A Dead Man in Trieste (6 page)

‘But it wasn’t just me. We all turned to him when we were in difficulties, when there was some business problem or trouble with the authorities. Whenever James got put in prison, for example. And he always knew what to do. He would always be able to sort it out. In the Austrian Empire it is always difficult if you come up against the officials. They ride rough-shod over you, especially if you are just an ordinary person. But the officials could never fob Lomax off or browbeat him or override him. That is what I meant when I said that he was so strong.

‘And he always used it for others. I have been thinking about him a lot since he died and that is what I have come to see, and what is so wonderful.’

She had begun to cry a little.

‘And that is why I feel so angry. It is so – so unjust. That he should die like this. God is unjust and must not be allowed to get away with it. I will not let that happen. I, Maddalena, will not let that happen,’ she said, fiercely, through her tears.

‘I am sorry. You obviously knew him much better than I did and cared for him deeply –’

‘No!’

‘No?’

‘No. I cared for him shallowly, too shallowly. It has been over for some time. It is nice to be worshipped but to be up on a pedestal for too long is boring. And wrong, anyway. It is not what I want from a man. It was time to move away. Time, too, for him to move away. I think he had begun to realize that for himself. I was part, you see, of his first days in Trieste, and they were over.

‘When he first came to Trieste, something happened to him. There was a great opening up – art, sunshine, the Mediterranean way of life, it all hit him together. All his life up till then he had been contained, controlled. Now, suddenly, he felt free. Things became possible that had not seemed possible before. Love, perhaps. Me.

‘He found it all in me, you see. Or thought he did. Love, art, release, freedom – everything. Of course, it was not there. I am much less than that. But perhaps for him, for a while, it was there.

‘For a while. But then, you see, I think he began to grow. This opening up did not stop there. He looked at things he had not noticed before, things he had never previously questioned. Things about society. About people. Perhaps he thought: I am free, why cannot they be free?

‘He began to look outwards, to involve himself more with other people. He began to help them. But, you know, in Trieste people are not just people, they are always part of something else. I don’t think he realized that. I don’t think he realized that though you may begin with helping people as individuals, you are soon, in Trieste, drawn on to helping other things. And that, I think, is what may have happened to him. He was drawn on and then it went wrong.

‘You asked me if I had any particular reason for thinking that. Yes, I do. Once – I remember when it was. There was a big reception at the Casa Revoltella and he asked me if I would come with him. Well, I did not want to go very much, it is not my kind of thing, pompous people, stiff uniforms – no, no. But he said: “Oh, do come, Maddalena! If I don’t have someone real to talk to, I shall go crazy! And there will be lots of colour and beautiful things and you can point them out to me.”

‘Well, I agreed. But then, on the day before it was going to happen, he came to me and said: “No, no, I can’t go. It would not be right. Someone else has asked me to take them, and I don’t want to. It would not be right.” “If you’re bothered about me, you needn’t be,” I said. “I’m quite happy not to go. Why don’t you take this other person?” “No,” he said. “It would be better for me not to go at all. That would make it clear.” Well, I tried to persuade him, but he would not have it, and I didn’t try too hard. It was not important to me. But afterwards I thought about it and I couldn’t understand it. Who was this other person? Why didn’t he want to go with them? And why was it so important? I did not find answers, but now the questions come back to me.’

She shrugged.

‘It may be nothing,’ she said. ‘Now when I tell it, it seems trivial. But it was a moment when I felt there was a side to Lomax, a part of his life, that I did not know. And that surprised me, for I felt that I knew everything about him. And now, after thinking about Lomax and searching and searching, trying to find what could have led to this, this is all I can think of. It is trivial, I know, perhaps silly, but it is all that I can come up with.’

‘And so, when you came back here to look for names, this was the name you were looking for?’

She nodded.

‘Do you think it might have been an Italian name?’

‘I hope not,’ she said.

The Mediterranean evening set in early and it was dark by the time Seymour got back to the Consulate. There was a light on. Koskash must still be there. Seymour hoped he had not stayed on because of him.

The front door was locked so he went round to the side door. It opened easily and he stepped in.

Koskash was at his desk. There were two men standing in front of him. They had their backs turned to the door and were blocking Koskash’s view so that for a moment none of them knew that Seymour had come in.

‘I can’t do it,’ Koskash was saying. ‘Not now.’

‘He needs them tonight,’ one of the men insisted.

‘I’m only half-way through doing them and I’ve got to go out.’

