The Japanese Girl (16 page)

‘I'm afraid not. Where is it?'

‘A hundred and ninety kilometres south of Budapest. The second city of the republic. It is where the revolution of 1956 began.'

‘The rev …' I stopped. ‘Oh …
that
one. Were you there?'

‘I was one of the leaders of the student movement.'

Neither of us spoke for a bit. ‘Cigarette?' I said again, interested now.

He came back into the room and took one. I lit it for him, and his face, nodding his thanks, came out of the smoke, rapt and painful.

‘Did you get away?' I asked sympathetically.

‘No …'

‘What happened?'

‘I was transported to Russia. I was there – in Siberia – eight years.'

I studied his face. I have seen these men before. They are of all nationalities, but once you have seen the signs in one man you recognize them in others.

‘You revolted against the Communists?'

He drew on his cigarette with hollowed cheeks. ‘I think you have to clear your mind, monsieur, of some misconceptions, like most westerners. When the war ended in Europe I was eleven. After that
everyone
in Hungary was Communist. There was no alternative. What we were revolting against in 1956 was not Communism as such, but the iron hand of
Soviet
Communism as exercised through Rakosi, the secretary of the Party. We did not want everything at once, but just the
beginnings
of freedom, such as Yugoslavia enjoyed; and Mr Nagy, our prime minister, had undertaken to set on foot some of those liberal forms, including free elections. All this was set at nought by the sudden arrival of Russian forces in Budapest and the deposing of Nagy. It was against this, and against the pressure of a foreign power occupying our territory, that we organized the first demonstrations.'

He stopped and frowned at his cigarette, moved to tap the ash into the plastic ashtray on the dressing-table.

‘Is your wife Hungarian?' I asked.

‘My wife? Yes. Why?'

‘It was a natural inference. Did she escape, then?'

‘In 1956 Maria was not my wife. In 1956 I was twenty-two. In our childhood she and I had been sweethearts; but while I was at the university we drifted apart and she had just at this time married Julius Zigani. She was nineteen then and he was twenty-five, the oldest of our group. He came of an old Magyar family and had a little money of his own … She was not happy with him.'

The room was warm and I loosened my tie. Outside the wind howled like a bereaved dog.

‘She was not happy with him, monsieur. I knew later that all the time she had loved me.'

‘The demonstrations? …' I prompted after a minute.

‘We students were an idealistic lot, dreaming of new freedoms, and
reasonable
freedoms … But we were also practical. Each week secret pamphlets were written and distributed. Much preparatory work was done. Of course our group was only one of many. In our group there was Maurus Kozma, who was our leader, and Emeric Erdy – and Julius Zigani, Maria's husband. Those first demonstrations … I cannot tell you how full they were of high spirits and of hope. After the first day in Szeged we drove in trucks to Budapest to join the students and the factory workers there. Then of course the trouble.'

‘Trouble?'

‘Well, it led, as I suppose one could have expected, to clashes with the A. V.H., our own abominable secret police, whom we hated even more than the Russians. Next morning Russian tanks moved in to support them and opened fire on us. But by now we had ample small weapons, for much of our army had joined us. It was a noble struggle …'

‘Yes …'

‘An exhilarating struggle. Half Budapest was laid waste; but we got our way – or thought we had got our way – and the revolt died down. Mr Nagy was brought back. Our efforts and sacrifices, it seemed, were not to be in vain. But you know how the Russians always work. You know the rest.' He sighed. ‘Three days later armoured divisions of Soviet troops moved into the city. Thousands were bloodily murdered, the legal government was overthrown and a puppet government was set up in its place. Mr Nagy could only take refuge in a foreign embassy. From there he was decoyed out by a lying promise of safe conduct. As soon as he was out he was seized by the Russians and sent to imprisonment and execution. This was perhaps the shabbiest thing of all. Then mass executions and deportations of the other leaders of the revolt took place. I went into hiding with Kozma and Erdy. Julius Zigani and Maria were somewhere in the city but we lost touch with them. Many tried to leave the country, some with success, but at that time we had not given up. To leave one's country is to leave one's hope …'

He stopped then and moved slowly to the window to peer out. There was something furtive in his movements, as if years of exile had left their mark.

