Michael Pearce - A Dead Man In Trieste

‘Not blue. Pooh, blue! Decorous, tame blue, decorous tame green. The decorous blues and greens, which were browns, the brown of the studios and the museums. Tame colours, tamed man.

‘But Futurist Art is not tamed! It does not speak in whispers. It shouts!’

Which certainly seemed to be true, thought Seymour, if Marinetti himself was anything to go by.

‘It cannot be ignored. You cannot walk by it. It explodes upon you!

‘And it will release. It will release the energy that lies trapped behind these cold Austrian facades.

‘It is the art of the cinema, not the art of the museum. It is the art of the Future and not of the past. It is the art of protest. And it will ignite. Futurist Art will ignite!’

James picked himself up off the table and hurled himself upon Marinetti. But now it was a friendly, approving, supporting embrace. The two danced off together among the tables to the enthusiastic cheers of the Citizens of the Future.

Seymour was getting a taste for Trieste. When he walked down to the Consulate from his hotel in the morning, he liked to take in the Canal Grande, with its little working boats and the men loading and unloading — all small stuff, but, as Kornbluth had said on the first occasion when he had come here, somehow satisfyingly real, the tavernas up the side streets and the little cafes on the quays, the seagulls pecking for droppings, and the women at the end of the canal, sitting on the steps of the church, sewing.

This morning, as he walked along by the side of the canal, he was surprised to see the trim figure of Rakic. He was standing on the edge of the quay looking down into one of the boats and talking to its captain. Seymour had no particular urge to talk to Rakic and walked on past. His ear, registering language as always, picked up their speech, noticing it especially, perhaps, because it was in a language unfamiliar to him. Not quite unfamiliar, though, because he could work out what they were saying.

‘Two days,’ the captain said. ‘That’s all. We’ll make Sarajevo in two days.’

The name of the place gave him a clue. Bosnian, that was it, that must be the language: close to Serbian.

‘All right, then,’ Rakic said. ‘Be ready.’

He turned and saw Seymour.

‘Ah, Signor Seymour!’

Seymour stopped unwillingly. Rakic hurried across.

‘You are taking an early morning walk? Good for the digestion.’

‘I’m staying at a hotel,’ said Seymour. This is on my way to the Consulate,’

‘Ah, yes.’

Rakic fell in alongside him.

‘You are thinking about the message you will be taking back to London, perhaps? To the King?’

‘Not much thought needed, I would say.’

‘You will be telling him about Signor Lomax?’

‘I think they already know.’

‘Of course. And what,’ he said, after a moment, ‘was their reaction? When they heard?’

‘I think they are waiting to hear more.’

‘Of course. That is natural. It is natural for diplomats to react with caution. But what about the British Government? When all there is to be known, is known, how will it respond, do you think? With anger, that its Consul should be killed?’

‘They regret Lomax’s death, of course — ’

Rakic interrupted him.

‘But will they be angry? With the Austrians, for letting this happen?’

‘Well, I don’t know that it will be quite a question of that — ’

‘He is too small? A consul is, after all, a small thing. To a country like Britain, which has many consuls. And a consul in Trieste! What is Trieste to London? What is the death of the Consul in Trieste? Nothing! It is insignificant, the death of a fly. Or, perhaps, of a mosquito.’

Rakic seemed amused by the thought.

‘Yes, a mosquito,’ he repeated, with satisfaction. ‘Always buzzing around, irritating, being difficult.’

‘You found him difficult?’

Rakic gave him a weighing look.

‘Yes, difficult,’ he said.

‘Others found him easy to get on with.’

‘I found him difficult. You would think he was agreeing with you, going along with you. And then he would dig his heels in!’

Tm sorry you found that,’

‘Ah, well, it is not important. And a consul, you are right, is not important. His death does not make a big splash. I just wondered, that is all. Wondered if it would be enough to make England respond. But no, you are right. Too small,’

He was silent for a moment.

‘But Austria, now, or Russia. How would they respond? If their man on the spot was killed? I think they might respond differently. The British Empire is so big, you see, and. . complacent. It can afford to ignore such things. But the Austrian Empire is. . touchy. It feels more threatened. It would not ignore something like that. No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it would not, could not, ignore a thing like that.’

Seymour went to see Koskash. He was pleased to see him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not that they have — No, it is just that one sits here alone for hour after hour so that it is nice to have someone to talk to.’

He looked at Seymour diffidently.

‘While I have been here, I have been thinking. I have been thinking especially about the questions you asked. About Machnich and Signor Lomax. And I know that why you asked them is because you want to know why it was and how it was that Signor Lomax died. You are asking if it was connected with. . with what I was doing. And as I sit here I have been asking myself the same question. I ask myself, could I have contributed, in any way, to his death?

‘But I do not see how I could have done. I do not see how it could have been as you suppose. Machnich is not like that. He shouts and blusters but in the end he does not strike. In the end he is, actually, a coward. He does not like to confront people. He even had a secret door put in — ’

‘Yes,’ said Seymour, ‘I heard that,’

‘- so that he could avoid people if necessary. If they were waiting for him outside the cinema. As sometimes they were.’

The picket line said Seymour.

There were always picket lines with Machnich,’ said Koskash. ‘It was not that he was especially hard, it was that he would get into a position and then be unable to climb down. My wife used to say that he was a fool. He would get into a conflict when it wasn’t really necessary. And then he would stand on his dignity and it would be very hard to get him out of it.

‘So, stupid and obstinate, yes — a typical Trieste bourgeois businessman, in fact — but not. . not someone who would kill. I do not see how he could have done what you are supposing.’

‘So,’ said Mrs Koskash, ‘you saw him?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was he?’

‘He had been thinking.’

Mrs Koskash got up and began to pace about the room.

‘That is bad,’ she said. ‘If he thinks, he will brood: and that will be bad for him.’

She was silent for a moment. Then -

‘I do not think I can leave him there,’ she said.

‘I am not sure that even if you went to the police and gave yourself up, that would get him out,’ said Seymour, guessing what she was thinking of doing. ‘He has committed a crime and they will see it like that.’

‘It is hard,’ said Mrs Koskash, ‘and gets harder every day.’ She came back to the chair and sat down. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘I had asked him some questions, and he had been thinking about them.’

‘What were the questions?’

‘About Machnich and Lomax. They were, essentially,’ he said, ‘the questions I asked you.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He knew why I was asking them; and said that Machnich was not that kind of man.’