‘And Menelaus!’
‘Ah ha, Menelaus!’ A titter passed among the men, for Dobson, unable in his Greek dress of skirted corselet to emulate the effect created by Foxy Leverett and Fitzsimon, had managed to suggest that, even had his dress permitted, his part called for no such display. He conveyed, with rueful and apologetic smiles that appealed to the Rumanian sense of humour, his unenviable position.
When Nikko returned to Harriet with two glasses of whisky, he was congratulated on Bella’s performance. Her appearance had caused no small sensation.
One of the men said: ‘She looked like Venus herself.’ She had indeed, Harriet thought, looked like a Venus of a debased period; a great showy flower without scent.
The student who had played Paris, not very well, had been completely dwarfed by his impressive paramour as she swept to the centre of the stage, keeping her profile well in view. Yakimov, who had excelled in this scene, had carried the weight of Bella’s playfulness, glossing the exchange with the ebullience of wit.
Someone in the audience, having consulted his programme, had whispered in amazement: ‘Is it possible this lady is a Rumanian?’
‘Yes, yes,’ another whisper answered him and Nikko had been scarcely able to contain his pride.
Now, as he received congratulations, his face was so contracted with bliss that he seemed about to weep.
The congratulations were carried over to Harriet as those in their circle reflected on Guy’s playing of the not very rewarding part of Nestor. Someone praised him with the words: ‘You would have thought him truly ancient,’ while Nikko said in wonder: ‘But, Harry-ott, your husband knows how to act!’
Pressed for expert opinions on this performance and that, Harriet found she could not sort out her impressions. She had been too fearful of failure and now, grateful for success, she said only: ‘They were all good.’
There was general agreement.
‘A production of genius,’ Nikko concluded. ‘We are having, I may say, our money’s worth.’
In the second half, as Inchcape gave himself with the full force of his histrionic irony to his exchange with Achilles, the vice-consul sniggered in the row behind Harriet and said: ‘By Jove, Ulysses is just old Inchcape to the life.’
And there, Harriet thought, lay the strength of the production. Except for Yakimov and Guy, no one was called upon to act very much. Each player was playing himself. She had, she remembered, criticised this method of casting, yet, with the material in hand, what else would have been possible? And the audience accepted it: indeed seemed to find this heightened behaviour more impressive than acting. When the final curtain fell, the actors who received most applause were those who had been most themselves. For Yakimov there was an almost hysterical acclaim. The curtain rose and fell a dozen times, and there could be no end until Guy came forward and thanked everyone – the audience, the actors and, above all, the theatre staff, that had ‘co-operated so magnificently’. When he retired, the audience began to file out.
‘By Jove,’ said the vice-consul again, ‘never knew Shakespeare wrote such jolly stuff. That play had quite a story to it.’
On the wave of great good humour, laughing, calling to one another, the members of the audience made their way to the street. They must have looked to the passers-by like maniacs.
Abject faces stared into the lighted foyer. Someone spoke into the happy crowd that was emerging: ‘Paris has fallen.’
Those in front fell silent. As the news was passed back, the silence followed it. Before most people had reached the pavement, despondency had hold of them.
The vice-consul was now ahead of Harriet. His companion, a Jewess, turned to him and, making boxing movements with her little fist, she sadly asked: ‘Why is it you Allies cannot fight more good?’
Harriet said: ‘I’d forgotten Paris.’
‘I, too,’ said Nikko.
They had all forgotten Paris. Chastened, they emerged into the summer night and met reality, avoiding each others’ eyes, guilty because they had escaped the last calamitous hours.
28
Inchcape was giving a party in his flat for the English players and those of the students who had speaking parts. Harriet and Nikko, the first to arrive at his flat, were welcomed by Pauli, who, if he had heard the news, appeared unaffected by it.
