A Dead Man In Trieste

by Michael Pearce

  At the end of the canal the women were sitting again on the steps of the church stitching. Occasionally one of them would take her work down some steps on one side of the church. After a while, he thought he had worked it out. There was probably a basement workshop there. The women working there would rather do their stitching outside on the steps.

  As he watched, a small procession came out of one of the side streets and stopped in front of the church. It consisted mostly of women. Two held a banner, others gave out leaflets. One woman stood up beside the banner and began to address the women on the steps.

  A man came up from the basement and shouted at the speaker, who took no notice. The man hurried away and the speaker went on speaking. The women on the steps listened quietly, no longer chattering.

  Suddenly the man appeared once more, this time with a group of policemen. They barged at once into the procession, scattering people, banner and leaflets. Some women fell on to the steps. They picked themselves up, retrieved their leaflets and the banner and regrouped further along the quay.

  Unnecessarily heavy-handed policing, thought Seymour, with the critical eye of the professional. Why not just tell them to move on? The other way merely stored up trouble.

  The re-formed procession came down the quay towards Seymour but just before it reached him it turned off. There were about a dozen women and one or two shabbily dressed men. One of the women seemed familiar to Seymour but he didn’t see how this could be and thought he must have made a mistake.

  The procession came closely enough, however, for him to be able to read the banner. It was a Socialist banner of some sort; the Socialist Workers Party of Trieste, he thought he read.

  He felt a twinge of nostalgia. Demonstrations like this were a familiar feature of the East End. Many of the immigrant families had been obliged to leave their original countries because of their political views and they often brought their principles with them. There were all sorts of little radical groups in the East End. They usually were little; most people followed the immigrant strategy of keeping their heads down. But there were always some who wouldn’t, who argued that what was right in Hungary or Poland or wherever was right in England, too.

  Seymour’s own sister was one of these. She was a Socialist, too, which was why she came now into his mind. Socialism was quite strong in Whitechapel, especially among the Jews and in the Jewish tailors’ workshops which were common in the East End, workshops like the one at the end of the canal. She had started going to Socialist meetings when she was still at school and that had led on to other things, to fundraising bazaars, to taking part in demonstrations like this one and to standing on street corners distributing leaflets.

  That was the bit that had got Seymour. He had no objection to Socialism as such. In the East End you rather took it for granted. It was the things that went with it.

  When the children were small, Seymour’s mother had had to go out to work, which meant that his sister had had to look after him. She had taken him to the meetings she attended, which were often in private houses. It was there that he had first met the various languages of the East End. When he had gone home he had mimicked them, and it was hearing him do this that had made Old Appelmann realize the boy’s extraordinary ear.

  Seymour hadn’t minded that part. What he had minded was being obliged by his sister to stand embarrassingly on some cold shop corner accosting the passers-by.

  He was remembering this, wryly, when it suddenly came into his mind where he had seen before the woman in the group who had seemed familiar. She was Koskash’s wife.

  There was nothing unexpected in the medical report. Lomax had died from a single heavy blow to the back of the head. The body had then been thrown into the water. Its condition was consistent with its having been in the sea for a week to ten days.

  There was some ancillary bruising but that had probably come from contact with rocks after the body had been thrown in the sea. There were no wounds of a sort to indicate that Lomax had put up a struggle, that he had not been taken completely by surprise. This was a preliminary report: perhaps the final autopsy would reveal more. It was good of Kornbluth, however, to send it him.

  He put the report down on the table. It didn’t add much to what he already knew. What seemed clear was what had been clear without the report: Lomax must have been killed near the water. You wouldn’t want to lug a body too far. That meant he must have walked down to the sea after leaving the Edison. Why had he done that? To freshen up after having been in the hot cinema, take a second, late passeggiatta as it were? Or for some other reason: to meet someone, perhaps. For what reason? Pleasure or business? But what business could Lomax have had, down by the docks, probably, so late at night?

  The artists were in their usual spot. There seemed, however, to be an argument going on.

  ‘Now!’ he heard Marinetti’s angry voice. ‘Now he tells me!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said a voice that was new to Seymour. It came from an upright, smart-looking man, new to the group, who didn’t seem a bit sorry. A thin smile played on his lips. It was almost as if he was enjoying Marinetti’s rage. ‘Mr Machnich, however, has had second thoughts.’

  ‘But he can’t have second thoughts. Not as late as this! When it was all agreed. Look, it’s happening on Saturday! Next Saturday!’

  ‘It will have to happen somewhere else,’ said the new man, still with his thin smile. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘But, Jesus, I’ve arranged it. We’d agreed!’

  ‘And now it’s disagreed.’

  ‘Machnich can’t do this to me!’

  ‘You’ll just have to find another place.’

  ‘There isn’t another place. Not at such short notice. And not as suitable as the Politeama. Look, it’s going to be big. There are going to be hundreds of people there. Only the Politeama will do.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but Mr Machnich has changed his mind.’

  ‘Look, there’s money in this. For him.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the new man, sceptically.

