‘She’s a beaut,’ said Foxy.
Even during the days of triumph in
Troilus
, Yakimov had not received much attention from Foxy, who accorded the same offhand goodwill to everyone. Now, acknowledging a compeer in the owner of a Hispano-Suiza, he became voluble: ‘Went like a bird. The worst road in Europe, but she did a steady sixty. If I hadn’t got the Dion-Bouton, I’d make you an offer.’
‘Wouldn’t sell her for a king’s ransom, dear boy,’ Yakimov said, adding with a hint of hauteur: ‘In this part of the world
I’d never get what she’s worth. The chassis alone cost two and a half thou, sterling. Body by Fernandez. Wonderful work. Had one before this. Lovely job. Body built all of tulip wood. You should have seen it. Had m’man then, of course. He kept it like a piece of Chippendale.’
Yakimov talked for some time, too elated to feel the sweltering sunlight. Foxy, his hair and moustache the colour of marigolds, his eyes as blue as the eyes of a china doll, turned peony-pink under the heat. When Yakimov paused he cut short his reminiscences by saying: ‘I put two hundred litres in the tank at Predea. There’s plenty left.’
‘I’m in your debt, dear boy.’ Yakimov became more subdued. ‘Don’t know what I owe, but it’ll all be settled when m’remittance shows up.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Foxy.
His nonchalance prompted Yakimov to try his luck: ‘Like to get her cleaned, dear boy. Wonder if you could spare a thou?’
Foxy’s moustache twitched, but, trapped and making the best of it, he pulled out some notes and handed one over.
‘
Dear boy!
’ Yakimov took it gratefully. ‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘if you’d get me a C.D. plate, there’s no end to the stuff we could run in and out. And not only currency, mind you. There’s a demand here for rhino horn – aphrodisiac, y’know. You can get it in Turkey. And hashish …’
With a guffaw of derisive laughter, Foxy turned on his heel and shot back into the chancellery.
Yakimov climbed into the car and started it up – the Hispano was an extravagance: despite its size and power it was designed to seat only two persons – and as he gazed along the six-foot bonnet, he saw his status restored and his old glory returned to him. He had not driven for eleven months. He took himself to the Chaussée for a trial run. Discomposed at first by the delirium howl of passing cars, he steadily regained his old confidence and felt the impulse to outstrip them. He rounded the fountain at the extreme end of the Chaussée, then, returning, pressed down on the accelerator and saw with satisfaction that he was touching ninety.
Unperturbed by the klaxons that bayed about him like a hungry pack, he swung into the square, circled round it and stopped outside the Pringles’ block. Having had no tea, he was, he realised, a trifle peckish.
After tea he dressed in such items of decent clothing as remained to him. In the Athénée Palace that morning, he had noticed the main rooms were being decorated for a reception.
The Rumanians these days were in a buoyant mood, for the Hungarian ministers had left Munich apparently having achieved nothing. When this was reported, Hadjimoscos soberly told his circle: ‘The Führer said to them: “Do not forget, I am Rumania’s father, too.” Such a sentiment is very gratifying, don’t you think? Baron Steinfeld tells me it is thanks to the fine fellows in the Iron Guard that we stand so high in German favour.’
To Yakimov the Guardists were merely the murderers of Calinescu. He had been amused by the fact they claimed still to be led by a young man two years in his grave. He seized upon this mention of them to make a joke: ‘I take it, dear boy, you refer to the non-existent members of the totally extinguished party which is led by a ghost?’
Hadjimoscos stared coldly at Yakimov a moment before he said: ‘Such quips are not
de rigueur
in these times,’ and paused impressively before adding: ‘They are not even safe.’
Yakimov was used to Hadjimoscos’ changes of mood and had to accept them. That morning he had listened in silence while the reception was discussed with a respect he found bewildering in view of the fact no one present had been invited. It was to be an Iron Guard reception, held in defiance of the King, to promulgate the growing power of the party.
‘Under the circumstances,’ Hadjimoscos said, with knowing complacency, ‘it is not surprising that people like us, members of the old aristocracy, have received no
official
invitation, but I am confident it will be indicated to us that our presence is desired.’
Yakimov was surprised that any sort of gathering could be given in defiance of the King, but told himself: ‘Hadji is pretty
cute. Hadji knows which way the wind blows,’ and that evening, although he had not been invited, he prepared to attend the reception himself.
