A Dead Man in Trieste (9 page)

Koskash was hesitating.

’Will you, yourself, be here this evening?’

’No, probably not. I may go to a lecture at the People’s University.’

’Ah, really?’

’Given by Mr Juice.’

’I have been to some of his lectures before. He is usually very good. Odd, but good. Different from the other lecturers, anyway. Yes, you should go. You will find it entertaining.’

Seymour was less sure about that but felt a certain degree of curiosity. He might well go.

He went back into the inner room. The heavy and mostly empty appointments book was on top of the desk. He began to go systematically through the pages. What he was looking for was any reference to the Casa Revoltella. There was one, for the day of the reception, and it was underlined. It was one of the few entries that Lomax had made for himself. The entries at the beginning of the book had been made, dutifully, by Koskash, but after a while he had given up, switching instead to the bits-of-paper prompting that Koskash had told Seymour about. The reception had evidently become important to Lomax for some reason: perhaps the reason that Maddalena had suggested, that something in connection with it had disrupted what appeared to be the even flow of his existence.

Some person. In his investigation so far Seymour was very short of individual names. He had been looking for them all the time. This seemed to be a chance of getting one. At least there
was
an individual here, if Maddalena was to be believed, and he saw no reason why she shouldn’t be.

But the name. That was what Maddalena had come looking for and what he, Seymour, was looking for now. He went through the pages without success and then asked Koskash, who couldn’t help him. If Lomax had made any appointment with whoever it was, that hadn’t been registered in Koskash’s system.

Had Lomax
mentioned
a name? Koskash couldn’t recall any of particular significance at that time. He showed Seymour his notes, which were, as Seymour had come to expect, detailed and meticulous. The only names were those of officials. Seymour asked about them. It was possible, wasn’t it, that an official might wish to go to the reception, either through vanity or in the hope of an informal way of doing business? But no, the officials Koskash mentioned would all have had more promising means of getting invited to the reception than going through Lomax.

Seymour realized he would have to go back to his starting point: Maddalena.

It suddenly struck him that he didn’t know where to look for her. He could go to the artists’ table, of course, but he wanted to talk to her away from all the others. He was still leaving open the possibility of an Italian dimension to Lomax’s sympathies. Where else could she be? How did she spend her days? She modelled, of course, and might be with some artist or other, but if she was, he wouldn’t have a hope of finding her. Almost on the off-chance, he went back to her apartment, where, slightly to his surprise, he found her.

She seemed pleased to see him; more than pleased, delighted. He felt a twinge of contrition. He really ought to have gone back to her before this, carried things on somehow from where they had been left off. But then, he reminded himself, he had resolved to keep his distance from her. What was all that, he said to himself sternly, about focusing on his work? Why was he here? But this
was
work, a voice within him said. ‘Oh, yes?’ said another voice, which Seymour firmly suppressed.

He said that he had wondered if she would be out modelling.

’If only,’ said Maddalena, with a sigh.

’Not much demand?’

’Not much money.’

He asked her how she spent her days and had a sudden pang at the thought that she might spend them like this. Here. Perhaps that was why she went down to the artists’ table. What was it that she had said when she was talking about Lomax? That a woman on her own could feel very alone in Trieste.

’In the library,’ said Maddalena.

’In the –?’

Maddalena looked embarrassed.

’Well, I do,’ she said defensively. ‘I go there most days. It’s a very good library.’

’What do you read?’

She looked self-conscious again.

’Everything,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to catch up.’

’Catch up?’

’I come from Puglia,’ she said. ‘If you knew Puglia, you’d know what I’m talking about. It’s one of the poorest parts of Italy. With everything that goes with that. There’s nothing there for anyone and least of all for a woman who – who doesn’t want to get caught in the trap. You know, five children before you’re twenty, old before your time, your husband loses interest in you. I had to get away. I wanted to get away. I wanted all the things I had missed, education, ideas, art, all the things that I thought other people had. Well, of course, they don’t, but I thought they had. So I came up north. But you can’t go to a college or a university if you’ve had an education like I had. As I found out. I bummed around for a while and drifted into modelling.

’What I do mostly is read. And listen. Not just to the artists, although they have helped a lot. They are always talking, about ideas and art, things that matter. I talk to students, too. There are a lot of them in Trieste. Usually they go out of town, to places like Bologna, but the cafés are always full of them. And sometimes in the evening I go to lectures myself, at the People’s University. It’s not really a university, not like theirs, it’s for people who can’t go to university, workers, women. People like me. But mostly I read.

