A Dead Man in Trieste (8 page)

’After the Irishman had gone?’

’After everyone had gone.’

’Everyone?’

’Everyone. Including the staff. We hang on for them especially. The bastards! They ought to be out with us.’

’So who was he seeing, then?’

’Oh, well. Who’s left when everyone else has gone home?’

It was, although he did not know it at the time, yet another Trieste saying. It had been offered offhandedly, as something that hardly needed saying, obvious to anybody. It wasn’t obvious to Seymour, however. Spotting that, they seized on it, glad of the opportunity to put the superior outsider at a disadvantage. They had been uneasy about him, unsure whether he was on the side of authority or not. Perhaps they had told him too much. Here, now, was a chance to put that right. They refused to say any more. He had asked for help and they had given it him. Now he had to make of it what he could That was fair, wasn’t it?

He walked up from the docks thinking about it. On his way he passed through the Piazza Grande. The man who had joined them the other day, the friendly one, Ettore, was sitting alone in the Café of Mirrors. He looked up at Seymour and smiled.

’I know!’ he said. ‘I’m early. I ought not to be here till later. In fact, I am not here. It is an illusion created by the café’s mirrors. Really I am at work. However, the meeting finished early and on my way back to the office, smelling the coffee . . .’

He was smoking, as, going by the other day, he seemed to do all the time. Seymour sat down to windward of him. Ettore noticed and waved a hand apologetically.

’It is bad,’ he said, ‘I know. I am trying to stop. I have spoken to my analyst about it – did you know, I go to a psychoanalyst regularly? I said: “How can you claim to put the big things right when you cannot put the small things right?” “Who says they are the small things?” he replied.’

Seymour laughed.

’For me, it is coffee,’ he said. ‘We all have our vices.’

’For everyone it is coffee,’ said Ettore. ‘But in my case that is, too.’

Seymour asked him how he had come to know Lomax. Through James, Ettore said. One day after their English lesson he had brought Ettore to the table in the Café of Mirrors and Lomax had been there. They had not met through business. His father-in-law normally handled the foreign side. Seymour rather gathered the impression that in anything to do with work Ettore was dominated by his father-in-law. He suspected that part of the attraction for Ettore of opening a branch in England was the prospect of getting away from him.

They talked a little about life in England. It was the first time Seymour had had much of a talk with Ettore and he found him not just sympathetic but also vaguely comforting. It was a relief to find someone fairly normal at the artists’ table. Then he remembered that Ettore was himself an artist; at any rate, he wrote novels. He asked Ettore about that. Ettore said that his early novels had had such a hammering from critics, mostly on the grounds that, coming from Trieste, he couldn’t write proper Italian, that he had virtually given up.

Seymour had an idea.

’Ettore, as a Triestian, could you give me some advice? It is about the meaning of what I gather is an old Trieste saying. Who is left behind when everyone else has gone home?’

’Are you getting at me?’

’No,’ said Seymour, surprised.

’It is what my father-in-law is always saying to me. Pointedly. When I leave work at what I think is a reasonable time.’

’Why? Who
is
left?’

’The boss. It is a Trieste saying, I think a foolish one. However, it is very popular with small businessmen.’

If he remembered rightly, the boss at the Edison, from what James had said, was a man named Machnich. Who also happened to be the person James had had dealings with over the venture of starting up cinemas in Ireland, if that had actually happened. And also the person, if James’s rambling account could be trusted, to whom Lomax had given business advice. Seymour thought it was time he looked at those dealings a little more closely.

When Seymour got back to the Consulate, he asked Koskash if there was any record of the occasions on which Lomax had offered help to James Juice and also, possibly, to some Trieste businessmen, over setting up a cinema in Ireland.

’Oh, yes,’ said Koskash, ‘there’s a big file.’

He brought it in and gave it to Seymour.

Seymour began to work through it. Lomax’s contributions appeared to be almost entirely technical and legal. He advised on Irish Customs regulations and on necessary licences and permits. On how to secure local banking facilities, on things to be borne in mind when renting premises, on employment law in Ireland. He seemed to know a lot about it; not just the theoretical requirements but how they were translated into practice on the ground. Reading it, Seymour was impressed. So far he had been inclined to dismiss Lomax as just an advanced nut. Going through what Lomax had written, however, he found a sharp, practical mind at work. It was a new side of Lomax that he was seeing. What was it that Koskash had said? That they had all said. That he was actually very good at his job.