The room, with its many gold-shaded lamps and displays of tuberoses, was hot and pungent. There was nothing to drink but ţuică and Rumanian vermouth. The food comprised some triangles of toast spread with caviare. Harriet asked Pauli to make her an Amalfi. As he was shaking up the mixture, he told the visitors that Domnul Professor Inchcape had given him a ticket for the matinée. Although he had not understood much of the play, he had thought it all wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. He began strutting around, taking off one actor after another – the professor, and Domnul Boyd, and Domnul Pringle. He gave the impression of being a big man like Guy or David, a general in a general’s cloak. He went on for a long time, entertaining Inchcape’s guests in Inchcape’s absence.
Harriet laughed and applauded, but her mind was on the fall of Paris. She had a sense of remoteness from the members of the cast when they arrived in jubilant mood, still caught up in the excitement that had carried them through the evening.
Nikko ran at once to his wife and caught both her hands. ‘Dragă,’ he cried, ‘but you were magnificent. Everyone was saying to me: “How beautiful, your Bella! How rightly named!”’
There was something febrile about the laughter with which Bella accepted this praise. She turned to Harriet, ready to accept more, and Harriet said: ‘You have heard the news?’
‘Oh, my dear, yes. Isn’t it terrible!’ She spoke on a high note and swept away, leaving Harriet with the certainty she had said the wrong thing.
Guy, in the midst of his company, had the vague benevolence that came of contentment and physical exhaustion. When Harriet went to him, she slid her arms round him and squeezed his waist in love and thankfulness that the play was over and his companionship would be restored to her.
She said: ‘The show was a tremendous success. The audience forgot all about France.’
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ he agreed, his modesty that of a man well satisfied with his achievement. He went on to criticise the production. It had, he thought, been full of minor faults, but one must learn from experience. ‘When I do another …’ he began.
‘Oh, surely not another?’
Bewildered by her demur, he said: ‘But I thought you enjoyed it,’ and turned aside in search of more encouraging praise. He found it at once. It was being given on all sides. Harriet did her best to join in, but she was outside their union that resulted from weeks of contiguity – besides, she was in the real world, they were not. She could not emulate their high spirits.
She looked around for Nikko, but he was in attendance on his wife, growing drunk on the overflow of congratulations. She retreated to the terrace doorway and stood there, half in the room, half out, watching the clamour within.
Yakimov was wandering round, his face vacant and happy, holding out his glass to be refilled, receiving congratulations with ‘Dear girl, how kind,’ ‘Dear boy, what nice things you say!’ but not bestowing them. He looked a little anaesthetised by his success; and so, for that matter, did the others. They were like travellers unwillingly returned from brilliant realms, not yet adjusted to their return.
The room was dividing into two groups, one centred upon Sophie, the other upon Bella. Bella had seated herself on an armchair, with Nikko on one of the arms. She plucked at Yakimov and he let himself be pulled down to her other side. Having organised the students into a semi-circle at her feet, she appeared to be holding court again, but it was really Yakimov who was the heart and centre of attention. The students gazed at him, waiting for him to speak, and when Dubedat, chewing glumly at the caviare, asked disgustedly: ‘What’s this stuff?’ and Yakimov replied: ‘Fish jam, dear boy,’ they rolled about in their delight. Encouraged, he beg
an to rouse himself and talk. Harriet could not hear what he was saying, but she saw Bella break in on the acclaim by slapping him and saying with mock severity: ‘Behave yourself.’
Sophie, who had changed into a black velvet evening dress but was still wearing stage make-up, was attended by all the men from the Legation and, Harriet noted rather jealously, Clarence.
Guy, David and Inchcape stood together between these groups. When Inchcape noticed Harriet alone, he crossed to her and said: ‘Let us go out to the terrace.’
Outside, a breeze came cool and moist from the trees, and there was a scent of geraniums. The park was still in mourning, a cloudy darkness starred at the heart with the lights of the lake restaurant.
When they reached the rail and looked over it, Harriet realised that the path below was a-rustle with people walking in silence in the darkness. She began to speak of them, but Inchcape showed no inclination to listen.
