The Longest Winter (8 page)

‘I think they move furniture,’ said Carl.

‘You’re all infidels,’ said James.

And they went another night to Grinzing, the garden village on the outskirts of Vienna, where people from all stratas of society met on equal terms. The air was warm and sweet, Grinzing itself so picturesque that James wished he had brought his sketchbook. The place was famous for its arboured wine gardens, wherein the music of zithers and harmonicas encouraged the
wining and dining patrons into singing as well. The clear evening turned into fairyland night.

‘Hans Andersen slept here, I presume,’ said James.

‘Did he? I’ve never heard,’ said Ludwig.

‘If he didn’t,’ said James, ‘he missed a large slice of magic.’

‘I don’t think the magic is just Grinzing tonight,’ said Sophie.

‘No, indeed,’ said Anne.

Helene and Carl were singing. Ludwig was looking at Anne. Sophie was looking at James. The wine was putting dreaminess into her eyes.

‘It’s Grinzing, the night and my friends,’ said James.

‘Ah,’ said Sophie to Anne, ‘he did not take too long to catch on.’

‘It must be obvious, even to James, that we are rather special,’ said Anne. ‘I am almost matchless.’

‘I am matchless without qualification,’ said Sophie.

‘You’re both nicely mellow,’ said James.

‘He’s not terribly trustworthy with his compliments, is he?’ said Anne. ‘James,’ she said, ‘will you come to Ilidze with us? We are going in a week or so and you would love it there.’

‘I am asked myself,’ said Ludwig, ‘but can’t get there until the beginning of July. You must go and keep them in order, James. They run about wildly in Bosnia.’

‘I appreciate the invitation very much,’ said James, ‘but there’s the school. The term doesn’t
close until late July. I’m committed until then, do you see?’

Sophie, who had been thinking about asking her parents to invite James, felt a little twinge of disappointment. She also felt slightly disgusted with herself for not having had the sense to realize his teaching post meant he would not be free to join them, anyway.

Anne said, ‘Oh, but you must come, James, you must talk to Frau Harrison.’

‘Anne, he can’t do that,’ said Sophie.

‘Can’t you, James?’ said Anne.

‘Not really,’ said James, and Sophie thought that while the rest of them sailed blithely through the summer days he alone had been making a worthwhile contribution to life in his teaching of children. Compared with James, she thought, I’m not much more than a butterfly. Perhaps that is what he thinks I am. Perhaps that is what he thinks Anne is. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t take either of us seriously. ‘All the same,’ she heard him saying, ‘it’s nice to know I was invited.’

Colonel Dimitrijevic Apis had satisfied himself that the death of Franz Ferdinand was now of major political importance. For there was a growing belief that the archduke, when he became Emperor, meant to make generous concessions to Bosnia. That would not suit Serbia at all. Greater Serbia would only come about when Bosnia in disaffection threw off the Austrian yoke to unite with Serbia. The major reforms
Franz Ferdinand had in mind would eliminate the causes of disaffection and turn Bosnia into a co-operative province of the Austrian empire. That made the archduke a serious and unacceptable threat to Serbian ambitions. Many Bosnians might be ready to assassinate a tyrant. Not so many would consider murdering a man whose reforms would be benevolent. Franz Ferdinand must go before he grew a halo, while there were still Bosnians who believed he had horns. Bosnians must do it. Not Serbians. Serbia must not be directly implicated.

Sarajevo would present the perfect opportunity and the right timing.

Colonel Dimitrijevic’s principal assistant in the Black Hand was a kindly officer and gentleman, Major Voja Tankosic. Major Tankosic was good to his family, contributed to charities and went regularly to church. He also held incorruptible political beliefs. Therein lay his Mr Hyde. For the sake of his beliefs he would unhesitatingly shed his everyday cloak and reveal the man willing to plot murder.

It was Major Tankosic whom Colonel Dimitrijevic placed in charge of the arrangements for the Sarajevo operation. This meant that Tankosic was responsible for the recruitment and briefing of a suitable number of dedicated assassins. He had seen to this. He reported to his chief early in June.

Dimitrijevic never concerned himself directly with anything but objectives. Everything bearing on the achievement of an objective he left in
the hands of others, and kept his own clean. Nothing that was relevant to preparations and arrangements could be traced back to Dimitrijevic. From Major Tankosic he wanted to hear only that everything was proceeding satisfactorily. Tankosic was naturally inclined to say more than a bald yes. He had done a lot of work. He wanted his chief to know that. He began to talk about his band of recruited assassins.