And his role appeared to have been confined to giving advice. There was no hint that he had been involved in any other way, no hint of any personal financial involvement, for example, as Seymour had half suspected there might be. The actual financial side of it wasn’t, in fact, at all clear. But so far as James personally was concerned the financial arrangements
were
clear. They were contained in some separate pencilled notes. It looked as if as well as providing general advice to the group of Trieste businessmen behind the enterprise, Lomax had been giving James some private advice on the side. There was nothing underhand, just a few practical points, offered as a friend, that James should bear in mind. Advice probably much needed, thought Seymour.

It was beginning to fall into place now; a man with actually a good business idea – surprisingly – approaching a group of businessmen for backing. And then, gradually, the more astute backers taking over and the original visionary somehow getting lost to view. James, as he had said, had had the imagination; but not, Seymour suspected, any practical business or political sense at all.

Lomax had eventually had both of these and, reading between the lines, Seymour thought he could see him offering advice fairly to the Trieste businessmen but at the same time trying gently to see that James didn’t get taken for too much of a ride.

The principal backer appeared to be, as James had said, Machnich.

’The owner of the Edison?’

’That is right, yes,’ said Koskash. ‘And much else in Trieste besides. His principal business is a large carpet shop.’

’What sort of man is he?’

’What sort of man?’ Koskash grimaced. ‘A businessman of the Trieste variety. That is to say, at heart, small. His business is big now but he likes to run everything as if he was still running a small shop. He has to know everything, almost do everything, for himself. As soon as he can’t, he begins to get nervous. That, I think, may be why the Dublin venture never came to anything. He has a big idea and then the bigness of the idea frightens him.’

Even so, thought Seymour, the sort of man who would eat James alive. And Lomax too? Not if Schneider were to be believed and not on the evidence of the notes in this file. On this evidence, Lomax was a sharp customer.

When he had finished going through the file Seymour closed it and put it away in the out-tray and sat thinking. He thought for quite a while and then made up his mind. There was something he had to do and he might as well do it now.

He went into the front office where Koskash was at his desk working and then pulled up a chair and sat down exactly in front of him.

’Koskash,’ he said, ‘it is time we had a talk.’

’Certainly,’ said Koskash, putting down his pen.

’Koskash,’ said Seymour, ‘you have not been entirely honest with me.’

’Haven’t I?’ said Koskash, surprised. ‘I am sorry you should think that.’

’That man the other night, the one I gave the papers to: he wasn’t a seaman, was he?’

’Wasn’t he?’

’He wasn’t British, was he? This is the British Consulate and you would only have power to issue papers to British nationals.’

’Not necessarily. If they are crewing on British ships –’

’I looked at your copy, Koskash. It was made out as for a British national. Why was that, Koskash?’

’I – I do not know.’

’You lied to me, Koskash. You knew he wasn’t a seaman.’

Koskash looked uncomfortable.

’I am sorry,’ he said.

’Who was he, Koskash?’

Koskash shook his head.

’I am afraid I cannot say,’ he said.

’This won’t do, Koskash. I’m afraid you have to say. This is the British Consulate and the man wasn’t British. You were issuing British papers to a man who wasn’t British. And not even a seaman. Why was that, Koskash? Why did you do it? Was it for money?’

Koskash jumped as if he had been stung.

’No!’ he said. ‘No. Not that, never! I would never do a thing like that for money!’

’Then why, Koskash?’

Koskash just shook his head.

’I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am very sorry.’

’I am afraid, Koskash, that I need to know.’

He waited.

’Shall I help you? What I think you were doing was helping someone to leave the country, someone who couldn’t leave the country in the ordinary way. I wonder why that was? I can only think, Koskash, that it was because the authorities were looking for him. Was that what it was, Koskash?’

He waited, but Koskash did not reply. He just shook his head faintly from side to side.

’They could leave the country only under a false identity, and that you were willing to provide for them. You could give them false papers, papers which would enable them to get on a ship. Why, Koskash, why were you doing that?’

Koskash found his tongue.

’I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am truly very sorry. But I cannot tell you that.’

’But you must, Koskash. Otherwise I may have to go to the authorities. Mr Kornbluth, say, or, more probably, to Mr Schneider.’

Koskash closed his eyes as if in pain but shook his head again dumbly.

’I do not want to do that, Koskash, but I am afraid I may have to. If you won’t tell me anything. You have been abusing the trust Mr Lomax placed in you.’

’No!’ said Koskash.

’But yes! This is the British Consulate. The
British
. And you have been issuing false papers under its name. You have been taking advantage of your position here for purposes of your own.’

’No,’ said Koskash. ‘I would not do that. I would never do that. It would not be honourable,’ he said earnestly.

