Ask No Question

by MARY HOCKING

  Alperin appeared while he was drinking his third whisky. He looked horrified when Mitchell suggested that he should join him and said in his most prim voice, ‘It’s much too hot.’ He looked anxious when they got into the car: just as Mitchell was about to assure him that he drove better when drunk, he said:

  ‘I haven’t seen your friend lately.’

  Mitchell jammed his foot savagely on the accelerator and the car flashed through a narrow gap between a tram and an ambling Volkswagen.

  ‘He has left the town. The heat doesn’t suit him, either.’

  Alperin sat very still beside Mitchell. Buildings flashed by at speed, a church with a high clock tower, a big modern hotel, a post office and a row of shops kaleidoscoped. Alperin watched without seeming to register anything. But afterwards he remembered that it was one o’clock on a hot Monday afternoon when he knew beyond all doubt that there was no way back for him. He spoke only once, quite casually:

  ‘I wonder if there would be any possibility of my sister joining me eventually?’

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ Mitchell answered indifferently. ‘It would be up to her, wouldn’t it?’

  She would come, Alperin thought; surely she would come. Like him, she would discover that she could not live alone. All the time that he was eating his meal, he was trying to envisage Dorothy being unable to live alone.

  After he had lunched with Alperin, Mitchell walked by the lake for a time. He told himself that he was doing this to clear his head, but in fact he was delaying his visit to Miriam. The instructions which he had to give her meant that they would never meet again; he was not sure that he could make this break. But when at last he went to her room, he found that the matter had been taken out of his hands.

  Perhaps it was something about the way she stood in the center of the room with the sunlight behind her that gave her the unalterable authority of a figure in a painting, beyond argument or anguish. Her eyes met his, a level gaze, and impersonal. The desperate appeal which had drawn him to her for so long was gone. She had finished with him. There would be no tender last words, no fond embrace; she had become a stranger with whom he could only communicate on a superficial level. He talked of trains and tickets, of passports and hotels. She listened carefully to his instructions; she did not argue and she asked no questions. When he told her that she must pack quickly she turned and opened the wardrobe door. The brilliant orange dress was hanging there; she lifted it down without looking at it, as though it did not belong to her. The bright new coat was hanging on the back of the door. She took that down, too. She produced tissue paper and folded the dress, her hands moving with the quick efficiency of a shop assistant. She did not look at Mitchell nor did she speak to him.

  He noticed a small, shallow suitcase on the chair by the window. It had not been there previously; she must have bought it this morning. He watched her pack the coat and the patent leather shoes, using more tissue paper. Suddenly, he had a vision of her unwrapping the tissue paper, holding the garments up for inspection, haggling over price. He had given her money, but it would not support her for long. He wanted to say something to help her, but she did not need him any more so his advice would be irrelevant.

  She made no mention of Burke. Mitchell wondered whether she had not taken in what had happened, or whether she had deliberately blotted the scene out of her mind. He suspected the latter: there was a quality of ruthlessness in her for which he had not bargained. He strolled across the room, on the pretext of looking out of the window, and examined the rug. There were no bloodstains. Behind him, she said:

  ‘I’m ready now.’

  She was wearing the old raincoat over the black frock and she carried the case in her hand. He came towards her to take the case, but she shook her head. He sensed that she did not want any contact with him, nevertheless he said:

  ‘I’ll come to the station with you, of course.’

  ‘No. I can manage.’

  ‘But you have to get your ticket, find out about the train . . .’

  ‘I am accustomed to travel.’

  She stood with an abstracted expression on her face, waiting for him to release her. He loved her and he wanted to give her all the things he should have given his wife, the things he had not known it was in him to give. But there are times when one is asked not to give; it is hard, but it has to be accepted. He picked up the key to the room.

  ‘You’ll need to hand this in.’

  She took the key. They went out of the room and took the lift to the ground floor. When they came into the foyer, he said:

  ‘I’ll settle the bill for you.’

