Vagas.

It began with a visit to the
Amministrazione della Polizia
.

I presented myself, passport in hand, shortly after nine
o’clock. After surrendering the passport to a policeman wearing a Monagesque uniform and a huge sword, I was ushered into a waiting-room. Except for a row of greasy wooden armchairs and an ink-stained table it was bare of furniture. From one wall glowered a large fly-blown photograph of Mussolini. Facing it on the opposite wall was a companion representation of King Victor Emmanuel. The frames of both portraits were draped, rather carelessly, with Italian flags. When I arrived, one of the chairs was occupied by an old woman in mourning, eating a cold compress of spaghetti out of an American-cloth bag. After about ten minutes she was beckoned out by the policeman and I was left alone to study the Duce’s apoplectic glare.

I waited for an hour and a quarter. Shortly after the forty-five minutes mark I went to the door and complained to the policeman. I had, I protested, work to do. His only response was a shrug and a vague assurance that my case was receiving attention. I retired once more to the waiting-room. By the time he appeared at the door and beckoned to me, my temper was already a trifle frayed. What followed did nothing to improve it.

I was shown into a room occupied by a man in a dark-green uniform. He was lolling back in his swivel chair flipping over the pages of an illustrated magazine. One gleaming, booted leg was cocked over an arm of the chair which he had swung round, so that all I could see of him was the back of his neck. Beyond affecting a slightly more intense preoccupation with the magazine, he took no notice of my entrance. With rising irritation, I studied the neck.

It was plump and brown and bulged over the narrow line of white stiff collar above the uniform collar. I took an immediate dislike to the neck and to its owner. He flipped over the last of the pages, dropped the magazine on his desk and swung round to face me. My dislike was promptly confirmed.
His face was small, smooth, round and spiteful. He scowled at me.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“My passport.”

“And why should I have your passport? Get out!”

Deciding that the fool of a policeman had probably shown me into the wrong room, I turned to go.

“Wait.”

I stopped.

“What is your name?”

“Marlow.”

“English?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!” He turned to his table, picked up my passport from under the magazine and looked at the name on it. “Ah, yes! Signor Marlow, the Englishman.” He smiled unpleasantly.

“Precisely, Signore,” I burst out angrily. “And I should like to know why I have been kept waiting for an hour and a quarter.” I nodded towards the magazine. “I, at any rate, have something to do with my time.”

It was perhaps unwise of me, but I could not help it. The prospect of carrying out my intention of putting in a good day’s work at the office was receding rapidly. I was thoroughly angry. Nevertheless, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had blundered.

His lip curled viciously.

“Be more respectful in your manner, please,” he snapped; “and be so good as to address me as
signor Capitano
.”

I glared at him in silence.

“
Allora
.” He turned to the passport and drew a sheet of paper towards him. “You will answer the questions I put to you.”

“Very well.” I carefully omitted the “
signor Capitano
.”

With great deliberation he put his pen down, fitted a cigarette
into a holder and produced a jewelled lighter. His obvious intention was to waste time. I could have hit him.

“Now,” he went on at last, “we will begin. Where were you born?”

“You will find the place and date in my passport.”

“I did not ask you what is in the passport, you fool, I asked you where you were born.”

“London.”

“The date?”

I gave him the date. The questions went on. What nationality was my father? British. My mother? British. My grandfathers? British. My grandmothers? British. Was I married? No. Had I any brothers or sisters? A brother. Was he married? Yes. What was the nationality of his wife? British. Had I ever been in Italy before? No. Where had I learned Italian? From a friend in London. What was the friend’s name? Carmelo. Where was he now? I did not know. Had I known Signor Ferning? No. Had I ever had any other profession but that of engineer? No. Why had I come to Italy? To act as my employer’s representative. How long did I hope to stay? Indefinitely. Was I a member of any political party? No. Was I a Socialist? No. Was I a Marxist? No.

By now I had my temper well under control. He sat back and surveyed me sullenly. I waited. Then he stood up. I was interested to see that he wore corsets.

“Permission will be given for you to remain in Italy providing that you report here every week to have your permit stamped. You have brought the regulation photographs? Very well. Report here to-morrow for your permit. You may go.”

“Thank you. My passport, please.”

He scowled. “Your passport will be retained until to-morrow for official purposes.”

“But–”

“There is no argument. You are in Italy now and Italian regulations must be obeyed. And”—he put one hand on his hip in the authentic Mussolini pose and tapped me threateningly on the chest—“I should advise you to be careful about the acquaintances you make.”

“I am always careful about my acquaintances.”

“Very likely. But there are some persons with whom it is unhealthy to associate.”

I stared hard at him. “I can quite believe you,” I said deliberately.

His lip curled again. “A little Fascist discipline would do you good, signor Marlow,” he said slowly. “Let me advise you once more to be discreet.” He turned his back on me and sat down.

I went, seething. On the way to the Via San Giulio I called at the British Consulate. I was interviewed by a very polite young man in a Savile Row suit. He listened to my tale of woe in silence. Then:

“Well, of course, Mr. Marlow, it is very unusual of them to behave like that, and I’ve never heard of them retaining a British passport like that. But you were probably just unlucky. And they
are
inclined to be a little touchy at the moment. I’ll have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldn’t worry. If you don’t get your passport back, let us know. By the way, what did you say your business was?”

“My company is supplying machinery to the Government.”

“What sort of machinery, Mr. Marlow?”

“For making munitions.”

“Oh quite. Well, I expect that that might have something to do with it. Let me see, Mr. Ferning was your predecessor, wasn’t he?”