Artillery of Lies (23 page)

“That's true,” Ferenc said. “He's a full-time spy. He spies for the Czar against the Emperor of Prussia. I told you he was slow.”

Laszlo stood and beckoned to Docherty. They went into the corridor and Laszlo slid the door shut. “He has betrayed us,” he said. “It's all a big joke to him but none of you will be laughing when the pain begins, I promise you.” He was sweating; Docherty could smell the sour odor radiating from his thin body. And there was a twist to his jaw that made Docherty think he was about to be physically sick. “I won't give them that pleasure,” Laszlo said. He wiped some tears away with the back of his hand. “Nobody tells me when to die.”

Docherty glanced into the compartment. Ferenc was talking earnestly to a young nun who had a hand over her mouth to conceal her giggles. “What in hell's name's the matter with you, man?” he asked Laszlo. “It's just Ferenc playing the fool.”

“Too much! Too often! Ever since we landed, that idiot Hungarian has attracted attention and now …” Laszlo sank to his haunches. “We pay the price. The nun in there is a British secret policeman.”

“The nun? Which nun?”

“The old one, the one with a mustache.”

“Oh, that! That's nothing. Did you ever see an old nun that didn't
have a mustache? Anyway, she's Irish. You heard her speak.”

“It's a man. Look at his hands. Look at the size of his feet.”

“You think that's big? I've known nuns with feet like—”

“Shut up if you don't want to listen. I know he's a secret policeman.” Laszlo was shivering. He couldn't keep his head still: he was like a man in a fever. Docherty left him and went back into the compartment.

“Of course, like all true Romanovs I am hemophiliac,” Ferenc was telling the nuns. “The smallest cut or bruise and I bleed to death. Docherty, who is very clumsy but slightly loyal, stood on my toes last week and I nearly died, but my life was saved by my lovely maidservant Stephie who rubbed me all over with imperial almond oil, didn't you, Stephie?” She blushed and tugged her skirt down. “That's what these suitcases are full of,” Ferenc said. “Imperial almond oil, specially blessed by the Pope.”

“Shut your ears,” the old nun told the others. “Read your Bibles.”

“I really am a Romanov,” Ferenc said. “Look, I have the secret Romanov birthmark.” He began unbuttoning his shirt but Docherty put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Remember what the doctors said,” Docherty warned. “Excitement could be fatal.”

“Fatal to all of us,” Stephanie said.

Ferenc did up his buttons. “They live only for me,” he explained, but the nuns had their eyes shut and they were telling their beads. The show was over.

The nuns got out at Mullingar. Laszlo refused to come in from the corridor. His legs were stiff and his knees ached but even when Stephanie tried to persuade him, he shook off her hand. “Get away from me,” he muttered. “You all think it's a terrific joke, don't you? Good, go ahead and laugh. I am serious about what I do.”

“Nobody's laughing, Laszlo.” He looked so upset that Stephanie too became upset. She was a motherly girl; she loved the Fatherland with a mother's passion and blindness. “Have some chocolate,” she said. “One of the nun's gave me a piece. I don't want it, honestly.” But Laszlo would not look up, would not eat, would not speak; and eventually she left him in the corridor. In truth, Laszlo was more than serious: he was miserable and frightened. This was the first time in his life that he had left Madrid, apart from a few months in prison at Valladolid when he was eighteen. He had taught himself American-English in order to swindle rich tourists all the easier but he wasn't
comfortable with English-speaking people and the Irish baffled him. Now he hated Ferenc Tekeli, loathed him with a ferocity that made his skin prickle, because Tekeli kept making a fool of him. Laszlo wanted to do his duty. It had all seemed so simple when General Oster talked to him at the seaplane base near Brest. Dangerous but simple. Now he was being cheated of his destiny by the alcoholic antics of this Hungarian halfwit while bloody Docherty pretended that everything was fine and that silly cow tried to give him chocolate! Treated him like a child! His eyes leaked tears. Everyone and everything betrayed him, even his own eyes. That was another reason why he couldn't go into the compartment. His body ached. Just to sit would be luxury. All Tekeli's fault. How he hated the bastard. Hated him.

