Ask No Question

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘And Eliot?’

  ‘We’ll let him sleep.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Eliot asleep, but it’s a fascinating thought. The last innocence . . .’ He frowned, his mind moving from Eliot to Claus and Mitchell. He could imagine the sort of night it would be, the relaxed good fellowship in which he would have no part.

  ‘Take me to the Suizerro,’ he said. ‘I’m too tired to be sociable. I’ll ring Eliot—just in case he is troubled in spirit about us—and you can pick me up at nine in the morning.’

  Mitchell did not argue. Ten minutes later he was back at the block of flats, standing in the lift. He was aware, as the lift travelled upwards, of how much the light in the window had relieved his mind. Claus had been living recklessly lately. He was a large man with large virtues and large vices. There had nearly been an accident last year; he had laughed about it, but Mitchell had sensed the slackening of the climber’s grip on life. The lift stopped and the door slid smoothly open; Mitchell walked along the dimly-lit corridor, knocked on a door, waited. He could hear dance music, intermittently interrupted by a voice on another station. ‘The damn thing isn’t tuned in properly,’ he thought, and immediately realized that something was wrong. Even before the door opened, he knew his mistake.

  ‘Stephen!’

  The voice was warm, but the spontaneity of surprise was a lost art. She made the aloof gesture of drawing her wrap around her; later there would be the careless gesture when it fell from her. He knew these gestures so well, they had been the first things of which he had tired. He said foolishly, ‘I was just passing through.’

  ‘At two in the morning!’ She held the door for him and he entered reluctantly. She closed the door and leant against it. In the half-light he could see that she had put on a lot of weight.

  ‘You didn’t expect to find me here.’ The gay unconcern had deteriorated into roguishness.

  ‘No.’

  It took considerable control to leave the statement unadorned by explanation; he was miserably inept at finishing things, even statements.

  She walked past him into the lounge, her bare feet leaving talcum powder imprints on the carpet. He remained in the hall for a moment, helplessly rebellious. Nearby a door was open and moist, scented air puffed out; the hall mirror was misted over; the radio in the bathroom blared out an old jazz tune. He felt stifled. The lounge at least looked cool. She was sitting on the couch, leaning back, waiting. The room was ridiculously short of chairs, there was only one arm chair on the far side by the window. He joined her on the couch. She said:

  ‘My brother is away. He said I could use the flat. I needed to be alone.’ Her face puckered with something of the old, clownish charm, inviting him to laugh at the idea. He was too dismayed to respond adequately.

  ‘And now I intrude. I’m sorry.’

  She laughed, the harsh, guttural laughter that had come like a slap in the face in the days when he cared.

  ‘Stephen! Don’t be insincere. You know there is nothing I hate more than insincerity.’

  Only sincerity, he thought.

  ‘Now that you’re here, what will you drink?’ She got up and went across to a cabinet in the far corner.

  He said, ‘Brandy,’ feeling fatalistic.

  She came back, swaying slowly across the thick carpet, the sash at her waist beginning to loosen. He felt very tired. She handed him the glass, letting the wrap fall open with the old generous gesture. Then she sat down and leant back, seeming to withdraw into herself as she stared up at the ceiling. It occurred to him that she did this kind of thing very well. He wished he could still feel something.

  ‘Are you married again?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He hated direct questions; irritation made him unkind. ‘As you know, mine isn’t the enduring kind of love.’

  She turned her head and studied him with that insolent, unashamedly sensual stare that he had always resented.

  ‘You make marriage sound like some kind of test.’

  ‘Perhaps. In which case, it’s a test I failed.’

  ‘How silly you are! You married a puritanical girl who made a ridiculous fuss because you were occasionally unfaithful . . .’

  ‘. . . because I came to the end of things. I seem to come to the end of things more quickly as time goes by.’

