A Dead Man In Trieste

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 cafes 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 cafes,’ 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 cafe. ‘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.

Almost deliberately, almost, as it were, in defiance of Trilby, Seymour sat down with the artists. He sat next to Maddalena. As soon as he did so he realized how much he had been missing her. Her strong physical presence seemed suddenly to make him complete again. He almost put out his hand and touched her but that would have been too obvious, give away too much, not least to the others. He could sense, though, that she felt the same. She hurried towards him eagerly. After a moment she put her hand on his hand.

There was activity in the piazza this morning. A procession was coming across towards them. It seemed to be an official one of some sort. First came the lamparetti, fiercely mustachioed and in Tyrolean hats. Then came the band, blowing and banging and in military step. Then came an open carriage containing two splendid figures, epauletted, braided and plumed. The Governor at least? But no. Behind the carriage was another one, in which sat a solitary figure even more heavily drenched in gilt and plumed in even brighter plumes.

And now they saw that a red carpet had been laid between the tables. The first carriage went past the end of the carpet and stopped. The two splendid figures descended and went to the end of the carpet to receive the second carriage. They opened its doors and the even more splendid figure stepped down on to the carpet, where, behind the first two splendid figures, a little group of men were waiting nervously to receive it. They, too, wore uniforms, equally gorgeous, but to the trained eye, they were as nothing.

For these were merely the officials of the Assicurazioni Generale, whose offices occupied the Palazzo Stratti above the Caffé degli Specchi, which the Governor was visiting that day to unveil a plaque. After much bowing and scraping and saluting they led him into the building. The band arranged itself on the steps of the entrance and began to play a military march. When it ended there was a polite ripple of applause from the people at the Caffé’s tables.

‘What’s all this?’ asked Maddalena.

‘I think I read about it somewhere,’ said Luigi. ‘Isn’t he unveiling a plaque?’

‘Who to?’

The Archduchess, I think,’

‘What has she got to do with it?’

‘Perhaps she has got shares in the Assicurazioni?’ offered Lorenzo.

‘I have got shares in the Assicurazioni,’ said Alfredo, ‘and no one is putting up a plaque to me!’

‘You have got shares in the Assicurazioni, Alfredo?’ said Maddalena, astonished.

‘Yes. Two. My aunt left me them when she died.’

‘Capitalist!’

The lamparetti had spread out along the edges of the carpet. One of them was just beside the artists. Maddalena looked up at him.

‘What all this about a plaque?’ she said.

‘It’s to commemorate the Assicurazioni’s having been here for fifty years. Fifty years of service to Trieste!’

‘Fifty years of ripping people off!’

‘I’m sorry you see it that way.’

‘What about the Archduchess?’

‘The Archduchess?’

‘I thought she was somehow involved.’

‘Not as far as I know. It’s just the Assicurazioni.’

‘Anyway, I don’t think the Governor should be doing this.’

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘He’s only going there because it’s big. He never goes to people like Simonetti, does he?’

‘Simonetti?’

‘The tobacconist at the corner. I’ll bet he’s been there for fifty years.’

‘Well, hell — ’

‘Or Niccolo.’

‘Niccolo?’

‘The ice-cream seller. He looks very old.’

‘Well, you can’t go and see everybody!’

‘You know why he’s going to the Assicurazioni? It’s because it’s big. And because it backs the Austrians.’

‘Young lady, I don’t like your tone.’

‘Shut up, Maddalena,’ said Lorenzo nervously.

‘If it backed irredentism, would he be going there?’

‘Young woman, are you looking for trouble?’

Luigi intervened hastily.

‘No, she’s not,’ he said. ‘How could you think such a thing? She’s looking for a waiter to bring us another drink, that’s all. Aren’t you, Maddalena?’

‘Of course!’ said Maddalena sweetly, and waved her arm vigorously.

A waiter, who had heard the whole exchange, came up, beaming.

‘Something for the irredentists?’ he said. ‘What will you have?’

They were all at it, thought Seymour, all baiting the Austrians.

There was a little silence.

Then Lorenzo said to Luigi:

‘Actually, it’s not the Assicurazioni that I mind, it’s the music.’

‘Terrible, isn’t it?’

‘Do you think they select them on the basis of their tin ears?’

‘No, I think they’re probably all right when they start. It’s just the training that they’re given.

‘When they go into the army, you mean?’

‘Yes. It makes them sort of deaf.’

‘Well, I think you need to be if you’re working for the government in Trieste.’

‘Listen — ’ began the policeman.

‘Yes, officer?’ said Luigi innocently.

‘I don’t like that kind of talk.’

‘Oh, but we’re only talking about music. I’d be interested to hear your views. What’s your opinion of Lehar?’

