Ask No Question

by MARY HOCKING

  He went down the stairs slowly, longing for Berlin where the bizarre was accepted without question. In the dark, vine-covered bar he could hear women’s voices raised in the endless, pulsing excitement of Italian conversation. He stopped at the reception desk to hand in his passport and to check again, in case Mitchell had overlooked it, that Alperin had not yet arrived. He strolled out on to the steps, the tips of his fingers resting lightly in the pocket of his jacket, and stood for a moment, his fine head raised, savouring the evening. It was theatrical and he knew it, but he could never move easily into the stream of life. There were a few people sitting at tables outside the hotel; one or two of them looked at him. His gesture made, he went down the steps into the street. There was a small, crescent-shaped esplanade lined with plane trees cut so that the branches farmed out like unlit torches. Behind, the hills rose steeply. The bay was small, intimate, too enclosed for his liking. He walked across the grass to where Mitchell was sitting. Mitchell did not move. Burke, seized with a sudden suspicion, asked:

  ‘Has he come?’

  Mitchell turned his head slowly. He looked at Burke as though having trouble in bringing him into focus.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Burke sat down beside him, fighting a feeling of extreme exasperation. It was just as he had suspected, Mitchell was already besotted with the pleasures of this stagnant little backwater.

  ‘A pity we had to come here instead of Locarno,’ he said. ‘I feel I might have found Locarno bearable.’

  ‘It isn’t far away.’ Mitchell did not rise to the bait. ‘If it wasn’t for that promontory you would be able to see the lights.’

  That exhausted that controversy! Burke looked at his watch: it was seven o’clock.

  ‘Should we have dinner? I don’t think a reception committee is either necessary or desirable.’

  Mitchell did not seem to grasp the point, but he agreed to have dinner. The dining room was a courtyard with a glass roof overhead; vines clung to the walls and Burke discovered several insects crawling over the tablecloth. He picked up the wine list.

  ‘Not Valpolicella, if you don’t mind!’ Mitchell did not argue. There were no French wines and in a fit of pique Burke ordered a Swiss wine, light and innocuous. He felt that he had rather overstepped himself, being extremely fastidious in matters relating to wine; but Mitchell drank it without protest. For the first time Burke noticed how tired he looked.

  ‘You’ve damn near killed yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive on the way back.’

  ‘I’d rather die my own way.’ Mitchell pushed the cheese plate to one side. ‘I am terribly tired, though. And I have the oddest feeling that I’m not going to be able to take this business seriously. The whole thing seems unreal . . . dreamlike.’

  Burke said, ‘A night’s rest will cure that.’ He did not sound convincing.

  They got up. As they came to the archway that led to the foyer a quick, high voice was saying, ‘Alperin . . . no, no, no! Perhaps I had better spell it.’ It was dark in the archway, they were three steps down and Burke negotiated them carefully. Mitchell must have been too tired to notice them. The thin, high-pitched voice got to the letter ‘r’ and then stopped.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ He gave a nervous giggle, like an adolescent who finds difficulty in reacting to an unfortunate situation. ‘Is it his heart, or . . .’

  ‘It’s his head,’ Burke said irritably. ‘He cracked it on the stone floor as he went down.’ He looked up from where he was kneeling to ask for water and got quite a lot of it in his face as the enormous proprietress lurched forward with a water jug. After that the staff descended, chattering like magpies, and Mitchell was borne away by a waiter and a porter even vaster than the proprietress. Burke was left in the hall with Alperin. He looked at him and saw a short, thin man with close, hazel eyes and a permanent smile that had no humour or friendliness in it.

  ‘How very unfortunate!’ Alperin gave another giggle. ‘I’m not sure that they should have moved him. He might have fractured his skull.’ He turned back to the desk and clicked his teeth petulantly. ‘There now! She’s gone without telling me my room number.’

  Burke wandered round the far side of the desk. He studied the hotel register.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Alperin.’

  Burke glanced down the page.

