by Alan Bardos
Apis looked up from his report briefly. 'Major, what can I do for you?'
'Ciganovic has brought me some Young Bosnians. They want to go back home. Do you have any objections?
'Of course not,' the Colonel answered, still engrossed in his report.
'They want to attempt something against Franz Ferdinand when he visits Sarajevo next month,' Tankosic replied, and then waited as Apis considered his request.
The Major knew Apis shared his view that Archduke Franz Ferdinand would not be happy until he had Serbia stuffed and mounted as a trophy to his Imperial ambition. He was already working to pacify the South Slavs living within his Empire, in a bid to frustrate Serbia's expansion. Now the Hapsburg heir would be attending manoeuvres on Serbia's doorstep, in a rehearsal for invasion. Such continued provocation could not go unanswered.
The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy had adopted an increasingly aggressive policy towards Serbia in the years since the 1903 coup, forcing the Serbian Government to make one humiliating concession after another, the worst of which was accepting the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Tankosic and many other officers in the Serbian Army were appalled by the way their government, under Prime Minister Pasic, kowtowed to Austria, and in response, formed a new organization to challenge government policy, stand up to Austrian aggression and ultimately to unite the South Slavs into a Greater Serbia. They called the new organisation, 'Union or Death'. It had subsequently become known as, 'The Black Hand'. It was in Apis's capacity as Head of Union or Death that Tankosic sought final permission from him to carry out their plan.
Apis frowned. 'Is it possible? The Emperor was so well guarded when he visited Sarajevo - they won't stand a chance.'
'They're good patriots; the avengers of Kosovo walk with them.' Tankosic hoped his inference was clear - the Colonel would not be risking key men by letting them go. 'What they lack in experience they make up for in enthusiasm,' he added. Apis had ordered him to find willing recruits from the hordes of dissidents that thronged the city’s cafes, for operations such as these.
‘The necessary preparations will be made?’
‘Yes, Apis.’
'I don't imagine anything will come of it, but if they succeed, so much the better. If not, it will show the Austrians just how dangerous it is to interfere in Serb affairs. We must fight our enemies with all means available.'
Chapter 6
Johnny was starting to get annoyed by the steady rocking of the Vienna train. He couldn't sleep - his mind kept churning over the events that had led to this fool's errand, as his bunk swung in time to the rhythm of the pistons.
Libby the Libertine murmured contentedly to herself as she turned over, pressing him against cold steel. He wasn't finding his sleeping compartment really suitable for this sort of thing.
She began to move against him in time to the rhythm of the train and it was suddenly obvious to him how he'd got here; the story of his coming of age could be told by the graceful contours of her body.
He'd read somewhere that Australian Aborigines used stories to find their way through the bewildering landscape of the outback, each tree and mountain becoming a signpost with its own story passed down from generation to generation, telling the way home. Johnny had developed a similar method to find his way through the bewildering landscape of women.
He touched the shapely ankle wrapped around him as he began to retrace his journey, step by hard won step. The story passed down to him from the captain of the first eleven was that the ankle is the key to a woman's heart, the place where everything begins. This had proved to be a good crib, judging from the giggling of his first fumble with Daisy, a milkmaid from the local village. Johnny had steadily progressed along on his journey, gaining more stories and insight at every new signpost. By the time he reached the upper sixth, his skill on and off the field of glory was such that he came to the attention of Simpson, his Head of House.
Johnny flinched as Libby dug her claws into his thigh and ran her fingers along a scar he’d taken winning the inter-house cup.
‘You can be quite a wonderful little man, can’t you Johnny?’ Libby sighed, letting slip an uncharacteristic compliment.
‘I wasn’t the captain of the school rugby team for nothing,’ Johnny said, lost in reminiscence. Simpson had generally ignored Johnny's questionable legitimacy and natural intelligence, as they were mitigated by his athletic prowess, but his reputation as someone who gave consequence to the village girls couldn't be tolerated.