‘But in the end?' I said.

‘In the end we were caught. Someone had informed on us. Kozma was shot. Erdy and I were deported. Erdy died in exile. I lived to come back.'

‘To Hungary?'

‘Not to Hungary. But to look for Julius Zigani.'

‘Why?'

‘It was he who betrayed us. The Russians told us. They told us he had bought his freedom by selling his friends. Not only did he betray us but six others also. Maria did not know, though she tells me now she once suspected and then dismissed the suspicion as too evil to be true. They left Hungary and settled in Switzerland. Zigani had been able to bring out a little money and he bought this chalet and opened it to summer guests.'

‘You – found them?'

His shadow gave a jerk on the wall as he twitched his shoulders. ‘It was twelve months ago. You understand. The tracing does not matter. He had changed his name but that does not matter either. In the afternoon I came to this chalet just as it was going dark. I was not sure even then, not at all sure. I came up to it but I did not knock on the door as you knocked on the door. Instead I crept round to the kitchen and looked in at the window. They were
there
, in the newly lit lamplight, Maria putting food on his plate, and Zigani bending greedily to eat it. She seemed scarcely changed, but he had put on some more weight. He was always as fat as a pig, with small eyes, old eyes, and short lashless lids.'

I was suddenly reminded of the photograph of the fat man in the hall. Lartrec had paused. Until now I had been too interested to care, but at this moment it occurred to me that I did not want to hear any more.

‘Don't you think you've told me enough?'

He said: ‘I went round to the front then and knocked. The boy came, the rather simple boy. I pushed past him and went into the kitchen, shutting the boy out. They looked at me as if frozen where they sat. Something had been spilled on the stove and was hissing. I said to Zigani: ‘‘ There are nine of us here, Julius, not just one. Nine of us, all of that one group. Maurus and Stephen, who were shot, and Erdy and Victor who died in captivity, and Leo who was killed by the hounds …” I went on to the end, and all the time he sat there with a stain of egg on the corner of his mouth. When I'd finished I looked at Maria and said: ‘‘ Did you know that this man –'' And then I heard him move. He'd jumped – so quick for a fat man – to a drawer and I went after him to the oven. As he turned with a revolver I hit him across the head with the iron poker.'

Lartrec dropped his smouldering cigarette in the ashtray. Whatever I said now, he was going on to the end.

‘He was dead within five minutes. I felt no sorrow and no sense of guilt. It was what I had come for, what I had intended to do for so long. But we had to face the outcome. We were no longer in a country at war where such things pass unheeded. It seemed that the only possible way would be to flee while there was still time. Italy, or more probably France, might give us asylum. France has accepted and absorbed so many refugees in trouble, and Maria and I could begin a new life there. But it was Maria, yes Maria, who suggested another way. No one knew of my presence in the neighbourhood. If I were to carry the body to the bottom of the cellar steps and leave it in the appropriate position, it might well appear that he had fallen and caught his head on the iron stairs. The boy was devoted to Maria and would say anything she told him. Suppose I went away again as I had come, there was no one in the house strong enough to inflict such a blow. And he was a heavy man and the fall down the steps would be great. There was danger, of course, but the other way there was also danger – to admit the crime, as it were, and to run away. Maria had Swiss citizenship. The Swiss police are persistent. It could be that they would trace Maria and apply for her extradition. The way she suggested – if it worked – neither she nor I would be hunted. In a few months, after it had all blown over, I could come to the district and meet Maria and marry her with no fear of suspicion. Those were the alternatives, monsieur. What would you have done?'

Lartrec's cigarette was still sending up a spiral of smoke as straight as a smoke signal. I found I was sweating. It wasn't just the heat of the room.

‘You really want my opinion?'

‘Of course.'

‘Well, it won't help much, will it, at this stage; you made your choice: but I think on the whole you were lucky to get away with it. And you won't get away with it much longer if you start telling the story to perfect strangers.'