‘The situation’s serious, of course,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t much to worry about. The Germans are too busy to bother us. I think we’re lucky to be here,’ and before Harriet could contest this optimism, he went on to ask her opinion of each performance in the play.
When Yakimov, Sophie, Guy, David, Dimancescu had been given their due, Inchcape remained expectant.
‘And Dubedat was good,’ said Harriet.
‘Remarkable!’ Inchcape agreed. ‘He certainly knows how to exploit his natural unpleasantness.’
Inchcape still waited, and Harriet, suddenly realising what was amiss, said: ‘And your Ulysses, of course, was tremendous – that slightly sour manner edged with wit: the tolerance of experience. People were very impressed.’
‘Were they, now!’ Inchcape smiled down at his small, neat feet. ‘Of course, I hadn’t much time for rehearsals.’
Pauli came out on the terrace, eagerly summoning his master. Sir Montagu had arrived. Inchcape snorted and gave Harriet a wry smile that could not hide his satisfaction: ‘So the old charmer’s turned up after all!’
He hurried inside and Harriet followed him. Sir Montagu was standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his stick. His face, dark, handsome and witty, with thick folds of skin on either side of a heavy mouth, was like the face of some distinguished old actor. He was smiling round at the girls.
Fitzsimon, on the sofa, holding Sophie in a casual clinch that she tried to make look like an embrace, suddenly saw his chief and sprang to his feet. Sophie slid to the ground. She looked furious until she saw who was the cause of her fall, then she began to rub her buttocks with rueful humour.
‘’Evening, sir,’ said Fitzsimon. ‘Good of you to patronise the show, sir.’
‘I must say, I enjoyed myself.’ Sir Montagu looked at Sophie then smiled at Fitzsimon. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Nice, plump little partridges. Very fond of ’em m’self. Sorry to be late. I had to offer our condolences to the French.’
‘And how were the French, sir?’ Dobson asked.
‘Apologetic. The Rumanians have sent us their condolences. They think the war’s over. I told them it’s only just begun. No more demmed allies round our necks. Now the real fighting can begin.’
During the laughter and applause that followed, Inchcape approached the Minister, who held out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Inchcape. Fine show. Clever fellows you’ve got on your staff; very clever fellows! And I must say’ – he gave a long look first at Fitzsimon, then at Foxy Leverett – ‘I admired the mixed grill put up by the Legation.’
‘All my own, sir,’ said Fitzsimon with a smirk.
‘Indeed!’ Sir Montagu smiled in bland disbelief. ‘Very enviable, if I may say so.’
Inchcape had gone to a corner cupboard. After some clinking of hidden bottles, he came back with half a tumblerful of whisky, which Sir Montagu, watched respectfully by the whole room, drained in two gulps. After that he excused himself, nodded his good-nights and limped out.
‘See you to your car, sir.’ Dobson followed at his heels.
‘Oh,’ screamed Sophie while the Minister was still within earshot, ‘what a sweetie-pie!’
Now, with his chief safely come and gone, Fitzsimon became animated. He went to the pianoforte and started to thump out the tune of the ‘Lambeth Walk’.
Guy and David were standing playing chess on the piano-top with some valuable ivory chess-men while Inchcape hovered about them, apparently afraid something might get broken.
Clarence, his expression gentle and bemused, saw Harriet and came over to her. He was, she realised, rather drunk. He put a hand to her waist and led her out to the terrace away from the growing uproar of the room.
The students were on their feet now and dancing while Dubedat, loudly and tunelessly, bawled a Münich version of the ‘Lambeth Walk’.
‘Adolf we say, that’s easy.
Do as you darn well please-ee.
Why don’t you make your way there,
Go there, stay there?
When the bombs begin to fall,
Behind our blast-proof, gas-proof wall,
You’ll find us all,
Having a peace-time talk.
If you walk down Downing Street,
Where the Big Four always meet,
You’ll find us all,
Having a peace-time talk.’
Peering down over the rail at the end of the terrace, Harriet said: ‘Do you realise there are people still walking in the park? They don’t know what’s going to happen now. They’re afraid to go home.’
