by MARY HOCKING
Paul lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a moment, watching the glowing tip and the grey ash falling away.
‘Did you see anything up there?’ he asked.
‘I took a look good along the Senka road—no sign of movement from across the plain, yet.’
‘There was a memorial at the crest of the hill once. Is it still there?’
‘Just the stone slab—garlanded with flowers.’ Dulac stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I met Doyle up there.’
Paul glanced up sharply.
‘He said he had come because it gave a bird’s-eye view across the plain and he wondered if the bear were on the prowl yet. But I think he had been somewhere in the mountains; unless he usually clutters himself up unnecessarily with heavy climbing boots.’
He finished his coffee and pushed back his chair.
‘If they give it to you cold in France, you should send it back,’ he remarked, obscurely it seemed to Paul who was thinking of Doyle.
II
Paul was in Government Square when Matthias made his first appearance on the balcony of the City Hall. He wondered what Matthias felt as he stood there, an absurd, goblin figure, looking out beyond the cheering crowds to some dark vision of his own. Matthias was not the man to have illusions.
Matthias, in fact, was watching the birds. One would have thought that this winter would have wiped them out, and yet the square was full of them; small, brown birds, a common species, no doubt. He was not a nature lover. There must be some other reason why he should respond so acutely to the song of the birds so that every note was a pain and a farewell. The wind caressed his face, gentle with the faint promise of spring. If he had been a romantic, he might have associated this heightened awareness with a personal rebirth; but Matthias was too wise for that. He knew why it was that the enjoyment of the physical world had now become so precious to him.
At his side Party Secretary Keltner moved uneasily. It had been a long time since the cheering had been as spontaneous as this; Keltner would have been jealous if he had not been so afraid.
Matthias began to speak; but for some time, down in the square, it was impossible to hear him. Paul threaded his way nearer to the front of the crowd. When at last he could distinguish words, there was a plea for quiet and calm, for orderly behaviour and a sense of responsibility. The eyes of the world were on them, and they must avoid too-hasty actions which might be misrepresented abroad. Beyond, doubtless well within Matthias’s range of vision as he stood on the balcony, there was; one example of actions which might be misrepresented abroad. The statue of Stalin at the end of Martin Zinnemann Street was leaning to one side and appeared to be minus head and shoulders. There had been a growing tendency lately for statues of Stalin to come unstuck in more than one country and all the signs were that further East they were becoming hyper-sensitive, even to attacks on Stalin. One could follow Matthias’s line of reasoning.
But it was all to no purpose, Paul thought. The river was running fast now. Dulac had been right; there was only one part left for Matthias to play, and Paul had an idea that when the brief moment came, he would play it well.
The thought of Dulac reminded Paul of another part of their conversation at breakfast. He decided to drop in on Doyle after he had been to the Embassy.
The Embassy appeared to be holding some kind of an open day. Near the entrance door an agitated crowd was buzzing round a harassed-looking man in a pin-striped suit like bees around the queen.
‘For the hundredth time,’ the harassed-looking man was saying, ‘We are quite cut off from the outside world.’
The babble of voices drowned his subsequent remarks and then died away, so that he could be heard shouting:
‘We all have wives and families who will be anxious.’
A small woman sitting on the stairs near-by burst into tears as this statement blared forth.
Just beyond this agonized group, an elderly man was engaged in a tug-of-war over a massive trunk with a large woman who looked like a hockey-international.
‘There is just no room,’ she boomed severely.
‘But my books are very valuable. I can’t let them out of my sight. I came a long way to . . .’
‘Nonsense!’
A thin, fair-haired young man was trying to ingratiate himself with a girl at the information desk which had been set up in the hall.
‘I must get through to my paper at the first opportunity. You do understand, don’t you? They will probably think . . .’
‘Your paper will probably think that you are dead,’ the girl replied tartly.
And that, Paul reflected as he pushed through the crowd, was only too likely considering the rumours that had gone around.
