Her instinct was to hurry at once to Guy and urge him to close down the summer school, but she knew she must not do that. Guy would not welcome her interference. He had put her out of his production on the grounds that no man could ‘do a proper job with his wife around’. She wandered on as a preliminary to action, not knowing what action to take.
When she reached the British Propaganda Bureau, she came to a stop, thinking of Inchcape, who could, if he wished, put an end to the summer school. Why should she not appeal to him?
She stood for some minutes looking at the photographs of battleships and a model of the Dunkirk beaches, all of which had been in the window a month and were likely to remain, there being nothing with which to replace them.
She paused, not from fear of Inchcape but of Guy. Once before by speaking to Inchcape she had put a stop to one of Guy’s activities and by doing so had brought about their first disagreement. Was she willing to bring about another?
Surely, she told herself, the important point was that her interference in the past had extricated Guy from a dangerous situation. It might do so again.
She entered the Bureau. Inchcape’s secretary, knitting behind her typewriter, put up a show of uncertainty. Domnul Director might be too busy to see anyone.
‘I won’t keep him a moment,’ Harriet said, running upstairs before the woman could ring through. She found Inchcape stretched on a sofa with the volumes of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu open around him. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. Seeing her, he roused himself reluctantly and put on the jacket that hung on the back of the chair.
‘Hello, Mrs P.,’ he said with a smile that did not hide his irritation at being disturbed.
Harriet had not been in the office since the day they had come here to view Calinescu’s funeral. Then the rooms had been dilapidated and the workmen had been fitting shelves. Now everything was painted white, the shelves were filled with books and the floor close-carpeted in a delicate shade of grey blue. On the Biedermeier desk, among other open books, lay some Reuter’s sheets.
‘What brings you here?’ Inchcape asked.
‘The Iron Guard.’
He eyed her with his irritated humour: ‘You mean that collection of neurotics and nonentities who trailed past the window just now? Don’t tell me they frightened you?’
Harriet said: ‘The Nazis began as a collection of neurotics and nonentities.’
‘So they did!’ said Inchcape, smiling as though she must be joking. ‘But in Rumania fascism is just a sort of game.’
‘It wasn’t a game in 1937 when Jewish students were thrown out of the University windows. I’m worried about Guy. He’s alone there except for the three old ladies who assist him.’
‘There’s Dubedat.’
‘What good would Dubedat be if the Guardists broke in?’
‘Except when Clarence puts in an appearance, which isn’t often, I’m alone here. I don’t let it worry me.’
She was about to say: ‘No one notices the Propaganda Bureau,’ but stopped in time and said: ‘The summer school is a provocation. All the students are Jews.’
Although Inchcape retained his appearance of urbane unconcern, the lines round his mouth had tightened. He shot out his cuffs and studied his garnet cuff-links. ‘I imagine Guy can look after himself,’ he said.
His neat, Napoleonic face had taken on a remote expression intended to conceal annoyance. Harriet was silenced. She had come here convinced that the idea of the summer school had originated with Guy – now she saw her mistake. Inchcape was a powerful member of the organisation in which Guy hoped to make a career. Though she did not dislike him – they had come to terms early on – she still felt him an unknown quantity. Now she had challenged his vanity. There was no knowing what he might not say about Guy in the reports which he sent home.
When in the past she had been critical of Inchcape, saying: ‘He’s so oddly mean: he economises on food and drink, yet spends a fortune on china or furniture in order to impress his guests,’ Guy had explained that Inchcape’s possessions were a shield that hid the emotional emptiness of his life. Whatever they were, they were a form of self-aggrandisement. She realised the summer school was, too.
Knowing he could not be persuaded to close it, she decided to placate him. ‘I suppose it is important,’ she said.
He glanced up, pleased, and at once his tone changed: ‘It certainly is. It’s a sign that we’re not defeated here. Our morale is high. And we’ll do better yet. I have great plans for the future …’
‘You think we have a future?’
‘Of course we have a future. No one’s going to interfere with us. Rumanian policy has always been to keep a foot in both camps. As for the Germans, what do they care so long as they’re getting what they want? I’m confident that we’ll keep going here. Indeed, I’m so confident that I’m arranging for an old friend, Professor Lord Pinkrose, to be flown out. He’s agreed to give the Cantecuzeno Lecture.’
Meeting Harriet’s astonished gaze, Inchcape gave a grin of satisfaction. ‘This is a time to show the flag,’ he said. ‘The lecture usually deals with some aspect of English literature. It will remind the Rumanians that we have one of the finest literatures in the world. And it is a great social occasion. The last time, we had eight princesses in the front row.’ He started to lead her towards the door. ‘Of course, it calls for a lot of organisation. I’ve got to find a hall and I’ll have to book Pinkrose into an hotel. I’m not sure whether he’ll come alone.’
‘He may bring his wife?’
‘Good heavens, he has no wife.’ Inchcape spoke as though marriage were some ridiculous custom of primitive tribes. ‘But he’s not so young as he was. He may want to bring a companion.’
Inchcape opened the door and said in parting: ‘My dear child, we must maintain our equilibrium. Not so easy, I know, in this weather, when one’s body seems to be melting inside one’s clothes. Well, goodbye.’
He shut the door on her, and she descended to the street with a sense of nothing achieved.
Shortly before the Guardists passed the University, Sophie Oresanu had come to see Guy in his office. The office had once been Inchcape’s study, and the desk at which Guy sat still held Inchcape’s papers. The shelves around were full of his books.
Sophie Oresanu, perched opposite Guy on the arm of a leather chair, had joined the summer school with enthusiasm. She now said: ‘I cannot work in such heat,’ leaning back with an insouciance that displayed her chief beauty, her figure. She pouted her heavily darkened mouth, then sighed and pushed a forefinger into one of her full, pasty cheeks. ‘At this time the city is terrible,’ she said.
Guy, viewing Sophie’s languishings with indifference, remembered a conversation he had overheard between two male students:
‘La Oresanu is not nice, she is le “cock-tease”.’
‘Ah, j’adore le “cock-tease”.’
He smiled as she wriggled about on the chair-arm, flirting her rump at him. Poor girl! An orphan without a dowry, possessed of a freedom that devalued her in Rumanian eyes, she had to get herself a husband somehow. Remembering her grief when he had returned to Bucharest with a wife, he said the more indulgently: ‘The other students seem to be bearing up.’
She shrugged off the other students. ‘My skin is delicate. I cannot tolerate much sun.’
‘Still, you’re safer in the city this summer.’
‘No. They say the Russians are satisfied there will be no more troubles. Besides’ – she made a disconsolate little gesture – ‘I am not happy at the summer school. All the students are Jews. They are not nice to me.’