Inchcape rang off before she could reply. She went to her room to dress. The heat was abating and it was possible now to wear something heavier than silk or cotton. For the first time since early spring, she put on a blue linen suit she had brought from England.
Sasha, when he saw her in it, put a hand on her sleeve, smiling, his eyes warm with an adoration he was too artless to conceal. He said: ‘My mother had a suit like this.’
Although it was still early, Harriet walked to the University, needing to assure herself that the broadcast had not, so far, provoked trouble.
The door stood open. The porter, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. Anyone could enter. She felt furious with the man who, were he at his post, could at least give warning of attack.
She sat on the porter’s bench and stared out through the peaked doorway at the glittering street. The gipsies, selling the only thing plentiful in Bucharest now, were in their usual high spirits. Their danger was as great as that of the Jews, but they knew nothing about it.
She could hear Guy’s voice coming through an open door halfway down the passage. She could also hear, from somewhere distant in the street, the sound of ‘
Capitanul
’. She had become so used to it, she would scarcely have noticed it had she not been listening for it. The Guardists were approaching the University. If any of them turned in here, she decided, she would rush to the door and shut and bolt it. She wondered
if the Legation would let her have a revolver. She was becoming obsessed with the need to get Guy and Sasha through this situation unharmed. Sitting there, hypnotised by her own inactivity, she began to think of them as enclosed in a protective emanation that came of her will to save them.
She wondered how many students were in the room with Guy. She had always been somewhat irritated by the students and their claim on him. He imagined his energy was inexhaustible, but she felt that given the opportunity, they would drain him dry: and now it was for their sake that he was here at risk.
She rose and made her way silently down the passage to the lecture room. ‘
Capitanul
’ was still wavering about in the distance. Not a great many were singing. She imagined a small posse out on some sinister mission.
The door of Guy’s classroom had been propped open to create a draught.
Harriet, pressing against the wall, could see unseen through the opening. There were three students – two girls and a youth, sitting together in the front desk, their faces raised in strained attention.
Harriet moved to see Guy. Her foot slipped on the linoleum, making no more noise than a mouse. At once a frisson went through the room. The three heads turned. Guy’s voice slowed. He did not pause, but he glanced at the door. Harriet remained motionless, scarcely breathing. The lecture went on.
She tiptoed back to the bench and sat down again, satisfied, having discovered that beneath his apparent unconcern he was as alert as she was to the dangers about them.
20
That day, a Friday, was the last on which the summer school opened. The following afternoon, Inchcape called on Guy to tell him that the new Minister of Information had ordered the school and the British Propaganda Bureau to close immediately.
He said: ‘Had to agree about the school – no choice, no choice at all – but the Bureau is part of the Legation. I’ve just been to see H.E. I said: “While the Legation remains here, we’ve a right to our Bureau.” I must say the old boy was pleasant enough. Indeed, he was pathetic. He seems dazed by the way things are shaping. “All right, Inchcape,” he said. “All right. If you want to keep your little shop open I’ll see what can be done, but the school must close.”’
‘Why?’ Guy asked.
Inchcape shrugged. ‘The Minister said if the closure were not effected as from today, we would all be ordered out. No reprieve.’
Guy was not satisfied. He said: ‘If they’ve relented about the Bureau, they’re just as likely to relent about the school.’
‘No. Something’s going on here. There’s a rumour that a German Military Mission is on its way. The Guardist minister was adamant. They feel – not unnaturally, I suppose – that a British school is an anomaly in their midst.’ Inchcape’s tone was rather smug but held a hint of defiance, so it occurred to Harriet that he had probably bartered the school for the Bureau: ‘Let me keep one open and you can close the other.’ Whatever the sacrifice, Inchcape must maintain an official position.
For her part, however, she was only too thankful to see
the school end. She said: ‘So there’s nothing to keep us here. We could take a holiday. We could go to Greece.’
Guy, looking gloomy, said without enthusiasm: ‘We might get to Predeal, but no farther. I have to prepare for the new term …’
‘But if the English Department is closed …’
‘Nothing has been said about the Department closing,’ said Inchcape. ‘All they demanded, was the closure of the summer school.’
