The performance of Fidelio was preceded by a speech about its dialectical significance by a young man with wavy hair who spoke with a strong provincial accent. He was very nervous and gabbled out his speech from a typescript. It consisted of a rigmarole about Marxist values and the meaning of art for the people. The audience waited in painful silence for it to end, and Methuen, watching the rows and rows of haggard faces from the box which had been placed at the Embassy’s disposal, felt once more a stirring of pity for the boisterous, good-natured lackadaisical Serbs he had once known. There were a number of smartly dressed officers in the stalls, but what was so striking was the shabbiness of the women. Their clothes looked like the hastily improvised remnants of a jumble sale; they wore no make-up, and there was hardly a head of waved hair. For the most part they wore their hair brushed stiffly back and pinned with a cheap bone slide. “There it is,” said Porson in a whisper, “drink it all in.”
“I am,” said Methuen grimly.
The young man on the stage spluttered to the end of his speech and stood aside; the lights began to tremble down. At this moment a spark of recognition flickered in a pair of dark eyes and Methuen sat up. There was a face he knew. For a moment he could not remember where he had met Vida — all he could remember was her name. And then, as he held her eyes with his and answered her look of recognition he remembered. In Bari at the end of the war she had served on his staff as an interpreter. Her father had been a noted Royalist diplomat and had died abroad. Vida had been brought up in France and had served in the Free French Forces throughout the war. She had been loaned to Methuen, and he had been most concerned to hear that she had returned to Yugoslavia after the liberation. Yet here she was, large as life, sitting with a half-smile of recognition on her face, not ten feet from him.
He turned and whispered to Porson: “I think I see someone I know. Will you lend me your mackintosh and beret at the first interval? I might get a chance to speak to her.” Porson seemed rather startled but he agreed breathlessly. He could not resist adding: “For God’s sake be careful. She may be working for OZNA, you know.” But Methuen had already thought of that. Yet from what he knew of the old Vida, the serious dark-haired child of royalist Serbia, he was sure of one thing: she would not give him away.
She seemed to be alone as she spoke to no one, and from time to time, even in the velvety half-light, Methuen could feel her eyes resting upon him. As the lights went up for the interval he stared hard at her and then rose; in the shadowy space at the back of the box he struggled into Porson’s mackintosh, and once he was in the corridor he put on the old grey beret which appeared to be the sixth secretary’s favourite defence against the rain. It was not ineffective as a disguise, for the mackintosh was old and shabby and hid his neat dark suit. Certainly he was not conspicuous in the shabby crowd which had already filled the foyer with the fumes of acrid cigarette-smoke. He shuffled across the marble floor and took up a position against a pillar, studying some notices of forthcoming productions. He did not as yet know whether Vida would come, and he was quite startled to feel the touch of her hand on his arm and hear her say in a low voice: “Zdravo, Comrade.” He greeted her without turning round, and together they stood examining the notices intently. At their backs stood a small group of students debating something with tolerable loudness; conversation was possible though he could feel from Vida’s tone of voice how afraid she was.
“I need your help,” said Methuen in a low urgent voice. “What have you been doing since last we met?”
“Everything,” she replied. “Now I am working for them, for the OZNA. My family is in a concentration camp.” He glanced sideways and saw once more that proud dark face with its cleanly cut nose and mouth. There are people whose basic truthfulness shines out of their eyes, and looking into hers, Methuen knew that she had not changed. “My dear,” he said, “can’t you get out?” She shook her head. “But I am working for us too,” she added in a passionate whisper. “We must try and overturn this unjust system. Methuen, do they know in England?” A heavily built officer came up and stood beside Methuen to study the notices, shouldering them both aside to do so.
“No,” he whispered.
“Our people admired and loved England. They cannot believe that England is helping these Communists.”
Her eyes flashed and her hands clenched. For a moment Methuen feared she might burst out into a violent denunciation of the régime. He took her hand and pressed it. “The white eagles?” he said, and at the words an extraordinary change came over her.
“You know about us?”
“A little.”
“Can you help us in England? Please, tell all who care for liberty and decency. Please help our cause.” It was the old passionate Vida kindling behind the mask of a prematurely aged woman. “Tell me about yourselves,” said Methuen. “We don’t know enough about you. You distrust us.”
“I know. And with cause! Did you not put our friend into power here?” She nodded towards a portrait of Tito on the foyer wall. A bell rang sourly and people began to stub out their cigarettes before drifting back into the auditorium. “I must go,” she said, “I must go.” “Wait,” he said, “I must talk to you. Can we meet?” Her eyes darkened with fear and she hesitated. “Please,” he said, “I may help you.” She thought for a moment, a prey to confused emotions. Then at last her proud little face hardened again and she said: “Tomorrow at the picture gallery in the Kalemigdan, the Turkish fort. Twelve. No greetings, please.”
She slipped through the doors and was gone. Methuen went back to the box, a prey to conflicting emotions of triumph and uncertainty. If she were working for the OZNA she might report him and cause him trouble. On the other hand if she were really the Vida who had worked with him for two years he could be tolerably sure that she would not give him away — especially if she were really a member of the White Eaglesl Meeting her might turn out to have been a stroke of real luck.
Throughout the rest of the performance he was restless, and unable to concentrate on the music, which pursued its listless course in the semi-darkness like a shallow but noisy river. Long before the end of the last scene he felt he had had enough and, obtaining the consent of his hosts, rose to leave; nor were Porson and Carter sorry to accompany him, for both were eager to hear if his rendezvous had been a success or not. They walked back through the ill-lit streets to the hotel where Porson’s car was parked while he gave them an account of the meeting, and of his plans for the morrow.
“I must say it’s a stroke of luck,” said Carter, “if you feel you can trust her not to give you away.”
“At any rate if I am starting the day after tomorrow I shall not be in evidence here. The OZNA would have to trace me before it can have me followed. Incidentally is one followed here?”
Porson groaned. “Of course.”
“Not inside the theatre.”
“No. But there was a leather man waiting outside for us.”
“I’m getting unobservant,” said Methuen.
“Cars are only followed if they cross a check point on the three roads outside Belgrade unattended by an OZNA car.”