  She turned away, revolving the glass in her hand, staring down. The muscles round her jaw sagged a little and there were pouches beneath the bold, protuberant eyes. He sensed her fear. She was older, heavier, the years grinding her confidence down. He felt the betraying sweat of sympathy on his brow. Any moment now he would begin to explain why he had stayed away from her; he would try to avoid hurting her feelings and in the end he would give her the impression that he still wanted her. And then it would begin again. Another of his untidy, never-ending affairs. He looked up and saw the clutter of mountaineering photographs, all slightly askew, on the wall opposite. He said:

  ‘Did Claus say when he would be back?’

  ‘No. But he won’t come tonight.’

  Not a very successful diversion. The silence lengthened; he was acutely aware of her unhappiness. If he went away now, she would cry a little and then forget; while he would feel guilty as long as he remembered her. If he did not go, he would feel just as guilty. How intolerable it was, not to care and yet to care! His hand moved along the back of the couch; she waited; there was that moment when the world seems to hold its breath and then the door bell rang. She remained quite still, and Mitchell remained still because he did not like to be the first to move. After a moment, she said without looking at him:

  ‘Do you want me to answer?’

  He did not reply. Her mouth curved bitterly; she got slowly to her feet, drawing her wrap around her as though she was cold. In the hall, she fumbled a little opening the door, then a voice said:

  ‘Is Mitchell here?’

  The Irishman came into the room, dark and furious.

  ‘It seems the bastard can’t wait until the morning.’

  Chapter Three

  There was no clutter of photographs on the walls of this room. The formal, uncomfortable furniture was arranged in the haphazard fashion of a hotel lounge. Indeed, nothing in the room was ordered to suit the needs of one person; its occupants, one would have guessed, were birds of passage, having no time to leave the imprint of a personality. Eliot had lived in it for twelve years.

  The role of host had never been congenial to him; so now he left his guests to find chairs while he stood by the bookcase, a tall, uncouth figure, his dome-shaped head fringed with long strands of ginger hair. ‘You would think it impossible for a man with so little hair to look quite so sleazy,’ the Irishman had once said. Eliot, not unaware of this dislike, watched the Irishman, his amber eyes as devoid of human emotion as those of a cat. Dan Burke, he noticed, looked haggard. Stephen Mitchell, too. With Burke, the result was a suggestion of fiendish ill temper; with Mitchell, a weariness that was perhaps more dangerous. Burke’s passion came quickly and went as quickly; Mitchell’s was a slower fuse. Eliot wondered what these two men had been up to. It did not occur to him that they were tired; nor did it occur to him that they might be hungry or in need of a drink.

  ‘You’re late.’ A flat statement, inviting no explanation. Some men who have no feeling for their fellows affect a gusty good humour; it had never occurred to Eliot that feeling was necessary.

  ‘We had to alter our plans,’ Burke pointed out. ‘We were going on leave if you remember. Stephen was going to Portugal and dropping me off in Madrid.’

  Eliot interrupted drily, ‘Now you are going to Tamaro on Lake Maggiore. You must be there before evening. That means an early start.’ He went across to a map on the wall and stabbed with a dirty fingernail. ‘Maggiore.’

  ‘I believe I know it,’ Mitchell murmured.

  Eliot amused him. He would sacrifice his own mother to save a few minutes and waste an hour over a map, studying its contours with rapacious interest. No doubt he had stood in front of
this map yesterday, calculating how long it would take them to reach Lausanne. Calculation was the bread of life to Eliot.

  ‘If only I had known I could have taken my leave on Lake Maggiore!’ Burke said.

  ‘It was fortunate you were near enough to be diverted.’

  Eliot dismissed their lost leave and turned reluctantly from the map. He leant against the bookcase, his outstretched arms embracing the sides: a ragged carrion crow surveying his own particular battlefield.

  ‘A man will arrive at Tamaro tonight. He will stay at the Hotel Pescatore, where you will also stay. From the moment he arrives, you must be near him. He is supposed to be on holiday, and this may be true. In which case, you will be able to have a holiday, too, Burke.’

  ‘Let’s hope our tastes are similar.’

  ‘He is a scientist.’

  Burke closed his eyes and Mitchell said, ‘Oh God! We still have some left?’

