The Balkan Trilogy (72 page)

‘So it is, in theory.’

The procession past, the taxi crossed the square with Pinkrose jerking his head from side to side in anticipation of further shocks. And a shock awaited all three of them. As they stepped on to the pavement a gigantic flag unrolled above
their heads: a Nazi flag of scarlet, white and black. Pinkrose stared at it, his lizard mouth agape.

The Athénée Palace had, on past occasions, put out a Union Jack or a Rumanian flag of no unusual size. That morning a new gilded flag-pole had been fixed on the roof and the swastika that hung from it fell three storeys to touch the main portico.

Pinkrose demanded: ‘What’s this building?’

‘The chief hotel,’ said Guy.

They entered. The hall and vestibule, that earlier had been empty, were now crowded with all the morning idlers who usually filled the cafés. Little tables were being placed everywhere to accommodate them. Drawn there by hope of seeing the German officers, they tried to hide their excitement beneath a show of animated interest in each other. There were a great many women who, dressed to impress, whispered together, tense and watchful.

Hadjimoscos, Horvatz and Cici Palu, usually in the bar at this time, were seated in a row on the sofa opposite the main staircase. Like everyone else, they were drinking coffee and eating elaborate cakes made of soya flour and artificial cream.

The hotel servants, harassed by the rush of visitors, ignored Pinkrose’s arrival. Unable to find anyone to bring in the luggage, Guy carried it through the swing-doors himself. Saying: ‘I must go and ring Inchcape,’ he left Harriet with Pinkrose who, still muffled up, hands in pockets, gazed about him, baffled by the atmosphere of nervous expectation in which he found himself.

Every head was turned towards the staircase. Half a dozen officers had appeared, all handsome, all elegant, one wearing an eyeglass, and were descending with constrained dignity, apparently oblivious of their audience.

Some of the women took up the attitudes of graceful indifference, but most gazed spellbound at these desirable young men who were the more piquantly desirable because they had so recently been the enemy. When the Germans passed out of sight, the women fell together in ecstatic appreciation, their
eyes agleam, their sensuality heightened by the proximity of these conquerors of the world.

Pinkrose’s grey cheeks became yellowish. Newly arrived from a country at war, he was so unnerved by this first sight of the opponent, that he looked directly at Harriet to ask: ‘They were, if I am not mistaken, Germans?’

Harriet explained their presence: ‘There are a great many Germans in Bucharest. You’ll soon become used to them.’

Guy, returning at an agitated trot, said he had been unable to telephone as the telephone boxes were all occupied by journalists sending out some story to their contacts in Switzerland. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said: ‘probably something to do with the Military Mission. We’ll have to wait, so let us go inside.’

Pinkrose and Harriet followed him through to the vestibule. As they passed the row of telephone boxes, Galpin darted from one of them and began to push past them, unseeing, intent in his pursuit of news. Guy caught his arm, introduced him to Pinkrose, whose appearance seemed to surprise him, then asked: ‘Has anything happened?’

‘My God, haven’t you heard?’ Galpin’s eyes protruded at them. ‘Foxy Leverett was picked up dead this morning. He was lying on the pavement, not a hundred yards from the Legation. It looked as though he had fallen from a window, but the nearest house was empty; in fact, shuttered. The owner is under arrest. My hunch is, he was tossed out of a car. Anyway, however he’d got there, he’d taken a terrible beating. Dobson says he only recognised him by the red moustache.’

‘Who found him?’

‘Labourers. Soon after daybreak. And that’s not all. One of the key men in Ploesti has disappeared. Chap called McGinty. That’s just come through. It’s obvious the bastards are not going to be satisfied with acting as hold-up men round the Jewish offices. They want blood.’ He glanced aside and catching Pinkrose’s intent stare, he suddenly asked: ‘How did this little bloke get into Bucharest?’

In a tone that invited respect, Guy said: ‘Professor Lord Pinkrose has come to deliver the Cantecuzino Lecture.’

‘The what?’

Guy explained that the lecture, given in English every other year, was part of his organisation’s cultural propaganda.

Galpin threw back his head and gave a crow of laughter. ‘Gawd’strewth!’ he said and continued on his way out of the hotel.

Pinkrose turned stiffly, looking at Guy as though explanation, if not apology, were due, but Guy was too disturbed to give either. He conducted the professor to a sofa and asked him if he would like a brandy.

