‘Yes - that or else we’ll both perish from hypothermia,’ Deborah concludes, a bit more down to earth he thinks, and much to his amusement as, at just that moment, a boy approaches - a student by the looks of him - and hands Herman a leaflet; just a cheap carbon copy of an advertisement or some kind but which Herman, ever the gentleman, takes anyway. Deborah does not ask him what it might be; nor does he bother to look as he pushes it into his jacket pocket - and it is not until much later that evening, when he has located a hotel and is seated in the foyer waiting for her to come down for dinner that he ventures to give it a second glance - at which his heart skips a beat.
The first thing that astounds him is the central image printed on the inside of the folded sheet: a messianic kind of figure surrounded by a circle of lanterns upon the floor, almost identical to those in so many of Poppy’s paintings - only here accompanied by several lines of text, and in particular, stamped in bold headlines, the words: ‘Expand your mind! Learn the global trends for the next millennium. Guest speaker, Doctor Rudolph Gross.’
‘Deborah!’ he calls to her excitedly as she comes down the stairs from her room to meet him - and looking, he is pleased to see, courtesy of the hotel laundry and maid service, considerably more presentable than earlier. ‘Deborah, look at this - the sign we were expecting. We have it - look!’
One glance at the leaflet is sufficient. She understands; and they embrace in a moment of utter joy and excitement.
As the lecture is due to take place that very evening, they forgo their meal and instead take a tram out of town to the destination indicated in the leaflet, their formal evening attire concealed beneath overcoats. The venue is situated in one of the less appealing suburbs of the city: an old hall adjacent to a church, surrounded merely by a population of gravestones - while inside, a dismal and motley collection of individuals awaits, scarcely any more animated, and all bundled up in hats and scarves against the cold - a climate that, if anything, seems even more acutely felt inside the building than out.
‘It is my belief,’ the speaker begins without preliminaries, as soon as he has mounted the modest and creaking rostrum, ‘that our planet is shortly to undergo a momentous transformation of consciousness - a manifest crises threatening the entire globe. The causes are well documented and need not concern us here - lifestyle, diet, industrial pollutants, all causing confusion and suffering, and a marked deterioration in public health. It may happen that numerous wars and bouts of social unrest will contribute to the speed of the decline. Only a small percentage of individuals will survive - exclusively those who have raised their spiritual consciousness to the highest of levels.’
The speaker, who they presume is the same Rudolph Gross as mentioned in their leaflet, a nervous, middle-aged man with thinning hair and poorly groomed beard, continues in the same vein for another twenty minutes, leaving little doubt in the mind of all those present that the outlook for the world is utterly bleak, with no remedy whatsoever other than adopting a life of abstinence, scrupulous hygiene, and self-discipline - qualities that seem to Herman, as he glances around the hall in a moment of idle distraction, rather less in evidence among those present than the speaker might have wished.
Questions and answers come next - at first nothing more than a few perfunctory inquiries met with equally perfunctory and bland explanations concerning the coming judgement of the wicked, or else directing the querent to any number of handy leaflets available at the back of the room - all pretty uninspiring stuff, until somebody on the end of the front row, just ahead of Deborah and Herman puts up his hand in a gesture of defiance, a young man who looks far from well, his body twisted by some unfortunate illness or defect of birth. But he does seem determined to challenge the speaker in a more robust fashion than anyone else.
‘So, let’s be clear on this, are you suggesting that diseases are a judgement of some kind … for our immorality?’ he asks, and with more than a hint of sarcasm, Herman feels.
‘I am afraid this is the unpalatable truth,’ the speaker replies, ‘though, naturally, I’ll grant you that those who are suffering at the present, and those millions who will suffer in the coming period will persist in their scepticism of any such doctrine of divine retribution. This is perfectly understandable. But those galactic forces and superior intelligences overseeing our planet are not concerned with human scepticism. Nor is our suffering of any great importance to such exalted entities, since most of humanity will soon become an extinct branch of the natural world anyway. The strong among us will survive and evolve, and the weak will perish and not be missed. It may even come to pass that the strong, out of compassion for the prolonged and futile suffering of the afflicted, will take positive action on their behalf to end their suffering.’
‘Oh really, is that so?’ the young man responds - speaking, Herman senses, with the air of a familiar adversary. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Gross. Are you telling us you propose to exterminate people?’
‘Not I,’ counters the speaker, finally seeming to recognise the face of his obstinate opponent with a look of distinct irritation. ‘Society and the karmic laws of cause and effect will achieve this without our intervention - the inevitable corollary of a sinful life. The actual means by which this cleansing of the human species is attained is immaterial, but it is perfectly natural and wholesome that it should occur. The time of the Übermensch of which the philosophers speak so eloquently is almost upon us.’
But at this, the young man has evidently heard enough. He picks up his crutches - these had not been noticeable before - and trudges with as much speed as he can muster along the aisle between the chairs and out of the building, a look of repugnance on his otherwise clearly intelligent and perceptive features as he passes.
‘Let’s go, too, Manny,’ Deborah exhorts her friend. ‘Let’s follow.’
