A Pocketful of Rye (16 page)

There's a restaurant in Davos called the Fluehgass, which is quiet and good. I took him there. Although the Grisons is a German-speaking canton the menu was promisingly typed in French, and after an amicable show of consulting my companion I decided
on filet mignons aux bolets
with
pommes frites
and a cup of clear strong oxtail soup as a starter. You get tired of the eternal veal in Switzerland and that tender pink steak would be good for him. And I ordered a half bottle of the Val d'Or Johannesburger, a light delicious wine from Sion. One glass wouldn't hurt him.

‘This is very cosy.' He rubbed his hands. It was a good corner booth, near the pine log that was smouldering on the field-stone hearth.

We were getting chummier than ever, as I had planned. It was too easy and I didn't dislike it. Although he might be a little toad, he was well mannered, never bored or nagged you and knew when to be silent.

He lapped up the soup and on the first chew of the
filet
, rolled his eyes at me.

‘Try a sip of the wine.'

He did.

‘That's delicious too. Like nippy honey. Good job Matron isn't looking, Dr Laurence.'

‘Why don't you drop the doctor,' I suggested. ‘Just make it Laurence.

He stopped eating.

‘What a compliment.'

‘To me or you?'

‘To me, of course.' And looking up, he gave me a warm, diffident smile.

It hit me, that smile, right smack between the eyes. Where had I seen it before? In some old cracked snapshot, or mirrored faintly in a long forgotten past. Smile now, dear, and look at the camera. Or, as I grinned in the looking glass, admiring my new school cap. My smile, before the early gloss had worn off me.

I felt void, sick and shaken. God, it was the moment of truth all right. Why hadn't I rumbled it before? She had told me it was staring me in the face – the AB blood group should have warned me – almost a natural follow on from a group O father. But I had got out of so many beds scot free, I never dreamed that I had balled up the issue in that one. And Davigan had waited, ready to spring it on me when the time came, holding it, nursing it alone for the knock-out. That rattled me. Did she expect me to fall on her bosom and weep? Soft music and the young lovers reunited at last. If so, what a hope. I wasn't the type to swoon and melt. I would work something out. I would …

‘Are you feeling all right, Laurence?'

I pulled myself together. He was looking at me with concern.

‘I'm fine.' After all, he wasn't to blame. ‘Just something … something that went the wrong way.'

No words of mine were ever more truly spoken.

With the help of black coffee and a brandy I got through the rest of the meal. Then it was time to take off.

As on the night of our meeting I made him lie down on the back seat of the car. I wanted no chatter, and he needed the rest. The meal had made him sleepy. I drove slowly, scarcely aware of the twists and turns of that difficult road, staring straight ahead.

The thought that I was co-proprietor of this derelict little property in the back seat, this sad little freak, of frail physique and precocious intellect, the bright brain in the dim body, was a crusher, all right. Take it from me – a crusher.

Yet as I drove on, blind, reason began to assert itself. A crusher? But why, Carroll? Why? Don't be so hasty, counting yourself out, when you're not even in the ring. All this is past history. Long past. I swerved instinctively on a bend, missing the other car by an inch, barely seeing it. Yes, the book is closed and can't be reopened. Who saw you turn back that night of the ordination and go skulking … well, let's be polite and say speeding, towards the Considine house? Only the Almighty, and He is unlikely to broadcast it from the heavens. And were you not welcomed? You were, Carroll. Warmly welcomed. And afterwards, while you remained in total ignorance, she accepted her responsibility, married Davigan, covered up the situation, lived with it. Who is to believe her at this late stage of the game if she tries to pin the blame on you? Can you see her going to Hulda: ‘Excuse me, Matron, there's something I forgot to tell you, just escaped my memory, so to speak … the truth is that …' She's wearing a shawl and it's snowing outside. What a B. picture! She couldn't do it ever, she is too … too tough. She would know it must get the horse's laugh. No, Carroll, don't rush in where angels fear to tread. I liked that touch – it made me smile. Yes, say nothing, play it sostenuto, and await developments, if any. Meanwhile, on your side of the fence, keep after the kid for further revelations.

