‘Frewen,’ said Pinkrose, when at last the piles of envelopes were complete, ‘I want them delivered on the bicycle. One can’t trust these Athens post-boxes. Anyway, hand delivery is more fitting. It gives a better impression; and they will arrive in time.’
‘How many are there?’
‘About two hundred. Not more. Well, not many more.’
‘They could go with a News Sheet.’
‘Oh, no. No, Frewen, no. A letter handed in with a News Sheet could be overlooked. Besides, it is quite a different list. There will be English guests, but it is essentially a Greek occasion. Some of the names are very distinguished indeed. It calls for a special delivery.’
‘Very well.’
Yakimov, half asleep during this conversation, did not grasp its import until the office boy handed him the envelopes and the list. He accepted the task without complaint but looking through the list, cried in dismay: ‘He hasn’t invited me.’
Yakimov had always treated Pinkrose with deference. When a detractor mentioned him derisively, Yakimov might smile but it was an uneasy smile and if there was laughter he would glance round fearful that Pinkrose might be in their midst. ‘Distinguished man, though,’ he would say. ‘Must admit it. Scholar and gent, y’know. Aren’t many of them.’ He went through the list again, finding the names of Alan Frewen and both Twocurrys, but still no mention of his own. So there was no reward for deference and defence! He brooded over his omission until Alan looked at the clock and said: ‘You’d better get under way.’
Yakimov pulled himself together. He began sorting the cards into batches, then suddenly wailed: ‘There’s one for Roger Tandy! Suppose he sees me delivering it! What will he think?’
‘I’m going to the Corinthian,’ Alan said. ‘I’ll leave it in.’
‘And … Oh dear, it isn’t fair! I’ve got to go all the way to Phaleron to leave cards on Lush and Dubedat.’
‘Get on with it. There’s a rumour that Dubedat’s appearing as Lord Byron. You might get a look in at the dress rehearsal.’
But Yakimov was not to be amused. He put the batches for delivery into his satchel and went without a word.
The Sunday of the lecture was the day of the Pendeli walk. Harriet said to Alan: ‘So you won’t be coming?’
‘Oh yes, I will. We’re going to Pendeli to welcome the spring. I’d rather take Diocletian for a walk than listen to Pinkrose.’
Charles was also invited to the lecture. Harriet hoped he, too, would choose to come to Pendeli – if he were still in Athens to make the choice.
Yakimov, on his old upright bicycle, laboured three days to deliver the invitations. He could not avoid being seen as he went round the town with his brim-broken panama pulled down like a disguise about his eyes. Tandy watched him unmoved. When Yakimov returned to the office, tear-stained from grief and exhaustion, he threw the list on to Alan’s desk.
‘What a way to treat poor Yaki!’ he said.
27
Sunday was fine. Stepping out into early morning, the Pringles heard the sirens. They stood on the doorstep, listening for the raid. The sky was clear. The sun warm. A bee came down the lane, blundering from side to side as though making the first excursion of its life. Its little burr filled the Sunday quiet a while, then faded into the distance. There was no other noise. The silence held for a couple of minutes, then the all-clear rose.
It was not until they reached the centre of Athens that they realized there was something wrong. It was a brilliant day, a feast day of the church, yet people, standing about in their Sunday clothes, had mourning faces or made gestures of anger or agitated inquiry. They were gathered outside the Kapnikarea, the men in dark suits, the women with black veils over their hair, as though distracted from worship by news of some cataclysmic act of nature.
The Pendeli party was meeting outside the Corinthian where Roger Tandy sat eating his breakfast in the morning sunlight. Yakimov had already joined him. Ben Phipps and Alan, standing by, moved to meet the new arrivals as though they could not wait to deliver their dire news.
Germany had declared war on Greece. The night before, a German broadcast in Greek had spoken of a raid, the like of which the world had never seen before: a gigantic, decisive raid that would wipe out the central authority of the victim country and permit the invading army to advance unhindered through confusion. They had not mentioned the name of the threatened city. Everyone believed it would be Athens, yet the blue, empty sky remained empty. The sirens had announced not a raid but the fact that Greece was at war with Germany.
The Pendeli party joined Roger Tandy and watched him as he spread quince jelly on a little, hard, grey piece of bread.
What should they do? Could they go to Pendeli at such a time? It might look as though they were fleeing Athens in alarm. Yet, if they remained, what was there for them? There was no point in sitting about all day waiting for destruction. They decided to delay their decision until Charles Warden turned up.
In a quavering, suffering voice, Yakimov asked: ‘Do you think they’ll hold that garden party at Phaleron?’
‘Why not?’ said Phipps. ‘The world hasn’t come to an end.’
No one agreed with him. They sat waiting round the table in the delicate spring sunlight, in the midst of a city that seemed to be holding its breath, poised for the end.
Yakimov, looking thoughtful and melancholy, said nothing more until, suddenly, he leant towards Harriet and said: ‘Dear girl! Saw rather a remarkable sight. Quite remarkable, in fact. Haven’t seen anything like it for years.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘Just round the corner. Come and see. I’d like to take another look.’
Though her curiosity was roused by his unusual fervour, Harriet did not move until Guy said: ‘Go and see. You can tell us about it when you get back.’
Yakimov led her into Stadium Street and came to a stop at Kolokotroni where a man sat on his heels in the gutter with some objects arranged on the kerb before him.
‘What are they? Beans?’
‘Bananas,’ Yakimov said eagerly.
The bananas, very green and marked with black, were about two inches in length – but they were bananas. Harriet wondered how the vendor came to have a banana palm and how far he had walked to bring his rare and valuable fruit into Athens for the feast-day. Seeing the two foreigners, he shifted on his hunkers and prepared to speak, but was afraid of speaking too soon.
‘Haven’t tasted one for years,’ Yakimov said. ‘Never seemed to see them in the Balkans. They’re a luxury here. Was wondering if you’d care to possess yourself of them.’
When living with the Pringles in Bucharest, Yakimov often suggested that Harriet should buy something he had seen and envied in the shops. His penury there had been an established fact, but now she said: ‘Why don’t you buy them yourself?’
Nonplussed, Yakimov murmured: ‘I suppose I could. Don’t think I want to.’ He bent closer and peered at the bananas in an agony of greed and caution, then came to a decision. ‘Rather have an ouzo.’ He turned away.
The vendor sighed and sank back on his heels and Harriet, pitying him, offered him a small coin. The man, surprised, jerked up his chin in refusal. He was not a beggar.
When they returned to the square, Charles had joined the group. He swung round as he heard Harriet’s voice, and seeing him, she joyfully asked: ‘Well, are you coming with us?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ll have to stand by.’
‘Let’s get going, then,’ Ben Phipps jumped up cheerfully, saying: ‘We’ve wasted enough time.’ When the others made no move, he began urging them to their feet.