THE WINTER CITY Read online

‘My husband thinks that we should act soon.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  ‘I?’ She leant back in her chair so that shadow played on her face. ‘I believe that events shape themselves.’

  He looked at her. Her lips were tightly shut, there were hollows of shadow beneath her cheekbones and the nostrils were pinched; her shoulders were braced back as though every muscle in her body strained under an intolerable effort. He wanted to break her control, but was stayed by the fear that if he did so he might be unable to withstand her passion. If he took this woman, he knew that he would never be free again, there would never be another moment on the mountain pass when he was God. Yet, now, as he looked at her, he wondered whether the experience which she offered might be no less tremendous; he felt a great longing to submit, to lose himself in her passion. His eyes rested on her throat where the severe black dress fastened. He rose, and suddenly words sprang to his lips as though they had been ready all the time, poised to break the spell.

  ‘I think I agree with Karel,’ he said lightly, ‘one must be the master of events, not their servant.’

  He smiled, the lazy smile which made him look indolent and easy-going; but he had not sufficiently regained his control to be able to look at her, and he made rather a business of fixing the belt of his overcoat. When he was ready, she followed him to the door, holding the lamp in her hand.

  ‘You will give Karel my message?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood to one side, quietly, while he went out of the door; in the light from the lamp her face looked careworn, defeated.

  As he walked towards the pass he felt empty, and the cold stabbed through him. He was conscious of sadness, a thing he rarely experienced, as though something of value, the nature of which he did not understand, had passed beyond his reach. But as he came at last to the other side of the pass and saw the lights of the city shining dimly from the hollow, his spirits rose. He thought of the resistance and of the part which he would play. He savoured the danger which lay ahead; it was, he imagined, a danger in which, because he was a stranger, he could remain a free agent, uncommitted by love or hate.

  As far as Doyle was concerned, the stage was set and the sooner the action began the better.

  III

  Marshall Pickard was not so sanguine about the prospect of action. After he had left Helen at her flat he had returned to his room at the Hotel Kapitol in an uneasy mood. It was not his practice to delve deeply into his problems: the result of self-analysis, in his opinion, was invariably the creation of a morbid obsession. He considered it more healthy to look for the cause of his ills in some external occurrence. On this occasion, Paul Daniels provided an outlet.

  Pickard’s room was in a wing which jutted out at right angles from the main body of the hotel, and from his window he could look into Daniels’s room. Tonight, he could see Daniels hunched over his typewriter, his brows drawn together into a scowl, his thin, nervous hands poised above the keys as though about to launch an attack on them. It seemed to Pickard that the whole impatient character of the man was revealed at this moment.

  ‘And destructive,’ Pickard said moodily, as Daniels ripped paper from the machine.

  He turned away from the window and began to undress. It was Daniels’s attitude, he realized, which had aggravated him this evening, particularly his references to Matthias. Daniels believed that events were moving towards some kind of crisis and, no doubt, he would now disseminate this belief, through his most influential paper, to thousands of readers in England. The man, of course, was a responsible journalist, it would be pointless to deny that; nevertheless, by placing too much emphasis on a series of unrelated incidents he was helping to create a crisis. That Daniels might be deeply disturbed at the progress of events did not occur to Pickard.

  He kicked angrily at the battered horsehair sofa which he had asked three times to have removed and which still remained. Newspapers were dangerous. They put explicit arguments into the mouths of people who might otherwise have remained muddled and inarticulate; they pointed out a logical sequence of events to people who did not normally think in logical terms; they instructed the ignorant without giving them wisdom or teaching them responsibility; worst of all, they tended to create myths—the myth of Matthias, for example. Pickard moved across to the dressing table, still thinking about Matthias, and took his nightly three biscuits from a drawer. He found a section of processed cheese and began to peel off the silver paper. Matthias, he thought, as he spread cheese onto the biscuits with a fruit knife, would be represented as the Liberator and he would be endowed with all kinds of democratic virtues which he had never had, simply because he had been out of sight for long enough for people to become sentimental about him. Pickard brushed crumbs into his cupped hand and reflected that the arguments against a free Press were sounder than many people realized.

