Michael Pearce - A Dead Man In Trieste

‘That is what they say. But then students always say such wild things.’

As they were going out, she looked at the pictures again.

‘He spoke about these the last time I saw him. It was just before he died. He said that sometimes artists saw things that other people didn’t. About the world, I mean.’

‘People always think that the wheels are coming off the world.’

‘I know. And Lomax said that diplomats were worse than anybody at thinking that. That they always thought they were sitting on a powder-bag which was about to explode. But that sometimes they were right.’

In one of the streets leading to the Piazza Grande there were some large poster hoardings. Usually they displayed advertisements for local shops or even for the cinema. Whatever they were displaying today was unusually arresting, for a large knot of people was gathered in front of them.

Seymour, taller than most Triestians, was able to see over the heads. He read:

Futurist Evening. The Politeama on Saturday.

Underneath, it said:

Art Breaks into the Future! Art IS the Future!

Beneath that were two separate posters, alongside each other. One said:

The Future is Here! At the Politeama on Saturday. Embrace it!

Scribbled beneath that were the words:

And your Girl Friend!

And then another, different, scribble:

But not too closely! Otherwise you’ll have to pay for the infant.

The poster next to it showed a caricature reproduction of the Mona Lisa. The corners of her mouth were exaggerated into a depressed droop. Art is Tired! read the caption. Underneath, the scribble, which Seymour now saw as part of the poster, said:

No, it’s not! All she needs is a Man!

Another artist had added a bristly moustache to the face and then:

She IS a Man!

Just along the street was another poster which at first seemed to consist of the single word, written huge:

SMASH

But, then, down the edge, much smaller, one saw a column of other words:

Galleries

Museums

Libraries

Police Stations

The Assicurazioni Generale

and then, right at the end:

The Hapsburgs

Get rid of the Old , ran a caption around the bottom, Let in the New. Let Art let in the Future!

A man detached himself from the group of viewers. ‘Children!’ he said, with a sneer.

It was Rakic.

‘What rubbish!’ he said, seeing Seymour and half recognizing him. ‘To think people are being invited to an evening of that!’

Now he did recognize Seymour.

‘The King’s Messenger? Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you carry messages, you said. Yes?’

‘Yes. For the Foreign Office in London. To consulates and embassies.’

‘And back again?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

Rakic smiled.

‘And what message will you be carrying back to London from Trieste? Not about this, I hope,’ he said, gesturing towards the posters.

‘No. I don’t think so. Only messages of diplomatic significance.’

‘And this is not,’ said Rakic, somehow with satisfaction. ‘It is childish rubbish. And yet people will be going to their Evening! Important people. The Governor!’ He shook his head in wonderment.

‘These are just advertisements,’ said Seymour, moved, for some reason, to speak up on behalf of Marinetti. ‘There may be more to the Evening than this,’

Rakic seemed struck.

‘More to the Evening? Well, perhaps you are right. We must hope so. For the sake of the people who are going. The important people.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it is no concern of mine. So long as the money for the hall has been paid.’

Seymour had not heard from Kornbluth for two or three days, despite his promise to keep him informed. Two or three days were perhaps not much. All the same. .

He made up his mind to see Kornbluth and later in the morning called in on him at the police station. Kornbluth was back to his most stolid and looked up at Seymour with none of his usual affability.

‘I was wondering how you were getting on,’ said Seymour.

Kornbluth, almost reluctantly, gestured to him to sit down.

‘Badly,’ he said. ‘There have been no further developments.’

‘You have found no one who saw Lomax after he had left the cinema that night?’

‘We have asked,’ said Kornbluth, ‘but no one seems to have seen him.’

‘Have you been asking about the right time?’ said Seymour.

‘The right time?’

‘Not when the performance ended. Later.’

‘Later?’

‘He went back into the cinema. To see Machnich. He would have left later than we thought.’

‘Did he, now?’

Kornbluth sat there thinking.

‘How do you know?’ he asked.

‘Someone told me. And I have spoken to Machnich.’

Kornbluth thought some more.

‘You will check?’ Seymour pressed him. ‘For the new time?’

‘Yes.’

Seymour sensed reluctance, however.

‘Is anything wrong? Something gone wrong with the investigation? Have I done something?’

‘No, no,’ said Kornbluth hurriedly. ‘All is as it should be.’ He paused. ‘It is just that — well, we have been told to hold back a little on the investigation.’

‘Hold back? Who by?’

‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ said Kornbluth unhappily.

‘Schneider? But, Christ — ’

‘Listen,’ said Kornbluth. ‘I am sorry. It is not as I would have it. But sometimes it is necessary to hold back on one thing so that you can progress on another.’

‘But he has progressed on another! He got Koskash. He’s closed that escape route down. You mean to say there’s something else? Somebody else to do with Lomax?’

Kornbluth put up a hand.

‘I say nothing,’ he said. ‘I know nothing. That is because I would know nothing. Schneider doesn’t tell me what he’s doing. All I know is that he’s asked me to hold back.’

‘But do you have to? I mean, if you’ve got an investigation going — ’

‘If Schneider asks,’ said Kornbluth, ‘I have to. Look, I don’t like it. Those bastards over there get up my nose. I’m an ordinary policeman, right? And I like to get on with my ordinary work in an ordinary way. And I don’t like those bastards coming in over my head and ordering me around. But I’ve got to put up with it, see? Schneider’s a bloody General and I’m a bloody Inspector, and what his lot says, goes, and what my lot says, doesn’t. So there you have it. If I could do something about it, I would. If I could put one across him, I would. But I can’t. I’ll do what I can for you. I’ll check possible witnesses at the new time. But don’t expect too much, that’s all. Schneider’s got his heel on me, the same as he has on everyone else.’

Seymour walked away simmering. He wondered, as he walked, and as his ‘shadow’ fell in behind him, whether he should write a letter of protest to the people back in the Foreign Office and savoured, for a moment, a few juicy phrases that he could put in. But then a note of caution crept in. This was probably happening to diplomats all the time. Governments were probably always saying something or doing something to them and they just had to swallow it. They couldn’t answer back and it wouldn’t be much good writing complaining letters to London. He could just imagine that supercilious bastard back in London getting a letter from him. ‘Always knew he wasn’t up to it,’ he could hear him saying. ‘From the East End. Not a diplomat, of course.’

But there was another reason why perhaps it would be best not to write. At least, not yet. Schneider evidently thought there was something else he had to find out. Something else, probably about Lomax, something more than just involvement in the escape route. It would be better if Seymour could discover what that was before writing any complaining letters. Because Schneider might, just might, be in the right.