The Balkan Trilogy (48 page)

The young man took his pipe out from under his big, fluffy moustache and spluttering like a syphon in which the soda level was too low, he managed to say at last: ‘The name’s Lush. Toby Lush. I met you once with Guy Pringle.’

‘So you did,’ agreed Yakimov, who had no memory of it.

‘Let me get you a drink. What is it?’

‘Why, whisky, dear boy. Can’t stomach the native rot-gut.’

Neighing wildly at Yakimov’s humour, Lush went to the bar. Yakimov, having decided his new acquaintance was ‘a bit of an ass’, was surprised when he was led purposefully over to one of the tables by the wall. He did not receive his glass
until he had sat down and he realised something would be demanded in return for it.

After a few moments of nervous pipe-sucking, Lush said: ‘I’m here for keeps this time.’

‘Are you indeed? That’s splendid news.’

With his elbows close to his side, his knees clenched, Lush sat as though compressed inside his baggy sports-jacket and flannels. He sucked and gasped, gasped and spluttered, then said: ‘When the Russkies took over Bessarabia, I told myself: “Toby, old soul, now’s the time to shift your bones.” There’s always the danger of staying too long in a place.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Cluj. Transylvania. I never felt safe there. I’m not sure I’m safe here.’

It occurred to Yakimov that he had heard the name Toby Lush before. Didn’t the fellow turn up for a few days in the spring, bolted from Cluj because of some rumour of a Russian advance? Yakimov, always sympathetic towards fear, said reassuringly:

‘Oh, you’re all right here. Nice little backwater. The Germans are getting all they want. They won’t bother us.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Lush’s pale, bulging eyes surveyed the bar. ‘Quite a few of them about though. I don’t feel they like us being here.’

‘It’s the old story,’ said Yakimov: ‘infiltrate, then complain about the natives. Still, it was worse last week. I said to Albu: “Dry Martini” and he gave me three martinis.’

Squeezing his knees together, Lush swayed about, gulping with laughter. ‘You’re a joker,’ he said. ‘Have another?’

When he returned with the second whisky, Lush had sobered up, intending to speak what was on his mind: ‘You’re a friend of Guy Pringle, aren’t you?’

Yakimov agreed. ‘Very old and dear friend. You know I played Pandarus in his show?’

‘Your fame reached Cluj. And you lodge with the Pringles?’

‘We share a flat. Nice little place. You must come and have a meal with us.’

Lush nodded, but he wanted more than that. ‘I’m looking for a job,’ he said. ‘Pringle runs the English Department, doesn’t he? I’m going to see him, of course, but I thought perhaps you’d put in a word for me. Just say: “I met Toby Lush today. Nice bloke,” something like that.’ Toby gazed earnestly at Yakimov, who assured him at once: ‘If I say the word, you’ll get the job tomorrow.’

‘If there’s a job to be got.’

‘These things can always be arranged.’ Yakimov emptied his glass and put it down. Lush rose, but said with unexpected firmness: ‘One more, then I have to drive round to the Legation. Must make my number.’

‘You have a car? Wonder if you’d give me a lift?’

‘With pleasure.’

Lush’s car was an old mud-coloured Humber, high-standing and hooded like a palanquin.

‘Nice little bus,’ said Yakimov. Placing himself in an upright seat from which the wadding protruded, he thought of the beauties of his own Hispano-Suiza.

The Legation, a brick-built villa in a side street, was hedged around with cars. On the dry and patchy front lawn a crowd of men – large, practical-looking men in suits of khaki drill – were standing about, each with an identical air of despondent waiting. They watched the arrival of the Humber as though it might bring them something. As he passed among them, Yakimov noted with surprise that they were speaking English. He could identify none of them.

Lush was admitted to the chancellery. Yakimov, as had happened before, was intercepted by a secretary.

‘Oh, Prince Yakimov, can I help you?’ she said, extruding an elderly charm. ‘Mr Dobson is so busy. All the young gentlemen are busy these days, poor young things. At their age life in the service should be all parties and balls, but with this horrid war on they have to work like everyone else. I suppose it’s to do with your
permis de séjour
?’

‘It’s a personal matter.
Ra
-ther important. I’m afraid I must see Mr Dobson.’

She clicked her tongue, but he was admitted to Dobson’s presence.

