Guy gave her a pleading look as though she could, if she would, reveal a solution. And there was a solution. Pitying him at last, she said: ‘There’s a room of some sort on the roof: a second servant’s bedroom.’
‘That belongs to us?’
‘It belongs to the flat. We couldn’t use it without telling Despina. She keeps some of her things there.’
‘Darling!’ In his relief, his face glowed with delight in her. He sprang up and threw his arms round her shoulders. ‘What a wife! You’re wonderful!’
Which, she told herself, was all very well: ‘He can only stay one night. You must find somewhere else for him. I’m not sure we can trust Despina.’
‘Of course we can trust Despina.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘She’s a decent soul.’
‘Well, if you think it’s all right, you must go and wake her up. She knows where this room is. I don’t.’
Guy, about to go happily off to tell Sasha that all was well, paused, blankly surprised at being given the onerous task of waking Despina.
‘You wake her,’ he cajoled her, but she shook her head.
‘No, you must wake her.’
As he moved reluctantly towards the kitchen, she almost said: ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ but checked herself and for the first time in their married life stood firm.
4
Yakimov had played Pandarus in Guy’s production of
Troilus and Cressida
. The play over, his triumph forgotten, he was suffering from a sense of anticlimax and of grievance. Guy, who had cosseted him through it all, had now abandoned him. And what, he asked himself, had come of the hours spent at rehearsals? Nothing, nothing at all.
Walking in the Calea Victoriei, in the increasing heat of midday, his sad camel face a-run with sweat, he wore a panama hat, a suit of corded silk, a pink silk shirt and a tie that was once the colour of Parma violets. His clothes were very dirty. The hat was brim-broken and yellow with age. His jacket was tattered, brown beneath the armpits, and so shrunken that it held him as in a brace.
During the winter he had felt the ridges of frozen snow through the holes in his shoes: now he felt, just as painfully, the flagstones’ white candescence. Steadily edged out to the kerb by the vigour of those about him, he caught the hot draught of cars passing at his elbow. He was agitated by the clangour of trams, by the flash of windscreens, blaring of horns and shrieking of brakes – all at a time when he would ordinarily have been safe in the refuge of sleep.
He had been wakened that morning by the relentless ringing of the telephone. Though from the lie of the light he could guess it was no more than ten o’clock, apparently even Harriet was out. Damp and inert beneath a single sheet, he lay without energy to stir and waited for the ringing to stop. It did not stop. At last, tortured to full consciousness, he dragged himself up and found the call was for him.
The caller was his old friend Dobbie Dobson of the Legation.
‘Lovely to hear your voice,’ Yakimov said. He settled down in anticipation of a pleasurable talk about their days together in
Troilus
, but Dobson, like everyone else, had put the play behind him.
‘Look here, Yaki,’ he said, ‘about those transit visas …’
‘What transit visas, dear boy?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Dobson spoke with the edge of a good-natured man harassed beyond endurance. ‘Every British subject was ordered to keep in his passport valid transit visas against the possibility of sudden evacuation. The consul’s been checking up and he finds you haven’t obtained any.’
‘Surely, dear boy, that wasn’t a serious order? There’s no cause for alarm.’
‘An order is an order,’ said Dobson, ‘I’ve made excuses for you, but the fact is if you don’t get those visas today you’ll be sent to Egypt under open arrest.’
‘
Dear boy!
But I haven’t a bean.’
‘Charge them to me. I’ll deduct the cost when your next remittance arrives.’
Before he left the flat that morning, it had occurred to Yakimov to see if he could find anything useful in it. Guy was careless with money. Yakimov had more than once picked up and kept notes which his host had pulled out with his handkerchief. He had never before actually searched for money, but now, in his condition of grievance, he felt that Guy owed him anything he could find. In the Pringles’ bedroom he went through spare trousers and handbags, but came upon nothing. In the sitting-room he pulled out the drawers of sideboard and writing-desk and spent some time looking through the stubs of Guy’s old cheque-books which recorded payments made into London banks on behalf of local Jews. In view of the fact Drucker was awaiting trial on a technical charge of black-market dealing, he considered the possibility of blackmail. But the possibility was not great. Use of the black market
was so general that, even now, the Jews would laugh at him.
