‘I think we ought to go,’ said Harriet.
David agreed: ‘It is a bit sinister.’
They took their leave of Galpin and moved towards the door. Guy, glancing round to include all his faction, noticed that Clarence was lingering uncertainly behind. ‘Coming with us?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I …’ Clarence looked at Harriet, but when she did not wait to listen, he followed after her.
They reached the row of bodies wedged across the door. Beyond could be glimpsed the glitter of the women guests, the white shirt-fronts of the men. Here was Bucharest’s wealthiest and most frivolous society standing, grave-faced, almost at attention, singing the Nazi anthem.
David bent to the ear of the central figure blocking the doorway and said: ‘Scuzǎ, domnuli.’ The figure remained rigid. David repeated his request and, when it was ignored, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and shook it.
Angrily the man half turned his face to say: ‘Hier ist nur eine private Gesellschaft. Der Eintritt ist nicht gestattet.’
Amused and reasonable, David replied: ‘Wir wollen einfach heraus.’
The man jerked his face away with the word ‘Verboten’.
David looked round. ‘We are – how many?’ Noting Clarence, Dubedat and Toby in the rear, he made a grimace of humorous resignation and said: ‘The more the merrier, I suppose. Well, come along. Put your shoulders against these fellows and when I say “Shove”, let’s all shove.’
‘Wait,’ said Harriet, ‘I know a better way.’ She unclasped a large brooch of Indian silver and held the pin at the ready. Before anyone could intervene – Clarence breathed ‘Harry!’ in horror – she thrust the pin into the central backside. Its owner skipped forward with a yelp, leaving a space through which she led her party.
As the Rumanians observed this incident the Horst Wessel faltered, but nobody smiled.
Having reached the vestibule, the men wanted to get away quickly, but Harriet felt a desire to linger on the scene of triumph. The occasion, she felt, called for some sort of demonstration. She moved towards the table where the newspapers lay.
Guy said warningly: ‘Harriet!’ but she went on.
At one time the table had displayed copies of every English journal published; now among the German and Rumanian newspapers there still remained the last copy of The Times to reach Bucharest. It bore the date June 12th 1940. Harriet picked it up and began to read a report of the French retreat across the Marne, but the paper was too limp and ragged to remain upright. As its pages sagged, she saw she was being watched by a woman whose face was familiar to her.
Guy caught her elbow. ‘Come along,’ he said, ‘you’re being silly.’
The woman, plainly dressed in black, was holding a glass as though unaware she held it. Her flat, faded, colourless face seemed to have on it the imprint of a heel. About her was an atmosphere of such unhappiness, it affected the air like a miasma.
Harriet said: ‘Yes, I am being silly …’ As she let Guy lead her away, she remembered who the woman was: Doamna Ionescu, the wife of the ex-Minister of Information who had been pro-British but was pro-British no longer.
The singing had gathered strength again, but everyone watched the English party as it went.
‘Well,’ said Clarence out in the square, ‘this may be Ruritania, but it’s no longer a joke.’
Guy looked about for Dubedat and Toby. The pair had not waited to support Harriet; they had fled. Halfway across the square Dubedat could be seen strutting at an indecorous speed while Toby, shoulders up, head down, hands in pockets, pinching himself with his own elbows, was scurrying like a man under fire.
8
Occasionally when Yakimov overslept in the afternoon, he would awake to find the Pringles had gone out and Despina – to spite him – had cleared away the tea things. When this happened on one of the molten days of late July, he suddenly felt to the full the deterioration of his life and could have wept for it. There had been a time when the world had given him everything: comfort, food, entertainment, love. He had been a noted wit, the centre of attention. Now he did not even get his tea.
He threw himself into the arm-chair in a state of revolt. No one had loved him since Dollie died. Perhaps no one would ever love him again – but why should he have to suffer as he did suffer in this wretched flat, in this exhausting heat? He wanted to get away.
A bugle call, coming from the palace yard, said: ‘Officers’ wives have puddings and pies, soldiers’ wives have skilly,’ and he thought: ‘Precious few puddings and pies we get these days.’ He did not entirely blame Harriet for that. Food was abominable everywhere in Bucharest these days.
Pushing his chair back as the lengthening fingers of sunlight burnt his shins, he asked himself: why did he live – why did anyone live – here, on this exposed plain, where one was fried in summer and frozen in winter? And now starved! Nothing to eat but fruit.
Apricots! He was sick of the sight of apricots.
That morning he had seen a barrow laden with raspberries – a great mountainous mush of raspberries – the peasant asleep beneath it. The man had probably walked all night to bring his produce to town, but the market was glutted. The raspberries were rotting in the heat and the man’s shirt was crimson with the dripping juice.
In his youth, in a reasonable country, Yakimov had said he could live on raspberries. Now he dreamt of meat. If one got any here, it was the flesh of an old ewe or of a calf so young it was nothing but gristle. What he wanted was steak or roast beef or pork! – and he thought he knew where he could get it.
When he told the Baron that Freddi von Flügel had invited him to stay, it had been just ‘a little joke’. He had heard nothing from Freddi, but that was no reason why Yakimov should not visit him. Freddi had received a great deal of Dollie’s hospitality. Why should he not return it now that he was in ‘a position of power’ and poor old Yaki was on his uppers?
Yakimov had practically made up his mind to set out – the only thing that detained him was the need for money. He had studied maps of Transylvania and realised the journey from Bucharest to Cluj was a long one. He would have to spend the night on the road. He would have to eat. In short, he would have to wait until his remittance turned up.
When he had mentioned to Hadjimoscos that he planned to drive to Cluj, Hadjimoscos had been discouraging. Apparently, as a result of some wretched conference being held in Salzburg, Cluj was now in disputed territory and liable to change hands any day. After hearing that, Yakimov had begun to inquire of Galpin and Screwby about the progress of the conference, and soon came to the conclusion that nothing was happening at all. And he had been right. Even Hadjimoscos now agreed with him that the conference would probably drag on until the war put a stop to the whole business.
Meanwhile, he had to remain here in a comfortless flat where he was not wanted by the hostess, and the host, having made use of him, had scarcely time to throw him a word. His acute sense of hardship was suddenly aggravated by a sound of laughter coming from the kitchen: and his curiosity was aroused.
The laughter had not been the usual sniggering of servants. He had heard Despina laugh, he had heard her husband. This was unfamiliar laughter. Who had she got in there? It occurred to him to put his head into the kitchen and make some jocular reference to tea.
The kitchen door had a glass panel. He approached quietly and looked in. Himself hidden by the lace curtain, he could see Despina and a young man sitting at the table preparing vegetables for the evening meal. A young man, eh! Despina was married to a taxi-driver who was more often out than in. Well, well! The two at the table were chattering in Rumanian. The fellow started laughing again.