by Alan Bardos
'Sorry, Baron, I meant no disrespect.' Breitner tried to be as subtle as he could, allowing the Chamberlain to regain his composure. He was visibly annoyed that he'd allowed himself to be bated by a nobody. 'I was merely observing that the Chief of Staff and the other notables from Vienna have left. Perhaps the Royal couple could do the same. The most important part of the visit has, after all, been completed, rather splendidly.'
'That's not what you meant. Who the devil are you anyway?'
'Forgive me, my name is Breitner. I work for the Joint Ministry of Finance.'
'And your point is what, exactly?'
'I believe there is a real danger that the Archduke will receive a poor reception when he goes to Sarajevo, tomorrow.'
'You think that's possible?' the Chamberlain asked.
'There are a number of malcontents amongst the Serb youth in Sarajevo, who are unwilling to accept the benevolence of our rule.' Breitner didn't want to mention the plot to assassinate the Archduke - that would have only overplayed his hand. The Chamberlain's primary concern was to prevent an unseemly spectacle: anything else was too far beyond his purview to be of any consequence to him.
'We wouldn't like a repeat of the cool reception the Archduke received on his last trip to the Balkans,' Breitner said mildly.
'No, quite. You work for the Joint Ministry of Finance, you say?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well the last thing we want is anything to blemish His Majesty's visit when it’s been such a triumph.’
‘I agree. As you say, sir, the last thing we want is to spoil His Majesty's visit and cause him to lose his temper,’ Breitner said dryly. The Chamberlain glanced at Breitner for a moment.
‘This might well be an opportune moment to conclude His Majesty's visit,' The Chamberlain said, then nodded his thanks to Breitner and made his way over to Franz Ferdinand, who was enjoying a brandy and cigar in the company of a number of local officers, keen to curry favour from the future Emperor.
Breitner noticed that Colonel von Merizzi was staring at him. General Potiorek's aide-de-camp was clearly wondering what he was doing in the smoking room; as far as he was concerned, the letter of authority from the Governor's office hadn't been issued to Breitner so that he could hang about amongst his betters.
Franz Ferdinand listened silently as his Chamberlain explained the situation, then gradually looked as if he was agreeing. The Chamberlain finished and the Archduke addressed the assembled officers and flunkies.
'Gentlemen, I'm cutting my visit short and returning to Vienna, directly.' The Archduke smiled - his words had created a stir, changing the atmosphere from genial to tense. He liked to appear unpredictable; it kept the lackeys on their guard. Von Merizzi glared at Breitner, realising that he'd had something to do with the Archduke's abrupt change of heart.
'I believe this is the most prudent course of action,' the Archduke continued. 'The weather is changing, the rain has stopped and the summer heat is likely to bring on my asthma. Appearing in public is trying enough as it is.'
The Chamberlain bowed in agreement, but felt it polite to give further explanation. 'I also explained to His Majesty that a visit to a provincial capital, to view some barracks, attend a civic reception and all the rest, might be something of a disappointment after the triumph of the past few days. We can also expect something of a hostile welcome from the local youth.'
'Her Highness has made a number of worthy visits in Sarajevo. The people can't say we have forgotten them,' the Archduke added decisively, and that looked to be the end of the matter. He would not visit Sarajevo - in his own mind, Franz Ferdinand was already on holiday with his children. Breitner started to congratulate himself on a job well done.
Then Lieutenant Colonel von Merizzi came to the fore. 'If I may interject, Your Highness?' the Colonel said, rising to his feet. 'If you do not complete the programme of events, it would be seen as a public reprimand to General Potiorek, weakening him significantly in front of his political enemies, and it would show that we are willing to back down in the face of a few scrawny schoolboys, giving the nationalists a major victory.'
The Colonel glanced briefly in Breitner's direction, evidently remembering their earlier conversation. 'Perhaps most importantly, an early return to Vienna by Your Highness would cause deep offence to the loyal Croat and Muslim members of the population, whose support is needed so badly to maintain the balance of power in the region.'
