‘She made me promise to find him.’ And I explained about Isabel.
‘So – so – so,’ he exclaimed mournfully. ‘What a world we have made for ourselves! It is a graveyard of love. My wife and I were very happy – every day we were happy together. But she was Jewish so before the war we went to Switzerland. Then in 1942 she returned to Germany because her mother was ill. I never saw her again. She died in a concentration camp. I think half of me died there also. But this is not answering your questions, Mr Bedford. Another whisky first perhaps? It will not spoil your acting later? So!’ He took our glasses to the table. ‘That was the trouble with our friend Joe Farne. He was brave and stubborn but a very poor actor. He could not do what I told him to do. Then he was given an injection, not by me. And he told them he had written to his wife in Cambridge. Now she knew all he knew, he told them. What he had heard at the Institute, when Steglitz was visiting there and talking freely to Arnaldos – ’
‘Joe was using a special mike. An English radio man, a drunk I met, told me that. And then, I suppose, they had to find out how much he’d given away. Which is just about where I come into the picture.’ I told him how Mitchell had picked me up, probably spotting me first at the hospital, and how Joe’s list of names had been stolen from my studio, obviously by somebody working for Merlan-Smith. ‘I saw your name on that list, Dr Rother,’ I ended. ‘You, Semple and Barsac.’
He gave me a kind of mournful grin. ‘With Farne we made a quartet. But not very harmonious. We all knew – or felt – there was something wrong at the Institute. And at first we had many secret discussions. But our reactions were too different. Scientists are as different in temperament as artists, Mr Bedford. Semple and Barsac were given a project they did not like. They had to work on fall-out, what the effect of total war between the nuclear powers would be on the Southern Hemisphere. Semple was already highly neurotic, full of guilt feelings. When he began to ask questions, they decided that in his case it would be better to increase his tensions. I think it was Steglitz, a very clever evil man, who turned Semple’s neurosis into a psychosis. He had some method, I think, not chemical. So then Semple could go. Who cares what a madman says? Farne you know about. As for Barsac, a Frenchman not so simple as our two English colleagues, he agreed with me not to ask any more questions. We would pretend not to care, to be interested only in the work we were given to do. But Soultz and Schneider were suspicious of Barsac, and when he was sent down here there was not much he could do. He had written certain things to his sister, married to an Australian. But he would not tell them this, because he was afraid for his sister in Australia. Steglitz, he is in Australia most of the time. So Barsac slipped away last year, because he thought if he stayed here, they might kill him. With me it has been different. My work has been of some use to them. It is the kind of research they need. Remember, they are not scientists themselves. They employ scientists. Also they know I am alone in the world. They think I don’t care any more. They are nearly right but not quite.’
He looked at his watch, then at the young German, still sleeping. The glass the young German had emptied was lying on the floor. Rother picked it up and rinsed it out with more pisco from the bottle. ‘Too many chemists here,’ he said as he swished the liquor round and then poured it out on to the floor. ‘Too many analysts. I cannot take risks. And now we have not so much time left. We may meet tomorrow. We may not. It is better if we add our ideas and impressions together now. Please begin, Mr Bedford. What is it you and I have as an enemy here?’
I hesitated a moment, not because I mistrusted him but because I wanted to make the best of such ideas and impressions as I had. ‘All I know for certain,’ I began, ‘is that it’s a big rich organisation stretching – at the very least – from here to London. And this may be just one arm of it, so to speak. Because when I showed Merlan-Smith that fake gold badge last night, and talked as if I represented another branch of the organisation, I bluffed him into believing me. It seems to me a kind of secret society – and though it operates in a big way it may not have many members – ’
‘There I think you are right,’ cried Rother, nodding his head quickly in his queer sideways fashion. His eyes gleamed like headlamps. And in his excitement he had raised his voice, but fortunately he stopped for a moment, perhaps considering how he could best present his argument. This gave me time to put one hand up to my mouth and point with the other at the door. We listened together. I could just hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Rother crept to the door and put an ear to the edge of it. I could hear nothing now except the alarmed thump-thump inside me. Rother stood up and looked at me.