Prize Day gave Simpson the opportunity he'd needed to humiliate the false hero. When Johnny mounted the podium to receive his usual accolades, Simpson unceremoniously announced that people of breeding didn't engage with the daughters of tradesmen. Johnny, never one to be put off by the bitter sting of laughter, began to engage the charms of Simpson's three lovely daughters, Faith, Hope and Chastity. All three lived up to their names, exulting him to the heights of faith and hope, but ultimately practising the virtue of chastity, until finally, the gates of paradise were slammed shut in his face when he was expelled for instigating a school strike.
Johnny didn't have a great deal of opportunity after that, having attached scandal, to an already jaded name. That was, until his 'uncle' decided to take an interest in his prospects. Even then, the choice was a stark one - the army or the Civil Service, both institutions his uncle had served with distinction.
The rigour and discipline of army life wasn't for Johnny, so he made a play for the Diplomatic Service. He quite liked the idea of a career in diplomacy, emulating the heroes of his classical education.
His uncle exerted a certain degree of influence to get Johnny nominated, but as it was, he still had to pass an exam, which he did with flying colours. The interview board however, was slightly trickier, and he had to carefully contrive a future for himself as a career diplomat serving the Empire to his dying breath and deflect any barbed comments about his background with sporting anecdotes and quotes from his Latin primer.
It was enough to secure him a billet in a lower grade and the doors of establishment paradise opened up to him again. His ‘uncle’ took Johnny to a sporting club to celebrate, where he taught him to gamble and where the madam introduced him to some classical phraseology he hadn't learnt at school and was now competently performing with Libby.
His dreams of a glittering diplomatic career were soon rudely awoken. The main purpose of his grade of chancery was to carry out mundane tasks within a highly disciplined and authoritarian hierarchy. Even compared to the repressive regime of his school, which was meant to prepare him for a life of clerical work, it was soul destroying. To top it all, his uncle had insisted that Johnny join the army as a special reserve officer before he'd help him with the nomination system, so he had six months of button polishing and close order drill.
Johnny spent his days meticulously copying out Sir George’s dispatches and the minutes of his meetings. Sometimes he'd daydream about studying at the Sorbonne, but then all of his money would go as he played at the hedonistic lifestyle of a 'demi-monde' in the city of light.
On his first day in Paris, the 28th June 1913, Johnny saw Mata Hari perform as a Spanish dancer at the Folies Bergere and that set the tone for his time in the city. Following the tedium of work, he'd have the time of his life, finding solace with the five o'clock ladies of Paris's mid range maisons de rendezvous. Between five and seven seemed to be the accepted time for patrons to call, on their way home from the office. Afterwards, Johnny dined at Maxim's, before doing the rounds of the fashionable haunts of Montmartre, carousing until it was time to go to work again. It didn't take long for his funds to run out, and he was forced to find some other form of distraction.
Libby stirred in his arms, tightening her grip as his story reached its peak. What they had wasn't so much love, as an escape strategy.
'Libby, are you sure this is a good idea?'
'What? How can it not be a good idea?' she hissed, irritated by the interruption.
> Libby had been an untamed and impulsive debutante, so the Embassy tittle-tattle went, married off to a promising diplomat in the hope that the ministrations of an older man would calm her. She had reluctantly agreed to the match; as a married woman she'd be away from the cloying influence of her family, who insisted she was constantly chaperoned. Two years on and it was obvious to Johnny that Libby was bored to death. Her only distractions were the spa treatments her husband believed conducive to her 'nervous condition' and impetuous young men willing to venture with her into the wild.
'Coming with me… I mean, how did you even find me?' Johnny asked.
'I'll always find you.'
It had been a very pleasant surprise to discover her in his sleeping compartment. He wasn't sure if he was more touched that she'd followed him, or shocked that she was prepared to rough it in second class.
'I felt bad about my little fib,' she added.
'So you didn't get the notes extended?' he asked, not that that mattered to him anymore. Johnny's only consolation from this whole fiasco was that Sir George hadn't asked him to pay the money back.
'Well, I didn't get them all extended. I didn't want you to worry.'
Johnny felt an unaccustomed sense of guilt that he'd saved his skin by shopping her. 'Sorry I dropped you in it, Libby. I didn't know how else to save myself.'