’Sometimes there are things I don’t understand and then I go to the students and they explain them to me. They are very good and usually know more than they pretend. Sometimes they’re silly, of course. And sometimes they draw me in. That business with the statue, for instance. It wasn’t really an attempt at art. I just said that because I was annoyed with Marinetti. It was just a student prank. I dared them and they dared me.

’A lot of their jokes are like that. Anti-authority, or against the Hapsburg Government. Especially in Trieste, where there’s a lot of feeling about Trieste becoming part of Italy. Well, I don’t mind that. It seems so obviously right to me. Of course, there are other students too, who don’t feel like that. There are all sorts of students here, from all over the Empire. But that makes it more interesting.

’Lomax found them interesting, too. He liked to talk to them. He was like me. He had never been to university himself and envied them. “If I had my time again . . .” he would say, “I think I would have gone to university.” But he came from a poor family, did you know that? They couldn’t afford it. And, anyway, he said, they’d never heard of it. Wasn’t that funny? Just like me. And yet a consul! He used to like to ask the students questions, about their courses and what they were reading and so on.’

’About their political beliefs?’

’Well, you can’t get away from that in Trieste,’ said Maddalena drily. ‘That’s what they were talking about most of the time.’

’And what position did he take?’

’Oh, like an uncle. He would listen and laugh, but not nastily. Sympathetically, so that they would go on. But sympathetically only up to a point. “Now, now!” he would say sometimes. “You mustn’t blow the world up, or there’ll be nothing left for me to stand on.”’

‘Maddalena,’ said Seymour. ‘I’ve come for your help. You said you wanted to help me and I think you can. I have been trying to find, as I think you were trying to find the other day, names. The names of individuals. Or at least
an
individual. So far I have found nothing. I have a feel for his general sympathies, yes; but what about people? Who did he know, talk to? And especially I have been thinking about what you told me about that reception at the Casa Revoltella. I think that could be important and I’d like to know who the person was.’

Maddalena nodded.

‘I have been thinking about that, too. Over and over. But, I am sorry, I cannot think of any name. I don’t think he ever told me.’

‘Maddalena, the thought occurs to me – you said he talked to students, did he talk to some more than others? Are there any he might have talked to about this reception?’

‘He certainly talked about it at least once. I heard him. They had invited him to come to something or other and he said, no, he couldn’t. He had to go to this reception. He would very much have preferred to go with them, he said, but that kind of thing was unfortunately part of his job. “Go and drink?” they said. “Part of the job?” “Someone’s got to do it,” he said. They all laughed. “Maybe I’ll become a consul,” one of them said. “You’ve got to be born beautiful,” he said. He was like that. He could get on with people very well, fit himself into the way they talked and behaved. So, yes, he did mention it. But –’

‘Would you ask around among your student friends? You see, from what you say, I think it just possible that they might know the person who wanted Lomax to take him to the reception. It could even be a student.’

Maddalena looked doubtful.

‘Well, I don’t really think they’re the sort who would want to –’

‘That depends on what they wanted to go for. Suppose they wanted to go for the same reason as you went to the Piazza Giuseppina and messed up that statue? To play a prank? And suppose Lomax found out? That might have been the reason why he didn’t want to take them. And if he was a student he would have had to be taken. He wouldn’t have been able to get there any other way.’

‘Well, it is a thought,’ said Maddalena.

‘Just a thought, perhaps. But worth trying. If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I would be glad to,’ said Maddalena, pleased.

And then I would have an excuse for seeing you again, thought Seymour. But that thought, too, he suppressed.

He returned to the Consulate. Koskash was working away earnestly. What on earth did he find to work on? Seymour was not aware of much mail coming in. Paperwork to do with the ships, Seymour supposed.

Or the seamen.

He found an excuse, later, to send Koskash out of the office for a moment and, while he was away, glanced at the papers on his desk. They were, as he had suspected, seamen’s papers. There were two sets. He didn’t really have time to scrutinize them and wouldn’t really have known what to look for if he had. They seemed normal enough. Two ordinary British seamen.

But
British
seamen. He made up his mind to watch out for them when they came to collect the papers.

But then the thought struck him that perhaps he wouldn’t be here when they came for them. Suppose they came, as the other one had, late in the evening?

And then he realized. Koskash was staying on this evening, working late. He made up his mind not to go to the lecture after all.