The hotel was only a hundred yards away, but when he set out he took the Hispano as an earnest of past opulence, a visa to better times. As he drew up outside the hotel, Baron Steinfeld was arriving with Princess Teodorescu, both in full evening dress, and he was a trifle disconcerted, not having realised the occasion merited such a rig, but was gratified to see the Baron eyeing the Hispano with interest.
The Princess had not recognised Yakimov since last September, when Hadjimoscos had brought him to her party; but now she lifted the tail of one of her silver-fox furs and waggled it playfully as she called to him: ‘Ah,
cher prince
, you have been a long time out of sight.’ Yakimov sped towards her and kissed her hand in its rose-coloured glove. The Princess was noted for the directness of her approach and now, without preamble, she said: ‘
Cher prince
, I want so much tickets for the Drucker trial.’
In the failing light, the runnels of her handsome, haggard face seemed filled with ink. Her eyes, within their heavily darkened lids, were fixed avidly on Yakimov as she explained: ‘I received, of course, my two-three tickets, but always my friends are asking me: “Please get for me a ticket.” What can I do? Now you,
mon prince
, are
journalist
. You have many tickets, isn’t that so? Do for me a little favour. Give me two-three tickets!’
The tickets for the trial had been allotted to persons of importance, who now were selling them for enormous sums to persons of less importance. Yakimov, needless to say, had none, but he smiled happily. ‘Dear girl, of course, I’ll do what I can. ’Fraid I’ve given mine away, but I’ll get more. There are ways and means. Leave it to your Yaki.’
‘But how kind!’ said the Princess and as a mark of favour she off-loaded her foxes into Yakimov’s arms. Delighted by this hot and heavy burden, he said: ‘We must get a lead for these, dear girl,’ and the Princess smiled.
As they strolled to the hotel, the Baron said: ‘It is remarkable,
don’t you think, that the Germans have not yet made their invasion of the British Isles?’ His tone suggested that it was not only remarkable but unfortunate. When Yakimov said nothing, the Baron went on: ‘Still, there are grave newses from England. They say that racing under Jockey Club rules has been given up. Clearly all is not well there.’ He turned appealingly to Yakimov. ‘Surely it is time to end this foolish disagreement between our great countries. You are a prince of old Russia: cannot you induce your English friends to turn their armours against the Soviets?’
Yakimov looked as though he could, but did not feel he should. ‘Don’t want to start any more trouble, do we?’ he said. They had reached the red carpet and then he was able to change the subject. ‘Bit of a do on, I see.’
‘A reception given by the Iron Guard leaders,’ said Steinfeld. ‘An important occasion. Horia Sima is to be present.’
The vestibule was banked with carnations, tuberoses and ferns. A notice informed the public that only ticket holders would be admitted to the main salon, which could be seen through the glass doors already very crowded. Hoping to identify himself with the occasion, Yakimov said: ‘I hear that my dear old friend Freddi von Flügel has been appointed Gauleiter in Cluj. He has asked me up to stay with him.’
‘Gauleiter? Indeed! A position of power,’ said Steinfeld, but the Princess was less impressed: ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘you are an Englishman? Is it correct, in time of war, to visit the enemy?’
The Baron brushed this query aside: ‘People in our position can dispense with such
convenances
,’ he said, and Yakimov agreed with enthusiasm.
They were approaching the salon entrance where some young men stood on guard. Yakimov, keeping close to his companions, still had hope of entering under their auspices, but the Princess was having none of that. He had been rewarded enough. She stopped, took her furs out of his arms, and said: ‘Well, toot-el-ee-ooh, as you English say. Do not forget my two-three tickets,’ and she handed the furs to Steinfeld. Yakimov knew himself dismissed.
He watched as the couple reached the salon entrance. There they were stopped and made to produce their invitations. There was no sign of a buffet inside and the guests were drinking wine. Deciding the ‘do’ looked a pretty poor one, Yakimov went into the English Bar.
At this moment the Pringles, crossing the square, heard behind them the furious and persistent hooting of an old-fashioned motor-horn. They moved to the pavement. The hooting persisted. Supposing it was some sort of anti-British demonstration, they did not look round. Britain was rumoured to be trying to sell her oil shares to Russia and the Rumanian Cabinet had declared it would take steps to prevent any such perfidy. Anti-British feeling was growing stronger.
