When Nepamuk was trussed up, Perico exchanged the pitchfork for a dung fork and dug the trench further into the heap. He dragged Nepamuk up to the end of his excavation, set him on his feet and threw back the manure so that he was completely covered except for head and shoulders. He might try to roll and wriggle himself clear but would stop in a panic as soon as he realised that he risked burying himself.
‘How long are you going to leave him there?’
‘To-morrow some time the gardeners may come out for manure. No one is likely to come from the stables.’
‘He’ll be heard yelling in the night.’
‘No. It’s too far. And with all the owls hooting—just one more of them! When will he be missed at the house?’
‘When his man calls him in the morning. He’s often out at night and doesn’t need to tell anyone where he is going.’
‘That gives me time to get clear.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘The frontier.’ Perico waved a hand at the dusk gathering over Transylvania. ‘A good horse and I am there in an hour. Friend Bernardo, I have enough.’
‘I have enough, too. But what can I do without clothes or money?’
‘Clothes? What more do you want? You’re dressed like a prince in those boots and breeches. And money—I have my savings and we share them. If both of us go together, everything is much easier. Wait by the track through the stubble till I have seen Kovacs. I shall be back with horses when I can.’
The night fell quickly. Across the plain were the faint lights of the village and through the trees he could see the harsher light over the door of the Kalmody palace welcoming back the guest who would not return. Perico had been quite right. At a distance of quarter of a mile Nepamuk’s cries were muffled by the haystacks, and there was nobody but himself as near as that. Any wandering peasant would take the ethereal, persistent wails for those of a long-eared owl drifting in search of rats or a young partridge.
He was alarmed at his choice, but Perico seemed to know what he was about; and afterwards somewhere there would be a British consul. It might even be easier to get in touch with him when gaoled by Romanian frontier guards. Better Romanians than Hungarians! Nobody over there was going to bother him about cliffs and Kalmodys and the Empress Zita. A frontier was a frontier was a frontier.
Perico was back in an hour quietly walking three horses, saddled and bridled, along the verge of the track. Bernardo recognised the led horses as two of Kalmody’s black half-bloods, famous in the district. The third was a working hack for general duties. Perico was wearing the black horseman’s cloak of the Count’s retainers, splashed with the coroneted falcon, and had brought another for Bernardo.
They set off across the empty fields, by-passing the nearest village. On the way Perico, very pleased with his cunning, explained the three horses. Success had depended, he said, on whether Kovacs had or had not done his last round of the stables.
He had gone straight to the Master of the Horse and asked leave to ride into town and stay the night. That was at once granted, and he took a glass in the parlour while Kovacs jovially speculated on how he proposed to spend his time. As soon as Perico discovered that his boss would not do his stable round till after supper he said that he had just saddled two horses for Mr. Nepamuk and Mr. Brown and that they had been secretive about their intentions. It could be that Bernardo was going to meet the Baroness and that Nepamuk was unwilling to let him out of sight.
‘So now when he finds three horses out he’ll think he knows why and will tell the house,’ Perico added. ‘We have all night and much of to-morrow before questions are asked.’
They stopped well before the outskirts of the compact little town and jumped the tumbled stones of a ruinous, white wall into the cover of a cherry orchard. Bernardo was to wait there with the two black horses while Perico rode openly through the streets, left his own mount in the stables of his usual inn and then walked back to the orchard.
Bernardo had another long and nervous interval in which to consider the incalculable risks of what he was doing. Though impressed by Perico’s daring and ingenuity, he felt that the Argentine had no very precise idea of European frontiers especially when the two opposite sides were hardly on speaking terms; a fugitive from justice could not just ride, as in the Americas, from emptiness to emptiness across a line which existed only on a map. He was tempted to return to his luxurious prison and rescue Nepamuk on the way. About all that stopped him was longing for Magda. Whatever the way to see her was, it could never be through the Kalmody palace.
It was after midnight when Perico appeared, for he had slipped back into the open country through side lanes taking great care not to be recognised. The pair then rode for the frontier easily reached by an empty road still in the Kalmody lands which before the war had stretched far into what was now Romania. Perico had never had reason to explore the boundary and had seen little more than a wide belt of noman’s land which the Count, disgusted at being expropriated by mere treaty-makers, had left derelict to keep Romania out of sight, hearing and recognition. There were plenty of tracks and dirt roads—far too many of them—which had once connected village to village and were now blocked by barbed wire and palisades of tree trunks with scrub growing on the surface of the road as freely as in the once cultivated fields. In the darkness they were soon hopelessly lost. The only certain way for horses was the beaten path along the wire made by patrolling frontier guards.
At one road block the coil of wire had been slightly flattened and Bernardo suggested that they should jump it, though God and the Romanians alone knew what was beyond in the silent night. Perico refused.
‘The Count and Kovacs have treated me decently,’ he said. ‘I will not steal their horses. If we take them into Romania it is certain they will never see them again.’