‘He needs them. Tonight.’

Koskash looked up and saw Seymour.

‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Tell him to come later. Not too much later. Between nine and nine thirty. And if he’s not here by nine thirty, it will be too bad, because I’ve got to go out.’

He ushered the men out.

‘Seamen!’ he said feelingly when he got back. ‘They just don’t understand. It’s always got to be done immediately. They can’t see that things take time.’

‘They’re lucky to catch you at this hour.’

‘They wouldn’t normally. It’s just that my wife and I are going out later this evening and this is a good place for her to pick me up.’

Seymour went on into the inner room. It was too early to go to the cinema or to have a meal and Lomax’s office, bare though it was, was more congenial than his hotel room.

He sat down at the desk and began to copy out the list of Lomax’s effects. It would be needed back in London by whoever was winding up Lomax’s estate.

Through the half-open door he could see Koskash working on assiduously. He saw him look at his watch.

‘Nine thirty,’ he said, catching Seymour’s eye, ‘and he’s not come. Seamen!’

There was a knock on the side door.

‘Ah!’

It was his wife, however. She was younger than Koskash and distinctly Slav in looks. She stopped when she saw Seymour, as if surprised, and then came forward, smiling.

‘Koskash had told me about you,’ she said. She called him Koskash. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay, even though it will obviously be a short one. And comes at such a sad time.’

They chatted for a while and then she looked at her husband.

‘Oughtn’t we to go?’

Koskash had tidied his papers up but was hesitating by his desk.

‘There’s someone coming,’ he said.

‘At twenty to
ten
? Look, if we don’t leave soon, the meeting will have started.’

‘It’s – it’s for papers,’ said Koskash.

‘Oh! Oh, well, in that case –’

‘I’ll be here for a bit longer,’ said Seymour.

Koskash looked at his wife.

‘That would be very kind,’ she said, smiling. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Don’t hang around for him,’ said Koskash. ‘Leave when you want to and if he’s not come, well, too bad.’

He and his wife went off arm in arm.

Seymour went back to his desk. It didn’t take him long to finish his copying. Lomax hadn’t had many effects.

It was getting towards ten now. If he wanted to get to the cinema in time for the evening performance, he would have to leave now. The man had probably decided not to come.

He put the papers he had been working on in the empty drawer of Lomax’s desk, together with the envelope that Koskash had given him. Then he went out into the main office. Koskash had given him a key to the side door. He opened the door and went out.

As he stepped outside, he almost collided with a man about to come in. The man fell back with a surprised gasp.

‘Signor Lomax?’ he said hesitantly.

‘No. Seymour. Have you come for something?’

‘
Si
.
Si
.’

Seymour took him in. He was a young man in his twenties, wearing spectacles and in a cheap, dark suit. He brought his heels together and gave a little bow. Then he looked at Seymour uncertainly.

‘I was expecting Koskash,’ he said.

‘He’s just gone.’

‘I am sorry, I am late. They said to be here before nine thirty but I took a wrong turning. I do not know Trieste.’

Reassured by the reference to the deadline Koskash had appointed, Seymour went back into his room and fetched the envelope.

‘Was this what you were wanting?’

The man looked in the envelope and nodded. He seemed relieved.

‘Please will you thank Mr Koskash for me,’ he said.

He spoke in Italian but was not Italian. Nor was he English. This troubled Seymour but for the moment he couldn’t think why.

The man clicked his heels and bowed again, and Seymour let him out.

All day he had been listening to the voices around him: the women haggling in the markets, the men unloading the boats, the newspaper seller in the piazza, the barely comprehensible old woman behind her pile of melons; the little groups of men standing talking in the piazzas – they seemed to stand there all day; the housewives sitting in their doorway to catch a breath of air, calling back over their shoulder from time to time to someone inside, an elderly mother who would occasionally show herself, or a young daughter who would emerge indignant and passionate, holding an even younger child by the hand; the policemen at the police station with their Austrian
bittes
and the waiters in the Piazza Grande with their Italian
pregos
. All day he had been taking them in and now, sitting in the Edison, at the time that Lomax had sat there, waiting for the picture to begin, the picture that Lomax had waited for with James, he was listening to them still.

Seymour had an unusual ear for language. It was that that had brought him here, had made him what he was. Growing up in the East End and hearing its various languages he had sometimes mimicked them when he had gone home. Old Appelmann, visiting once, had noticed his facility and encouraged it. Occasionally he took Seymour with him when he was doing his work as the local interpreter, and had talked about the language after. Old Appelmann had once been a teacher and could not resist teaching now. Gradually, with his help, Seymour had acquired the languages of the East End.

