“Ah!” said Mr. Pelcher, “here’s Fitch.”
Mr. Fitch was a very tall man with a long, thin head and a way of holding himself that made him look as though he were standing under a low, leaking roof on a wet day. He surveyed us from the door with the mournful air of an elderly borzoi being teased by a pair of fox terrier puppies.
“This, Fitch,” said Mr. Pelcher briskly, “is Mr. Marlow. He is a trained engineer and he can speak Italian.”
Mr. Fitch shambled forward and we shook hands.
“I was just telling Mr. Marlow,” pursued Mr. Pelcher, “some of the circumstances of our Italian connection.”
Mr. Fitch nodded and cleared his throat. “The bottom’s out of the export market,” he asserted gloomily.
Mr. Pelcher laughed and twitched at his collar. “Mr. Fitch has been saying that for ten years now, Mr. Marlow. You mustn’t take his pessimism too seriously. Nothing less than doubling our turnover every year would satisfy him.”
Mr. Fitch looked at me doubtfully. “Do you know Italy very well, Mr. Marlow?”
“Not as well as I should like to,” I replied evasively.
“Play golf?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Fitch,” said Mr. Pelcher fondly, “is a scratch golfer. Hits a terrific ball and as accurate as the devil. However”-he dragged his thoughts back to earth with a visible effort-“to business! Perhaps you’d like to have a look round the works, Mr. Marlow? Fitch, do you mind showing Mr. Marlow round? When you’ve done, come back here and we’ll have another chat.”
Whatever the shortcomings of the Spartacus offices, they were nowhere visible in the works. The Works Manager, to whom I took an instant liking, was obviously competent and the standard of work being turned out was extraordinarily high. “Pelcher,” said Mr. Fitch, as we crossed from one shop to another, “likes everything just so. He’s a fine engineer. If he had his way and we hadn’t got a Board of ex-Generals and Members of Parliament with a titled nitwit thrown in, this place would be twice the size. He’s a damned smart business man too. But did you ever see anything like his office? He’s a lousy golfer as well. The last time I played with him he took a slide-rule out to deal with problems of drift and wind resistance. Not that it made any difference to his game. On the first tee he spent two solid minutes with the slide-rule and then pulled his drive somewhere round the back of his neck.”
As if to make up for this burst of confidence, Mr. Fitch maintained an unhappy silence for the rest of the tour; but it was with slightly more zest that I ascended for the second time the stairs to Mr. Pelcher’s office.
Back in London that evening, I gave Claire a resume of the day’s findings. “I think,” I concluded, “that they’ll probably offer me the job. Of course, I shan’t take it. The money they’ve got in mind is ridiculous. The lira may be in our favour, but that’s nothing to do with what the job is worth in pounds sterling. And Italy, too! The whole thing is out of the question.”
“Of course, darling,” said Claire.
We said no more about it.
Two letters arrived for me next morning. One was from Mr. Pelcher, formally offering me the post of manager of the Spartacus Milan office. The other was from Hallett. His new job did not start for another fortnight. He thought I would probably be fixed up by now. Could I possibly lend him five pounds?
I went for a short walk, smoked a couple of cigarettes, sat down and replied to both letters.
Three weeks later I caught the Folkestone boat-train.
To my intense relief there was nobody at the station to see me off. I had said good-bye to Claire the previous night. She was, she had said with somewhat emotional practicality, too busy at the hospital to spare time to come to the station. Later on she had wept and explained, unnecessarily, that it wasn’t that she couldn’t spare the time, but that she didn’t want to make a fool of herself and me on the platform. “After all,” we kept on assuring one another, “it’s only for a few months, a temporary job until things get better here.” By the time it was time for me to go back to the hotel into which I had moved, we had managed to evolve an atmosphere of bright camaraderie that spared both our feelings and our pocket handkerchiefs.
“Good-bye, Nicky, darling,” she had called after me as I had left, “don’t get into trouble.”
And I had laughed at the idea and called back that I wouldn’t.
I actually laughed.
3
It is on my second evening in Milan that General Vagas comes on the scene.
Looking back now, the whole story seems to begin with that meeting. What had happened to me apart from that seems of no significance. Yet if it is easy to be wise after an event it is easier still to let that wisdom colour an account of the event itself, to the confusion and irritation of the reader. It is as if he were listening to a joke being told in an unfamiliar foreign tongue. I must tell the story in a straightforward manner. General Vagas must, so to speak, take his place in the queue.
At eight o’clock that evening I sat down in my room at the Hotel Parigi to write to Claire. She has kept the letter and as it describes in a more or less condensed form what had happened to me since my arrival and the impressions I had formed of the Milan staff of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company, I have incorporated it. It was my original intention to omit the more intimate passages, but as Claire’s only comment on this suggestion was a blank “Why?”, I have left them in.
Hotel Parigi,
Milano,
Tuesday.
Dearest Claire,
Already, I am gripped by the most excruciating pangs of nostalgia. It is, I find, just four days since I saw you. It seems like four months. Trite, I know; but then the plain, ordinary, human emotions nearly always do seem trite when you put them down on paper. I don’t know whether or not triteness increases in direct proportion to the number and intensity of the plain, ordinary, human emotions experienced. It probably does. My present P.O.H.E.’s are (a) a profound sense of loneliness and (b) the growing conviction that I was a fool to leave you no matter what the circumstances. No doubt I shall feel a little better about item (a) in a day or two. As for item (b), I’ m not quite sure if a conviction, even a growing one, can possibly be described as an emotion. In any case, if I start talking about it now I shall end by running amok, and I don’t think that the management of the Parigi would care much for that.
I remember that at this point I stopped and read the paragraph through. What nonsense it sounded! a ghastly attempt to smile through imaginary tears. Claire would despise it. The smile was an arch grin. The tears were crocodiles’. And that bit about emotions and convictions. Piffle! I screwed it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket and then, when I had made one or two desultory attempts to start again, I retrieved it from the basket and copied it out on a fresh sheet of paper. Hang it all, it expressed what I felt. I went on.
You are probably wondering why on earth I am staying here and whether, for Pity’s sake, I propose to go on staying here. It is along story.
It wasn’t a long story. It was quite a short one. However…
I arrived yesterday afternoon at about four o’clock (3 p.m. to you in England, my love), and was met at the Centrale Station by Bellinetti, who was, you may remember, my predecessor’s assistant.
He is rather older than I had expected from the way Pelcher and Fitch talked about him. Picture a small, stocky Italian of about forty with incredibly wavy black hair, greying at the temples, and the sort of teeth that you see in dentifrice advertisements. He is a very natty dresser and wears a diamond (?) ring on the little finger of his left hand. I have a suspicion, however, that he doesn’t shave every day. A pity. He is an enthusiastic reader of the Popolo d’Italia, and has a passion for Myrna Loy (“ so calm, so cold, such secret fires ”), but I have not yet discovered whether he is married or not.