Ask No Question

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Don’t you usually lock your door?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t like being shut in.’

  She still did not look at him. The shutters had not been drawn and the window was wide open, but there was no breath of air in the room. Immediately below the window the bright awning over the sun lounge was still and in the garden the leaves on the trees did not move; this was the dead hour of the afternoon. He looked down at Miriam. She at least was vividly alive in a tangerine dress; but her attitude had changed, she was quiet and withdrawn. This in no way detracted from her appeal. Tangerine and olive skin, black hair and blacker eyes . . . All this planning and plotting, what was it worth? There was more satisfaction to be gained in one hour here than in the whole of the hazardous scheme to which he had dedicated himself. There was a tiny hollow of shadow beneath the broad cheekbone, as though a sculptor had pressed his thumb lightly into the flesh . . . While he was examining this delightful discovery, she sighed and said:

  ‘I’ve tried so hard to remember.’

  ‘Remember?’ he repeated blankly.

  ‘About my husband.’ She turned her head, her eyes puzzled. ‘Something to tell you . . . but it’s so difficult.’

  She looked away again, baffled by her inability to remember. For years the world had been Mikail; he had grown within her until there was no reality but him. Yet now, when another person was concerned with him, when she was asked to talk about him as a man among men, she found that there was a blank space where once he had been. Behind her, Mitchell said:

  ‘There are so many memories. It must be difficult to select.’

  He did not sound as though the words meant anything in particular. When she looked at him again, she saw that his eyes were examining the brilliant dress, the soft folds of material falling away from the scooped neckline. It was the eyes that had drawn her to him, long ago when she first met him, kind eyes that brought a brief warmth to the mean winter afternoon; now the eyes were hard and their brightness hurt. She said sharply:

  ‘Can’t you help me? Tell me the kind of thing you want to know.’

  He said woodenly, ‘What is your daughter’s name?’

  ‘Naomi.’

  ‘Did you have a pet name for her?’

  ‘ “Pet” name?’

  ‘Never mind. Tell me about her. Is she like you?’

  He was rapping out questions savagely now. She stared at him, unable to express her feelings and he shouted at her:

  ‘What’s the matter? You want her back, don’t you?’

  ‘Want her back!’

  ‘Well then, you must learn to think about her again, talk about her . . .’

  ‘It’s no use!’ She was shouting, too. ‘How can I talk to you about her? You have no children.’

  His head jerked back as though she had hit him; his complete unpreparedness touched her more than anything else could have done because it made her realize how much he was at her mercy. She said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She might not want to come back. Had you thought of that?’

  He could not get control of himself and his voice shook. She was too sorry for him to be angry. She said quietly, turning away from him:

  ‘It’s no use asking questions about Naomi. I can’t answer them.’

  ‘But when you see her? What then?’

  ‘I shall have to begin from there.’

  Mikail had said that every day is a beginning. In the hot, dry room she could hear his voice, husky with fatigue, and she had a glimpse of the real man, quieter and less masterful than the godlike creature memory had created. A tired man, the clinic had always been under staffed; but now, sitting beside this other man and seeing her husband as a stranger, she suddenly understood that there was another reason for the tiredness. He was lonely. She saw it very clearly now that she stood apart from him; there had been no one with whom he could share his burden, he had had to have courage for both of them. Her lips moved, she scarcely realized that she was speaking aloud.

  ‘He said once that “one should never make decisions in the evening; the evening is for despair.” ’

  ‘That doesn’t sound the kind of thing he would remember.’ Mitchell’s voice was a long way away, much further away than the voice of Mikail.

  ‘He would remember,’ she said.

  He would remember because the words were branded on his spirit. She had always been grateful to him for all that he had given her, but she had never asked how much it cost him; he had seemed to have an inexhaustible well of strength within him and it had not occurred to her that he might drain himself to give to her. She sat still, looking across the bright summer garden, trying to comprehend how much she owed him. Mitchell, watching her, noticed how strained the eyes had become, as though they were trying to penetrate beyond the natural limits of vision. He remained silent, knowing that he had lost her and could only wait now. After a while she turned and began to speak calmly about her husband and child, telling him everything she could remember that might be helpful; she named the child’s dolls, described the few treasured toys, told of her first meeting with her husband. When she had finished, she sat back in the chair, withdrawn from Mitchell; she asked no questions when he got up to leave. He said:

  ‘You won’t speak of this to anyone, will you?’

  ‘Who would I speak to?’

  ‘Burke, for example,’

  ‘Oh, Burke!’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No, I shan’t speak to him.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much about all this. Don’t think or make plans or . . .’ But she was not listening. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, her face turned so that the light from the window fell on it. He noticed again the way that she was changing. There were cracks in the smooth brown flesh of the face and the bones were more prominent; the woman was taking the place of the gamin. In a few years she would look gaunt, but durable. He thought about her as he walked down the stairs and made his way into the street. When he first saw her, enigmatic in the exotic dress, he had been so physically excited that he could scarcely trust himself to look at her; but now, the physical excitement had been replaced by something more irrevocable than desire. It would be more difficult than he had imagined to go through with his plans.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Huber had arrived. Mitchell saw him that evening strolling along the promenade between the brilliant shrubs bordering the lake and the smooth green lawns of the hotels; he looked sad and alien in his flashy blue suit, a creature more at home in an Arab market, one would have thought, although in reality he would have been equally out of place there. Huber belonged to places that had lost their distinctive flavour, to a landscape reduced to shadows and rubble; it was strange to see him here in this calm, self-satisfied town, a reminder of the dark side of the world’s coin.

