by William Boyd
Lysander had several meetings with his lawyer, a Herr Feuerstein, a serious young man, about Lysander’s age, who wore a pince-nez and a neat beard, and who tutted and frowned darkly and muttered to himself as he went over the facts of Lysander’s case as if determined not to provide his client with a scintilla of hope or optimism. He did agree, however, that the best defence was the revelation of the affair. And so he took down everything, in his tiny copperplate hand, that Lysander could remember of his dozens of encounters with Hettie. He volunteered to visit the hotels they had frequented in Vienna, Linz and Salzburg to make copies of the register and perhaps even take clandestine photographs of Hettie’s barn/studio. He asked Lysander to draw him a detailed plan of the barn and provide the best inventory he could of its contents. He may be a pessimist, Lysander thought, but at least he’s a thorough pessimist.
Lysander also had daily visits from Alwyn Munro and the other attaché – the naval attaché – a man called Jack Fyfe-Miller. Fyfe-Miller was a blond, burly young man in his early thirties, with a full, fair beard – ideally seafaring for a naval attaché, Lysander thought – who had won a rugby blue at Cambridge. After their first few encounters Lysander decided to label him ‘stupid’. Fyfe-Miller had seen him on stage in London (in The Taming of the Shrew) and seemed only curious about theatre-life and actresses in particular. He kept asking; do you know Ellen Terry? Have you ever met Dolly Baird? What’s Mrs Mabel Troubridge really like? But from time to time he would make a remark that showed deeper intellectual reserves and Lysander began to think that the bluffness and the heartiness was something of an act.
After a week in the summerhouse at the end of the parterre he felt thoroughly settled in, routines were established and he was living an approximation of a normal life. He decided to ask Munro if there was any way a meeting with Hettie could be arranged.
‘Not sure that’s a good idea,’ Munro said.
‘If I could speak to her – even for a few minutes – I’m sure we could sort out everything.’
They were walking the tufted, mossy pathways of the parterre around the small cement basin of the dry fountain at its centre. On a pile of tumbled, parched boulders a lichened stone cherub held a gaping fish aloft as if it were gasping for air rather than providing the conduit for the fountain’s water that would never spout and flow again.
‘Look,’ Lysander said, pointing to a small paint-blistered door in the garden’s back wall. ‘Smuggle her in through there and no one will be the wiser. Just give me a moment alone with her – she’ll drop the case.’
Munro thought, smoothing his neat moustache with a forefinger.
‘Let me see what I can do.’
22. Autobiographical Investigations
Hettie. This utter madness – how could you have done this to me? Stop. No. First the facts, the dialogue. She came, last night, just before eleven o’clock. Jack Fyfe-Miller brought her in through the door in the back wall and waited outside in the cab as we talked. She stayed for twenty minutes.
We kissed, like old and practised lovers, with real passion, as if none of this craziness had happened. She clung to me, telling me how much she was missing me and asked me how I was. I felt the grotesque absurdity of the situation – as if I’d had a bout of flu and she hadn’t seen me while I convalesced. For a few seconds the mad raging anger took me over and I had to step away and turn my back on her.
HETTIE: Is everything all right? Are you well?
ME: How am I ? How am I? I’m terrible. I’m miserable. I’m abject. How do you think I am?
HETTIE: Seems a nice little house you have here. It’s sweet. Is this your garden?
ME: Hettie, I’m a prisoner on bail. I’m going to be tried for assault. For ‘sexually assaulting’ you.
HETTIE. I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think what to say when Udo found out. So I just blurted out anything that came to mind. Anything to make him stop shouting at me.
In the fraught emotion of the reunion I forgot that she was pregnant – carrying our child. I put my hand on her belly – it seemed very flat.
ME: You don’t feel pregnant.
HETTIE: I hadn’t a clue I was. You know I thought I was infertile. I was convinced I was – truly. I didn’t feel sick or anything. Didn’t put on weight, nothing, not the slightest indication. But then my nipples began to go darker and Udo saw and took me to the doctor who examined me and said I was four months pregnant.
ME: I never noticed your nipples.
HETTIE: Because you saw them all the time. You hadn’t noticed the gradual change. I hadn’t either, to be honest. Udo hadn’t seen my breasts for weeks. He was shocked – took me straight to the doctor. When Udo heard I was pregnant he got in this towering rage so I said it was you.
ME: But I didn’t rape you, or assault you, if I recall. If I recall you undressed me – effectively.
HETTIE: Because I knew you liked that sort of thing.
ME: What’re you talking about?
HETTIE: I read your file – when I was at Dr Bensimon’s. He had to leave the room when I was there for a consultation and he left your file on his desk. He was gone for about ten minutes and I got bored, saw your file. I was curious –
ME: That’s completely outrageous!
HETTIE: I don’t recall you complaining. Just because I knew about your dreams, your fantasies . . .
