The Judas Tree (35 page)

‘That is the end of the news.'

With an exclamation he switched off and went upstairs, reminding himself to take his vitamin tablets.

Punctually at ten o'clock next morning the door bell rang and Arturo, with an expression more enigmatic than usual, showed Madame von Altishofer to the drawing-room where Moray, seated on the sofa before the open Dutch cabinet, was pensively contemplating his collection of Chinese porcelain.

When he had greeted her and asked to be excused from rising he waved an expressive hand.

‘The futile tyranny of possessions. All this will have to be packed. When I bought it with such joy, and every piece is authentic K'hang Hsi, little did I think it would be such a nuisance in the end.'

‘I will pack it.' She spoke quietly. ‘So it will be no nuisance. But first, how is your back?'

‘No worse, I hope, though I slept badly. But I seem to have developed a queer sort of limp.'

‘A limp?'

‘In my right leg, when I walk.'

‘Then you must see to it at once.'

‘No.' He shook away the suggestion. ‘It can't be serious. At least I'll give it another day.'

Turning from the cabinet he found her gaze bent upon him in a fashion so oddly concerned it gave him quite a start.

‘Is anything wrong, Frida?'

‘No, no,' she said quickly, forcing a smile. ‘I was thinking only of your injury. I hope you will be able to go to the party this afternoon.'

‘What party?'

‘Why, naturally, Leonora's.'

‘I know nothing of it.'

‘But surely you are invited. We are all going, all our circle. It must be a mistake that you are overlooked. So you will come with me, yes?'

He bit his lip, vexed that he should have been left out, at this last hour, already regarded by the others as a dead letter.

‘I'm much too busy to go. Anyhow, the lecture party was my swan song. I'm no longer interested in Leonora's frivolous nonsense.'

‘I am sorry, my friend. I know that all is finished for you here and that you must seek society where you are going, if indeed it is possible to find it among these – these uncivilised people.'

‘I shall have Willie and my dear wife,' he said sharply. ‘And my work will be to civilise the people.'

‘But of course, you will be very happy,' she agreed in a conciliatory tone. ‘Still, three together is a limited group after the interesting society to which you have been accustomed. But now, no more, you have enough to worry you. I must go to finish the books. Another time, perhaps tomorrow, I will see to the porcelain.'

What's the matter with her, he asked himself, when she had departed for the library. Yesterday she had been bright and brisk, today a subdued melancholy clouded her yellow eyes. He found the change in her mood and manner quite inexplicable.

As the forenoon wore on, he took time off from his desk, where he was busy with the settlement of ail outstanding accounts, to look in at the library – ostensibly to inspect her progress but actually to determine if her mood had changed. It had not, was indeed keyed to a lower pitch.

‘Something is on your mind, Frida,' he said, on his second visit.

On one knee beside the bottom shelf, she straightened, but without looking at him.

‘There is nothing, nothing.'

The evasion in her tone was only too apparent. At lunch – she had consented solely as an economy of time to remain for a light meal – he made an effort to dispel the gloom.

‘You're eating nothing. May I give you some of this salad?'

‘Thank you, no.'

‘Another slice of galantine.'

‘Nothing more, please. I have little appetite today.'

‘Then if you've finished, let's take a rest on the terrace. The sun is quite strong now.'

Outside it was distinctly warm, and Wilhelm had swept away the snow and put out garden chairs. They sat down facing the marvellous skyline of the Alps.

‘You have the finest view in Switzerland,' she murmured. ‘At least for a few more days.'

A silence followed, then thinking to please, perhaps to placate her, he said: ‘I hope you understand, Frida, that I will always have the highest regard for you.'

‘Will you?'

‘Always. Moreover, Frida, I don't take your help for granted. I'd like you to choose something for yourself from my collection as a souvenir.'

‘You are generous, my friend, but I do not care for souvenirs. Always they invoke sadness.'

‘But you must. I insist.'

‘Then if I am to be sad, I shall be deeply so. You shall give me the small photograph standing on the right side of your desk.'

‘You mean the little snapshot of you and me on the Riesenberg.'

