After the Fine Weather (4 page)

“There was that woman tourist, only last February,” said Helmut. “The one they found under a rock – but I apologize.” He caught Charles’ eye on him. “It is not a very pleasant conversation for the dinner table.”

“How are your preparations going forward for tomorrow, Herr Humbold?” asked Charles.

“Our preparations are complete.”

“Do you anticipate trouble?”

“There will inevitably be trouble. Trouble with crowds coming to and from the square. Trouble with traffic. Trouble with the extra security measures we shall have to impose.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“We are a new state. I feel that we are on trial in this matter. The safety of a Bundesminister and a cardinal bishop has been entrusted to us. It is a heavy responsibility.”

Laura had a clear vision of Miss Sennett, her late headmistress. “Tomorrow we are expecting Lord Penticost, our chairman of governors. Every girl is on her honour to uphold the good name and traditions of this school–”

“By trouble,” said Charles, “I really meant racial trouble. I couldn’t help noticing a slight increase of rowdiness – slogans printed on walls, that sort of thing.”

“There is a subversive Italian element in Lienz. It is small, but troublesome. I have sometimes suspected that it receives support from our political opponents.”

“Political opponents will always fish in troubled waters,” agreed Charles. “Had you anyone particular in mind?”

“Radler had an Italian grandmother.”

“Ernst Radler? The Socialist leader? Surely he would not lend himself–”

“A man who will not lend himself will sometimes sell himself,” said Humbold.

“Surely, you don’t suggest–”

“Not for money, no. But for power. There are men to whom power is more precious than money.”

“In my book, then, they’re mad,” said Helmut. “Money brings pleasure. Power brings headaches.”

Laura said, “Have you really got a troublesome Italian minority here?”

Humbold swivelled his head round and awarded her one of Miss Sennett’s most transfixing glances.

“What do you mean, Miss Hart?”

I won’t be intimidated, said Laura to herself. This is my brother’s dinner table. Technically I’m on British territory. I am not a small girl. “I meant,” she said carefully, “that national minorities sometimes get blamed for a lot of trouble that has nothing to do with them.”

“Really, Laura–” said Charles.

“They form a sort of useful whipping boy.”

“Or scapegoat,” suggested Helmut.

“How long have you been in Lienz, Miss Hart?”

Laura looked at her watch. “Exactly twenty-six hours.”

“Then I must suggest that people who have been studying the problem for a quarter of a century would be likely to have a more balanced view of it.”

She glimpsed, on one side, Charles frowning and caught, on the other, a flash of encouragement from Helmut. “We have a saying,” she said, “that it is sometimes difficult to see the woods for the trees.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Well–” What did it mean? “It implies that if you get too immersed in a problem you might, conceivably, find it difficult to take an overall view of what is going on.”

“The spectator,” said Helmut, “sees most of the game. Yes?”

Humbold transferred his attention briefly to Helmut, who smiled at him, and then turned back to Laura.

“And in your twenty-six hours of being a spectator of our national game you have come to the conclusion that we have not got a troublesome Italian minority.”

“I didn’t quite mean that,” said Laura. “But it occurred to me that the Italians might be having their own troubles too.”

“And when did this thought come into your mind, Miss Hart?”

“About an hour ago when I happened to see an Italian being beaten up by three Austrians.”

She described the incident.

“Did you report the incident, Miss Hart?”

“I told the first policeman I saw.”

“His name?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Surely, when you were at the police station, making a statement, you discovered his name.”

“I didn’t go to the police station. And I didn’t make a statement.”

“Why not?”

“I–”

“It was, as you describe it, a serious assault. A criminal assault. Surely it was your duty, as a witness, to make a statement.”

Laura felt herself getting hot. Charles was silent. His expression said, “You’ve got yourself into this. You can get yourself out of it.”

“The policeman,” she said, “didn’t seem to want to take it very seriously.”

“He discouraged you from making a statement?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did he invite you to make one?”

“Yes – as a matter of fact he did.”

“And you refused.”

“He said it was probably apprentices or students. He evidently thought I was exaggerating.”

“Yes,” said Humbold.

