A Dead Man in Trieste (10 page)

‘I am active, yes,’ said Mrs Koskash. ‘A lot of people aren’t.’

‘And caring, I think. So I think you might well have set up an escape route for dissident Serbs.’

She did not deny it.

‘I am sorry about using the Consulate,’ she said softly.

‘And your husband? What about using him?’

She looked at him hard.

‘That is something I have to work out for myself. Perhaps I shall go to them and say: “You have arrested the wrong person. Koskash is not to blame. I am the one you want.” However, that is no concern of yours.’

She stood up.

‘I have come to ask you for something. It is this. Will you please go and see him in prison? They will agree because you come from the Consulate.’

‘I will certainly go and see him.’

‘Every day,’ she insisted. ‘While you are doing that they will not beat him up.’

Seymour was left alone in the Consulate. It suddenly came home to him. He was the only member of the staff left. And he wasn’t even, strictly speaking, a member of the staff. A moment of panic seized him. Suppose someone came along wanting the Consulate to do something? Seymour wouldn’t be able to do it, that was for sure. He’d have to fob them off, say the Consulate was closed or something. In fact, he’d better put up a notice to that effect right away.

But – just a minute –
could
a Consulate be closed, just like that? Didn’t diplomatic representation sort of go on independent of hours? And, anyway, who was Seymour to close a Consulate down? Wait a minute, wait a minute, things were getting out of hand. Jesus, he had only just joined the Diplomatic Service and here he was wanting to close half of it down. Well, not quite half of it. Trieste wasn’t quite that important, but it was important, Schneider was not the only one who had said so. Suppose something major blew up? An international crisis or something? Look, hold on, he told himself, you’re just an ordinary policeman, you’re not the bloody Prime Minister, leave it for him to sort out.

And at that moment there was a knock on the door.

A small boy was standing there. Well, not a small boy, a youth, but dressed in uniform. Someone official, anyway.

’Yes?’

’Are you the Consul?’

’Pretty nearly,’ said Seymour.

’Message for you, sir,’ said the youth, handing him a letter.

Seymour took it. The boy saluted smartly and moved away.

Seymour looked down at the letter stupidly. It was addressed to him.

But how could it be? It wasn’t from his mother or his grandfather and no one outside his family knew he was here. He turned it over and looked at the postmark. Manchester? But he didn’t know anyone in Manchester and certainly no one in Manchester knew him. He broke the envelope open. Violet Smethwick? He had never heard of anyone named Smethwick, let alone Violet. Why should anyone named Violet be writing to him? He turned over in his mind, a little uneasily, the various women he had met recently but couldn’t place this one.

He started to read the letter and for a moment couldn’t make any sense of it at all. And then he realized. Violet. Auntie Vi. Lomax’s Auntie Vi!

He stuffed the letter away in his pocket. He’d look at that later. Meanwhile there were more important things to do. He went back to being Foreign Secretary.

No, the first thing to do was notify the Foreign Office in London and suggest
they
did something about it. The second was to modify the notice he had been planning to put up.
Closed
– He crossed that out and altered it.
Temporarily Closed for all but Essential Business
.

And if any of that came along he would refer it to London. That was it! This was beginning to sound like Senior Management. Much more of this and he would declare himself Ambassador.

He put the notice up on the door. If by any chance some business turned up he would make a careful note of it and leave it for someone else to sort out. And meanwhile, perhaps, he could get on with what he had come to Trieste to do, which was to find out what had happened to Lomax.

First, though, there was a report to write.

It was some time later that he remembered the letter he had stuffed in his pocket. He took it out now and read it through properly.

It was indeed from Lomax’s Auntie Vi and a reply to the letter he had sent. She thanked him for writing. A letter had arrived from the Foreign Office that very same morning, she said, but it was not the same thing. Somehow on a thing like this it helped to hear from someone personally. Seymour had mentioned the pleasure which Lomax seemed to have found in his new posting. She said that something of that pleasure had come through in his letters home.

She caught herself up. Well, she hoped it had been a home to him. He had come to them from Dublin as a boy of eleven when his mother, Auntie Vi’s sister, had died. He had been a shy, odd little creature, she said, who had found it difficult to settle in. For a long time his only interest had been stamps. He had been quite bright, though, and had done well at school. They had been surprised all the same when he had chosen to apply for the Consular service; and even more surprised when he had been accepted. Perhaps it was the stamps that had put it into his mind. No one in their family, which was a decent, honest one, had ever done anything like that before. His mother, Auntie Vi said, would have been proud of him.

