Territorial Rights (17 page)

Lina Pancev had spent Tuesday morning in bed recovering from her plunge into the canal the night before. Violet’s doctor had given her some antibiotics to take against a possible infection from the canal waters wherein she had tried to cleanse herself from the contamination of Leo. Hugely intrigued by the affair, Leo had come to see her in the middle of the morning.

Violet had gone out, having told Lina firmly that she would not be back for lunch; which meant Lina was meant to get up and get her own lunch. This was already one cause for indignation, for Lina felt she had a right to be looked after. Her indignation at finding out that Leo was a Jew in her bed had been largely exorcised by her dive into the canal, and by the time Leo turned up to visit her, had subsided back into the amorphous mass of half-conscious prejudices that had so far propelled her through her life.

Leo brought up a letter for her from the hall table directed from her old attic address in Venice, and she read it while he made coffee on the spirit-stove. She was not listening to what he was saying at all, but he was telling her how funny she was in general despite the fact that she was a rotten sleep, too excitable. She caught the last word ‘excitable.’ She said, ‘You would be excitable, too, if you got a letter like this.’ She started to cry. ‘I’m having a terrible time, and now I’m losing my refugee grant,’ she said, taking her coffee from Leo’s hands.

The letter was from a woman-friend in Paris, forewarning her of a more official letter to come.

The Group feels this way. Don’t be upset, Lina, but you know you never answer letters, sign petitions or come to our meetings and our demonstrations. Additional to this, there has been a report that you are not seriously a Dissident. Isn’t it true, Lina, that you believe in nothing and know nothing of our struggle? Please do not take this personally, but you should never have left Bulgaria. Nobody was persecuting you. You do not suffer. You do not share our aims. Many stories have been whispered about you. Your ideas. …

Leo listened while she read it out. ‘Let them keep their money. You’ve got a job,’ he said.

‘I’ve got enemies,’ Lina said. ‘All round me, I’ve got enemies. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You could get up and go to the movies this afternoon. I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to meet Grace.’

‘Nobody cares about me. Even Robert has gone away, I don’t know where.’

‘See you,’ said Leo, and left.

Lina got up, feeling sick from her antibiotics and her bad news. She got dressed with the one aim in mind of buying a train ticket for Paris so that she could go there and confront her enemies and save her allowance from the fund.

When she came down to the ground floor in the lift, Violet’s cleaning woman was there, just about to leave. She pointed with a glowing smile to the hall table where a wrapping of cellophane enclosed a bunch of flowers which, as Lina peered closer, turned out to be small, fresh roses of various colours, addressed to her. The offering had a decidedly shop-bought look although the label itself was a home-made cut-out with a typed address.

‘Who sent these?’ Lina enquired of the woman who stood there marvelling, crowing her envy and hopping with curiosity.

‘They were left outside the door. Your admirer didn’t even ring the bell. I found them on the step. They must have thrown them out of a passing boat for you, because no one stopped in a boat at the landing-stage; nothing passed, no delivery, all morning. You must have a
cavaliere.’

‘You must be a fool,’ said Lina in the frustration of the morning’s news, the antibiotics and excitement of the moment. She tore at the cellophane. The woman reacted with proper indignation.
‘Cavaliere!’
said Lina. ‘Who has horses in Venice to ride to the door?’ This rude reasoning was lost on the woman, who said it was only a manner of speaking and enquired sanely if Lina didn’t feel so well.

But Lina had found a small envelope tucked into the flowers. Inside she found a card on which was typed:

Be at the Hotel Lord Byron in the lounge this afternoon (Tues.) from 2.30 onwards and await a phone call. You will be paged. Tell nobody repeat nobody.

ROBERT

Lina drew her thick brown shawl round about her shoulders, put the card in her bulky bag and walked out, lifting her skirts above the very slippery side-path till she came to the corner of the Ca’ Winter and, watched by the scornful cleaning woman, disappeared about her business. The woman took the flowers into Violet’s apartment, put them in water and purged the entrance hall of its cellophane, green twine and the mess of little leaves that had detached themselves from the bunch.