  It was all very irritating; but it was not mere irritation which he felt. He glanced in the mirror; his thick lips twitched a little petulantly, pouches were beginning to form beneath his eyes, and his skin was a putty colour. He turned away. The light in these rooms was appalling, it made one look thoroughly sick. And, of course, the climate and the food did not suit him. He wished that he had not been sent to this country. Before he had been in Hong Kong; it had been a grand life, with a good, mixed crowd so that it was possible to choose friends of one’s own type and ignore the rest. But here, one had to live such a narrow, enclosed existence, and one’s circle of acquaintances was desperately small. His eyes wandered round the room, puzzled and anxious. He was so much the odd-man-out, and this made him lonely at times. And although he believed firmly in his view of life, it was sometimes rather disturbing to have to contend with a man like Daniels, who was a brilliant talker and who had a penetrating and questioning mind. One lost a certain amount of confidence. He had thought that in Helen Jenner, who was so serene, he would find a sympathetic companion, but lately he had felt that she was a rather more complex person than he had imagined. He disliked complex people.

  He laid a clean handkerchief on his pillow and put a glass of water beside his bed. Then he went across to the window and opened it wide, as he did regularly every night to air the room before closing it to a carefully-measured three inches. There was a faint breeze and the cold seemed to break against his face in icy ripples. Somewhere, from the darkness below, came the sound of music, a slight, nostalgic jingle of a tune. All the uneasiness of the last few moments crystallized into a vivid image of Doyle Lawrence’s face as he chanted those ridiculous words ‘Death shall dance with Liberty.’ And Lady Hilton had smiled! The memory of that smile tormented him. She was so sane and so dignified, so civilized; surely she could see that the man Lawrence was a savage, ruthlessly concerned with the satisfaction of his own violent nature? Pickard beat with his fist on the window sill, emphasizing his thoughts and unconsciously keeping time to the rhythm of the music.

  ‘Death’ and ‘Liberty’: it was so foolish! Of course, he was sorry for the people here, but it was his private opinion that a good deal of the righteous indignation spilled on their behalf was unmerited: they did not do too badly. He glared into the darkness of the courtyard. He believed in authority, of whatever kind; it was thanks to authority that man could pursue an ordered existence, and if authority was destroyed, man would be destroyed with it.

  It was people like Lawrence who represented the real danger, he thought, with a sudden gush of hatred. ‘The enemy of all decent, sane people!’ He spoke aloud, and the night breeze bore his words away. He looked across at Daniels’s room: the light was out. There was nothing but darkness now, and the damned music.

  Chapter Four

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  The next day there was the first indication of serious trouble.

  Looking back on that Tuesday afternoon, it seemed to some observers that the feeling which had inspired the isolated incidents had become overnight a national feeling; as though each of the thousands of peo
ple in this city had reached the limit of endurance at the same moment in time.

  And so it began, slowly, at first.

  ‘You know, we have it cold back home,’ Kate was saying as she and Helen walked towards the restaurant on the Avenue of the Republic where they usually lunched. ‘But it’s different, somehow. Not so grey, as though everything was dead.’

  She looked very much alive herself. With the warm glow in her cheeks and the rebellious corn-coloured hair, she reminded Helen of those pictures of laughing schoolgirls which appeared on the covers of the Christmas magazines of her childhood. Winter had been a thing of holly and snow and glad church bells in those days. Helen pulled the collar of her coat higher, trying to shield her face from air which had the sharpness of a razor blade. She hated this steely cold with a personal hatred as though it were a relentless enemy. She could think of nothing else. Not so Kate.

  ‘Helen.’ There was surprise in Kate’s voice. ‘I didn’t know it was some kind of celebration day, did you? There aren’t any banners or cheer leaders.’

  Ahead of them Government Square seemed to be full of people. As they crossed to the restaurant men went by in twos and threes, walking towards the square. The faces, young and old alike, were stamped with the one expression of sullen indifference. Plainly they were not celebrating.