She said nothing about his father. He would have been Irish, perhaps? That might account for the Dublin. Died, possibly, like his wife? Or simply disappeared from the scene. Disappeared from Auntie Vi’s scene, anyway.

She said that although they had not seen Lomax for some time, they would miss him. Not being blessed with a child of their own, they had always treated him as a son. He had in turn looked on them as his parents. He had written to them regularly from his various postings all over the world and had sent them little presents, souvenirs, really, which were all they would have of him now but which at least would be a constant reminder of him.

She thanked Seymour again for his kindness in writing and said that if he was ever near Warrington he should call in; although she imagined that was not very likely. She expected he was always, like Lomax, in some other part of the world.

Seymour had the sense of a decent family stricken. With his own acute sense of family, he could guess how they felt. He was glad he had written.

He thought over what she had said. So Lomax had originally come from Ireland. He wondered if that accounted for his friendship with James and his helping him over the cinema business. Perhaps, too, it had stirred old loyalties and old attitudes, an old nationalism that went back to childhood, ever a romantic siding with the underdog which seemed suddenly relevant again when he came to Trieste.

There was a knocking on the door. Someone was trying to get in. He had forgotten he had locked it. He went to the door and opened it.

A man was standing there who seemed vaguely familiar. He clicked his heels.

’Rakic,’ he said.

Seymour remembered him now. He was the man who had talked to Marinetti about hiring the Politeama for his Futurist Evening. Someone to do with Machnich.

’You are the Consul?’ he said.

’No.’

The man corrected himself.

’Of course not. Lomax was the Consul. And Lomax is dead. But you . . .?’ He seemed puzzled. ‘I thought they said that you –’

’No,’ said Seymour. ‘I am just here temporarily. Passing through. I am a King’s Messenger.

’King’s . . .?’

’Messenger. I carry messages. Diplomatic ones.’

’Ah, yes, I see. And what, exactly, are you doing here?’

And what, exactly, business was it of his, thought Seymour, reacting to the tone?

’Carrying messages,’ he said, however. ‘I just happened to be here when Lomax was found.’

’Ah, yes. So you are nothing, then.’

’I wouldn’t quite put it like that,’ said Seymour.

The man seemed to realize how he sounded.

’I am sorry,’ he said, though only half graciously. ‘I meant, in the context of Trieste –’

’I am passing through,’ said Seymour. ‘And you?’

He had had enough of this boorish questioning.

’Machnich sent me.’

A little unwillingly, Seymour showed him in. They sat down in the inner office. Rakic looked around curiously at the walls.

’Decadent,’ he pronounced.

’Out of the usual, definitely.’

Rakic shrugged. The pictures did not really interest him.

’You come from Machnich?’

’Yes.’ Rakic studied him for a moment. ‘He has heard about Koskash,’ he said.

’Yes?’

’It is of concern to him. Will you tell me, please, what happened?’

Seymour hesitated. Why should he tell this man?

Rakic evidently guessed what he was thinking.

’Perhaps you do not know. Machnich is a Serb.’

’Koskash is not a Serb.’

Rakic made an impatient gesture with his hand.

’It was to do with Serbs. Did they not explain that to you?’

’Why should that matter to Machnich?’

’Because he is a Serb, as I say. He is a big man in Trieste. The biggest Serb. And so the other Serbs look to him. When something happens that affects Serbs, they turn to him. And so he needs to know what happened yesterday.’

Rather grudgingly, Seymour told him as much as he knew.

’The two who came and asked for papers, they were Schneider’s men, yes?’

’Yes.’

‘So Schneider knows.’

It was a statement rather than a question and did not need answering. Seymour had a question of his own.

’And Machnich knows, too, does he? About the escape route?’

Rakic did not answer him directly.

’Machnich looks after his own,’ he said.

’The Consulate was being used illicitly,’ said Seymour coldly.

Rakic gestured dismissal again.

’Lomax knew.’

He seemed to be thinking.

’You will be staying here?’ he said. ‘Until someone else comes out?’

’Probably.’

’Then you must go and see Koskash.’

’I may well go and see him.’

’See him. It is important. He is weak. His wife is strong, but he is weak. You must see him every day.’