“You can't move the 114th Division
again,”
Julie said. “I mean, a division's twenty thousand men and you chuck ‘em about the country like mailbags.” They were in Liverpool, and she was sitting crosslegged on one of the twin beds in Luis's hotel room. “Anyway, if you're going to talk about maddening habits, what about the way you stack the plates?”

“I stack the plates the way they ought to be stacked,” Luis said, “and that's in order of size. Anyway, the 114th Division has its own transport, it's self-contained, and they dry faster when they're stacked properly.”

“Balls. You can't stand irregularity. You must have been toilet-trained by the Jesuits. And since when did the 114th have their own transport?”

“Today.” Luis, sitting on the floor, scribbled a note in the margin of his draft report. “I just gave them five hundred new Dodge trucks. See? Happy now?”

Julie turned a page of her carbon copy. “You've always got to damn well win, haven't you? Every time I washed the dishes and I stacked the dishes, along came Luis and restacked them.”

“Yes. Properly. Better.”

“You have no idea how mad that made me.”

“Well, you never put your clothes away.”

“So what? And I don't understand this crazy new anti-personnel mine of yours. So it's made out of wood. So what? Anyway they were my clothes. If I hang them on the floor that's my affair.”

“It's my affair when I trip over them. Why is it such a terrible burden to put your clothes away? I don't understand you, I really don't.”

“Well, I don't understand your obsession with toilet rolls.”

“The whole point is they don't show up on mine-detectors. I thought I made that clear,” Luis said. He frowned at the page. “I must have forgotten to put it in.”

“Heavens above,” Julie said. “God has stumbled.”

“I'll write something. Also wooden splinters can be very lethal at close range. Wood is cheap. Satisfied?”

“
Very
lethal?” Julie stuck her pencil in her hair and scratched her head. “I'd have thought a thing was either lethal or it wasn't. Still, you should know.”

Luis crossed out
very.
“Christ Almighty, for someone who can't hang her clothes up you can be damn touchy.”

She slid off the bed and stood staring at him. “You sure you want to go on with this? Or d'you just want to score points? I can think of—”

“Here we go again. Same old—”

“Am I allowed to finish?”

Luis threw up his hands. “Go ahead. Make your little speech. I've heard it a dozen times.”

“You've
never
heard it because you never listen because you don't really care about anyone except Luis.”

“See? Told you I'd heard it.”

“Go ahead: score another point. You remind me of my kid brother. You think you win everything by scoring points.”

“And your trouble is you never left home. I am nobody's kid brother!” Luis was beginning to shout. “You would like it, wouldn't you? Someone you could boss about! Not me, baby. Not me!”

“More B-movie dialogue.” She put her shoes on.

“Life is a B-movie,” Luis said sourly.

“Yours, maybe. Not mine. And this is a lousy B-movie script.” She tossed the carbon copy on to the other bed. “Where did you get this crap about bomber-crew losses over Frankfurt? It stinks.”

“I got it from Knickers. Can't you read?”

“Knickers is a jerk. Average nine percent losses per raid? If you think anyone's going to believe that you're dumber than my kid brother. Still, if you want Eldorado to look stupid, go ahead. Why should I care?”

“No reason at all. It's only a world war.”

“You could have fooled me.” She went out.
Selfish self-centered immature bastard,
she was thinking when she met Freddy Garcia coming along the corridor.

“I just knocked on your door,” he said. “There's an extra treat laid on for tomorrow. A visit to Liverpool railway station.”

“Shit-hot,” she said flatly.

“I'm told it's an architectural gem,” Freddy said.

“Listen: when you put a new toilet roll in the holder, how do you fit it? With the tail hanging down the front of the roll, or the back?”

He frowned. “To be honest, I've never given it much thought.”

“Luis thinks of nothing else. If the tail doesn't hang down the front it's a capital offense. I discovered that in Lisbon. Can you imagine what it's like living with that sort of paranoia?”

“We all have our little quirks,” Freddy suggested.

“Tell that to the 114th Division,” she said as she walked away. “I'm sure they'll find it a great consolation.”

“How can I?” Freddy asked. “They don't exist.”

