At one time she had been indignant when others were critical of him. Now, she realised, she was criticising him herself. Even more surprising, she could feel bored in his company.
And yet, watching him as he sat there, unsuspecting of criticism or boredom, an open-handed man of infinite good nature, her heart was touched. Reflecting on the process of involvement and disenchantment which was marriage, she thought that one entered it unsuspecting and, unsuspecting, found one was trapped in it.
23
Bucharest, when they reached it, was also wet and no longer warm. The streets were dismal. The block of flats, designed to reflect sunlight, were blotched and livid in the grey air. This was one of the days – like the day of Calinescu’s funeral – that broke like a threat into the fading glow of summer.
As soon as they entered the flat, they heard the sound of Sasha playing ‘We’re Gonna Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’. Harriet realising they were back among all their old unresolved anxieties, was not only relieved but annoyed by the mouth-organ. It seemed a symbol of Sasha’s unquestioning acceptance of their protection. She went in, intending to chide him for wasting time, but he looked up with so much pleasure at her return, her annoyance was forgotten.
Dear Boy [wrote Yakimov from the Pension de Seraglio],
They think I am a spy or something and they’re trying to run me out on a rail. Where next? I ask myself. I’m told Bucharest is full of Nazis spending lei like apa. If one of them makes an offer for the Hispano, seize it.
Don’t forget your poor old desperate Yaki.
The telephone rang. Clarence said, urgently, that he was glad they were back, for he wanted to come and see them. ‘Yes, do come,’ said Harriet, thankful to be diverted from the cheerless anticlimax of return.
Clarence, entering the flat, was clearly the bringer of important news. He frowned at the ceiling and as soon as he had accepted a drink said abruptly: ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
Guy said, startled: ‘You’re going so soon?’
‘I’m taking the night train. I’m going on to Ankara.’
Both Pringles were disconcerted by this news: Guy the more so for, whatever he might care to think, it was evident their circle was disintegrating.
Harriet said: ‘Why to Ankara?’
‘I’ve to report to the British Council representative. There’s some talk of an appointment in Srinagar.’
‘How wonderful! You almost went to Kashmir once.’
‘This time, perhaps, I’ll get there. But I’m just as likely to end in Egypt.’
‘Where you would meet up with Brenda?’
Clarence did not reply but, smirking slightly, he stretched himself out in his chair and said: ‘Poor old Brenda! Whatever did she see in me?’
‘She may have thought you needed her.’
Clarence shrugged and drawled: ‘Who knows what I need?’
He seemed aware that he was inviting Harriet’s ridicule and to be, for some reason, forearmed against it. Because of this, Harriet said cautiously: ‘Well, if you go to Kashmir, I envy you.’
Lifting his eyelids slowly, Clarence gave her a long look, then glancing down again, said in remote, measured tones: ‘Sophie is coming with me.’
Harriet was startled into saying: ‘Good heavens!’ and Clarence smiled his satisfaction.
‘Why, this is splendid!’ cried Guy and, leaping up, he refilled the glasses for a toast. ‘You’re getting married, of course?’
Clarence, his smile fading, shrugged again. ‘I suppose so. It’s what she wants,’ and he gave Harriet a quick glance full of reproach. She thought: ‘He is doing this to punish himself,’ but Guy was full of congratulations and encouragement.
‘This is the best possible thing for Sophie,’ he said. ‘She’s not a bad sort of girl. Living here alone, an orphan, half-Jewish, belonging to neither community, she has never had a chance. It will make all the difference to her to get away. You’ll see. She’ll make a splendid wife.’
Harriet had her doubts and so, it would seem, had Clarence. He did not respond to Guy’s enthusiasm and, after Guy had further extolled Sophie’s virtues, Clarence gloomily mumbled: ‘I’ve always wanted to help someone. Perhaps I can help her.’
‘You could do the world for her,’ Guy confidently assured him.
Clarence turned his head towards Harriet, his expression yearning and miserable as though even now she might relent and save him. But, of course, she would not. No, not she. He turned away brusquely, finished off his drink, sat upright and said: ‘One thing I must do before I go: I must return these shirts to the Polish store.’
‘You mean the shirts you gave to Guy?’
‘You know I didn’t give them. They weren’t mine to give. I lent them. Now they must go back.’
‘But the store is closed. You sold all that stuff to the Rumanian army.’
‘The sale’s still being negotiated. It takes time for these deals to go through. I’m leaving the matter in the hands of an agent. I’ve given an inventory and everything must be accounted for. There were some vests, too, and a Balaclava helmet.’
‘That ridiculous helmet!’ Harriet’s indignation collapsed into mirth.
As though the demand were the most reasonable in the world, Guy said: ‘Of course we must return the things.’ He looked to Harriet as the only one likely to know where they were.
Without further ado, she went into the bedroom and began searching the drawers. The vests were at the laundry. Guy had long ago lost the Balaclava helmet. She returned to the room carrying three shirts.
‘All that’s left,’ she said.
Looking grimly justified, Clarence rose to take them, but Harriet did not give them to him. Instead, she strode out to the balcony and threw them over the balustrade. ‘If you want them,’ she said, ‘go down and get them.’
He hurried to the balcony and stared down to where the shirts were settling on the wet, grey cobbles below.
‘Well, really!’ Scandalised, he watched while several beggars converged upon the booty. The shirts were snapped up in a moment.
Clarence looked to Guy for support.
‘Darling, you shouldn’t have done that!’ Guy said with no real belief in his power to remonstrate with Harriet.
Taking no notice of either of them, she waved encouragement to the beggars as they stared up.
Looking deeply hurt, Clarence returned to the room and threw himself back into his chair. He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘How could you?’ He gloomed for some moments, then said: ‘Just when I’d brought you what you asked me for.’ He drew a small book from his pocket.
Alight with amusement at her own action, Harriet snatched the book from his hand and leafed it over. She came on the photograph of Sasha.
‘A passport?’
‘Yes, for your young friend Drucker.’
‘Clarence!’ Harriet threw out her arms to him and he smiled as one who deserved no less.
Standing up rather sheepishly, he explained: ‘It’s an Hungarian passport – in the name of Gabor. Most foreigners are known to the prefectura, but there are so many Hungarians here, they can’t keep track of them. We’ve put in visas for Turkey, Bulgaria and Greece. All he’ll need when the time comes is an exit visa.’
Realising the passport was both a parting gift and a token of truce, Harriet ran to Clarence and embraced him with a warmth to which he immediately responded. He held her over-long, saying: ‘You will not forget me?’
‘Never, never,’ she cried, refusing to be serious.