The red-head was still holding the fort.
‘Mr. Clare and Mr. Cunningham are missing, presumed dead?’ Paul suggested.
She was not amused. She fumbled in a file and produced a piece of paper which she slapped into his hand.
‘We found the information you wanted about Matthias. It’s written out there.’
She looked tired. He said stiffly: ‘I have, I believe, been very rude to you in the past few days. I apologize.’
‘Save it for the last time, will you?’ she answered and turned wearily to her telephone which was ringing imperiously.
Something seemed to snap in Paul’s brain. All the pent-up agony of the last few days crystallized into a blazing hatred of the red-head. He went out of the room trembling with rage and as near to tears as he had ever been in his adult life.
In the foyer as he made for the entrance a man from one of the Press agencies was shouting:
‘The whole world is watching, and waiting, and wondering. Are you going to tell me that I am unable to send out a report?’
No-one was telling him anything; no-one was listening.
Paul met Cheynik hurrying up the steps. People were beginning to come out in their true colours now.
III
When Doyle opened his door to Paul, he thought to himself: ‘Good God, the man is ill!’ He watched, his eyes concerned, as Paul sat down heavily in a chair and began to fumble for cigarettes with fingers that trembled.
‘You look as if you could use a drink,’ he said, moving to a well-stocked shelf.
‘No thanks.’
Doyle raised his eyebrows, ‘I never thought the day would come . . .’
‘I don’t want one now.’ Paul’s voice was harsh. He tossed his cigarettes across to Doyle and leant back in his chair, watching Doyle as he stood with his face bent towards the match’s flame.
‘I don’t know if you are aware that you are being watched?’
The flame flickered. Apart from that, he took it rather well, Paul thought. Doyle flicked the match away and went to the window, the arrogant, handsome face suddenly set and white.
‘The two outside, immediately below?’
Paul nodded.
‘Rather ostentatious, aren’t they?’ Doyle’s lips curled disdainfully. He turned back from the window. ‘What makes you so sure it is me they are watching?’
‘Because they watched me when I came in; because the concierge crept out of his room to watch as I went up the stairs; because something like this has happened before, only I didn’t put two and two together at the time.’
‘How incredibly stupid of me! I should have noticed.’
‘Why should you? You thought you were immortal.’
Doyle sat on the arm of a chair. ‘At least I know my mistake now,’ he said quietly.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Paul said unsteadily: ‘You fool! You bloody fool!’
Doyle lit another cigarette. ‘You say they watched you when you came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it going to be awkward for you, being associated with me?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Paul retorted violently. ‘Because I shall deny any undue association. I shall say, with truth, that you got yourself into the whole bloody mess.’
‘Good for
you!’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Obviously give some careful thought as to how I can get myself out of the whole bloody mess.’
He was looking at Paul, but Paul did not meet his eyes. A muscle at the side of Doyle’s mouth twitched.
‘You think I have left things a little late, do you, Paul?’
‘You’ll have to move quickly. There won’t be much time now.’ Doyle got up restlessly and went to the shelf where the bottles were stacked.
‘There’s time for a drink, anyway, now that you have got this off your chest.’
As Doyle handed him the glass, Paul said:
‘Why, Doyle? Why, in God’s name, did you have to get involved in this?’
Doyle said defensively: ‘Don’t be so damned censorious. Don’t you want to see these people free?’
‘Is that how you believe that this will end?’
‘Perhaps. Who knows? In any case, the gesture itself is worth making, don’t you think?’ Doyle spoke carelessly.
Paul hesitated, twisting the glass in nervous fingers, his tired brain trying to isolate a germ of truth in the confusion of his thoughts.
‘You mean that rebellion is justified, however agonizing the consequences? I think that is probably true, the things we value would have no meaning otherwise. I’m not sure, though, that the actual decision to rebel is one that we can make for a country other than our own.’