“Very wise decision,” she called back. “Sometimes I wish I'd made it myself.”

Nobody can feel rotten forever. Misery is like fear: eventually the last drop drains out of you and despite yourself you begin to feel almost halfway normal again. Laszlo maintained his misery all the way to Dublin, and even managed to stoke it up a bit on the little branch train that took them to the ferry terminal at Dún Laoghaire: speaking to nobody, taking a stoic pride in his aching hunger, loathing everyone, and courageously resigned to the utter failure of his high mission because of the selfish folly of others.
I shall make the supreme sacrifice,
he told himself over and over again,
and only God will know.
Then they were off the train and into the docks, and Docherty had bought four tickets to Liverpool, and the men in passport control didn't look at them twice, and they were on board the steam ferry
Maid of the Mersey.
A strangely unfamiliar wave of optimism swept over Laszlo before he could stop it. He was going to land in England after all. His destiny would not be denied!

The ferry fascinated him. This was the first time he had been on a ship, and it was a far more wonderful creation than the ocean liners he
had seen in Hollywood movies. They had been like luxury hotels with views of the sea: spacious, bright, elegant, dotted with potted palms and never lacking a smiling steward to adjust one's deckchair. The
Maid of the Mersey
was different. She was old and dirty and packed with servicemen returning from leave and as soon as she cleared the harbor all her outside lights went out, while the inside lights were dimmed and officers went around checking the blackout. Laszlo was impressed: the war reached right to the edge of Ireland. He could be sunk by a U-boat or strafed by the
Luftwaffe.
The thrill of risk raised his spirits. Somewhere deep in the ship there were hugely powerful engines making a rumbling thunder which (this surprised him) caused everything to vibrate. He rested his head against some hulking piece of multi-riveted steel and felt the trembling, and occasionally the shuddering, that possessed the ship as breathing possesses a great beast. No Hollywood liner had been like that. Laszlo enjoyed a quiet sense of superiority over those dumb Madrid movie audiences who thought they were watching the truth! But what impressed him most of all was the smell. It was a heady blend of ozone, burned oil, coal smoke and sea-salt, all laced with a whiff of fried onions. He filled and refilled his lungs until his ribs creaked.

Ten minutes on deck was enough, however. There was nothing to see but black night and white wake. Laszlo grew bored and went back to the saloon. It was packed with men: playing cards, singing, reading magazines, writing letters. Docherty was dozing; Ferenc had gone to find food. Stephanie was looking after the suitcases. “Nothing can stop us now,” Laszlo told her. “Remember this moment. I think history will look back and say: That was the turning-point. Nothing was the same after that. Nothing.”

“Good,” she said. Laszlo was almost smiling, so she smiled back. “I'm glad you're happy.” On impulse she gave him a quick hug. It startled him. Nobody had hugged Laszlo since he was four. “Look, try and be nice to Ferenc,” she said. “He doesn't mean any harm, you know. He just can't resist a joke, that's all.”

“Ferenc is very funny.” Now Laszlo actually laughed, and it was Stephanie's turn to be startled. Laszlo couldn't laugh properly, he didn't know how; the best he could do was a tight
heh-heh-heh.
But she was relieved to hear it: if Laszlo could laugh, perhaps things weren't so bad after all. Ever since they boarded the ferry, and she had realized that from now on one little slip would be enough to hang her, Stephanie had known that her great mistake was in ever agreeing
to come to England. She was no spy. She could never be a spy. She had been brought up to tell the truth; her family were Lutherans; her father even refused to go to the cinema because it was unreal, distorted, counterfeit. The first time she tried to tell an Englishman a lie she would blush like a beetroot, she knew it. This expedition was all a dreadful blunder. All done for love. She was here for the love of Otto Krafft. Her heart kept kicking like an angry infant in the womb and she wanted to forget the awful future she was being carried toward by this terrible, squalid ship. “We had a good time in Madrid, didn't we?” she said. “Do you remember Ferenc at the bullfight when he bought all the peanuts?”

Docherty said, “And the oranges, and the
chorizos,
and the sugar doughnuts.” He yawned. “I could demolish a sugar doughnut or five myself right now.”