‘It is evident to me, Mr Bedford,’ he began in a loud clear voice, ‘that you do not begin to understand the music of Wagner. Here at Osparas, where most of us are Germans, Wagner is the composer we admire the most.’
He signed to me to say something, then listened at the door again while I said my piece. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful for this excellent Scotch, Dr Rother,’ I roared at him. ‘Very grateful indeed. Dam’ good of you, doctor. But Wagner – no, sir! He’s moaning in the cellar while Mozart is outside in the sunlight – ’ I stopped because he signalled me to turn it off.
‘Whoever was there has gone,’ he said very quietly, coming back to his chair. ‘But now we must be careful. We will speak very quietly close together. For ten minutes perhaps. Then you begin to go to bed.’ So the most important talk I’d had with anybody, ever since I left Isabel Farne’s bedside, took place in whispers, the pair of us sitting close like two deaf old cronies.
‘I think you are right,’ Rother began softly. ‘Here we have some kind of secret society. It may operate in a big way, as you say, perhaps through many organisations. Yet it could have only a few members, this society. And why? Because we live now in a very small world.’
‘Do we? That’s not what I’ve been thinking lately. First New York, then Peru, then here, almost off the map.’
‘A lot of space, no doubt, but all in such little time. I tell you, it is now a very small world. It is really smaller than Europe was two hundred years ago. People do not understand this. There is so much talk about bigness, of increasing population figures. But this is all nothing, now when men can meet in Peking to make something happen in the Congo. And men who understand power, communications, influence, understand this also, Mr Bedford. Fifty such men, always working together for one single purpose, might now change all human history.’
‘Do you think that is what these Wavy Eight characters are doing? I call them that because I don’t know what else to call them. I’ve been told they’re Nazis, but I’m certain they’re not – ’
‘You are right,’ Rother broke in eagerly. ‘They are not. Though there is something, I often feel, that is very German here – reminding me of one early side of Nazism – something – something – ’
As his voice trailed away, I pushed on. ‘They’re not Communist. They can’t be just anti-Communist – ’
‘They are both – and yet neither, I think. But when the cold war is getting too cold, I believe they have ways of warming it. I believe this but cannot prove it. Of course fortunes can be made out of these crises by clever buying and selling on stock exchanges. Perhaps some of the money they spend is made that way. But I do not feel the society exists simply for some financial purpose. There is some other deeper bond. Though he was a good scientist and a Frenchman also, cynical about most matters, Barsac believed there is something very strange, mystical, in this purpose, this bond. He once told me that his sister, the one in Australia, believed this also, Mr Bedford.’
He stared hard at me, his face only a few inches away from mine, the eyes behind his thick lenses like moons. It was as if a cold spider ran down my back. ‘What did Joe Farne mean when he wrote Old astrologer on the mountain? It doesn’t sound like Joe. And where does Saturn come in, if he meant Saturn?’
Rother closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I am a chemist, not a fortune-teller. But
there is one last thing I must tell you, Mr Bedford – for I must go and you must get into bed to rehearse your performance. It is this – and here Barsac and I were in complete agreement.’ He had opened his eyes now and his voice was only a whisper. ‘Whatever the nature of their society, their purpose, the bond between them, these men are entirely ruthless. It does not matter to them if a good man is driven mad and commits suicide. They would not care if millions were driven mad and committed suicide. To them we are no longer men and brothers. Why – I cannot tell you – but I have worked for them long enough to know this is true. I have worked too long. Tomorrow, like you, I go. We go together, but exactly how, I do not know yet. Have patience. Act your part, later tonight. That is all you must do. So!’