  He walked across to the reception desk. He did not look round until the bill was paid and then she had gone. Through the open doorway he could see the sun scorching the trees in the square, the leaves already yellowing. There were a few elderly people sitting on benches in the shade and somewhere out of sight children were calling to one another. A breeze stirred the trees and billowed the canvas awning over a café. Then it was still again. He stood with his hands clenched at his sides while the dust settled in the hot street.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  I

  On the Wednesday morning Mitchell planned his own future. He would stay in Montreux for two days to ensure that nothing went wrong at this end; he would spend the time locked in Alperia’s room, declaiming the now familiar phrase that he was too ill to see anyone. By the time that he left, Alperin would be in Russia and the exchange would have been effected. He could start his journey. He wanted to go a long way; away from all the things he had betrayed, including the old Stephen Mitchell. His present life was too much of a mess ever to straighten out again. Eliot and his kind had made nonsense of everything. There had been a brief moment of clarity when he wanted to do something simple and noble, and then Miriam Kratz had confused everything again. Perhaps he was the kind who would always be confused in the modern world. The answer was to opt out. South America was rather a predictable choice; but he had never been there and there were other reasons why it appealed to him. A man could still get lost in South America. Perhaps years hence someone would come across him on the edge of a remote forest, a white man living outside the range of civilization. A character out of Conrad.

  He had been up early that morning, in time to see the Alpine glow. The spectacle had not touched him. He had lived with it too long; all the freshness had gone out of Europe. He wanted to see the sun rise over mountains whose majesty had not been diminished by man’s familiarity. Nevertheless, as he prepared to meet Alperin he turned to the window again for one last look at the view. Undoubtedly it was beautiful. But in spite of the mountains, the landscape had a tamed look, dotted with comfortable hotels and villas; the imprint of the tidy Swiss mind overlaid everything except Chillon, sullen and unrelenting. Yet, most of all, it was from Chillon that he wanted to escape. One of the paddle steamers was coming from the direction of Villeneuve and he watched it, glad of a diversion. It must be the nine o’clock trip to Evian. In which case, it was time that he set out.

  He walked down to Alperin’s hotel. It was going to be very hot, he would not enjoy the subsequent days incarcerated in Alperin’s room. But perhaps a period of withdrawal was necessary before starting a new life. The thought sent a shiver of excitement through his body; he could visualize the long, weed-infested river winding into the interior, the trees standing close on either side—‘the heart of darkness’ Conrad had called a similar stretch of Africa. But Africa had become very self-conscious since then; South America was more truly the dark continent now. And he wanted the darkness, he wanted it more than anything in the whole of his life.

  Alperin was setting out into the unknown, too. For a man who was realizing a dream, he presented a pathetic spectacle. His face was wrinkled as a walnut and his clothes hung loose on his shrunken body; the hand that pulled ineffectually at a strap of his suitcase was knotted with veins like the hand of a very old man. Mitchell, who did not like to see him in this state, sa
id sharply:

  ‘What do you think you’re doing with that case?’

  ‘It won’t close.’

  ‘I told you that you were not to take any luggage with you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Mitchell pushed him aside and began to unpack, stowing shirts, ties, underclothes in drawers, putting the sponge-bag back in the bathroom. Alperin seemed to mind most of all about the sponge-bag.

  ‘I must brush my teeth,’ he protested in a high voice.

  ‘You’ll find a toothbrush in your new luggage.’

  ‘But someone else may have used it.’

  He looked sick at the thought; it was obvious that the problem of the toothbrush must be resolved quickly.

  ‘The coach will stop somewhere for you to have lunch and you will be able to buy one then.’ Mitchell changed the subject before Alperin could find a flaw in this argument. ‘I hope you haven’t done anything silly like asking for your bill?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Mitchell snapped the case shut and put it on top of the wardrobe. Alperin gazed up at it as though it contained his soul.

  ‘Now! Let’s have a look at you.’ Mitchell walked round Alperin studying him carefully. ‘Linen suit and hat, cream shirt, maroon tie, sun glasses . . . That’s all right. Shoes! You were to wear brogues.’