  He knew that Mitchell was watching him and he stopped to light a cigar. Over his shoulder Mitchell saw the waters of the lake, still as glass in the evening light, the mountains massed together, dark and heavy. Huber flicked the match away, his spread fingers cocking a snook; and suddenly all this magnificence seemed nothing but a trick, one half expected it to go out of focus and disintegrate leaving only Huber and the cigar.

  Huber tilted his head back and exhaled; he kept his head back and watched the smoke spiral upwards in the still air. He was waiting and he was not being subtle about it; there was a contemptuous assurance in the way he waited. And indeed he had a right to be assured! This, surely, was the opportunity for which Mitchell had been waiting. While Huber was watching the smoke, Mitchell walked past him; he did not turn his head or slacken his pace until he had reached Chillon. It was a long walk from the town to Chillon, but he was still shaking with rage when he reached the castle. He stood staring at it. He had thought he had travelled a long way since he stood in Bonivard’s prison; it was a surprise to find that all he had done was to change direction. The old Mitchell remained, stubborn, conservative, and very proud. No matter what happened, this man would never deal with Hub
er. But it had recently become a habit to ask questions, and now he wondered whether he could afford this kind of pride.

  Fortunately, it was not necessary to answer this particular question, since there was no need for him to go to Huber. He had walked along the promenade, telling himself that he must sort out the information he had gleaned from Miriam Kratz before he took the next move. In reality, he had been trying to delay taking that move. But the arrival of Huber aroused his professional instincts; he knew that the time for deliberation had passed. Automatically he turned and made his way to the Hotel du Lac Léman.

  ‘I want Josef Novak,’ he said, ‘I am a friend of his.’

  They had not even exchanged names, but as he watched the receptionist studying the register he was quite sure that this was the name the man would be using. While the receptionist bent over the book, the telephone operator turned round.

  ‘He is in Room 39.’ She looked at the receptionist, laughing.

  ‘Oh, Room 39!’ The receptionist laughed, too. Their expressions suggested that Room 39 was that rare phenomenon, a genuine personality. The receptionist looked at Mitchell.

  ‘What name shall I give?’

  ‘Stephen Mitchell.’

  The last step had been taken; there was no going back from this point. He felt old and tired and no longer very sure of himself; perhaps, after all, it would have been less painful to deal with Huber. He didn’t give a damn what Huber thought of him.

  Josef Novak had a room on the first floor, an end room with a private bathroom adjacent to it. The door had been left hospitably open and when Mitchell entered, Novak was standing by a table pouring drinks; he was wearing a scarlet silk dressing gown and he looked like a character out of Tolstoy preparing for one of those wild Russian parties that intersperse long periods of introspection. But Novak was not introspective and his eyes were particularly aware as he handed Mitchell a Pernod, saying ‘A votre santé!’ After that he did not speak. Neither man felt in the mood for preliminaries; they knew the game and they understood each other, and that being so, the first moves could be eliminated. It was risky, but neither of them minded risks. Mitchell said:

  ‘I have a problem, that I would like to discuss with you.’

  ‘A difficult one, I hope.’

  ‘For a time it seemed insoluble.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I think I may have found a solution.’

  ‘Then why come to me?’

  ‘Your views on the practicability of the solution would be helpful.’

  ‘Why not back your own judgment? You don’t appear to be a tentative man.’

  ‘In this instance you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘Do tell me why.’

  ‘You seem to be a man who has travelled widely.’

  ‘You give that impression yourself.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think you have a knowledge of places that I have never visited.’

  ‘I have been to South America, certainly.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Novak took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Rothmans, not the kind to go with the flamboyant dressing gown; the Pernod did not fit into the pattern either. Mitchell accepted a cigarette, aware that he had been stopped at the moment when he was keyed to tell his story. He appreciated the move and judged that it might be best to seem slightly rattled. He lit the cigarette and said rather edgily:

  ‘You must be wondering where all this is leading.’

  ‘To South America, presumably.’

  Mitchell looked at the tip of his cigarette and addressed his next remark to it.

  ‘I am interested in someone who is in prison there. Perhaps with your knowledge of South America you can advise me . . .’

  ‘There is no point in being interested in anyone who is foolish enough to get himself into prison in South America.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  They looked at each other and Novak got to his feet and reached for Mitchell’s empty glass. Mitchell said, watching the man’s back as he poured the drinks:

  ‘I had been hoping that my friend could join me over here.’