I felt somewhat better, relieved in fact, after this self-communion, and by the time we'd reached the Maybelle I was able to face the Matron, who had been waiting on us, with my usual self-possession.

‘So, you are safe home again, Daniel. Was it a goot time?'

‘Splendid, thank you, Matron …' I stood by while he sketched our programme for her.

‘Ach, so.' She turned to me, looking pleased. ‘And he seems not too tired?'

‘I was extremely careful,' I said soberly, encouraged by her manner which was mild, even remotely kindly – perhaps Davigan had been laying off me at last.

‘Well, now it is for you the bed,' said Hulda, taking his ever ready hand. ‘Come. Your mother shops in the village so I will put you.' Looking over her shoulder as they went out: ‘Hot coffee in your flask, Herr Doktor.'

It wouldn't last of course, I felt in all my bones there must be stormy weather ahead, but for the present I almost felt a member of the family.

Towards the end of the week the thermometer had risen and on Saturday, under a grey and humid sky, the
Foehn
was stirring, that soft damp neurotic wind detested by the Swiss. There are two winds in Switzerland, the
bise
which blasts down Lac Leman to Geneva and chills you to the bone, and the
Foehn
which on occasion blows everywhere and is worse than the
bise
, reducing you to a wet sweat rag, wrung out and limp. Around the Maybelle patches of soiled snow despoiled the landscape, slush glued up the streets and a steady drip came from the suffering pines. In short, a horrible day, but one well suited to our purpose. Without a doubt, this Saturday afternoon all the habitués would be parked round the stove drying themselves out at the Pfeffermühle.

Looking him over that morning I was less inclined now to go through with my promise; indeed, if I had known the living hell that would be let loose on me that same evening I would have cut out the entire affair. But Daniel had not allowed me to forget it, and in fact I had my own purpose behind the expedition. This afternoon when I had indulged the kid with his chess I meant to coax out of him the one last bit of information I needed. So when he'd had his rest after the
Mittagessen
I smuggled him into the station wagon and took off quietly. At the worst I could tell Matron we had gone for a drive. As for Davigan, we were now barely on speaking terms. He'd had a sleep and was in his usual chatty mood, grateful that I was taking him and a bit excited.

He was not on the uplift now, though still bearing up, just a trifle shimmery – his red cells rather better than when I first made the count, but these infernal whites creeping up on him again. By exerting myself I had become even more chummy with him.

‘I hope I don't let you down, Laurence,' he said, as the car slushed through the village.

‘Don't give it a thought. Just enjoy your game.'

‘Oh, I will. I love a good stiff contest.'

‘I'm sorry I'm so little use to you. One of the advantages of going back home, you'll resume your games with Dingwall.'

‘Yes … I suppose so,' he said, rather doubtfully.

I drew up and parked at the Pfeffermühle where an array of old bicycles, the form of transport favoured by the locals, indicated a full house. We went in, greeted by a waft of odorous steamy air and a general exhalation of ‘
Grüssgotts
'. The Maybelle, as I have mentioned, not without pride, was in good standing with the village, an esteem which, perhaps because their knowledge of me was slight, I appeared to share. I took the table at the window, farthest from the stove, which was red hot, and ordered a beer and an Apfelsaft. Yes, as far as I could judge, they were all there; Bemmel, the man we were after, ex-teacher and leader of the troupe, Scwhartz the water bailiff, Minder the undertaker, not busy today, a couple of near-by peasant farmers, and of course Bachmann, owner of the tavern, together with a fair congregation of the usual village hangers-on.

Bemmel, though a man of some learning, which explained his prestige with the group, was a weird piece of work. Extremely short and thick, uncouth, untidy and unbelievably hairy, with an all-enveloping yellow stained beard that left only his two small sharp eyes exposed, he might have passed for the original beatnik or the oldest of the Seven Dwarfs. He wore a soiled knitted brown cardigan and skull-cap, a half-smoked unlit cigar end protruding from its hairy nest. This half burned-out stub, well masticated, held for hours between the jaws, is, in the rural cantons, the prestige symbol of the Swiss male. Thus equipped, and with the coloured Cantonal skull-cap set well back on his head, he may undertake the most menial tasks, shovel snow or muck, spread liquid manure with the hose between his legs, disembowel the dung heap or handle the
Glockenspiel
, yet remain a free man, a voter, which the women are not, a true upstanding Swiss, consciously aware of himself as the lineal descendant of the mythical Wilhelm Tell.

