‘What sort of prejudice?’
‘Social,’ said Dubedat.
‘Ah!’
By the time they had reached the cinema, Guy was no longer interested in the film. ‘You go,’ he said to Harriet and Clarence. ‘I want to talk to Dubedat. We’ll meet afterwards at the Doi Trandafiri.’
Clarence protested, very annoyed, but Guy was too entranced to listen. Dubedat, looking smug, followed them across the road.
Clarence said: ‘It was Guy who wanted to see this film, not me.’
‘Would you rather go to the Doi Trandafiri?’ Harriet asked.
‘What! And listen to the confessions of Dubedat?’
The film was an involved and almost motionless domestic drama. Harriet’s French was unequal to it and the Rumanian underlines did not help her much. It was preceded by a French news film that showed shots of the Maginot Line where trucks sped on rails through underground arsenals and barracks. There were vast stores of frozen meat and wine. A voice declared: ‘Nous sommes imprenables.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Clarence gloomily.
Behind the French lines soldiers filed through woods white with rime. They stood about, drinking from mugs and beating their arms for warmth while their breath clouded out on to the frozen air.
There was a little applause, but most of the time the audience shuffled and coughed, as bored by the war as were the idle men at arms.
Harriet and Clarence emerged, depressed, from the cinema. As they entered the Doi Trandafiri, an ancient beggar plucked at Clarence, repeating: ‘Keine Mutter, kein Vater.’
‘Ich auch nicht,’ replied Clarence and, cheered by his own wit, he turned smiling to Harriet: ‘I never give to beggars, on principle.’
‘On what principle?’
‘They bring out the worst in me. They make me feel like a fascist.’
Harriet laughed, but uneasily, recognising in Clarence something of herself. But because she loved Guy, she could feel safe. If she loved herself she would be lost indeed.
The interior of the Doi Trandafiri, with its yellow grained wood and horsehair sofas, the chess-sets and dominoes on the tables, the racks of newspapers mounted on batons, the faded photographs of writers, actors and painters, had a shabby, comfortable atmosphere of Mitteleuropa. It was a cheap café. In term-time it was crowded with students.
Guy and Dubedat were settled in the wide curve of the corner window. When the others sat down, Guy said delightfully: ‘Dubedat has been telling me he lives at the Dâmboviţa; actually in the Calea Plevna, with a family of poor Jews.’
‘The poorest of the poor,’ said Dubedat with glum satisfaction, ‘and the only decent folk in this dirty, depraved, God-forsaken capital.’ Fixing Clarence with a watery pink eye, he added, apparently in special reference to him: ‘A city of the plain.’
‘Oh, really!’ Clarence, picking up a copy of the Bukarester Tageblatt, retired behind it in disgust.
Guy brushed aside the annoyance of the newcomers: ‘He doesn’t mean any harm. You must hear about life at the Dâmboviţa.’ Guy swung round on Dubedat: ‘Tell them about the night the rats came in through the skylight.’
Dubedat said nothing. Harriet was about to speak but Guy held up his hand. Gazing, aglow, at Dubedat, he coaxed: ‘Tell them about the mad beggar who drank silver polish.’
Dubedat emptied his glass but remained silent. Clarence snorted behind his paper. When it became obvious that Dubedat was not to be persuaded, Guy, unaffected by rebuff, repeated his revelations for him while Dubedat, rather drunk, settled down into sleep.
They were as interesting as Guy promised, yet Harriet listened with impatience. At the same time she wondered whether she would have disliked Dubedat so much had his company not been forced upon her.
The difficulty of dealing with Guy, she thought, lay in the fact that he was so often right. She and Clarence could claim that their evening had been spoilt by the presence of Dubedat. She knew it had, in fact, been spoilt not by Guy’s generosity but their own lack of it.
When it was time to go, Dubedat had to be roused and supported out to the car. They drove down through the Dâmboviţa area, which even at this hour was lively, with the brothels noisy and peasants and beggars wandering about in search of some night cover from the cold.
Wakened and questioned in the Calea Plevna, Dubedat managed to give his address. Guy said he would see Dubedat to his room on the top floor and wanted Clarence to come with him. Clarence insisted that they could not leave Harriet alone at such an hour, in this district.
When Guy and Dubedat had gone in, the other two sat for some time in silence. Suddenly, out of his thoughts, Clarence laughed and said in affectionate exasperation: ‘Guy is an extraordinary man with all this giving and expecting no return. Do you understand it?’
‘It’s partly pride,’ said Harriet, ‘and a habit of independence. He wants to be the one to give because in the past he was always too poor to repay.’
Upset by this rationalisation of Guy’s virtue, Clarence sat up and said in reprimand: ‘He’s a saint. In fact, a great saint. I often feel I’d like to give him something to show how much I admire him. But what can one give a saint?’
Considering this question in a practical way, Harriet said: ‘There are a great many things you could give him. Because he comes from a poor family, he has never had any of the presents that boys get as they’re growing up. You could give him something useful – a set of hairbrushes or a fountain-pen or a shaving-brush …’
‘Really!’ Clarence interrupted with scorn. ‘Fancy giving Guy something like that! I thought of giving him a real present – two hundred pounds, say, so he would have something behind him if he needed it. But, of course, he wouldn’t take it.’
‘I think he would. It would be wonderful.’
‘I couldn’t offer it.’
‘Then why talk about it?’
Another long silence. Clarence sighed again. ‘I really want to do something for someone,’ he said, ‘but I let all my friends down in the end.’
‘Oh, well!’ Realising that all this had merely been an exercise in self-mortification, Harriet left it at that.
When Guy returned to the car, he said: ‘We really must do something for Dubedat.’
Harriet said: ‘What could we do? He’s an exhibitionist. One should never separate an exhibitionist from his way of life.’
‘How else can he live?’ Guy asked. ‘He has no money.’
‘Yet he smokes like a chimney.’
‘Oh, tobacco is necessary to him. From each according to his ability: to each according to his needs. We should offer him our spare room.’
‘I couldn’t bear it,’ said Harriet, with such decision that Guy let the matter drop. She hoped she would hear no more of Dubedat, but next morning Guy mentioned him again: ‘We must ask him here on Christmas night.’
‘It’s impossible, darling. The table only seats six. We’ve asked Inchcape and Clarence, and you asked Yakimov.’
‘That leaves room for one more.’
‘I’ve invited Bella.’
‘Bella Niculescu!’
‘I suppose I can invite a friend?’ said Harriet. ‘Nikko has been called to his regiment. Bella will be alone.’
‘All right.’ Guy could not fail to respond to Bella’s situation, but he added: ‘What about Sophie?’
‘Why should we ask Sophie?’
‘She’ll be alone, too.’
‘She’s in her own country. She has friends. Bella’s need is greater than Sophie’s.’
It was agreed at last that Sophie and Dubedat should be invited to come in after dinner. Both accepted when telephoned by Guy.