He agrees. And a moment later, suspecting that by pursuing the young man and trying to speak with him they might come to learn far more than they ever could by remaining, they make their exit, somewhat less dramatically than the young man himself, to locate him just a few minutes later at a deserted tram stop a short distance down the road. A flurry of sleet is beginning to dust their shoulders and to sting their faces as they approach. It is a horrid evening.
‘Forgive us, but may we speak with you?’ Herman begins quietly in his best attempt at German as soon as they reach where he is standing. ‘We heard your questions a moment ago in the hall. Your action in challenging the speaker and in leaving when you did was commendable. Who are these people - extremists, anarchists - what?’
‘You are English, aren’t you?’ the young man inquires, not all that helpfully and with a note of caution.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Deborah replies, joining in and sounding more confident in her command of the language.
‘Well,’ the youth begins again, ‘you would not be expected to know, but these swine have been spreading their filth all over this part of the world for a good few months already. Anyone with any brains manages to ignore it. But I work for the university paper, so I have to come tonight to report on it - as I do many times. They already know me. I am not all that popular.’
‘I see, yes. But won’t you just tell us, please: who are they?’ Deborah presses him, feeling with a burning certainty that here at last is the opening they have been searching for.
‘The speaker, Rudolph Gross, is not affiliated with any organisation,’ the young man replies at length. ‘That’s the official line, anyway. In practice, though, events like these often turn into recruitment session for ...’
But at that he stops himself abruptly - because advancing on the scene are two large, burly looking men; and with their impending arrival the young student reporter appears most perturbed.
‘I suggest that you leave me now,’ he states in a voice of hushed and dignified gravity, though his shoulders are trembling. ‘I believe I am about to be beaten up.’
Unfortunately, the two men, who more than anything have the look of a
couple of hired thugs, are upon them too quickly for either Deborah or Herman to consider the wisdom or otherwise of the boy’s recommendation.
‘Hey, Cripple!’ one of them shouts, mocking the youth as they advance - one pointing a menacing finger.
‘Trouble maker!’ the other cries. ‘How the hell did you manage to hobble along here again tonight?’
Herman is appalled, and anxious, too, for the growing fear in the young man’s eyes is more than a little contagious - and everyone can anticipate well enough what is about to happen. But just then they spot a carriage, the German equivalent of a hackney, coming down the long, deserted road, and within a second Deborah has stepped up to hail it. Not waiting for assistance, she opens the door and climbs in. Herman, meanwhile, and having gathered up the boy’s crutches as they men advance, urges him swiftly through the door also.
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ one of the thugs shouts, and collars Herman just as he has succeeded in bundling the boy inside. He feels a powerful kick striking him somewhere on the back of his legs.
The cabman, meanwhile, whip in hand and clearly terrified, has released his brake and is about to move off.
‘No - wait!’ Deborah screams out of the lowered window on her side - as Herman, with one crisp movement spins around and lands a powerful, tooth-crunching strike with his palm upon the chin of his assailant before toppling back himself into the open door of the carriage where he is hauled through by the others. With everyone inside at last, the driver really does crack the whip this time, and off they go - with Herman’s arm outside of the glass endeavouring to close the door, and a wayward crutch protruding from the same aperture on the other side as it goes.
A brick or some such heavy object lands on the roof and the driver curses. But then they turn a corner, accelerating fast, and within seconds, mercifully, have reached safety.
Chapter 22
They both feel far more optimistic than they have for a long while - because today, with a brief scribbled note in their possession containing the details of the young man they had rescued (after a fashion) the previous evening, Deborah and Herman have arranged to meet him again this morning. His name is Dieter, and at his suggestion they spend an hour with him in the local coffeehouse near the university where he conveys as much information as he can concerning Doctor Rudolph Gross and a certain charitable arts organisation, the Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment for whom the man canvasses support on a regular basis. Dieter himself, meanwhile, they also learn, is a victim of polio and some additional complications that have led, he tells them with amazing bravery and all the optimism of the young, to an irrevocable wasting of the muscles, and despite the poor prognosis usually given for such an illness he appears to be remarkably sanguine about his condition, pointing out with a smile that in the view of Doctor Gross’s ‘galactic intelligences’ people such as himself would be considered as one of the more expendable members of society - which, if any counter-comment were needed to dispute the garbage being preached by the good doctor, Dieter’s example of quiet and unassuming courage would have more than sufficed.
‘This is Gross’s Swiss address,’ he states, writing out the information on a page torn from his notebook. ‘But I warn you, the organisation he works for is most likely a smokescreen for something more disturbing. I hear they can be very tenacious in their recruitment methods, especially regarding anybody with money.’
They promise to be careful, and urge him to do likewise; but once outside, they cannot wait to telegraph the man’s office - making sure, however, to employ assumed names for safety. It is a Bern address, and to their surprise a reply comes back within a few hours, stating that although Dr Gross himself is still on his lecture tour, he is expected to return the following day, and that thereafter he would be pleased to receive them - all of which only serves to heighten their sense of anticipation as they hasten to the railway station with just a few essential items of luggage before setting forth southwards towards the Swiss border.