Much of Appelmann’s work had been for the police and in that way they had got to know Seymour too. That had led first to his becoming Appelmann’s paid assistant and then to his joining the police force itself.

At first he had not liked the police and had thought about leaving. But acute superiors had spotted his talent, which was not confined to languages, and encouraged him to make use of it. In time he had settled and things suddenly became easier when, unusually for an ordinary constable, he had been transferred to the Special Branch. They had used him a lot in the East End, where so many languages were spoken.

Trieste, from that point of view, was a delight. It was like the East End only more so. It was Europe in miniature, Europiccola, as James had once said fondly, Europe with all its languages brought together in a small space.

Now, in the cinema, his ear trailed, as it were, lovingly over them; but all the time at the back of his mind he was hearing again the voice of the man who had come to the Consulate late to pick up his ‘papers’. Something about it continued to niggle at him.

A piano at the front of the cinema started to play. The show was about to begin. It was the picture that Lomax had seen on the night he died.
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
. Seymour felt an anticipating thrill of excitement. This, at any rate, should be a treat.

When Seymour came out of the cinema he found his path obstructed by a line of men carrying placards. In the darkness he couldn’t quite see what the placards said. The men didn’t really attempt to block him. They parted and let everyone through.

‘Socialists!’ said a man beside Seymour, contemptuously.

Chapter Six

In most parts of the East End uniformed policemen always went in twos. Seymour was usually not in uniform and, besides, knew the East End and was known in it, so he hadn’t normally bothered to. Nevertheless, he always, and especially after dark, walked carefully. He had developed a sense which told him when he was being followed.

It was telling him now. He stopped outside a shop and looked in, as if he was examining the strings of brightly coloured and variously shaped pasta, and glanced back along the street. A man in a trilby hat was hovering outside a taverna. He seemed to make up his mind and went in. Further along the street two men were talking unhurriedly. An ox-cart came down the street and stopped outside the taverna. The driver and his mate got down and began to unload the barrels.

Seymour walked on. If it hadn’t been for this he would have enjoyed the freshness of the morning, with its smells of baking and of coffee, the fresh smell of the water the shopkeepers were sprinkling on the dust they had just swept out of their shops, the freshness of the sea breeze creeping up into the tired, stale alleys.

After a while, as the feeling persisted, he turned aside into a small piazza where there was an open air market. Fish gleamed on stalls, crabs hung from hooks, sea spiders glistened in shells. Seymour walked through the vegetable stalls loaded with aubergines and tomatoes and peppers of all colours, green, red and yellow, and then out on the other side to where melons were piled on the ground in mountains and where a mother was washing a small child’s face, not in water, because the pump was on the other side of the market, but in melon juice.

He doubled round, turned up a side street, and came out on to the road he had originally been on. He did not step out on to it, however, but hung back in the shadow.

A little later he saw the man in the trilby hat come quickly out of the market and look up and down the street. He spotted Seymour and walked, seemingly casually, across the street to the other side and studied the contents of the window of a gentlemen’s outfitter.

Seymour continued to be conscious of his presence behind. He never came close, however, so Seymour knew that this was a different kind of follower from the ones you got in the East End.

When he arrived at the Consulate Koskash handed him a large envelope from Kornbluth. It contained the preliminary medical findings on the body. He did not at once have time to read it, however, as two more people came to express formal condolence. They came from other consulates, of which there were, not surprisingly, a great many in Trieste. Seymour had been hoping, following the conversation with Maddalena yesterday, that someone else might come forward. Lomax had obviously had acquaintances from outside the diplomatic community. Where were they?

By the time he had got through the consular condolences it was late in the morning and the heat was building up. He decided to get away from the Consulate before anyone else came. He wanted to read in peace the material Kornbluth had sent him.

Koskash, ever polite, came with him to the door. Across the road, leaning apparently casually against a wall, was the man in the trilby.

Koskash laughed.

‘So you, too, have been honoured! You know what they say here? They say that in Trieste the sun is so bright that everyone has a shadow.’

So that was the kind of follower it was. Seymour was quite taken aback. Why should the authorities be watching
him
? The thought came into his mind that perhaps, having mislaid Lomax, they did not wish to mislay him. But that seemed unlikely. From what Koskash had said, it was almost a matter of routine, the style of the place. But what sort of place was it where everyone had a shadow?