’But, Koskash, that is exactly what you
have
been doing. You have been making out papers secretly –’

’No!’ said Koskash hoarsely.

Seymour stopped.

’No?’

’No.’

’Are you saying,’ said Seymour slowly, ‘that you were
not
doing this secretly?’

’That is right, yes. I was not doing it secretly.’

’What are you saying, Koskash? That Mr Lomax
knew
what you were doing?’

’That is so, yes.’

For a moment Seymour couldn’t think what to say.

’You surprise me, Koskash.’

’I know. It
is
surprising,’ said Koskash simply. ‘But it is true.’

’He knew what you were doing? And didn’t stop it?’

Koskash nodded.

’How far was Mr Lomax involved in this? In what you were doing? This . . . arrangement? He knew what you were doing. Was there more to it than that?

Koskash shook his head.

’He knew what I was doing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘That is all.’

’He knew, but condoned it. Is that what you are saying?’

’That is what I am saying,’ said Koskash quietly.

Chapter Eight

’Sand.’

’– or,’ said Seymour.

The man at the Club’s reception desk raised his head. ’Or what, sir?’

’Sandor. That’s the name. S-a-n-d-o-r. Sandor. It’s a Hungarian name. Comes from my mother.’

’Right, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, Mr Sandor, if you’ll just –’

’That’s just my first name. You said you wanted my full name.’

’Well, yes, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.’

’Pelczynski.’

’Pel . . .?’

Resignedly Seymour spelt it out.

’It’s a Polish name. Comes from my grandfather.’

Why did he have to go on like that? He knew why. Ever since he had started going to school he had been self-conscious about his name. Most of the teachers in the East End were used to the assortment of immigrant names but it so happened that his first teacher had not been; and floundered.

’Pel . . .’ Mumble, mumble. ‘Well, thank you, sir, I’ll –’ ’Seymour.’

And even that had problems. ‘Listen,’ his grandfather had said when he got to England. ‘No Englishman is ever going to get his jaw round a name like Pelczynski!’ And he had changed it to Seymour, retaining, however, Pelczynski as a second Christian name in the family to the chagrin of his descendants ever since.

’Sandor Pelczynski Seymour,’ said Seymour firmly.

’Right, sir. Thank you, sir. If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll tell Mr Barton that you’re here.’

So Seymour sat down on the horsehair-stuffed, leather-upholstered sofa in the foyer of the English Club and waited. Seymour wasn’t used to clubs. Ordinary policemen from the East End weren’t. But he had been in one once, taken in by a superior when he was one of the team working on the Ripper case in Whitechapel not long before. Seymour’s job had been to check out some of the royal suspects. Well, that had been a waste of time. He had run straightaway into the same wall of superiority and superciliousness, call it class distinction if you liked, that he had encountered when he had gone to the Foreign Office. The English Club in Trieste wasn’t quite like that but it had something of the same air as the club he had been taken to in the West End. ‘Neutral ground,’ his superior had said. Well, it wasn’t neutral ground as far as Seymour was concerned.

There were the same comfortable chairs, the same discreet, deferential servants. From a room in the back he could hear the click of billiard balls. English newspapers were strewn on the tables and there was a rack of illustrated periodicals hanging from the wall. While he was watching, a man came in and took one. He went into an inner room, where Seymour caught a glimpse of yet more comfortable chairs. ‘Surrey, 231 for one,’ the man said to someone already sitting there.

On the wall were pictures of hunting scenes, together with a portrait of the monarch: not, actually, the present King but the old Queen, Victoria. The English Club in Trieste, like most clubs, in Seymour’s view, was a bit behind the times.

Barton came bustling in.

‘Seymour! Good to see you. Good of you to come.’

‘It was kind of you to invite me.’

‘I thought, just while you’re here – I know it probably won’t be for long, but even so, I thought you’d be glad of the chance to get back to a piece of England occasionally.’

‘I would indeed,’ said Seymour untruthfully.

Barton led him into the inner room, the reading room perhaps, and took him over to a corner, away from the only two other inhabitants.

‘Tea? Or something stronger?’

‘Coffee?’

‘Coffee it is.’ Barton went off to place the order, then came back and sat down opposite him.

‘Well, how are you finding things? And how are you getting on with sorting things out over poor old Lomax?’

‘Oh, reasonably well. People are very helpful’

‘Well, of course, they are. In Trieste. Usually.’

‘As a matter of fact, though, there’s one area where I could do with a bit of help. The business side. I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘Well, of course. Only too glad to.’

‘It’s really to do with the cinema.’

‘Cinema!’

‘Don’t you know about it? I thought you might have heard.’