  ‘Money. You tell him that. Money! That’s the only thing that’ll interest that bastard.’

  The other artists joined in.

  ‘Too true,’

  ‘You can say that again!’

  ‘This is important!’ said Marinetti, his voice rising. ‘I’ve got people coming from all over Europe.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the new man, his voice oozing doubt.

  ‘Yes!’ roared Marinetti. ‘You dumb-headed Bosnian! Can’t you understand? We shall be reading our Manifesto. This is the birth of a new movement. A movement which will change art, and the world, for ever!’

  ‘Art, is it? I don’t think Mr Machnich is very interested in art.’

  ‘Well, no, he wouldn’t be. But he is interested in money. Tell him there’s money in this.’

  ‘Not as much as there is in wrestling.’

  ‘Wrestling?’

  ‘That’s what he’ll be putting on instead.’

  ‘Wrestling!’

  ‘Yes. Serbia versus Austria. The place will be packed.’

  ‘Look, this was agreed months ago. He can’t pull out now.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Look. I could run perhaps to just a little more money.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. You can’t even run to what was agreed.’

  ‘Why is he doing this?’

  ‘Reason broke in. In the end.’

  ‘You talked him out of it. You bastard!’

  ‘He needs a little guidance occasionally.’

  ‘He needs a little guidance about keeping his word. But he wouldn’t be getting that from you, would he?’

  The man began to get up.

  ‘It’s a waste of time talking,’ he said. ‘We’ve made up our minds.’

  ‘You dumb idiot! You’re turning down the chance of a lifetime!’

  The man laughed.

  ‘We’re pulling out of a big flop. You’ll never fill the Politeama. Not with what
you’re planning.’

  ‘You’re wrong, you’re wrong. I’ve sent out invitations. And I’ve had replies. Dozens of them. Hundreds.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The Governor - ’

  ‘Well, I can tell you that he certainly won’t be coming.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he will.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘His wife is on the organizing committee.’

  The man stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘On our committee. She’s interested in art. Not like you, you philistine bastard.’

  The man turned and came back.

  ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘No, I’m not. You wait and see. Just wait till I tell her that Machnich says we must scrap the whole thing because he can’t keep his word!’

  ‘If you’re lying to me - ’

  ‘Lying? To the man who has Machnich’s ear? Would I do that? I’d sooner spit in it.’

  ‘I shall check this - ’

  ‘Check all you like, you dumb idiot!’

  The man hesitated.

  ‘You’re sure about this? Really sure?’

  ‘As sure as I am that you’re a stupid, ignorant - ’

  ‘The Governor?’

  ‘And the consuls. And the Chamber of Commerce. Everybody. Everybody who’s anybody.’

  ‘If you’re having me on -

  ‘The Governor. His wife has promised. And if it’s the Governor, it’s going to be everyone else, isn’t it?’

  The man hesitated.

  ‘If you like,’ said Marinetti, ‘I’ll go round and tell her now. I’m sorry, Frau Kruger, but Machnich says - ’

  ‘All right, all right. All right, you can have it. You can have the Politeama for the evening.’

  Thank you. It’s so nice of you to keep your word. And surprising.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said the new man, wavering still. ‘The Governor? You’re sure?’

  ‘And his wife,’ said Marinetti, beaming.

  ‘The consuls? The diplomatic riff-raff? They’re the ones who matter. You’re sure about them?’

  ‘If the Governor is there, so will they be.’

  He made up his mind, finally.

  ‘All right then. Don’t cock it up.’

  ‘Shall I send Machnich an invitation?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the man, smiling his thin smile.

  ‘What a bastard!’ said Luigi.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘His name is Rakic. He does things for Machnich.’

  ‘He seems pretty confident that Machnich will agree to whatever he says.’

  ‘I don’t know why he should be. He hasn’t been here five minutes.’

  ‘And the sooner he goes away again, the better.’

  ‘They say he was in the army.’

  ‘Well, it certainly sounds like it. Let’s have a drink. To take the taste out of our mouths. Giuseppi!’

  Seymour was going to leave but they insisted that he have one too. Marinetti pulled up a chair. Seymour sat down next to him.

  ‘What’s this you’re putting on?’

  ‘Ah! My Evening. Well . . .’ began Marinetti enthusiastically.

  The others moved away. They had heard it, Seymour suspected, many times before.

  ‘The first Futurist Evening!’

  ‘Futurist?’

  ‘That’s what we call ourselves. The Futurists. Art must look forward. Not back.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Art . .

  Seymour began to wish that he had moved away too.

  Seymour went back to the Consulate. Koskash was, as he always seemed to be, bent over his desk. He laid his pen down.

  ‘I would like,’ said Seymour, ‘to get a feel for the work of the Consulate. The kind of things Lomax did. The kind of things you do.’

  ‘Certainly!’ said Koskash enthusiastically. ‘I’d be glad to show you -’

  Seymour interrupted him hastily, fearing he was about to be exposed to another dose like Marinetti’s.

  ‘Something simple. Those papers you were working on the other night, for instance.’