  ‘You seem to be in room 11.’

  He and Mitchell were in rooms 17 and 18 respectively. He hoped they were on the same floor as room 11, it would make things easier. Alperin was fussing over his luggage. Burke decided that he had done enough for the present.

  ‘I must see about my friend,’ he said. ‘If I come across the porter I’ll tell him to look after your luggage.’

  He went towards the stairs without another glance at Alperin.

  Mitchell had a concussion; nothing very serious, the doctor said, but he must stay in bed for at least a week. For an active man, he submitted rather readily. He was feeling very bad, and as the week went on he did not seem to get any better. He lay in bed and watched the bars of sunlight shift across the wall as day and evening came and went. He heard laughter in the street, the metallic voice over the loudspeaker as a passenger boat approached the quayside, the excited cries of children, the clink of glasses in the evening as people took their aperitifs at tables on the pavement below. He heard all this without interest; he felt no curiosity about the world outside.

  Burke sweated after Alperin. He went on tours carrying packed lunches in brightly coloured paper carriers provided by the hotel; he drank Campari at cafés in the various towns and villages that Alperin visited; he bought endless picture postcards.

  ‘I’ve sent you one!’ he told Mitchell. ‘After all, I’ve got to do something to pass the time.’

  Alperin was a compulsive sightseer. After a time, Burke found some pattern in his movements.

  ‘The bastard is doing the lake systematically,’ he fumed to Mitchell. ‘He started at the Swiss end with Ascona and Locarno and he has crept up the west side as far as Porto Ronco; and that’s only a tiny part of it. Do you know the size of this bloody lake!’

  Mitchell looked at him wearily. His sense of humour had deserted him and he saw nothing comical in the little Irishman’s predicament. He made himself ask, without really caring, ‘Does he know you’re following him?’ Burke thought that by the time they had got as far as the frontier at Luino, Alperin would certainly know.

  ‘But you can do the Luino trip since you’re so fond of Italy. You’ll be better by then, and I can have a breakdown.’

  He was getting very irritable and that meant he might be careless. Mitchell registered the fact without interest.

  Another two days went by. The doctor seemed satisfied, but Mitchell knew he was no better. Nevertheless, he got up on the morning following the doctor’s visit and prepared to go out. He was surprised to find that his head did not hurt and that his body performed its functions as adequately as usual. His limbs were not stiff or bruised, although he was a little weak. He went down the stairs and out into the street. It was early; the hills were threaded with wreaths of mist, the lake was calm in a pearly light and the air was blessedly fresh. To the west, the mist had lifted and he could see the coast curving away in the distance, the wooded hills clotted with houses and tiny villages. A delightful scene; but it awakened no response in him. He walked slowly towards the jetty. A few fishermen were sitting in gently rocking boats doing last-minute repairs to their nets. The water slapped soothingly against the jetty. It was the most peaceful, innocent time of the day; yet he found no pleasure in it. He sat on a seat and stared across the lake, trying to come to terms with what had happened to him.

  The adventure was over at last. It was natural that some of the zest should have gone after the war, that the years should have blunted the sense of purpose. One accepted these things. But it had not stopped there; it had grown colder and bleaker as blood drained slowly from the fabric of life. The last years—t
he years of Eliot and his kind—had been very bad. But some vestige of adventure had remained while Claus lived, some spark of inspiration could still be struck on memory’s flint. Now it was over. There was nothing left, no anger, no pain, no fear. The water, lapping at the stone beneath him, dragged his mind back to the present. He hauled himself to his feet. The present was not going to be easy. But he had a job to do, a necessary job for a man who still believed in serving his country.

