She wondered how many students were in the room with Guy. She had always been somewhat irritated by the students and their claim on him. He imagined his energy was inexhaustible, but she felt that given the opportunity, they would drain him dry: and now it was for their sake that he was here at risk.
She rose and made her way silently down the passage to the lecture room. ‘Capitanul’ was still wavering about in the distance. Not a great many were singing. She imagined a small posse out on some sinister mission.
The door of Guy’s classroom had been propped open to create a draught.
Harriet, pressing against the wall, could see unseen through the opening. There were three students – two girls and a youth, sitting together in the front desk, their faces raised in strained attention.
Harriet moved to see Guy. Her foot slipped on the linoleum, making no more noise than a mouse. At once a frisson went through the room. The three heads turned. Guy’s voice slowed. He did not pause, but he glanced at the door. Harriet remained motionless, scarcely breathing. The lecture went on.
She tiptoed back to the bench and sat down again, satisfied, having discovered that beneath his apparent unconcern he was as alert as she was to the dangers about them.
20
That day, a Friday, was the last on which the summer school opened. The following afternoon, Inchcape called on Guy to tell him that the new Minister of Information had ordered the school and the British Propaganda Bureau to close immediately.
He said: ‘Had to agree about the school – no choice, no choice at all – but the Bureau is part of the Legation. I’ve just been to see H.E. I said: “While the Legation remains here, we’ve a right to our Bureau.” I must say the old boy was pleasant enough. Indeed, he was pathetic. He seems dazed by the way things are shaping. “All right, Inchcape,” he said. “All right. If you want to keep your little shop open I’ll see what can be done, but the school must close.”’
‘Why?’ Guy asked.
Inchcape shrugged. ‘The Minister said if the closure were not effected as from today, we would all be ordered out. No reprieve.’
Guy was not satisfied. He said: ‘If they’ve relented about the Bureau, they’re just as likely to relent about the school.’
‘No. Something’s going on here. There’s a rumour that a German Military Mission is on its way. The Guardist minister was adamant. They feel – not unnaturally, I suppose – that a British school is an anomaly in their midst.’ Inchcape’s tone was rather smug but held a hint of defiance, so it occurred to Harriet that he had probably bartered the school for the Bureau: ‘Let me keep one open and you can close the other.’ Whatever the sacrifice, Inchcape must maintain an official position.
For her part, however, she was only too thankful to see the school end. She said: ‘So there’s nothing to keep us here. We could take a holiday. We could go to Greece.’
Guy, looking gloomy, said without enthusiasm: ‘We might get to Predeal, but no farther. I have to prepare for the new term …’
‘But if the English Department is closed …’
‘Nothing has been said about the Department closing,’ said Inchcape. ‘All they demanded, was the closure of the summer school.’
‘But surely they must mean the English Department, too. Yesterday, Guy had only three students. You can’t open a department without students.’
‘Oh, they’ll be swarming back when the term starts. They’ll feel there’s safety in numbers. We’ll weather another winter here.’
Making no attempt to argue on a point that would soon settle itself, Harriet said: ‘When can we go to Predeal?’
Before Guy could reply, Inchcape broke in: ‘Not next week. Our distinguished visitor arrives next week. This is an opportunity to make arrangements. I shall meet him at Baneasa, of course, but I’ll expect my staff to be in attendance. Then we’ll have to give a party; a reception. We can do nothing about that until we know the day of his arrival.’
‘What is the date of the Cantecuzeno Lecture?’ Harriet asked.
Inchcape looked at Guy saying: ‘It’s held every other year. You must have been here for the last one?’
‘1938. The beginning of October. My first term here. The Cantecuzeno was the inaugural lecture of the term.’
‘So it was,’ Inchcape nodded, clicked his tongue reflectively while staring at his feet, then suddenly jerked upright. ‘Anyway, the old buffer’s reached Cairo. He may get stuck there and he may not. We must be prepared.’
Early on Wednesday morning, Despina woke Guy to say Inchcape wanted him on the telephone. Inchcape shouted accusingly: ‘That old nitwit’s coming today. You’ll just have to rouse yourself and get to the airport. I can’t make it.’
‘When is he due?’
‘That’s the trouble. He sent a last-minute cable saying merely: “Wednesday a.m.” It might mean hanging round there half the day. I’ve got this damned reception to organise. Pauli will deliver invitations. We must have a princess or two.’ The imminence of the real Pinkrose seemed to have disrupted Inchcape. In the extremity of his exacerbation he became confiding: ‘To tell the truth, I never thought he’d get here. I thought he’d hang around in Cairo for weeks. He must have got the organisation to charter a plane. Shocking to think of such a waste of funds. And,’ he added, putting the question as though Guy were to blame for the contingency, ‘where are we going to hold this lecture, I’d like to know? Last time, we took the reception rooms over the Café Napoleon, but all that’s been pulled down. The University hall is nothing like large enough. Every possible place in the town has been turned over to the Iron Guard for divisional headquarters. I suppose we could get one of the public rooms at the Athénée Palace! The acoustics are poor, but does it matter? Pinkrose is no great shakes as a lecturer. Well, get into your duds and get down there. Take Harriet. Make a bit of a show. The self-important old so-and-so will expect it.’
On their way to the airport, the Pringles were to confirm a booking for Pinkrose at the Athénée Palace.
The sky that morning was filmed with cloud, an indication of the season’s change. There was a breeze. For the first time since spring, it was possible to believe that the Siberian cold would return and the country, under snow, lost all colour and became like a photographic negative.
Harriet said: ‘Do you really think we’ll spend another winter here?’
Making no pretence at optimism now, Guy shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to say.’
On Monday, with no more warning than was given by a day or two of rumours, the precursors of the German Military Mission had driven into Bucharest. They were followed on Tuesday by a German Trade Delegation. The whole parking area outside the Athénée Palace became filled with German cars and military lorries, each bearing the swastika on a red pennant. The arrivals were young officers sent to prepare the way for the senior members of the Mission.
The story was that Fabricius had demanded demobilisation in Rumania. ‘Send your men back into the fields,’ he said. ‘What Germany needs is food.’ Antonescu, aghast, replied that he had been dreaming of the day when his country would ‘fight shoulder to shoulder with its great ally’. He finally agreed that Germany should take over the reorganisation both of Rumania’s army and economy.