The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown (26 page)

He returned to the artistes’ entrance. Despina had changed and was just floating out in a new dove-grey evening creation, filmy as a wisp of cloud and calling for a pair of fat cupids to play tag on top of it. He managed to whisper for the last time that she was the flower of all women and then she was immediately invited to Vlaicu’s table where there was now a third man. Poor Despina! But she could come to no harm. She knew nothing, and it would not take them long to be convinced of her proud honesty. Bernardo drew back into the shadows to watch.

She played her usual hard-to-get trick of standing by the table as if charmingly uncertain in what company she found herself. She must have genuinely disliked Vlaicu or else she was saying that she would fetch another girl to join the party. At any rate she turned to go and then suddenly collapsed into a chair. Vlaicu had grabbed her wrist and pulled her down.

Her face was set hard in indignation. The third man said something, possibly identifying himself as a police officer. Police or no police, Despina was not standing such treatment. She shook her head disdainfully and looked round for help,
but everyone was watching the last turn: a splendid Georgian leaping about and throwing knives from his mouth. Again she tried to get up, and Vlaicu’s assistant held her down with a hard hand on her thigh. Nobody noticed except Bernardo and the ever officious Holgar.

He advanced upon the table—the Galahad of the near eastern circuit in his shining armour of white tie and tails. The hand was very high up on that thigh in its tempting mist of dove-grey, and Holgar evidently misunderstood the situation. He remonstrated with those coarse-looking Romanians. The highly improbable had happened at last; this was the chance he had been waiting for to show himself a man, cleansed of the disgrace of Mitranis and four-breasted ladies and the mercenary trade. He was told quietly to go away and shut up. Despina managed to rise to her feet and also appealed to him, perhaps telling him not to be a fool, perhaps trying to create a diversion as if she had guessed or been told that it was David Mitrani who was in danger. And then Holgar produced an almost professional left and right developed in some innocent Oslo gymnasium. The right hooked the third man over the table which broke under him. The left landed on Vlaicu’s straining fourth waistcoat button. Everyone turned round at the crash. The Georgian dropped a knife and loosed a blast of thunderous Russian as it quivered point downwards in his boot. Mircea Niculescu had vanished. Vlaicu was vomiting champagne.

Bernardo saw a wild outside chance and took it. He dashed to the back door. All depended on what orders the two uniformed cops had received—with luck the simplest for simple men: just to prevent anyone leaving by that door.

‘Help! Help!’ he yelled. ‘Major Vlaicu is attacked. Quick! Draw your guns!’

They didn’t hesitate. They dashed into the Alhambra fumbling with their holsters. Bernardo grabbed a hat from the pegs and ran.

The street at the back of the Alhambra was long and
narrow, with the first cross road over a hundred yards ahead. When he reached it the pursuit was momentarily hesitating at the back door and about to race after him. Vlaicu might be out of action, but his Number Two was efficient. As Bernardo turned left, sprinting for the Calea Victoriei, he saw that a second lot was on his track led by the two fellows who had stopped the cab near the front of the Alhambra. If they had known of his escape half a minute earlier than they did, he would have been intercepted at the cross-roads.

It was after one and the Calea Victoriei was nearly empty, offering no chance of mingling with passers-by. He crossed the street at a fast walk since there were three policemen on normal duties in sight, and then ran down the first available side-street regardless of the stares of a few pedestrians. He had sacrificed his lead and was stranded in a blank quarter of public buildings without any alleys or courtyards. Having put two corners between himself and the pursuit, he saw ahead of him a pool of white light outside the back of a newspaper office where the last of the bundles were being heaved into waiting carts. If he dared to slow down and approach at a walk he might be able to bluff his way in and disappear.

But there was not enough time and he knew it. Another desperate chance offered. At the back of the Military Club were a couple of garbage cans with wheels and shafts which the municipal collectors pushed from house to house. He jumped into one and crouched down. It had no lid but it was the only hope. A moment later a rush of feet went past succeeded by other, heavier, more conversational followers like a blown field pounding along behind a pack of silent hounds. They ignored the garbage cans hypnotised, as he had been, by all the activity around the pool of light. It was so obvious a place for a fugitive to mix with other human beings and be lost.

