‘Whatever your person in the Piazza delli Cappucine saw,’ said Machnich, ‘he did not see me. There is nothing to link me with any of this.’
‘We shall see what the Herzegovinians say. Because, you see, we shall now have an opportunity of questioning them. Since Mr Kornbluth was able to find out where they were hiding and has arrested them,’
Machnich let out a long breath.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he said.
‘Because I hoped that you would save us a lot of time by telling me that you recognized it to be true.’
Machnich laughed.
‘Do you think I would do that?’
‘Well, yes, I think you might.’
‘Well, let me tell you, you are wrong.’
‘I think you might,’ said Seymour, ‘once you recognize that you have been used.’
‘Used?’ said Machnich.
‘Used by the Bosnians. The Serbs here have been used by the Bosnians. And the intention was that Serbs everywhere should pay the penalty.’
‘What is this?’ said Machnich.
‘You knew what Rakic intended to do. He intended to plant a bomb which would kill the Governor. But do you know why he wanted to do that?’
‘To strike a blow at the Austrians. To hit back at them for their annexation of Bosnia.’
‘Oh, yes, but it went further than that. Much further. You see, as Mr Schneider once explained to me, one thing is bound to another. One country is bound to another. Russia, for example, is bound by treaty to Serbia. So if Austria attacked Serbia for some reason, it would be obliged to intervene. Rakic, who was, of course, Bosnian, meant to supply that reason. He intended to kill the Governor and then see that Serbia was blamed for it. Why else, do you think, he associated himself so much with you?’
‘Could this be?’ said Machnich.
‘He meant to slip out and leave you to take the blame. You, the Serbs.’
‘Bosnians!’ said Machnich, angrily. ‘What can you expect from a people like that but treachery?’
‘Why I am telling you this,’ said Seymour, as Schneider and Kornbluth came into the room, ‘is so that you can have a chance of putting things right. Rakic, fortunately, did not succeed. But the story will come out and it will anger the Austrians. You can see that the right story is told and that the right people are blamed. Not the Serbians.’
Machnich was silent for quite a long time. Then he said:
‘I can do better than that. Because the story is not over. Rakic failed, but he is going to try again. The Governor will be at the Politeama tonight. With those crazy Futurists. In fact,’ he looked at this watch, ‘in just about twenty minutes’ time.’
Huge, stridently coloured banners were draped all over the front of the Politeama. The Future is Here! they cried. This Evening! Balloons with bright faces painted on them hung over the doors. A gigantic papier-mâché mask had been hoisted into a central position among them. From its mouth dribbled a string of sausages. Was it Seymour’s imagination, or just his weakness of aesthetic sense, or did the mask faintly resemble the face that hung everywhere in Trieste, the Emperor’s face beneath the familiar peaked military cap?
And at the doors, and everywhere round the Politeama, were policemen. They checked everyone who went in, opening all handbags and parcels, plunging their hands deep into the voluminous pockets of the cloaked worthies and the surprised, and resentful, Citizens of the Future.
‘What have you got there?’
‘It’s my penis, isn’t it?’
‘Then why has it come off?’
The policeman’s hand emerged from the pocket holding a banana.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s for the performance. Hey, give it back!’
The policeman, slightly bemused, surrendered it.
‘Thank you, officer. Would you like a bite?’
A cry went up.
‘Hey, they’re confiscating penises now!’
Marinetti came rushing out of the doors.
‘You’re ruining everything! Everything!’ he cried to Kornbluth in anguish.
‘I’ve told you — ’ began Kornbluth.
But Marinetti had already dashed back into the hall. A moment later he re-emerged with a large, hastily painted notice which he propped up against the doors. It said:
They are Trying to Arrest the Future!
Please Give them every Co-operation. Let them search your pockets.
The Citizens of the Future responded enthusiastically, pulling out their pockets for the benefit of the policemen. Some of them took down their trousers.
‘Just bloody get on in there!’ said Kornbluth, harassed.
Inside the hall huge backcloths on the walls showed aeroplanes diving, cities exploding, museums and galleries collapsing, fractured Venus de Milos tumbling out of them in dozens, racing-cars hurtling off the walls, fireworks opening into golden raindrops which became shell bursts tinged with red, and military caps rising disembodied into the air as if suddenly levitated by an explosion, one of the caps instantly recognizable as that of the Emperor of the thousands of portraits, with a seagull poised ominously above it, about to jettison a load of white excrement, some of which had, indeed, already fallen.
Down one of the aisles strutted a large ginger cat. It was six feet high and had its arm around a nude girl. The nude girl was Maddalena.
Or nearly nude. She had put on a cat mask which covered her face; black, to go with the bow-tie she had donned. That was the only thing she had donned; apart, Seymour suddenly saw, from a tail.
‘How do I look?’
‘Well,’ said Seymour, ‘not overdressed!’
‘How do I look?’ said the ginger cat anxiously, in a voice that Seymour recognized. ‘It’s very hot in here,’ James complained.
‘Have you seen Rakic?’ asked Seymour.
‘He was standing here a moment ago,’ said Maddalena.
Seymour scanned the audience and couldn’t see him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
He looked around again. Over by the door Kornbluth was doing the same thing.
‘Why?’ asked Maddalena.
‘It’s important, We’ve got to find him.’
Marinetti came running down the aisle.
‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Take it up there.’ He pointed towards the stage.
‘I can’t see in this!’ complained James.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Maddalena.
They stooped and picked up a long cardboard box. It was black. It took Seymour a moment to realize that it was a replica coffin.
The two cats, the ginger one and the black one, set off up the aisle towards the stage. There was a little ripple of applause.
It was hard for them to find a space on the stage because most of it was already occupied by the two giraffes, dancers dressed in spangles and little else, a small group of bearded, slightly apprehensive poets, and, at the back, a row of even more apprehensive, mostly uniformed worthies.
There was a stir at the door. The police around it parted and in came a small group of clearly still more exalted worthies, led by a grand couple, he in gorgeous, be-medalled uniform, she in a beautiful, near-ballroom dress.
‘I thought they’d been told not to come!’
They insisted!’ whispered Kornbluth.
The couple mounted the steps to the stage and took their place in the centre of the worthies.
‘He was here!’ Seymour whispered. ‘Maddalena saw him.’
‘Jesus!’ said Kornbluth and started going up and down the aisles scanning the rows.
With a discordant fanfare of trumpets the Evening’s entertainment began. A tall yellow banana marched to the front of the stage and bowed to the audience. It split apart and Marinetti emerged, to applause, dressed as a ringmaster.