“Coffee in the next room,” said Charles hastily.

“Really, Laura,” said Charles.

“I can see I’m not cut out to be a diplomat,” said Laura, “but you must admit he provoked me.”

Herr Humbold had left on the stroke of ten. After his departure the atmosphere had lightened. Helmut had accepted another glass of brandy and had proceeded to entertain them with stories of motor racing and the International Winter Sports set. At eleven o’clock he, too, had gone, leaving brother and sister together.

“I thought you provoked him.”

“It wasn’t what he said. It was just that he reminded me of Miss Sennett.”

“Miss who?”

“The headmistress at Highside.”

“Really, Laura.”

“He pursed his lips in exactly the same way that she did. And he treated me as if I was a child.”

“He’s got a lot on his mind just now.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, there really has been trouble over the South Tyrol. It’s not imaginary. And it could turn quite nasty.”

“What I don’t understand is, just who’s making the trouble. South Tyrol belongs to the Italians. Yes?”

“It doesn’t belong to them. It was awarded to them, after the First World War. They were on our side in that war.”

“But they were against us this time. So why didn’t they have to give it back?”

“The only people they could have given it back to was the Austrians. They were on the losing side too.”

“I think it’s horrible,” said Laura, “trading countries across the table as if they were counters. Why don’t they ask the people who live there? They’re the ones who should decide.”

“A plebiscite?”

“Why not?”

“If they had a plebiscite of Bolzano Province – which is the one most of the argument is about – I can tell you exactly what the result would be. A two-to-one vote for coming back to Austria.”

“All right, then–”

“On the other hand, the Italians say that Bolzano shouldn’t be considered by itself. They would be quite prepared to have a plebiscite of the whole of the Region – that’s Bolzano and Trento.”

“Because there are enough Italians in Trento to swing the vote the other way.”

“Quite right.”

“The whole thing’s a swindle,” said Laura. “The only answer is to make them completely independent. Like Switzerland. I’m going to bed.”

She added, as she made for the door, “I suppose there’s no truth in the rumour that the trouble’s being stirred up by ex-Nazis?”

For the first time a ripple broke the surface of Charles’ diplomatic calm.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Who put that idea into your head?”

“An American called Joe,” said Laura. “I met him on the train. He has an infallible nose for trouble. He told me so himself.”

“Going to the parade, Miss Hart?”

“Oh, it’s you, Mr Keller. Yes, I’m meeting my brother there.”

“Join me in a cup of coffee first.”

“I’d love to,” said Laura. “But do you think we ought? It’s due to start at eleven o’clock and it’s five to now.”

“It’s a full-dress military shebang. There’ll be half an hour of forming line and marching and countermarching before business begins. You’ve got a ticket for the VIP seats, I suppose.”

“Row C. Wives and Ladies of the Diplomatic Corps.”

“That’s all right then. Plenty of time for a coffee. Let’s sit outside. Make the most of this sun while it lasts.”

As they took their seats, a stocky figure got up from one of the far tables and ambled across. It was Helmut. His brown face crinkled into a smile as he recognized Laura.

“I shall see you at the parade?” he said.

“Certainly.”

“The speeches will be dull for you, but it will be a fine spectacle.”

They watched him cross the pavement and get into the low-slung scarlet Facel Vega.

“I’ve a feeling I know that guy,” said Joe.

“Helmut Angel.”

“That’s right. Of course. Mountain climbing, ski jumping, racing cars. All the really expensive ways of breaking your neck.”

“If you’ve got a lot of money to spend, that sounds quite a – well, quite a healthy way of spending it.”

Joe looked at her thoughtfully, and then said, “Oh, sure. Sure. A great boy. He’s interested in politics too, I’m told.”

“What sort of politics?”

“Does the Tiroler Boden Bund mean anything to you? Or the name Berg Isel?”

“Nothing at all. I don’t even know who Berg Isel is.”

“Oh, Fame, oh, Fame, how short thy span! Short as the Memory of Man! Berg Isel was a battle. It was one of the greatest victories ever gained by irregular troops over a regular army. It’s a place near Innsbruck – a sort of tea garden now – where Andreas Hofer, of blessed memory, routed the Bavarian troops.”