Libby giggled dismissively and kissed him. He could taste violets on her lips. 'George was rather annoyed, but you'll pay the money back, won't you. I mean, if you want to return to the Embassy that is.'
Chapter 7
Johnny found it hard to enjoy Vienna's intense attack on his senses after Libby's ultimatum. He'd wasted most of the day searching through the city’s cafe society, trying to ignore the overwhelming aroma of coffee, the clamour of argument and the dazzling array of cakes. The only thing more distracting was the famous carefree, muddled atmosphere of the place.
“Pinkie”, the man Sir George had said might be able to help him, was not in his office and nobody at the British Embassy knew where he was or when he might be expected back. The staff could tell you all about Archduke Franz Ferdinand's latest spat with the High Court Chamberlain - anything else could take care of itself, as far as they were concerned.
Finally, after sustained questioning, it was thought that Pinkie might be at the chess school. By all accounts he was a bit of a dandy and Johnny would probably be able to identify him by his flamboyant taste in waistcoats. Johnny really missed being the unhelpful official on the other side of the desk.
After further chasing around, Johnny discovered that 'the chess school' was the nickname for the Central Cafe, an old bank building with a richly decorated, high-arched ceiling. It reminded Johnny of his recent trip to Zurich and the money he owed, further fuelling his anxiety.
To add to his problems, Libby had totally fallen in love with Vienna. Her English reserve was fading and with it her connection to Johnny; every moment they stayed there increased the danger of her finding an alternative means of diversion. Under the circumstances, he was starting to regret leaving her at a table, unsupervised, while he searched the cafe in peace.
Trying to find an Embassy official who'd play chess amongst the Bohemian types who patronised the Central was easier said than done. After accosting every man in the place wearing a vaguely flamboyant waistcoat, Johnny eventually came across a dandy in a garish pink waistcoat and cravat. He was playing chess against an intense looking man in his thirties, with steel rimmed glasses and a thick shock of black hair.
'Excuse me. Are you Pinkie?'
‘The Dandy’ glanced at Johnny, who adopted a suitable air of deference. Satisfied he'd been shown the correct amount of respect, he gave Johnny an amused look. 'Actually, it's the Honourable Pinkston Barton-Forbes.... and who might you be?'
'Jonathan Swift, sir, of the Paris Embassy.'
‘Are you really? How extraordinary, and here you are in the land of bureaucracy and music. This land doesn't fly though.’
‘No, sir,’ Johnny said impassively. He was used to his superiors making whimsical reference to his famous namesake’s work. By the look of him, Johnny guessed that the Honourable Barton-Forbes had been in his post ten years too long, with little opportunity to further his career. All he had to live for now was aggravating his juniors. Not having achieved a suitable rise from Johnny, he pointed at his hand.
'What on Earth is that?'
Johnny passed him a postcard he’d brought from a down and out on the way in; it was a painting of the Rathaus, Vienna's City Hall. Johnny had thought that the doom evoked by the Gothic spires would appeal to his mother and stepfather.
Barton-Forbes gave a snort of derision and handed it back to Johnny. 'A competent Biedermeier reproduction - mawkish and moral, for middle-class tastes, I think.' It seemed to convey everything Barton-Forbes needed to know about Johnny.
Johnny felt a sharp nudge in his back. Libby had evidently seen that he was talking to one of her sort and had wandered over for an introduction.
'The Honourable Pinkston Barton-Forbes, may I present, Lady Elizabeth Smyth. I've been escorting her to Vienna, on behalf of her husband.'
Barton-Forbes stood up and greeted Libby with dignified disdain. He then established who her 'people' were and offered her a seat at his table. He raised a questioning eyebrow to Johnny.
'Are you the Johnny that my connections tell me diddled George Smyth out of the family silver?'
'I was attempting a redistribution of wealth,' Johnny replied. He didn't know what else to say, but Barton-Forbes had already lost interest in him and begun to exchange pleasantries with Libby.
