When he returned with the second whisky, Lush had sobered up, intending to speak what was on his mind: ‘You’re a friend of Guy Pringle, aren’t you?’
Yakimov agreed. ‘Very old and dear friend. You know I played Pandarus in his show?’
‘Your fame reached Cluj. And you lodge with the Pringles?’
‘We share a flat. Nice little place. You must come and have a meal with us.’
Lush nodded, but he wanted more than that. ‘I’m looking for a job,’ he said. ‘Pringle runs the English Department, doesn’t he? I’m going to see him, of course, but I thought perhaps you’d put in a word for me. Just say: “I met Toby Lush today. Nice bloke,” something like that.’ Toby gazed earnestly at Yakimov, who assured him at once: ‘If I say the word, you’ll get the job tomorrow.’
‘If there’s a job to be got.’
‘These things can always be arranged.’ Yakimov emptied his glass and put it down. Lush rose, but said with unexpected firmness: ‘One more, then I have to drive round to the Legation. Must make my number.’
‘You have a car? Wonder if you’d give me a lift?’
‘With pleasure.’
Lush’s car was an old mud-coloured Humber, high-standing and hooded like a palanquin.
‘Nice little bus,’ said Yakimov. Placing himself in an upright seat from which the wadding protruded, he thought of the beauties of his own Hispano-Suiza.
The Legation, a brick-built villa in a side street, was hedged around with cars. On the dry and patchy front lawn a crowd of men – large, practical-looking men in suits of khaki drill – were standing about, each with an identical air of despondent waiting. They watched the arrival of the Humber as though it might bring them something. As he passed among them, Yakimov noted with surprise that they were speaking English. He could identify none of them.
Lush was admitted to the chancellery. Yakimov, as had happened before, was intercepted by a secretary.
‘Oh, Prince Yakimov, can I help you?’ she said, extruding an elderly charm. ‘Mr Dobson is so busy. All the young gentlemen are busy these days, poor young things. At their age life in the service should be all parties and balls, but with this horrid war on they have to work like everyone else. I suppose it’s to do with your permis de séjour?’
‘It’s a personal matter. Ra-ther important. I’m afraid I must see Mr Dobson.’
She clicked her tongue, but he was admitted to Dobson’s presence.
Dobson, whom he had not seen since the night of the play, raised his head from his work in weary inquiry: ‘Hello, how are you?’
‘Rather the worse for war,’ said Yakimov. Dobson gave a token smile, but his plump face, usually bland, was jaded, his eyes rimmed with pink; his whole attitude discouraging. ‘We’ve had an exhausting week with the crisis. And now, on top of everything, the engineers have been dismissed from the oil fields.’
‘Those fellows outside?’
‘Yes. They’ve been given eight hours to get out of the country. A special train is to take them to Constanza. Poor devils, they’re hanging around in hope we can do something!’
‘So sorry, dear boy.’
At the genuine sympathy in Yakimov’s tone, Dobson let his pen drop and rubbed his hands over his head. ‘H.E.’s been ringing around for the last two hours, but it’s no good. The Rumanians are doing this to please the Germans. Some of these engineers have been here twenty years. They’ve all got homes, cars, dogs, cats, horses … I don’t know what. It’ll make a lot of extra work for us.’
‘Dear me, yes.’ Yakimov slid down to a chair and waited until he could introduce his own troubles. When Dobson paused, he ventured: ‘Don’t like to worry you at a time like this, but …’
‘Money, I suppose?’
‘Not altogether. You remember m’Hispano-Suiza. The Jugs are trying to prig it.’ He told his story. ‘Dear boy,’ he pleaded, ‘you can’t let them do it. The Hispano’s worth a packet. Why, the chassis alone cost two thousand five hundred quid. Body by Fernandez – heaven knows what Dollie paid for it. Magnificent piece of work. All I’ve got in the world. Get me a visa, dear boy. Lend me a few thou. I’ll get the car and flog it. We’ll have a bean-feast, a royal night at Cina’s – champers and the lot. What d’you say?’
Dobson, listening with sombre patience, said: ‘I suppose you know the Rumanians are requisitioning cars.’
‘Surely not British cars?’
‘No.’ Dobson had to admit that the tradition of British privilege prevailed in spite of all. ‘Mostly Jewish cars. The Jews are always unfortunate, but they do own the biggest cars. What I mean is, this isn’t a good time to sell. People are unwilling to buy an expensive car that might be requisitioned.’
‘But I don’t really want to sell, dear boy. I love the old bus. … She’d be useful if there were an evacuation.’
Dobson drew down his cheek and plucked at his round pink mouth. ‘I’ll tell you what! One of us is going to Belgrade in a week or so – probably Foxy Leverett. You’ve got the receipt and car key and so on? Then I’ll get him to collect it and drive it back. I suppose it’s in order?’
‘She was in first-class order when I left her.’
‘Well, we’ll see what we can do,’ Dobson rose, dismissing him.
Outside the Legation, the oil-men were still standing about, but the Humber had gone. As Yakimov set out to walk back through the sultry noonday, he told himself: ‘No more tramping on m’poor old feet. And,’ he added on reflection, ‘she’s worth money. I’d make a packet if I sold her.’
5
A week after the visit to the park café, Harriet, drawn out to the balcony by a sound of rough singing, saw a double row of marching men rounding the church immediately below her. They crossed the main square.
Processions were not uncommon in Bucharest. They were organised for all sorts of public occasions, descending in scale from grand affairs in which even the Cabinet ministers were obliged to take part, to straggles of schoolchildren in the uniform of the Prince’s youth movement.
The procession she saw now was different from any of the others. There was no grandeur about it, but there was a harsh air of purpose. Its leaders wore green shirts. The song was unknown to her, but she caught one word of it which was repeated again and again on a rising note:
‘Capitanul, Capitanul…’
The Captain. Who the captain was she did not know.
She watched the column take a sharp turn into the Calea Victoriei, then, two by two, the marchers disappeared from sight. When they were all gone, she remained on the balcony with a sense of nothing to do but stand there.
The flat behind her was silent. Despina had gone to market. Yakimov was in bed. (She sometimes wished she could seal herself off, as he did, in sleep.) Sasha – for he was still with them despite her decree of ‘one night only’ – was somewhere up on the roof. (Like Yakimov, he had nowhere else to go.) Guy, of course, was busy at the University.
The ‘of course’ expressed a growing resignation. She had looked forward to the end of the play and the end of the term, imagining she would have his companionship and support against their growing insecurity. Instead, she saw no more of him than before. The summer school, planned as a part-time occupation, had attracted so many Jews awaiting visas to the States, he had had to organise extra classes. Now he taught and lectured even during the siesta time.
On the day the oil engineers were expelled from Ploesti, the Pringles, like other British subjects, received their first notice to quit the country. Guy was just leaving the flat when a buff slip was handed him by a prefectura messenger. He passed it over to Harriet. ‘Take it to Dobson,’ he said. ‘He’ll deal with it.’