Lawrence Durrell - White Eagles Over Serbia

Carter came into his room with a cup of tea and found him shaving with methodical care, whistling softly under his breath as he did so. The young major noticed a new spareness, a new litheness in his movements as he walked to the window and drew the curtains on the darkness which would soon be lifting.

“What time is it light?”

In June the light comes relatively early and as they walked across the dew-drenched grass of the garden the first streaks of yellow began to touch the eastern sky. Carter started up the engine of his car with a harsh clatter that woke the sentry in the makeshift sentry-box at the end of the road. He let in the clutch and they went swaying carefully down the pot-holed road towards the Sava, crossed the tram-lines and turning right, gathered speed along the tree-lined avenue which led them to the Embassy. The morning air was deliciously damp and fresh with the moisture of the river flowing out of sight among the trees to their left, scoring out its path in the rich alluvial mud of the Serbian plain.

There were no cars on the road, but they encountered a long procession of sleepy drays bringing their wretched freight into the markets of the capital: for the most part consignments of maize cobs for bread. Their drivers sat like comatose owls on the seats wrapped in their torn clothes against the early morning chill; while in many carts lay a sprawl of women and children, frowsily sleeping. Carter drove expertly but in silence, for which Methuen was grateful as it gave him time to collect and marshal his inner resources for the adventure which lay ahead.

In the foreground of his thoughts too rose the figure of Vida — the dark beseeching eyes which silently implored his belief in a cause which everyone deemed dead — freedom. Thinking of those candid and ingenuous eyes, and of that rich friendly personality Methuen almost forgot how wretched the cause she advocated was; it was certainly better than what existed at present here — but would it prove any less of a disappointment if once it should triumph? He could not tell. He could only say that the present was unjust, cruel and dedicated to death.

Porson and Carter arrived simultaneously at the Embassy and raced round the drive together before leaving their cars in the car park. Then the three of them made their way to the side entrance and pressed the brass bell-push. A sleepy night-guard peered at them through a brass socket for a second and let them in; he was in his shirt and trousers, and had been sleeping in an arm-chair in the hall.

“Now then,” said Porson, “to business. Hubbard, will you make us a cup of coffee and bring it to my office?”

“Yessir.”

Porson adjusted his monocle and sat down in a leather armchair, throwing one lanky leg over the other, and placing the tips of his fingers together. “Mark me well,” he said with the air of a celebrated K.C. summing up for a suburban jury, “the duty car we use is in the garage at the back of the Embassy. There is a back entrance which I’ll show you. You’ll lie down in the back and cover up. Presently I’ll appear at the front entrance, whistling nonchalantly, and drive the car round to the Chancery entrance to pick up Blair, the clerk who is coming with us. Then we are away. At the last check-point beyond Avala we shall slow down and flourish our travel-permit, there will be a rapid counting of heads (keep yours down) and then we’ll be waved through. A hundred yards after that a large black Buick, packed to the gunwales with gibbering analphabetic policemen, will slide out from behind a bush and follow us. You can then emerge and do your toilet at leisure, transform yourself into whatever sort of creature you wish, before propelling yourself into the bog as per schedule.”

“Where is my gear?”

“Already in the car.”

“My trout-rod?”

“Yes. Yes,” said Porson testily and raising his eyes to heaven moved his lips in soundless prayer for a moment; then, apparently addressing his Creator, he said: “I ask you. All he bothers about is his trout-rod. What has SOq done to deserve such single-minded egoists?”

There was still a little time to spare while Blair and the clerks made up the bag for the Skoplje Consulate. They drank their coffee to the accompaniment of a running battery of waggish remarks by Porson who seemed a trifle light-headed — perhaps it was due to the early hour at which he had been forced to rise.

“Well,” he said at last.

“I’m ready,” said Methuen, and there was music in his step as he followed the lanky secretary down the corridor into the Residence, and down the stone stairs to the cellar; here they branched left and traversed the large handsome billiard-room and ballroom combined until they reached the kitchen. From a corner a small green door opened directly into the dark garage. “Here,” said Porson. The huge Mercedes lay like a noble old ship at anchor in the darkness. Methuen cast a quick appraising eye over her. Old she certainly was, but her powerful engine and heavy springing made her a most suitable transport for the sort of roads one encountered in Serbia and Macedonia.

He shed his coat and waistcoat and shoes and handing them to Porson he climbed into the back and lay down on the floor. A rug was spread over him and Porson said: “Now not a word.” The green door closed with a bang and Methuen lay in the darkness smelling the odour of polish and petrol which had impregnated the air. He had not long to wait, however, for presently he heard steps approach on the asphalt drive and the main doors of the garage rumbled back on their grooves. Whistling (though just how nonchalantly he could not see), Porson climbed aboard and started up the engine. Its deep satisfying murmur blotted out everything. The car rolled smoothly out into the drive and drew up at the Chancery office entrance where Blair was waiting with the white sack over his arm.

“All aboard!” cried Porson, and they were soon booming along the streets of the capital, slithering in tram-lines and bouncing among the pot-holes of the main road. Porson drove with an erratic swiftness, and to the accompaniment of much cursing and swearing as he grazed the backs of buses or drove pedestrians in flocks out of the path by the power of the old-fashioned klaxon with which the car was equipped.

“Don’t hit anything, Mr. Porson,” said Blair nervously. “We should have had it then.” He was a pale freckled north countryman. Porson tossed back his head and said: “Psaw! Me hit anything? I’ve got a clean licence, Blair. Fear nothing.”

They were racing along the winding roads which lead south through the pleasant rolling pastures and woodlands where the dark bulk of Avala Hill rears itself from the flat plain. The old Mercedes got into her stride and the powerful six-cylinder engine settled down to a smooth continuous purring note which bespoke power. Dawn was coming up fast now and Methuen wished he could watch the remembered landscape of his student days unroll once more on either side of him. It was hot under the rug. They swept through a number of small sleepy villages and up to the foot of the fir-crowned hill before Porson said, over his shoulder: “Now for the counting of heads, Methuen, and we are through.”

A blue-clad militiaman appeared in the road holding a white wooden signal in his hand. Porson slowed down to give him time to see the diplomatic number-plates of the car, while Blair leaned from the window holding out his documents. The policeman nodded and stepped back. They were through. The Mercedes gathered power again and they raced round the crown of the hill where the road drops steeply to the plain. “Now for the escort,” said Porson, and as they flashed past a side-turning a long sleek Buick edged itself into the road and started out in pursuit of them. “Why there should always be four people in it,” said Blair, “I can’t see.” Porson grunted. “They can’t come for the ride,” he said and once more turning his head back added: “Methuen, you can get up now. We are all set.”