At two o’clock, having had a glass of beer and a pizza, Lina was in the hall of the Hotel Lord Byron, urging upon the reception clerk her claim to be called from the lounge the moment a call came through for her. The clerk, looking at Lina’s unprosperous clothes, was tentatively obstructive; he did not want to provoke a possible student protest, as might well happen these days by refusing to take a call for someone who looked like Lina; at the same time, she looked unlikely to give him a tip, had made no move to do so, and besides, the reputation of the hotel had to be kept up. He muttered something about the manager’s orders. He said he had no authority to put through calls to anybody but clients of the hotel.

‘Do you realise,’ said Lina, ‘who I am? Call the manager. My father was once a regular patron of this hotel.’ She felt sure this was true, and anyway, it worked. The clerk agreed to leave her name with the telephone operator and to inform her when and if her call came through. He indicated a darkish corner of the lobby where she could wait. He suggested she order something to drink in the meantime, or even a coffee. On enquiring the price of a coffee at the Lord Byron, Lina declined this suggestion. She took herself off to her corner table, snatching up a glossy magazine from another table on the way.

It was at about two-thirty that Arnold Leaver came up to her. He said, ‘Good afternoon, windy, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, Professor Leaver, good afternoon.’

‘I’m not a professor. As a matter of fact, I’m entitled to doctor but you realise in England only a medico uses “doctor”. May I take a chair? That’s why nobody else
wants
to be “doctor” in England, is my belief. The profession has gone down, down, down.’

He put on an expression of expectant gloom as if waiting for her to cap his statement with something worse. He had a brown woollen scarf tied round his neck although the hotel was centrally heated. He wore a rough but not old brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows and well-pressed grey flannel trousers. To Lina, all this was a comforting sign; his neatness, his little yellow moustache, his seemly old-fashioned spectacles, the big freckle-marks on his hairy hands, and his well-kept finger-nails took her back to her safe childhood, probably reminding her of some good, sound uncle. She told him she had seen a Venetian doctor the night before, having slipped into the canal, and that the doctor had given her antibiotics. They make me feel awful,’ she said.

‘He must be a criminal,’ said Arnold. ‘What have antibiotics to do with a drenching? I should have said an aspirin with hot lemon.’

‘Well, the canal water is infectious.’

‘What rot!’ said Arnold. ‘Doctors and their antibiotics. Fortunately I have a doctor in England who knows his job. No nonsense about him. He was the school doctor when I was head of Ambrose, and that’s why he knows what’s what. He ordered me to take this holiday. That’s why I’m taking it. And he gave a strong recommendation that I should come without my wife Anthea.’ He was looking intently into Lina’s face as he spoke. Antibiotics and canal water regardless she looked in the best of health and no man, he noted, who could call himself a man could fail to appreciate that she was a bright-eyed, a full-fledged and juicy young woman. ‘My wife Anthea,’ he said, ‘threatened to sue the doctor. Just imagine. … We’ve never been separated before, all our married life. My wife Anthea is a great anxiety to me, my dear. Anything the matter?’

She had half-risen in her chair because from where they were sitting the ring of the incoming telephone calls could be faintly heard, and apparently one of these calls was for somebody for whom the desk clerk was now looking round the lobby. From afar he noticed Lina’s movement, but shook his head when she pointed to her chest and formed the words ‘For me?’ Lina sat down again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m waiting for a definite call. You were telling me about your wife. You know it is all right for you to enjoy your holiday without a wife, but Mrs Tiller should not have come with you.’

‘In a way,’ he said, ‘you’re right. In another way, you’re wrong. When a man is in need of a change, a cheerful
and
generous companion like Mary Tiller is not to be sneezed at.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest one should always sneeze or spit over a woman who takes to her bed a married man,’ said Lina. ‘But I can also see the point of view of the good and faded wife. In my country where I come from, there is two points of view, and we are taught to look upon both of them.’

‘We, too, attempt to see the other side, objectively,’ said Arnold. ‘So you and I have a point in common, there. However, I must say, my holiday so far has been a disappointment on the whole.’

A waiter now put in an appearance, needlessly shifting ash-trays and the small flower-vases on the other tables nearby. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ said Arnold to bright-cheeked Lina.