Dobson, whom he had not seen since the night of the play, raised his head from his work in weary inquiry: ‘Hello, how are you?’

‘Rather the worse for war,’ said Yakimov. Dobson gave a token smile, but his plump face, usually bland, was jaded, his eyes rimmed with pink; his whole attitude discouraging. ‘We’ve had an exhausting week with the crisis. And now, on top of everything, the engineers have been dismissed from the oil fields.’

‘Those fellows outside?’

‘Yes. They’ve been given eight hours to get out of the country. A special train is to take them to Constanza. Poor devils, they’re hanging around in hope we can do something!’

‘So sorry, dear boy.’

At the genuine sympathy in Yakimov’s tone, Dobson let his pen drop and rubbed his hands over his head. ‘H.E.’s been ringing around for the last two hours, but it’s no good. The Rumanians are doing this to please the Germans. Some of these engineers have been here twenty years. They’ve all got homes, cars, dogs, cats, horses … I don’t know what. It’ll make a lot of extra work for us.’

‘Dear me, yes.’ Yakimov slid down to a chair and waited until he could introduce his own troubles. When Dobson paused, he ventured: ‘Don’t like to worry you at a time like this, but …’

‘Money, I suppose?’

‘Not altogether. You remember m’Hispano-Suiza. The Jugs are trying to prig it.’ He told his story. ‘Dear boy,’ he pleaded, ‘you can’t let them do it. The Hispano’s worth a packet. Why, the chassis alone cost two thousand five hundred quid. Body by Fernandez – heaven knows what Dollie paid for it. Magnificent piece of work. All I’ve got in the world. Get me a visa, dear boy. Lend me a few thou. I’ll get the car and flog it. We’ll have a bean-feast, a royal night at Cina’s – champers and the lot. What d’you say?’

Dobson, listening with sombre patience, said: ‘I suppose you know the Rumanians are requisitioning cars.’

‘Surely not British cars?’

‘No.’ Dobson had to admit that the tradition of British privilege prevailed in spite of all. ‘Mostly Jewish cars. The Jews are always unfortunate, but they
do
own the biggest cars. What I mean is, this isn’t a good time to sell. People are unwilling to buy an expensive car that might be requisitioned.’

‘But I don’t really want to sell, dear boy. I love the old bus. … She’d be useful if there were an evacuation.’

Dobson drew down his cheek and plucked at his round pink mouth. ‘I’ll tell you what! One of us is going to Belgrade in a week or so – probably Foxy Leverett. You’ve got the receipt and car key and so on? Then I’ll get him to collect it and drive it back. I suppose it’s in order?’

‘She was in first-class order when I left her.’

‘Well, we’ll see what we can do,’ Dobson rose, dismissing him.

Outside the Legation, the oil-men were still standing about, but the Humber had gone. As Yakimov set out to walk back through the sultry noonday, he told himself: ‘No more tramping on m’poor old feet. And,’ he added on reflection, ‘she’s worth money. I’d make a packet if I sold her.’

5

A week after the visit to the park café, Harriet, drawn out to the balcony by a sound of rough singing, saw a double row of marching men rounding the church immediately below her. They crossed the main square.

Processions were not uncommon in Bucharest. They were organised for all sorts of public occasions, descending in scale from grand affairs in which even the Cabinet ministers were obliged to take part, to straggles of schoolchildren in the uniform of the Prince’s youth movement.

The procession she saw now was different from any of the others. There was no grandeur about it, but there was a harsh air of purpose. Its leaders wore green shirts. The song was unknown to her, but she caught one word of it which was repeated again and again on a rising note:

‘Capitanul, Capitanul…’

The Captain. Who the captain was she did not know.

She watched the column take a sharp turn into the Calea Victoriei, then, two by two, the marchers disappeared from sight. When they were all gone, she remained on the balcony with a sense of nothing to do but stand there.

The flat behind her was silent. Despina had gone to market. Yakimov was in bed. (She sometimes wished she could seal herself off, as he did, in sleep.) Sasha – for he was still with them despite her decree of ‘one night only’ – was somewhere up on the roof. (Like Yakimov, he had nowhere else to go.) Guy, of course, was busy at the University.

