Kindling (14 page)

At seven-fifteen they were seated in an alcove with cigarettes and glasses of hulse, which is the same as the Greek ouzo. Warren poured the water into the clear liquid and watched the white precipitate.

“Here’s luck,” said Pennington. He drank. “I got a little on your man through the Embassy servants. He’s a nephew of Deleben—the son of a brother of Deleben’s wife.”

Warren nodded slowly.

“He’s quite a young man—twenty-two or twenty-three. He’s supposed to be an artist. He spent a year in Paris about three years ago. Does nothing in particular. Rather a pansy, from what I can gather. Keeps a mistress on the other side of the river, but I don’t suppose that interests you. Yes, he’s unmarried. Lives alone in a flat—unless you count the girl.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I can easily find out. We don’t keep any sort of secret service, or anything of that sort, you know. It wouldn’t do. At the same time—we aim to please.”

Warren smiled. “That’s given me enough to be going on with.”

Mr. Pennington cocked an experienced eye at him. “I must say, you don’t waste a lot of time. This is going to be a pleasure to watch.”

Warren spent the evening in infinite boredom, the first of several. He dined alone, and sat for a little
time alone in the lounge. Then, the night being fine, he strolled out into the main streets of the city. At eleven o’clock the city was just beginning to wake up; theatre and cinema crowds were going to their seats; the shops were all open and ablaze with lights. He paused for a moment outside a wide portal, all chromium and glass; from within came a sound of a dance band. It was a night-club of some sort. Over his head a neon sign blazoned the one word, G
ONEA
.

“γυνη,” he said. “It’s half Greek, this language. W
OMAN
. Not bad for a title. Says what it means. A trifle crude?”

He went back to his hotel to bed.

Next day he made contact on the telephone with M. Petre Vislan, and went to see him at his flat. M. Vislan came swaying to meet him, a willowy, dark-haired young man, with a pale, fleshy face, heavily scented. He was refreshingly direct.

“My uncle has told me,” he said in French, “that you must pay twenty thousand dinars, net—you understand? Without deduction for any other parties.”

Warren made a rapid mental calculation. “If the entire business is completed,” he said, “that would be possible. But it would be necessary that the order for the ships should be placed with my group. Apart from that—nothing. The business would not then be interesting to me.”

The other waved a languid handkerchief, flooding the air with scent. “It is a difficulty, so my uncle says. M. Theopoulos is very angry, and he will not wish to disappoint his friends in Germany.”

“It is a difficulty which we must get over,” said
Warren. “I shall expect your uncle to assist in persuading M. Theopoulos to place the order with my group.”

The other sighed. “I will tell my uncle. But it is a great difficulty.”

“Are you able to arrange a meeting for me with M. Theopoulos?”

“I do not know. I will try if I can arrange a meeting. I will talk with my uncle. It is a great difficulty.”

“When will you know if you can arrange a meeting?”

“I do not know. Perhaps I can talk with my uncle to-day. He may telephone to M. Theopoulos—I do not know. Perhaps, this evening, we meet again—in the bar of the Hotel des Nations?”

“That will be a great pleasure,” said Warren formally.

He spent the remainder of the day walking round Visgrad, infinitely bored. In the evening he sat for half an hour in the bar before M. Vislan put in an appearance.

“M. Theopoulos, he is a very busy man,” he said. “Two days—three days—perhaps then you will have an interview with him. My uncle has spoken to him by telephone. But it is a great difficulty.”

Warren wrinkled his brows. “I will write formally to ask him for an interview,” he said. “Your uncle will then be able to remind him.”

“That you may do,” said M. Vislan mournfully. “But M. Theopoulos is very busy.”

Warren dined alone, wrote his formal letter, and went for another walk.

Nothing whatever happened on the following day; he got no answer to his letter. In the afternoon he
took a car to the summit of Monte Turcu, and sat for an hour over a glass of hulse, looking out over the city. He returned to the hotel, read a novel in his bedroom for a couple of hours, and dined alone.

All day he had not spoken to a soul except the hotel servants and the driver of his taxicab. He was most paralytically bored.

He went out to the Gonea.