Johnny wasn't surprised that Barton-Forbes knew about his trouble with Sir George. Someone in his position, desperate to further his stalled career, would have cultivated contacts across the Diplomatic Service who were willing to do him favours and exchange information. Sir George was ideally placed to return such favours and information, and if Barton-Forbes knew about Johnny’s difficulties, Johnny hoped that meant he might actually know what he was supposed to be doing here. He was about to commit a cardinal sin and interrupt a conversation about the coming season, but his flippant comment had aroused the interest of Barton-Forbes's chess opponent.
'Why were you attempting a redistribution of wealth?' he asked Johnny, exhaling cigar smoke and evidently surprised. ‘That is quite a subversive term to hear from such an earnest looking office boy, dressed up in a frock coat.’
'I beg your pardon?' He had an accent and Johnny suspected he might be some kind of Russian emigre.
Barton-Forbes turned round. 'Oh Swift, this is Leon - Leon Trotsky. Isn't that what you call yourself these days? Leon, the lower ranks of the Diplomatic Service aren't used to being addressed by dangerous revolutionaries.'
Trotsky blew out more cigar smoke, ignoring Barton-Forbes. 'So tell me, now we've been introduced, why do you want a redistribution of wealth?'
Johnny struggled to reply - he'd once been thrashed by his Head of House for reading Trotsky's newspaper, 'Pravda' and now he was talking to the man himself. He saw that Barton-Forbes was watching so he answered Trotsky in Russian; he didn't want to damage his reputation any further. 'I would like a redistribution of wealth –‘
‘You speak Russian?’Trotsky asked, interrupting Johnny. ‘Forgive me - I am so used to your country men shouting slowly in English to make themselves understood by foreigners,’ Trotsky said, glancing at Barton-Forbes.
‘I lived in St Petersburg, when I was a child,’ Johnny replied.
‘Really? How so?’ Trotsky asked.
‘My mother was a governess to the children of a rich industrialist,’ Johnny said, embarrassed. He hoped that Barton-Forbes didn’t understand his shameful admission.
Johnny’s ‘uncle’ had arranged the position for his mother to avoid the scandal of having a child in England out of wedlock. She’d pretended to be a widow in their new home and had encouraged Johnny to become bilingual in Russian, while he ran around the grand
nursery with the children of the house. Johnny had had a natural talent for languages ever since; it was a talent he shared with his uncle and he often wondered if it ran in the family.
Trotsky nodded shrewdly, understanding the implications of what Johnny had just said. ‘So, you would like a greater distribution of wealth to gain justice for your poor oppressed mother, who occupied one of the worst roles in a bourgeois household, with little status amongst the other servants and no doubt attracted the unwanted attentions of the master of the house?’
The master of the house had, in fact, been very kind and only having daughters, had treated Johnny like one of the family. The only unwanted attentions Johnny remembered his mother receiving were from the man who tutored the children in French. Unfortunately, he eventually wore Johnny’s mother down and by the time Johnny was five they’d married and returned to England. It was a shock after the pampered life he’d had in Russia and to add insult to injury his new stepfather had subjected him to a regime of rugby, to toughen him up. He was also determined that Johnny receive the start in life he’d never had, so pushed him to study and made him develop his aptitude for languages.
‘I would like a redistribution of wealth to pursue my class interests and increase the power of the petty-bourgeois.' Johnny said, trying to steer the conversation away from the more colourful aspects of his family history.
'Bravo - and do you plan to do this as a stepping stone towards a revolution and the greater good, or for your own ends?' His lively, intelligent eyes flashed at Johnny, making him uncomfortable; he wasn't used to people listening to him.
'Well, by throwing off the feudal stranglehold the aristocrats have on society,' Johnny nodded towards Barton-Forbes, 'it will allow the dominance of the bourgeois, who will eventually create conditions bad enough for a full scale proletarian revolution.' Johnny hoped that was evasive enough and Trotsky seemed amused by his interpretation of historical materialism. All Johnny wanted to do was clear out the dead wood to make room for his own advancement - maybe then he could regain some of the carefree privilege of his early life.