'Very well, Colonel, you make a fair point. We will proceed as originally planned,' the Archduke said cheerfully and then returned to his brandy and cigars. Breitner knew there would be no disturbing him now and made a hasty retreat. He would have to face, ‘The Ogre’ single-handedly in the morning. Then his duty would finally be done.
*
Gavrilo Princip was in a pensive mood, distancing himself from his bohemian friends in the wine shop. He had no wish to join their revelry. He needed to order his thoughts and prepare himself; he could not repeat the uncertainty he had suffered a few days previously.
Gavrilo had been making his way home past the artisan shops of the old town, through the streets he'd been walking since studying at the Merchant School. It had been unusually crowded and Gavrilo had found himself caught up in a swirling mass of people. Fighting to make his way through, Gavrilo had seen the solid figure of Franz Ferdinand. ‘The Tyrant’ had been cheerfully shopping for carpets with his wife, enjoying the spectacle he was creating at the centre of the fawning mass.
Princip's blood ran cold at the memory. Caught off guard, he'd been gripped by indecision, allowing the crowd to push and pull him after the Heir. If he'd had his pistol he could have finished the tyrant there and then, he’d realised. Gavrilo had known that he might not get a chance as good as this one during the Heir’s official visit. He’d deliberated running home as his lodgings were only a few streets away, but he had seen a policeman behind him. If he’d started running he was sure to have attracted unwanted attention. Even if he’d had his gun it had been so crowded that he could have easily shot the tyrant's wife by accident.
In the end, he had done nothing and was disgusted with himself. He hadn't acted when he had the chance and he was starting to question whether he'd be able to do so when the Heir came to Sarajevo.
Jevtic put his arm around Princip and tried to encourage him to sing but Princip shrugged him off. 'Come Gavro, you have been in a foul mood ever since the Heir arrived in Bosnia. With your past, people will make the connection and become suspicious.'
Princip looked at his friend, wondering if he'd understood that he was using him to hide from police spies. 'The day they arrived, I saw them - the Heir and his wife. I could have freed our people in an instant, had I not been so concerned about hitting his wife.'
'Don't worry about that preening tyrant, Gavro - he's too busy tightening his corset and stuffing his face to be of any concern to us. Drink and sing!' Jevtic handed him a cup of wine. Gavrilo took the cup, and unable to resist his friend's good humour, drank alcohol for the first time in his life.
Gavrilo's apprehension faded with the wine and he began to sing of Blackbird’s Field and the heroes of Kosovo, who'd fought so valiantly for their people. Princip looked through the window. He could just make out Lateiner Bridge in the twilight - tomorrow he would join their fight.
*
Johnny felt the tug on his trousers again and spun round, then almost choked. Libby was dressed in the most extraordinary get up, with feathers, tassels and garters. He only had a second to take in the apparition before she hissed in his ear.
'Stop gawping. You're at the wrong wheel – idiot!'
'What?' Johnny managed to splutter, before she disappeared into a sea of admirers. Libby had said to go to the second wheel in the middle row, which he had. He examined the wheel, which was spinning gracefully, its smooth unblemished wood gleaming in the reflected light. Johnny swore - the one with the 'bias' had a scratch on the side where it must have been dropped and he'd forgotten to check. Libby ha
d said that the club's management might move the wheels around, to stop people taking advantage of the biased wheel.
Johnny gathered up his remaining chips and readjusted himself. Libby had looked quite stunning - apparently her General had organised a hostess position for her in the club. What that entailed hadn't been made entirely clear to Johnny. He'd naturally assumed that it would be something akin to a society hostess, offering guests scones and cucumber sandwiches from a tiered cake stand. It hadn't occurred to him that it would be ‘that’ sort of hostess. Not that Johnny really cared - one night of playing dress up wouldn't hurt her. He was the one taking all of the risks, while she sashayed about in feathers.
He found the scratched roulette wheel in the next row along and placed his bets as before, spreading the chips across the enchanted numbers. This time, nineteen came up straight away.