What to do now? Just down the road was the Cismigiu Park. He believed it was not open at night, but a desperate
man could surely find somewhere to climb in. Before he could make up his mind, he heard enough whistles and shouts from that direction to make it certain that the police, the military, the secret service, the Hapsburgs led by a side-saddled Zita and any other enthusiastic members of the hunt had had the same idea. They had gone for the Cismigiu.

Bernardo decided to remain where he was, though it was agonisingly risky. There must be a party still searching among printing machines and delivery shutes; when they came out they might take a look in the garbage cans. Alternatively a kitchen boy could appear from the Military Club, where a ball or reception was in progress, and heave a load of sturgeon bones and mayonnaise on him. It was bad enough as it was. He seemed to be squatting on the remains of tea-time pastries.

He waited nearly an hour until the door of the newspaper building clanged down. Valses at the Military Club were still in full swing, but the street was deserted and it was safe to move if there were anywhere to go. On two sides were the Cismigiu and the wide Boulevard Elisabeta, both of which must be avoided. Just to the north was the Royal Palace. Solitary and suspicious night-walkers, whether wanted by the police or not, had better keep clear of that. The only hope was to the east, and that meant crossing the Calea Victoriei again.

It had to be done, though he would land in the smart diplomatic quarter with well-lit streets and a sprinkling of police about. They could probably be bluffed, for he looked respectable apart from whatever was sticking to his trousers. Patrolling only their routine beats, they need not necessarily have been alerted. The main cordon would be between the Cismigiu and the Crucea de Piatra—a very likely spot for the ex-ponce to go to ground.

Bernardo scraped his trousers with half a broken plate and then took a very cautious look at the Boulevard Elisabeta. Not a ghost of a chance there, as he had thought. The police had gone all modern. There was an open car stuffed with
them down by the railings of the Cismigiu and another close to the intersection with the Calea Victoriei. He tried the opposite direction, passing round the north side of the Military Club. This was more hopeful. At the end of the street he could see a few guests leaving the club on foot. A bunch of them must some time cross the vital main avenue and he could join them. Or could he? All the bastards who were civilians had overcoats over full evening dress. He would be more conspicuous accompanying them than crossing alone.

He waited, feeling exposed and unconvincing. The tendency of Romanians to stand and chat before doing anything saved him. Half a dozen Post Office clerks drifted out of the Telephone Building on the other side of the street and stood talking on the pavement. He joined them as soon as they started to move, crossed the Calea Victoriei alongside four of them and dived into the opposite side-street. There were now more people about, going home from whatever late entertainment they fancied, and he felt less noticeable. He was on the route by which he had escaped, and away to his right was the gaily lit front door of the Alhambra—the last place, he thought, where anyone would be looking for him.

Wrong again! A cop some way off shouted:
Asculta, domnule
! Listen, sir! implying that he must wait and be questioned. He ran again. It was the end of safety and any possible bluff in that respectable district. The only thing to do was to break out across the Boulevard Carol which was a continuation of the Elisabeta but possibly not yet patrolled. It soon would be when that cop reported a running man.

He crossed the wide, empty boulevard, forcing himself to walk steadily like any good citizen with nothing on his conscience. On the other side were older, darker, less fashionable streets. He felt that the pressure on him had lost immediacy. There was no particular reason why he should be in this quarter more than any other. The cordon round the Crucea de Piatra, if there was one, would be further south.

After exploring several small parallel roads for possible
cover and escape routes he came to a dark space with a church in it. Though paved and open, it seemed a good place in which to wait for morning. From the shadows of dense black thrown by a bright half moon anyone approaching could be seen in plenty of time to take evading action. If he could hang on there or thereabouts till full daylight he might join the crowds going to work in the financial district and somehow get clear of the city.

