The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Well, now,’ Inchcape said pleasantly, ‘plans for our future delectation. What about this week-end? I’m afraid I’m off to Sinai: I booked my room weeks ago. I have to have a day off before the weather breaks. But I’m sure our young friends here …!’ He smiled invitingly on Guy, Harriet and Clarence. ‘What are you all up to?’

  Guy responded as was expected of him. ‘We are going to Predeal,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Professor Pinkrose would care to come with us …’ He glanced at Harriet for her co-operation.

  She said firmly: ‘I am quite sure Professor Pinkrose would rather go to Sinai with Professor Inchcape.’

  Frowning and stirring his foot on the carpet, Inchcape said: ‘Why not? Why not?’

  Clarence, lolling so low in his chair that his buttocks were over the edge, drawled: ‘I’m going away, too.’

  Everyone looked at him. ‘Right away,’ he said. ‘You hear that, Inch, you old ostrich? I’m going right away, away from your bloody organisation. Away from what you call your sphere of influence. To warmer, more colourful climes. And you can’t do a thing about it!’

  Inchcape paused, realising he was being told something. He said: ‘What did you say?’ Clarence repeated most of what he had said.

  Inchcape exploded: ‘You’re leaving us? At a time like this! And without warning!’

  Clarence shuffled lower, holding his glass on a level with his nose. ‘Not without warning,’ he said. ‘I told you weeks ago that I was sick of hanging around here doing nothing. I only stayed to please you. You have to have your little court. You must keep up the pretence that you’ve a position and a staff. But I’ve had enough. I’ve wired Cairo. I’m off as soon as I get my orders.’

  Inchcape, who had been staring severely at Clarence, now swung round and explained to Pinkrose: ‘Lawson was seconded to us by the British Council. If he is determined to go, we can’t do anything about it. But it’s a serious loss. One cannot get replacement these days.’

  Pinkrose nodded his sympathy and also stared severely at Clarence who was saying: ‘I’m no loss. Now if you were to go, Inchi-boy, it would be different. British prestige would never stand the shock.’

  Ignoring this, Inchcape went on talking to Pinkrose: ‘My feeling is, that whatever the danger, a man should not desert his post.’

  Clarence gave a laugh. ‘You’re in no danger. And your post is just a joke.’

  At this, Inchcape swung round in a rage. ‘At least, I’m sticking to it. As for danger, I’d remind you that I attended Calinescu’s funeral.’

  ‘The whole of Bucharest attended Calinescu’s funeral.’

  Pinkrose, upright, alert, his cheeks aglow, glanced keenly from one to other of the contestants. For the first time since his arrival, he looked as though he were enjoying himself.

  Guy went over to the pianoforte on which Inchcape’s Chinese chess-set was arranged. Standing there, moving the pieces about, he appeared preoccupied but his face was sad and creased like the face of a Basanji dog, and as Clarence roused himself to press advantage, he said: ‘That’s enough, Clarence.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ Clarence stretched his arm and caught at Guy’s hand. While Pinkrose goggled at this conduct Clarence said: ‘You’re always right. You’re the only one of us who can justify his existence here. The summer school may not be much, but at least it’s a challenge …’

  Guy drew his hand away. ‘The summer school was closed down last week.’

  Collapsing back into his chair, Clarence sighed deeply. ‘What the hell does it matter, anyway?’ he mumbled.

  The door opened and Pauli entered bearing two large dishes, one of rice and the other of some sort of stew. He filled plates and handed them round with lavish smiles. A local wine was served.

  As they were eating, David remarked that he, too, would be away next week-end. He was going to the Delta.

  ‘Ha, the Delta!’ said Clarence with a malign knowingness. ‘He says he’s going to the Delta.’

  Pinkrose looked at Clarence in bewilderment. No one spoke until the meal ended and Inchcape rose to indicate the party was over. The gesture was not necessary. His guests were already preparing to go.

  21

  Harriet next evening was a discomfited hostess. The bones of Pinkrose’s egotism remained visible despite his veil of sociability. She felt he intended they should remain visible. They represented protest. He was a guest, but an unwilling guest. He was making the barest of concessions to good manners.

