Doamna Drucker, her face sullen with scorn, interrupted angrily: ‘They are beasts,’ she said. ‘What can one do for such creatures? They are hopeless.’
‘In one sense,’ Guy agreed, ‘they are hopeless. They have never been allowed to hope. Whatever has happened here, they have been the losers.’
She rose from the table. ‘It is time for my siesta.’ She left the room.
There was an embarrassed pause, then Hassolel asked Guy if he had been that week to see Shirley Temple at the Cinema. Guy said he had not.
Hassolel sighed. ‘Such a sweet little girl! Always I go to see Shirley Temple.’
‘I also.’ Drucker nodded. ‘Always she reminds me of my own little Hannah.’
When they returned to the sitting room, Sasha invited Guy to go with him into the small ante-room he used as a music-room. Drucker said to Harriet: ‘Excuse me a little moment,’ and went off, no doubt in search of his wife. Flöhr, muttering something about work, went too. From the music-room came the sound of a gramophone playing ‘Basin Street Blues’.
Harriet, left alone with the Hassolels, the Teitelbaums and Doamna Flöhr, hoped the party would soon be over. But it was not over yet. A maid brought in some cut Bohemian glasses, red, blue, green, violet and yellow, and Doamna Hassolel began pouring liqueurs.
Doamna Teitelbaum, feeling perhaps that there had been too much of complaint at the meal, smiled on Harriet and said: ‘Still, you will enjoy life here. It is pleasant. It is cheap. There is much food. It is, you understand, comfortable.’
Before she could say more the manservant entered to say Domnul Drucker’s car was waiting for him. He was sent to find Drucker, who, when he entered, said he would drop Guy and Sasha back at the University. Harriet rose, ready to go with them, but the women clamoured:
‘Not Doamna Pringle. Doamna Pringle must stay with us. She must stay for the “five-o’-clock”.’
‘Of course she will stay,’ said Guy. Harriet gave him an anguished look but he did not see it. ‘She has nothing else to do. She would enjoy it.’
Without more ado, he said his good-byes and was off with Drucker and Sasha, leaving her behind. There was a short pause, then Teitelbaum and Hassolel departed.
‘You see,’ said Doamna Hassolel, ‘it is not yet half past four and they return to work. What Rumanian would work before five o’clock?’
The elder of the two Drucker girls came in to join her aunts. The women drew their chairs close together and sat with their plump, be-ringed hands smoothing their skirts over their plump, silk knees. Meanwhile they watched Harriet, somehow suggesting that even if she were formidable, she was outnumbered. They watched, she thought, with the purposeful caution of trappers.
The Drucker girl said: ‘She is pretty, is she not? Like a film star.’
Now the men were all gone, Doamna Flöhr had taken a platinum lorgnette from her bag. She examined Harriet through it. ‘What age are you?’ she asked.
‘Thirty-five,’ said Harriet.
The women gasped. The girl tittered behind her hand. ‘We thought you were twenty,’ she said.
Harriet wondered when they had joined in coming to this conclusion. Doamna Flöhr looked puzzled and, pretending to fidget with the back of her dress, leant forward to take a closer look at Harriet.
Doamna Teitelbaum said in an extenuating tone: ‘Leah Blum, you remember, did not marry till she was thirty. Such happens, I am told, with Career Women.’
The others laughed at the outlandishness of such women.
Doamna Hassolel said: ‘Here we say: at twenty, you marry yourself; at twenty-five, you must get the old woman to marry you; at thirty, the devil himself can’t do it.’
Harriet turned to Doamna Flöhr, because she was the youngest sister, and said: ‘What age are you?’
Doamna Flöhr started. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘women do not tell their ages.’
‘In England,’ said Harriet, ‘they are not asked to tell.’
Doamna Hassolel now said: ‘How many children do you wish to have?’
‘We shall probably wait until after the war.’
‘Then it will be too late.’
‘Surely not.’
‘But how many? Haven’t you considered?’
‘Oh, nine or ten.’
‘So many? Then you must start soon.’
Harriet laughed and Doamna Teitelbaum, whose manner was more kindly than that of the others, said: ‘You are surely joking? You cannot be so old.’
‘I am twenty-two,’ said Harriet. ‘A year younger than Guy.’