In the small central drawer of the writing-desk he came on a sealed envelope marked ‘Top Secret’. This immediately excited him. He was not the only one inclined to suspect that Guy’s occupation in Bucharest was not as innocent as it seemed. Affable, sympathetic, easy to know, Guy would, in Yakimov’s opinion, make an ideal agent.
The flap of the envelope, imperfectly sealed, opened as he touched it. Inside was a diagram of a section through – what? A pipe or a well. Having heard so much talk of sabotage in the English Bar, he guessed that it was an oil-well. A blockage in the pipe was marked ‘detonator’. Here was a simple exposition of how and where the amateur saboteur should place his gelignite.
This was a find! He resealed and replaced the empty envelope, but the plan he put into his pocket. He did not know what eventual use he might make of it, but he would have some fun showing it around the English Bar as proof of the dangerous duties being exacted from him by King and country. He felt a few moments of exhilaration. Then as he trudged off to visit the consulates the plan was forgotten, the exhilaration was no more.
The consulates, taking advantage of the times, were charging high prices. Yakimov, disgusted by the thought of money wasted on such things, obtained visas for Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey. That left only Yugoslavia, the country that nine months before had thrown him out and impounded his car for debt. He entered the consulate with aversion, handed over his passport and was – he’d expected nothing better – kept waiting half an hour.
When the clerk returned the passport, he made a movement as though drawing a shutter between them. ‘
Zabranjeno
,’ he said.
Yakimov had been refused a visa.
It had always been at the back of his mind that when he could borrow enough to remit the debt, he would reclaim his Hispano-Suiza. Now, he saw, they would prevent him doing so.
As he wandered down the Calea Victoriei, indignation grew in him like a nervous disturbance of the stomach. He began to brood on his car – the last gift of his dear old friend Dollie; the last souvenir – apart from his disintegrating wardrobe – of their wonderful life together. Suddenly, its loss became grief. He decided to see Dobson. But first he must console himself with a drink.
During rehearsals, to keep a hold on him, Guy had bought Yakimov drinks at the Doi Trandifiri, but Guy was a simple soul. He drank beer and
ţ
uic
ǎ
and saw no reason why Yakimov should not do the same. Yakimov had longed for the more dashing company of the English Bar. As soon as the play was over, he returned to the bar in expectation of honour and applause. What he found there bewildered him. It was not only that his entry was ignored, but it was ignored by strangers. The place was more crowded than he had ever known it. Even the air had changed, smelling not of cigarettes, but cigars.
As he pushed his way in, he had heard German spoken on all sides. Bless my soul, German in the English Bar! He stretched his neck, trying to see Galpin or Screwby, and it came to him that he was the only Englishman in the room.
Attempting to reach the counter, he found himself elbowed back with deliberate hostility. As he breathed at a large man ‘Steady, dear boy!’ the other, all chest and shoulders, threw him angrily aside with ‘
Verfluchter Lümmel
!’
Yakimov was unnerved. He lifted a hand, trying to attract the attention of Albu, who, because of his uncompromising remoteness of manner, was reputed to be the model of an English barman. Albu had no eyes for him.
Realising he was alone in enemy-occupied territory, Yakimov was about to take himself off when he noticed Prince Hadjimoscos at the farther end of the bar.
The Rumanian, who looked with his waxen face, his thin, fine black hair and black eyes, like a little mongoloid doll, was standing tiptoe in his soft kid shoes and lisping in German to a companion. Relieved and delighted to see a familiar face,
Yakimov ran forward and seized him by the arm. ‘Dear boy,’ he called out, ‘who
are
all these people?’
Hadjimoscos slowly turned his head, looking surprised at Yakimov’s intrusion. He coldly asked: ‘Is it not evident to you,
mon prince
, that I am occupied?’ He turned away, only to find his German companion had taken the opportunity to desert him. He gave Yakimov an angry glance.
To placate him, Yakimov attempted humour, saying with a nervous giggle: ‘So many Germans in the bar! They’ll soon be demanding a plebiscite.’
‘They have as much right here as you. More, in fact, for they have not betrayed us. Personally, I find them charming.’
