Nothing So Strange (10 page)

Perhaps it was imagination that Mr. Small’s manner seemed a little brisker
than before, if not actually brusque.

“Miss Waring, according to your statement on March fourteenth, you didn’t
see Bradley after the year 1936, when you were both in London?”

“I … I don’t remember saying that.”

“You don’t?”

“Not exactly.”

He picked up a sheaf of papers. “Here it is … verbatim…. Question:
‘How long since you had any communication with Bradley?’—Answer: ‘Oh
years. Not since before the war. The English war—1939.’ Question: ‘1936
being the year you knew him in London?’—Answer: ‘That’s right. My
parents and I returned to America the following year.’ Question: ‘Did he
return to America?’—Answer: ‘Not that I know of.’ Question: ‘At any
rate you didn’t see him in America?’— Answer: ‘No. Never….’ Would you
like to verify this?” He slid the typewritten sheets across the desk.

“I’m sure it’s all right,” I said, taking them.

Mr. Small lit a cigarette for himself but did not offer me one this time.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to read through the entire
transcript. Then you can tell me if there are any answers you wish to
withdraw or qualify. And if everything’s correct, sign it. You really ought
to have done that when you were here before.”

I read it, pretending to do so slowly so that I would have more time to
think. It was curious and not at all reassuring to note how some of the
questions now seemed far more challenging and my own answers far more evasive
than I had thought at the time. But I said cheerfully in the end: “Okay.
Where do I sign?”

“At the bottom of each page.” He handed me a pen.

After that was over he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and
tilted back in the swivel chair. “And now, Miss Waring, what about the time
you saw Bradley
after
1936?”

I had myself under control.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When was it?”

“The next year—1937.”

“The year you said you and your parents returned to America?”

“Yes, but….”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“Please tell me what you were going to say.”

“All right. I was going to say that all the statements I made were
actually and literally correct. I
did
return with my parents to
America in 1937, but later in the year I went back. And I didn’t see Bradley
again
in London
. You didn’t ask me if I saw him again
anywhere
?”

“Wouldn’t it have been natural for you to tell me? Unless of course you
weren’t anxious for me to find out.”

“If you’d been anxious to find out you’d have asked me.”

“Maybe I was more anxious to find out whether you were being altogether
frank.”

“I’m not on oath to be frank. I’m on oath to tell the truth—”

“—the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” he finished for me.
“Have you had a legal training?”

“No.”

“Then you probably aren’t aware of the narrow difference between
suggestio falsi
and
suppressio peri
.”

I was but I chose not to say so. Either he didn’t think writers knew much
or else he didn’t know I was a writer; the first might have been less
personally unflattering, yet I hoped it was the latter because I could excuse
him more easily.

He went on: “Well, no need to argue. Perhaps I can save time by referring
to a few notes I have.” He consulted them. “I see you were in Vienna in 1937.
Bradley was also in Vienna then…. Now let’s begin from there, shall
we?”

I tried to absorb the shock and perhaps succeeded. “Certainly. There’s no
secret about any of it. But I still don’t like your saying it would have been
natural for me to volunteer information. It isn’t as if we’d both been having
a friendly chat.”

That was a mistake. He said: “If you’d rather chat than answer questions,
do so by all means. Chat about the time you met Bradley in Vienna.”

But of course it was next to impossible with that shorthand girl at my
elbow; the words fizzled out like a car stalling; I had to press the starter
again and again. Finally came the full stop, then silence. I think all I said
was: “My father was in Europe on business—I was with him—he had
to pass through Vienna, and while I was there I naturally took the
opportunity to look up an old friend. He was working in some laboratory. We
only met for an hour or so.”

“What work was he doing in this laboratory?”

“I don’t know exactly. Probably the same sort of thing he did in London
… physics … mathematics … whatever it was.”

The second full stop. Presently: “Did you meet any of his friends in
Vienna?”

“No.”

“Do you think he liked working there?”

“He seemed to.”

“Did he speak German?”

“Not very well.”

“How do you think he got on with the people he was working with?”

“I don’t know. I expect if you work in a laboratory you have to get on
with the others or else quit.”

“He didn’t take you to visit the laboratory?”

“No.”

“Or suggest it?”

“No. There wasn’t time, anyway.”

“Where was he living?”

“In rooms. Somewhere near the East Station, I believe. I didn’t go
there.”

“Was he very busy?”

“I imagine so.”

“And so far as you could judge he was satisfied with his position?”

“Oh yes.”

“Would you say it was a better job than the one he had had in London?”

“He said it gave him more time for research, which was what he wanted to
do.”

“I understand the London University people were sorry to let him go. Did
you know that?”

“No, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Did he ever complain that he didn’t get enough time for research in
London?”

“He never complained of anything. Not to me.”

“So you can’t think of any particular reason why he might have preferred
the Vienna job?”

“Perhaps he wanted a change of scene, but that’s only a guess.”

“I’d rather you tell me what you
know
.”

“But I
don’t
know. It’s so many years ago, for one thing.”

He looked me over in a way I didn’t quite like. “
Eight
years ago.
So that trip to Vienna doesn’t stand out very importantly in your life?”

“Hardly. My father and I were only there a couple of days.”

“But what about the
next
visit … in 1938?”

I don’t think I succeeded in disguising much of the shock then. I said,
when I was ready: “So you know about that too?”

He made a grimace that was almost a smirk. “You bet. But you’d have gotten
around to chatting about it sooner or later, I’m sure.”

I decided to be brazen. “No, perhaps I wouldn’t. I can’t see the reason
for all this questioning. I’m the sort of person you’d get far more out of if
you’d tell me what it’s all for. And also where Bradley is now.”