He was unwilling and illogical. He would not take the horses, yet he was conditioned not to set out into the unknown without them. He pointed out that they had no wire cutters and that even if they managed to scramble across they had not the time to get clear of the frontier before morning. They were arguing far too loudly, and the question was quickly settled by a short burst of rifle fire from the Romanian side which cut the leaves from the bushes and sent them galloping back to safety; it also ended all chance of following the track along the wire, for Hungarian patrols as well would be alerted by the firing.
‘We are not smugglers and we don’t know how to do it,’ Perico said furiously. ‘This has to end in blood.’
Possibly. But why not try what respectability would do? Bernardo remembered that in a former life he had been a shipping and forwarding agent. There was little he did not know about frontiers and their officials from the commercial angle.
‘What is the nearest station where trains cross the frontier?’ he asked.
‘Nagyvarad. About fifteen kilometres to the north.’
‘Let’s go! There is always a chance.’
It was no use trying any cross country route. If they were to reach Nagyvarad before the sun they had to stick to the roads, follow sign-posts and risk being held up and questioned by gendarmerie. It was the devil that they had no papers, Bernardo said.
‘I have my passport and an identity card which shows that I work for Kalmody. Now that Nepamuk is in the dung-heap no one else will dare to say that a Kalmody groom has no right to be in Hungary.’
‘And my story?’
‘Look, Bernardo! In this country so much depends on how one is dressed. It will be clear to everyone that you are of the upper class. And since they like Englishmen, say what you are! You have no need to carry a passport. I am only taking you to the station to meet a friend.’
They met nobody, so that the story was never tested. Bernardo considered it in silence as they alternately walked and cantered their horses. It seemed to have possibilities. If Perico was right, the name of Kalmody might work wonders even at Nagyvarad.
It was nearly dawn when the road led them up over a first s
houlder of the Transylvanian foothills, and there immediately below them were the files of harsh lamps over the frontier station. A long train of Wagon-Lits was waiting to enter Hungary, its windows all dark and dim pools of light at the doors of the coaches showing the occasional busy customs officer and armed, idle sentry. On the opposite track was a shabbier, third-class train facing Romania and spilling peasants on to the platform. Under the arc lights of the yard Bernardo could see packed freight trains without locomotives. To his practised eye it looked as if Nagyvarad, once of little importance, needed a lot of development before it was large enough for international traffic. As it was, the yards were jammed solid, and the only hope for the unfortunate importer waiting for goods week after week at Budapest or Bucarest would be to visit the frontier station himself with a pocketful of bribes.
‘Perico, do you think anyone at the station would know these are Kalmody’s horses?’
‘Man, look at our cloaks and the coronets on the saddles! At least the stationmasters and the police will know.’
‘Then leave it all to me! Here I am at home. I am an Englishman and a friend of the Count, as you said. You are his trainer under Kovacs and sent to interpret for me, which may not be necessary. At an international station enough people speak French. And this is our business. We are expecting two English mares which the Count has bought from Romania. We are afraid they may be stuck in the yards without food or water.’
‘But how will that help us?’
‘I don’t know yet, Perico. We must wait till we see our chance.’
They rode down the hill and trotted into the paved court of the station. Barracks, stations, government offices, they were all the same: simple and dignified oblong blocks with regimented lines of windows, imposing under the Empire but now after long war and near bankruptcy shabby and with peeling plaster.
Old Mr. Brown laughed at the memory of their arrival with a shade of pride in his youth.
‘We must have been a fine-looking pair. Beautifully mounted and—apart from language—so obviously belonging to the ancient, traditional Hungary. A breath of fresh air in that milieu of trains and internationalism and grubby customs officers. And there was Perico demanding the stationmaster as if he were a Nepamuk or better!’
The stationmaster came out of his office and saluted the two cloaked riders standing motionless in the courtyard. He spoke fair French, and Bernardo dismounted and launched into his story with a geniality he had not felt since Bilbao. The stationmaster personally took them to see the yardmaster, who was certain that there was no horse van in his yard. And, if there had been, of course, the horses would have been fed and watered.
‘Could they be in the Romanian yards?’ Bernardo asked.
Well, that was possible. What could one expect of Romanians? They would let the mares die in their box and eat them afterwards.
‘Can we go and see?’
‘If they let you,’ the yardmaster answered doubtfully. ‘I will do my best. Meanwhile leave your two noble horses with us.’
It seemed time for a token of gratitude. Bernardo suggested to Perico that they should slip him something.
‘No. These Hungarians, even the little officials, are different from the rest of us. They do not take bribes.’
‘You speak Romanian?’ the stationmaster asked.
‘That was Spanish,’ Bernardo answered. ‘The Count’s trainer comes from Argentina.’
‘Well, over there they all speak Hungarian—not to us, but they will to you. And here is something that will please them! You should call this town Oradea Mare, not Nagyvarad.’
The Romanian yardmaster was a surly, unshaven functionary whose dislike of Hungarians—at any rate when well-dressed or neatly uniformed—was pointed. He was offended at the suggestion that there could be horses in his yard unknown to him and refused to take the responsibility of allowing Bernardo and Perico to see for themselves. The Hungarian yardmaster tactfully reminded him that nobody could lose by doing favours to a Kalmody, and at least persuaded him to pick up the telephone.