He found himself near the Canal Grande and on an impulse turned in towards it and walked along beside the boats to the café where he and Kornbluth had sat the other day.

There were people already at the tables, clerks from the big offices looking down on the canal having their midmorning coffee, storemen already three-quarters of their way through the day sitting down with the captains of the boats, discussing cargoes. In the boats themselves men were working hard on the loading and unloading. This was the time, before the sun got too high, to do the heavy work.

At the end of the canal the women were sitting again on the steps of the church stitching. Occasionally one of them would take her work down some steps on one side of the church. After a while, he thought he had worked it out. There was probably a basement workshop there. The women working there would rather do their stitching outside on the steps.

As he watched, a small procession came out of one of the side streets and stopped in front of the church. It consisted mostly of women. Two held a banner, others gave out leaflets. One woman stood up beside the banner and began to address the women on the steps.

A man came up from the basement and shouted at the speaker, who took no notice. The man hurried away and the speaker went on speaking. The women on the steps listened quietly, no longer chattering.

Suddenly the man appeared once more, this time with a group of policemen. They barged at once into the procession, scattering people, banner and leaflets. Some women fell on to the steps. They picked themselves up, retrieved their leaflets and the banner and regrouped further along the quay.

Unnecessarily heavy-handed policing, thought Seymour, with the critical eye of the professional. Why not just tell them to move on? The other way merely stored up trouble. The reformed procession came down the quay towards Seymour but just before it reached him it turned off. There were about a dozen women and one or two shabbily dressed men. One of the women seemed familiar to Seymour but he didn’t see how this could be and thought he must have make a mistake.

The procession came closely enough, however, for him to be able to read the banner. It was a Socialist banner of some sort; the Socialist Workers Party of Trieste, he thought he read.

He felt a twinge of nostalgia. Demonstrations like this were a familiar feature of the East End. Many of the immigrant families had been obliged to leave their original countries because of their political views and they often brought their principles with them. There were all sorts of little radical groups in the East End. They usually were little; most people followed the immigrant strategy of keeping their heads down. But there were always some who wouldn’t, who argued that what was right in Hungary or Poland or wherever was right in England, too.

Seymour’s own sister was one of these. She was a Socialist, too, which was why she came now into his mind. Socialism was quite strong in Whitechapel, especially among the Jews and in the Jewish tailors’ workshops which were common in the East End, workshops like the one at the end of the canal. She had started going to Socialist meetings when she was still at school and that had led on to other things, to fundraising bazaars, to taking part in demonstrations like this one and to standing on street corners distributing leaflets.

That was the bit that had got Seymour. He had no objection to Socialism as such. In the East End you rather took it for granted. It was the things that went with it.

When the children were small, Seymour’s mother had had to go out to work, which meant that his sister had had to look after him. She had taken him to the meetings she attended, which were often in private houses. It was there that he had first met the various languages of the East End. When he had gone home he had mimicked them, and it was hearing him do this that had made Old Appelmann realize the boy’s extraordinary ear.

Seymour hadn’t minded that part. What he had minded was being obliged by his sister to stand embarrassingly on some cold shop corner accosting the passers-by.

He was remembering this, wryly, when it suddenly came into his mind where he had seen before the woman in the group who had seemed familiar. She was Koskash’s wife.

There was nothing unexpected in the medical report. Lomax had died from a single heavy blow to the back of the head. The body had then been thrown into the water. Its condition was consistent with its having been in the sea for a week to ten days.

There was some ancillary bruising but that had probably come from contact with rocks after the body had been thrown in the sea. There were no wounds of a sort to indicate that Lomax had put up a struggle, that he had not been taken completely by surprise. This was a preliminary report: perhaps the final autopsy would reveal more. It was good of Kornbluth, however, to send it him.

He put the report down on the table. It didn’t add much to what he already knew. What seemed clear was what had been clear without the report: Lomax must have been killed near the water. You wouldn’t want to lug a body too far. That meant he must have walked down to the sea after leaving the Edison. Why had he done that? To freshen up after having been in the hot cinema, take a second, late
passeggiatta
as it were? Or for some other reason: to meet someone, perhaps. For what reason? Pleasure or business? But what business could Lomax have had, down by the docks, probably, so late at night?

The artists were in their usual spot. There seemed, however, to be an argument going on.