The tables rose in tiers and little boxes, separated by waist-high partitions, above the oval dancing floor. The place was only scantily filled; it was early. Over by the floor the band were twanging at their instruments, moving restlessly about, and shuffling their music. Warren settled into a small box at the back of the hall, ordered a coffee and a cognac, and waited upon events.

He had not long to wait. Within ten minutes a slim, dark girl was leaning over the back of his box. “You look so sad,” she said in French, with a mocking tone. “It is a great pity. But no doubt you would prefer to be alone?”

He smiled. “It would be very kind of you to join me. I have spoken to nobody all day.”

She slipped into a seat beside him. “It is the business,” she said. “All of you Americans are the same. The business makes you grow so sad.”

“That may be. But I’m English.”

She rippled into laughter. “The English, they are the worst of all.”

Spangles covered the black stuff of her corsage and her dress; her lips and finger-nails were very red, her eyebrows pencilled black. “And you,” he said thoughtfully, “must be Sicilian.”

She pouted. “I declare—it is an insult.”

“A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle.” She threw him a swift, brilliant smile. “I am entirely deceived. From what country do you come?”

“From Corsica. There is my home. In Sulina. You have perhaps travelled in Corsica?”

He shook his head. “Mademoiselle,” he said. “It would be a great pleasure to me if you would drink a glass of wine.”

“Of a certainty. What wine would you prefer?” She fingered the list.

He smiled. “Mademoiselle, I would prefer that wine which carries the most generous commission with the cork, for this first meeting. Later, on future evenings, we drink lemonade.”

She threw her head back and laughed merrily. “You are droll, Monsieur,” she said. “The most droll Englishman that I have ever met. It would amuse me to drink lemonade with you. But for this first evening, we will drink French champagne.”

A waiter appeared behind them swiftly with a bottle and the glasses. She stopped him as he was retiring. “Give me the cork,” she said. He left it on the table with a smile; presently it was joined by another.

She told Warren that her name was Pepita. In a little while they went and danced, talked for a little, and then danced again. Once in the course of the evening she left him for a quarter of an hour to do her turn in cabaret, a Spanish song and dance with castanets; then she came back to him, and they danced again.

At midnight he went back to his hotel. She pouted
as he left her. “It is too early,” she said. “I declare—the English are so sleepy. This place is not yet alive.”

“What time do you get home?” he asked.

“Five o’clock, usually.”

“And then you get up in the middle of the afternoon?”

“But no. At twelve o’clock. That is sufficient sleep for anybody but an Englishman.”

She smiled at him, and he went back to his hotel to bed.

He saw M. Vislan again next morning. “I do not think it is possible to do anything,” he said, waving a scented handkerchief in languid manner. “M. Theopoulos is very busy. I think he will see you before long.”

“I trust so,” said Warren equably. “But I have other business to attend to; it will not be possible for me to wait in Visgrad unless it is possible for the business to progress. Tell your uncle that.”

The other sighed. “It is very difficult. I will talk with my uncle, and I will tell you what he has said.”

Warren went and had a cocktail in the English Club. “Not so good, to-day,” he said in answer to a question from the Consul. “I’m trying to get in to see Theopoulos—without any very great success.”

The Air Attaché smiled. “I thought you knew this town,” he said. “This is Heartbreak House.”

“I guessed as much,” said Warren.

He spent the afternoon asleep upon his bed, in common with the remainder of Visgrad. That night he went again to the Gonea and danced with Pepita.

She told him, as the evening progressed, something
about her life. She rarely spent more than six weeks in one cabaret. She had come to Visgrad a fortnight previously from Athens; before that she had been in Belgrade. She knew Istanbul and Cairo, Bucharest and Tripoli. She spent her life, in fact, in journeying from cabaret to cabaret around the Mediterranean.

He asked, “Do you ever take a holiday?”

She said, “I go to Sulina once a year, to be with my little one. I stay one week—two weeks. But you understand, it is necessary to work.”

He nodded. “Is your little one a boy or a girl?”

