‘So nice, but so nice!’ Klein repeated as he offered Harriet his seat by the rail.
The evening was very warm. Guy had been walking with his cotton jacket over his arm and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, a state of undress which the Rumanians regarded as indecent. The café patrons, though shabby, sweaty, and only a generation or two away from the peasantry, were all tightly buttoned up in the dark suits that indicated their respectability. They looked askance at Guy, but Klein took off his jacket, revealing braces and the steel bracelets that held up the sleeves of his striped shirt. He also removed his tie from under his hard collar, laughing at himself as he said: ‘In this country they do not dress for taking off the coat, but here, I ask you, what does it matter?’
Meanwhile David, who had raised himself slightly in greeting, now slumped back into his chair to indicate it was time for these pleasantries to cease and serious talk to begin again. Chairs were found. Everybody was seated at last.
David, his bulk enhanced by a linen suit that had shrunk in the wash, his large square dark face glistening with sweat, pushed his glasses up his moist nose and said to Klein: ‘You were saying … ?’
Called to order, Klein surveyed the company and said: ‘First you must know, Antonescu has been flung into jail.’
‘For speaking the truth again?’ David asked.
Klein grinned and nodded.
Harriet did not know what David’s occupation was at the Legation, and if Guy knew he kept his knowledge to himself. David was often away from Bucharest. He said that he went to watch the bird life of the Danube delta.
Inchcape claimed that once, in Braşov, he had recognised David under the disguise of a Greek Orthodox priest. He had said: ‘Hello, what the devil are you up to?’ and as the other swept by had received the reply: ‘Procul, o procul este, profani.’ Whether this story, and all it implied, was true or not, David, whose subject was Balkan history, was noted for his inside knowledge of Rumanian affairs, some of which was obtained from associates like Klein.
‘It is such a story!’ Klein said, and ordered another bottle of wine. While the glasses were filled, he paused, but kept his brilliant glance moving from one to the other of his companions. When the waiter was gone, he asked: ‘What am I? An illegal immigrant, let out of prison to advise the Cabinet. What do I know? Why should they heed me? “Klein,” they say, “you are a silly Jew.”’
Rather impatiently, David interrupted to ask: ‘But what was the cause of Antonescu’s arrest?’
‘Ah, the arrest! Well – you know he went to the palace on the night of the ultimatum. He asked to see the King and was prevented. Urdureanu prevented him. The two men came to blows. You heard that, of course? Yes, to blows, inside the palace. A great scandal.’
‘Was he arrested for that?’
‘Not for that, no. Yesterday he received a summons from the King himself. Being fearful that from emotion he could not speak, he wrote a letter. He wrote: “Majesty, our country crumbles about us.” Now, did I not say that the country would crumble? You remember, I described Rumania as a person who has inherited a great fortune. From folly, he loses it all.’
‘What else did Antonescu say?’ Clarence asked, his slow, deep voice causing Klein to glance round in surprise.
Delighted at hearing Clarence speak, Klein went on: ‘Antonescu said: “Majesty, I cry to you to save our nation,” and begged the King to rid himself of the false friends about his throne. When he read the letter, the King instantly ordered his arrest. It is for Urdureanu a great victory.’
Klein sounded regretful and Guy asked: ‘Does it matter? Urdureanu is a crook, but Antonescu is a fascist.’
Klein stuck out his lower lip and rocked his head from side to side. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘Antonescu supported the Iron Guard, but, in his way, he is a patriot. He wishes to end corruption. How he would act in power one cannot tell.’
‘He would just be another dictator,’ Guy said.
The talk turned to criticism of the King’s dictatorship, out of which Clarence suddenly said: ‘The King has his faults, but he’s not insensitive. When he knew Bessarabia was lost, he burst into tears.’
‘Crying over the oysters he’s eaten – or, rather, got to cough up,’ David said, sniffling and snuffling with amusement at his own wit.
‘Anyone can cry,’ said Harriet. ‘In this country it doesn’t mean much.’
Clarence gave her a pained look and, tilting his chair back from this unsympathetic company, drawled: ‘I’m not so sure of that.’ After a pause in which no one spoke, he added: ‘He’s our only friend. When he goes, we’ll go – if we’re lucky enough to get away.’
‘That’s true,’ David agreed; ‘and we can thank ourselves for it. If we’d protected the country against the King instead of the King against the country, the situation here would have been very different.’
Klein stretched out his short, plump, shirt-sleeved arms and beamed about him. ‘Did I not tell you if you stayed it would be interesting? You have not seen a half. Already this new Cabinet arranged to ration meat and petrol.’ As the others looked at him in astonishment, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘This new Cabinet! Never have I laughed so much. First they repudiate the Anglo-French guarantee. That is easy, everyone feels big work is done – but then, what to do? One has an idea. “Let us,” he says, “order for each of us a big desk, a swivel chair, a fine carpet!” “Good, good!” they all agree. Then rises the new Foreign Minister. Once he was a nobody, now he is the great man. He calls to me to approach. He says, “Klein, give me a list of our poets.” I bow. “You will have them in what order?” I ask. “Sometimes such a list is put in order of literary merit. How naïve! How arbitrary! Why not in order of height, of weight, of income, or the year they did their military service?” “So,” says the Foreign Minister, “so we will have it: the year they did their military service. I propose now that these poets write poems to the great Iron Guard leader Codreanu, who is dead but in spirit still lives among us. Domnul Prime Minister, what opinion have you of this proposition?” “Hm, hm,” mumbles the Prime Minister. What can he say? Was not Codreanu the enemy of the King? “The opinion I have … the opinion I have … oh!” He sees me and looks very stern. “Klein,” he says, “what opinion have I of the proposition!” “You think it is good, Domnul Prime Minister,” I tell him.’
Klein’s stories went on. The others were content to let him talk.
The sunset was fading. Electric light bulbs of different colours sprang up along the café rail. A last tea-rose flush coloured the western sky, giving a glint to the olive darkness of the water. Harriet watched the trees on the other side of the lake as they drew together in the twilight, sombre and weighty as the trees in an old tapestry.
‘The other day,’ said Klein, ‘in marched His Majesty. “I have decided,” he said, “to sell to my country my summer palace in the Dobrudja. It will be like a gift to the nation, for I am asking only a million million lei.” “But,” cried the Prime Minister, “when Bulgaria takes the Dobrudja, they will take the palace as well.” “What!” cried the King. “Are you a traitor? Never will Bulgaria take our Dobrudja. First will we fight till every Rumanian is dead. I will lead them myself on my white horse.” And everyone leaps up and cheers, and they sing the national anthem; but when it is all over, they find they must buy the palace for a million million.’