Inchcape nodded. ‘So I see!’ he drily said.
Although Pinkrose recounted his experiences with something near levity, it was clear that only his own determination had brought him here. He went on, rather fretfully: ‘England is so uncomfortable these days. And so tedious. People talk of nothing but this wretched invasion – rather overdue, I may say. We hear about it even at the high table. And life in general! So many new rules and regulations and petty restrictions! The black-out; the queueing! You, my dear Inchcape, were wise to take yourself off when you did. I cannot tell you how life has deteriorated. It couldn’t be worse under the Nazis; anyway, for people like us. After all, Goering would have no quarrel with me. I’ve always been a good family man.’
‘Ah!’ said Inchcape drily. ‘Then you won’t be distressed if I tell you we may soon be under Nazi rule here.’
Pinkrose tittered again. Inchcape swallowed down his ţuicǎ and, his patience exhausted, said: ‘Let’s go and eat.’
Pinkrose jumped up happily. As he gathered his coat, hat and scarves, he said: ‘I am looking forward, I can tell you, to some good eating. Travelled friends tell me that Rumanian food is among the best in Europe.’
‘Their information is out of date,’ said Inchcape.
Pinkrose chuckled. ‘You always were a cod.’
The dining-room was empty when they entered. Three large tables in the window alcove were reserved for the officers of the Reichswehr. Despite the fact that there were other tables unreserved, Inchcape was seized upon as he entered and guided to an obscure corner position which he accepted with an amused shrug. Passing the menu card to Pinkrose, he said: ‘It’s a meatless day. The steaks and roasts listed are like the paper money here, they’re not backed by hard currency. But you can have any one of the three dishes at the bottom. I recommend fish pilaff?’
It was some moments before Pinkrose could be persuaded that this was not an enormous joke. ‘But what about caviare?’ he pleaded. ‘Isn’t that a Rumanian product?’
‘It all goes to Germany.’
Pinkrose’s face fell. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘I was the envy of my colleagues …’
‘Tonight,’ Inchcape told him consolingly, ‘you’ll meet all the wit and beauty of Bucharest. I have invited several princesses noted for their hospitality. In their houses, I assure you, there are no such things as meatless days. They’ll do you proud. Meanwhile, have a fish pilaff!’ He looked from Guy to Harriet, grinning in appreciation of Pinkrose’s discomfort, then began to discuss the mysterious death of Foxy Leverett.
‘These young attachés ask for trouble,’ he said. ‘They throw their weight around, imagining they’re protected against all comers. But no one’s protected against a knife in the back. I’m told that Leverett was drunk at the Amalfi the other night, and he kept the table in a roar with an imitation of Horia Sima. Doesn’t do, you know! One has to respect the existing regime, whatever it may happen to be. And you have to learn to live with it.’
Harriet asked: ‘You think we can learn to live with the Iron Guard?’
‘Why not? It’s all a matter of personality. If you can adjust yourself, you can live with anyone or anything. It’s the people who can’t adjust themselves who get into trouble.’
Pinkrose nodded vehemently. ‘I do agree. And, you know, once things have settled down, the world’s much the same whoever’s running it.’
Inchcape’s mood of raillery had passed. He looked at his friend with understanding. ‘The important thing,’ he said, ‘is to survive.’
As he spoke the German officers entered. With the aplomb of conquerors they crossed the dining-room floor and seated themselves at the reserved tables.
Neither Inchcape nor Pinkrose made any comment. Apparently they had already adjusted themselves to cohabitation with the enemy.
The meal over, Inchcape suggested that Pinkrose might care to rest before the reception. ‘Which will be quite a “do”,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow night I fear I’m committed to a long-standing engagement. I’m dining with a young friend who wants to tell me his troubles but,’ he smiled quizzically at Pinkrose, ‘I imagine you can entertain yourself.’
Guy said: ‘Perhaps Professor Pinkrose would have supper with us? We could go afterwards to the Brahms concert at the Opera House.’
‘Splendid idea!’ Inchcape said without reference to Pinkrose.
Pinkrose looked displeased but Guy, in his eagerness, noticed nothing. Jumping to his feet, he said he would go at once to book seats and Harriet watched with an infuriated compassion as, speeding off, he tripped on the edge of the dining-room carpet.
Inchcape had ordered Guy to escort Pinkrose to his flat that evening, saying: ‘And for goodness’ sake, come early and go early. I can’t stand these junkets when they drag on.’
As a result the Pringles arrived too early at the Athénée Palace and had to wait twenty minutes until Pinkrose was ready. He came down the stairs in an ancient dinner-suit, too short at the wrists and ankles, its single button strained on a thread across his middle.
‘I must say,’ he said, becoming almost jovial in anticipation, ‘I am looking forward to meeting these beautiful and cultivated ladies who are said to entertain so lavishly.’
Guy said: ‘I’ll introduce you to the mothers of some of my students. Doamna Blum, for instance, and Doamna Teitelbaum. They’re highly cultivated and would be delighted to meet you …’
‘No, no,’ Pinkrose interrupted impatiently, ‘I do not mean that sort of person. Everyone’s been telling me I must meet the famous Princess Teodorescu.’
Guy, rather tartly, explained that that particular princess was no longer in Bucharest. ‘But princesses are two a penny here. It’s only a courtesy title, anyway; it means nothing. You’ll probably meet half a dozen tonight.’
The sky over the square was rayed with lemon and silver but the colours were smudged and the wind blowing cool, damp and smoky from the park, had a smell of autumn.
It seemed to Harriet that recently a forlorn atmosphere had come down on the city, resulting, she believed, not only from the seasonal move indoors – the evening promenade which usually went on into October was now almost dwindled to nothing – but from fear. The Jews, of course, were afraid to go out, but these days it was not only the Jews who felt, like the old Codreanu, that they would be safer indoors.
She was relieved to reach Inchcape’s sitting-room where the lamps were lit in their golden shades. Inchcape had not appeared yet. Clarence, the first arrival, sat alone.
Harriet had seen nothing of him since her visit to his flat. He had gone into some sort of retreat. Guy had telephoned him several times to suggest their meeting, but Clarence had always excused himself saying he was unwell. Harriet had imagined him lying all day on his balcony, gazing out over open country, brooding on his own inadequacy, but now he looked well enough. He showed, however, no desire to talk.
When introduced to Pinkrose, he rose reluctantly and mumbled something. Pinkrose mumbled back. Neither being designed to induce loquacity in the other, they drew apart as soon as they decently could and made no attempt to speak to each other again.
Inchcape entered in high spirits. Pauli, following, held an uncorked champagne bottle, its label of origin hidden under a napkin. While this was being dispensed, Inchcape, smiling to himself, brought out his latest acquisition: a purple velvet heart supporting three china arum lilies under a glass dome. ‘Amusing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I bought it at the Lipscani market.’