ME: No, no. All part of the therapy. No extra charge –
HETTIE: Don’t be cynical. But it was Udo who said you must have attacked me and I sort of said, well, yes, I suppose so, yes, he must have. I don’t know why. He was in such a fury. I said you’d overpowered me and before I knew it I was agreeing with him. Anything to stop him shouting. I’m really sorry, my darling. You have to forgive me – I was in such a panic.
I felt an immense lassitude pour through me, a kind of terminal fatigue.
ME: Why didn’t Udo think it was his child?
HETTIE: Because – well – we don’t have normal sexual relations any more. Not for over a year now. He knew at once he wasn’t his.
ME: What do you mean, ‘he’?
HETTIE: He’s a boy – the baby – I know.
ME: But you realize that when I go on trial I’m going to tell the truth – about you and me and our affair.
HETTIE: No! No, you can’t do that. Udo will kill me – and the child.
ME: Nonsense. He can’t do that. He’s not a monster.
HETTIE: You don’t know what he’s capable of. He’ll throw me out, destroy me somehow. He’ll find a way of punishing me and the baby – our baby.
ME: Then leave him. Walk away. Come to London and live with me. What do you owe him? Nothing –
HETTIE: Everything. When I met him in Paris I was . . . I was in serious trouble. Udo saved me. Brought me to Vienna. Without him I’d be dead – or worse. I implore you, Lysander, I beseech you – don’t let him know about us.
ME: You’re not going to have an abortion.
HETTIE: Never. He’s ours. Yours and mine, my darling.
Just at that moment Fyfe-Miller appeared and rapped on the French window. Hettie kissed me goodbye and her last whispered words were, ‘I beg you, Lysander. Say nothing. Don’t destroy me.’
This morning I had a meeting with Herr Feuerstein. I asked him, assuming I was found guilty, what sentence I could expect. ‘Eight to ten years, if you’re lucky,’ he said. Then added: ‘But you’re not going to be found guilty, Herr Rief. The case will fall apart the minute you give your evidence.’ He flourished his dossier. ‘I’ve got everything. The hotels in Vienna, in Linz, in Salzburg. Testimonials from the staff. How do you say it in English? A “cakewalk”.’ He allowed himself a rare smile. I thought – if Feuerstein is that confident then it’s all over for Hettie. ‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ Feuerstein added. ‘May 17th can’t come quickly enough.’
Now I’m waiting for Munro and Fyfe-Miller to come for a meeting, here in the summerhouse. I’m going to tell them there’s only one thing I can
do. This case must never come to trial.
23. A New Brass Key
Lysander sat in his octagonal sitting room facing Alwyn Munro and Jack Fyfe-Miller. Snow flurries swooped softly against the French windows and the fire in the grate struggled against the cold of the day. For some reason Fyfe-Miller was in his naval uniform – a row of medal ribbons on his chest – that had the effect of making him more serious and noteworthy, a serving officer of the line. Munro was in a three-piece, heavy tweed suit as if he were off for a shooting weekend in Perthshire.
‘I’ve been thinking, over these last few days,’ Lysander said carefully. ‘And one thing has become absolutely clear to me. I can’t risk going to trial.’
‘Feuerstein tells me your defence is impregnable,’ Munro said.
‘We all know how easy it is for things to go wrong.’
‘So you want to run for it,’ Fyfe-Miller said, lighting a cigarette. Once again Lysander saw how the bland exterior concealed a quick mind.
‘Yes. In a word.’
The two looked at each other. Munro smiled.
‘We had a private bet about how long it would take you to arrive at this conclusion.’
‘It’s the only way, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘There are real problems,’ Munro said, and proceeded to outline them. The British Embassy, like every embassy in Vienna, was riddled with informers. One in three of the Austrian staff, he reckoned, was in the pay of the Interior Ministry. He added that this was completely normal and only to be expected – the same conditions applied in London.
‘Therefore,’ he added, ‘if you left us you would be missed very swiftly. You’re being watched all the time, even though it doesn’t seem like it. Someone would alert the police.’
Fyfe-Miller spoke up. ‘Also, as your gaolers, as it were, we would be honour-bound to report your absence to the authorities. And, of course, your bail would be forfeit.’
Lysander decided to ignore this last point. ‘But what if I slipped away in the middle of the night? It’d be hours before I was noticed.’
‘Not so. The middle of the night would be the worst possible time. The watchmen, the police at the gate, the night staff – everyone’s more alert at night. I’m pretty sure there are a couple of police plainclothesmen out there, sitting in a motor, twenty-four hours, waiting, watching. The middle of a working day is far more discreet.’ Munro smiled. ‘Paradoxically.’
‘If you left,’ Fyfe-Miller said, speculatively, ‘you’d have the maximum of an hour’s start, I’d say. If no one else had reported you then we would have to – after an hour.’
‘Better to assume a fifteen-minute start,’ Munro said. ‘They’re not fools.’
‘Where would you head for, Alwyn?’ Fyfe-Miller asked, disingenuously.
‘Trieste. It’s practically Italian anyway – they hate the Austro-Hungarians. Head for Trieste, take a steamer to Italy. That’s what I’d do.’
