‘He drinks too much and becomes indiscreet.’
‘I don’t see that that has anything to do with me.’
‘His associates will be suspect.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Mr Pashik,’ I said then, ‘as a newspaperman don’t you think that you’re a bit too anxious about the censorship and the Propaganda Ministry and the police and all the rest of it?’
A woman missed death by an inch. He sounded the horn absently and shook his head. ‘I do not think so. It is difficult to explain.’
‘What’s so difficult about it?’
‘You are a stranger here, Mr Foster. You look on our life from the outside. You are interested in the trial of a man whose name you scarcely know because his situation seems to you to contain the elements of a spiritual conflict. Naturally so. You are a writer of fiction and you make the world in your own image. But be careful. Do not walk upon the stage yourself. You may find that the actors are not what they have seemed.’
‘Is Sibley one of the actors?’
‘I was speaking generally, Mr Foster.’
‘Then I’m sorry but I don’t understand what we’re talking about.’
He sighed. ‘I was afraid not. But perhaps it does not matter.’
I let that one go. A few moments later he pulled up outside my hotel. I got out of the car.
‘Shall we meet for dinner, Mr Foster?’
I hesitated. The air outside the car smelt good. I shook my head. ‘I think I’ll get to bed early tonight,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Hotel Boris had been built by a German company in 1914 and was one of those hotels in which footsteps echo and only the sound of a toilet flushing in the distance reminds you that you are not alone there. The foyer was a cavernous place with a tessellated floor and a hydraulic lift in a wrought-iron cage. The reception clerk was a slow-moving, mentally deficient youth with a charming smile. He spoke a little English.
‘There is a message for you, sir,’ he said. He glanced at the scrap of paper that he had taken out of the key rack. ‘Mr Stanoiev called to see you and will call again.’
‘Stanoiev? I don’t know anyone of that name. Are you sure it was for me?’
He looked stupid. ‘I don’t know, sir. He went away.’
‘I see.’
The lift was deserted. I walked up the wide shallow stairs to the sixth floor.
My room was at the end of a long corridor with upholstered benches set against the wall at intervals along it. As I started down the corridor, I noticed that at the far end there was a man sitting on one of the benches. He was reading a newspaper.
It made an odd picture; one never expects corridor furniture to be used except as shelves for trays and chambermaids’ dusters. As I approached he looked up casually, then went back to his newspaper. I glanced at him as I passed by.
He was a thin, dried-up man with pale, haggard eyes and grey hair cropped so that the bone of his skull was visible. He had a peculiarly blotchy complexion like that of someone just cured of a skin disease. The hands holding up the newspaper were long and yellow. There was a black soft hat beside him on the bench.
I went past him to my room. I put the key in the lock and turned it. Then someone spoke from just behind me.
‘Herr Foster?’
It made me jump. I turned round. The man who had been on the bench was standing there with his hat under his arm.
I nodded.
‘Petlarov,’ he said, and then added in German, ‘I can speak French or German, whichever you prefer.’
‘German will be all right. I’m glad to see you.’ I finished opening the door. ‘Will you come in?’
He bowed slightly. ‘Thank you.’ He walked in and then turned and faced me. ‘I must apologize,’ he said in a clipped, businesslike way, ‘for answering your note in this fashion. A native of this country would not find it strange, but as you are a foreigner I must make an explanation.’
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ In the light of the room his clothes were shabby and he looked ill. His precise, formal manner, however, seemed to ignore both facts. He chose a hard chair as if he did not intend to stay long.
‘First,’ he said, ‘I think you should know that I am under surveillance; that is to say, I have to report to the police every day. Second, I am officially listed as an “untrustworthy person”. That means that if you were to be seen entering my house or talking to me in a public place, you would attract the attention of the police, and yourself become suspect. That is why I have used this unconventional means of seeing you. I discovered your room number by leaving a note for you in the name of Stanoiev and noticing which box it was put into. Then I came discreetly up here and waited for you to return. You need therefore have no fear that my name is in any way connected with yours or my presence here known about.’ He bowed curtly.
‘I am most grateful to you for coming.’
‘Thank you. May I ask how you obtained my address?’
‘From a man named Pashik.’
‘Ah, yes. I thought it must be him.’ He looked thoughtfully into space.
‘Do you know him well, Herr Petlarov?’
‘You mean what is my opinion of him?’
‘Yes.’
He considered for a moment. ‘Let us say that I do not subscribe to the common belief that he is merely a disagreeable person whose political views change with the person he talks to. But now that I am here, what do you want of me?’
I had held out my cigarettes. His hand had gone out to them as he was speaking, but now he hesitated. He looked up from the cigarettes, and his eyes met mine.
‘I have some more,’ I said.
He smiled in a deprecatory way. ‘If you had perhaps a bar of chocolate or a biscuit, Herr Foster, it would, I think, be better for my stomach than tobacco.’
‘Of course.’ I went to my suitcase. ‘I have no chocolate, but here are some biscuits.’
I had a box, bought in Paris for the train journey and then forgotten. I opened it. The biscuits were the kind with pink icing sugar on them.
‘Not very good for a bad stomach,’ I remarked.
He took one with a polite smile. ‘Oh yes. Excellent.’ He nibbled at it with very white false teeth.
‘Pashik gave me your piece on Deltchev to read,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes? It was considered unsuitable for publication.’
‘By Pashik?’
‘Yes, but I was not surprised or upset. I knew that it had been commissioned in the belief that because I had had a difference of opinion with Yordan I would therefore write about him in an unfavourable way. If Pashik had asked me, I would have told him what to expect. Fortunately he did not ask.’
‘Fortunately?’
‘If he had known he would not have commissioned the article, and I needed the money.’
‘Oh, I see. I have a bottle of whisky here. Would it be safe to ask the floor waiter for some glasses?’
‘I think not. Perhaps I may have another biscuit.’
‘Of course, please help yourself. You know, Herr Petlarov, I came here to write a series of articles about the trial of Deltchev. But Pashik seems afraid that I shall offend the censor if I do them here.’
‘He is probably right,’ he said calmly. ‘He is usually right about these thing. Yes, I can see. If you offend he will be blamed.’
