Soon the face of Carol’s enemy, who had been, until a few weeks before, a despised traitor, was exhibited everywhere as national hero, martyr and saint.
When Harriet entered the University, she knew at once that the building was empty, or almost empty. The porter had probably taken the day off. She went down the corridor. The lecture-room door stood open. No one had pulled down the blinds. Midday poured hot and heavy on to the vacant seats.
She found Guy in his office. He was sitting over some exercise-books, apparently intent, but jerked his head round when she entered. Hoping for a student, he looked surprised to see her. He said: ‘They’ve all taken a holiday.’
‘Why didn’t you come home?’
‘There were three classes this morning. Someone might have turned up for one of them.’
‘The Iron Guard is out in force today.’
‘I heard them. You weren’t anxious about me, were you?’ He took her hand affectionately. ‘No need to worry. The Guardists won’t cause trouble at the moment. They don’t want to spoil their chance of coming to power.’
‘Well, you needn’t stay here any longer. Let’s walk across the park.’
He stood up, then thought to look at his watch. ‘The last hour has only just begun,’ he said. ‘I must allow a bit more time. Someone might turn up.’
‘They won’t. They dare not risk it.’
But Guy would not give up hope. He strolled round the room, humming to himself, and Harriet, suffering for him, said: ‘I’ll go out and wait on the terrace.’
He remained inside some ten minutes longer. When he appeared he said in a jaunty way: ‘Come along, then. Let’s go to the park.’
The heat swelling in the air, pressed like an eiderdown on the senses, but there was no lull in the excitement. The gipsies were cock-a-hoop among their flower baskets, shrieking about them as though the day were a triumph for their race.
The park was full of peasants. As usual most of them were grouped in wonder, gaping at the tapis vert. Its grass was still trimmed and watered, but the swagged surround was losing its shape. The general neglect was evident. The hedges were unclipped, weeds and grass grew in the beds. The canna lilies and gladioli fell unstaked across the paths. The dahlias, that last year had been a firework display, were lost in a jungle of dead flowers and foliage.
The Pringles took the path that dropped down to the lake café. Peasants were sitting in the shade of the chestnuts, but stiffly, arms round knees, self-conscious here in the city, exuding, for all the festivity of their dress, a mute sense of endurance. In the past there had always been half a dozen men here selling sesame cakes and Turkish delight, but sweet-meats were rare and expensive now, and only one man remained. He held a tray of peanuts.
Guy and Harriet crossed the bridge to the café and sat where they usually sat, by the rail. Guy had brought a batch of exercise-books with him and while they waited for the wine he had ordered, he brought out his fountain-pen and set to work on them. Harriet had been given a copy of the Guardist news-sheet Capitanul. She now made her way through the leading article which was a laudation of General Antonescu. The general, called as a witness at the trial of Codreanu, had been asked if he considered Codreanu to be a traitor. He had crossed the court-room, seized hold of Codreanu’s hand and said: ‘Would General Antonescu give his hand to a traitor?’ As a result of this act, the Guardists claimed him for their own.
She put the pamphlet aside and watched Guy at work. She felt no inclination now to protest or interrupt. She was beginning to suspect that while Inchcape ignored truth, Guy merely pretended to ignore it. Perhaps it was for her sake he would not admit the hopelessness of their situation here. Anyway, she realised that while they remained he must make a show of having a job to do. He must believe that he was needed.
She looked away across the hazy, dirty water. Sitting here, a year before, they had thought of the war as a compact area of conflict about three hundred miles distant.
Rumania then had been sleek and prosperous, a land of plenty. Even this café, one of the cheapest, had given plates of olives, cheese and gherkins when one bought a glass of wine. Now those things were scarce. She seemed to remember the water, beneath its haze of heat, as translucent as crystal. Now it smelt of weed. The crusted surf round the café held captive floating bottles, orange-peel, match boxes and paper bags. As for the café itself, it reflected in its greyish weathered timbers, its crippled chairs, its dirty table papers, the decay of the whole country.
She sighed, feeling in the gummy September heat all the tedium of the year repeating itself. Guy, thinking she was bored, said: ‘Nearly finished,’ but she was not bored. Becoming conditioned to Guy’s preoccupation, she was learning the resort of her own reflections. With him, in any case, talk was too general for intimacy. He despised the metaphysical and the personal. He did not gossip. She was beginning to believe that what he had lacked was a fundamental interest in the individual – a belief that would astonish him were she to accuse him. But she did not accuse him. Once she had believed that finding him, she had found everything: now she was not so sure. But here they were, wrecked together on the edge of Europe as on an island and she was learning to keep her thoughts to herself.
When he put down his pen, Guy picked up the news-sheet and pointed out the name of the editor. It was Corneliu Zelea Codreanu. Then followed the names of the editorial board.
‘All dead,’ said Guy. ‘At every meeting these names are called out first and someone answers “Present”. No wonder the Iron Guard is called “the legion of ghosts”.’
‘Still,’ said Harriet, ‘they have a sort of idealism …’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Guy laughed, rising to his feet. ‘If they come to power, the same crimes will be committed, but only for the best possible reasons.’
They crossed the bridge over the lake and walked through open parkland to the rear gate where stood the statue of a disgraced politician. Ever since Harriet had been in Bucharest, the head of the politician had been hidden in a linen bag. Today the bag had been removed. The politician – a short, stout man with head thrown back, one foot advanced, one hand extended in a Dantonesque gesture, was revealed as snub-nosed, his features clustered together like a bunch of radishes. No name was engraved upon the pediment.
Just outside the gate stood the mansion block where the Druckers had lived. The family had occupied the whole of the top floor. In those days the curtains in the great out-curving corner window had been of plum-coloured velvet, now they were of pink brocade. All the Drucker possessions, including, no doubt, the plum-coloured curtains, had been forfeit to the Crown.
Carol had got the trial over in good time and sold the Drucker oil holdings to Germany. Nobody cared. The whole affair had passed into oblivion.
Seeing her glance up at the top floor flat, Guy said: ‘I have been thinking about Sasha. And I’ve talked over the problem with David. The only answer, it seems to me, is: when we go, we must take him with us.’
‘How can we do that? They would never let him out of the country.’