At around eight he went out, telling Koskash that he was going for a meal. Instead, he walked round the block. The trilby hat fell in behind him. Seymour wasn’t having any of that. He could do without that this evening. It was easy, with his experience, to shake the man off.

He returned to the Consulate and took up a position in a doorway across the street.

It was getting dark but this evening was still heavy with heat. The breeze, which had been such a feature of earlier evenings, bringing to the streets even up here in the city the smell of sea mixed with the smell of flowers, was absent and there was nothing to stir the air. Around the Consulate the streets were deserted.

The moments went by. It was hot in the doorway. He felt himself sweating and put up his hand to wipe his sweat from running into his eyes.

He heard footsteps. Two men were coming up the street. They went to the side door of the Consulate and knocked quietly. The door was opened by Koskash and the two went in.

Seymour stepped out of his doorway and walked across the street towards the Consulate.

And then, suddenly, there was the piercing blast of a police whistle, very close. It was answered by another, and then another, converging on the door.

The door opened and two men rushed out. They didn’t try to run away, however, but stood there, smiling.

The street was suddenly full of policemen. Seymour pushed past them. The door of the Consulate was open and through it Seymour could see Koskash, sitting at his desk, his face buried in his hands.

Chapter Nine

Koskash was taken away by the police; and the next morning Seymour went to the police station to find out what had become of him. He went first to Kornbluth. Kornbluth looked uncomfortable and said: ‘It is nothing to do with me.’ After a moment he added: ‘You will have to see Schneider.’ And Seymour realized that this was one which involved the other sort of police. ‘There are two sorts of police in Trieste,’ Alfredo had said: the ordinary ones, the municipal police, and the special sort that you didn’t have in England.

’Yes, we are holding him,’ said Schneider.

’On what charges?’

’He has not been charged yet,’ said Schneider, ‘but they will include committing acts which are against the interests of the State. These are serious charges. And there are others.’

’May I see him?’

’Later.’

’I shall, of course, be sending a report to London.’

’And we shall, of course, be lodging a formal protest about the Consulate’s behaviour.’

This, thought Seymour, was looking increasingly like something the Foreign Office was going to have to sort out and not him. In fact, he would need to tread very delicately. If he didn’t watch out he would be drawn far beyond any of the roles he was supposed to be filling, whether of King’s Messenger or of policeman.

’What would be the nature of your protest?’ he asked.

’Allowing diplomatic premises to be used for improper purposes.’

’I am not sure it was allowed. Whatever Koskash was doing, he was doing on his own.’

’Of course you would say that.’

Seymour was silent: because, of course, if what Koskash had said was true, it
had
been allowed: by Lomax.

’I am just a Messenger,’ he said, ‘and it would not be proper for me to anticipate what my government’s response will be.’

’Quite so,’ said Schneider.

’I am merely making enquiries so that I can report more accurately what has happened.’

’Of course.’

’Actually, I am not quite sure what
did
happen. Perhaps you can inform me.’

’First,’ said Schneider, ‘there is something that
you
must explain: your own presence there.’

Seymour hesitated, then decided that nothing was to be lost by telling the truth: up to a point.

’I suspected that something might be occurring that was in need of explanation.’

Schneider nodded.

’We, too. We have been watching the Consulate for some time. There was a suspicion that Consulate staff had been assisting people of interest to us to leave the country illegally. Through the provision of false papers. I arranged for two of my men to present themselves to the Consulate –’

’One moment; not to the Consulate but to a person in the Consulate, who was acting without the Consul’s authority.’

’So you say. Yes. However –’

’And when they presented themselves . . .?’

’Papers were issued to them. On that basis I ordered Mr Koskash’s arrest.’

’What does he say?’

’Nothing yet. We questioned him last night and we shall continue the questioning this morning.’

’Are you in a position to tell me the identity of the people for whom the papers were being made out? In general terms, that is. Their nationality, for instance.’

’They were Serbs. Students.’

Seymour thought quickly. There was not much he could do about this. In fact, he had better stay out of it. It was definitely something for the Foreign Office to sort out. The only thing in this that concerned him was Lomax’s role in it; and, perhaps, the less said about that, the better.

’I am sure London will be as distressed by this incident as I am,’ he said smoothly, ‘and while I cannot anticipate what they will say, I am confident that they will express their regret that one of their employees, a local employee, of course, should have behaved in such a way.’