‘But surely they must mean the English Department, too. Yesterday, Guy had only three students. You can’t open a department without students.’
‘Oh, they’ll be swarming back when the term starts. They’ll feel there’s safety in numbers. We’ll weather another winter here.’
Making no attempt to argue on a point that would soon settle itself, Harriet said: ‘When can we go to Predeal?’
Before Guy could reply, Inchcape broke in: ‘Not next week. Our distinguished visitor arrives next week. This is an opportunity to make arrangements. I shall meet him at Baneasa, of course, but I’ll expect my staff to be in attendance. Then we’ll have to give a party; a reception. We can do nothing about that until we know the day of his arrival.’
‘What is the date of the Cantecuzeno Lecture?’ Harriet asked.
Inchcape looked at Guy saying: ‘It’s held every other year. You must have been here for the last one?’
‘1938. The beginning of October. My first term here. The Cantecuzeno was the inaugural lecture of the term.’
‘So it was,’ Inchcape nodded, clicked his tongue reflectively while staring at his feet, then suddenly jerked upright. ‘Anyway, the old buffer’s reached Cairo. He may get stuck there and he may not. We must be prepared.’
Early on Wednesday morning, Despina woke Guy to say Inchcape wanted him on the telephone. Inchcape shouted accusingly: ‘That old nitwit’s coming today. You’ll just have to rouse yourself and get to the airport. I can’t make it.’
‘When is he due?’
‘That’s the trouble. He sent a last-minute cable saying merely: “Wednesday a.m.” It might mean hanging round there half the day. I’ve got this damned reception to organise. Pauli will deliver invitations. We must have a princess or two.’ The imminence of the real Pinkrose seemed to have disrupted Inchcape. In the extremity of his exacerbation he became confiding: ‘To tell the truth, I never thought he’d get here. I thought he’d hang around in Cairo for weeks. He must have got the organisation to charter a plane. Shocking to think of such a waste of funds. And,’ he added, putting the question as though Guy were to blame for the contingency, ‘where are we going to hold this lecture, I’d like to know? Last time, we took the reception rooms over the Café Napoleon, but all that’s been pulled down. The University hall is nothing like large enough. Every possible place in the town has been turned over to the Iron Guard for divisional headquarters. I suppose we could get one of the public rooms at the Athénée Palace! The acoustics are poor, but does it matter? Pinkrose is no great shakes as a lecturer. Well, get into your duds and get down there. Take Harriet. Make a bit of a show. The self-important old so-and-so will expect it.’
On their way to the airport, the Pringles were to confirm a booking for Pinkrose at the Athénée Palace.
The sky that morning was filmed with cloud, an indication of the season’s change. There was a breeze. For the first time since spring, it was possible to believe that the Siberian cold would return and the country, under snow, lost all colour and became like a photographic negative.
Harriet said: ‘Do you really think we’ll spend another winter here?’
Making no pretence at optimism now, Guy shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to say.’
On Monday, with no more warning than was given by a day or two of rumours, the precursors of the German Military Mission had driven into Bucharest. They were followed on Tuesday by a German Trade Delegation. The whole parking area outside the Athénée Palace became filled with German
cars and military lorries, each bearing the swastika on a red pennant. The arrivals were young officers sent to prepare the way for the senior members of the Mission.
The story was that Fabricius had demanded demobilisation in Rumania. ‘Send your men back into the fields,’ he said. ‘What Germany needs is food.’ Antonescu, aghast, replied that he had been dreaming of the day when his country would ‘fight shoulder to shoulder with its great ally’. He finally agreed that Germany should take over the reorganisation both of Rumania’s army and economy.
Guy said, as they passed through the swing-doors: ‘Perhaps this is an alternative to complete occupation. It may mean they will leave us alone.’
At that hour of the morning, the vestibule was empty. The booking had been tentatively made by Inchcape for an indefinite day of this week and now the hotel was full of Germans. Guy went to the desk, half expecting to be refused, but the hotel maintained its traditions. It had always been favoured by the British and did not forget past favours. Guy was courteously received. A room was available for Professor Lord Pinkrose.