  That had been one of the mornings in which there was nothing in the market. ‘Nothing but cabbage,’ Despina said.

  Harriet had gone to Dragomir’s where there was food for those who could pay for it. The favoured customers there were no longer Rumanian males but German females: the wives of the attachés employed in vast numbers at the two big German diplomatic establishments. Strongly built and determined, living on so favourable a rate of exchange that they went shopping with bundles of thousand-lei notes in their hands, these women were formidable rivals whom Harriet would face only when desperate. She obtained two scrawny little chickens. She then tried to find a bottle of sherry, but sherry had disappeared from the shops. She ended up with an imitation madeira.

  When offered this, Pinkrose eyed the bottle for some moments, one brow raised, before he said: ‘Perhaps I will try a half-glass.’ He sipped at it and finding it better than he had expected, expressed satisfaction by moving his bottom about on his seat. He allowed his glass to be refilled and said: ‘I cannot think why Professor Inchcape has put me into that hotel.’

  Harriet was surprised. ‘The Athénée Palace used to be practically an English hotel,’ she said. ‘We see it as a refuge, and the English journalists who live there almost never leave it.’

  ‘It’s teeming with Germans,’ Pinkrose complained.

  ‘The other hotel, the Minerva, is much worse. It’s full of German diplomats. The officers of the Military Mission are only at the Athénée Palace because the Minerva had no room for them.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Having made this attempt at conversation, Pinkrose retired into silence but his eyes were taking in every detail of his surroundings. Seeing them turn from the shabby upholstery to the shabby rugs, Harriet said: ‘We took this flat furnished. Things have received a lot of wear from different tenants.’

  As she spoke, he dropped his glance and his cheeks grew pink. Startled out of ill-humour, he said, pleasantly enough: ‘I take it the books are yours?’

  She explained that the books, mostly second-hand, had been collected by Guy and brought to Rumania in sacks. He nodded his interest. Although he did not look at Harriet, he kept his attention pointedly in her direction and when Guy broke in on the talk, he looked aside in a discouraging way.

  Guy had several volumes of poems by poets he had known when a student. He began taking these down to show Pinkrose signatures and inscriptions, but Pinkrose was not impressed. ‘These young men have a lot to learn,’ he said.

  Guy leapt at once to the defence of the poets of his generation and while he talked, he refilled Pinkrose’s glass. Too preoccupied and short-sighted to see when it was full, he went on pouring until the madeira ran from the table and dripped on to Pinkrose who tutted in exasperation. Full of apologies, Guy began to rub Pinkrose’s trousers and Pinkrose, tutting again, moved his legs away.

  Harriet called in Despina who, liking nothing better than to get into the room when visitors were present, spent so long mopping up round Pinkrose’s feet that he said on a high note of irritation: ‘If we do not sup soon, we shall be late for the concert.’

  Supper, which he ate resignedly, was a hurried meal.

  As they entered the main door of the Opera House, the Pringles were surprised by the opulence of the persons entering with them. Everyone was in evening dress, the men wearing orders, the women décolleté and lavishly bejewelled. Harriet began to feel something was wrong. This was not a usual Rumanian audience. The people were too large, too important-looking and they were all talking Ge
rman. The vestibule was banked with flowers.

  Pinkrose let out his breath in appreciation of so much splendour. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘we see nothing like this at home.’

  Harriet noticed that everyone who glanced once at the English party, glanced a second time in apparent disbelief. She said to Guy: ‘Do you think we’re improperly dressed?’ He ridiculed the idea and it did seem that it was they themselves, not their clothing, that gave rise to astonishment.

  While they made their way to their seats, there were whisperings and a turning of heads, brought to a stop at last by the entry of the orchestra. When the musicians reached their places, they remained standing and the leader looked at the main box which jutted out at stage level. The audience, losing interest in the Pringles, also watched the box.

  Harriet said to Pinkrose: ‘I think the King is coming.’ Pinkrose gave a gratified shuffle in his seat.

