‘Is there no chance of getting up a group of those who wish to leave?’ asks Caroline, all sweet perfume and vulnerable, whispering russet flounces. ‘If only we could reach the mountains, say. Under a white flag. There must be some sort of communication between the two sides. Some understanding that the civilized world would be scandalised when it found out how decent people were being treated.’
‘But my dear lady, there is absolutely no danger to you here,’ says the General. ‘Holzhammer has used up all his ammunition. And the bombardment, you must have noticed, was concentrated entirely on the centre of the city. You are far safer in Mirenburg. There are bandits abroad in the country areas. Deserters. Disaffected peasants. You can imagine.’
‘Are we to understand that no permits will be issued at all?’ I say.
‘No chance whatsoever, at present.’ The General speaks as if he imparts the best news in the world. ‘Holzhammer can scarcely hold out another week with all the desertions. Then—a quick counter-attack, with or without Berlin’s support—then it will be over. We are biding our time. It is a question of choosing the moment.’
‘So our losses have not been as great as they say?’ says Caroline almost waspishly.
‘Our losses, dear lady, have been minimal. Austria is going to regret her involvement in what is, after all, little more than a domestic squabble.’ Caroline darts me a look, as if she hopes for an ally, but I am helpless. With a little nasal sigh, like a lioness who has made too short a charge and has seen her prey escape, she stalks off in search of other game. Clara greets us. She has discarded her usual tailor-mades and is wearing a gold dress, her hair in a Pompadour. She looks at least five years younger and is arm in arm with a rather drunk Rakanaspya who wears a dove-grey suit a little too large for him, evidently borrowed. He speaks so elliptically to the General, in such thick French, that nobody understands him. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ says von Landoff, and nods, as if to a simpleton. ‘Another week or less and you may go home.’ Rakanaspya, with one eye on Frau Schmetterling, lapses into the security of Russian, plainly saying all he wishes to say in that language and so releasing his feelings without giving much offence to his hostess. Clara says: ‘Good evening to you both. You look stunning. A perfect match,’ and she bears against Rakanaspya with her shoulder to steer him off towards the middle of the room where Block enjoys the flattery of the ladies and Stefanik drones moodily on the subject of flight. Princess Poliakoff makes her entrance. She is in black tulle and pearls, true to form, while her lover is a swan in fold upon fold ot Doucet lace, approaching as if she has just landed on water and is coasting towards the shore. Her short curly hair has a torque around it bearing two pale mauve ostrich feathers which match her fan. She seems to wear no make-up but is delicately English in her healthy colouring. Alice wants to know who she is and when I tell her she whispers: ‘Let’s talk to them. They seem far more interesting.’ Occasionally, by a less-than-careful movement she betrays her youth. We make our way to the Lesbian couple. Everyone is introduced. ‘We have seen nothing of you,’ I say. ‘You snub us indiscriminately!’
‘I haven’t been well,’ says the Princess. ‘And Diana has been a saint. Also, of course, she has to look for material.’ Lady Cromach takes a testy interest in her fan, then offers me one of her soft, sardonic stares and says in that insinuating voice: ‘And how is your health, Herr von Bek?’
‘Excellent, as usual, Lady Cromach. Thank you. Are your articles about the War already entertaining the readers of the Gaulois and the News?’
‘The telegraph is down. And the carrier pigeons are unreliable. I have no idea. For a while I thought I was bribing a little man in the military despatch office, but he was dismissed a few days ago. I fear my work will be retrospective when it appears, and nobody is overly interested in the fate of Mirenburg. Are they?’ She seems to want to know. ‘I content myself with doing atmosphere-pieces for the monthlies. I keep busy. What a charming brooch, my dear.’ She peers towards Alice’s breasts. ‘You say that you are a guest here, too?’ Princess Poliakoff looks distracted and jealous. She puts one of those elongated fingers to her mouth, then withdraws it carefully to her side. ‘How’s the minstrel, Ricky?’
‘Singing as sweetly as ever,’ I say. ‘And teaching me to play the banjo.’ I’m surprised she still believes me. She pulls her companion away from us. ‘You have a lovely cousin,’ says Lady Cromach; she winks at me behind the Princess’s back. I find her extremely attractive. I believe she is thoroughly intrigued by me. Alice fumes. ‘What an awful witch!’
‘Lady Diana?’
‘Of course not.’ She is on my arm again. We move towards the buffet. ‘It’s much more ordinary than I expected. I’d imagined it—well—Oriental. Decadent. It’s almost like one of Mother’s Evenings.’
‘Except that most of the women are whores and all the men are lechers.’ I hand her some cold salmon.
‘Then it’s exactly like one of Mother’s Evenings.’ She laughs. I have not for a long time known her so carelessly cheerful. I love her. It is such a relief to feel that things are normal again. ‘You look very handsome tonight,’ she says. ‘As you always used to look. I’m glad you seem happy, Ricky.’