  ‘What can it mean?’ Kate said.

  As the stream flowed by, Kate’s emotions were caught up in its resentful impetus. She felt a sudden exaltation.

  A woman with a child in her arms ran out from the doorway of a near-by shop and caught hold of a man’s arm. He pushed her away angrily so that she stumbled back against Helen. She began to speak. The words were unintelligible but Helen could read their meaning in the woman’s eyes. She felt, in her own breast, the other’s anguish.

  ‘This is something tremendous, Helen!’ Kate cried. ‘Aren’t you excited?’ The sullen men grew in stature and purpose as she looked at them; they were transformed into the avengers. She turned to Helen and saw that there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, not understanding. ‘I want to cry, too.’

  ‘Come away.’ Helen plucked at Kate’s sleeve. ‘Quickly.’

  A boy of about seventeen, who was standing outside one of the shops, watched them curiously. After a few moments, with the reckless air of one indulging in forbidden pleasure, he walked across and spoke to them. His voice was gay, with a hint of hysteria. From the window of the shop someone shouted warningly: ‘Stefan!’ But Kate had already turned to him.

  ‘What is this about?’ The breeze ruffled her bright gold hair.

  The boy shook his head, but his eyes travelled wonderingly over her face.

  ‘Que se passe?’

  ‘Kate, be quiet!’ Helen said sharply. The boy shook his head again.

  Kate tried German. His face darkened and he spat on the ground. But he had understood, and he answered in his own language, speaking very slowly and distinctly.

  Kate turned to Helen. ‘Did you understand?’

  ‘Something about a deputation, I believe.’

  The boy was still watching Kate, fascinated, as though she were some bright bird of paradise. Something hungry in his eyes made Helen feel sick at heart.

  ‘We must go, Kate,’ she said.

  ‘English?’ The boy asked Kate.

  Kate pointed to Helen. ‘English, yes. Me—Canada.’

  He repeated, mimicking her: ‘Ca—na—da.’ Then he laughed. The laughter transformed him. He was suddenly a swaggering arrogant gypsy of a boy with his sensual mouth, the flare of the nostrils and the glittering excitement in his eyes. Kate was laughing, too, with vigour and joy, as though she and the boy shared some secret enchantment. Watching them, Helen knew that this image would remain in her mind, Kate and the boy and the memory of their laughter. A man called to the boy from the shop. The boy went up the steps, slowly, looking back at Kate.

  ‘Come now,’ Helen said to Kate. She opened the door of the restaurant. The air was stale and thick with cigarette smoke, but she was glad of the slight warmth. She was glad to turn her back on the street.

  ‘There’s Dr. Van Hals.’ Kate walked towards a table near the window. Helen followed.

  The Dutchman, a tall shambling man with a kind, deeply-lined face, was a little absent in his greeting.

  ‘What is happening?’ Kate asked, and when he just shrugged his shoulders, she went on: ‘Are they going to strike? Wouldn’t it be magnificent? History being made right in front of us. The first public meeting in Government Square that hasn’t been arranged by the Party!’ She was intoxicated with excitement.

  A waiter came for their order.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Kate asked, pointing to the street along which the men still moved towards the square. The waiter’s head was bowed over his pad and he did not look up.

  ‘There is a deputation at the Food Ministry, I believe.’

  ‘And all these people are going along to wish it well?’ Kate laughed. ‘I wouldn’t want to annoy a deputation that had such a large entourage, would you?’

  The waiter glanced at her quickly, his face blank; watching him, Helen knew that he was thinking that they were foreigners to whom this scene was a form of entertainment. She looked out of the window. How painful it was, this new awareness which made her so sensitive to the emotions of those around her. From a tall mast in the Avenue of the Republic she could see the Party’s flag fluttering above the heads of the men. Every nerve in her body seemed to be exposed, raw to the touch of this searching wind.

  ‘Helen, what are you having?’ Kate’s voice was impatient. Helen started guiltily and reached for the menu.