Clarence looked down on the moving darkness and said: ‘This is a bad time to be alone,’ adding, after a pause: ‘I need someone. I need you. You could save me.’
She did not feel like discussing Clarence’s personal problems just then. She said: ‘What do you think will happen to us? I wish we had diplomatic protection like the Legation people.’
Clarence said: ‘According to my contract, the Council’s bound to get me back to England somehow or other.’
‘You’re fortunate,’ she said.
‘You could come with me.’
The din from the room was growing. The ferment of the party, that had been precariously balanced, tilting for moments over the verge of depression, had now righted itself. A new abandon had set in. Some of the students were stamping out a horă while others were clapping in time and shouting to encourage them. Fitzsimon was still at the pianoforte attempting to produce horă music while Sophie, beside him, sang shrill and sharp in imitation of Florica.
Harriet said: ‘Let’s go and watch.’ She tried to move, but Clarence caught her elbow, determined to retain her attention. He kept repeating: ‘You could save me.’
She laughed impatiently: ‘Save yourself, Clarence. You said that Guy is a fool. There may be ways in which that sort of fool is superior to you. You show your wisdom by believing in nothing. The truth is, you have nothing to offer but a wilderness.’
Clarence stared at her with sombre satisfaction. ‘You may be right. I’ve said that Guy was a sort of saint. The world has not been able to tempt him. He may be something – but I’ll never be able to change now.’
‘You’re like Yakimov,’ said Harriet. ‘You belong to the past.’
He shrugged. ‘What does it matter? We’re all down the drain, anyway. Where are we going if we lose England?’
‘Home. And we won’t lose England.’
‘We won’t get home. Here we are, stuck on the wrong side of Europe. Pretty soon the cash’ll run out. We’ll be paupers. No one will start a relief fund for us. We’ll …’
As Clarence’s voice dropped with despondency, the noise from the room was such that Harriet could scarcely hear what he was saying. Suddenly both Clarence and the music were interrupted by a Rumanian voice that screamed above everything else with a rage that was near hysteria: ‘Linişte! Linişte!’
Startled, Clarence released Harriet. As she escaped, she heard him complaining behind her: ‘I think you’ve treated me pretty badly.’
When she reached the room,
she saw a little ball of a woman, wearing a dressing-gown, her hair in curlers, who had entered and was storming at Inchcape’s astonished guests:
‘What is it you make here, you English? You have lost the war, you have lost your Empire, you have lost all – yet, like a first-class Power, you keep the house awake!’
For a moment the English were stunned by this attack, then they surged forward calling out: ‘We’ve lost nothing yet.’ ‘And we’re not going to lose.’ ‘We shall win the war, you wait and see.’
Bella’s voice, indignant but still lady-like, rose from the back of the room. ‘The English have never lost a battle,’ she cried.
David amended this with an amused reasonableness: ‘That’s not quite true. We lose battles, but we do not lose wars.’
This authoritative statement was taken up by the others. ‘We never lose wars,’ they shouted, ‘we never lose wars.’
The woman, unnerved, took a step backwards, then retreated rapidly, as Rumanians tended to retreat before assault. When she reached the hall door, she bolted through it and Pauli, laughing, slammed it after her.
‘Rule Britannia,’ commanded Fitzsimon as he re-seated himself at the pianoforte.
There were no more interruptions. The party went on until daybreak. By that time the park was deserted and silence had come down over Inchcape’s room. A number of guests had left. The rest, encouraged by Inchcape, prepared to follow them. Yakimov had slipped off his arm-chair and was lying unconscious on the floor. Inchcape agreed to let him stay there until he waked, so the Pringles left with David.
As they reached the street, the dawn was whitening the roofs. Wide-eyed and wakeful from lack of sleep, Harriet suggested they stroll up to the German Bureau and see what had been done to the map of France. When they reached the window, they saw the dot of Paris hidden by a swastika that squatted like a spider, black on the heart of the country.
The Balkan Trilogy Page 33