  ‘They pinch my feet in this heat.’

  ‘You won’t be doing much walking.’

  Mitchell found the shoes. Alperin put them on very slowly. Mitchell, who was becoming more and more uneasy, could scarcely bear to watch him; there was something about Alperin that threatened to sap all his strength.

  ‘Can’t I take the other pair with me?’ Alperin asked when he had finished.

  Mitchell came close to him, using the advantage of his greater bulk to the full. Alperin responded by staring at him with eyes that pleaded for kindness. It was too late for kindness now. Mitchell said angrily:

  ‘You do realize the position, don’t you? As far as the people at this hotel are concerned, you are returning here for lunch in the usual way and you will not be leaving until the weekend. So you can’t take any luggage. Do you understand that?’

  Alperin nodded his head, but looked incapable of understanding.

  ‘What about your passport?’

  Alperin hesitated for a moment and Mitchell, his impatience beyond control, took hold of Alperin’s jacket intending to feel for the passport. Instead of backing away, Alperin came closer and grabbed Mitchell’s shirt front.

  ‘Help me! Please help me! I can’t go. Oh, please understand that I can’t go . . .’

  Mitchell shouted, ‘There are more important things involved than you!’

  ‘No, no! You can’t judge that. You have no right. You’re not God.’ He flopped on to his knees and clutched at Mitchell’s legs. ‘I’ll do anything, anything, but save me from this . . . I can’t travel long distances in a coach. I’ve never been able to since I was a child. My sister would tell you; we went up to Edinburgh once . . .’

  Mitchell took him by the shoulders and raised him, quite gently in spite of his struggles. When Alperin stood in front of him, his fists pressed against his mouth so that only little whimpering noises escaped. Mitchell said:

  ‘It is too late for either of us to go back.’

  All the anger had gone from him, he felt weary and defeated. Alperin, staring at him, saw a man more lost than himself. The sight appeared to convince him of the uselessness of protest. When Mitchell held out his hand and said, ‘Your passport,’ he gave it to him without a word. He watched in silence while Mitchell put the passport in the top drawer of the dressing table. He did not argue when Mitchell asked for his wallet and he seemed quite indifferent as the greater part of the Swiss currency was deposited in the drawer with the passport. When this was done and the wallet had been returned, he said, ‘May I wash before we go, please?’ Mitchell nodded and Alperin went into the bathroom. Mitchell said, ‘Leave the door open.’ He stood in the doorway, more from habit than because he thought that Alperin would try to escape. Alperin was broken now.

  By the time that Alperin was ready, it was quarter to ten, later than Mitchell had planned. He took the key of the room and put it in his pocket; then he led Alperin out, chatting to him as they went down the stairs. Fortunately the staff were accustomed to Alperin looking sick, so no one took much notice of them. Outside a hot breeze blew dust in their faces; there was no cloud in the relentless sky. Alperin turned his ankle on the steep path down to Chillon; he gave a little sob and caught at a railing to steady himself. Something stirred in Mitchell as he watched him, not so much pity as an awareness of its absence.

  He looked at his watch again. Five to ten: Novak’s party was due to arrive in just over half an hour. It was difficult to see what could go wrong now. Nevertheless, when they came to the bend in the path and the castle rose ahead of them, he held Alperin back. It seemed safer out here in the sunlight. ‘There are supposed to be traces of a thirteenth century gallery at the top of one of those towers,’ he said. Alperin stared at the castle bleakly. Mitchell decided that it would be wise to reduce the time spent in Chillon to a minimum. Every man is a prisoner in such a place as this, he thought, remembering Bonivard with only the sound of water on stone to break the long introspection. He could visualize Bonivard, hunched against the pillar; the features were familiar, although he had never seen a picture of the man—the blond type of Jew with a sad mouth and eyes that still believed in the human race. It was strange how well he seemed to know him; he had the feeling that after all the confusion of the last weeks this man was the one person to whom he could still be true. Beside him, Alperin said fretfully:

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘We have a little time; it’s more pleasant out here.’