The airfield lay on the southern fringe of the city. The opalescent sky cast a pallor over the grass plain that stretched some forty miles to the Danube. The wind blowing off the Balkans was like a wind from the sea.
There was nothing on the field but a customs-shed. The Pringles sat on the bench before it, waiting. Since the school had been closed, Guy had been low-spirited and restless, missing employment and having nothing to take its place. He had been told he must not use the University library or any other part of the building without permission. He sometimes went to the Propaganda Bureau to read Inchcape’s books and cogitate on subjects for the new term. He now took from his pockets a novel by Conrad and two books of poems by de la Mare, while Harriet read Lawrence’s
The Rainbow
.
They had waited less than an hour when one of the small grey planes of the Rumanian air-line arrived from Sofia. Harriet put down her book to watch the passengers alight.
Behind the usual collection of businessmen in grey suits, carrying new toffee-coloured brief-cases, came a small male figure, much wrapped up, wearing a heavy greatcoat. He descended slowly, collar up, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, glancing cautiously about from under the brim of a trilby hat.
‘Could that be Pinkrose?’ she asked.
Guy adjusted his glasses and peered across the field. ‘Surely he wouldn’t come on the ordinary plane?’
The businessmen, knowing their way about, had made straight for the customs-shed leaving the last passenger wandering, alone, on the field. Guy rose and crossed over to him. They returned together. Guy was explaining how Inchcape, busy arranging a reception in Pinkrose’s honour, had been unable to come to the airfield.
Pinkrose accepted this apology with a brief nod, grunting slightly, apparently leaving further comment until more was revealed to him.
He was a rounded man, narrow-shouldered and broad-hipped, thickening down from the crown of his hat to the edge of his greatcoat. His nose, blunt and greyish, poked out between collar and hat-brim. His eyes, grey as rain-water, moved about, alert and suspicious, like the eyes of a chameleon. They paused a second on Harriet, then swivelled away to flicker over the book in her hand, the bench on which she sat, the shed behind her, the ground, the porters near-by.
Introduced to her, he made a noise behind his scarf, holding his face aside as though it would be indelicate to gaze directly at her.
The porters were carrying his baggage: several suitcases and a canvas bag weighty with books. When these were loaded on to a taxicab, Pinkrose drew a hand from a pocket. He was wearing a dark knitted glove, in the centre of which was a threepenny piece. He then brought out the other hand, also gloved, holding a sixpence. He looked from one to the other, uncertain which coin was appropriate. Guy settled the problem by giving each porter a hundred
lei
.
As they drove back to the centre of the town, Pinkrose sat
forward on his seat, his short blunt nose turning from side to side as he watched the wooden shacks of the suburbs, and the pitted, dusty road. At the sight of the first concrete blocks, he lost interest and relaxed.
Guy began questioning him about conditions in England.
‘Quite intolerable,’ he said, his voice – which Harriet heard for the first time – thin and distinct. He did not glance at Guy and, having pronounced on England, he was silent for some moments then suddenly said: ‘I was thankful to get away.’
Harriet would have liked to ask about his journey but she found his aura inhibiting. It seemed to her that any question concerning his immediate person would be taken as an impertinence. Guy may have felt the same for they drove in silence until they were about to enter the square. At this point the taxi was paused by an immense Iron Guard procession which was coming from the direction of the palace.
The sight astounded Pinkrose. He shuffled forward again, staring about, not only at the marching men but at the passers-by as though expecting everyone to share his surprise. That morning no one was giving the Guardists a glance. Their processions were becoming not only a commonplace but a bore. The air, however, resounded with cheers relayed over loudspeakers fixed around the square.
Pinkrose caught his breath as the Guardists were followed by an anti-aircraft gun and two tanks, all painted with swastikas and carrying Nazi pennants.
‘What
is
this?’ he burst out.
Guy explained that it was an Iron Guard procession. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘they’re celebrating the new ten-year pact between Germany and Rumania.’
‘Good gracious me! I thought Rumania was a neutral country.’