‘Did hear something about it. Jog my memory.’

‘There’s an Irishman who wanted to start up some cinemas in Dublin and persuaded some Trieste businessmen to join him. Lomax gave them some advice. You know, help on Customs, that sort of thing.’

‘Irishman? That man, Juice?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’d steer clear of him if I were you. He’s a bit of a nutcase.’

‘I know, I know. Perhaps that’s the reason why Lomax was helping him. Hold his hand, you know. See he didn’t get into too deep water.’

‘That man would be out of his depth in a bloody puddle.’

‘And he was in it, you see, with some quite sharp people. Do you know a fellow named Machnich?’

‘The carpet shop?’

‘And cinemas, apparently.’

‘Has trouble with his people. Hasn’t he got a strike on?’

‘Yes. What is it about?’

‘The usual. Wages. Hours. Bringing in people who work for less.’

‘Bringing in? Immigrants?’

‘We don’t call them that. There’s so much coming and going of people in the Empire, and certainly in Trieste. But yes. People he brought in from outside. His own kind usually.’

‘A tough customer, is he?’

‘Too tough for Juice, definitely. But I don’t know how tough he’d be if it really came to it. They say he’s going to settle.’

‘And what about Lomax? Is he up to mixing it with someone like Machnich?’

‘I don’t know that a consul usually needs to mix it,’ said Barton doubtfully. ‘It’s usually just a case of giving advice. Actually, from what I heard, they got on surprisingly well.’

‘Surprisingly?’

‘Well, you know, they used to go off for a drink together. But he never came here for a drink. He’d drink with a foreigner but not with us. I call that surprising.’

It was true about the strike. In the piazza outside the Edison there was surprising activity this morning. Men were spilling out of the taverna and then standing talking. One of them looked up as Seymour went by.

’Christ, here he is again!’

Seymour glanced at him and thought he recognized him.

’What is it this time?’ said another voice resignedly.

This time he did recognize the man. He was one of the men he had talked to down in the docks.

’Hello!’ he said. ‘What are you doing up here?’

’What do you think we’re doing?’ said the first man bitterly. Seymour had placed him now. It was the most aggressive of the dockers, the one who had threatened to kick him. ‘Giving in, of course.’

’Giving in?’

’It’s all over. She’s bloody fixed it. Fixed it with that bastard, Machnich.’

’The strike? You’re going back to work?’

’
They’re
going back to work. We’re bloody not.’

’I suppose it’s good from their point of view,’ said another man.

’Well, yes, they’ll be able to start collecting their pay packet again, won’t they? But it won’t be any bigger. Or not much. They ought to have held out. As it is, all they’ve done is lose money.’

’They say it wasn’t about money. It was about conditions.’

’It’s always about money!’ said the first man derisively.

’It seems a pity,’ said another man, ‘after we’d shown solidarity.’

’That’s it! And that’s the trouble with getting a woman involved. They’re too ready to do a deal. What the hell are we doing, letting a woman represent us?’

’She’s got the gift of the gab,’ said someone doubtfully.

’Well, yes, and that worries me sometimes. You never know where these people are leading us.’

’You ought to be doing that, Benito.’

’Leading? Me? Christ, no! Stick your head out and yours is the first head that gets chopped.’

’It doesn’t seem to worry her.’

’Well, it ought to. And she oughtn’t to be so ready to do deals.’

’I wouldn’t call her soft,’ said another of the men, who hadn’t so far spoken.

’Well, I wouldn’t call her soft. But she gets on a bit too well with that bastard, Machnich.’

’Fowl of a kind, I suppose.’

’That’s it! That’s just it! The whole point of the Party is to get past divisions of that kind, Italian against Serb, Slovenian against Austrian. But she’s going back to it.’

’So it’s all over?’ said Seymour.

’All over. The men at the carpet shop have gone back. They’ve got no need for us now. “Thanks very much, mate.” “Thank
you
. But what about a bit of solidarity? We showed solidarity with you and it put a bit more in your pay packet. But we haven’t
got
any pay packets. How about showing a bit of solidarity with us?” “Ah, well, that’s different . . .” Too bloody true it’s different. And that’s why they shouldn’t have accepted. And why she shouldn’t have done a deal.’

’I don’t know what I shall do tonight.’ said another man. ‘Not with no picket line to be on. It gave a bit of point to things.’

The groups outside the taverna were breaking up and dispersing.

’What shall we do now?’

’Back to the docks, I suppose.’

’How about a drink?’ suggested Seymour. ‘I’ll stand you one. I owe you something for your help.’