Doyle passed his hand wearily across his eyes. ‘Hell! Why are we talking like this? I’m not making decisions for anyone, not even for myself. As you, no doubt, have guessed, my motives are far from idealistic’ He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps it was simply that it offered a chance of living at a faster tempo; a return to the war days. I enjoyed the war. It was a period when one could do reckless, extravagant things without becoming a social menace.’
He felt a great desire to talk about the old days with Paul, halcyon days as they now seemed. Paul had been a good companion. It was a pity he was outside the present enterprise. . . . An idea flashed into Doyle’s mind. He put his glass down, smiling reminiscently.
‘Don’t you ever look back on those war-time adventures a little wistfully, Paul? Don’t you ever wish for another chance . . .?’
‘I look back in a cold sweat,’ Paul snapped.
So much, Doyle thought, for that idea! He studied Paul, his blue eyes narrowed reflectively. ‘You were afraid, weren’t you? I don’t think I ever realized that before.’
‘So would you have been if you had had sufficient imagination.’
‘But if I had had your imagination, would I have had your courage, I wonder?’
Paul moved impatiently. ‘I should turn your mind to your present problem, if I were you.’
Doyle was silent, and glancing across the room at him Paul saw that he was looking at the occasional table on which his glass rested with an intense concentration as though memorizing every shade and grain of the wood. Paul had seen that look before when Doyle was working out some particularly difficult move in a game of chess. At such times, Doyle’s face usually expressed very little; but today the pattern of movement seemed to come to him with a clarity so bright that he flinched. Paul looked away. His mouth was dry and when he sipped his drink he found it difficult to swallow. After a moment, he heard Doyle saying, quite calmly:
‘You had better go, Paul. The longer you stay here, so much the worse for you.’
Paul hesitated and Doyle said sharply: ‘If you are about to make an offer of help, it isn’t necessary. But thank you, just the same.’
‘There must be something . . .’
Now, in the last resort, it seemed to Paul that he had no choice but to help Doyle. It was not, however, in Doyle’s nature to accept help. For a moment they faced one another, and the words that Doyle would not speak hung in the air between them. Then Doyle said:
‘There is nothing you can do.’
When Paul was standing at the door, however, Doyle asked:
‘As a matter of interest, what do you think of me for my part in all this?’
‘You had better ask Marshall Pickard for an assessment of your character. He is the only one around here who is without sin.’
Doyle said steadily: ‘But I value your opinion more.’
And Paul replied reluctantly: ‘When the pack closes in for the kill, I wouldn’t want to feel that I had been involved simply for the excitement of the thing.’
He turned and went slowly down the stairs, without looking back.
As soon as he had gone, Doyle, too, went out. The men in the street did not stop him, neither did they follow him; their orders were to watch the house until the newspapers were delivered.
IV
The road across the plain was wide and straight, except for a brief stretch where it ran through an area that was gently wooded. Here, in summer, for a few miles the road became a country lane running beneath an archway of trees whose leaves were so thick that the sunlight came through only in a few, darting shafts. Even in the winter, a ghost of this summer loveliness remained. It was a tranquil place.
Some of the trees were evergreens, and their rain-drenched foliage was a vibrant green against the bare, black branches of the other trees and the sombre grey of the sky. A whitewashed cottage was just visible among the trees and from here a couple of very young children had run out to play. One ancient cedar, battered by the wind, had come down and its branches lay thick across the bend of the road. The children stood watching the branches of the tree, tossed in the wind, imagining that the road stopped here and that the jungle stretched beyond.
As they watched, the branches began to move slowly, a curtain of green parting. Through the lacy finery of the fallen cedar a monster crawled out of their jungle. The children stood back, watching with wonder-widened, uncomprehending eyes while the cold, grey tanks rode by.