He now began bustling around, collecting the glasses and putting them on the tray, shaking and then arguing with the young German, who didn’t know what had happened to him. Before they were ready to go, I’d undressed and wrapped two blankets round me on that cot, as hard as bricks. I turned my face to the wall, to start my performance for the benefit of the young German, and so I never even saw them go. The light was clicked out, and then I heard the door being closed and locked from outside. I was about as near to sleep as a runner waiting for the starter’s pistol. My mind was like an all-night cinema showing broken old films. I seemed to have sat through the programme several times before I heard the door being opened and the murmur of voices, though I suppose it was really not long after eleven. The light from a powerful torch danced on the wall, and then came closer and brought me round into its focus.
I kept my eyes half-closed, my mouth open and slack, and began the performance. ‘Uh? Uh? Wha’ is i’?’ And a bit more on those lines, if you can call them lines. Mouth open and no consonants. Like a pop singer or any of his admirers, in Macmillan’s never-had-it-so-good England.
I knew that von Emmerick was holding the torch, that Merlan-Smith was with him, and one other man. This third man wasn’t Rother, for when he spoke to von Emmerick in German I heard him mention Rother’s name.
‘Wha’s idea? Go ’way – go ’way. Wanna sleep – sleep.’ I felt Alec Guinness couldn’t have done it any better. In fact it was hard to resist the temptation to build up the part a bit, try a few fancy touches.
‘All right, Bedford,’ said von Emmerick, as close to sounding soothing as he was ever likely to get. ‘You go to sleep. Good night.’
‘Goo’ ni’ – goo’ ni’ – ’ And I rolled over.
‘Are you satisfied?’ I heard Merlan-Smith ask, as they turned away.
‘Of course,’ von Emmerick said. ‘By tomorrow night at this time he will have told us everything he knows. Then you can forget this fool – who has been handled badly so far. I shall complain to the Institute again – though of course Arnaldos is too old – ’
That’s all I caught before the door closed behind them. Once again I heard the cheerless sound of the key turning in the lock outside. I expected to be awake for hours, but I must have under-estimated the relief I felt after that visit was over. I fell asleep almost at once, and when I woke up the day had dawned and was already ripening. Between its bars the window was bright with promise.
13
Three of them arrived with my breakfast: Rother himself, Otto, and the big fellow who’d knocked me out. When I caught this fellow’s eye, I pointed to the top of my head, shaking it too in disapproval. He grinned, put a hand in his side pocket and said ‘Blackjack’, as if naming a friend. Otto never spoke to me, and I think he was there to keep an eye on Rother.
I’d been up and dressed for some time, and now I drew a chair up to the table, eager to begin. Rother, who had been fussing with the tray, now looked at me across the table, with his back turned to the other two, who were waiting for him at the door. ‘You had a nice sleep, Mr Bedford?’ said Rother. ‘That is good. You will enjoy your breakfast, I think. I had some special coffee made for you.’ Even if he hadn’t been making signals with his face and hands, I’d have known I hadn’t to drink the coffee. And this was going to take will power.
‘I will see that you have a very good lunch today also,’ said Rother. ‘You are feeling well, I hope. Not too cold? Allow me.’ He leant over, pressing my hand between both of his. ‘No, no, you are all right, I think.’ He released my hand, which closed round the paper he had left in it. ‘Lunch may be a little late today. I may come to see you eat it. You would like some whisky again of course?’ More signals. But Otto was getting impatient, so after a final wink he left me and they all went out. I heard that key turning again outside, I hoped for the last time.
There were two notes. To make doubly sure, Rother had written: Do not drink coffee. Nor soup at lunch. Pour down closet. Bread and meats ok. Be ready for escape about lunch-time. The other note was from Nadia: I will go to the rock as you said this morning. I did not go yesterday because I was angry you did not come to me not knowing then what had happened to you my poor darling! Sir R. says we may go back to Argentina tomorrow so I will try to visit you this evening. I locked von E. out of my room last night and now he and Sir R. will be angry with me. If they would shut me in with you I would not mind at all. It was oddly unlike the ultra-sophistication of her appearance and style. She had a surprising simple side, to which I seemed to appeal. After reaching that great thought, I began to wonder how Rother knew an escape might be laid on about lunch-time, when I’d said nothing about Mr Jones to him and Nadia hadn’t even seen him yet. But then for all I knew, Mr Jones might be back in Santiago now, de-coding a cable from Prague in some back room or picking up another new arrival at the bank.