She smiled. “A girl, of five years. I go in the spring, or early in the summer. Then I can take her out on to the hill-side, where the flowers are. We make little crowns of the flowers …” She broke off. “M’sieur no doubt would like to dance again?”

Later in the evening he said, “You are perhaps engaged to-morrow afternoon, Mademoiselle? I find,” he explained, “that one does not do business in Visgrad in the afternoon. I have the intention to take an automobile into the mountains for two or three hours—beyond Monte Turcu. It would give me great pleasure if you would accompany me.”

She smiled. “To the high mountains? M’sieur, I would be enchanted. But it will be necessary that I return to Visgrad by six o’clock precisely, for my meal and for my rest. You understand, one must think of one’s profession.…”

She came to the hotel next day, dressed a little extravagantly in black and white; he took her in and gave her lunch. He found that she was known to many of the people lunching in the dining-room; from time
time somebody would catch her eye, and she would smile.

“You know more people than I do, Mademoiselle,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. “It is the same everywhere. In Visgrad all the world visits the Gonea—the men, that is to say. It is so in Athens also, in Sofia, in Aleppo—everywhere.” She turned to him. “M’sieur, I have said that I must return by six o’clock. But now, I have things that I must buy to-day in the shops. Would it be possible that we should return by half-past five?”

“But certainly,” he said.

She threw him one of her swift, brilliant smiles. “M’sieur, you are too kind.”

They left the hotel after coffee, and went out to the car he had engaged. From Visgrad the road ran for ten kilometres across the plain, then rose swiftly into the mountains, first through the grey olive woods and then through pine forest. Warren sat chatting with the girl in the warm sun, content and at rest; the chauffeur drove them at an easy pace.

In the middle of the afternoon they came to a small lake, bordered by a meadow of white flowers, the pine trees dark behind. The girl caught at his arm.

“M’sieur,” she said, “the flowers! They are marvellous! M’sieur, stop the car, and let me walk here for a little.”

He stopped the car and they got out; the chauffeur said something rapidly in Laevatian that Warren could not understand.

“He says that one kilometre farther on there is a
café by the lake,” she said. “I will tell him to wait for us there.”

They strolled down to the lake side; the girl picked a handful of the celandines, and put one in his buttonhole. “It is so beautiful,” she said. “Twice before I have been in Visgrad, but I have never seen this place. Do you know the name?”

He shook his head. “I will ask the chauffeur when we reach the café.” He smiled. “Your little one would like to be here, Mademoiselle?”

She nodded quickly. “M’sieur, it is to places such as this that I take my little one when I am in Sulina, so that when I am away she may remember me with the flowers, and things that are beautiful, and good. I have to be away so much; it is only for one week or for two weeks in each year that I can see her.”

“That is a very little time,” he said.

She nodded again. “It is true. It is not right that a mother should not see her little one more than two weeks in the year. And it is for that, M’sieur, that I spend no money that I can help, and,” she flashed a smile at him, “we do not drink lemonade, M’sieur, but champagne. In five years more, perhaps I shall have saved enough to return to live in Sulina.”

“How much is necessary for that?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It would not be prudent that I should give up my career as artiste till I had saved a hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“That is a very large sum, Mademoiselle.”

She nodded. “Terrifying. Five years ago, when my little one was born and I became responsible—you understand, M’sieur? At that time I determined on
that sum—I declare, I was terrified, it seemed so long to make it, and to leave my little one alone for all these years—insupportable. But now it is already five years, and I have saved nearly the half, and now I demand more money. Twenty dinars a night—I will not dance for less. I have told them in the Gonea—I am artiste, and known to the clientèle.”

They walked down the shore of the lake among the flowers; the air was cool and refreshing after the heat of Visgrad. At the café they sat for a while and drank Turkish coffee, served to them by a veiled girl.

“They are not civilised, these people,” said Pepita.

They drove back to Visgrad and entered the city a few minutes before half-past five. Warren turned to the girl. “Where shall I put you down, Mademoiselle? You wish to do some shopping?”

She thought for a moment. “There is a large shop in the Litescu.” She spoke rapidly to the driver through the screen; he nodded his head. “I have asked him if he will stop in the Litescu; it is on the way to your hotel.”