*
Princip left the wine shop, suitably fortified and began a final pilgrimage to the grave of Bogdan Zerajic. He knew the others from his cell would be going there too, but he preferred to pay his respects in private.
Staggering along Appel Quay he could picture General Varesanin's coach driving back to his residence after the opening of Parliament - the coach slowing as it turned onto Emperor’s Bridge. He imagined Bogdan Zerajic, as he pointed his pistol at the Governor's coach. Zerajic had missed his opportunity against Franz Josef a few weeks before, when he could not bring himself to shoot, but he would not falter at his second chance.
Princip turned off the embankment and began to make his way to the cemetery, envisaging Zerajic as he opened fire on the Governor. The first shot had hit the step of the driver's seat, the second had narrowly missed Varesanin's face. The Governor had thrown himself forward as Zerajic fired the third shot, which missed, but left a hole in the back of the coach where his chest would have been. Zerajic had desperately fired two more shots at the back of the coach as it drove away and then put the gun to his head. He had saved the last bullet for himself.
Princip entered St Mark's Cemetery, raging inside as he recalled the story of how General Varesanin had stopped the coach when it crossed the river, and seeing that his assailant was down, had coolly approached Zerajic as he lay dying in the mud, coughing up blood. Varesanin had kicked him, screaming, 'You filthy cur - you scum!'
Princip found Zerajic’s grave in an unmarked corner of the cemetery saved for criminals and suicides. The Young Bosnians had discovered it and made it fit for a hero. Princip stood before the grave and repeated Zerajic’s dying words, ‘I will be revenged.’
He swore to follow Zerajic's example - to fight their oppressors and avenge his death. He remembered that Zerajic had been wearing a red and black badge, depicting a man with a scythe, which he'd copied from the cover of Kropotkin's book on the French Revolution.
Princip turned to make his way home to read Kropotkin and dream of the free society that would be created as a result of his actions on Vidovdan.
*
The officers around Johnny were losing heavily, their hopes and dreams vanishing as they consoled themselves with brandy and champagne. Not Johnny though - he was winning. He knew it wasn't luck, or skill or heart, but knowledge, and not even his knowledge but some randy old goat's. Even so, he was having the time of his life.
At that moment, Johnny didn't care if the whole bloody world fell down around him. For the first time since he'd been expelled from school he thought he might have a chance of controlling his fate. He could clear his debts and turn things around, or he could make a new start, pretend to be someone else - he seemed to have a talent for it. He just had to keep winning.
He hadn't lost his head completely and varied his bets, moving from black and red to odd and even numbers.
He went to place a split bet and knocked the hand of an Austrian lieutenant, who had a monocle and duelling scars. They apologised to one another and continued to play. Johnny swept in another pile of chips and went to place his next bet, putting down an even spread of the numbers and this time the officer with duelling scars matched him square for square.
They both won again. Johnny looked around and saw that he was getting a few curious glances from the people surrounding him. He adjusted his bet again and this time a couple of the other officers copied him. When their numbers came up they all cheered, loudly.
It was a bit galling, but there wasn't a lot Johnny could do without creating a scene. The officers were suspicious enough; he could hear them muttering about how a civilian was having all the luck, while the cream of the Empire lost.
He continued to adjust his bets - he'd made a note of complicated betting patterns which Libby had recommended. Nevertheless more officers began to copy Johnny, sensing victory over the house for the first time. They were quite blatant; a couple of them even slapped Johnny on the back and stood him schnapps, to show their thanks - for “the goose that laid the golden egg” as they called him.
The commotion they were creating inevitably began to attract the attention of the floor manager who, much to Johnny’s annoyance, came and stood behind him. It looked as if the manager was trying to work out if they were all cheating or if Johnny was acting alone.
Johnny tried to think. If the manager thought he was cheating he’d take the money back, have him beaten up and probably taken to the police. Breitner would be sure to find out why he’d missed his appointment at the Governor’s mansion then and he could kiss his commendation goodbye.