‘Now!’ he heard Marinetti’s angry voice. ‘Now he tells me!’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said a voice that was new to Seymour. It came from an upright, smart-looking man, new to the group, who didn’t seem a bit sorry. A thin smile played on his lips. It was almost as if he was enjoying Marinetti’s rage. ‘Mr Machnich, however, has had second thoughts.’

‘But he can’t have second thoughts. Not as late as this! When it was all agreed. Look, it’s happening on Saturday! Next Saturday!’

‘It will have to happen somewhere else,’ said the new man, still with his thin smile. ‘That’s all.’

‘But, Jesus, I’ve arranged it. We’d agreed!’

‘And now it’s disagreed.’

‘Machnich can’t do this to me!’

‘You’ll just have to find another place.’

‘There
isn’t
another place. Not at such short notice. And not as suitable as the Politeama. Look, it’s going to be big. There are going to be hundreds of people there. Only the Politeama will do.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but Mr Machnich has changed his mind.’

‘Look, there’s money in this. For him.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the new man, sceptically.

‘Money. You tell him that. Money! That’s the only thing that’ll interest that bastard.’

The other artists joined in.

‘Too true.’

‘You can say that again!’

‘This is
important
!’ said Marinetti, his voice rising. ‘I’ve got people coming from all over Europe.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the new man, his voice oozing doubt.

‘Yes!’ roared Marinetti. ‘You dumb-headed Bosnian! Can’t you understand? We shall be reading our Manifesto. This is the birth of a new movement. A movement which will change art, and the world, for ever!’

‘Art, is it? I don’t think Mr Machnich is very interested in art.’

‘Well, no, he wouldn’t be. But he is interested in money. Tell him there’s money in this.’

‘Not as much as there is in wrestling.’

‘Wrestling?’

‘That’s what he’ll be putting on instead.’

‘Wrestling!’

‘Yes. Serbia versus Austria. The place will be packed.’

‘Look, this was agreed months ago. He can’t pull out now.’

‘No?’

‘Look. I could run perhaps to just a little more money.’

‘No, you couldn’t. You can’t even run to what was agreed.’

‘Why is he doing this?’

‘Reason broke in. In the end.’

‘You talked him out of it. You bastard!’

‘He needs a little guidance occasionally.’

‘He needs a little guidance about keeping his word. But he wouldn’t be getting that from you, would he?’

The man began to get up.

‘It’s a waste of time talking,’ he said. ‘We’ve made up our minds.’

‘You dumb idiot! You’re turning down the chance of a lifetime!’

The man laughed.

‘We’re pulling out of a big flop. You’ll never fill the Politeama. Not with what you’re planning.’

‘You’re wrong, you’re wrong. I’ve sent out invitations. And I’ve had replies. Dozens of them. Hundreds.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The Governor –’

‘Well, I can tell you that he certainly won’t be coming.’

‘Oh, yes, he will.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘His wife is on the organizing committee.’

The man stopped.

‘What?’

‘On our committee. She’s interested in art. Not like you, you philistine bastard.’

The man turned and came back.

‘Are you having me on?’

‘No, I’m not. You wait and see. Just wait till I tell her that Machnich says we must scrap the whole thing because he can’t keep his word!’

‘If you’re lying to me –’

‘Lying? To the man who has Machnich’s ear? Would I do that? I’d sooner spit in it.’

‘I shall check this –’

‘Check all you like, you dumb idiot!’

The man hesitated.

‘You’re sure about this? Really sure?’

‘As sure as I am that you’re a stupid, ignorant –’

‘The Governor?’

‘And the consuls. And the Chamber of Commerce. Everybody. Everybody who’s anybody.’

‘If you’re having me on –’

‘The Governor. His wife has promised. And if it’s the Governor, it’s going to be everyone else, isn’t it?’

The man hesitated.

‘If you like,’ said Marinetti, ‘I’ll go round and tell her now. I’m sorry, Frau Kruger, but Machnich says –’

‘All right, all right. All right, you can have it. You can have the Politeama for the evening.’

‘Thank you. It’s so nice of you to keep your word. And surprising.’

‘Shut up!’ said the new man, wavering still. ‘The Governor? You’re sure?’

‘And his wife,’ said Marinetti, beaming.

‘The consuls? The diplomatic riff-raff? They’re the ones who matter. You’re sure about them?’

‘If the Governor is there, so will they be.’

He made up his mind, finally.

‘All right then. Don’t cock it up.’

‘Shall I send Machnich an invitation?’