‘Or Verdi?’ said Lorenzo.

‘Or Rossini,’ said Alfredo swiftly. ‘Personally, I think. .’ And he moved the conversation deftly, and unequivocally, on to musical grounds.

Koskash was sitting on a bed. He jumped up when he saw Seymour, put his heels together and bowed formally.

‘I wish to apologize,’ he said. ‘I know I have not behaved correctly. I am very sorry,’

Seymour asked how he had been treated.

‘I am well, thank you,’ said Koskash.

There were no signs of ill-usage.

Seymour went to the spy-hole and checked. There was no one listening outside. They were playing fair. Or perhaps they weren’t bothered. He went back to Koskash.

‘Koskash,’ he said, ‘I shall come regularly. You understand?’

Koskash nodded.

‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘And thank you,’

‘There are people outside who are concerned for you. Your wife.’ Koskash looked troubled and seemed about to say something but then didn’t. ‘And others.’ Koskash nodded. ‘These others are, I think, worried about what you might say.’

‘They need not be,’ said Koskash. ‘I shall say nothing,’

‘That may not be a good idea. And it may be unnecessary. They know quite a lot already. The men who came to you were policemen, planted to trap you. You could tell them some things. It might make it easier for you. This is just advice, meant to help you.’

Koskash nodded.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘You need not tell them everything, of course. That is up to you. But I would be grateful if you could tell me something.’

‘If I can help,’ said Koskash, ‘I would wish to. I owe it.’

‘It is about Machnich. And about Lomax. I gather that they got on well?’

Koskash nodded.

‘Surprisingly well. For two men so different. I think it began when they met over the cinema business. They hit it off and then they began to meet socially. Not all the time but quite often. Usually it was at the Stella Polare but sometimes Machnich came here,’ Koskash caught himself. That is, to the Consulate. I would take in coffee and they would be chatting away like old friends. But then something happened, I don’t know what, and Machnich didn’t come any more. Instead he sent Rakic. You know Rakic? Well, he is very different and I don’t think Signor Lomax liked him. But perhaps that was why Machnich sent him — to show Signor Lomax that they weren’t friends any more.’

‘There must have been some reason for sending him. Other than that, I mean. Some business reason or work reason.’

‘If there was, I do not know it. But suddenly Rakic was here all the time, every day. And Signor Lomax grew more and more unhappy.’

Seymour heard footsteps in the corridor outside coming towards the cell. He stood up.

‘Thank you, Koskash,’ he said. That was most helpful.’

Koskash accompanied him to the door. Just before it opened, he said:

‘Tell my wife that I am well. And that — that she mustn’t do anything. I am afraid that she may blame herself and go to the police. Tell her not to. Tell her it will be easier for me if I know that she is outside. That I can bear it. And that she is not to do anything foolish. She must think of herself, only of herself, and not of me.’

Maddalena called in at the Consulate that evening. Seymour had invited her out to dinner and they had arranged that she should pick him up. She came into the inner room, Lomax’s room, and glanced at the pictures.

‘He was never really sure about them,’ she said. ‘Sometimes he liked them, and said that they were bold and refreshing and new. And sometimes he said that they showed everything falling apart and that that was bad, the world wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that bad.’

She went up to one of the pictures.

‘But the wheel is coming off,’ she said. ‘And that means the car is going to crash, doesn’t it? He was right about that.’

She sat down in one of the chairs.

‘You have come here to find out about Lomax, haven’t you? I don’t believe you are a Messenger at all. I think you may be a policeman.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t care if you are. Not if you’re here to find out what happened to Lomax.’

Seymour said nothing.

‘I have done what you asked,’ she said. ‘I have talked to the students. I asked them if any of them had tried to go to the reception at the Casa Revoltella, had asked Lomax to take them. But they said not. And they said that they wouldn’t have caused trouble at the reception, not just at the moment, anyway, because the Governor would be there and he had it in enough for students as it was, what with all this Bosnian business.’

‘You know that Lomax was helping Serbian students to get out of Trieste? Or at any rate going along with it.’

Maddalena nodded.

‘That is what the students say. They think that may have been why the Austrians killed him.’

‘The Austrians killed him?’ said Seymour incredulously.

‘That is what they say. But then students always say such wild things.’

As they were going out, she looked at the pictures again.

‘He spoke about these the last time I saw him. It was just before he died. He said that sometimes artists saw things that other people didn’t. About the world, I mean.’

‘People always think that the wheels are coming off the world.’

‘I know. And Lomax said that diplomats were worse than anybody at thinking that. That they always thought they were sitting on a powder-bag which was about to explode. But that sometimes they were right.’