He knew that there would be safety in numbers and so started feigning friendship with the officers, shaking hands every time they won and trying to suggest to the manager that he would have to take them all on if there was any unpleasantness.
More and more people were coming to the table now as the money continued to flow. The next wave of bets nearly broke the bank and the manager decided to suspend play. The officers were furious, but the manager calmly placed a green sheet over the top of the wheel and instructed the croupier to re-fret the wheel.
After his recent experiences, Johnny knew when to cut and run. He started to gather up his chips; the numbers would be in a different order now and he’d never be able to exploit the wheel’s bias.
A swarm of beauties from the next room descended on the officers at the table, making them forget their complaints and coaxing them away from the wheel. He pushed one of the beauties off, hugged his chips to his chest and made an exit. He thought he saw the portly physique and fine whiskers of his uncle, but the figure was lost in a blur and the beauty was on him again, desperately tugging on his trousers. He tried to fight her off, but she clung on for dear life.
'Keep still, imbecile! I'm trying to get us out of here!' Johnny hadn’t recognised Libby. She’d put on a black negligee, which regrettably, covered her charms. She led him to the cashier where he exchanged his armful of chips and then they were out through a red and gold door into a seedy area where Johnny assumed the poor girls who worked there lived. He heard a shout and saw that the monocled lieutenant was following them.
'Damn - Matthias has seen us,' Libby said, quickening her pace, her boots clattering on the stone floor.
'Who?'
'The idiot I was going to use, before you turned up.'
‘Does he know about the biased wheel? Is he expecting a cut?’ Johnny asked.
‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘What does he want then?’ Johnny smiled. ‘Do I have another rival for your fickle affections?’
‘Johnny, please!’ Libby said urgently.
Matthias had started to run, but Libby knew what she was about. They were down another corridor and at the service entrance before he could catch them. Libby gave a stack of notes to a thick-set doorman and they were out and into a waiting taxi.
Johnny watched the river fly by as they were driven up the embankment. Tonight he was the victor and all the spoils would be his. Elated, he reached out and took Libby's hand. 'It worked. I can't believe we actually, bloody-well pulled it off!'
Libby smiled. 'They kn
ew something was going on, that's why the manager sent the girls in to get the money back. It saves having a riot and having to rough up the gentlemen, but they didn't think you could possibly have been involved. They decided that you must have been copying the others, so they left you to the new girl.'
She started to straddle him. 'I must say, you do play the hapless gambler extremely well, Mr Swift. Reading your bets off a piece of scrap paper - genius!'
This time the tugging at his trousers finally brought them down. Johnny pulled open Libby's negligee, running his hands down the feathers of her bustier to the warm silk of her thighs and then feeling the satisfying snap of a garter. It was like breaking the seal of quality on a whole new world.
Chapter 34
Nedjo followed Princip's instructions, getting to Vlajnic's pastry shop just after eight. He found Danilo Ilic and Trifko Grabez in the back. It was Trifko's birthday and he was in high spirits, trying to impress the waitress by telling her that he was a true Serb, born on Vidovdan.
Nedjo greeted them and ordered three of his favourite cakes. He also regarded himself as a true Serb, but was in no mood to join their conversation. He opened a copy of ‘Narod’ which he'd bought on the way to the cafe and began to read. The paper was a fine Vidovdan edition, filled with poetry that celebrated the Serb spirit. Nedjo read it avidly, preparing himself for what he planned to be his last day on Earth.
He was still troubled by the arguments from the previous night; his mother held him responsible for his father's fury over the fiasco with the flagpoles. It had made leaving home all the more difficult, but he'd put his affairs in order, dividing his money and possessions amongst his closest relations. He'd then sent flowers to Jela, the sweet girl who'd helped him on the journey from Belgrade, to let her know he'd have to take this last promenade alone.
'Are you sure you wish to continue?' Nedjo looked up; Ilic was trying to draw him into the discussion he was having with Trifko. Nedjo ignored them and continued to read his paper. Trifko answered for him.
