‘Not before you’ve played us something,’ said Nina.
‘Dear God, I thought I’d got out of that.’
‘People don’t get out of things with Nina,’ said her brother.
‘It’s a family characteristic,’ said Elizabeth.
When, at the dinner-table an hour earlier, Mrs Tabidze had called for the brandy-decanter, Alexander had felt very much inclined to pour the whole of its contents over her, with the option of going on to set light to them. It was not that he resented her calling him a young whippersnapper (she was far too old and ugly for him to care one way or the other what she thought of him); the feeling aroused in him, though violent, was much more impersonal than that. The moment came back to him now because the last piece of dialogue had induced the same hostility, even though he had contributed to it himself. What was it that he found so distasteful? Something to do with style, something to do with intention, something to do with being taken outside life and into… a funny story? A parlour game? But why should that matter? For almost the first time in his life, Alexander sincerely wished he knew more and could think better.
In the drawing-room the card-game had just ended, with Korotchenko and Mrs Tabidze dividing the spoils with winnings of about ?10,000 each, enough for a bottle of good-quality spirits and a packet of five cigarettes. Much to Alexander’s surprise, his mother and Mrs Korotchenko were in animated conversation; perhaps his extempore patter about shyness in a company of any size had happened to come somewhere near the mark. Nina clapped her hands for silence and announced that Mr Markov would play and sing some of the English songs he had come across in the course of his researches for the Cultural Commission.
Theodore duly offered half a dozen pieces, all short, under two minutes. He showed himself to be possessed of enough, or more than enough, skill and imagination for what he saw as the deceptively simple keyboard writing and also of a pleasant light baritone voice. Quite by chance, the piano had stayed free of damp and so was not grotesquely out of tune. Of those who noticed that it was not in tune (both Korotchenkos being tone-deaf), some, like Nina, thought this was pleasingly congruent with the outlandish material, while others, like Elizabeth, supposed Theodore to be somehow distorting the pitch on purpose for greater effect. All the songs were well received but by common consent the last of the set was best. Although the structure again was simple, two related strains each repeated once, Theodore brought out a blend of vivacity and melancholy in the music that proved, to this Russian audience, recognisable even if unfamiliarly expressed. Cries of approval as well as handclaps followed the final triumphant chord.
‘Most enjoyable,’ said Mrs Tabidze. ‘But could you explain it a little, Mr Markov? I’m afraid my English is far from what it should be. What does it mean,
‘Actually it’s
His hearers assured him that they did.
‘The composer and lyric-writer was a certain Albert Chevalier. Now the French community in London was never very large; it was mostly confined to the catering trade. But it seems to have been cohesive, never assimilated by the traditionally xenophobic English. I take this song to be one of defiance, an assertion of French pride and independence in the heart of a foreign land, in the old, historic, quintessentially English road to Kent.’
‘But it’s an English song,’ said Elizabeth.
‘It became one. The English always imported or naturalised large parts of their culture, right to the end. During the Patriotic War of 1941-5, when they and the Hitlerites showed great hostility towards one another for a time, a hostility that as you know erupted more than once into armed actions like the bombing of the London docks and the Dieppe raid, the English translated and took over a German song called “Lilli Helene”. Musically speaking, too, the song I’ve just performed could never have been an English product. Not… not sufficiently direct.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Nina.
When the guests left, Alexander looked in vain for some signal from Mrs Korotchenko to confirm their arrangement for the following Tuesday, but he already knew enough about women not to be cast down by this omission of hers. He was tired and heavy-eyed and yet had no desire for sleep, or so he told himself. Should he have a last glass of wine? Unable to think of any arguments for or against the proposition he nevertheless returned to the drawing-room, which had the desolate look of all newly-emptied human resorts. While he was gazing inattentively at an opened bottle his father came in.
‘Ah, there you are, my boy. Are you away early tomorrow?’
‘Not especially, papa.
‘Commissioner Mets is coming to breakfast to discuss general policy. I though you might care to turn up as well.’
‘With anything particular in mind?’
‘The Commissioner might be interested to hear your views; you know some of the problems better than I do. It was just a thought.’
‘A very nice one. I’d love to come.’
‘Excellent. Eight o’clock. Try not to be late. Oh -Alexander…’
‘Yes, papa?’
‘You… you and Mrs Korotchenko and your turn in the gardens. I take it you, you DID, eh?’
Alexander had had fully ten seconds’ notice of a question on these lines, long enough to think things out as follows. There could be no point in shocking his father, who all the same appeared so far from shocked by the idea that it would be strange if he were to be much shocked by the fact, though on previous form, that of a sort of liberal puritan, some shock, unthickened with reproaches, was to be expected. That left the scales about level; what tipped them was the thought that it was too late at night for another elaborate exercise in dissimulation, especially for such trivial stakes. And there might well come a time when paternal possession of the fact in mind would be vital. Promptly enough to stand to win a couple of extra marks for supposed fearless honesty, he said, ‘Yes, I did.’
Petrovsky gave a great laugh. ‘I knew it! You young devil!’
‘How did you know, papa?’
‘Because I know you, that’s enough. Fancy that! I tried to get old Tabidze to take a bet, but he wouldn’t.’
‘What did you say to him? How did you put it?’
‘Put it? I just said to him, out of the Korotchenko fellow’s hearing of course, I said, “What do you wager there isn’t a spot of kissing going on outside at this moment?”, and as I say he wouldn’t take me. He said, “I wouldn’t stake ten pounds against that young spark doing anything in that line you care to name.” You see, he knows you too.’
Alexander took his turn to laugh and his father soon joined in. The pair of them went on for some time, like people in a play.
They did a lot of laughing in that house.
4
Shortly before eight o’clock the next morning a large blue motor-car was making its way through the surrounding park by means of a roughly-made road lined with strong young elms. At the sound of its approach the children from the lesser houses, those occupied by the lesser functionaries of the district administration, came running out to watch it pass, as their great-great-grandparents would have done at their age. Its passenger could not but be a person of unusual celebrity.
Commissioner Michael Mets was such a one, though he would have been rather embarrassed at the description. He was forty years old, strong and active, with a sharp nose and alert brown eyes behind spectacles. A brown imitation-leather dispatch-case lay beside him. Actually there was a second passenger: on the folding seat diagonally across from Mets there sat a young soldier in uniform with a pistol at his hip. The weapon was not loaded; the original necessary edict laying down armed escort for all notables had been retained in a period when that escort’s most strenuous duty was likely to be the carrying of parcels.