A marked silence had followed our arrival, they had their eyes on us, inclined to welcome our intrusion as a diversion on a dull day. I waited until our drinks were brought then casually asked for chess men and the board, a request which seemed to stir them up. Once we had set up the men and begun to play, beyond a few desultory remarks made simply as a cover for their self-esteem, they were watching us closely.

For reasons of strategy, since I wished to avoid the obvious, I did my best but, as usual, our game ended in short order, which gave me the opportunity to make a public exhibition of myself.

‘
Verflixt! Gopfriedstutz!
Every time he wins.' I threw it at them in loud, angry Schweizerdeutsch.

This caught their fancy and Bemmel, who was stuck on his French and liked to show it off, said indulgently:

‘
Il est bon, le petit
?'

‘
Bon
!
C'est un geni. En Ecosse il est champion de sa ville.
'

‘
Et vous dites qu'il gagne toujours?
' The cigar end looked amused.

I thought it time to bring in the others.

‘
Niemand kann gegen diesen Kerl gewinnen
,' I said it in Schweizerdeutsch, and continued in the same crude lingo. ‘And I prove it. For a round of drinks I back him against the best man here.' It would be worth the money just to drag in Bemmel.

There was silence followed by a sudden cackle. In a minute they were all bursting themselves.

‘You can laugh,' I said. ‘But will you play? You, Herr Bemmel? You accept my bet?'

This dried up the laughter but not the grins. They were all looking at Bemmel.

‘Ach, Herr Doktor, we can not refuse your so generous hospitality. Perhaps I give your leetle friend a short lesson.'

He got up, stretched, still grinning, then waddled over and took my place. The gang grouped themselves back of him while, after a preliminary of setting up the pieces, he made a condescending gesture.

‘Pegin then, leetle poy.'

‘Oh, no. We must be fair. You are the challenger. You have the honour and may have the white.'

Although I did not know this, apparently white always starts first.

With a hand like a ham the schoolmaster made the initial move, a Knight. Daniel replied with a pawn. I was wishing by now, wishing like mad, that I had a real knowledge of the game beyond my usual incentive of trying to knock off my opponent's queen. I knew that Daniel must lose, banked on it in fact, to soften him up. But with the thing begun, I wanted him to put up a good show and the devil of it was, I couldn't follow the technique of the game. All I could do was watch the faces of the players.

Daniel was pale but calm, the schoolmaster still wearing his cigar end jauntily, making his moves quite fast and, after the fourth, sounding a helpful confidential warning.

‘Achtung, leetle poy!' He was worse than Hulda.

Whatever happened in the next few moves was beyond me but it seemed that, after two pawns were exchanged for a bishop that Daniel calmly sacrificed, the butt came in for some harsh mastication and instead of the Achtung we had an ‘
Ach so
' followed by a measurable pause. Something had gone wrong with that quick and sudden
coup.

After that the pace was slower. Bemmel in particular took his time, punctuating his moves with aggressive grunts in different keys. Background noises from the spectators accompanied the various moves. Unlike me, they knew the game, and were watching it, waiting for the kill. Daniel remained silent, paler than before, but gradually a few beads of moisture began to break on his brow. This sign of concentration, or of stress, had me worried, and I blamed myself for letting him in for it. Worse followed when the schoolmaster moved his queen, gave out a thick chuckle, and lay back in his seat, supported by a chorus of approval from the rear.

‘
Czechk.
'

I thought: It's the beginning of the end. But no, not yet. Daniel moved out of check then sacrificed a rook that had been threatened by the queen. Bemmel removed it with a grin. Daniel moved his remaining bishop. Then came a hollow pause. A hint of surprise had crept into the assembly, they were muttering.

‘
Achtung; der Bauer
, Bemmel!'

The bishop moved again, two further moves, then Daniel slid forward an inconspicuous but nasty little pawn. At least Bemmel did not appear to love it. And there was more noise from the background, but differently attuned.