One morning before Easter, when a gleam was lightening the puddles and the chestnut buds were breaking, Yakimov stood in the Calea Victoriei and stared into the window of a small restaurant. He was indifferent to the indications of spring. He was indifferent, too, to the gypsies, crowding back to their old pitch with baskets full of snow-drops, hyacinths, daffodils and mimosa, who were calling out excitedly to passers-by as though to old friends. One of them slapped Yakimov’s arm, spinning him round and greeting him with fervour: ‘Bunǎ dimineatǎ, domnule,’ and he smiled, murmuring vaguely: ‘Dear girl,’ before he returned to his contemplation of the raw steaks and pork chops behind the glass.
He was without a hat, and his hair, fine, fair and in need of a cut, stirred in the cold March wind. Though the pavement snow was reduced now to a thin layer of something like wet and dirty sugar, his shoes were soaked. The hem of his coat, becoming unstitched, dipped down to his heels. He had a cold in his head; but none of this meant much compared with the fact he was tormented by a longing for food.
Guy, going home for luncheon, saw him and stopped and spoke. He drew his gaze slowly from the chops and tried to look blank. ‘How nice to see you, dear boy,’ he said. His voice was hoarse.
‘Aren’t you well?’ Guy asked.
‘Touch of la grippe.’ He tried to blow his nose without taking off a glove and the hard, wet, broken leather, prodding his inflamed nostrils, brought a tear to his eye.
Guy said: ‘Are you eating anywhere in particular?’
‘Why, no, dear boy.’ At the prospect of food, Yakimov began to shake slightly and a second tear followed the first. He sniffed and said: ‘Not to tell a lie, I’ve been rather let down. Was luncheoning with my old friend Hadjimoscos, but apparently he’s been called to his estate.’
‘Good heavens, has he an estate?’
‘Heavily mortgaged, of course.’ Yakimov shifted hastily from the estate back to the subject of food. ‘Bit short of the Ready, dear boy. M’remittance held up again. Was just wondering what I’d do for a bite.’
‘Why not come back and eat with us?’
‘Delighted.’ All pretences fallen in the emotion of the moment, he tripped as he turned and had to catch Guy’s arm for support. Walking towards the square, Yakimov’s sufferings poured from him.
‘Difficult times,’ he said. ‘Your poor old Yaki’s homeless. Been turned out. Thrown out, in fact. Literally thrown out by m’landlady. A terrible woman. Terrible. And she’s kept all m’belongings.’
‘She can’t do that.’ Guy was indignant, but on reflection added: ‘Unless, of course, you owe her some rent.’
‘Only a few lei. But that wasn’t the main trouble, dear boy. It was a ham-bone I found lying about. Feeling a bit peckish, I picked it up – and she caught me with the bone in m’hand. You know what’s on a ham-bone, dear boy! Scarcely a mouthful, but she went mad. Mad. She hit me, kicked me, beat me over the head, screamed like a maniac: then she opened the front door and shoved me out.’ He shuddered from cold or fear and glanced about as though in danger of renewed attack. ‘Never knew anything like it, dear boy.’
‘But you got your coat.’
‘Happened to be wearing it. It happened last night. I’d just come in.’ He touched the coat with love. ‘Did I tell you the Czar gave this coat to m’poor old dad?’
‘Yes. Where are you staying now?’
‘Nowhere. I just spent the night tramping the streets, dear boy. Just tramping the streets.’
When Guy brought Yakimov into the flat, Harriet, who had been sitting by the electric fire, rose without a word, went into her bedroom and slammed the door. She remained so long that Guy went after her. She turned on him angrily, saying: ‘I’ve told you I will not have that man in the flat.’
Guy reasoned with her: ‘Darling, he’s ill; he’s hungry; he’s been turned out of his lodgings.’
‘I don’t care. He insulted you. I won’t have him here.’
‘When did he insult me?’
‘On Christmas night. He said your limerick was in bad taste.’
‘Really, darling!’ Guy laughed at her absurdity. ‘Listen! He’s not well. I’ve never before seen him looking so thin and ill.’
‘I don’t care. He’s a scrounger and a glutton.’
‘Yes, you do care.’ Guy, holding her by the shoulders, shook her affectionately. ‘We must help him, not because he’s a good person but because he needs help. You understand that.’ She let her head fall forward against his chest and, pleased by her capitulation, he gave her a final squeeze and said: ‘Come into the room. Be nice to him.’
When Harriet entered the sitting-room, Yakimov looked apprehensively at her. He put her hand to his lips and said: ‘How kind of Beauty to feed her poor old Yaki.’
Harriet, sufficiently recovered to be polite, was touched, in spite of herself, by Yakimov’s appearance. He looked ill, aged and underfed.
He ate fiercely, saying nothing throughout the meal. When replete and revived, he looked up brightly. ‘Dear boy,’ he said to Guy, ‘I could put you on to a good thing. Had hoped to do the like for m’old friend Dobson, but he’s been out of sight these last weeks. Keep dropping in on him but his secretary says he’s busy, for some reason. Want him to get me a Yugoslav transit visa, then all I need’s m’train-fare, a few thou and a C.D. number-plate. Once there I’d redeem m’poor old Hispano-Suiza and drive her back. Anyone who financed the trip would be quids in. With a C.D. number-plate, there’s a packet to be made running stuff over frontiers. Take currency, for instance …’
‘I’m sure Dobson couldn’t get you a C.D. number-plate,’ said Harriet.
‘M’sure he could, dear girl. Dobson’s an old friend, deeply indebted to poor Yaki. And he’d get his whack. Now you, dear boy, if you could let Yaki have a few lei – thirty-five thousand, to be exact – I’d see you didn’t lose by it.’
Guy laughed, not taking the scheme seriously, and said he and Harriet were going to the mountains for Easter. They would need all the money they could spare for the holiday.
Yakimov sighed and swallowed down his coffee.
Guy turned to Harriet. ‘The flat will be empty while we’re away,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t we let Yaki stay here?’
She gave him a look and said coldly: ‘Why ask me?’
‘He could look after the kitten.’
‘Despina will look after the kitten.’
‘Well, it’s always a good thing to keep a place lived in.’
‘We’re not leaving until tomorrow.’
‘There’s the spare room.’
‘With no bed in it.’
Yakimov broke in eagerly: ‘Anything will do for me, dear girl. The arm-chair, the floor, the odd mattress. Your poor old Yaki’ll be thankful to have a roof over his head.’
Guy looked steadily at Harriet, trying to melt her with consciousness of Yakimov’s plight. She got to her feet impatiently: ‘Very well, but he must find somewhere to go before we get back.’
She returned to the bedroom, from where she heard Guy lending Yakimov the money to pay off Doamna Protopopescu and regain his possessions.
‘I suppose you wouldn’t come and face her with me?’ Yakimov asked.
No. Guy would do many things, but he would not do that.
After the two men had left the flat, Harriet wandered about, feeling fooled. She had refused to take in Dubedat, so this time Guy, grown cunning, had not given her the chance to refuse. He had circumvented her with her own compassion. Yakimov had been dishonestly imposed on her. She felt furious.