Lysander picked up the sub-textual message. He was by now fully aware of what was taking place here; Munro and Fyfe-Miller were laying out a course of action, almost a set of instructions for him to follow. Do what we tell you, they were saying, and you will be safe.
‘What station serves Trieste, by the way?’ Lysander asked in the same spirit of innocent enquiry.
‘The Südbahnhof. Change at Graz. Ten-, twelve-hour journey,’ Fyfe-Miller said.
‘I’d go straight to the Lloyds office in Trieste and buy a steamer ticket to . . .’ Munro frowned, thinking.
‘Not Venice.’
‘No. Too obvious. Maybe Bari – somewhere much further south than anyone would expect.’
Lysander said nothing, content to listen, aware of what was going on in this duologue.
Munro held up a warning finger. ‘You’d have to assume that the police would go straight to every station.’
‘Yes. So you might need some form of disguise. Of course, they’d also presume you’d be heading north, back to England. So heading south would be the right option.’
‘You’d need money,’ Munro said, taking out his wallet and counting out 200 crowns, laying the notes on the table in a fan. ‘What’s today? Tuesday. Tomorrow afternoon, I’d say. Be in Trieste by dawn on Thursday.’
‘Bob’s your uncle.’
The two men looked at Lysander candidly, no hint of conspiracy or collusion in their eyes. Their pointed absence of guile carried its own message – we’ve been having a conversation here, pure and simple. A conversation about a hypothetical journey – read nothing more into it. We take no responsibility.
‘The risks are grave,’ Munro said, as if to underline this last fact.
‘If you were caught it would rather look like an admission of guilt,’ Fyfe-Miller added.
‘You’d need to be clever. Think ahead. Imagine what it would be like – what to do in any eventuality.‘
‘Use your ingenuity.’
Munro stood and headed for the door, Fyfe-Miller following. The money was left lying on the table.
Lysander went to the door and opened it for them. He knew exactly what was expected of him, now.
‘Most interesting,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ Munro said. Fyfe-Miller gave a smart salute and Lysander watched them stride briskly back to the consulate through the falling snow.
At the end of the afternoon, the snow having abated, leaving the low box-hedges of the parterre with an inch of white icing, Lysander went for a stroll around the garden, thinking hard. He had the money in his pocket, Munro and Fyfe-Miller had outlined the best route out of Austria. Once he was in Trieste he would be safe – Italians outnumbered Austrians there twenty-to-one. Some tramp-steamer or cargo ship would take him to Italy for a few crowns. Then his eye was caught by something unfamiliar – a glint, a gleam of light. He wandered over.
In the lock of the small door in the back wall was a new brass key, bright and untarnished, shining in the weak afternoon sun. Lysander slipped it in his pocket. So, that was it – tomorrow afternoon, after lunch, he thought. The dash for freedom.
24. Ingenuity
Lysander deliberately left half his lunch – stewed pork with horseradish – uneaten. He told the surly fellow with buck teeth who came to take it away that he wasn’t feeling well and was going to bed. As soon as he was alone again he slipped on his coat, gathered up a few essential belongings that could be distributed amongst his various pockets, lifted his hat off the hook on the back of the door and stepped outside.
It was a breezy day of scudding clouds and almost all the snow had melted. He took a turn around the garden to make it seem he was on his usual post-prandial walk and, as he reached the small door in the back wall, unlocked it and was through in a second, pulling it to and locking it again from the outside. He threw the key back over the wall into the garden. He looked around him – an anonymous side street in the Landstrasse district, not a part of Vienna he was familiar with. He walked up to a main road and saw that it was named Rennweg – now his bearings returned. He was about five minutes walk from the South Railway Station where he could catch his train to Trieste – but he knew he had to use his ingenuity, first. He saw two cabs waiting outside the State Printing Works and ran across Rennweg to hail one.
He was at Mariahilfer Strasse in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was the start that Munro and Fyfe-Miller said he should allow himself. He could be sitting in the Südbahnhof now with a ticket to Trieste in his hand. Was he making a mistake? Use your ingenuity, Munro had said. It wasn’t so much advice as a warning, he thought.
Lysander rang the bell at the landing door of the Pension Kriwanek, saying a small prayer. Let Frau K be out (she was usually out after lunch, shopping or visiting) and let Herr Barth be in.
The door opened and Traudl stood there – her face rapidly pantomiming surprise and shock. Her blush rose to her hairline.
‘Oh my god!’ she said. ‘Herr Rief! No!’
‘Hello, Traudl. Yes, it’s me. Is Frau Kri
wanek in?’
‘No. Please, what are you doing here, sir?’
‘Is Herr Barth in?’
‘No, he’s not in, either.’
Good and damn, Lysander said to himself and gently pushed his way past Traudl into the hall. There were the two bergères and the stuffed owl under its glass dome, relics of his former happy life, Lysander thought, feeling a spasm of anger that he’d been forced to relinquish it.
‘Would you open Herr Barth’s room, please, Traudl?’
‘I don’t have a key, sir.’
‘Of course you have a key.’