  He walked along the esplanade. His pulse was steady and he was not short of breath, yet every step was an effort; he felt as though, far from losing weight while he had been ill, he had put on a stone. He tried to concentrate on the job. The job was important; as long as one believed in it, one could preserve some self-respect. Alperin was a scientist who possessed information which, in the wrong hands, could mean the destruction of the human race. A terrifying thought. Yet his mind accepted it almost indifferently; he had become conditioned to living with the threat of cosmic disaster. What surprised him most was that his reaction to Alperin himself was so mild. Traitor was a word which had meant a great deal to him at one time; now he found it impossible to regard Alperin as anything but a muddled little man. Or was it that the scale of Alperin’s crime was too vast for comprehension? If he had been a dope pedlar, Mitchell would have been extremely angry; but Alperin was peddling something so overwhelmingly deadly that the imagination could not cope with it. Was that the answer?

  Mitchell had come to the end of the esplanade; ahead was a brick wall surrounding the garden of a hotel. Perhaps it was as well to encounter a barrier at this point. He decided, as he turned to walk back, that it was time to bring an end to this unprofitable mental exercise. Eliot would have disapproved of it. He would have said that this concern with self-respect was nothing but pride; Eliot thought he had too much pride. And for once, Eliot would have been right. There was a job to be done. It was not for him to concern himself with Alperin’s motives or with the possible results of his actions; all that concerned him was what Alperin was doing at this particular moment. Was he preparing to continue his slow progress round the lake? It was, as Burke had said, a big lake and the greater part of it was in Italy: Alperin had a lot to see yet. And Burke needed a break; he was getting restive and soon he would do something foolish. Mitchell quickened his step.

  But as things transpired there was no cause for haste. Mitchell sat on the esplanade all the morning, keeping an eye on the hotel, while Burke went into Locarno. But Alperin did not appear; it seemed he had a stomach upset. Mitchell relaxed in the sun and refrained from taxing his mind any further.

  The next day, the boat trips started again.

  ‘I hope you enjoy it,’ Burke said sourly as Mitchell set off.

  Alperin went to Isola Brissago and toiled round the botanical gardens. He argued with the guide, asking a lot of tiresome questions and making himself unpopular with references to Kew Gardens. The next day he went as far as Luino. He had a long argument with an Italian customs official whom he thought arrogant. A bright spot of colour fanned his cheeks. He was a man who bore resentment easily and nourished it carefully, Mitchell decided.

  The boats were big. Mitchell soon discovered that he could avoid meeting Alperin by staying in the bar; Alperin was no drinker. The only time they met face to face was at Luino. Alperin seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘Are you better?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I think I’ll stick to boat travel for a while, though. More restful.’

  Mitchell, who had decided that Alperin was the kind who would never remember a face, only an insult, was surprised that the man had recognized him immediately.

  It was dusk when the boat arrived at Tamaro. Only a few people got off. Mitchell strolled across to a kiosk to buy cigarettes; he waited until Alperin was out of sight before he, too, turned towards the hotel. The street was empty and for a moment it was a lonely view, the evening light slanting across the bay, the plane trees casting long shadows, dust settling in the road. As he came nearer to the hotel, however, he could make out a figure standing on the pavement, head down, fists clenched in the pockets of a drab raincoat; something in the stance was familiar. Suddenly, he was in Berlin again, a thin drizzle of rain falling as he walked beneath the street lamps, enveloped in all the hopelessness of a grey winter evening. He had thought his spirits could scarcely be lower than during the last few days. He was wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Alperin watched the two figures meet and walk away; he watched until they were lost in the dusk. He was no student of human nature, but it was apparent even to him that they were not strangers. A surprising rendezvous.

  Alperin turned away from the window feeling rather disappointed. For a time recently he had wondered whether the man, Mitchell, might be one of their agents; he did not look like a spy, but then Lonsdale had not looked like a spy either. But it was surely inconceivable that if Mitchell had been after him, he would have turned his attention to anyone else. And his attention had been very much absorbed by his new companion. A pity; not many people come crashing down at your feet, thus demanding your attention. In his nervous state, it had seemed to him that it was some kind of sign. Absurd, of course. It was too much to expect someone to be installed at this hotel, ready and waiting for him. The approach would be up to him this time.