‘You are the first and the last. It was something … it came out. I can rely on your discretion?'

‘Yes.' Travelling over Europe today in spite of its new prosperity, one comes constantly upon the old sickly scars. ‘Is your boy – the slow one – is he a Catholic?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I think I should have been afraid of your wife's scheme for two reasons. I should have been afraid of the boy telling what he knew in confession. And I should have been afraid that the Swiss police, who as you say are persistent, might have found something in Zigani's injuries inconsistent with the theory of a fall. On the whole I should have preferred the risk of an escape to France where I imagine you would find others from your country who would give you shelter. But I wish you hadn't told me this.'

‘And the killing,' persisted Lartrec, leaning forward. ‘As an Englishman, would you have done different?'

‘I don't suppose so … No. Probably not.'

‘Thank you.'

There was silence for a while.

‘I too am a Catholic,' he said. ‘The instinct of confession dies hard. But in one way, in the
right
way, this can never come out. Perhaps it is my excuse for troubling you. That and your arriving so unexpectedly – on the anniversary. Your coming tonight – we could not get over that.'

I thought of some men I had seen in a hospital in Austria. ‘ I shouldn't let your conscience get too active,' I said. ‘Traitors – traitors only deserve what they get. But I think you have made a mistake in continuing to live here. In this house you'll never be quite free.'

Faintly from downstairs came the sound of the cuckoo clock announcing ten. It seemed to bring him back to his duties as a host. He smiled a little, coldly, courteously.

‘What time would monsieur wish to be knocked in the morning?'

I was a long time dropping off. My leg was aching, and whichever way I moved it it wouldn't stop. And I thought all the time of Lartrec's story. Presently I got up and bolted the door …

I woke at seven and the wind had dropped. I was almost afraid to open the shutters, but relief, the storm was over. There had been a fair fall of snow but not enough. The roads would be passable. I wondered if Mark would still be in Milan. I thought again of Latrec's story and wondered if he would refer to it again. Probably he would be bitterly repenting the confidences of the night. I should be glad to be on my way. It is not pleasant to be guest to a murderer whose safety now rests on your silence.

I'd not ordered breakfast until eight, but I washed and shaved in lukewarm water and stuffed my things into my bag. It was now getting on for eight, and I thought I'd go out and inspect the car. I could hear someone chopping wood, but that was the only movement so far.

It is always a little depressing to be the only person in a guest-house, and the place looked shabby in the morning light. The first thing I saw in the hall were my other two bags. It was thoughtful of Lartrec to have brought them in.

The shutters were to in the dining-room, and the hall was untidy and cold. I opened the front door and stepped out. The sun was bright now but hazy like an opaque electric bulb, and I made for the three pines, the crisp snow crunching. When I got to them I stopped. The car was no longer there.

I looked round, rejecting unpleasant thoughts. The wind had been so strong that it had blown away the track marks, and I thought perhaps Lartrec had moved the car into one of the sheds for protection. Still he should have told me.

I went back.

‘Lartrec!' I called in the hall.

‘… trec,' came the echo upstairs.

‘Lartrec!' I called in the dining-room.

They were probably all at the back. Someone was chopping wood again.

I went into the kitchen. The remains of supper were on the table. It was not chopping but knocking. It came from the larder. I pulled back the bolt.

The boy stared at me stupidly. His hair was a damp twisted mat on his forehead. He burst into tears and began to gabble.

I took him and shook him.

‘Where is your mistress, boy?'

He stared at me in fright, blinking as if he had just come out of deep water.

‘Gone, signer.'

‘Gone? Gone where?'

‘I do not know, signer.'

‘And Monsieur Lartrec? Has he gone too?'

‘No, signer, he is still here.'

‘Then take me to him.'

‘No, signor. I am afraid.'

‘Don't be a fool. I'll not let him hurt you.'

The tears running down to his chin, the boy faltered across to another door, which I opened. There were steps leading down and a smell of old wine. He tried to run then, but I stopped him and lit a lamp and pushed him down the steps before me.