  The door opened at the back of the box and a glimmer of shirt-front could be seen. The audience began to applaud. There entered a train of people comporting themselves with the studied graciousness of royalty, led by a large man who came to the rail and stood there. The Pringles recognised the heavy, sombre, unmistakable figure of Dr Fabricius. The applause became clamorous. A woman in cloth of gold, his wife perhaps, made queenly movements with one hand. Fabricius bowed.

  ‘Surely that’s not the young King?’ said Pinkrose.

  Guy told him it was the German minister. Pinkrose’s mouth fell open in disappointment but he nodded, prepared now to accept anything.

  While the Legation party was entering, the box opposite had been filled by officers of the Military Mission who were escorting several resplendent women. Harriet, unable to keep from smiling, whispered to Pinkrose: ‘There are some of the princesses you hoped to meet.’

  The conductor raised his baton. The audience rose. Expecting the Rumanian national anthem, the Pringles and Pinkrose did the same. Some moments passed before the Pringles realised they were standing for Deutschland über Alles. When he did so, Guy plumped back into his seat and Harriet, more slowly, followed. Pinkrose, looking embarrassed by their behaviour, remained at attention. The anthem finished, there was a pause: then came the Horst Wessel.

  Perplexed, Guy began, for the first time, to examine his programme. He looked across at Harriet and hissed: ‘Gieseking.’

  She realised what had happened. Guy, eager and short-sighted, had bought the tickets without consulting the boards outside the theatre. This was a German propaganda concert.

  When Pinkrose sat down, Harriet began to explain the mistake, but he had guessed it for himself and silenced her with a movement. ‘As we are here,’ he said, ‘let us enjoy the music.’

  The pianist had taken his seat and Beethoven’s Fifth Pianoforte Concerto began.

  Harriet, thankful for Pinkrose’s attitude, felt as he did, but Guy was looking wretchedly unhappy. He sat through the first movement with folded arms and sunken chin, and as soon as it ended, he stood up.

  Pinkrose stared at him in acute irritation. He whispered: ‘It’s no good. I’m going.’

  Harriet, who had been entranced by the performance, said: ‘Do stay,’ but he pushed past her. She felt she must go with him and as she rose, Pinkrose said in alarm: ‘I don’t want to be left here alone.’

  The pianist sat motionless, waiting for the interruption to end. As much amused as annoyed, the audience watched while the three English interlopers got out as quickly as they could.

  In the vestibule, Guy, his face damp with sweat, apologised for having led them into the predicament and for having led them out of it. He explained: ‘I couldn’t stand it. I kept thinking of the concentration camps.’

  Too angry to speak, Pinkrose turned and strutted out of the Opera House. The Pringles went after him but he managed to keep just ahead of them all the way back to the hotel.

  As he was halted by the revolving door, Guy tried to apologise again but Pinkrose held up his hand. He had suffered enough. He wanted to hear no more.

  PART FOUR

  The Raid

  22

  The train rising into the mountains carried, trapped within it, the heavy air of the city. During the week the heat had renewed itself. Bucharest was suffering the last dragging days of summer.

  At Ploesti, where there was a long stop, life was at a standstill. Syrupy sunlight poured over the denuded earth and gleamed on the metal of refineries and storage bins. Oil-trains stood in the sidings, each tank bearing the name of its destination: Frankfurt, Stuttgart, Dresden, München, Hamburg, Berlin.

  Inside the carriage where the Pringles sat there was no sound but an occasional grunt and the buzz of captive flies. The dark-blue plush smelt of carbon and was sticky to the touch. Granules of carbon lay among the dust on the window ledges. The other occupants of the carriage were army officers, all sprawling lax and sleepy with boredom, on their way to the frontier to guard a country that had lost almost everything it possessed.

  Guy, with a rucksack of books between his knees, sat in full sunlight, pushing up his glasses as they slipped down the sweat on his nose. He was planning a course of studies.

  The English journalists who had flown in to cover the abdication were still in Bucharest, detained by one outrage after another. In all, eight oil engineers had been kidnapped by the Iron Guardists. One of them had been found dead (‘of a heart attack’, said the newspapers) in a Ploesti back street. The rest survived, the worse for ill-treatment.

