Authors: Stephen Fry
‘And what exactly did you do with the real manuscript?’
‘There was a very nice chambermaid at the hotel. She said she would look after it for me. Was that bad trade-craft too?’
‘Well,’ said Adrian. ‘If she’s still got it, it was good tradecraft, if she hasn’t, it wasn’t.’
Trefusis inclined his head gratefully. ‘Don’t look behind you,’ he said, ‘but there has been a white Citroën two cars behind us for the last twelve kilometres. As to whether it’s a BX or not, I really couldn’t say.’
Adrian looked behind him.
‘You still haven’t told me,’ he said, ‘who was responsible for cutting this violinist’s throat … what was his name again?’
‘Moltaj.’
‘Right. Do you know who killed him?’
‘So many people would love to get their hands on a machine that can inhibit pseudology, mendacity and falsehood. The police, Intelligence services, all sorts and conditions of interested agencies and institutions. Bela, like any good scientist, is worried that he may have opened the door to something rather frantic, something rather ghastly.’
‘What have I done? What have I done? Have we any business taking away people’s right to lie? That sort of thing.’
‘Questions of free will certainly do seem to arise. It is perfectly possible to live a life from cradle to grave that is entirely dishonest. One might never reveal one’s true identity, the yearnings and cravings of one’s innermost self, even to the most intimate circle of family and friends; never really speak the truth to anyone. Priests and psychotherapists may believe that the confessional-box or the analysis session reveals truths, but you know and I know and every human being knows that we lie all the time to all the world. Lying is as much a part of us as wearing clothes. Indeed, Man’s first act in Eden was to give names to everything on earth, our first act of possession and falsehood was to take away a stone’s right to be a stone by imprisoning it with the name “stone”. There are in reality, as Fenellosa said, no nouns in the Universe. Man’s next great act was to cover himself up. We have been doing so ever since. We feel that our true identities shame us. Lying is a deep part of us. To take it away is to make us something less than, not more than, human. So at least Bela fears.’
‘Yes,’ said Adrian. ‘You still haven’t told me who killed Moltaj.’
‘The Hungarians have a wonderful word,’ said Trefusis. ‘It is
puszipajtás
and means roughly “someone you know well enough to kiss in the street”. They are a demonstrative and affectionate people, the Hungarians, and enthusiastic social kissers. “Do you know young Adrian?” you might ask and they might reply, “I
know
him, but we’re not exactly
puszipajtás
.”’
‘I have no doubt whatever in my mind,’ said Adrian, ‘that all this is leading somewhere.’
‘A few weeks ago Bela’s grandson arrived in England. He is a chess-player of some renown, having achieved grandmaster status at last year’s Olympiad in Buenos Aires. No doubt you followed his excellent match against Bent Larsen?’
‘No,’ said Adrian. ‘I missed his match against Bent Larsen and somehow his matches against Queer Karpov and Faggoty Smyslov and Poofy Petrosian also managed to pass me by.’
‘Tish and hiccups. Bent is a perfectly common Danish Christian name and it would do you no harm, Master Healey, to acquire a little more patience.’
‘I’m sorry, Donald, but you do talk
around
a subject so.’
‘Would you have said that?’ Trefusis sounded surprised.
‘I would.’
‘I will then straight to the heart of the matter hie me. Stefan, the grandson of Bela, came to England a fortnight ago to play in the tournament at Hastings. I received a message to meet him in a park at Cambridge. Parker’s Piece to be exact. It was ten o’clock of a fine June night. That is not extraneous colour, I mention the evening to give you the idea that it was
light
, you understand?’
Adrian nodded.
‘I walked to the rendezvous point. I saw Stefan by an elm tree clutching a briefcase and looking anxious. My specifying that the tree was an elm,’ said Trefusis, ‘is of no consequence and was added, like this explanation of it, simply to vex you. The mention of the lad’s anxiety, however, has a bearing. The existence of the briefcase is likewise germane.’
‘Right.’
‘As I approached, he pointed to a small shed or hut-like building behind him and disappeared into it. I followed him.’
‘Ah! Don’t tell me … the small shed or hut-like building was in fact a gentlemen’s lavatory?’