  ‘Well, they are hardly typical. That sort of thing comes up only every so often.’

  ‘Never mind. They’ll do for a start. Now what exactly were you doing?’

  ‘Making out papers for seamen. Usually because they’ve lost them. Or had them stolen. That happens sometimes, usually when they’ve been to a brothel or a taverna.’

  Seymour went through the process with him. It seemed a simple clerical matter, recorded meticulously in Koskash’s careful handwriting.

  ‘You keep a record, of course?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have to. So that we can check up if the need arises. There’s a certain market in such papers.’

  ‘And you keep the record . . .?’

  ‘Over there. In the files.’

  A little of this kind of thing went a long way and Seymour soon thanked Koskash, saying that he would come back for enlightenment on another process.

  ‘The stationery inventory, perhaps?’ said Koskash enthusiastically.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Seymour, backing off.

  When Koskash had finished work for the day, almost regretfully, it seemed, he went off. Seymour remained at his desk, writing his report. After Koskash had left, he went over to the files and found the folder containing the duplicates of the seamen’s papers that Koskash had made out. There were, as Koskash had said, not many of them, but Seymour went back over several years, until a different Consul’s name appeared in the records.

  As Seymour left the Consulate, he sensed, rather than saw, the man in the trilby hat falling in behind him. Was this the way it was going to be every time he went out? If it was, he didn’t like it. It made the place feel different, put a shadow over the sun. Why him? Why should he be singled out in this way?

  And then Koskash’s words came back to him. Of course. He wasn’t being singled out. This was everybody. Perhaps not everybody, it couldn’t be. But enough people for it to be taken for granted. It was a permanent feature of the place, part of the landscape, part of the Trieste way of life. Almost something in the air you breathed. It had been there, he realized, all the time, behind the sunshine and the sparkling sea, behind the wine and the waiters and the tables in the great piazza, behind the liners at anchor in the bay. It was just that at first he had not seen it.

  It had been there, he realized, in the soldiers at the entrance of every official building, in the policemen at every public place where people gathered; There in the inspectors present in every market, however small, and anywhere where things were done.

  There, in the uniforms everywhere, with their precise, pretty distinctions, the different sorts of epaulettes, the cocked hats for one grade of functionary, the flat caps for another, in the subtly differential braid and the tightly prescribed brims.

  In the prescribed sheets of paper, the ‘chancery double’, on which every official transaction or application, however trivial, had to be written, and which was available in every office and shop; in the forms he had to fill in at the hotel and in the ‘papers’ he had to present on countless occasions.

  The night before he had left, when he had been packing his suitcase, at one point he thought he had lost his papers.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ his grandfather had cried in anguish. ‘What are you doing? Papers are important to these bastards. If you don’t have papers, they shut you up.’

  ‘That was the Tsarist police, Grandfather,’ his sister had murmured patiently.

  ‘The Hapsburg police are no different, are they, Else?’ He had appealed to Seymour’s mother.

  ‘The Hapsburg police are worse,’ she said firmly.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got them,’ Seymour had said, as his sister found them and threw them to him.

  ‘Then you see you keep them!’ thundered his grandfather. ‘No papers, no person! That is how it is with the Hapsburgs. You remember that! It i
s not like England.’

  ‘No, it is not!’ echoed his mother.

  Seymour had caught his sister’s eye, in the complicit shrugging of shoulders that one generation had for another.

  But now he suddenly thought that they might have been right. It wasn’t just a toothless bureaucratic fuss about paper, it was a bureaucracy with an edge of steel.

  It was part of that other thing that was there, almost in the air, of Trieste; there in the very buildings, in the heaviness and grandiosity of the architecture, in the height of the official rooms, and the width of the staircases and the thickness of the carpeting, in the marble finishing and the walnut woodwork.

  There, most of all, in the portraits of the Emperor, in his peaked military cap and white tunic, displayed in every official building and almost in every room, in Schneider’s office, for instance, and in Kornbluth’s, but also in every tobacconist’s shop and in every bar and hotel.

  The day before, he had gone to the Maritime, the fine, classical building on the waterfront which housed the Ministry of Maritime Affairs. When Seymour had gone up the flight of stairs and into the marble-floored reception hall, what had struck him was the resemblance to the Foreign Office in London: the same confidence, the same air of superiority, the same grandiloquence.

  It was, he realized now, the insignia of Empire. And it told of grip.

  When he had entered the hall, Seymour, unused to such places, had stopped for a moment, slightly daunted. But then he had recovered. Was he not, after all, himself the representative of Empire? Even if not in proper person. He told himself wryly that his grandfather would have been proud of him.

  Thinking about it now, however, he felt exactly what his grandfather would have felt: the tremor of rebellion.

  That evening, going, as had now become as habitual to him as to the rest of the population of Trieste, to the Piazza Grande, he ran into Kornbluth, who invited him to join his table at the other end of the piazza.

  As they walked down there, keeping time to the slow movement of the passeggiatta, Seymour thanked him for sending the medical report and asked him how he had been getting on that day.