The Balkan Trilogy (86 page)

Yakimov was saying: ‘The Legation’ll look after the dear boy. They got all sorts out of France and Italy. Dobbie’s fond of Guy, and Dobbie’s a good chap. He’d never abandon a pal.’

Harriet said: ‘Dobson’s in Sofia.’

‘No? Dear me!’ No doubt thinking of his sixty thousand
lei
, Yakimov said to Mustafa Bey: ‘I could do with another, dear boy.’

Mustafa Bey lifted a large mauve hand and signed to the waiter. More brandy was brought.

Harriet, her agitation suspended, felt very tired. She watched the clock on the wall behind Yakimov while he talked of the pleasures of Athens. Food, he said, was plentiful.

‘And there are a lot of our friends here: Toby Lush, for instance.’

‘Is Toby Lush here?’

‘Yes. In a very influential position, I’m told. So’s his friend Dubedat. And a Lord Pinkrose has just arrived from Bucharest. You’ll feel quite at home here when you get settled.’

Harriet nodded. She thought of Guy and thought of Sasha. She wondered if, without them, she would ever feel at home anywhere in the world again. She asked how long Yakimov had been in Athens.

‘Just a week.’ Yakimov had regained the simple grandeur of manner with which he had first assailed Bucharest society, and seemed at home himself in his new haunt which had not yet found him out.

As the hand of the clock neared eleven, she could scarcely breathe; then, suddenly unable to bear more of it, she jumped up saying: ‘I must get back to the Legation.’

Yakimov rose with her. ‘I’ll come with you.’

She was surprised. ‘Please don’t bother,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very kind, but …’

‘Of course I shall come, dear girl. Your poor old Yaki isn’t as bad as you think. Not unchivalrous, y’know, not unchivalrous.’ His sable-lined coat had been hanging on the chair behind him. He now draped it round his shoulders, taking on an air of rakish elegance, and said to Mustafa Bey: ‘I shall be back quite soon.’

Mustafa Bey nodded with a leaden solemnity.

‘Delightful place,’ said Yakimov when they were in the street. ‘The nicest people. Mustafa is a dear old friend. Dollie and I stayed with him when he had a house in Smyrna. Used to be a millionaire or something. Now he’s on his uppers, just like your poor old Yaki.’

Reminiscing about happier days, he walked with her up the hill to the Legation villa. When they reached the door, she said: ‘Would you go in and ask?’ somehow feeling that a shock might be less shocking transmuted through another person.

Yakimov trotted in as though to show by his willingness that there was nothing to fear. She leaned against a lamp-post. The street was empty and, except for the glimmer in the chancellery, there was no sign of life. She watched the door through which Yakimov had entered. He was scarcely in when he came out again, smiling like one who bears gifts. Her spirits leapt as he said gaily: ‘Just as I thought, dear girl. Everything’s all right. Bucharest is quiet. It’s true an army of occupation is expected, but no sign of it yet. The Legation’s staying put and they say British subjects won’t be molested. My guess is, you’ll have the dear boy with you in a brace of shakes.’

Suddenly emptied of qualms, too tired to speak, she started to weep. She wept for Sasha, for her red kitten, for Guy alone on the airfield, for the abandoned flat, the damaged books
left on the floor, for war and an infinity of suffering and the turmoil of the world.

Yakimov, saying nothing, led her gently down the hill. When she started sniffling and blowing her nose, he asked where she was staying.

At the door of the hotel, he said: ‘A good night’s rest will make all the difference.’

‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ Harriet said. ‘I wish I could do something for you in return.’

He laughed in modest amazement. ‘Why, dear girl, look what you have done! You took Yaki in. You gave him a home. Who could do more?’

‘I’m afraid that was Guy’s idea.’

‘But you fed me. You let me stay.’

She felt ashamed that what she had done, she had done so unwillingly. She said: ‘I see you still have your wonderful coat.’

He eagerly agreed, ‘Yes,’ and, turning the front hem, revealed by the light from the hotel door the shabby sable inside. ‘Did I ever tell you the Czar gave it to m’poor old dad?’

‘I think you did tell me once.’

He lifted her hand and put his lips to it. ‘If you need me, you’ll always find me at Zonar’s.’ Patting her hand before dropping it he said: ‘Good-night, dear girl.’

‘Good-night.’

He waved before turning away. As he went, the fallen hem of his greatcoat trailed after him along the pavement.