  ‘What an amusing idea!’ Novak’s shoulders shook; he threw back his head and laughed until the glasses shivered and drink slopped on to the table. Mitchell waited; the laughter was not purely for effect, the man was enjoying himself. Novak reached for the soda siphon but did not appear to make much use of it. When at last he turned and handed the glass to Mitchell the lines of laughter were stiff there, but they were cracks in a mask and the eyes were hard.

  ‘You will need more than impertinence.’

  ‘So I imagined. That is why I thought that you might be able to advise me.’

  Novak sipped his drink; Mitchell wondered whether the mixture was as strong as his own.

  ‘I don’t specialize in advice,’ Novak said. ‘But I should like to hear the story, if it’s as entertaining as the prelude.’

  ‘It’s a rather dull story. In fact, that is why I feel it has possibilities.’ He paused, but this time Novak did not create a diversion. ‘This man is a doctor and he made the mistake of looking after a man who was wanted by the police. The wanted man was not of any importance—a bank clerk trying to leave the country to join his mother who lived just across the border. He was taking a little of the bank’s money with him, but the doctor did not know that and had he known it is possible that he would not have acted differently. The doctor was betrayed by one of his patients. He has been in prison ever since.’

  ‘As you say, a dull story.’

  ‘But it has the virtue of being uncomplicated; the doctor is of no importance to the State.’

  ‘Had he committed any other crime?’

  ‘He is a Jew.’

  ‘Then he is probably dead by now.’

  ‘That I should want to know, of course.’

  For a moment the eyes which stared at him were quite still and they seemed to have darkened. It was the only sign of real interest he had given so far.

  ‘And what am I expected to do?’

  ‘Find out whether the man is alive or not.’

  ‘I’m not as influential as you imagine. Nor am I interested in your affairs.’

  ‘I’m prepared to pay.’

  Novak stared at him incredulously; and then he laughed, but not quite so violently as before.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, leaning forward, one hand on the table between them, ‘What will you give me?’

  ‘A molecular biologist named Alperin.’

  Novak sat back in his chair; if he had had cards in his hands, Mitchell felt that he would have tossed them down on the table. Or perhaps he would have dealt another hand, his next words made this seem more likely.

  ‘And just supposing I wanted a molecular biologist—and I should need a lot of convincing on that point—why do you imagine that I should need your help to get one?’

  ‘If you wanted a famous painting wouldn’t it be simpler to have it handed to you by the caretaker, rather than break into a well-guarded art gallery?’

  ‘I don’t like simplicity.’

  ‘But you do like success.’

  ‘Nor do I like weak links.’

  ‘The caretaker, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Novak put his glass down. He looked at Mitchell, that direct glance that Mitchell had found naïve but very disconcerting when he first met the man. ‘Let us talk about the caretaker. He interests me more than the other characters.’

  Sweat broke out on Mitchell’s forehead; he met Novak’s gaze, but it took an effort and he felt the muscles around his eyes quivering with strain. Novak looked down into his glass, but not before Mitchell had seen the first flicker of doubt. Unrehearsed effects are always best; his discomfort would do more to create the desired impression than anything else. No matter that he stammered a little as he said:

  ‘This man . . . this Jew . . . he is the husband of a woman with whom I am rather deeply involved.’

  ‘Then the longer
you keep them apart the better surely?’

  ‘She doesn’t see it that way.’

  ‘One can always withdraw from these affairs.’

  ‘I think entanglement would be the better word in this case.’

  Novak picked up his glass and took a few sips of Pernod, he frowned as though something about the drink displeased him; he was slowing down the pace now, not in order to disconcert Mitchell, but to give himself time to think.

  ‘Why did you let this happen?’ he asked eventually. ‘You’re not without experience.’

  ‘I’ve never been very successful at handling women. But until now the difficulties have always been emotional and personal . . . I didn’t realize this was different until it was too late.’

  Novak looked at him. He was dealing with a traitor and the word still had meaning for him; yet the other day, this man had seemed his equal. Novak was puzzled, reluctant to admit that he had made an error of judgment. Pride was involved, and something else, too; as he studied Mitchell’s face, there was a hint of regret in his eyes. Mitchell sensed the regret and he felt that whatever people said about him afterwards, he would never be touched as he was touched at this moment; he wished that he could explain, but since he scarcely understood his motives himself this was impossible. It was best to get things over quickly. He said:

  ‘You surely don’t imagine this is some kind of a trick? Whatever else we might do, we should hardly offer you one of our scientists—particularly at the present time when there is an outcry about inadequate security arrangements.’

  Novak shrugged his shoulders. ‘One makes sacrifices.’

  ‘We are not allowed to sacrifice prime ministers.’

  Novak smiled suddenly. ‘We are more fortunate sometimes.’ The sally seemed to ease the tension between the two men. Novak offered Mitchell another cigarette and said pleasantly, ‘It is you that I don’t trust.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to trust me any more than I trust you. But I am still waiting for your advice as to whether my plan has a chance.’

  ‘There’s rather a glut of scientists just now. Much would depend on the value of this man, Alperin.’

  ‘The fact that I am here to watch him is proof of his value, surely?’