He began doodling on a scratch pad. “I don’t think you quite appreciate
your position, Miss Waring…. However, we might as well call a halt for this
afternoon.” He signaled to the shorthand girl, who thereupon closed her book
and crossed the room to a typing table. “Have Miss Waring sign that before
she leaves.”

He got up, concentrated his glance on my left thigh, and said: “Going
away, then?”

I looked down and saw that the airline envelope containing my ticket was
sticking halfway out of my coat pocket. Perhaps he thought it proved how
honest I was, for when I merely said “Yes” he didn’t ask me where I was going
or seem particularly interested. He shook hands with me before he went
out.

That girl took half an hour to do the job. She was so slow I was tempted
to offer to do it myself except that I knew she wouldn’t let me. I smoked and
chafed at the delay and read the only literature lying loose in the
office—a 1945
World Almanac
and a book called
This Man
Truman
which was all about that man Truman.

It’s partly a wartime neurosis, maybe, the feeling that
Uncle Sam is
always stern and monitory, and that any of his official inquiries can only be
directed towards somebody’s undoing. But it’s also an American (and for that
matter a British) tradition that you do not have to be afraid of your own
government if you have done no wrong. Thus, as I left Mr. Small’s office for
the second time, I realized how unco-operative I had been again, but I was
not in the least scared on my own account—though that may partly have
been due to a family background of wealth and security. When I was a child it
really mattered to be a Waring, and I was fortunately grown-up before I
realized it could also be a handicap.

I was, however, a little bit scared on account of Brad. That he had got
himself in a jam of some sort seemed obvious, and I wanted to help him,
whatever it was, but without exactly perjuring myself. Of course if he turned
out to be guilty of something serious my attitude might have to change, but
so far I hadn’t been allowed to discover anything. This gave me a sort of
alibi; even if Brad
were
guilty of anything serious I could give him
every benefit of every doubt so long as I was myself kept in these
doubts.

Throughout the plane journey to California that night I kept turning over
question and answer in my mind. I wondered if I had been merely cautious, or
so
over
cautious that I had actually made things worse. How much did
Mr. Small already know about Brad in Vienna?… I tried to sleep, and between
Chicago and Kansas City succeeded; but after that the climb to high altitude
wakened me and I stared for miles out of the window. We were flying through
cloud, and all I could see was a part of the wing, shimmering like a silk
dress with silver buttons; there must have been a moon, but the effect was of
pale air, infinite, shadowless. Gradually I dozed off again, and then Vienna
came back to me, eager to be remembered, over the wastelands of New
Mexico.

I went there with my father in the summer of ‘37. Earlier
in the year I
had returned to London after a short trip to America, and had failed to pass
the examination that was the first step to a history degree. I don’t know
quite why, beyond the obvious reason that I didn’t get enough marks; I had
studied fairly hard, and am not exactly stupid, but perhaps I am also not a
good examinee—if a question interests me, I spend too much time on it,
so that I have to rush through some of the others. The only relevance my
failure has here is the effect it had on my father; it made him just slightly
aloof, as if I had told him a risque story he had heard before. My mother’s
attitude (by letter) was to ignore the whole thing completely. She had lost
her interest in educational attainments since Brad’s departure, and I never
heard that she ever attended a physics lecture again.

My father’s business would take him to several European countries, so he
picked me up in London when term ended and we made a tour that included
Paris, Berlin, and Rome. We flew most of the way, were given parties and
receptions, and met various people of political and financial importance.
Being the first time I had traveled alone with him as a social equal, it
proved an exciting experience for a nineteen-year-old. In Rome he learned he
would have to go to Budapest, and only this chance put Vienna on our
itinerary. We stayed a night at the Bristol, and after some trouble the next
morning I managed to telephone Brad at his laboratory and ask him over to
lunch. His voice was calmer than mine and he told me he couldn’t ever lunch
so far from his work, because it would take up more than the hour he
permitted himself, but if we cared to sample a local restaurant he would be
pleased to entertain both of us.

This sounded chilly, and when in due course I saw the place I was glad my
father had excused himself at the last moment. It was a pavement cafe on the
Mariahilfer Strasse, crowded and rather dingy, the outside tables occupied by
unshaven furtive men who looked as if they were plotting revolution but were
probably only watching for some girl. Brad waved from an inner table as I
entered; he seemed well enough at home there. He was cordial, rather
detached, and said he was sorry my father couldn’t come, sorry also our stay
was so short (I had told him on the telephone we were leaving for Budapest
that afternoon), and sorry especially about the hour limit for lunch. It was
some scientific equipment that had to be constantly tended, otherwise of
course he could and would have got away for longer. The explanation took the
sting out of his behavior, and I gave him a look that told myself that I
still liked him. Then the proprietor came up with a greasy typewritten menu,
everything very cheap, and I realized how far Brad had developed from the shy
boy who had timidly asked me to suggest some expensive London hotel where he
could wine and dine my parents in the style to which they were accustomed.
Obviously now he took the view that what was good enough for him was good
enough for anybody, and on the whole I approved the change, though it would
doubtless show itself truculently till he got used to it. He seemed much more
than six months older to me, but that again was likable; it gave the
impression of an adult process, a maturing of personality, nothing to cause
worry about what had “happened” to him. I commented that he did not drink or
smoke, but he said he did sometimes, an occasional cigarette or glass of
beer. “And it’s uncommonly good beer in Vienna,” he assured me, as if he had
been a connoisseur of beer in many other cities; it was almost reassuring to
find that his naďveté, though disappearing, was still there in patches.

The food was not bad for its price, and I noticed that he got special
attention from the waitress who served us and who talked to him familiarly in
German. His own replies were halting, and he said he made a point of
practicing on her as much as possible, because textbook German, which he
could read quite well, was so heavy and uncolloquial.