’Well . . .’

They looked at each other.

’We sort of know him now,’ said one of the men hesitantly.

’A drink is real, even if friendship is not,’ said Seymour, finding from somewhere at the back of his mind one of old Angelinetti’s sayings.

’Well, that is true.’

They didn’t go back into the taverna because it was still full, but chose another up one of the side streets, where they stood at the counter and the bar tender drew the wine from barrels.

’So it helped you a bit?’ one of them said, looking at Seymour curiously.

’A bit. Not as much as I’d have liked, but that’s not your fault.’

’You worked it out, did you?’

’Slowly. Machnich.’

’Yes, Machnich. What they were up to in there together, God alone knows.’

’Another of Machnich’s pies. They say he’s got a finger in every pie in Trieste.’

’Two big for his boots, that bastard.’

’They do say, though, that he looks after his own.’

’Yes, but that’s what I’m complaining of. He looks after his own, but how about everyone else?’

’Those bastards in the Edison never came out.’

’I wish Machnich had come out. Come out of the cinema, that is, and tried to cross our line. I’d have given him a mouthful. But he never showed himself. Not once!’

’He didn’t need to. He’s got another door. A private one. It lets you on to the Piazza delli Cappucine out the back. Not this piazza. He had it put in in case of emergencies.’

’Just the sort of sneaky thing he would do. Why didn’t he come out and face us man to man?’

’Well, that’s just the sort of thing these big blokes never do. They always leave that bit to someone else.’

They finished their drink and thanked him politely. However, they refused another one. Seymour, used to the ways of dock people, could understand that.

Going back through the Piazza Grande, he found the artists, as ever, at their table. Did they do nothing but drink? Evidently they did, because Alfredo called up at him:

’Are you coming this evening?’

’Coming? What to?’

’James is giving a lecture.’

’Oh, really? What on?’

’Ireland,’ said James. ‘Ireland and Trieste.’

’Sort of . . .’ Seymour hesitated. ‘. . . geographical?’

’Cultural,’ said James. ‘And political.’

’Oh, yes?’

’What I shall bring out,’ said James, ‘are the similarities between Ireland and Trieste.’

’Really?’

’Yes. Both are oppressed nations struggling to be free.’

’Yes, yes. I suppose you could say that.’

’Trieste is certainly struggling to be free,’ said Lorenzo. ‘But is it a nation?’

’Part of a nation,’ said James.

’But which nation?’

’Italy, of course.’

’And Ireland?’

’Struggling to be free from England,’ said James. ‘And the Church.’

’Well, that’s a problem here, too, of course.’

’Exactly! What I shall say is –’

Seymour began to move away.

’You will come, won’t you?’ said Alfredo coaxingly.

’I’ll certainly try to.’

‘The People’s University. At eight.’

When Seymour got to the Consulate, he found Mrs Koskash there as well as Koskash. They seemed to have been having an argument. Mrs Koskash was flushed and tightlipped, Koskash grim. They both greeted him, however, politely.

’I mustn’t stay, though,’ said Mrs Koskash. ‘There are dozens of things I have to do.’

She bustled out.

Koskash stood for a moment looking at her retreating back, then turned away.

’She is always busy,’ he said quickly to Seymour. ‘She does so many things in the community. For so many causes.’

’Bazaars,’ said Seymour, remembering his sister. ‘Cake sales. Street collections.’

’Why, yes,’ said Koskash, surprised. ‘That’s right.’

The thought of his sister brought to Seymour’s mind the occasions on which he had last seen Mrs Koskash.

’Your wife’s a Socialist, isn’t she?’

’Yes,’ said Koskash. ‘Does that matter?’

’Not at all,’ said Seymour. ‘My own sister is one.’

’She is? I am one myself, of course, although not as committed as she is. She is the chairman of our branch.’

’Ah! Then she, perhaps, is the person who has been negotiating on behalf of the strikers at Machnich’s carpet shop?’

’Yes, that’s right. They had a long session last night. It is being put to the vote this morning.’

’It’s been put to the vote. They’ve accepted.’

’Well, that is probably good,’ said Koskash. ‘They’ve been out for a long time.’

’Your wife is evidently a formidable lady.’

’Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed.’

He settled himself at his desk.

’I have quite a bit of work to do,’ he said. ‘I shall probably stay on late this evening, if that is all right.’

Seymour was surprised the work was there. But then, with Lomax missing, Koskash was probably doing his work as well. He wondered uneasily if he ought to be doing something about the general work of the Consulate: but that, he decided, was something for Lomax’s superiors in London to see to. They would have heard of his death by now.