  Eliot, who was not in the least patriotic, gave a wolfish smile. ‘A diminishing species. They either emigrate to America, in which case they are ambitious, or to Russia, in which case they are traitors.’

  ‘And our man is going to Russia?’

  ‘We have no proof. And less in the way of speculation than usual. Simply a gradual slackening of interest. It isn’t that he has made any preparations for leaving the country, but rather that he has failed to make preparations for staying. For example, a paper that he has to read at Cambridge in the autumn not started yet, and he is a methodical man. Urgent repairs to the central heating system in his house not put in hand, and he is not unbusinesslike.’

  ‘He could be tired and in need of a rest,’ Burke suggested softly.

  ‘He could indeed.’

  ‘Politics?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘He has never talked much. Lately, he has not talked at all.’

  ‘Idealist?’

  ‘Not noticeably.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Shall we say he is one of those who have missed the highest rewards.’

  ‘But valuable?’

  ‘He will never make a great breakthrough. But once it is made, he will understand how it was done. He has an excellent grasp of other men’s ideas and a remarkably retentive memory. And he is very well placed to exercise these particular gifts. He is a biologist and he knows quite a lot about current research in molecular biology.’

  ‘Sounds harmless,’ Burke said.

  ‘On the contrary, its findings could be of much more interest to homo sapiens than those of the nuclear scientist. The results of manipulating the genetics of viruses could, in certain circumstances, be quite devastating.’ Eliot’s smile was cruel as he looked at Burke. ‘The freaks would outnumber what we regard as the normal specimens. I could give you details, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  Burke’s dwarfish body was rigid. It was astonishing that such an inadequate instrument should be charged with so much feeling, Eliot thought. An enlarged spleen, no doubt.

  Mitchell, who had been staring at the map during this exchange, said:

  ‘But why Maggiore?’

  ‘A conference on experimental biology is being held in Montreux towards the middle of next month. Alperin is having a holiday in Maggiore, and then attending the conference.’

  ‘Will he be alone?’

  ‘As far as we know. He isn’t married, lives with his sister. And he isn’t the kind who makes friends. So it should be easy to spot his contact—if there is one.’

  Eliot looked at them; an impersonal glance, but searching—like having a Geiger counter passed over your soul, the Irishman thought.

  ‘You won’t fail, will you?’

  Eliot’s voice at its silkiest. The Irishman closed his eyes and reflected that he understood some of the pleasures of being a traitor.

  But it had not been an idle enquiry. As he gave more detailed instructions, Eliot was wondering about the two men. They were not people with whom he liked to work. Burke was quick-witted, intuitive, sometimes spectacularly audadacious; but unsound. Some said his temper would betray him, but this Eliot doubted—Burke’s tempers were theatrical and to this extent controlled; it was his lack of discretion that would betray him eventually. About Mitchell, Eliot was not so sure; Mitchell was the nearest thing to a human puzzle that he had encountered. Most people respected him—‘One of the bravest men I know,’ a man who had worked with him in the Maquis had said. Eliot, not rating bravery high, accepted this but continued to wonder. As he described Maurice Alperin he studied Mitchell. A strong body, tough but relaxed, a machine that would serve him well for many years yet; the face handsome, the features not coarsened by overindulgence, the eyes . . . Yes, Eliot thought, the answer lies in the eyes; warm, brown eyes that had some quality which Eliot did not understand.

  ‘It sounds simple enough,’ the Irishman said when Eliot had finished.

  Eliot, for once, agreed with him. This particular case was not likely to give rise to any difficulties. He shambled towards the door, anxious to be rid of his guests now that business was completed. He had switched off the center light when a thought struck him and he turned back.

  ‘Why were you so late?’

  ‘The tunnel was blocked,’ Mitchell told him.

  Eliot stood quite still, sensing that he had not had the whole story.

  ‘So we came through the Pass after all,’ Mitchell said.

  Eliot seemed to have stopped breathing and in the dim light from a table lamp his face was yellow as old parchment. ‘You came through the Pass.’ The grey lips had difficulty with the words. ‘This is beyond belief.’

  ‘There was no other way,’ Mitchell retorted. ‘We shouldn’t have been here by now otherwise.’