The ‘of course’ expressed a growing resignation. She had looked forward to the end of the play and the end of the
term, imagining she would have his companionship and support against their growing insecurity. Instead, she saw no more of him than before. The summer school, planned as a part-time occupation, had attracted so many Jews awaiting visas to the States, he had had to organise extra classes. Now he taught and lectured even during the siesta time.

On the day the oil engineers were expelled from Ploesti, the Pringles, like other British subjects, received their first notice to quit the country. Guy was just leaving the flat when a buff slip was handed him by a
prefectura
messenger. He passed it over to Harriet. ‘Take it to Dobson,’ he said. ‘He’ll deal with it.’

He spoke casually, but Harriet was disturbed by this order to pack and go. She said: ‘But supposing we have to leave in eight hours?’

‘We won’t have to.’

His unconcern had made the matter seem worse to her, yet he had been proved right. Dobson had had their order rescinded, and that of the other British subjects in Bucharest, but the oil engineers had had to go.

At different times during the day, Harriet had seen their wives and children sitting about in cafés and restaurants. The children, becoming peevish and troublesome, had been frowned on by the Rumanians, who did not take children to cafés. The women, uprooted, looked stunned yet trustful, imagining perhaps that, in the end, it would all prove a mistake and they would return to their homes. Instead, they had had to take the train to Constanza and the boat to Istanbul.

Despite the Rumanian excuse that the expulsion had been carried out on German orders, the German Minister was reported to have said: ‘Now we know how Carol would treat us if we were the losers.’

Well, the engineers, however unwillingly they may have gone, had gone to safety. Harriet could almost wish Guy and she had been forced to go with them.

While she stood on the balcony with these reflections in mind, the city shook. For an instant, it seemed to her that the
balcony shelved down. She saw, or thought she saw, the cobbles before the church. In terror she put out her hand to hold to something, but it was as though the world had become detached in space. Everything moved with her and there was nothing on which to hold. An instant – then the tremor passed.

She hurried into the room and took up her bag and gloves. She could not bear to be up here on the ninth floor. She had to feel the earth beneath her feet. When she reached the pavement, that burnt like the Sahara sand, her impulse was to touch it.

Gradually, as she crossed the square and saw the buildings intact and motionless, the familiar crowds showing no unusual alarm, she lost her sense of the tremor’s supernatural strangeness. Perhaps here, in this inland town with its empty sky ablaze and the sense of the land-mass of Europe lying to the west, earthquakes were common enough. But when, in the Calea Victoriei, she came on Bella Niculescu, she cried out, forgetting the check on their relationship: ‘Bella, did you feel the earthquake?’

‘Didn’t I just?’ Bella responded as she used to respond: ‘It scared me stiff. Everyone’s talking about it. Someone’s just said it wasn’t an earthquake at all, but an explosion at Ploesti. It’s started a rumour that British agents are blowing up the oil-wells. Let’s hope not. Things are tricky enough for us without that.’

The first excitement of their meeting over, Bella looked disconcerted and glanced about her to see who might have witnessed it. Harriet felt she had done wrong in accosting her friend. Neither knowing what to say, they were about to make excuses and separate when they were distracted by a lusty sound of singing from the distance. Harriet recognised the refrain of ‘
Capitanul
’. The men in green shirts were returning.

‘Who are they?’ Harriet asked.

‘The Iron Guard, of course. Our local fascists.’

‘But I thought they’d been wiped out.’

‘
That’s
what we were told.’

As the leaders advanced, lifting their boots and swinging their arms, Harriet saw they were the same young men she had observed in the spring, exiles returned from training in the German concentration camps. Then, shabby and ostracised, they had hung unoccupied about the street corners. Now they were marching on the crown of the road, forcing the traffic into the kerb, filling the air with their anthem, giving an impression of aggressive confidence.

Like everyone else, the two women silenced by the uproar of ‘
Capitanul
’, stood and watched the column pass. It was longer than it had been that morning. The leaders, well dressed and drilled, gained an awed attention, but this did not last. The middle ranks, without uniforms, were finding it difficult to keep in step, while the rear was brought up by a collection of out-of-works, no doubt converted to Guardism that very morning. Some were in rags. Shuffling, stumbling, they gave nervous side-glances and grins at the bystanders and their only contribution to the song was an occasional shout of ‘
Capitanul
’. This was too much for the Rumanian sense of humour. People began to comment and snigger, then to laugh outright.

‘Did you ever see the like!’ said Bella.