‘Oh, so do I, dear boy,’ Yakimov assured him. ‘Had a lot of friends in Berlin in ’32,’ then changing to a more interesting topic: ‘Did you happen to see the play?’
‘The play? You mean that charity production at the National Theatre? I’m told you looked quite ludicrous.’
‘Forced into it, dear boy,’ Yakimov apologised, knowing himself despised for infringing the prescripts of the idle. ‘War on, you know. Had to do m’bit.’
Hadjimoscos turned down his lips. Without further comment, he moved away to find more profitable companionship. He attached himself to a German group and was invited to take a drink. Watching enviously, Yakimov wondered if, son of a Russian father and an Irish mother, he could hint that his sympathies were with the Reich. He put the thought from his mind. The British Legation had lost its power here, but not, alas, over him.
The English Bar was itself again. The English journalists had re-established themselves and the Germans, bored with the skirmish, were drifting back to the Minerva. The few that remained were losing their audacity.
Hadjimoscos was again willing to accept Yakimov’s company, but cautiously. He would not join him in an English group – that would have been too defined an attachment in a changing world – but if Yakimov had money he would stand with him in a no man’s land and help him to spend it.
Yakimov, though not resentful by nature, did occasionally feel a little sore at this behaviour. Practised scrounger though he was, he was not as practised as Hadjimoscos. When he had money, he spent it. Hadjimoscos, whether he had it or not, never spent it. With his softly insidious and clinging manner, his presence affected men like the presence of a woman. They expected nothing from him. By standing long enough, first on one foot then on the other, he remained so patiently, so insistently
there
, that those to whom he attached himself bought him drinks in order to be free to ignore him.
Yakimov, entering the bar that morning, saw Hadjimoscos with his friend Horvatz and Cici Palu, all holding empty glasses and watching out for someone to refill them.
He bought his own drink before approaching them. Seeing them eye the whisky in his hand, he began, in self-defence, to complain of the high cost of the visas he had been forced to buy. Hadjimoscos, smiling maliciously, slid forward a step and put a hand on Yakimov’s arm. ‘
Cher prince
,’ he said, ‘what does it matter what you spend your money on, so long as you spend it on yourself!’
Palu gave a snigger. Horvatz remained blank. Yakimov knew, had always known, they did not want his company. They did not even want each other. They stood in a group, bored by their own aimlessness, because no one else wanted them. To Yakimov there came the thought that he was one of them – he who had once been the centre of entertainment in a vivacious set. He attempted to be entertaining now: ‘Did you hear? When the French minister, poor old boy, was recalled to Vichy France, Princess Teodorescu said to him: “
Dire adieu, c’est mourir un peu
.”’
‘Is it likely that the Princess of all people would be so lacking in tact?’ Hadjimoscos turned his back, attempting to exclude Yakimov from the conversation as he said: ‘Things are coming to a pretty pass! What do I learn at the
cordonnier
this morning? Three weeks to wait and five thousand to pay for a pair of handmade shoes!’
‘At the
tailleur
,’ said Palu, ‘it is the same. The price of English stuff is a scandal. And now they declare meatless days. What, I ask, is a fellow to eat?’ He looked at Yakimov, for all the world as though it were the British and not the Germans who were plundering the country.
Yakimov attempted to join in. ‘A little fish,’ he meekly suggested, ‘a little game, in season. Myself, I never say no to a slice of turkey.’
Hadjimoscos cut him short with contempt: ‘Those are
entrées
only. How, without meat, can a man retain his virility?’
Discomfited, casting about in his mind for some way of gaining the attention he loved, Yakimov remembered the plan he had found that morning. He took it out. Sighing, he studied it. The conversation faltered. Aware of their interest, he lowered the paper so it was visible to all. ‘What will they want me to do next!’ he asked the world.
Hadjimoscos averted his glance. ‘I advise you,
mon prince
,’ he said, ‘if you have anything to hide, now is the time to hide it.’
Knowing he could do nothing to please that morning, Yakimov put the plan away and let his attention wander. He became aware that a nearby stranger had been attempting to intercept it. The stranger smiled. His shabby, tousled appearance did not give much cause for hope, but Yakimov, always amiable, went forward and held out his hand. ‘Dear boy,’ he said, ‘where have we met before?’