‘Ah!’ The others relaxed, disappointed.
Doamna Hassolel rang for the maid and gave an order. The maid brought in some jars of a sort of jam made of whole fruits.
Doamna Teitelbaum murmured her pleasure. ‘A little spoonful,’ she said, ‘I like so much gooseberry.’
Harriet said: ‘I really must go.’ She started to rise, but the circle of women sat firm about her.
‘No, no,’ said Doamna Hassolel, ‘you cannot go. Here already is the “five-o’clock”.’
A trolley was wheeled in laden with sandwiches, iced cakes, cream buns and several large flans made of sliced apples, pears and plums.
Harriet looked from the window. Rain was falling again. The wind was blowing it in sheets from the soaked trees. Doamna Hassolel watched her calmly as she returned to her chair.
9
With late November came the crivaţ, a frost-hard wind that blew from Siberia straight into the open mouth of the Moldavian plain. Later it would bring the snow, but for the moment it was merely a threat and a discomfort that each day grew a little sharper.
Fewer people appeared in the streets. Already there were those who faced the outdoor air only for as long as it took them to hurry between home and car. In the evening, in the early dark, there were only the workers hurrying to escape the cold. Taxis were much in demand. Run cheaply on cheap fuel from the oil-fields that were only thirty miles distant, they charged little more than the buses of other capitals.
At the end of November there came, too, a renewal of fear as Russia invaded Finland. Although his friends were inclined to hold him responsible for the Soviet defection, Guy’s faith did not waver. He and Harriet heard the news one night at the Athénée Palace, where Clarence had taken them to dine. They found as they left the dining-room that the main room had been prepared for a reception. The chandeliers were fully lit, the tables banked with flowers and a red carpet had been unrolled throughout the hall.
‘Germans,’ said Guy when he saw the first of the guests. The Germans and the British in Bucharest knew each other very well by sight. This was Harriet’s first real encounter with the enemy. Guy and Clarence pointed out to her several important members of the German Embassy, all in full evening dress, among them Gerda Hoffman, a stocky woman whose straw-coloured hair was bound like a scarf round her head. No one knew what her true function was, but a whispering campaign had given her the reputation of being the cleverest agent to come out of Germany.
A group of these Germans stood in the hall. Seeing the three young English people advance on them, they closed together on the red carpet so that the three had to divide and skirt them. As this happened, the Germans laughed exultantly among themselves. Harriet was surprised that people of importance should behave so crassly. Guy and Clarence were not surprised. This behaviour seemed to them typical of the sort of Germans sent out under the New Order.
‘But they’re certainly crowing over something,’ said Clarence. ‘I wonder what’s happened. Let’s ask in the bar.’
In the bar they learnt of the invasion of Finland from Galpin, who said: ‘That’s the beginning. The next thing, Russia’ll declare war on us. Then the Huns and the Russkies will carve up Europe between them. What’s to stop them?’
‘A lot of things,’ said Guy, ‘I’m pretty sure the Russians won’t commit themselves before they’re ready.’
Galpin looked him over with bleak amusement: ‘You think you know abou
t Russia, the way the Pope knows about God. You wait and see. We’ll have one or the other of the bastards here before you can say “Eastern Poland”.’
Guy laughed, but he laughed alone. The others were subdued by a sense of disaster.
The next morning, walking in the Cişmigiu, Harriet suffered again from uncertainty. She had made an appointment to see a flat, that mid-day. If they took it, they would be required to pay three months’ rent in advance. She was unwilling to risk the money.
Guy said: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be here at least a year.’
They had the wintry park to themselves. When they reached the bridge, the wind came howling across the lake, carrying to them the icy spray from the fountain. They retreated and turned in among the flower-beds that displayed the last brown tattered silks of the chrysanthemums. A white peacock was trailing a few tail-feathers in the mud. Pigeon-down and some scraps of leaf spun along the path. The path curved and brought them to the chestnut thicket that led to the restaurant. Guy put his hand through Harriet’s arm, but she was not responsive. He had promised to go with her and view the flat, but, having forgotten this promise, he had later arranged to give some special coaching to a student. The student’s need seemed to him the greater.
‘And I must see the landlord alone?’ said Harriet.