‘Meeting for the first time one of his grandfather’s oldest friends, a man of whom he had heard much, Stefan naturally embraced me, bestowing a friendly kiss on each cheek. We were
puszipajtás
, do you see? Stefan then knelt to open his briefcase. It was at this point that two policemen emerged from a cubicle, making unpleasant insinuations and an arrest.’
‘Is that a zeugma or a syllepsis?’
‘It was an impertinence and an inconvenience.’
‘It was in a convenience certainly … But you can hardly blame them. I mean, two men kissing in a lavatory and then one of them getting down on his knees … what was he thinking of?’
‘The job in hand,’ said Trefusis coldly.
‘Oo-er!’
‘Adrian, it is a long walk back to England. I suggest you keep your putrid sense of humour in check.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Adrian clamped his mouth shut.
‘It is possible, I grant you,’ Trefusis continued, ‘that a person stumbling upon such a
tableau
might be tempted to place constructions of a deleterious nature upon it, but only if their minds were already composed of stuff so gross and rank in nature as to be themselves guilty of as much impropriety as the most shameless erotic miscreant in the land. Stefan, at any rate, found himself wholly perplexed by events. I managed to communicate to him in Hungarian, however, as we awaited the police van. I … er … created a scene and he was able to grab his briefcase and “make good his escape” as the newspapers have it.’
‘What sort of a scene?’
‘A scene-y sort of a scene. Just a general, you know, scene.’
‘What sort of a scene?’
‘Does it matter what sort of a scene?’
‘Come on, Donald. What sort of a scene?’
‘Oh very well. If you must know, I let out a screech of animal lust and attempted to remove the trousers of the officer detaining me.’
‘You did
what?
’
‘Well I have no doubt you could have dreamt up a dozen more appropriate schemes, Adrian, but it was all that occurred to me under the duress of the moment. I scrabbled at the unfortunate man’s trouserings and while his companion leapt forward to rescue him from this parlous circumstance, Stefan found himself temporarily deoppilated. He returned to the Shoulder of Lamb where he left the item he had come up expressly to deliver and which I have with me now. Bob then arranged for his safe return to Hastings.’
‘Yes, I was meaning to ask you. How come Bob is involved in all this?’
‘Bob is a friend.’
‘Bletchley?’
‘Bob has been involved in all kinds of things in his time. He had his tongue ripped out by the Japanese.’
‘
What?
’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t talk about it.’
‘Oh ha frigging ha. You
still
haven’t told me who the enemy is.’
Trefusis reached for a figgy oatcake.
‘Enemy?’
‘Yes, enemy. The people who robbed us in Germany and stole your briefcase. The people who killed Moltaj and who are,’ Adrian craned his neck round, ‘still hot on our arses.’
‘Well now, it would seem we have two “enemies”, Adrian. Moltaj was killed by a servant of the Magyar Republic of Hungary, I think there is no doubt of that. Bela’s employers have no intention of letting his invention leave their country.’
‘And now they are following us?’
‘No, we are being followed by enemy number two. It was they who robbed us in Germany last year.’
‘And who are they?’
‘Well,’ said Trefusis, ‘I was rather hoping
you
might know that, Adrian.’
11
I
IN THE CORRIDOR,
Rudi nearly collided with an enormously fat man with a small head and lank hair. Rudi managed, with a supreme effort of balance and co-ordination, learnt on the ski-slopes of Innsbruck, to avoid the calamity of dropping the drinks tray he was carrying and proceeded, trembling, on his way, cursing under his breath the rudeness and clumsiness of the guests as he went. Probably a music journalist in Salzburg for the Festival; such gracelessness was to be expected from the press.
Rudi tapped gently on the door to the sitting room of the Franz-Josef Suite and listened for a reply. This was his first week at the Österreichischer Hof and he was not certain if it was done simply to knock and enter as he would have done at the Hotel der Post in Fuschl-am-See where he had learnt his trade. The Österreichischer Hof was altogether smarter than the Hotel der Post and things were done here on the international scale, with taste, style, courtliness, discretion and just a
Schluck
of Austrian
Gemütlichkeit
.
There was no reply from within. Yet someone had ordered a bottle of Absolut lemon vodka and three glasses, someone had commanded room-service. Surely it was reasonable to suppose that someone was in the room? He knocked again and waited.
Still nothing. Most puzzling.