I tore up the notes and chucked them into the lav. That damned coffee, which smelt wonderful, whatever they may have put in it, followed them down there. I had a dry and dreary breakfast of bread and cold horse. I spent the rest of the long morning in a mood that didn’t belong to it. With the breakout coming so soon, I ought to have been feeling either gaily expectant or nervous and strung-up. But, as I’d often noticed in the war, the part of us outside our control, the mood supplier, doesn’t always play up to situations, has a fancy for the unexpected tint and tone. I felt heavy, listless, not particularly interested. I sat there weighing a ton on the wrong planet. And the morning went past like a giant’s funeral in slow motion.
But the beginning of that escape from Osparas was almost slapstick. About quarter to two, the door was unlocked and in came the big German, Otto and Rother, followed by two waiters, one carrying a tray of food, the other a drink tray like the one we’d had the night before. The waiters put their stuff down and then left. The big German didn’t lock the door but stayed near it. I looked at the lunch, which included a large bowl of soup. Then I looked at Rother, who was hovering around and not looking very happy. The big German caught my eye, grinned again, and said ‘Blackjack,’ tapping his pocket.
Otto was impatient. ‘There is not so much time to waste,’ he said to me. ‘Eat the lunch if you do not want to see it taken away.’
‘You may not have much time, Otto,’ I said, ‘but I’ve lots of it. Go away – if you’re in a hurry. Anyhow, I want a drink first.’
‘Of course,’ cried Rother, prompt on cue. ‘Will you have pisco or whisky?’ He held up the pisco bottle as he spoke but I reached for the whisky.
At that moment a truck arrived outside the hut. Though it stopped, its engine was kept running. Otto and the big German stared and frowned at each other. The big German swung open the door but then immediately came backing in, his hands going up. It was the same nasty-looking automatic I’d seen in Santiago that Mr Jones was holding. Then before Otto, who’d no luck, could make a move, Rother had knocked him senseless with the pisco bottle he was still holding. It was my turn now and, putting down the whisky bottle, I took the blackjack out of the big German’s pocket and hit him nearly as hard as he’d hit me. ‘We go like bloody hell now, chaps,’ cried Mr Jones, clearing the doorway. Rother rushed out, and I stayed just long enough to grab my canvas bag and the whisky
bottle.
Mr Jones had gone round to the front, to sit with the driver. Rother and I scrambled into the back, under cover. It was the same truck that had brought me here, and the same driver, Eugenio’s chum. What exactly happened on our way out of Osparas I never discovered. Rother and I were bouncing about at the back among sacks and old iron and decaying vegetables. I saw some fellows waving and running, and heard a few shouts above the bangs and rattling. Eugenio’s chum, who didn’t seem to need any encouragement from Mr Jones, knew all about rough going at full speed and charging round any sort of bend. He turned and twisted, banged across all manner of verboten places, and at one point seemed to crash a wooden barrier. Then we were roaring down the road through the woods to Peulla. I felt battered, bruised, half-deafened by the time we stopped at the lakeside. But I was out of Osparas.
We shook hands with Eugenio’s chum. We shook hands with Eugenio, waiting with his motorboat. The truck shot off in the opposite direction from Osparas. We got into the boat, which seemed smaller than ever now there were four of us, even if Rother didn’t take up much room. As the boat began to move out, very slowly and already pitching a bit, Rother drew himself up, sniffed the breeze, then said: ‘Gentlemen, I smell something I had almost forgotten. I think it is freedom.’
Saturn Over the Water Page 18
