The others realized that in fact Milena had eaten nothing the evening before, nor indeed had Dora. A long day’s work, all the emotion of the recital, the drive, the cold, and a glass of beer on an empty stomach had been too much for her.
“You great brutes!” the tall horse-woman scolded them all, cutting a slice of cake. “There you go, starting revolts, and you don’t notice a girl fainting under your very noses! And Miss Bach at that! I won’t let you forget this in a hurry!”
The incident brought the evening to an end. The visitors were to sleep in the nearby houses. Milena and Dora, after having something to eat and drink at last, were given the Fabers’ huge double bed; its owners were staying the night with relatives at the other end of the village. Bartolomeo and Lando went to the house of one of the horse-men who had been on the drive with them. The enormous Jocelin flatly refused to leave Jahn and insisted on putting him up at his own house. “I’ll protect you day and night, Mr. Jahn, that I will!”
When they woke up, Dora and Milena heard the staircase creaking. Still drowsy, they emerged from under the eiderdown to see the large figure of Roberta coming upstairs with a tray in her hands.
“They tell me musicians and suchlike artists have breakfast in bed, so here we are! Coffee, bread and butter, jam. Anything else you ladies would like?”
“This is more than enough for us ladies!” said Dora, laughing. “It’s paradise!”
“Now, you mustn’t make fun of us. I’m sure you’ve stayed in the best hotels.”
“I’m not making fun, Roberta. This is much better than the best hotels. You’re very kind.”
“Mitzi didn’t bother you too much?”
“Not at all,” said Milena. “She slept in her own chair like a good kitty. Look at her.”
The large cat twitched one lazy ear to greet her mistress. Curled up in the chair, she looked like an enormous ginger cushion.
Roberta put the tray down on the bed and opened the shutters. Cold air and white light invaded the room. “There’s fog and frost this morning,” said the horse-woman. “You’ll need to wrap up well to go out. There now, I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast.”
Sure enough, the two women couldn’t see more than five yards ahead of them in the village square, where they joined a group of some twenty men, including Faber, who towered half a head above everyone else; Bartolomeo, muffled in his black scarf; the head chef, Lando, who was freezing; and Jahn, with the faithful Jocelin still beside him.
“What’s going on, Bart?” Milena asked.
“Faber wants to introduce me to his people so that I can greet them and speak to them. They’ve gathered at the way out of the village.”
The little group set off through the fog and had soon left the last houses behind. Bart wondered what to expect. Faber had said that a great many horse-men had gathered here, but what did that mean? A hundred? Perhaps two hundred? He walked on beside Jahn, never guessing that he was about to experience one of the greatest moments of his young life.
At first he saw only a dozen rows of horse-men standing motionless in the mist. The vapor of their breath half hid their massive faces. They wore warm clothing and boots. Most of them had bags on their backs or slung over their shoulders. Clubs could be seen sticking out of some of the bags, while other men held clubs in their hands. Bart was impressed by the sense of power radiating from these dark, silent, colossal figures.
“How many are there?” he whispered to Faber. “I can’t see them all.”
“A great many, as I said. They’re waiting for you to speak to them. Right, get up there and off you go.”
“But they won’t all hear me. My voice isn’t loud enough.”
“You don’t have to shout. Just speak to the ones in front. They’ll pass it on. They’ll repeat exactly what you say till it gets to the back row. We always do it that way here — no need for anyone to yell.”
Bart gave Jahn an uneasy glance. Jahn shrugged. He couldn’t help, nor could Lando or Milena, who gave him a little signal of encouragement. He took a step forward, slightly at a loss, and got up on the wine crate that had been put there for him to stand on. What was he to say? Why hadn’t he had the sense to prepare a speech in advance? Well, too late now.
“Good morning, friends,” he began. “My name is Bartolomeo Casal.”
He was about to go straight on, but Faber stopped him with a gesture. He had to leave time for the sentence to be repeated. The horse-men in the front row turned around and passed it on in low voices to those in the second row:
“Good morning, friends, my name is Bartolomeo Casal . . .”
who passed it on to the third row:
“Good morning, friends, my name is Bartolomeo Casal . . .”
and so on.
Soon the message was lost in the mist, but he knew it was still passing from one man to the next. It took a long time. Now and then Bart looked inquiringly at Faber — Can I go on? — but Faber shook his head: no, not yet. After long moments of silence, the low note of a horn was heard in the distance. Faber nodded: the message had reached the end of its journey.
Bartolomeo realized how precious words were in such circumstances. He mustn’t waste them. He had to find the shortest way to say what had to be said.
He went on: “In the past, my father led you . . .”
“In the past, my father led you . . .” repeated the horse-men in the front row.
“In the past, my father led you . . .” the men in the second row passed it on.
“And he lost his life, like many others.”
“And he lost his life, like many others.”
“And he lost his life, like many others.”
“Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”
“Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”
“Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”
“Trust me!”
“Trust me!”
“This time the people will be with us . . . ”
“This time the people will be with us . . .”
“And we will defeat the barbarians!”
“And we will defeat the barbarians!”
Punctuated by the horn calls in the mist, the simple sentences they repeated took on unexpected weight in the silence as they made their slow progress on. There was time to weigh every word, and every word weighed heavy: rebel. . . rebel . . . fight . . . fight . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
He asked them to set off for the capital that morning. When he had finished, the last horn call set off a roar that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Go and greet them,” Faber told him. “Walk among them; they’ll like that.”
“No,” protested Bart, getting off his crate. “I can’t do it. I don’t like the idea of some kind of personality cult. I’d feel ridiculous.”
Jahn took his arm. “Go on, Bart. You mustn’t disappoint them. And those of them who knew your father will be happy to see him again in you.”
Bartolomeo hesitated for a few more seconds and then made up his mind. “All right, but you come too, Milena.”
He took Milena’s hand and led her forward. The first rows opened before them, and they let themselves be swallowed up by the peaceful crowd of horse-men, the vapor of their breath hovering almost motionless above their heads. It was an unreal moment. There were not hundreds but thousands of people ready to fight. In their heavy winter clothes, with caps or balaclavas on their heads, they seemed to have come out of another time. There were many women among them, and boys too, some of them no more than twelve. These lads were proudly brandishing their pikes or clubs. In the ghostly light of early morning they all made way for the two young people, offering them smiles and words of friendship.