He felt slightly uncomfortable saying this. He quite liked Koskash and felt he was letting him down. But he could see no alternative. On this, Koskash was on his own. The most Seymour could do for him – and this was probably in the interests of Britain as well – was to play the thing down. ‘While, I am sure, they would not wish to condone the incident, I wonder if it should not be kept in proportion? After all, from what you say, these were only students –’

’Mr Seymour,’ said Schneider, ‘do you have the faintest idea what you are talking about?’

Seymour swallowed. Perhaps he was not doing as well at the diplomatic business as he had thought he was doing.

’I am, of course,’ he said hastily, ‘only a Messenger.’

’Yes. So you say. Well, Mr Seymour, here in Trieste students are not, perhaps, as they are in England. They are not schoolchildren. We are not talking about making faces at the teacher or throwing chalk. We are talking about throwing bombs. All across the Empire there have been incidents. And that is reality, Mr Seymour, not vague possibility.’

’But why –’

’Serbian, Mr Seymour.
Serbian
. They were Serbian students.’

’Yes, but –’

Schneider sighed.

’You really do not know, do you? Perhaps you really are just a Messenger. Or perhaps it is Trieste is such a small place to people in London, perhaps they think that it is so small that nothing important can happen there. Well, let me tell you, Mr Seymour, that if they think that, then they are mistaken. Because one thing is bound to another thing and great things are bound to small.’

He stopped and looked at Seymour questioningly.

’You know, at least, that two years ago we took Bosnia under our protection?’

’Of course,’ said Seymour, in injured tones, grateful to the newspaper seller for what he had learned from him. ‘Everyone knows that!’

’They had, of course, been under our protection for the previous thirty years, but that was by international mandate. It was time to tidy things up. So, as I say, we took them –’

’Over,’ said Seymour.

’They joined the Empire. Naturally there were people who were opposed. And not just people, countries. If you can call Serbia a country.’

’Serbia was against it?’

’Violently. In all senses. And especially the young. The students in the universities, the young officers in the army. Passionate without quite knowing what they were being passionate about. Now, of course, there are many students throughout the Empire, students of all nationalities: Hungarian, Slovakian, Montenegrin . . . We pride ourselves on that. And among them are Bosnian students, now part of the Empire, unwillingly, and Serbian students, always likely to cause trouble. So, well, they caused trouble. And, naturally, we have had to crack down on them.’

’I can see that,’ said Seymour, ‘but why crack down so heavily? Does not that, with the young, lead to more trouble? If you do it with too heavy a hand?’

’Too heavy a hand?’ said Schneider, astonished. ‘But this is serious, Mr Seymour! We are not talking about regulating football on the playing-fields of Eton. Although from what I hear of English playing-fields . . . No, Mr Seymour, we are talking bombs. Bombs!

’And we are not talking about bombs just in Trieste. Or even Vienna. We are talking about bombs right across Europe. Do you understand that, Mr Seymour? We are talking war. Because, you see, one thing is bound to another, and great things are bound to small. Let us say, for instance, that one day, in some small place, call it Trieste, some foolish student throws a bomb and kills someone important, a Governor, say, or a member of the Royal Family. And suppose we learn that a certain country is responsible. Call it Serbia. Then Austria-Hungary will not take that lying down. They will say to that country: you must do something about this. And if you don’t . . .

’And now the problems really start. For Russia says: leave Serbia alone, we will not have this. And Germany, perhaps, says: you keep out of it, we stand by our Hapsburg allies. Countries are bound by treaties. They are obliged to act if the treaty is invoked by some country to which they are allied. One thing is bound to another, great things are sometimes bound to small. A bomb thrown in Trieste could set off a chain of events which could lead to war. Yes, war, Mr Seymour. I see you doubt me. But I am telling the truth, believe me. One little thing could pull in another bigger thing and then another thing. You go down to your taverna at night and you sit drinking and you think the world is secure, safe. There is order and you take it for granted. But I think that peace in Europe is like a house of cards. One card falls and then all the others fall with it.

’So you see, Mr Seymour, this is not a matter of students playing games. They may be playing games, but I am not. I do not want that first card to fall here in Trieste. That first bomb to be thrown. And so . . . so I take students seriously. And especially those students of yours, Mr Seymour. Because I know it is not chalk that they have been getting ready to throw, but something else.’