Rudi balanced the tray on his shoulder, leant forward towards the door, and coughed purposefully.
From inside he heard a voice. An English voice.
‘
Entschuldigen Sie
…’ Rudi called through the keyhole.
He could sense that his husky tones were not penetrating the thick wood of the door. Rudi was a little nervous. In the kitchens yesterday he had caused a beautiful puff-ball of Salzburger Nockerl, the hotel’s speciality, to deflate by dropping a fork into it by mistake, and two days ago – Rudi blushed at the memory – two days ago in the dining room he had spilt some kirsch down the shirt-front of Signor Muti, the famous conductor. Fortunately the
maestro
had been wearing one of his famous black polo-neck shirts and the stain had not shown up so much, but the memory was painful to Rudi.
English people. Were they deaf?
‘Excusing me!’
Rudi knocked again, his head leaning against the door. He heard the voice still.
‘… incontinently and savagely beautiful, not unlike a small chaffinch, but much larger and with less of a salty after-tang …’
This Rudi could not understand. The word ‘beautiful’ was familiar certainly. English girls who came to stay with their families at the Hotel der Post liked to say that it was ‘a very beautiful morning this morning, Rudi’, that the mountain and the lake and the Schloss were ‘simply beautiful’ and sometimes, when he had been lucky, that his hair and eyes and his legs and his
Schwanz
were so ‘beautiful’. Beautiful he knew, but what was this ‘chaffinch’? Of course! a green vegetable, like
Kohl
or
Kraut
, that was chaffinch. A strange conversation this man was having.
‘… a certain degree of
Schadenfreude
under the circumstances is inevitable perhaps …’
‘
Schadenfreude!
’ He could speak German.
Rudi knocked until his knuckles were raw.
‘
Entschuldigen Sie bitte, mein Herr. Hier ist der Kellner mit Ihren Getränken!
’
‘… a message delivered by motor-bicycle. A curious new phenomenon these despatch riders …’
Rudi could wait no longer. He swallowed twice, turned the handle and entered.
A beautiful suite, the Franz-Josef. Herr Brendel the pianist had stayed there last week and the Bösendorfer Grand that had been installed for him had not yet been collected. They should keep the piano here always, Rudi thought. With the flowers and the cigarette boxes and long flowing curtains, it conspired to give the room the look of a film set from the nineteen-thirties. With great care he set down his drinks tray on top of the piano and listened again to the English voice.
‘… this rider, standing in the threshold holding out a clipboard to be signed, reminded me at first of a copy of Izaac Walton’s
Compleat Angler
that I have in my possession. Bound in leather, lavishly tooled and a lasting joy …’
‘Your drinks are arrived, my sir.’
‘… of the package that he delivered I can say only this …’
The voice was coming through from the bedroom. Rudi approached nervously.
‘… it shocked me right down to my foundation garments. From stem to stern I quivered …’
Rudi straightened his bow-tie and tapped loosely on the half-open bedroom door with the back of his hand.
‘Sir, your drinks that you have ordered …’
Rudi broke off.
The door he had knocked on so lightly had swung open to reveal a man sitting on the end of the bed, soaked from head to foot in blood. He faced a writing table on which stood a small radio.
‘… I suppose there are degrees of startlement, much as there are degrees of anything. If there is an official scale comparable to, for example, the Beaufort, Moh or Richter Scales and if that scale be measured from one to ten, I would say that on this Trefusian Scale of Abject Bestartlement I scored at least a creditable 9.7, certainly from the European judges. The East Germans would probably have been less generous, but even they could not have failed to give me 9.5 for artistic impression …’
Rudi hugged the door-handle and half swung from the door, staring at the dead man with innocent surprise and wonder, like a child watching donkeys copulate.
A knock on the sitting-room door brought him to his senses.
A high English voice called through the sitting room.
‘Martin! Are you there? Martin!’
Rudi jumped. This was witchcraft.
Two men had entered the sitting room, one silver-haired, the other closer to Rudi’s age. They were smiling.
‘Ah, lemon vodka on the piano. Very much Martin’s poison.’
Rudi gasped.
‘
Sie sind … sie sind!
’ said Rudi, pointing at the older man.
‘
Was bin ich?
’ the man asked in surprise.