Seymour walked away from the police station smarting, feeling that he had been given a history lesson which he didn’t need. Or perhaps he did need it. International politics hadn’t figured high on the curriculum of a policeman in the East End. Nor had Bosnia, Serbia and the rest of them — indeed, the whole Austro-Hungarian Empire — loomed large in what he had done at school. When Seymour had left school at fourteen, the teachers had not yet got round to Bosnia. Of course, he knew something about Central Europe from his work with immigrant families in the East End but there were gaps. Bucovina, for example, where was that? Hands up all those who could place Bucovina!
Not Seymour. He was beginning to regret his lack of knowledge of the international scene. Perhaps he had better get along to the library with Maddalena and do some reading.
But what a load of codswallop it was! All that talk about war! Not a chance, thought Seymour. The sort of rubbish that military-minded people, whether in the army or high up in the police, were always talking. And all that stuff about one thing being bound to another, great things to small! Suppose small things were small? Suppose the students were just making faces, throwing chalk? Overreacting as Schneider was doing would just make things worse, turn all the Maddalenas into real revolutionaries!
No, it was all codswallop. And probably all Koskash had been doing, out of the misguided goodness of his heart, was giving some naive youngsters a helping hand. It had been wrong of him but not very wrong and Lomax had probably been right to go along with it. From what Maddalena had said, it was the kind of thing that he, with all his evident sympathy for people and underdog causes, would do. Not exactly what he should be doing as Consul, of course, but. .
All the same, Seymour was uneasy. What was it that Schneider had said at the end? That he knew that they were not just chalk throwers. Was that just talk? Or did he really know that? Because if that was indeed the case, then Koskash might have been doing rather more than giving some innocents a helping hand. And if Lomax had condoned it, then, perhaps, he, too, was in a lot deeper than he should have been.
The trouble was that if it was just a question of helping relatively innocent students to escape, Seymour could see no reason why that should have led to Lomax being killed; whereas if Lomax had been involved more deeply in the kind of thing that Schneider was hinting at then Seymour could see quite a few reasons why he might have been.
Yes, there they were again sitting at the table. Didn’t they ever do any work? Or were artists in Trieste al fresco too and just sat around drinking? A good life for some, thought Seymour.
Marinetti was handing round some sheets of paper. He gave one to Seymour. Seymour read:
Coffee
Sweet memories frappées
Marmalade of the Glorious Dead
Roast Mummies with Professors’ Livers
Archaeological Salad
Stew of the Past, with explosive peas in historical sauce
Fish from the Dead Sea
Lumps of blood in broth
Demolition Starters
Vermouth
‘What the hell is this?’ he said.
‘It is the menu for the celebratory dinner after my Futurist Evening,’ said Marinetti. ‘You, too, are of course invited,’
‘Well, thank you. But. .’
He looked at the menu doubtfully.
‘It certainly whets the appetite,’ said Luigi; uncertainly, however.
‘But why does it do so, in a manner of speaking, back to front? asked Lorenzo.
‘Because my Evening will set out to reverse normality,’ said Marinetti.
‘Oh, I see. Silly of me not to spot it.’
There was a little pause. Then Alfredo said:
‘Does that mean that the Future is actually the Past?’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Marinetti, annoyed. ‘It suggests that we enter the Future by embracing disorder.’
‘Oh.’
Then Luigi said:
‘But why, in that case, are you having the dinner after the Evening? Why not have it before?’
‘Because,’ said Marinetti, glaring, ‘there are dozens of things I still have to do before the Evening can get off the ground. Otherwise there will be bloody chaos!’
Seymour stood there, holding a copy of the menu in his hand, nonplussed.
It was no surprise, when he got back to the Consulate, to find Mrs Koskash standing at the door. He let her in. She was dry-eyed and composed and sat down, apparently relaxed, in the chair he offered.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.
When he had finished, she sat thinking.
‘Did they go into the Consulate?’ she asked. ‘Was he actually inside when they arrested him?’
‘They went in,’ said Seymour. ‘But then he came out. I think he was actually outside when he was formally arrested.’
Mrs Koskash sighed.
‘The fool!’ she said. ‘If he had stayed inside they couldn’t have arrested him.’
‘I think he may have known that. He said, though, that he had done enough harm to the Consulate as it was.’
Mrs Koskash sighed again. She sat for a moment looking down at her feet.
‘I should not have persuaded him,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Seymour. ‘And you did persuade him, didn’t you? He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t talked him into it. He is not a Serb, after all. But you are, aren’t you? And I think you were the one who thought it up. You’re practical, aren’t you, and committed. You organize things, not just for the Serbs but for the local Socialists. And perhaps others as well.’
‘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.