‘Oh no.’ Guy was delighted by his own resource. ‘I’ve rung up Sophie and she has agreed to go with you.’ This he thought an altogether better arrangement, it being known that no English person could grapple unaided with the cunning of a Rumanian landlord.
It was an arrangement that did not please Harriet at all. Guy, as they walked, had been lecturing her on her unwisdom in not making better use of Sophie, who would, he knew, be only too delighted to help Harriet, if only Harriet would ask for help. Sophie had been very helpful to him when he was alone here. He was sure she was, fundamentally, a good-hearted girl. She had had a difficult life. All she needed was a little flattery, a little management…
Harriet, whom he seemed to imagine was absorbing this advice, said at the end of it no more than: ‘I’m sick of Sophie.’ After a pause, she added: ‘And we can’t afford to go on feeding her.’
Guy said: ‘Things will be easier when we have our own flat. Then we can entertain at home.’
They had now strolled out of the trees and could see the café’s wooden peninsula with the chairs and tables stacked up under tarpaulins. The kitchen was shuttered. A lock hung quivering in the wind. Guy asked Harriet if she remembered hearing here the announcement of Călinescu’s assassination. Did she remember the heat, the quiet, the chestnuts falling on the tin roof? Rather sulkily, she replied that she did. Taking her hand, Guy said:
‘I wish, darling, you liked Sophie better. She is lonely and needs a friend. You ought to get on well with her. She is an intelligent girl.’
‘She lets her intelligence trickle away in complaints, self-pity and self-indulgence.’
‘You are rather intolerant.’
Before Harriet could reply to this, they heard a step behind them and glancing round saw a figure that was familiar but, so unlikely was the setting, unfamiliar.
‘Good heavens,’ said Guy, glad of diversion. ‘It’s Yakimov.’ Harriet said: ‘Don’t let talk to him.’
‘Oh, we must have a word.’ And Guy hurried out of reach of her restraint.
Yakimov, in his long full-skirted greatcoat, an astrakhan cap on top of his head, his reed of a body almost overblown by the wind, looked like a phantom from the First World War – a member of some seedy royal family put into military uniform for the purposes of a parade. As he tottered unhappily forward, his gaze on the ground, he did not see the Pringles. When stopped by Guy’s exuberant ‘Hello, there!’ his mouth fell open. He did his best to smile.
‘Hello, dear boy!’
‘I’ve never seen you in the park before.’
‘I’ve never been before.’
‘What a magnificent coat!’
‘Yes, isn’t it!’ Yakimov’s face brightened a little as he turned a corner of the coat to show the worn sable lining. ‘The Czar gave it to m’poor old dad. Fine coat. Never wears out.’
‘It’s splendid.’ Guy stood back to admire the theatrical effect of the coat, his appreciation such that Yakimov’s gaze went to Guy’s coat in the hope of being able to return these compliments, but no return was possible.
Guy said: ‘It makes you look like a White Army officer. You should have a peaked cap. A sort of yachting cap.’
‘M’old dad had one; and a beard like Nicholas II.’ Yakimov sighed, but not, it seemed, over these glories of the past. His whole body drooped. Now he had come to a standstill, he seemed to lack energy to proceed.
Harriet, who had been watching him, felt forced to ask: ‘What is the matter?’
He looked up: ‘Not to tell a lie …’ he paused, at a loss for a lie to tell. ‘Not to tell a lie, dear girl, I’ve been rather badly treated. Given the push. Literally.’ He laughed sadly.
‘From the Athénée Palace?’
‘No. At least, not yet. No, I … I …’ he stared at the ground again, stammering as though his troubles were so compacted that they dammed the source of speech, then speech burst forth: ‘Given the push … flung out. Flung out of a taxi in a distant part of the town. Quite lost; not a leu on me: didn’t know where to turn. Then someone directed me across this God-forsaken park.’
‘You mean, you couldn’t pay the taxi?’ Harriet asked.
‘Wasn’t my taxi, dear girl. McCann’s taxi. McCann flung me out of it. After all I’d done for him.’ Yakimov’s lips quivered.
Guy took his arm, and as they walked towards the main gate he persuaded Yakimov to describe exactly what had happened.