  They had made one approach a year ago and he had rejected it. One does not readily accept the role of traitor. A naïve way of looking at things; but then one is so conditioned by national attitudes, it takes time and courage to fight one’s way across the frontiers of conventional thought. But all that was behind him now; the battle of the mind had been fought and won.

  The room was stiflingly hot and somewhere below a radio was throbbing out one of those odiously sentimental Neapolitan songs. It reminded him that the physical frontiers had yet to be crossed. When the great decision was made and he emerged from the dark tunnel, it had been surprising to find that he was still at Cambridge. Then came the conference at Montreux. Sir Harry should have gone, but he found these affairs boring. So once again Alperin was asked to substitute for him. Alperin prided himself that on this occasion he had handled matters with some subtlety; he had protested, said it wasn’t convenient, that he hadn’t had sufficient time for preparation. Sir Harry, predictably, had insisted: he thrived on opposition. It had seemed something in the nature of a miracle. So much so that Alperin had taken no initiative himself, had made no plans for a journey further east. His attitude had become fatalistic: events would take their course, the decision had been made and that was all that mattered.

  Waiting had been trying, though. He was excited and found it difficult to maintain his air of sullen resentment. He decided to go abroad earlier. He needed a holiday. Sir Harry would vouch for that. Sir Harry would also be glad to have him out of the way as soon as possible; he was waiting to carry out reorganizations which Alperin would oppose. Alperin would lose the battle, of course, he always lost. Sir Harry Gethryn was friendly with the P.M. They didn’t talk much about work, it wasn’t necessary—a word over a glass of port after one of their exclusive dinner parties was enough. Just the same, Alperin could delay matters, he could make the operation work less smoothly; Sir Harry would be glad to have him out of the way.

  It had all worked out. Sir Harry had even recommended that he should go to Maggiore for his holiday and Alperin, who had no ideas of his own, had agreed. All he wanted was time to think. He had the feeling that if he could get away to some lonely spot and be very quiet, the next step would be made clear to him. At Montreux there would be scientists whose loyalties were known to be suspect; there would also be observers from Eastern Europe. It should be possible to indicate his position. He was rather vague as to exactly how he would do this, but he was sure it would be possible. And they were very efficient. What was more, they wanted him. After all the snubs and insults, the honours given to other men while he did the hard, grinding work, the fact of being wanted was quite overwhelming in it
s impact on him. It represented his own private miracle.

  It had come just in time for him. He had lately been a little obsessed with the injustices done to him and his sister, Dorothy, had hinted that he should see a psychiatrist. A brutal unimaginative suggestion, but then she was an insensitive woman. He had begun to feel quite ill at the effort required to stifle his resentment; sometimes it burst out in rather undignified scenes at the research center—there had been a ludicrous drama over the fact that his tea never came at the right time. He was glad that now he would be able to strike strongly, with blows that would hurt them and would also relieve this intolerable pressure within him. It excited him. It excited him a little too much, one did not want to give the impression of being overwrought. A calming down period was desirable.

  And so Maggiore. But it was not at all what he needed. He had realized this in dismay as soon as he arrived. The air had not the desert purity, nor was the landscape sufficiently harsh; this was not a place in which the still, small voice would speak. Tamaro, in the fold of the hills, made him feel more stifled than ever. He would like to have walked, but this was no place for walking; to the left was the esplanade which was not extensive, to the right was the road to Brissago along which cars hurtled at murderous speed, the hills rose vertical above and even if one tried to climb them there was nothing beyond but more hills. There remained the lake. He began to take daily trips on the lake. The boats were crowded with tourists and there was a loudspeaker which continually blared announcements in four languages. It was hard to relax. He went to Isola Brissago, thinking that an island would be peaceful; but it transpired that one was compelled to go on a guided tour of the botanical gardens. He complained to the guide about this restriction on the freedom of movement. The specimens were not even good; in one of those unreasonable throwbacks to nationalism he informed the guide that the gardens were nothing to compare with Kew Gardens.