Seymour made no reply.

’Every day!’ insisted Rakic.

’Why is Machnich so concerned?’ asked Seymour.

’As I told you, because this touches the Serbs.’

’Not because it might touch him?’

Rakic laughed.

’That, too, no doubt,’ he said drily. It was the first time the obsessive single-mindedness had lifted. ‘However,’ he said, ‘that is not his only concern. He looks after his own, as I have said. And Mrs Koskash is a Serb.’

He sat there looking at Seymour. He seemed to be weighing him up.

’She must not be left on her own,’ he said.

Then he seemed to make up his mind. He stood up.

’Machnich wishes to see you,’ he said. ‘The Stella Polare at eleven. Tomorrow.’

Chapter Ten

There was a man waiting outside the Consulate the next morning when Seymour arrived. He turned round and smiled.

’Signor Seymour?’

’
Si
.’

He bowed, in a formal, old-fashioned way.

’Augstein. Mrs Koskash sent me. She thought I might be of use.’

He had, he said, been the Consulate’s clerk before Koskash and had been retired for some years now.

’However,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I do not expect things to have changed much. You will need some temporary help, and it will not be like getting in someone completely new to the job.’

’Mrs Koskash sent you?’

’Yes. She said she owed you something,’ said Augstein quietly.

He was an elderly, grey-haired man, stooping slightly but still alert and active. When Seymour took him into the Consulate he looked around fondly.

’Much the same,’ he said.

He went to Koskash’s desk. It was locked.

He went across to a shelf with a row of box files and felt between them.

’We used to leave the key here. Ah!’

He showed it to Seymour.

’As I said, I don’t expect things have changed much. Mr Koskash is an orderly man and I, too, was orderly.’

He sat down at Koskash’s desk and pulled the mail in the in-tray towards him. He glanced at some of the letters and then went to the files.

’Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘we are almost up to date. It will not take long to catch up. Mr Koskash is most conscientious.’

He took out some forms.

’They are just the same,’ he said, with satisfaction.

He took up a pen and began to write.

Seymour hesitated. He could certainly do with the help. And yet he could not help feeling a little suspicious.

He went into the inner office, wavered and then came back.

’I would like,’ he said, ‘to consult the personnel files. The back files, please.’

’Certainly.’

Augstein rose from his desk and in a moment had laid two files on Seymour’s desk.

It was as Augstein had said. He had indeed been Koskash’s predecessor. He had worked in the Consulate for over thirty years, serving both of Lomax’s predecessors. There were his original references and here was a testimonial written at the point when he was handing over. It was in glowing terms: ‘thorough’, ‘conscientious’, ‘steady’, ‘reliable’. It was like an identikit version of Koskash.

And yet Koskash had turned out not to be entirely reliable, at least, not from the Consulate’s point of view. And Seymour still had that
fait accompli
feeling. Perhaps there was nothing in it. Perhaps he was being too distrustful. Perhaps Mrs Koskash was merely trying to make amends.

He turned back through the old references. Then he closed the file and went in to Augstein.

’Everything seems to be as you said. I see you were indeed here before Koskash. And for a long time, too!’

’Too long, perhaps,’ said Augstein, sighing. ‘But jobs like this were not easy to get, not for people like me, anyway.’

’People like you?’

’New immigrants. I was new, thirty years ago,’ he said, smiling.

’And where did you come from?’

’Belgrade.’

’Serbia?’

’Yes.’

’But an Austrian father? With that name?’

’Yes.’ Augstein smiled again. ‘Perhaps that is why they appointed me. It certainly made it easier in dealing with the authorities.’

Another Serb, thought Seymour. Perhaps that didn’t matter. It was natural for people of a kind to stick together, he knew that from his own experience in the East End. It was perfectly reasonable that Mrs Koskash should send along someone she knew and that that person should be a Serb like her. Perhaps that was how Koskash had got the job in the first place. All the same, Seymour felt uneasy. He had the sense of a clan closing round him. Perhaps that was how it tended to be in the Balkans. An individual was never quite just an individual, as Maddalena had said. Perhaps that was the mistake Lomax had made. You helped an individual, or individuals, but you got drawn into a group; and where did the group’s loyalties begin and end?