‘McCann got me out of bed this morning at some unearthly hour. Rang me up, and said he wanted to see me. Said he was in the hall, just leaving for Cairo. Well, dear boy, had to get m’clothes on. Couldn’t go down in m’birthday suit, could I? Thought he was going to ask me to keep on the job. Didn’t know whether to say “yes” or “no”. Hard work, being a war correspondent. Comes a bit rough on your poor old Yaki. Not used to it. Well, got myself titivated. “Shall I accept the job, or shan’t I?” kept asking m’self. Felt I ought to accept. War on, y’know. Man should do his bit. Thought I’d done a good job. If I couldn’t get “hot” news in the bar, always got a warmish version of it. Well, down I went – and there was McCann, fuming. But fuming! Said he’d be late for his ’plane. Bundled me into the taxi with him before I knew what was happening, and then started on me. And what do you think he said? He said: “Might have known you hadn’t a clue. All you could do was collect rumours and scandal”.’
‘Really!’ said Harriet with interest. ‘What scandal?’
‘Search me, dear girl. I never was one for scandal. “And you did yourself damned well,” he said. “Two hundred thousand lei for a month’s kip. What’s my agency going to say when they have to pay that for the balderdash you’ve been sending home?” Then he stopped the cab, put his foot on m’backside and shoved me out.’ Yakimov gazed from one to the other of his companions, his green eyes astounded by reality. ‘And I’ve had to find m’way back here on m’poor old feet. Can you imagine it?’
‘And he didn’t pay you for the work you did?’ Guy asked.
‘Not a nicker.’
‘I suppose he paid the hotel bill?’
‘Yes, but what has he said to the blokes there? That’s what I’m asking m’self. Very worried, I am. Perhaps, when I get back, I’ll find m’traps in the hall. It’s happened before. I’d have to move to the Minerva.’
‘But that’s a German hotel.’
‘Don’t mind, dear boy. Poor Yaki’s not particular.’
They had reached the Calea Victoriei and there Yakimov looked vaguely about him. Recognising his whereabouts, he smiled with great sweetness and said: ‘Ah, well, we mustn’t worry. We’re in a nice little backwater here. We should get through the war here very comfortably.’ O
n this cheerful note, he set out to face the staff of the Athénée Palace.
Turning in the opposite direction, Harriet walked with Guy as far as the University gate. There he gave her two thousand-lei notes. ‘For lunch,’ he said. ‘Take Sophie. Go somewhere nice,’ and he went off with what seemed to her the speed of guilt.
Sophie opened the door in her dressing gown. Her face shone sallow for lack of make-up: her hair was pinched over with metal setting-grips.
In a high, vivacious voice she cried: ‘Come in. I have been washing my hair. Most times I go to the Athénée Palace salon, but sometimes – for an economy, you understand? – I do it myself. You have not been before in my garçonnière. It is not big, but it is convenient.’
She talked them up the stairs. In the bed-sitting-room – an oblong modern room with an unmade bed and an overnight smell – she pushed some clothes off a chair and said: ‘Please to be seated. I am unpacking my laundry. See!’ She lifted a bundle in tissue paper and gazed into it. ‘So nice! My pretty lingerie. I love all such nice things.’
Looking round for a clock, Harriet noticed a photograph frame placed face downwards beside the bed. There was no clock, but Sophie wore a watch. Harriet asked the time. It was a quarter to twelve.
‘The appointment with the landlord is at twelve o’clock,’ said Harriet.
‘Ah!’ Sophie, who was now unpacking her laundry, seemed not to hear. She lifted her underwear, piece by piece, with a sort of sensual appreciation. Smoothing down little bows, straightening borders of lace, she opened drawers and slowly put each piece away. When this task was completed, she threw herself on the bed. ‘Last night,’ she said, ‘I was out with friends, so this morning I am lazy.’
‘Do you think we could go soon?’
‘Go? But where should we go?’
‘Guy said you would come with me to see the landlord.’
‘But what landlord?’
Harriet explained her visit and Sophie, lying propped on one elbow, looked troubled: ‘He said you would call to see me. A friendly call, you understand, but he did not speak of a landlord.’ Sophie looked at her fingernails, then added as one who understood Guy better than Harriet did: ‘He arranges so many things, he forgets to explain, you know.’
The Balkan Trilogy Page 13