  That morning the old minister who had thought it better to be united under the Russians had also been picked up dead in the Snagov woods, his hair and beard torn out and stuffed into his mouth. He had lately become a fanatical Guardist, but that had not saved him.

  Galpin never left the Athénée Palace. With the aspect of a prophet who sees his worst predictions fulfilled, he said to anyone who entered the bar: ‘It’s simply a case of “Whose turn next?”’

  They were all, it seemed to Harriet, awaiting a final collapse that might extinguish them. All, that was, except Guy. With the new term approaching, he was absorbed in preparation for it. He managed to be as busy as he had ever been, while Harriet spent more and more time with Sasha. Like people in a waiting-room, they sat on the balcony exchanging nonsense rhymes, playing paper games, telling ridiculous jokes, and giggling together as helplessly as children. There was no time to put one’s mind to more serious pursuits. She knew they were on the verge of confusion, but Sasha appeared to believe their life could go on, uneventful and carefree, for ever.

  She had been longing to get away from the capital, but now their week-end was come her apprehensions were heightened. Anything might happen while they were away. And what of Sasha, left in Despina’s care? It had been during their last trip to Predeal that the kitten had fallen to its death. Despina, sympathising with her fears, had promised to open the door to no one. Sasha, however, had been no more concerned by her departure than the kitten had been.

  He said: ‘We have a villa at Sinai,’ speaking as though it stood there empty, awaiting the family’s return. ‘I know Predeal. Sarah went to school there. Hannah would not go – she would not leave my father.’

  Harriet remembered the little girl. ‘I could see she adored your father,’ she said.

  Sasha nodded. ‘She cried all night when he married again.’

  ‘Did you mind?’

  ‘We all minded, but Hannah most. We did not want another mother.’

  ‘You loved him very much, didn’t you?’

  ‘We all loved him.’ Sasha still identified his feeling with those of his family. He did not acknowledge the separation. He added: ‘She wanted to take him from us. She was beastly. Wicked.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘When I was a child I used to think my aunt was a wicked stepmother, but now I realise she was just rather stupid. She said anything that came into her head. She probably forgot it the next moment and thought I did, too.’

  After a long delay, the train moved out of Ploesti into fo
othills that were straddled by the old wooden derricks of pioneering days. Beyond this area were alpine meadows, but soon the rocks broke through and the landscape changed into the grey shale and pines of the lower Transylvanian Alps.

  When they left the stale and stifling carriage, the Pringles were startled by the glassy outside air. Scentless in its purity, it was as cold as ether on the skin. They wanted to start walking at once, but first they had to report their arrival to the police. The police officer, unshaven and grimy, reeking of garlic, pushed aside a collection of dirty coffee-cups and stamped their permits with extreme slowness. Free to stay in Predeal for no longer than a week, they carried their luggage through the long main street to the hotel.

  The village, with its grey highland look, was in shadow, but the peaks above were still looped in the reddish light of the evening sun. Minute glaciers, like veins of marble, made their way down the grey rock-surfaces. Snow lay already on the upper ledges. At this height the autumn was fairly advanced. Patches of beech were golden-tawny, thrown like lion-skins among the black fur of the pines.

  Predeal was both a winter and a summer resort, so out of date that the village hall announced an English film.

  Harriet was slightly unnerved by the extraordinary quiet of the place. She felt they had been mad to leave the capital at such a time. If there were an invasion, they would receive no warning here. But Guy stretched his arms, throwing off the year’s worries in a moment. As he breathed the light and tonic air, he said: ‘This is like flying out of a fog.’

  Their bedroom was small and bare with a stove that was lit at evening and fed with pine-logs. They were met by a scent of wood-smoke, delicate and sweet, that comforted Harriet. She began to look forward to her holiday. As soon as they had dropped their bags they went out to walk in the blue, chill air. The sky changed to turquoise. The shops lit up. The village street hung on the mountainside like a chain of light. They found the village bright enough during the day, but a wintry gloom came down after the shops shut. There was no entertainment but the cinema where the film broke down a dozen times during a showing, each break being numbered on the screen and described as an ‘interval’. In their little ski-ing hotel there was nothing to do. Guy set out his books of verse and novels by Conrad, preparing to spend the holiday in work.