The Stella Polare was one of the old coffee houses of Trieste and as soon as Seymour went in he realized that up till now he had been missing something about Trieste. For this was the other side of Trieste, the part complementary to the tables in the outdoor cafés in the Piazza Grande, the Italian sparkle in the sunshine. If they were Italians, this was Austrian. Dark wood everywhere, low-beamed roofs, cosy corners. There were comfortable, horsehair-stuffed sofas in the recesses and newspapers on the tables. It was like the English Club but somehow heavier, solider, warmer.
Gemütlich. The Austrian word popped up in his mind.

Drifting out of the kitchen came the smells of Middle Europe: of the spicy, dumplinged broths of Budapest, the breadcrumbed schnitzels of Vienna, of venison and boar from the Bohemian forests, of paprika and rye bread and apple. The smells stirred memories of home for Seymour; not just his own home but the homes he had gone into in the East End with old Appelmann, immigrants’ homes still carrying with them culinary evidence of their roots.

At this hour, of course, the predominant smell was that of coffee and that seemed different, too, from the coffees of the piazza or of the Canal Grande. This was coffee with cream, the coffee of Vienna.

A man got up from a table in a corner and came towards him.

’Signor Seymour?’

’Signor Machnich?’

They shook hands. Machnich led him back to his table.

’You like the place, yes?’

’One of the old cafés,’ said Seymour.

’Old, yes.’ Machnich looked around with satisfaction. ‘This is the real Trieste,’ he said. ‘Where the real business of the city gets done.’

Everyone here, and there were quite a few of them even this early in the morning, distributed about the recesses and corners, was wearing a suit. And a suit, not a uniform. This, he realized, was the commercial heart of the city: old, yes, as Machnich had said, older, perhaps, even than the uniforms.

’When I first came to Trieste,’ said Machnich, ‘I put my head in here and said: no, this is not the place for me. But then I was just a poor shopkeeper. Now I know that if I did not come here they would think I was still just a poor shopkeeper.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not really care what they think. But if they see me here, where there is money, they will think I have money, and money breeds money. There is another thing. You see all this?’

The sweep of his arm took in the solid tables and comfortable chairs and the heavy, opulent woodwork.

’It is sound. And the people here are sound, or like to think they are. They belong to the old Trieste. The Trieste of old, safe money. The Trieste that even Austrians respect. And while I am here people will think that I, too, am sound. There are times,’ he said, ‘when that can be an advantage.’

He sat back in his chair. He was a great bull of a man, with a thick, bull-like neck and alert unblinking eyes.

’Like now?’ said Seymour.

Machnich looked at him sharply. Then his face creased up into a smile.

’Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Like now. But why do you say that?’

’I gather that you’re worried about Koskash.’

’Not
about
,’ said Machnich. ‘
For
. I am worried for Koskash. What they might do to him.’

’But why should you be worried about that?’

’I worry,’ said Machnich, ‘because he is one of mine.’

’He’s not a Serb.’

’He counts as one. Married to one. The next best thing.’ His face creased up again. ‘Almost a Serb,’ he said jovially. ‘And so I look after him. Machnich looks after his own.’

Seymour shook his head.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

The smile faded.

’What is this?’ said Machnich.

‘You may look after your own. But that is not why you are concerned about Koskash.’

‘What is this you are saying?’

‘I think you are concerned about Koskash because you are worried about what he might say. What he might tell the authorities.’

Machnich put a large forefinger on Seymour’s chest.

‘Me? Worried? Listen,’ he said. ‘Machnich has no worries. What do I care what he tells the authorities? I am in with the Austrians.’ He looked around the café. ‘That is what I have been telling you.’

‘Yes, I know you have. But I still think you are worried about what Koskash might say.’

‘What could Koskash say?’

The sharp eyes were watching him closely.

‘He might tell them about your connection with the escape route.’

‘Escape route? What escape route?’

‘The escape route for Serbian students. Serbians. Your people. And Machnich looks after his own.’

‘I know nothing about any escape route,’ said Machnich flatly.

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘Then why are you worried about what Koskash might say?’

The big neck became red.

‘I am
not
worried about what Koskash might say.’

Seymour shrugged.

‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ he said.

For a moment Machnich continued to look at him angrily. Then the red faded from his neck, his face relaxed and he gave a smile that was almost roguish.

‘About Lomax,’ he said.

He waved an arm and a waiter instantly brought coffee. Machnich waited while he poured it out. Then he looked at Seymour.

’Signor Lomax was different,’ he said.