‘I’ll have a cup of coffee, thanks.’

‘One coffee, one whisky and soda
no
ice,’ Arnold said to the waiter. ‘First,’ he said to Lina, ‘there is the problem of my wife Anthea in Birmingham very discontented about my holiday, and second, who should I meet when I set foot in Venice but my son, Robert. Let me tell you at once, my dear, that I know you’re a friend of Robert’s. I don’t want to spoil anything between you. But I must say, speaking for myself, that I was very glad indeed when I heard that Robert had left Venice. I hope he’s gone back to Paris to his studies, but his gentleman-friend, gentleman so-called, Curran is still here.’

Lina wanted very much to tell Arnold about the message that had come with the roses. But she remembered that she was to ‘tell nobody’ and was intrigued by the mystery of the phone call to come, and decided to wait, even though she was annoyed that the message had come at second-hand.

She said, ‘Robert should have told me he was going away. He should get in touch with me. He owes it to me. He was to have helped me to move my belongings when I moved into my new job.’

‘If you’re thinking that my son is reliable, said Arnold, ‘my dear, you can think again. I say no more.’ His whisky and her coffee arrived. He drank his whisky quickly while she was still stirring her coffee, and ordered another. He said to Lina, ‘Mary Tiller is a fine woman but she’s bossy. Today she was in a terrible state, I don’t know why. She went off immediately after lunch, on her own. Not much company for me, you know. I’m supposed to be on holiday. If she can go off on her own, then I can go off on my own. What are you doing tonight, my dear? Would you like to dine with me at some restaurant of your choice?’

Lina thought that would be the loveliest thing in the world and said so. She half-expected that the phone call she was awaiting would be from Robert himself, telling her he was returning to Venice. It would be good for him if she had another date. Especially with Robert’s father.

Arnold’s second whisky arrived at the same time as Lina was called to the telephone. She took it in the box she was ushered to. A woman spoke. She sounded young.

‘Miss Lina Pancev?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a message for you from Robert Leaver.’

‘Where is Robert?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a friend of Robert. Robert is not here at present. You are to tell nobody. Robert is in difficulties. It is not possible for you to see him. Tell nobody. Be in the garden of the Pensione Sofia at midnight tonight. Be in the garden. You can enter by the gate at the garden entrance. If you have any difficulty you can climb over. Then keep close to the wall at the side of the Rio.’

‘Rio? What—’

‘The side-canal. Keep close to the wall. You will receive a message there from Robert. Tell nobody. Robert wants you to do this for him. You are in no danger.’

‘Where’s Robert?’

‘Robert wants you to be there, for him.’

‘Will I see Robert tonight?’

‘No. He will see you. At midnight in the garden of the Pensione Sofia you will have a message.’

‘I’d be afraid to do that. What’s the mystery?’

‘Tell nobody.’ The woman rang off.

Lina went off to the ladies’ room before returning to Arnold. She felt sure Robert was mocking her, somewhere. She was furious with Robert for sending messages through other people, and especially through this young woman with her officious tone.

When she got back to Arnold she said, ‘Well, that’s that job done. When will you call for me tonight?’

At the Pensione Sofia Curran said, ‘Still no message?’

‘Half an hour ago,’ said Katerina, sulkily, ‘a certain man rang up. He said, “Did Curran get the message?” I said, “Who’s speaking?” He said, “Tell Curran he’s got a week to act.” That’s all. He hung up.’

‘Did you recognise the voice?’ Curran said.

‘How could I not recognise the voice when we’ve been paying that voice all these years. The Butcher’s assistant who’s become the Butcher since his master died. It can’t be anyone else, can it?’

They were in the small office that led from the hall. Eufemia came in. ‘We’ve just heard from the Butcher,’ she said.

‘I was telling him about it,’ Katerina said.

Eufemia said to Curran, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Why me?’ Curran said. ‘What has it got to do with me?’

‘Well, didn’t you kill Pancev?’ said Eufemia.

‘No. And you know I didn’t.’

Katerina said, ‘Nothing would have happened after all these years if it were not for you and your money and your boy. It’s your money they’re after, that’s all.’

‘I know,’ said Curran.