“Is he the gentleman with the beard that they’ve got all the statues of?”

“That’s him.”

“And when did it all happen?”

“A hundred and fifty years ago – just about.”

“Oh, well,” said Laura. “You couldn’t expect me to know about a thing like that.”

“People around here know about it,” said Joe. “They’ve got long memories in these parts. Whenever something happens which they regard as a threat to the Tyrol – the historic Tyrol – Andreas Hofer burnishes up his arms – and people like your friend Helmut join the Berg Isel Bund, which is fairly respectable, or the Tiroler Boden Bund, which is definitely fanatical.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Laura. “I’ve met him precisely once, at dinner last night. All the same, I could hardly help liking him. He was such a pleasant contrast to our other guest.”

Joe paused for a moment in his endeavor to attract the attention of the elderly waiter and said, “Who was he?”

“Herr Humbold.”

“The Hofrat?”

“That’s right.”

“Well now,” said Joe. “What I wouldn’t have given to be there. That’s a man who’s come a long way in a short time.”

“And knows it.”

“Right, I’ve heard that modesty’s not his strong suit. But you’ve got to admit, he’s got something to buck about. At the end of the war he was an unsuccessful dentist in Vienna. Five years later he was a deputy. He was under-secretary for agriculture in the first Christian Democrat government, and minister of health in the second. Then the idea got about that he’d cast himself as prime minister in the next government. He was busy drumming up a coalition of all the parries of the Centre with an anti-Socialist programme–”

“He doesn’t seem to like the Socialists,” agreed Laura.

“He’s a politician,” said Joe. She wasn’t sure from his tone of voice whether this was an excuse or an explanation.

“How did he get to Lienz?”

“It’s an old rule of politics. When a subordinate gets ambitious, you send him off to rule a distant province. The Romans thought that one up. Sometimes it works all right. Out of sight out of mind. Sometimes it backfires. The proconsul gets up such a head of steam in his own province that it blows him back into power in the capital.”

“He didn’t strike me as the sort of man who would be likely to make a mark in history. He wasn’t–” having got that far she could hardly say that her views on him were coloured by his resemblance to her late headmistress – “he wasn’t a big enough sort of man,” she concluded rather lamely.

“Most of the trouble in this world,” said Joe, “has been caused by small men. Napoleon was five feet two. Hitler was five foot three. If that goddam expert in slow motion who’s disguised as a waiter doesn’t hurry with the check, we shall miss the parade.”

It took them five minutes to push their way through the thickening crowd, sightseers rather than spectators, which had gathered round the approaches to the square, attracted by the Tyrolese band, which was in full blast. Once inside the square they ran into a more serious obstacle in the form of a cordon of auxiliary police. Unlike English policemen, Laura noted, they were facing the crowd they were intended to restrain, and had the particularly expressionless appearance of civilians suddenly called on to perform an official function. Joe selected the most sympathetic looking, and showed him his pass. The man shook his head. “But look here,” said Joe. “We’ve got to get in. This is a press pass. Newspapers. You understand.”

“It is too late to pass.”

“It’s not too late. The parade hasn’t started yet. That’s just the overture. Look here, try your pass on him.”

Laura produced her invitation. It was an impressive document, inviting Laura to take her seat in the places reserved for guests of the Diplomatic Corps, and it was topped by a large red bird, either a dove or an eagle, or a heraldic hybrid of both. The policeman showed signs of weakening and summoned an officer.

A foxy-faced man introduced himself as Inspector Moll.

“I will show you to the reserved section,” he said. “It would have been better had you arrived at eleven o’clock.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Laura.

“It’s quite an organization you’ve got going here,” said Joe. “I’ve been to parades all over the world, but I’ve never seen such a security turnout. Are you expecting trouble?”

“You are with this lady?”

“I happen to be an acquaintance of this lady. I’m not with her. I’m here on a press ticket.”

“There is a section reserved for newspaper reporters. It is between the Andreas Hofer memorial and the public convenience.”