‘Exactly. That I will keep for remembrance.'

‘My dear Frida.' He smiled chidingly. ‘You sound like an obituary notice.'

She gave him a long sombre look.

‘That is not surprising.' Then, her reserve breaking down: ‘Mein Gott, how I am sad for you. I meant not to show you this, but soon enough you must know.'

She opened her handbag, took out a newspaper clipping, handed it to him. He saw that it had been cut from that morning's
Daily Echo
, a paper she did not usually take, and was headed:

Five Hundred Die in Congo Massacre.

Quickly, he read the dispatch:

Last night in Kasai Province, where for the past few weeks there have been signs of trouble brewing beneath the surface, tribal war at last broke loose. A savage and unprovoked attack was made on the village of Tochilenge by dissident Balubas. The village, which changed hands in fierce fighting twice, was set on fire and is now a shell. An estimated five hundred lie dead beneath the scorched palm and banana trees.

‘Now,' she said, ‘you know where you are going.'

He looked up, meeting her gaze which had remained fixed upon him. He was not in the least discomposed, confirmed rather, hardened and fortified.

‘Frida,' he said coldly, ‘ I'm perfectly aware that for the past two days you have been trying to dissuade me from going – no doubt with the best intentions. But I don't think you quite understand how deeply I'm in love. I fully realise that conditions are bad out there. But I
am
going. I would follow Kathy to the ends of the earth.'

She compressed her lips.

‘Yes, my friend,' she sighed. ‘ Is it not always like that when an elderly man is possessed by a young girl? And always the end is so tragic. How well I remember that great German film,
The Blue Angel.
'

He coloured with indignation.

‘The circumstances are in no way comparable.'

‘No,' she agreed, in an extinguished voice. ‘The old professor went only to the circus. You are going …'. She turned her head, shielding her face with one hand to hide emotion. ‘Yes, I feel it in my heart … you are going to …'. Even then she could not say it, merely adding in a low voice: ‘ To something much worse.'

An angry retort had risen to his lips but, respecting her distress, he stifled it. She had always been one to conceal her feelings, tears were not her medium of expression, yet she was clearly upset. Upright in his chair, he stared straight ahead at the distant snowcapped peaks. A prolonged silence descended upon them. Finally, in a subdued manner, but still with averted head, she rose.

‘My friend, I can do no more for you today. Tomorrow I will come.'

‘I'm sorry,' he muttered, put out by this unexpected departure. ‘Must you really go?'

‘Yes, until tomorrow. If I am to visit with Madame Schutz and our friends, first I must compose myself.'

He did not protest further, saw her to her car, waited till the beat of the Dauphine died away. Then he closed the gate and limped back to the house. Deliberately, word for word, he read the newspaper clipping again, then decisively tore it up.

During that afternoon he continued his preparations, but always with an eye on the clock. At five he was to telephone Kathy at Markinch, where she was staying at the manse: the arrangement had been made before she left. After the trials and problems of the last two days, how he looked forward to it!

After a quick cup of tea, he went to the telephone, dialled long distance and gave the Fotheringays' number. There was little traffic on the lines and within ten minutes he was put through. To his delight it was Kathy herself who answered: but of course she would be seated at the phone, waiting for his call.

‘Kathy, it's you! How are you, my dear?'

‘Quite well, David. And most terribly busy. It's so lucky you caught me. I was just rushing off to Edinburgh this very minute.'

Chilled slightly, he said: ‘What have you been doing?'

‘Oh, everything.… Getting ready to go.… Like you, I suppose.'

‘Yes, I've been busy too. It's very near now.'

‘Oh, it is. And I'm so happy and excited. I'll be sending you all particulars of where we are to meet in London whenever I find a minute to write.'

‘I was rather expecting a letter from you, dear.'

‘Were you, David? I thought, as we were to be together so soon.… And I've worried about Uncle Willie. He's been running quite a high temperature since we came here, and he's due to give his talk this evening.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said rather perfunctorily, thinking of his own troubles. ‘ Give him my best wishes.'

‘Oh, I will, David. And I'll write you tonight, whenever we get back from Edinburgh.'