‘How many are there?’ asked Dimitrijevic brusquely.

‘Twelve. Not all will go. Only the best of them. I anticipate seven or eight. All these will be in Sarajevo on the day, positioned at different points along the route the archduke will take to and from the City Hall.’

‘It will be enough if only one of them is in the right position as long as he is in the right frame of mind at the right time,’ said Dimitrijevic.

‘One will be.’

‘One must be.’

‘With seven or eight to rely on we could not duplicate our chances of success much more,’ said Tankosic. He went on to say that he was particularly impressed with three of the men. Nedjelko Cabrinovic, Trifko Grabez and Gavrilo Princip. They were the very stuff of fearless bomb-throwers. ‘And there’s one man coming from Vienna with a fine, fierce reputation. Boris Ferenac. Success is assured, Colonel.’

Dimitrijevic, icy in his distaste at having unwanted and paltry details thrust on him, said, ‘I’ve heard of assured success before.
Events usually prove it to be the father of certain failure.’

‘Failure is written in many men,’ said Tankosic solemnly, ‘and is allowed for in some of ours. But if as many as six fail, Cabrinovic will not. Nor will the eighth man, Boris Ferenac, providing he can slip the police and reach Sarajevo. You’ll excuse me now? My wife and I have to go to a meeting in aid of church missionaries in Africa. A dreadful place for missionaries, Africa.’

Sophie had been shopping with her mother. They had bought themselves new hats. Her mother’s was a colourful extravagance of lemon silk and pink and red blossoms. Sophie’s was a little round boater-style creation in pale green that perched to tilt. She glimpsed Anne in the gardens, sitting at the ornamental white table. She put the hat on and glided out. She stopped. James was there, sitting in a farther chair, a sketch block on his knees. Anne was posing for him. Sophie felt a small pang. It discomfited her because it hurt a little. They had not seen her. She took off the hat and walked up to them. It was rather unkind of James. Well, unfair, then. He was flaunting his art in a way she could not with hers. Would you like me to sketch you? was a much more acceptable question than Would you like to see some of my poems? One was flattered quite genuinely if one was asked to pose, but one was likely to make oblique comments if asked to read someone’s poetry. Oh, what is the matter with me, I’m being stupid.

‘Sophie?’ Anne turned. Her hair was shiningly brushed and drawn over her ears and black-ribboned at the neck. She looked incomparably fair and priceless. ‘James is sketching a little portrait of me.’

‘How nice,’ said Sophie. ‘Please, would anyone like to read some of my poetry?’

James looked up. He was in a white silk shirt and grey trousers, which was casual to the point of bohemianism in the well-dressed environment of the von Korvacs. The white shirt emphasized his darkness.

‘I’d like to, Sophie,’ he said.

‘Oh, I wasn’t serious,’ said Sophie. ‘What has happened to your school?’

‘Half-day,’ said James, ‘and I was serious about your poetry even if you weren’t. Let me see some, won’t you? I’d like to take it away with me and read it at leisure.’

‘It will be very punishing on your leisure,’ said Sophie, and went behind him to look over his shoulder. He was using a soft black pencil and his sketch of Anne had reached the stage of distinctive likeness. Already it was a light but exquisite little portrait, thought Sophie, he was catching Anne’s warm, alive look with only the black lead of a pencil. Perhaps it was a light, gifted labour of love. He and Anne got on so well with each other. Impulsively, generously, Sophie said, ‘Oh, James, that is going to be so good.’

‘Is it? May I see?’ said Anne in pleasure.

‘Well,’ said James. He sounded as conservatively
reluctant as any artist preferring to keep the sitter away from the work until it was finished and he himself satisfied. But he pushed the sketch block across the table to Anne and she looked at what he had done so far.

‘James, that is me?’ she said.

‘It’s supposed to be when it’s finished.’

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘and I’d be happy with it as it is.’

‘It isn’t finished,’ he said and took the block back.

‘You will sketch Sophie too, won’t you?’ she said.

‘I don’t think so,’ said James.

Sophie felt shocked and really hurt. Even if he was in love with Anne he did not have to be as unkindly discriminating as that.

‘Oh, James doesn’t sketch hideous women,’ she said.