Meanwhile all was silent except for two cats melodiously mating over low roofs and in and out of the square. An older Bucarest, ignoring the vulgarities of police, cars, cabarets and the agitated military, slept in peace by the protecting dome of its almost village church. On the cobbles, outside the entrance, was a poor, single-horse
trasura
, driver and horse exhausted, one asleep in the passenger seat, the other on its feet. All was rest. Rest at last.

‘Idyllic!’ Mr. Brown remembered. ‘Idyllic, I say. They maintain—or used to—that the fox enjoys being hunted. Nonsense! But there may be a moment, when hounds have lost his line, of triumph, of peace exaggerated by what has gone before.’

The snores of the cab-driver were audible but gentle. Bernardo envied his peasant tranquillity and then realised that, as so often, his troubles had been lulled away by alcohol. Poor devil, working late, swilling
tsuica
—it was not worthwhile driving miles down the Boulevard Carol to some miserable hovel on the outskirts of the city. He could sleep it off where he was and perhaps pick up a fare, someone who had missed his tram, in the early morning. The Boulevard Carol ... the last time Bernardo had been down it was his furious march on Pozharski’s love-nest.

By God, that was an idea! No place could be safer than the discreet and shuttered house. He could stay there unsuspected till the hunt died down. But he dared not break in during daylight. It had to be done at night, at once, taking the chance that no one would pay particular attention to
the crash as he broke the side window and the shutter.

Strada Spâtarului was less than ten minutes walk away, but the odds were a hundred to one against reaching it unchallenged. That cop who had seen him run must have reported the incident by now and the Carol would be just as hot as the Elisabeta. Bernardo had the wild idea of removing the cabman and driving the
trasura
down the boulevard. It wouldn’t do. For one thing the driver might wake up; for another, he could not expect to get away with driving a
trasura
—if he could drive it at all—sitting on the box in a respectable suit and no overcoat.

He took a closer look at the driver who smelt of stale alcohol and pickled cucumber. He would sleep through anything so long as he remained sprawled in the back of the cab. So the horse at any rate was available, though its trot was probably slower than that of the fattest Bucarest policeman. But why bother about its speed? Bernardo perceived that a walking horse was all he needed, plus the driver’s hat and any other handy garment.

He had never had time to notice the hat he grabbed as he rushed out of the Alhambra. It was not his own. It was very expensive black astrakhan lined with silk and probably belonged to the Georgian knife dancer. Such a fine hat would be ample recompense for the driver if he had the sense to keep quiet about it. Very gently he removed the pointed, grey-mottled, sheepskin hat from the driver’s head and substituted the astrakhan. There was an old rug on the box seat—filthy, but a driver who left his cab surely would not leave it for anyone to steal.

With the rug over his shoulders and the literally lousy hat on his head he slipped the traces off the horse’s collar and quietly lowered the shafts to the ground. The horse woke up with a general air of resignation and seemed quite willing to be led anywhere by anybody. Bernardo was about to start when he remembered that Pozharski’s house was modern; there might not be any slat of the shutters so rotted by snow
that it could be knocked in or torn out by the bare hand. After casting round among harness and springs with a side glance at the church—but lead piping would not do and there was unlikely to be a chisel in the vestry—he opened the lid of the box seat. Inside was a rusty biscuit tin with needles, waxed thread and leather patches for repairing harness together with a worn, sharp knife. He took it, and finding himself unable to steal from someone fated to be permanently wretched—as indeed he might be too, but not yet—left a few notes in its place.

The choice of a route was tricky. It was essential not to draw attention to Strada Spâtarului by entering or stopping near the street; on the other hand he dared not go far beyond it since he would have to walk back without the cover of the horse. He decided to put all to the test at once and not to mess about suspiciously in side roads. He led the animal into the boulevard and proceeded straight down it as if bound from the centre of the city to a stable.

He plodded along from light to light, himself and the horse the only miserable traffic. A policeman wished him good-morning, to which Bernardo answered gruffly with some vague, wine-sodden curses at whatever disaster had forced him to leave his
trasura
. A car, full of military this time, cruised past him with hardly a glance. When well past the Strada Spâtarului he spotted some sort of lane serving the back of houses. Nobody was in sight. It would have to do.