Pinkrose fretfully shook his head. ‘I never drink spirits, but it’s a long time since I had breakfast. I’d like a sandwich.’

Guy ordered him sandwiches and coffee, then returned to the telephone booths. At the hint of change in the weather, the central heating had been switched on. The room was stifling and Pinkrose, after sitting fully clad for some moments, began to unbundle himself. He unwound a scarf or two, then took off his hat revealing a bald brow, high, grey and wrinkled, surrounded by a fringe of dog-brown hair. This incongruous colour caught Harriet’s eye and she had to do her best to look elsewhere.

After a while the greatcoat, too, came off. In a tightly-fitting suit of dark grey herring-bone stuff, old fashioned in cut, a winged collar and narrow knitted tie, Pinkrose sat surrounded by his outdoor wear. He gave Harriet one or two rapid trial glances before he brought himself to address her again, then he asked: ‘What was that man saying about someone being found dead?’

‘The dead man was an attaché at the Legation. We think he had something to do with the secret service.’

‘Ah!’ Pinkrose nodded knowingly. ‘I believe those fellows often come to a bad end.’ He was sufficiently reassured to set about his sandwiches when they arrived.

Harriet, watching him, felt no reassurance at all. What had happened to Foxy, could happen to Guy – or, indeed, to any of them. And Foxy had been a likeable acquaintance. Not only that, he was the one who was ‘adept at smuggling people
over frontiers’, the one who might have helped them with Sasha. To whom could they turn now? She could not imagine that Dobson would be much practical help, and they barely knew the senior men at the Legation.

A tut from Pinkrose recalled her to her immediate responsibility. He was looking inside his sandwich. With an expression of hurt fastidiousness, he set it aside, saying: ‘
Not
very nice,’ and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced as though it were cascara. ‘Perhaps, after all,’ he said, ‘I will have a small sherry.’

Overhearing this as he returned, much recovered, Guy said in a jocular way: ‘How about
ţ
uic
ǎ
, our fiery national spirit?’

Pinkrose twitched an irritated shoulder. ‘No, no, certainly not. But I don’t mind a sherry, if it’s at all decent.’

Unperturbed, Guy ordered the sherry, then sat down on Pinkrose’s greatcoat, saying: ‘Professor Inchcape is on his way.’

Moving the coat with flustered movements, acutely annoyed, Pinkrose said: ‘Ah!’ in a tone that implied it was about time.

Guy asked him what would be the subject of his proposed lecture. Grudgingly, his head turned away, still rearranging his coat about him, Pinkrose thought he might survey the poets from Chaucer to Tennyson. Guy said: ‘An admirable idea,’ and Pinkrose raised his brows. It was becoming clear to Harriet that Guy’s spontaneous friendliness towards the professor was rousing nothing but suspicious annoyance.

She was at first surprised, then she began to feel indignant – not so much with Pinkrose as with Guy, chatting enthusiastically about Pinkrose’s not overbold project. She did not know whether to condemn his impercipience or to justify his innocence: and what she called innocence might, in fact, be no more than an unwillingness to admit anyone could feel animosity towards him. As he talked, Pinkrose watched him with distaste.

Looking afresh at Guy, Harriet noted that his hair was untidy, he had wine stains on his tie, his breakfast egg had dripped on to his lapel and his glasses, broken at the bridge, had been mended with adhesive tape.

She had become so used to his appearance, she had not thought to clean him up before they left.

She was thankful when Inchcape arrived to share the burden of Pinkrose’s company. Catching Harriet’s eye, Inchcape smiled as though he had a joke up his sleeve – not a pleasant joke – then said to Pinkrose: ‘So there you are!’

Pinkrose started up, a tinge of colour coming into his cheeks and affable with relief at the sight of his friend, said: ‘Yes, indeed! Here I am!’ Smiling for the first time since his arrival, he looked like an ancient schoolboy. ‘And what a journey!’ he added.

‘We must hear all about it.’ Inchcape spoke as though Pinkrose were, indeed, a schoolboy and he, as ever, the headmaster. ‘But first I must have a drink.’ He turned to Guy, eyeing him as though the joke, whatever it was, was shared between them, and asked: ‘What have you got there?
Tuic
ǎ
?
All right, I’ll have a
ţ
uic
ǎ
, too.’ He sat down opposite Pinkrose, frowning at him with ironic humour, and asked: ‘Well, how
did
you get here?’

