William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

“Sometimes being ostentatious is the best disguise,” Lysander said.

“So we saw…What happened to the double bass?”

“I left it on the train when we changed at Gratz. Feel a bit guilty about that.”

“We were very impressed, Munro and I. We had a good laugh before I jumped on the train after you.”

“Did you report me missing?”

“Of course. After an hour — but they already knew. The informers in the embassy were miles ahead of us. However, we were suitably outraged and very apologetic. Very shamefaced.”

After breakfast Fyfe-Miller bought him his ticket to Ancona and they walked along to the new port to find the mole where the mail-steamer was berthed.

Fyfe-Miller shook his hand at the foot of the gangway.

“Goodbye, Rief. And damned well done. I’m sure you’ve made the right decision.”

“I’m sorry to leave,” Lysander said. “There’s a lot of unfinished business in Vienna.”

“Well, you won’t be able to go back, that’s for sure,” Fyfe-Miller said with his usual bluntness. “Now you’re a fugitive from Austro-Hungarian justice.”

The thought depressed him. There was a toot from the steam whistle on the smoke-stack.

“Thanks for all your help — you and Munro,” Lysander said. “I won’t forget.”

“Neither will we,” Fyfe-Miller said, with a broad smile. “You owe His Majesty’s Government a considerable sum of money.”

They shook hands, Fyfe-Miller wished him bon voyage and Lysander boarded the scruffy coastal cargo vessel. Steam was got up and the mooring ropes were cast off, thrown on board and the little ship left the busy harbour of Trieste. Lysander stood on the rear deck, leaning on the balustrade, watching the city recede, with its castle on its modest hill, admiring the splendour of the rocky Dalmatian coastline. All very beautiful in the winter sunshine, he acknowledged, feeling a melancholy peace overwhelm him and wondering if he would ever see this country again, thinking ruefully that his business with it — Hettie and their child — had every chance of remaining unfinished for ever.

Lysander cleared his throat, blew his nose, apologized to the rest of the cast and picked up his playscript once more. The doors and windows were wide open so the room, Lysander reasoned, would have almost as much summer pollen blowing around it as the garden outside — hence his sneezing fit. He could see Gilda Butterfield at the far end of the long table fanning her moist neck with her fingertips. Flaming June, all right, he thought and his mind turned immediately to Blanche. Her prediction had been absolutely right — the play was an enduring and superlative success and she was off on an endless tour of it. Where now? Dublin, he thought, or was it Edinburgh? Yes, he really ought to try and –

“Ready when you are, Lysander,” Rutherford Davison said. Lysander noticed he still had his jacket on while all the other men had shed theirs because of the heat. He picked up the text.

“You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this supposed, or else to let him suffer –

What would you do?”

Davison held up his hand.

“Why do you imagine he says that?”

“Because he’s frustrated. Consumed with lust. And he’s bitter,” Lysander said, without really thinking.

“Bitter?”

“He’s a disappointed man.”

“He’s an aristocrat, he’s running the whole of Vienna.”

“Vienna’s no protection against bitterness.”

Everyone laughed, Lysander was pleased to note, even though he hadn’t intended to be humorous at all and had spoken with unconscious feeling. He had completely forgotten that Measure for Measure was set in Vienna — this strange play about lechery and purity, moral corruption and virtue — that made him think uncomfortably about the place and his recent history there. Too late to back out now, and he could hardly explain why. Davison hadn’t even smiled at his inadvertent sally, however. He was determined to be combative and provocative, Lysander could tell, following the new lead among theatre managers. He and Greville had discussed how tiresome and unnecessary this trend was just last night.

“We’ll call it a day,” Davison said, as if he sensed how stifling and uncomfortable it was to be sitting here late on a Friday afternoon. “Have a restful weekend. We’ll make a start on Miss Julie on Monday.”

The rehearsal broke up in a chatter of exultant conversation and the sound of chairs scraping back. They were in a church hall in St John’s Wood — a good rehearsal space with a small garden at the rear when some fresh air was required. The ‘International Players’ Company’, as they were known, had been formed by Rutherford Davison himself in an attempt — as he put it — to present the best in foreign drama to the sated and complacent London audiences. It was quite a clever plan, Lysander had to admit, taking his jacket off the back of the chair. The idea was to run an established, well-respected play in a repertory double bill with a new, more challenging foreign one. Last season’s offering had been a Galsworthy, The Silver Box , alongside Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard . This season they were presenting Measure for Measure with Strindberg’s Miss Julie . Or rather, Fröken Julie as Davison insisted, thinking the foreign title would hoodwink the censor. Apparently the play had been banned in 1911. Davison had acquired a new translation from an American company and thought that the Swedish title might divert attention from its salacious reputation. Lysander hadn’t read Miss Julie yet but was planning to do so this weekend, if time permitted. His role was Jean, the valet, something of a challenge because he was also Angelo in Measure . He and Gilda Butterfield were the most experienced actors in the International Players so he should be flattered, he supposed, and if the plays were well received it would advance his career and reputation significantly. All very well, he thought, but if Davison kept goading him it might not be as stimulating a job as he had imagined.

“Any plans this weekend?”

Lysander turned to see Gilda Butterfield, Miss Julie herself — and Isabella in Measure . They were destined to spend a lot of time in each other’s company over the coming weeks. She was very fair with a mass of curly blonde hair tied back in a velvet bow — very Scandinavian, he supposed. A few freckles were visible across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, unmasked by her powder — a busty, hippy young woman. Strapping, outdoors-y. She was interested in him, he could tell, wondering if the job might deliver up a little romance as a bonus.

“Going down to Sussex,” he said, fishing out his cigarette case and opening it. She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. “My uncle’s back from two years exploring Africa. We’re welcoming him home.” He took one himself, lit it and they wandered towards the front door.

“Whereabouts in Sussex?” she said, adjusting her bow at the nape of her neck with both hands, leaving the cigarette in her mouth — both hands moving behind her head caused her breasts to rise and flatten against the pleated front of her blouse. For a second, Lysander acknowledged the careless carnality of the pose then reminded himself that he wasn’t ready for another dalliance. Not after Hettie.

“Claverleigh,” he said. “Do you know it? A little way beyond Lewes. Not far from Ripe.”

“My brother lives in Hove,” she said, happy now with the tightness of her bow. She exhaled, pluming the smoke away from him. “Perhaps we might find ourselves down there at the same time, one weekend.”