Читать книгу The Elephant Never Forgets - Ethel Lina White - Страница 8

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A FEW days later, Anna was awakened by the chiming of the church clock. She was glad to wake, for she had been dreaming of some dark, silent place, where she wandered in great desolation of spirit.

"My money's bound to be at the post office this morning," was her first thought.

She had been expecting the draft, from day to day, and therefore had refrained from writing again. The colonel was not only punctilious in business, but so essentially kind that she knew he would not fail her.

For that very reason, she was vaguely worried over the inexplicable delay.

"I can't understand it," she thought. "Little things seem to be combining against me."

As she lay in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, where the cracks meandered like rivers on a map. She had traced their tributaries until she knew them by heart, just as she had memorised the pattern of the faded purple-pink wallpaper, and the spots on the mirror.

"This time next week," she wondered, "where shall I be? I think I'll wish myself upon Uncle Charles just at first. It will be such a change to wake up to built-in furniture and concealed lighting...I wish I knew where Conrad was."

It was unfortunate she thought of Stern, for by natural sequence, he was the bridge that led to Otto—and then the prison, guarded by its sweep of muddy tidal water.

"Why do you look sad?" asked her comrade, the chambermaid, when she brought the privileged Anna her morning roll and coffee.

"I was thinking of my friend who has been arrested," explained Anna.

"That is nothing," shrugged the woman. "If he is wise, he will tickle his memory and tell them all he knows about others. And then it will be those others who will worry."

"Oh, he wouldn't talk."

Even as she made the protest, Anna was not so convinced of Otto's loyalty. Once again, there was a flash of dark whip-lash through green water...

"Suppose he knows nothing of importance?" she asked.

"Then he will be unlucky."

When the chambermaid had gone from the room, Anna's spirits began to rise. After she had drunk her coffee and smoked a cigarette, she was able to take a more reasonable view of the situation.

"I'm desperately sorry for Olga, for she is definitely connected with this Fascist racket. Really, it is a mercy Otto let me down...I'm sure Uncle Charles's remittance will be waiting for me to-day. And even if it is delayed, the Jameses must be here soon."

It was a relief to anticipate their arrival because of their special atmosphere. Whenever they went abroad, they appeared to carry a chunk of British coast with them, to act as a buffer against danger or discomfort. No inconvenience could induce them to relax their standard of necessities, and they always got what they wanted in the face of seeming impossibility.

"Gloria couldn't start a day without her orange juice," thought Anna, "and Cliff couldn't end one without brushing his teeth. They'd carry on as usual in a revolution or an earthquake...Oh, my dears, come quickly."

In imagination she could see them. Gloria—a dazzling Nordic blonde, tall, streamlined and immaculate; Cliff—neat, insignificant and imperturbable. While most people gave the credit for their triumphant progress to Gloria's high-pressure personality, Anna knew that it was due to Cliff, who met every crisis with fortitude and humour.

Feeling restored and hopeful, she hurried out of the hotel to learn her fate. As she walked through the town the streets looked dreary, but the sky was faintly red as a frost-bitten poppy petal, while a beam of pale sunlight glinted on the golden domes of the church.

She hailed it as an omen of good luck and swung confidently across the square, under the hoofs of the rearing horse, and up the dirty stone steps of the post office.

The woman official at the wicket looked at her with resigned patience, for she had grown to regard the girl as the daily nuisance.

"There is nothing for you, Comrade," she said, forestalling Anna's question.

"Are you sure?" protested Anna. "Isn't there some mistake?"

"Nothing for Anna Stephanovitch," declared the woman, pointing to an empty pigeon-hole in proof. "Look for yourself."

"Thank you, Comrade."

Feeling sick with disappointment, Anna went despondently into the empty square. Another long day of boredom stretched before her. There was no opportunity to meet others, since the social club of the office had come to its end. Besides, Otto had been the magnet which attracted and held the floating particles. Now they were all dispersed and, with the exception of Olga and Ivan, Anna had met none of her former associates.

She stood by the statue, debating dully where she could go. It was too chilly to wander indefinitely through the leafless avenues, or to sit on the greened stone steps which led down to the sea.

"Conrad Stern understood how it would be," she thought. "This is why he wanted to know I should be safely back in England. I wish I could get in touch with him and tell him I am still here."

Presently she yielded to temptation and entered the café, although she realised the need for stringest economy. Her surplus was gone and her small reserve was shrinking in an ominous way. Once or twice, of late, when she awoke in the night, she found herself speculating on her course of action if she found herself completely without funds.

That morning, when she entered the over-heated café, the place was crowded and the air thick with the smoke of makhorka tobacco. Peering through the haze, she managed to locate Olga's fair hair, which gleamed like lamplight smudged by fog.

She had not seen her since the morning after the raid, when her own reaction had been distinctly feline. It was not until she found herself greeting the Jewess as a former colleague rather than her successful rival, that she realised the levelling power of a few days of loneliness.

"I'm glad to see you again," she said. "I have a friend—Gloria James—who has golden hair like yours. You make me think of her."

"Has she a lover?" asked Olga indifferently.

"No, only a husband...What news of Otto?"

"One does not expect news, naturally." Olga shrugged her thin shoulders. "One flings a stone into water—there is a circle—and then it is gone."

"But that's defeatist policy," protested Anna. "You know the ropes better than I. Can't you do something?"

"What would be the use, when soon I shall join him there?"

A flame was lit at the back of Olga's eyes and her voice grew vibrant as she went on speaking.

"I shall go through the same door as Otto—and I shall never come out. Presently people will ask when my trial will be. They will hear it is postponed. Always postponed...And then, one day, when the sun is shining, some one will mention that I was shot, a very long time ago."

Anna had never met Olga in such a cheerful frame of mind. She was worked up to a condition of ecstasy when she seemed immune to physical feeling.

"I could run a pin into her and she would not feel any prick," she told herself, before she spoke to the Jewess sharply.

"Olga, don't talk such utter nonsense."

"But it is a long time since I had a new experience," complained Olga. "I am so bored. Besides, life stunts the soul. Far better die."

Although Anna was positive that Olga was merely dramatising the situation—for the sake of sensation, when there was no threat of personal danger—she felt an unpleasant recoil at the Jewess's next remark.

"You too. Your name will also be on the list."

"What do you mean? You are simply—"

Anna broke off abruptly, for she was suddenly conscious of a general hush over the room. The door had been pushed open and a heavy, blonde woman in breeches and big boots crashed her way towards a table.

It was the People's Prosecutor.