Michael Pearce - A Dead Man In Trieste

Kornbluth came back up the aisle.

‘I can’t see him,’ he said, vexed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It was Maddalena,’ said Seymour. ‘She seemed pretty sure.’

‘He would have been searched,’ said Kornbluth. ‘Everyone was searched.’

‘Where the hell is he?’ said Seymour.

‘Perhaps he’s left,’ suggested Kornbluth.

And then, suddenly, Seymour knew where he was.

‘The Canal Grande! Send some men. He’s catching a boat.’

Kornbluth, blessedly, didn’t stop to question but spun on his heel.

Marinetti cracked his whip again and everything speeded up. The fanfares now were incessant. Crackers began to explode, the poets shouted louder and louder, the dancers leaped and jumped, chased now by the troll, who had transferred his attentions from the elves. He hurled himself on one of the dancers and began to surge with her in an ecstatic embrace. The music and the noise rose to a crescendo.

James, short-sighted, anyway, but also handicapped by the costume, blundered into the black box, tripped and nearly fell over. Maddalena caught him and pushed him back into the dance. She moved the coffin out of the way with her foot.

And then Seymour started running. Up the aisle and then up the steps on to the stage, pushing aside people, policemen and participants. He caught hold of the black box and began to tear at it with his bare hands, forcing the cardboard apart, so that he could reach down for what was inside.

He took it out and jumped down from the edge of the stage. He began to run up the aisle, pushing everyone aside.

‘Signor, Signor -

The police at the door half turned to stop him but he forced his way through them and out into the piazza outside.

It was dark but there were dozens of lamps hanging from the trees and from the front of the Politeama and by their light he could see people standing everywhere. The piazza was crowded. He looked around frantically.

And then there, at the end of the piazza, he saw that there were no people, just stalls dismantled from the market that normally occupied that end of the piazza every morning, and in a corner something hanging, perhaps a sheet left out to dry.

He threw the thing as far as he could, towards that end of the piazza, hoping that it would fall on the other side of the stalls and that they would deaden the force of the explosion.

And the next moment there was a light brighter than that of all the lamps hanging from the trees and from the Politeama and he found himself lying on the ground and only then was aware of the crack that had hurt his ears and of the acrid smell drifting across the piazza towards him.

Kornbluth took Seymour for a farewell drink in the little cafe on the Canal Grande. Schneider was not invited.

Relations between Kornbluth and Schneider had, however, improved.

‘He thinks the sun shines out of my backside,’ confided Kornbluth, ‘since I managed to get both the Herzegovinians and Rakic,’

Kornbluth had got to the Canal Grande just in time. The boat, with Rakic in it, had already pushed out from the quay. Kornbluth, with surprising speed for so bulky a man (‘But, then, I was always the fastest boy in the village, especially when the farmer was after me’), dashed along the quay, commandeered a boat which was itself on the point of departure, leaped aboard and directed it out into the canal where it blocked off the escaping boat until his men could get there.

The valiant lamparetti , displaying a zest for combat and a disregard for their uniforms hitherto unsuspected in them, hurled themselves into the water and into the fray and succeeded, by sheer weight of numbers, in seizing the vessel.

Rakic, chagrined but defiant, was not the man to deny his role in the affair, especially since he suspected that others were trying to belittle it. He attributed his failure solely to the weakness and treachery of Machnich.

‘Never trust a Serb!’ he said gloomily.

‘Never trust a Bosnian!’ retorted Machnich indignantly, when this was relayed to him; and both spilled all.

‘Never trust a Serb or a Bosnian!’ said the Italians, when they heard about the affair. ‘Or a Herzegovinian for that matter.’

The artists were, on the whole, delighted by the outcome of the Futurist Evening, although they were judging its success purely in aesthetic terms. ‘A landmark in Western art!’ said Marinetti, very satisfied with the Evening and especially with himself.

James remained somewhat confused about the whole business, thinking to the last that Seymour’s eruption on to the stage was merely part of the planned proceedings, and taking the explosion outside as one of Marinetti’s accompanying fireworks.

Seymour, before leaving for London, had written to Auntie Vi asking if he might keep one of the pictures on Lomax’s wall as a memento of the experience. Many years later he was astonished to find that the value of the painting was greater than the whole of his lifetime earnings as a policeman, even with the value of his house thrown in, but, then, Seymour had never really understood about art.

Maddalena had a number of sketches by the Futurists in her possession and the sale of these, later on, financed her further studies.

Seymour, dithering to the end about Maddalena, received some fatherly advice from Kornbluth.

‘It’s not that I’m not broad-minded,’ he said, ‘but it’s not the sort of thing you ought to allow. Suppose I let my Hilde cavort around like that. How would it look?’

Not bad, Seymour forbore from saying.

‘You’ve got to think of these things when it comes to a wife. Kinder, Küche, Kirche , remember. Children, kitchen, church. Now you can go easy on the church bit. Religion’s all very well but some women go crazy about it. Children are important, they keep a woman out of mischief. But, in the end, the kitchen is the thing. What’s she like at cooking?’

Seymour did not know. He thought it was probably not something at which Maddalena excelled. However, he did not attach to it quite the importance that Kornbluth did. There were other qualities in Maddalena that attracted him.

But, then, how would his family take it? His mother? He chided himself. He was a grown man and what did it matter how his mother took it? Or the whole of the East End, for that matter?

He remained divided to the last and compromised by inviting Maddalena to come over to London and see the libraries.

He had some really tricky business to settle, though, before he left.

‘I don’t see how I can,’ said Schneider. ‘He has committed a crime, a very serious crime, and must face the consequences.’

‘But he did refuse to help the Herzegovinians escape: and the information he provided was of very great value in leading to their and Rakic’s detection!’

‘We could exercise some degree of leniency, I suppose,’ said Schneider.

Unfortunately, that did not extend to Koskash’s immediate release and he had to stay in prison for some months yet. However, there was no longer any risk of him being physically ill-treated and, accepting that he had not behaved correctly, he was content with the outcome. Especially as his wife remained free.

Seymour’s real battle over him came when he got back to London.

‘Loyalty to one’s staff is all very well,’ said the older man doubtfully, ‘but — ’

‘Not even his staff, strictly speaking,’ the younger man pointed out.

‘Well, then — ’

‘However,’ said the younger man, ‘the man seems to have felt a considerable degree of loyalty to the Consulate, or so Mr Seymour says.’

‘Yes, but he Breached Trust.’

‘How far was that his fault, and how far — ‘