Friends and Heroes

To
Dwye and Daphne Evans

PART ONE

1

When the hotel porter rang to say a gentleman awaited her in the hall, Harriet Pringle dropped the receiver and ran from the room without putting on her shoes.

She had sat by the telephone for two days. Her last three nights in Athens had been sleepless with anxiety and expectation. She had left her husband in Rumania, a country since occupied by the enemy. He might get away. The man in the hall could be Guy himself. Turning the corner of the stair, she saw it was only Yakimov. She went back for her shoes, but quickly. Even Yakimov might have news.

When she came down again, he was drooping like an old horse under his brim-broken panama and the sight roused her worst apprehensions. Unable to speak, she touched his arm. He lifted his sad, vague face and, seeing her, smiled.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘The dear boy’s on his way.’ So eager was he to reassure her that his large, grape-green eyes seemed to overflow their sockets: ‘Got a message. Got it on me somewhere. Must be here. Someone in Bucharest phoned the Legation. One of our chaps said to me: “You know this Mrs Pringle, don’t you? Drop this in on her when you’re passing.”’ His fingers were dipping like antennae into the pockets of his shantung suit: ‘Bit of paper, y’know. Just a bit of paper.’

He tried his breast pocket. As he lifted his long bone of an
arm, she saw the violet silk of his shirt showing through the tattered shantung of his jacket, and the blue-white hairless hollow of his arm-pit showing through his tattered shirt. The pockets were so frayed, the message could have fallen out. Watching him, she scarcely dared to breathe, knowing that any show of impatience would alarm him.

Their relationship was happy enough now, but it had not always been like that. Yakimov – Prince Yakimov – had installed himself in the Pringles’ flat and would not be dislodged until Bucharest became too dangerous for him. She had disliked him and he had feared her, but when they met again in Athens, they became reconciled. He was the only person here who understood her fears and his sympathy had been her only consolation.

‘Ah!’ he gave a gasp of satisfaction: ‘Here we are! Here it is! Got it safe, you see!’

She took the paper and read: ‘
Coming your route. See you this evening
.’

The message must have been received hours before. It was now late afternoon. Guy would already have touched down at Sofia to find, as she found, that the Rumanian plane would go no farther and he must continue on the Lufthansa. The German line had agreed to carry allied passengers over neutral territory, but she had heard of planes being diverted to Vienna so that British subjects could be seized as enemy aliens. Harriet herself had not been at risk but Guy, a man of military age, might be a different matter.

Seeing her face change, Yakimov said, abashed: ‘Aren’t you pleased? Isn’t it good news?’

She nodded. Sinking down on the hall seat, she whispered: ‘Wonderful,’ then doubled over and buried her face in her hands.

‘Dear girl!’

She lifted her head, her eyes wet, and laughed: ‘Guy will be here at sunset.’

‘There you are! I told you he could look after himself.’

Confused by exhaustion and relief, she remained where she
was, knowing the suspense was not over yet. She had still to live until sunset.

Yakimov looked uneasily at her, then said: ‘Why not come out a bit? Get a breath of air. Do you good, y’know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I’d like to.’

‘Then get y’r bonnet on, dear girl.’

She entered the daylight as though released after an illness. The street was in shadow but at the end she could see a dazzle of sunlight. As Yakimov turned the other way, she said, ‘Could we go down there?’

‘There!’ he seemed disconcerted: ‘That’s Constitution Square. Like to stroll through it? Adds a bit to the walk, though.’

‘But are we going anywhere in particular?’

Yakimov did not reply. They entered the square where there was a little garden, formal and dusty, with faded oranges upon orange-trees. The buildings, Yakimov said, were hotels and important offices. Some were faced with marble and some with rose-brown stucco. At the top of the square was the parliament house that had once been a palace and still had the flourish of a palace. Beside it were the public gardens, a jungle of sensitive bushy trees from which rose the feathered tops of palms. Four immense palms with silvery satin trunks stood across the garden entrance. Buildings, trees, palms, traffic, people – all were aquiver in the fluid heat of the autumn afternoon.

‘Athens,’ Harriet thought: ‘The longed-for city.’

Bucharest had been enclosed by Europe, but here she had reached the Mediterranean. In Bucharest, the winter was beginning. In Athens, it seemed, the summer would go on for ever.