‘I don't wish to force you to write, Kathy.'

‘But, David dear …'. She broke off. ‘Are you cross?'

‘No, dear. Still, I will say I've felt rather lonely. I've been hard at it here. I've hurt my back. And through it all I've been longing to hear from you, just a word to say that you're missing me.'

‘Oh, I have missed you, dear …'. The catch in her voice made her words indistinct, ‘… just so busy, and Uncle Willie ill … I didn't think…'.

‘All right, my dear,' he said, mollified by her distress. ‘But if Willie is so ill, will he be able to leave on the twenty-first?'

‘He will go, David,' she said confidently. ‘Even if he has to be carried on the plane on a stretcher.'

Much good he'll be in that condition, he thought rather acidly, then regretted it, for he was devoted to Willie.

‘I suppose you've seen that fighting has started in Kasai.'

‘Yes, and it may be serious. But of course we've been expecting it. Now, dear, I really must go. I think I hear the bus. Uncle Willie is outside calling for me to come.'

‘Wait, Kathy …'.

‘If I don't go, dear, we'll miss the bus and Uncle Willie will be late for his lecture. Goodbye for just now, dear David. We'll be together soon.'

She had gone, or at least had been obliged to go, leaving him disappointed and with a chilling impression of neglect. What an unsatisfactory talk it had been, making so much of Willie, so little of himself. No, no, he mustn't think like that – quickly he banished his unworthy jealousy. Kathy loved him, the poor child had simply been rushed and harassed, and telephone conversations were never satisfactory. He found these excuses for her, but illogically the sense of slight persisted, remained with him all evening.

At bedtime, still upset, he decided to take a sleeping pill, a thing he had not done for weeks. Fifteen centigrammes of soneryl, followed by a glass of hot milk, sent him into a deep sleep which should have lasted for at least six hours. Unfortunately this was marred, broken in fact, by a frightful yet ridiculous dream.

He was lying on a camp bed in an unknown place behind high black rocks. The air, filled with the hum of insects, was insufferably hot – the humid heat of a tropical night. Darkness was everywhere, yet he could see faintly, and gradually became aware of the tall shadowy form of a man standing some paces away, gazing ahead. The man wore a khaki shirt and trousers and short gum-boots. Although the face remained invisible, he knew the man to be Willie. He tried to call to him, but although his lips formed the words no sounds emerged. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw three enormous beasts advancing from beyond. They were lions, at least they had the size and shape of lions, but to their appearance something preternatural had been added which gave to them a ferocity that paralysed him. Behind these beasts a line of Abatu tribesmen, armed with spears, stood outlined against the further darkness. He attempted vainly to rise. He wanted to get away – anything to escape this double danger. The futile effort made the sweat pour from him. Then, as he gave himself up for lost, the man who was Willie began to laugh and, picking up some pebbles, flipped them casually at the lions, like a boy taking random shots at an alley cat. Immediately the beasts stopped, hesitated for a moment, then came on again with a terrifying rush.

‘The Lord is our shepherd,' Willie said. ‘A silver collection will be taken later.'

Immediately the charge ceased. The lions faced about and sat up on their haunches in a begging attitude, whereupon the black soldiers began to mark time and clap their hands. Then, with disharmony resembling that of the Markinch choir, they boomed out the hymn ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.'

The grotesque and ridiculous vision was too sudden a release. Moray tried to laugh, to howl with laughter, and finally let out a shout that woke him up.

Exhausted, yet relieved by the reality of his own bedroom, he lay for a long time gloomily pondering the reasons for this absurd and painful fantasy. What rankled most of all was his own behaviour. Was he as weak as that? God, no – he would not admit it. He set his teeth and shook the thing off. Obviously, he decided, a subconscious conflict between his admiration for Willie's heroic and self-sacrificing life and his own past indifference towards religion. With that he got up. The luminous dial of his Gubelin bedside-clock showed three o'clock. Feeling around, he stripped off his wet pyjama jacket and, having rubbed himself down, put on a fresh one and returned to bed. After turning uneasily for more than an hour he got off to sleep.