On the long journey through the spectacular scenery, castles and vineyards of the Rhine valley, seated in splendid isolation in their first class compartment, or else in the dining car with its luxurious interior of mahogany tables and armchairs, there is an opportunity for Deborah and Herman to speak at far more length than ever before. They discover a surprising rapport on subjects as diverse as politics and the arts - plus, a little more frivolously, a certain shared pleasure in the observation of their fellow diners, speculating, through whatever psychic abilities they can muster, as to their characters and aspirations. They also share a fascination for the more humble appearances of those upon the platforms of the various stations and halts upon the way as, gradually, the formal clothing of the north is replaced by more and more instances of regional dress, the women in particular becoming so much more colourful and pastoral in appearance.
They also discover a shared affinity for classical music, and particularly the German romantics, Beethoven, Schumann and Brahms, the favourite of Deborah’s daughter, as it happens. But they do not flirt - not for one moment - an unusual situation for Herman to find himself subject to, since he usually does, of course. In the nicest possible way, he flirts with every woman, young or old, single or married. But he understands, too, that if Deborah is to accept his sincerity in wishing to aid her in her quest, he must put the brakes on all that kind of nonsense, at least for a while.
For her part, she feels much the same. He is attractive enough, with his handsome moustache and tall, masculine physique - and those big brown eyes that look so intently at you with such kindness and solicitude. But there is no way she is going to succumb to any of it. Life has altered for her - dramatically so of late. It is as if all of her normal desires and instincts have been wrapped up into one great longing: her unerring quest to find Poppy. Thus, in a wholly satisfactory way, they both recognise their boundaries and, in time, just settle down and enjoy the experience of companionship and common purpose, instead.
A little later, after returning to their compartment, he unfolds upon the table between them a sizeable map, and at every available occasion on which the train is stationary, endeavours in a most curious manner to suspend a small pendulum across its surface. The map is upside down from her point of view, but she can see well enough it is of central Europe, and as she glances up at him she notices his face is aglow with concentration, his cheeks literally reddening with a blend of attention and also a certain mischief as he studies the movements of the little stone of onyx upon its golden chain.
‘This is called dowsing,’ he states, not looking up. ‘A spot of detective work with pendulum and map.’
‘Dowsing? I thought you only did that with twigs, to find water,’ she teases him - because she knows full well what he is up to.
‘You can dowse for anything - and for anybody,’ he explains. ‘And a pendulum is ideal for this kind of work. One must stay alert for any instance of the stone swinging in a positive, clockwise direction. Anything else simply means a negative. I tried it this morning in my room before we went to see Dieter - using a map of the whole continent to get a better idea of where your daughter might be at present ...’
‘And ..?’ she enquires with a certain eagerness tempered by scepticism, for she has never really thought much of the technique herself.
‘Austria, I’d say. Probably somewhere in the more remote South or Southeast. We can narrow it down with more-accurate, larger-scale maps later, if we can get hold of any.’
‘Oh really. I didn’t realise it was quite so infallible,’ she declares, and with an irony wasted on Herman at the present time, for he remains intent on his work.
‘I use it for all sorts of things. It helps in the process of contemplation and to arrive at decisions. Well … I suppose one would be foolish to rely on it entirely, of course.’
‘One might, indeed, yes,’ she responds, wondering if he is really listening. ‘But, failing that, never underrate your intuition, Manny - your gut
feeling - which will preserve you through almost anything. Even being alone in a train compartment with a mad woman.’
‘Ah, so there’s hope for me yet, eh?’ he says and finally raises his eyes, succumbing to a brief lapse into flirtation after all.
‘Oh, there is always hope,’ she says and smiles.
There is, he thinks, something special about her today - and he is pleased to see it - a rediscovered sense of self-assurance and composure, something he recalls from that evening back in London when they had sat and supped their wine together in Gordon’s; and it does, in truth, make her look quite beautiful: her high cheekbones and wide, generously shaped lips, slightly down-turned as if in resignation, almost a disdain at all the adversity the world has set in her way; and her brown, slightly auburn hair escaping in the occasional stray curl beneath the brim of her hat whenever, during one of the several enforced pauses in their journey, they elect to take a stroll along the platforms to pass the time. Again, he tells himself as she takes his arm on such occasions, that he really must desist; to try to look at her in a more dispassionate way. But it is not easy.
At one stage, waiting for their train to take on extra carriages, and reaching the farthest limit of a platform they find themselves on the margin of a grim looking farmstead and the unprepossessing scene of a field of sheep, the ground about them all muddy, their fleeces all covered in filth. Such a contrast to the fragrant and luxurious bubble they have just emerged from, that it is almost an embarrassment to them.
‘Look at those poor beasts,’ Herman observes. ‘Not much of a life, eh? Do you think the angels look down upon us sometimes and think much the same - not much of a life, they’d say, those humans, wallowing in all their bestial appetites, and always oblivious to their destiny - off to the slaughter house tomorrow?’
‘They’re not bothered - the animals,’ Deborah observes with a note of admonishment as they turn to retrace their steps towards the dining car. ‘They don’t know any better.’
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 21