  ‘I’d much rather go in.’ Alperin dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘It will be cooler.’

  Mitchell was the more reluctant of the two as they crossed the bridge. While they were paying for admission a coach drew up in the road and he turned eagerly. Of course, the coach might be early! He could leave Alperin here and walk back into the sunlight. But the people who were clambering out, stretching cramped limbs, shouting to one another, were unmistakably English. Mitchell moved into the shadow of the postern gate. Beyond, in the first courtyard, Alperin said, ‘That’s better! I couldn’t have stood that heat much longer.’

  The coach party surged forward and Mitchell and Alperin were caught up in its midst. The party was led by a cadaverous, lantern-jawed man who regarded himself as a natural comic. He herded his companions through the underground vaults, bunched so tight together that they might have been in one of those interminable corridors in the London tubes for all they saw of their surroundings. When a young couple stopped to read Byron’s name on the pillar in Bonivard’s prison, he shouted, ‘Move along at the front there!’ They climbed stairs, went through the second courtyard, the Grand Hall of the High Bailiff, the Goat-of-Arms Hall and the Duke’s Chamber, borne on a ceaseless tide of patter. Alperin kept his eyes fixed on the lantern-jawed man with the half-repelled fascination of a child at a Punch and Judy show. Mitchell, content to be inconspicuous, held to the center of the group with the result that he was unaware of the people moving on the periphery until he reached the Grand Hall of the Count. Here, he broke away, drawn by the sunlight to the long windows overlooking the lake. It was then that he noticed Huber. It was like being confronted with a piece from a jigsaw that has already been completed.

  It was important at this stage that there should be no pieces unaccounted for. There was no place in the discreet, unemphatic pattern for Huber, flamboyant in saffron suit with deep violet shirt. Mitchell lingered in the Grand Hall of the Count while the English party went on; he talked to Alperin about the tapestry hangings which were thirteenth century. Huber followed the English party into the next room. Mitchell cursed the pride that had made him dismiss Huber as someone beneath his attention.

  ‘Why don�
��t we go with them?’ Alperin asked, uneasy now that the vacuum was no longer filled by the lantern-jawed man.

  ‘I’m getting bored with that fellow. We’ll give them time to get ahead of us.’

  When the last murmurings of the English party had died in the distance, Mitchell and Alperin went into the bedchamber adjacent. Huber was reading a guidebook. He was as conspicuous as a leopard in the empty room; there was something of the sour smell of the cat about him, too. Alperin’s fingers tugged at Mitchell’s arm.

  ‘I can’t go with that man!’

  ‘You’re not going with him.’ Mitchell hustled Alperin through the gloom of the latrines to the somber loftiness of the Hall of the Scribes. Alperin protested:

  ‘You didn’t tell me that he would be here.’

  ‘Because I didn’t know. It’s pure coincidence.’

  But it was no coincidence. As they caught up with the English party, Mitchell saw Huber strolling after them. A woman said, ‘What’s a chevron?’ and the lantern-jawed man said, ‘Don’t be vulgar!’ His stock of repartee was running out and the laughter of his companions was on the ebb. Huber was standing near one of the windows, plainly idling. So Novak does not trust me, Mitchell thought; he has sent Huber to ensure that nothing goes wrong. Was that the answer?

  The English party were moving across to the windows, the recesses of which bore traces of old paintings; the group studied them, drained of laughter, beginning to be bored. In contrast, Huber seemed to find something obscenely amusing in the faint marks on the wall. And suddenly, watching that dark face, Mitchell, too, saw the joke. He remembered that Eliot had once said, ‘The gods have deserted us, but we can still learn from them. Hubris, for example, is dangerous and deserves to be punished.’ And what better punishment for a man he had always considered too proud than that a check should be kept on his movements by the man he most despised? It was funny, very funny indeed; a pity, though, that he had not seen the joke earlier.