  Dr. Van Hals said gently: ‘The curry is quite good today.’

  The waiter departed. Kate put her hands to her cheeks.

  ‘The wind has caught my face. It feels as though it was on fire, like that wonderful glow you get at the end of a long ski-run when the air has been rushing past you. Oh, how I love that feeling! It’s the nearest one comes to being a bird. I want to fling out my arms and . . .’

  ‘Then you would lose your balance and fall in the snow,’ the doctor pointed out.

  ‘Oh!’ She drummed her fist on the table. ‘You have no soul, you Europeans. Did you know that? There are times for madness; but you are so realistic, so dark, so decadent, so . . .’

  He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not a skier. I have never felt the slightest urge to hurl myself down one of those incredibly nasty slopes.’

  Helen moved uneasily and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sure there must be a draught from this window. I can’t think why you feel so warm, Kate. It seems colder than I have ever known it.’

  ‘Here is your soup,’ the doctor said. ‘Though I’m afraid it won’t warm you very much, if mine was anything to go by.’

  ‘You know, when I was in Austria, there was a ski-run just outside . . .’

  Kate’s voice was excited. Helen thought that she looked feverish. Dr. Van Hals was drinking coffee, his head bent forward slightly; his forehead was more furrowed than ever and there were lines of strain around his mouth. After a time Helen realized that he was not listening to Kate. Once he turned his head, reluctantly, and looked out of the window.

  The street was almost empty now. It was quiet: the uneasy quiet of a missed heart-beat. A wisp of coloured paper, fluttering on the pavement, was tossed briefly in the air by a sudden gust of wind which played with it, a little aimlessly, and then let it fall limply into the gutter. Helen and the doctor spoke together.

  ‘You must join me in a liqueur . . .’

  ‘If only they would do something about the decorations in this place . . .’

  Kate raised her voice: ‘And this man that I’ve been telling you about couldn’t stop himself; he just went straight on into the crevasse. It was very sad. I knew his wife.’

  They stared at her. She said brightly: ‘Thank you, Dr. Van Hals. I really would love a liqueur. I feel so . . .�
��

  Her voice trailed away and Helen saw the shining excitement die in her face as though a light had been switched off. She was looking out of the window. Helen turned and saw that a heavy lorry had drawn up just beyond the restaurant. The flap at the back was let down. Helen saw the swing of a long, polished boot and the glint of steel as the first man jumped out, lithe and predatory, in his black and silver uniform. Another lorry went by, heading for the square, and in that, too, Helen caught a glimpse of the black and silver uniform of the special police. Outside the restaurant an army lorry crawled to a halt. The driver did not get out. He sat in his seat, waiting, while the special police walked towards the square. They carried guns and they looked anxious to use them.

  One or two people in the restaurant moved to the windows. A waiter carrying three plates of soup turned abruptly and went back to the kitchen. The cashier pressed her fist against her lips. Kate was on her feet, making for the door. Helen caught her arm, and Dr. Van Hals said sharply:

  ‘You cannot go out there!’

  She looked at them, impatient and faintly contemptuous. ‘What sort of people are we if we just stay here and do nothing!’

  ‘The only thing that will happen if you go out there,’ Helen said angrily, ‘is that someone will get hurt rescuing you.’

  Dr. Van Hals took Kate by the shoulders and forced her back into her chair. ‘This is not a show put on for your benefit,’ he said curtly.

  Kate sat staring in front of her, her lips quivered and she was unable to check the tears of humiliation.

  Helen opened the window. The air against her face was bitter. In the distance she heard a sound which she did not recognize at first, a sound which wavered and swelled, died away and then surged up again. She closed her eyes suddenly and turned away. An elderly man standing near-by said:

  ‘Do not flinch from it, young lady. Listen to it! It is something to be heard, and to remember with pride that you have heard. But it will have to be loud, louder than this, and much angrier.’ He turned excitedly to Dr. Van Hals. ‘I have heard the voice of the people once before like this; once only, in Russia, a long time ago. It is something one does not forget.’