Seymour walked away from the police station smarting, feeling that he had been given a history lesson which he didn’t need. Or perhaps he did need it. International politics hadn’t figured high on the curriculum of a policeman in the East End. Nor had Bosnia, Serbia and the rest of them – indeed, the whole Austro-Hungarian Empire – loomed large in what he had done at school. When Seymour had left school at fourteen, the teachers had not yet got round to Bosnia. Of course, he knew something about Central Europe from his work with immigrant families in the East End but there were gaps. Bucovina, for example, where was that? Hands up all those who could place Bucovina!

Not Seymour. He was beginning to regret his lack of knowledge of the international scene. Perhaps he had better get along to the library with Maddalena and do some reading.

But what a load of codswallop it was! All that talk about war! Not a chance, thought Seymour. The sort of rubbish that military-minded people, whether in the army or high up in the police, were always talking. And all that stuff about one thing being bound to another, great things to small! Suppose small things
were
small? Suppose the students
were
just making faces, throwing chalk? Overreacting as Schneider was doing would just make things worse, turn all the Maddalenas into real revolutionaries!

No, it was all codswallop. And probably all Koskash had been doing, out of the misguided goodness of his heart, was giving some naive youngsters a helping hand. It had been wrong of him but not very wrong and Lomax had probably been right to go along with it. From what Maddalena had said, it was the kind of thing that he, with all his evident sympathy for people and underdog causes, would do. Not exactly what he should be doing as Consul, of course, but . . .

All the same, Seymour was uneasy. What was it that Schneider had said at the end? That he
knew
that they were not just chalk throwers. Was that just talk? Or did he really know that? Because if that was indeed the case, then Koskash might have been doing rather more than giving some innocents a helping hand. And if Lomax had condoned it, then, perhaps, he, too, was in a lot deeper than he should have been.

The trouble was that if it was just a question of helping relatively innocent students to escape, Seymour could see no reason why that should have led to Lomax being killed; whereas if Lomax had been involved more deeply in the kind of thing that Schneider was hinting at then Seymour could see quite a few reasons why he might have been.

Yes, there they were again sitting at the table. Didn’t they ever do any work? Or were artists in Trieste al fresco too and just sat around drinking? A good life for some, thought Seymour.

Marinetti was handing round some sheets of paper. He gave one to Seymour. Seymour read:

Coffee
Sweet memories frappées
Marmalade of the Glorious Dead
Roast Mummies with Professors’ Livers
Archaeological Salad
Stew of the Past, with explosive peas in historical sauce
Fish from the Dead Sea
Lumps of blood in broth
Demolition Starters
Vermouth

’What the hell is this?’ he said.

’It is the menu for the celebratory dinner after my Futurist Evening,’ said Marinetti. ‘You, too, are of course invited.’

’Well, thank you. But . . .’

He looked at the menu doubtfully.

’It certainly whets the appetite,’ said Luigi; uncertainly, however.

’But why does it do so, in a manner of speaking, back to front? asked Lorenzo.

’Because my Evening will set out to reverse normality,’ said Marinetti.

’Oh, I see. Silly of me not to spot it.’

There was a little pause. Then Alfredo said:

’Does that mean that the Future is actually the Past?’

’No, it doesn’t,’ said Marinetti, annoyed. ‘It suggests that we enter the Future by embracing disorder.’

’Oh.’

Then Luigi said:

’But why, in that case, are you having the dinner
after
the Evening? Why not have it before?’

’Because,’ said Marinetti, glaring, ‘there are dozens of things I still have to do before the Evening can get off the ground. Otherwise there will be bloody chaos!’

Seymour stood there, holding a copy of the menu in his hand, nonplussed.

It was no surprise, when he got back to the Consulate, to find Mrs Koskash standing at the door. He let her in. She was dry-eyed and composed and sat down, apparently relaxed, in the chair he offered.

’Tell me what happened,’ she said.

When he had finished, she sat thinking.

’Did they go into the Consulate?’ she asked. ‘Was he actually inside when they arrested him?’

’They went in,’ said Seymour. ‘But then he came out. I think he was actually outside when he was formally arrested.’

Mrs Koskash sighed.

’The fool!’ she said. ‘If he had stayed inside they couldn’t have arrested him.’

‘I think he may have known that. He said, though, that he had done enough harm to the Consulate as it was.’

Mrs Koskash sighed again. She sat for a moment looking down at her feet.

‘I should not have persuaded him,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Seymour. ‘And you did persuade him, didn’t you? He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t talked him into it. He is not a Serb, after all. But you are, aren’t you? And I think you were the one who thought it up. You’re practical, aren’t you, and committed. You organize things, not just for the Serbs but for the local Socialists. And perhaps others as well.’