If they could survive till evening, she and Guy would be here together. She imagined his plane where it would be now: in the empyrean, above the peacock blue and green of the Aegean. She willed it to stay on course. He had left the unhappy capital and the maniac minions of the New Order, and now she had only to wait for his safe arrival. Trying to keep her mind on this, her imagination eluded her control.
She thought of those who had been left behind. She thought of Sasha.

Yakimov, acting as host and guide, was pointing out places of interest. Modestly conscious of being in a position of vantage, his manner had a touch of the grandiose.

‘Nice town,’ he said: ‘Always liked it. Old stamping ground of your Yak, of course.’

He had left his debts behind and none of his new friends had had time to learn about them. He had found employment. Though his clothes were past mending, they had been cleaned and pressed, and he wore them with an air that proclaimed his sumptuous past. He nodded towards an ornate corner building and said:

‘The G.B.’

‘What happens there?’

‘
Dear girl!
The G.B.’s the best hotel. The Grande Bretagne you know. Where Yaki used to wash his socks. Intend moving back there when’m a bit more lush.’

Turning into the main road, his steps faltered, his tall, slender body sagged. They had covered perhaps a couple of hundred yards but as he made his way through the crowd, he began to grumble: ‘Long walk, this. Hard on your Yak. Feet not what they used to be. Tiring place, this: uphill, downhill, hot and dusty. Constant need for refreshment.’

They had come in sight of a large café and, giving a sigh of relief, he said: ‘Zonar’s. Their new café. Very nice. In fact, Yaki’s favourite haunt.’

Everything about
the café – a corner of great glass windows, striped awnings, outdoor chairs and tables – had a brilliant freshness. The patrons were still dressed for summer, the women in silks, the men in suits of silver-grey; the waiters wore white coats and their trays and coffee pots glittered in the sun. Behind the windows Harriet could see counters offering extravagant chocolate boxes and luscious cakes.

‘It looks expensive,’ she said.

‘Bit pricey,’ Yakimov agreed: ‘But convenient. After all, one has to go somewhere.’ They crossed the side-road and reaching the café pavement, Yakimov came to a stop: ‘If I’d a bit of the ready, I’d invite you to take a little something.’

So this had been his objective when they set out! Harriet understood his form of invitation. He had delivered the message and now she was expected to make repayment. She said: ‘They changed some Rumanian money for me at the hotel, so let me buy a drink.’

‘Dear girl, certainly. If you feel the need of one, I’ll join you with pleasure,’ he sank into the nearest basket-chair and asked impressively: ‘What will you take?’

Harriet said she would have tea.

‘Think I’ll have a drop of cognac, myself. Find it dries me up, too much tea.’

When the order came, the waiter put a chit beside his glass. Yakimov slid it over to Harriet then, sipping his brandy, his affability returned. He said:

‘Big Russian colony here, y’know. Charming people; the best families. And there’s a Russian club with Russian food. Delicious. One of the members said to me: “Distinguished name, Yakimov. Wasn’t your father courier to the Czar?”’

‘Was your father courier to the Czar?’

‘Don’t ask me, dear girl. All a long time ago. Yaki was only a young thing then. But m’old dad was part of the entourage. No doubt about that. That coat of mine, the sable-lined coat, was given him by the Czar. But perhaps I told you?’

‘You’ve mentioned it once or twice.’

‘’Spose you know m’old mum’s dead?’

‘No. I am sorry.’

‘No remittance for Yaki now. Good sort, the old mum, kind to her poor boy, but didn’t leave a cent. Had an annuity. All went with her.
Bad
idea, an annuity.’

He emptied his glass and looked expectantly at Harriet. She nodded and he called the waiter again.

In the past she had been resentful of Yakimov’s greed, now she was indifferent to everything but the passing of time. Time was an obstacle to be overcome. She wanted nothing so much as to see the airport bus stop at the corner opposite.

‘Look at that chap!’ said Yakimov: ‘The one hung over with rugs. Turk, he is. I knew one of those in Paris once. Friend of mine, an American, bought his entire stock. Poor chap walked home without a rug on him. Caught pneumonia and died.’

She smiled, knowing he was trying to entertain her, but she could not keep her mind on his chatter. She glanced about her, bewildered by her safety, unable to believe in a city so becalmed in security and comfort. Her nerves reacted still to the confusion of their last months in Rumania. As Yakimov talked, the splendid café faded from her view and she saw instead the Bucharest flat as it had been the night before she left, when the Pringles returned to find the doors open, the lights on, the beds stripped, pictures smashed, carpets ripped up and books thrown down and trampled over the floor.