V
Doyle returned to his room in an hour, having failed to contact Martin Anas, the man to whom he might have entrusted a message. He had seen the wife, Maria, but she was antagonistic, and, in any case, she knew nothing. As Doyle came into the dingy entrance hall, he was stopped by the concierge who handed him a note from Kate which said that she had called and was coming back later. Doyle stuffed the note in his pocket.
‘Has Jacko brought my newspapers yet?’ he asked.
The old man shook his head, a sly smile on his face. Irritated, Doyle began to ascend the stairs. The old man shuffled to the bottom step and called out, in his wavering, high-pitched voice:
‘They arrested Jacko.’
Doyle stopped on the stairs and turned slowly. The old man was watching him, his watery eyes narrowed; he stood rubbing his hands together in a pretence of agitation, but there was no pity in his face. Doyle came down the stairs, his expression registering just the right mixture of surprise and irritation.
‘What do they want with a poor creature like Jacko?’
The old man shrugged his shoulders. He was looking keenly at Doyle’s face.
‘How long ago was this?’ Doyle sounded idly curious.
The old man shook his head, disappointed at the casual reception of his news. Doyle began to ascend the stairs once more, calling over his shoulder:
‘Tell Miss Blanchard to come up when she arrives.’
On second thoughts, he decided that that was the wrong thing to have said, but it was too late to put it right now. He would have to get rid of Kate quickly. He went up the narrow flight of stairs, whistling softly under his breath, aware that eyes might be watching him at every half-landing. He did not hurry. He opened the door of his room and went in, closing it slowly behind him.
He stood with his back against the door and looked at the room. He had never been particularly aware of it before, nor of his few possessions scattered about. Now his eyes studied the familiar scene with a new interest. There was his typewriter and an untidy mass of papers on the table near the window; a cheap travelling clock on th
e mantelshelf; a few books on mountaineering; and a brightly-coloured modern painting which Kate had brought back from one leave to cover a damp patch on the wall. There was nothing of value. Nothing particularly personal even: he was not a man who took any pride in his possessions.
Then, in the far corner, beside the wardrobe, he saw his suitcases, old and battered, covered with tattered labels which were a reminder of many journeys over the years. He walked across and looked down at them, reading the labels and remembering places: Córdoba, Fiesole, Valparaiso, Damascus, Peshawar, and dear, dirty Dublin. He looked around the room again, a slightly incredulous expression on his face.
He walked to the window and looked down. They were still standing there, two men in dark overcoats. Soon they would be joined by others because it would not take long to make the little hunchback, Jacko, talk. And Jacko could implicate Doyle. And Doyle, who could he implicate? He thought of Karel who had risked everything, and he remembered Varya standing with her hands hidden in the folds of the black dress, staring at him, her eyes asking: ‘Would you risk as much?’ At the time, he had thought not; but at the time there had appeared to be a choice. But now? It was not Varya and Karel alone; it was Martin Anas, and a long chain of unknown people stretching away beyond this city, beyond the borders of this country. There were plans, too, which could be betrayed; not very efficient plans, perhaps, but ones which now, if ever, had a chance of being carried through successfully. And then, of course, there was the fact that he was a foreigner to be taken into account. A ‘confession’ from a foreign agitator would be invaluable at this particular time to the special police and their masters. He thought of all these things, but most of all it was of Varya that he thought.
He walked away from the window. Why had he never realized the implications of his relationship with these people? All his life he had safeguarded his independence, and yet he had entered into this affair so lightly. Why had he not seen that in accepting their secrets, he was committing himself to them? To fail them now would be unthinkable. Yet he had no illusions. He had known a man during the war, a brave man, who had betrayed his friends under Nazi persuasion; he could not be certain that he would fare any better. And he had to be certain. There were some risks that he was not prepared to take. Betrayal, confession, trial; to suffer such things to happen to him would be an abnegation of all human dignity. He felt no pity for the people he might betray; and because of this lack of pity, a quality he had never hitherto respected, a feeling of guilt stirred in him. It was as though, since he could not pity them, he must give them something else.
