As the hand of the clock neared eleven, she could scarcely breathe; then, suddenly unable to bear more of it, she jumped up saying: ‘I must get back to the Legation.’
Yakimov rose with her. ‘I’ll come with you.’
She was surprised. ‘Please don’t bother,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very kind, but …’
‘Of course I shall come, dear girl. Your poor old Yaki isn’t as bad as you think. Not unchivalrous, y’know, not unchivalrous.’ His sable-lined coat had been hanging on the chair behind him. He now draped it round his shoulders, taking on an air of rakish elegance, and said to Mustafa Bey: ‘I shall be back quite soon.’
Mustafa Bey nodded with a leaden solemnity.
‘Delightful place,’ said Yakimov when they were in the street. ‘The nicest people. Mustafa is a dear old friend. Dollie and I stayed with him when he had a house in Smyrna. Used to be a millionaire or something. Now he’s on his uppers, just like your poor old Yaki.’
Reminiscing about happier days, he walked with her up the hill to the Legation villa. When they reached the door, she said: ‘Would you go in and ask?’ somehow feeling that a shock might be less shocking transmuted through another person.
Yakimov trotted in as though to show by his willingness that there was nothing to fear. She leaned against a lamp-post. The street was empty and, except for the glimmer in the chancellery, there was no sign of life. She watched the door through which Yakimov had entered. He was scarcely in when he came out again, smiling like one who bears gifts. Her spirits leapt as he said gaily: ‘Just as I thought, dear girl. Everything’s all right. Bucharest is quiet. It’s true an army of occupation is expected, but no sign of it yet. The Legation’s staying put and they say British subjects won’t be molested. My guess is, you’ll have the dear boy with you in a brace of shakes.’
Suddenly emptied of qualms, too tired to speak, she started to weep. She wept for Sasha, for her red kitten, for Guy alone on the airfield, for the abandoned flat, the damaged books left on the floor, for war and an infinity of suffering and the turmoil of the world.
Yakimov, saying nothing, led her gently down the hill. When she started sniffling and blowing her nose, he asked where she was staying.
At the door of the hotel, he said: ‘A good night’s rest will make all the difference.’
‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ Harriet said. ‘I wish I could do something for you in return.’
He laughed in modest amazement. ‘Why, dear girl, look what you have done! You took Yaki in. You gave him a home. Who could do more?’
‘I’m afraid that was Guy’s idea.’
‘But you fed me. You let me stay.’
She felt ashamed that what she had done, she had done so unwillingly. She said: ‘I see you still have your wonderful coat.’
He eagerly agreed, ‘Yes,’ and, turning the front hem, revealed by the light from the hotel door the shabby sable inside. ‘Did I ever tell you the Czar gave it to m’poor old dad?’
‘I think you did tell me once.’
He lifted her hand and put his lips to it. ‘If you need me, you’ll always find me at Zonar’s.’ Patting her hand before dropping it he said: ‘Good-night, dear girl.’
‘Good-night.’
He waved before turning away. As he went, the fallen hem of his greatcoat trailed after him along the pavement.
VOLUME THREE
Friends and Heroes
To
Dwye and Daphne Evans
PART ONE
The Antagonists
1
When the hotel porter rang to say a gentleman awaited her in the hall, Harriet Pringle dropped the receiver and ran from the room without putting on her shoes.
She had sat by the telephone for two days. Her last three nights in Athens had been sleepless with anxiety and expectation. She had left her husband in Rumania, a country since occupied by the enemy. He might get away. The man in the hall could be Guy himself. Turning the corner of the stair, she saw it was only Yakimov. She went back for her shoes, but quickly. Even Yakimov might have news.
When she came down again, he was drooping like an old horse under his brim-broken panama and the sight roused her worst apprehensions. Unable to speak, she touched his arm. He lifted his sad, vague face and, seeing her, smiled.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘The dear boy’s on his way.’ So eager was he to reassure her that his large, grape-green eyes seemed to overflow their sockets: ‘Got a message. Got it on me somewhere. Must be here. Someone in Bucharest phoned the Legation. One of our chaps said to me: “You know this Mrs Pringle, don’t you? Drop this in on her when you’re passing.”’ His fingers were dipping like antennae into the pockets of his shantung suit: ‘Bit of paper, y’know. Just a bit of paper.’
He tried his breast pocket. As he lifted his long bone of an arm, she saw the violet silk of his shirt showing through the tattered shantung of his jacket, and the blue-white hairless hollow of his arm-pit showing through his tattered shirt. The pockets were so frayed, the message could have fallen out. Watching him, she scarcely dared to breathe, knowing that any show of impatience would alarm him.
Their relationship was happy enough now, but it had not always been like that. Yakimov – Prince Yakimov – had installed himself in the Pringles’ flat and would not be dislodged until Bucharest became too dangerous for him. She had disliked him and he had feared her, but when they met again in Athens, they became reconciled. He was the only person here who understood her fears and his sympathy had been her only consolation.
‘Ah!’ he gave a gasp of satisfaction: ‘Here we are! Here it is! Got it safe, you see!’
She took the paper and read: ‘Coming your route. See you this evening.’
The message must have been received hours before. It was now late afternoon. Guy would already have touched down at Sofia to find, as she found, that the Rumanian plane would go no farther and he must continue on the Lufthansa. The German line had agreed to carry allied passengers over neutral territory, but she had heard of planes being diverted to Vienna so that British subjects could be seized as enemy aliens. Harriet herself had not been at risk but Guy, a man of military age, might be a different matter.
Seeing her face change, Yakimov said, abashed: ‘Aren’t you pleased? Isn’t it good news?’
She nodded. Sinking down on the hall seat, she whispered: ‘Wonderful,’ then doubled over and buried her face in her hands.
‘Dear girl!’
She lifted her head, her eyes wet, and laughed: ‘Guy will be here at sunset.’
‘There you are! I told you he could look after himself.’
Confused by exhaustion and relief, she remained where she was, knowing the suspense was not over yet. She had still to live until sunset.
Yakimov looked uneasily at her, then said: ‘Why not come out a bit? Get a breath of air. Do you good, y’know.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’d like to.’
‘Then get y’r bonnet on, dear girl.’
She entered the daylight as though released after an illness. The street was in shadow but at the end she could see a dazzle of sunlight. As Yakimov turned the other way, she said, ‘Could we go down there?’
‘There!’ he seemed disconcerted: ‘That’s Constitution Square. Like to stroll through it? Adds a bit to the walk, though.’
‘But are we going anywhere in particular?’
Yakimov did not reply. They entered the square where there was a little garden, formal and dusty, with faded oranges upon orange-trees. The buildings, Yakimov said, were hotels and important offices. Some were faced with marble and some with rose-brown stucco. At the top of the square was the parliament house that had once been a palace and still had the flourish of a palace. Beside it were the public gardens, a jungle of sensitive bushy trees from which rose the feathered tops of palms. Four immense palms with silvery satin trunks stood across the garden entrance. Buildings, trees, palms, traffic, people – all were aquiver in the fluid heat of the autumn afternoon.