James smiled and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Sophie, I meant I already have a sketch of you. I had one of Anne too but wasn’t happy with it. So I thought I’d get her to sit still for a while and give myself a better chance. Would you care to see the one of you?’

‘As you are caring to see some of my poems, yes, I would, please,’ said Sophie, the hurt melting away.

He leafed back a few pages and showed her the sketch of herself. It made her feel warm with pleasure. Perhaps it flattered her, she wasn’t sure, but if it was what he really thought she looked like then his artist’s impression of her was very
very acceptable. She had not seen pencil used so giftedly.

‘Sophie, let me see,’ said Anne. She got up and sank to the lawn with Sophie. They sat with their heads together. They leafed through sketches. They were mostly outdoor impressions of bits and pieces of Vienna. The entrance to St Stephen’s, the face, the arm and the whip of a cabbie, the corner of a house, a girl looking into a shop window, a standing carriage horse with its nose in its bag of oats and the upper half of a proud Vienna matron in an enormous hat. Part of a bridge with its glimpses of the river attracted Sophie, and she thought that even in crayon the water reflected bright light.

‘James, they’re so good,’ she said. There were others, they were all enchanting little peeks at Vienna. How well they would illustrate the volume of poems she had in mind.

‘They’re better than good,’ said Anne, ‘they’re lovely.’

‘Oh, sketches,’ said James. ‘A very limited branch of art, but suitable for a limited talent. I’d like to paint but I only achieve pretty-pretty pictures. I did some of the river the day I ran into you. Watercolours.’

‘Where are they?’ asked Sophie, her new hat out of sight on the grass behind her.

‘I drowned them in the Danube.’

‘Modesty should not be suicidal,’ said Sophie.

‘Don’t you sometimes tear up a poem?’ smiled James.

‘With some poems I commit murder,’ said
Sophie. She leafed back to her portrait. She hesitated, then said, ‘James, will you let me have this? I mean, please may I have it?’

‘Of course. Take it,’ he said. She carefully extracted the leaf and returned the thick pad to him.

‘Thank you,’ she said as he went to work again on Anne’s sketch.

‘A pleasure,’ he said, ‘and a compliment. But I shall charge you for it.’

‘Oh,’ she said. Then, ‘Naturally, you must, but what?’

‘I’ll tell you one day,’ said James.

‘James, now you can’t refuse to sell me the one you’re doing of me when it’s finished,’ said Anne.

‘It’s yours, but I’m not selling it to you,’ said James, ‘there’s no charge.’ Which left Anne shaking her head and Sophie disconcerted.

‘James, I’m not complaining,’ she said, ‘but why—’

‘We won’t go into it now,’ said James.

Which left her puzzled. She and Anne watched him putting the finishing touches to the sketch. He was absorbed, so Sophie put her new hat on again. Anne looked at it and loved it.

‘Oh, Sophie, that’s delicious,’ she said.

James sketched on.

‘It might be delicious,’ said Sophie, ‘but it’s not commanding universal attention.’

‘It commands mine,’ said Anne, ‘it’s turning me green with envy. You’re impressed too, aren’t you, James?’

‘Not with this,’ said James, viewing his work critically, ‘I think it’s coming out wrong again.’

‘Since he seems to be taking more notice of you than of me at the moment,’ said Sophie to her sister, ‘will you please tell him that if he doesn’t look at my new hat I shall get up and bite him?’

He looked. The little green boater perched lightly, tilting piquantly on her dark hair. It made him think of joyous spring kissed by gay summer.

‘Is that a hat, Sophie?’

‘Beast,’ said Sophie.

‘Words can’t describe it,’ said James.

‘Hate you,’ said Sophie.

‘It’s not even a creation,’ said James, ‘it’s a little miracle. What words are there? Divine? Exquisite? I think I’ll go for stunning.’ He returned to his sketch, musing on it.

‘Do you think he means it?’ said Sophie to Anne.

Anne, laughing, said, ‘Do you have reason to believe he doesn’t?’

‘Well, I don’t think he’s given to weighty and ponderous judgements,’ said Sophie, ‘he’s more inclined to be frivolous, especially about ladies’ hats. The only thing he’s very serious about is automobiles. Now if I were wearing not a hat but a brass motor lamp, I could rely on him passing the most earnest and sincere of comments.’

Carl arrived. In a grey jersey and old dark grey trousers he looked slightly out of touch with
the clean, civilized impeccability of the gardens. He came with grease and oil about him.

‘James, old chap—’