  ‘You are fortunate to be here at all. Their people were waiting . . .’

  ‘They were less fortunate.’

  Eliot stared at them. His eyes went from one to the other; in the withered face they were startlingly alive.

  ‘When I give an order, I mean it to be obeyed,’ he said. ‘I can’t work with men who question my orders.’

  ‘You can’t work with puppets, either,’ Mitchell answered.

  Eliot looked away. His eyes went to the blank wall behind Mitchell and remained fixed there unblinking. Had it not been so unlikely that he should lose them, one might have thought that he was trying to collect his wits.

  ‘You had better go,’ he said eventually.

  But something had occurred to Mitchell now.

  ‘And Claus Hesselmann?’

  ‘Hesselmann?’ Eliot was irritated by this diversion. ‘Hesselmann is dead.’ He seemed to realize, looking at the two men, that something more was expected of him. ‘A climbing accident, I don’t know the details.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter. He was quite useless to us lately; he drank too much.’

  They left after that. As they went through the warm, dark streets Burke raged against Eliot while Mitchell walked silent beside him. Later, when emotion had sweated out of him, Burke thought about the calm way in which Mitchell had taken Eliot’s news. And only a little while ago, he had told this man that he cared too much about people! There was no end to the mistakes one could make.

  Chapter Four

  Maggiore was excessively coquettish in summer, mist veiling the shoulders of the hills, concealing the curving line of the shore. Its colouring was soft and deceptively gentle, but the lake glimmered with heat sparks sharp as broken glass. One sweated at every step. At Tamaro it was particularly exhausting; the town straggled up the hillside and some of the paths were almost vertical. Burke was glad that the Hotel Pescatore was by the quayside. Although this was the Swiss end of the lake, the Italian influence was strong; Burke made disdainful note of tiles missing from roofs, pink painted houses with plaster peeling off the walls, untrimmed vines darkening courtyards and windows. Not that he had any great respect for order. It was simply that he found this decaying lushness too much for his stomach, the relaxed acceptance of l
ife irritating, and the insistent sensuality quite intolerable. Mitchell, of course, would like it; he flowered, or deflowered as the case might be, in this luxuriant Latin atmosphere.

  When Burke had unpacked, washed and put another shirt on his already sweating body, the shadows were drawing across the bay. Darkness would come quickly. But it would bring no respite; night would be heavy, moist, scented, and one would not sleep for the breathless pounding of one’s heart. He wished he was back in Berlin.

  He felt rather uneasy about this assignment. Treat it as a holiday, Eliot had said, and Burke was resentfully inclined to do this. But he would never have chosen to go on holiday with Mitchell. Mitchell was good to work with, but there were things about him that irritated Burke, and on holiday there would be time for irritation to fester.

  He went to the window to fasten back the shutters. Below, Mitchell was slumped on a bench overlooking the lake. He might have been a local inhabitant, staring across the water in the mindless way typical of these people; but Burke gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided that he was waiting for Alperin. And Alperin, unless he was a complete fool, would expect someone to be waiting for him. When he got permission for this trip abroad certain stipulations would have been made and he could scarcely have imagined that the authorities would trust to his honour alone to ensure that the conditions were met. Burke turned away from the window, frowning irritably. He had committed a cardinal error in thus imagining that other men’s minds worked as subtly as his own. In fact, Alperin was probably convinced that he was beyond suspicion; clever men were often incredibly naïve. Burke took down his linen jacket and drew it on slowly, careful not to crease it. He studied himself in the mirror. As usual, he was too immaculate. But what could he do about it? Mitchell, with his strong, well-proportioned body, could afford to be casual in his dress; but when you were misshapen, you had to be careful. Burke looked at his face, the wide grey eyes, the fine, slightly hooked nose, the thin, well-shaped mouth; a beautiful face, mocked by the inadequate humped body with its disproportionately long arms. He turned off the light and saw for a moment the sky, deep purple pricked with stars, in the frame of the window. He wondered what life would have offered him if he had been wholly beautiful.