Inchcape’s manner towards this old friend, who, on his invitation, had just travelled some five thousand miles, seemed to Harriet outrageous, but Pinkrose appeared to accept it. Smiling as though suddenly set at ease, he explained that he had been granted a priority flight to Malta.

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Inchcape.

With the glance of one who regards diplomacy as a form of conspiracy, he said: ‘A friend in high places. Then, believe it or not, I had to travel as a
bomb
. In the bottom of the aeroplane, you know. The pilot said to me: “Better say your prayers. If we crash, you’re a gonner.”’

‘What is a “gonner”?’ Inchcape asked.

Pinkrose tittered, not taking the question seriously. ‘In Cairo,’ he said, ‘I met with difficulties. No one knew anything about me. I had to take the matter up with the ambassador and even then, for some reason, they would only take me as far as Athens. There, however, I discovered, to my relief, that there was a regular service to Bucharest, so here I am!’

Inchcape nodded. ‘So I see!’ he drily said.

Although Pinkrose recounted his experiences with something near levity, it was clear that only his own determination had brought him here. He went on, rather fretfully: ‘England is so uncomfortable these days. And so tedious. People talk of nothing but this wretched invasion – rather overdue, I may say. We hear about it even at the high table. And life in general! So many new rules and regulations and petty restrictions! The black-out; the queueing! You, my dear Inchcape, were wise to take yourself off when you did. I cannot tell you how life has deteriorated. It couldn’t be worse under the Nazis; anyway, for people like us. After all, Goering would have no quarrel with me. I’ve always been a good family man.’

‘Ah!’ said Inchcape drily. ‘Then you won’t be distressed if I tell you we may soon be under Nazi rule here.’

Pinkrose tittered again. Inchcape swallowed down his
ţ
uic
ǎ
and, his patience exhausted, said: ‘Let’s go and eat.’

Pinkrose jumped up happily. As he gathered his coat, hat and scarves, he said: ‘I am looking forward, I can tell you, to some good eating. Travelled friends tell me that Rumanian food is among the best in Europe.’

‘Their information is out of date,’ said Inchcape.

Pinkrose chuckled. ‘You always were a cod.’

The dining-room was empty when they entered. Three large tables in the window alcove were reserved for the officers of the
Reichswehr
. Despite the fact that there were other tables unreserved, Inchcape was seized upon as he entered and guided to an obscure corner position which he accepted with an amused shrug. Passing the menu card to Pinkrose, he said: ‘It’s a meatless day. The steaks and roasts listed are like the paper money here, they’re not backed by hard currency. But you can have any one of the three dishes at the bottom. I recommend fish pilaff?’

It was some moments before Pinkrose could be persuaded that this was not an enormous joke. ‘But what about caviare?’ he pleaded. ‘Isn’t that a Rumanian product?’

‘It all goes to Germany.’

Pinkrose’s face fell. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘I was the envy of my colleagues …’

‘Tonight,’ Inchcape told him consolingly, ‘you’ll meet all the wit and beauty of Bucharest. I have invited several princesses noted for their hospitality. In their houses, I assure you, there are no such things as meatless days. They’ll do you proud. Meanwhile, have a fish pilaff!’ He looked from Guy to Harriet, grinning in appreciation of Pinkrose’s discomfort, then began to discuss the mysterious death of Foxy Leverett.

‘These young attachés ask for trouble,’ he said. ‘They throw their weight around, imagining they’re protected against all comers. But no one’s protected against a knife in the back. I’m told that Leverett was drunk at the Amalfi the other night, and he kept the table in a roar with an imitation of Horia Sima. Doesn’t do, you know! One has to respect the existing regime, whatever it may happen to be. And you have to learn to live with it.’

Harriet asked: ‘You think we can learn to live with the Iron Guard?’

‘Why not? It’s all a matter of personality. If you can adjust yourself, you can live with anyone or anything. It’s the people who can’t adjust themselves who get into trouble.’

Pinkrose nodded vehemently. ‘I do agree.
And
, you know, once things have settled down, the world’s much the same whoever’s running it.’

Inchcape’s mood of raillery had passed. He looked at his friend with understanding. ‘The important thing,’ he said, ‘is to survive.’

As he spoke the German officers entered. With the aplomb of conquerors they crossed the dining-room floor and seated themselves at the reserved tables.