Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

“Yes, I remember you told me that he would. I shall have to try to remember a game that I can play well.”

She shrugged. “He will win in any case. But I have warned you.”

“I shall remember that when I lose.”

He returned to his cabin and stayed there until the steward came round beating a gong to announce dinner. When he went upstairs he was feeling better. He had changed his clothes. He had managed to complete the shave which he had begun in the morning. He had an appetite. He was prepared to take an interest in his fellow passengers.

Most of them were already in their places when he entered the saloon.

The ship’s officers evidently ate in their own quarters. Only two of the dining tables were laid. At one of them sat Mr. Kuvetli, a man and woman who looked as if they might be the French couple from the cabin next to his, Josette, and with her a very sleek José. Graham smiled courteously at the assembly and received in return a loud “good evening” from Mr. Kuvetli, a lift of the eyebrows from Josette, a cool nod from José, and a blank stare from the French couple. There was about them an air of tension which seemed to him to be more than the ordinary restraint of passengers on a boat sitting down together for the first time. The steward showed him to the other table.

One of the places was already filled by the elderly man whom he had passed on his walk round the deck. He was a thick, round-shouldered man with a pale heavy face, white hair and a long upper lip. As Graham sat down next to him he looked up. Graham met a pair of prominent pale blue eyes.

“Mr. Graham?”

“Yes. Good evening.”

“My name is Haller. Doctor Fritz Haller. I should explain that I am a German, a good German, and that I am on my way back to my country.” He spoke very good, deliberate English in a deep voice.

Graham realised that the occupants of the other table were staring at them in breathless silence. He understood now their air of tension.

He said calmly: “I am an Englishman. But I gather you knew that.”

“Yes, I knew it.” Haller turned to the food in front of him. “The Allies seem to be here in force and unhappily the steward is an imbecile. The two French people at the next table were placed here. They objected to eating with the enemy, insulted me and moved. If you wish to do the same I suggest that you do so now. Everyone is expecting the scene.”

“So I see.” Graham cursed the steward silently.

“On the other hand,” Haller continued, breaking his bread, “you may find the situation humorous. I do myself. Perhaps I am not as patriotic as I should be. No doubt I should insult you before you insult me; but, quite apart from the unfair differences in our ages, I can think of no effective way of insulting you. One must understand a person thoroughly before one can insult him effectively. The French lady, for example, called me a filthy Bosche. I am unmoved. I bathed this morning and I have no unpleasant habits.”

“I see your point. But …”

“But there is a matter of etiquette involved. Quite so. Fortunately, I must leave that to you. Move or not, as you choose. Your presence here would not embarrass me. If it were understood that we were to exclude international politics from our conversation we might even pass the next half-hour in a civilised manner. However, as the newcomer on the scene, it is for you to decide.”

Graham picked up the menu. “I believe it is the custom for belligerents on neutral ground to ignore each other if possible and in any case to avoid embarrassing the neutrals in question. Thanks to the steward, we cannot ignore each other. There seems to be no reason why we should make a difficult situation unpleasant. No doubt we can rearrange the seating before the next meal.”

Haller nodded approval. “Very sensible. I must admit that I am glad of your company to-night. My wife suffers from the sea and will stay in her cabin this evening. I think that Italian cooking is very monotonous without conversation.”

“I am inclined to agree with you.” Graham smiled intentionally and heard a rustle from the next table. He also heard an exclamation of disgust from the Frenchwoman. He was annoyed to find that the sound made him feel guilty.

“You seem,” said Haller, “to have earned some disapproval. It is partly my fault. I am sorry. Perhaps it is that I am old, but I find it extremely difficult to identify men with their ideas. I can dislike, even hate an idea, but the man who has it seems to be still a man.”

“Have you been long in Turkey?”

“A few weeks. I came there from Persia.”

“Oil?”

“No, Mr. Graham, archeology. I was investigating the early pre-Islamic cultures. The little I have been able to discover seems to suggest that some of the tribes who moved westward to the plains of Iran about four thousand years ago assimilated the Sumerian culture and preserved it almost intact until long after the fall of Babylon. The form of perpetuation of the Adonis myth alone was instructive. The weeping for Tammuz was always a focal point of the pre-historic religions-the cult of the dying and risen god. Tammuz, Osiris and Adonis are the same Sumerian deity personified by three different races. But the Sumerians called this god Dumuzida. So did some of the pre-Islamic tribes of Iran! And they had a most interesting variation of the Sumerian epic of Gilgamish and Enkidu which I had not heard about before. But forgive me, I am boring you already.”

“Not at all,” said Graham politely. “Were you in Persia for long?”

“Two years only. I would have stayed another year but for the war.”

“Did it make so much difference?”

Haller pursed his lips. “There was a financial question. But even without that I think that I might not have stayed. We can learn only in the expectation of life. Europe is too preoccupied with its destruction to concern itself with such things: a condemned man is interested only in himself, the passage of hours and such intimations of immortality as he can conjure from the recesses of his mind.”

“I should have thought that a preoccupation with the past.…”

“Ah yes, I know. The scholar in his study can ignore the noise in the market place. Perhaps-if he is a theologian or a biologist or an antiquarian. I am none of those things. I helped in the search for a logic of history. We should have made of the past a mirror with which to see round the corner that separates us from the future. Unfortunately, it no longer matters what we could have seen. We are returning the way we came. Human understanding is re-entering the monastery.”

“Forgive me but I thought you said that you were a good German.”

He chuckled. “I am old. I can afford the luxury of despair.”

“Still, in your place, I think that I should have stayed in Persia and luxuriated at a distance.”

“The climate, unfortunately, is not suitable for any sort of luxuriating. It is either very hot or very cold. My wife found it particularly trying. Are you a soldier, Mr. Graham?”

“No, an engineer.”

“That is much the same thing. I have a son in the army. He has always been a soldier. I have never understood why he should be my son. As a lad of fourteen he disapproved of me because I had no duelling scars. He disapproved of the English, too, I am afraid. We lived for some time in Oxford while I was doing some work there. A beautiful city! Do you live in London?”

“No, in the North.”

“I have visited Manchester and Leeds. I preferred Oxford. I live in Berlin myself. I don’t think it is any uglier than London.” He glanced at Graham’s hand. “You seem to have had an accident.”

“Yes. Fortunately it’s just as easy to eat ravioli with the left hand.”