One by one the soldiers in their dark-green uniforms raised their hands; one by one they gave a strangled shout which Laura took to be their declaration of loyalty to their new colours. With an English regiment the ceremonial would have seemed ridiculous; with these people, in that setting, it suddenly became impressive. She remembered her brother’s saying, “If the Russians march into Europe we shall have one front line on the Alps and another on the Pyrenees.” These men would fight on the Alps.

The band struck up the Tyrolese national anthem, the “Landeshymne”. The long pennants rippled on the flagstaffs. The sun shone out of a pale-blue sky. It was a perfect setting for the ceremonial.

The two wings of the stage were the old Imperial Palace, the long frontage of which formed the left-hand side of the square; and the State Theatre, on the steps of which the dignitaries were standing.

The backcloth was the mountains; a symphony of colour, form, and movement which would have baffled a painter but might have inspired a musician.

The spectators reseated themselves, and the first guest of honour rose to the microphone.

Bundesminister Miller was a tall, thin, dry man who might have stepped from a boardroom in any capital city of the Western world. He was well but unemphatically dressed. His face was not exactly expressionless. It possessed, rather, a number of well-organized expressions, each one suitable for a specific occasion.

Laura was unable to understand anything that he said, but she did realize that he was failing to grip his audience.

The official guests sat in attitudes of polite attention, but those Lienzers who had reached the square early enough to take up a position inside the cordon, and who formed a sort of bright inner circle round the lines of chairs, were beginning to stir and chatter gently among themselves. Feet began to shift, heads were turned. The politically balanced thesis and antithesis of Dr Miller, previously drafted and agreed upon with his Cabinet colleagues, laid on a dozen editorial desks, cut and dried to a point where words meant anything that you wished them to mean, or nothing at all, drifted like thistledown over the holiday crowd. Laura transferred her attention to the theatre. It was an ugly but striking building. Builders of theatres, she reflected, having to be economical within, usually let themselves go when it comes to exteriors. This one was no exception.

It had a massive portico, supported by three Doric columns on each side. It had two shallow flights of steps, separated by a spacious platform on which the official guests were now seated. Deserting the classical idiom, the architect had then added, at either side of the portico, a turret of a type commoner in grand opera than in life, topped by a machicolated roof and pierced by three circular windows, one above the other. The façade was coated with plaster, painted light yellow and flaking in places.

Dr Miller reached his peroration, worked himself into a carefully regulated outburst of fury, blew his nose, ceased being furious, and sat down. Hofrat Humbold, who was seated beside him, smiled, and the guests applauded politely. At a signal from the master of ceremonies the band struck up a brisk marching tune and Laura imagined that this was the signal for dispersal. However, she noticed that no one seemed to be moving, and when the marching tune finished the crowd had lost its restlessness. Even the noisiest group, which she had observed clustered around a lamp standard immediately in front of her, had fallen silent and attentive.

“Aussprache,” she read on her programme, “des Militärvikar Sc: Eminenz Kardinal Bischof Hubert.” And as she looked up again the Bishop was rising to his feet.

The first surprise was that he was not an old man. The lines of austerity and self-will cut into his pale face made it difficult to judge accurately, but he was a man, she thought, of no more than fifty. The nose was thin and straight; the mouth an uncompromising slit. From under thick eyebrows a pair of burning eyes looked out at a world of lesser men. Here was no holy dotard. Here was a fighter. A man who had discarded the easy shield of compromise and tact and soft dealing; a man who, when he hit his enemies, intended to hurt them.

At his first few words a low murmuring ran through the crowd. Laura, who had been brought up almost inside a hunt kennels, thought of hounds. The quarry was not in sight but a hint, a faint and illusive hint, of his presence had reached the keener noses of the pack.

And in some curious way, and still without understanding more than isolated words, she knew what he was saying. He was speaking of the glories of “Heiliges Land Tirol”; of the traditions of the hardy mountain folk who lived there, a small, but very precious, fragment of the human family, isolated, in difficulties, alone – betrayed. Betrayed. She felt certain he had used that word, and as he spoke it the crowd broke into a deep, baying roar of applause.