A young Romanian lieutenant—of Army or Security to judge by his sky-blue-uniformed air of contempt for commerce—came belted and booted into the office. He spoke excellent French, and Bernardo was able to take over. The name of Kalmody made no impression. What did the trick was Perico’s Argentine passport. The lieutenant had never seen one before.
‘Where are your horses from?’
Bernardo said they were from Bucarest, which was the only Romanian town he knew by name.
‘They may be at Arad.’
‘We have asked at Arad and they told us to try here.’
The lieutenant turned on the yardmaster with a show of military impatience and led them smartly out of the office.
‘I told the fool to look through his papers again,’ he explained to Bernardo. ‘I will show you the trains myself.’
Very amicably they did the rounds of three separate trains in the sidings, Perico dutifully stopping to examine any cattle truck which might possibly contain horses.
‘And you like Hungary?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘Frankly, no! It is a joy to be here speaking French of culture with a Latin brother.’
‘But you are English.’
‘My mother was Spanish, lieutenant. I can see I should be happy in your country.’
They sentimentalised over the Latin brother tucked away from all the rest of the family on the Black Sea.
‘Ride over when you wish! Ask for Lieutenant Muresanu.’
‘I shall be delighted, and have my passport with me next time. Now tell me, my lieutenant—in other countries it would be in order to give a little present to the yardmaster for his trouble, but here I am not so sure.’
‘He’d take it all right. None of us are well paid.’
‘Then might I ask you to give it to him?’
‘With pleasure, monsieur.’
It was hard to know how much the goodwill of an officer was worth. Bernardo had no idea of the value of Hungarian pengös, never having handled any. He only knew what Perico’s weekly wage was and gave Muresanu twice that. The sum was most graciously received.
A sound investment it seemed on general principles, but there was less chance than ever of getting rid of the lieutenant or, now that it was full light, of hiding in the busy yard. As the three walked along the passenger platform, Bernardo asked if any more freight trains would cross the frontier that morning.
‘There should be one from Bucarest in about an hour.’
‘Then we will go back and have some breakfast and come over again if you allow it.’
‘Have it here on the station. That will save trouble. I will come and fetch you when the train is due.’
Coffee, rolls and eggs were all excellent, and Bernardo, who was very hungry, was on the whole prejudiced in favour of Romania. Perico, however, was demanding action, any sort of action, and alarmed that they should waste time by a casual breakfast.
‘Suppose they find Nepamuk?’
‘If they do, it will still take time to find us. And now that everyone has seen us with the lieutenant we can wander about without question.’
He asked Perico to pay the bill and to change some money into Romanian lei. Meanwhile he watched movement on the station. He knew that he was far less daring than Perico, much more ready to resign himself to fate. On the other hand he had, he thought, been doing rather well by lending himself to whatever turned up. That local train was still standing at the platform, now with a locomotive at the Romanian end. Having discharged one load of passengers—who had had to cross the frontier on foot with their bundles and take another train on the Hungarian side—it had now received a new load. Police and customs officers had finished with it, and it was due to start at any moment.
He had to be patient during long minutes while Perico changed money.
‘Walk slowly down the platform,’ he said. ‘Don’t hurry even if the train starts. And let’s leave our cloaks on the chairs to sh
ow that we are coming back. It’s too hot to wear them anyway.’
They crossed the line behind the train and very casually walked up the other side of it until three wagons hid them from observation. An empty first-class compartment was opposite and the door was unlocked. In an instant they were inside and under the seats.
The train obligingly started immediately and then stopped outside the station. That was the worst moment of all. They were sure they had been seen; and no fairy story could be convincing enough for even Lieutenant Muresanu to save them. It then reversed and a comforting bang showed that something had been picked up at the tail of the train—probably the three wagons on the next track. When the engine began to chuff-chuff with some purpose they rolled from under the seats and looked out of the window with all the assurance of first-class passengers with no tickets who could not be caught till the next station.
‘Where is it going?’ Perico asked.
‘Man, even if they told us we’d be no wiser.’
III
Sanctuary
The unknown country was rolling, wooded and restful to the eyes after the brown Hungarian distances, but intervals for satisfying curiosity were too short. The slow train stopped everywhere and sometimes at a nowhere without visible reason for a station, compelling them to dive back under the seats. At one remote valley halt their compartment was invaded by a family of Romanian peasants—two trouser legs of greyish white frieze, four pairs of white woollen stockings, two small bare legs, all with shoes made from old tyres—who were immediately ordered out by a screaming guard. So far as one could guess, it was their first journey by train and either classes of travel were unknown to them or they could not read numbers. They obeyed, but not so humbly as in Hungary. The guard locked the door. Thereafter Bernardo and Perico risked remaining on their seats so long as peaked caps showed no sign of walking up the platform at the stops.
The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown Page 7