The hooting, drawing nearer, demanded attention, and the Pringles turned to see an old, mud-coloured car being driven at them by Toby Lush. Toby grinned. Inchcape had approved his appointment and he had started work at the University. He stopped the car. Confident of welcome, he thrust out his disordered, straw-coloured head and shouted ‘Hello, there!’
‘Why, hello,’ said Guy.
Beside Toby sat Dubedat. Between the two assistant teachers there had sprung up one of those close, immediate friendships that puzzle everyone but the pair concerned. Harriet had not only been puzzled by it, but rather annoyed. Seeing Toby as a comrade in danger, she had been prepared to accept him into her circle, but she was not prepared to accept Dubedat.
Sitting now in the sunken car seat, Dubedat did not greet the Pringles but stared straight ahead, his profile, with its thin hooked nose and receding chin, taut and disapproving as ever.
They had stopped in the centre of the square, beside the statue of the old king who rode a horse too big for him. Cars were parked round the pediment. Toby said: ‘I’ll leave the jalopy here and stretch my legs.’
The Pringles had been invited by David to the English Bar and it was evident the two assistant teachers were coming with them. Harriet looked at Guy and as he avoided her eye she knew he had invited Toby to join them. If she had asked
him ‘Why?’ he would probably have replied ‘Why not?’ Surely anyone would agree that it was better to drink with several people than with just one or two?
Guy, delighted to have more company, walked ahead with Toby while she, left to follow with Dubedat, found herself wondering, not for the first time, whether life with Guy was not more often an irritant than a pleasure.
She glanced at Dubedat, noticing a smile lingering round his lips – ‘like the grime left by bath-water,’ she told herself – and felt sure he was aware of her irritation. That irritated her more. He had nothing to say. She did not attempt to break the silence.
Dubedat, an elementary school-teacher from Liverpool, had been ‘thumbing’ his way through Galicia when war broke out and been given a lift in one of the refugee cars that streamed down to Bucharest when Poland collapsed. Describing himself as a ‘simple-lifer’, he had gone about Bucharest in shorts and open-neck shirt until the winter wind forced him into a sheepskin jacket.
His appearance had improved since those early days. He had been teaching at the University for nearly a year now and as a result of prosperity had given up the ‘simple-life’ outfit, and was wearing a suit of khaki twill. It looked very grimy. He no longer lived in the Dâmbovi
ţ
a area, but had rented a modern flat in the centre of the city. Toby had moved in with him. Guy used to excuse Dubedat, saying that his old lodging did not give him opportunity to wash, but it seemed to Harriet that his personal aroma was much as it used to be. Or was it merely an emanation of her own dislike of him?
Ahead, Toby, moving with exaggerated strides, was giving crows of nervous laughter. Despite the heat, he still wore his tweed jacket with its patches of leather. As he walked, he scuffed his brogues in the dust, one shoulder drawn up, his fists bagging out his pockets. She heard him say: ‘Don’t want to be a bottle-washer all my life.’
‘Even in these times,’ Guy replied, ‘we must expect a lecturer to have a degree.’
Dubedat, beside Harriet, snorted his private disgust at this statement.
They had reached the hotel, where the striped awning was out, the carpet down and a gigantic Rumanian flag hung the length of the fa
ç
ade. People had gathered round to watch events. A lorry arrived and from it jumped a dozen young men in dark suits, who at once began pushing back the docile onlookers and forming a cordon of six on either side of the pavement. Before anyone could inquire into this behaviour, a Mercedes drew up and a man alighted – a small, lean man of unusual appearance. The cordon at once flung up arms in a fascist salute, sharp, businesslike and un-Rumanian, and the new arrival responded, holding the salute dramatically for some moments, his head thrown back so all might see his hollow, bone-pale face and lank, black hair.
Guy whispered: ‘I believe that’s Horia Sima.’
Whoever he was, he was clearly an intellectual and a fanatic, someone totally different from the lenient, self-indulgent Rumanian males now strolling in the Calea Victoriei. He dropped his arm, then strode to the swing door. He gave it a push, treating it as an unimportant impediment, but the door was not to be coerced. It creaked round slowly and he was forced, in spite of himself, to shuffle in at its pace. The young men, following after, did no better.