’Different?’

’Not like the usual consuls. Not like the usual officials here in Trieste. All just paper-pushers.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Paper-pushers! I shit on them. But Signor Lomax was not like that. We were,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘people of the same type.’

’Really? In what respect?’

’Heart. We are people of heart. And so it hurt me,’ he said, ‘here,’ he put his hand on his heart, ‘when I heard that he had gone.’

’You knew him well?’

’Well, yes. We had worked together.’

’Over the Irish cinemas?’

Machnich looked surprised.

’You know about that?’

’A little.’

’Finished,’ said Machnich. ‘Long ago. Concluded.’

’Satisfactorily, I hope?’

’No.’

’No?’

’No. I lost money.’

’Not because of Signor Lomax, I hope?’

’Signor Lomax? No. Nothing to do with him. My fault, mine.’ He touched himself in the chest. ‘I should never have gone in in the first place. I let myself be talked into it. By that crazy Irishman. But that was not Signor Lomax’s fault. Mine!’

’What went wrong?’

’No one came.’

’I’m surprised at that. I remember going to the cinema in London –’

’London?’ interrupted Machnich. ‘Cinema? Where?’

’In the East End.’

’I don’t know of one there.’

’It’s not there. Not any more. It went bust.’

’There!’ said Machnich gloomily. ‘You see? Dublin, London – bust!’ He shook his head. ‘And you know why? New, too new for them. Those places are backward! Not like Trieste. In Trieste everyone goes to the cinema. Even those madmen who want to take over the Politeama next week for the night.’

’The Futurists?’

’Futurists, my ass! What do they know about the future? Listen, I’m the future, not those stupid bastards. Business is the future. Not art. That’s what I told Signor Lomax.’

’And what did he say?’

’He said we ought to get together. Business and Art. And the cinema was where it could happen. “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve had enough of artists. Look what one bloody artist has cost me!” Well, he laughed. “Better luck next time,” he said. “Listen,” I said. “There’s not going to be a next time. In future, me and art are going to stay apart.”’

’From the way you talk,’ said Seymour, ‘you got on well with Signor Lomax.’

’Well, I did. I found him . . . very sympathetic.’

’And not just over business.’

’Not just over business?’

’He helped you with the escape route, didn’t he?’

Machnich looked at him shrewdly but did not reply. Then he said:

’Perhaps.’

‘He came to see you on the night that he died,’ said Seymour.

’Yes.’

’What did you talk about?’

’Business.’

’What business? Not the cinemas. You said yourself that was all over.’

’Not just business.’

’The escape route.’

’Perhaps.’

’What did you say about the escape route?’

Machnich shrugged. ’Perhaps that that was all over, too.’ ’Was he saying that? Or were you?’

’Perhaps we both were. That it was time to stop.’

’You didn’t disagree over that?’

’No. We thought alike. We always – nearly always – thought alike. As I say, we were people of the same type.’ He laid his hand on his heart. ‘People of heart. And yet at the same time,’ he put a finger alongside his nose, ‘people of sense. Not airy-fairy. That is what I liked about Signor Lomax. Down to earth but good of heart. Like me.’

’So you talked,’ said Seymour, ‘and then he left. Do you know where for? Or what he was going to do?’

’No,’ said Machnich. ‘I only know what happened. He went out of the door and then – then I did not see him again. And in my heart there is a kind of absence.’

As Seymour went out, Machnich, who had accompanied him to the door, said:

’You will not forget to keep visiting Koskash, will you?’

Seymour wondered, as he walked away, if that had been the whole point of the invitation to the Stella Polare, to reinforce what Rakic had said. But Machnich had said he wanted to talk not about Koskash but about Lomax. What, though, had he said about Lomax? That, tacitly, he had known about (been involved with?) the escape route. But this Seymour had already known. Reinforcement, again? Or perhaps it had been something else: an offer to trade. You keep visiting Koskash, so that they won’t beat the truth out of him, and I’ll keep quiet about Lomax’s involvement.

He was conscious, as he turned towards the Piazza Grande, of his ‘shadow’ slipping in behind him. He had come to take him for granted now, would almost miss him if he wasn’t there. But he was always there. What sort of place was it where you became so accustomed to being followed that you felt uncomfortable if you weren’t being? He shrugged his shoulders. Despite the sunshine there were shadows to Trieste, of all kinds.