Airs Above The Ground Part 4

We were on our way again by three, descending through more and more beautiful country till, a few kilometers beyond Bruck, we left the main road and its accompanying river and turned up the valley of a tributary.

I pulled off the road onto a verge felted with pine needles.

"You've got a licence, haven't you, Tim? Would you like to drive?"

"Love to," he said promptly. "Are you tired?"

"A bit. It's a bit overconcentrated, with the left-hand drive, and driving on the wrong side, and all the cars out for the Sunday afternoon stampede. I must say you were marvellous over the road signs. I hope I'll do as well for you, or have you got your eye in by now?"

"I think so," he said as we changed over. "It doesn't look as if there'll be much traffic up this little road, anyway."

He took a few moments to examine the controls and play with the gear box, and then we moved off. Not much to my surprise-I had long since ceased to underrate Timothy-he turned out to be a good driver, so that I was able to relax and think about what lay ahead of me, while I pretended for pride's sake to be admiring the scenery.

This was not difficult. The road ran at first through pine trees with a widish tumbling stream to the right, then, rounding a green bluff, it began to climb, curling along under cliffs hollowed by quarries and heavily overhung by the forests above, while beside us the stream fell ever more steeply through a series of rapids, and on the far bank the rocks crowded in.

But soon we were out of the narrow defile into a wide placid basin girdled by hills. Here the road ran straighter, bounded to either side only by green meadows knee-deep in white and yellow flowers. Behind the meadows rose the hills; at first softly, furred with gra.s.s, their green curves framed by the pines which flowed downhill to fill every fold and crevice of the slopes, as if the high forest were crowding so thickly on the crests that it overflowed down every vein and runnel of the land below, like whipped cream running down the side of a pudding. At the upper limits of this dense crowded forest soared the cliffs again, s.h.i.+ning escarpments of silver rock threaded in their turn by the white veins of falling water.

But these were still in no sense overpowering hills. They fell short of majesty, staying, as it were, on the periphery of vision, while the eye was held by the nearer landscape with its rolling, golden greens and the cheerful domestic charm of the small houses that were cl.u.s.tered here and there round their churches and farms. The hay had been cut and was drying, woven round its poles like dark gold flax round the spindles, while below it the shorn fields lay as smooth as plush. Here and there were shrines, like tiny churches cut off at the apse, with flowers in front of some painted statue, and martins wheeling in and out under the s.h.i.+ngle roof. The village houses, too, were painted, the walls all washed with pink, or pale blue, or white, while every window had its window box tumbling with petunias, geraniums, marguerites. Every house, it seemed, had its small orchard heavy with apples and peaches, and its apricot tree trained against the bright wall. Everything glittered, was rich, shone. The little village churches, humbly built of paint-washed plaster and roofed with wooden s.h.i.+ngles, each thrust up a spire or an onion dome topped with a glittering gold weatherc.o.c.k. The cattle grazing peacefully in the fields were honey-coloured and bore large, deep-ringing bells. The valley scene was so rich, so sunlit, and so peaceful, that the eye hardly strayed up to the rocks behind. They were only a background to this entrancing pastoral, painted in with the long shadows of late afternoon.

The first thing I saw, as we ran into the village of Oberhausen, was the poster, circus wagner, wrapped round a tree trunk. The second was the circus itself in a field to the right of the road, a motley collection of tents, wagons, and caravans, grouped in an orderly confusion round the big top.

Timothy slowed to a crawl as we both craned to see.

"Well," he said, "they're still here. That's something, anyway. What are we going to do first?"

"Go straight through and try to find the Gasthof. Didn't the hall porter say it was at the far end of the village? Let's find it and get ourselves settled before we do anything else."

"Okay."

The village street closed in. It was narrow, with no pavements, apart from a foot or two of beaten dust which formed a verge to either side and which was separated from the road by trees. Here and there a gabled window, or a flight of steps, thrust out to the edge of the road, forcing the people to abandon the footpaths and walk among the traffic. This they did with the utmost casualness: in fact the road, being smoother walking, was fuller than the footways, as the slow aimless Sunday crowd strolled about it at will, crossing in front of the cars without a glance. Since (as in most Austrian villages) the use of the horn was forbidden, our progress was very slow and circ.u.mspect. Timothy's pungent but perfectly cheerful running commentary was mercifully audible only to me.

At length we emerged from the narrows into an open square where an old well stood and seats were set under the trees that surrounded the cobbled s.p.a.ce. Ahead of us a church lifted a pretty onion spire with a gilt arrow for weatherc.o.c.k. The road divided to either side of the church.

I said: "I think we'd better stop and ask the way. If we go up the wrong street, among these crowds, heaven knows where we'll get to before we can turn."

He drew carefully in to the side, stopped in the shade of a plane tree, and leaned out of his window. He hadn't far to go for help: a cheerful trio of women was pa.s.sing the time of day in the middle of the road with half a dozen children skirmis.h.i.+ng round their skirts. They all answered him at once, with explicit gestures, while the children, apparently stricken dumb and paralytic at the sound of Timothy's accent, crowded round, staring at us with round blue eyes.

At length he drew his head in. "Don't tell me," I said, "let me guess. It's the road to the right."

He grinned. "And we can't miss it. They say it's very nice along there, and quiet, because the other road's the main one. I say, I like this place, don't you? Look at that thing in the middle, the well or whatever it is, with that wrought-iron canopy. It's rather fine. Gosh, do you see that Konditorei, the baker's shop with the cafe tables inside? I could do with some of those cakes, couldn't you? We could come out and buy something as soon as we get settled . . ."

He chattered on, pleasantly excited, hanging out of his window in the hot sun. But I had ceased to listen, or even to see. The pretty village, with its lively, milling crowds, had faded away, to become a shadowy background only for one person. I had seen Lewis's blonde.

She was pausing beside the well to speak to someone, an old woman in black, who carried an armful of flowers. She was half facing the other way, and was some forty yards off, but I thought I could not be mistaken. Then she turned, and I was sure. This was the girl I had seen in the newsreel. Moreover, in the flesh, and in the bright light of day, she was prettier even than I remembered. She was of small to medium height, with a slender curved young figure, and fair hair tied neatly back in a pony tail. Gone was the "kinky" look that the black waterproof and dishevelled hair had given her; she was charmingly dressed now in the traditional white blouse, flowered dirndl, and ap.r.o.n. She looked about eighteen.

As I watched her she bade a laughing good-bye to the old woman and came straight towards the car.

"Tim," I said softly, "pull your head in and shut the window. Quick."

He obeyed immediately.

"That girl, coming towards the car, the pretty one, the blonde in the blue dirndl-that's the girl I saw in the news-reel. No, don't stare at her, just notice her, so that you'll know her again."

She came straight towards us, through the banded shadow of the tree trunks, and pa.s.sed the car without a glance.. I didn't turn, but I saw Tim watching her in the driving mirror.

"She's going straight on down the street. Shall I wait?"

"Yes. Try to see where she goes."

After a pause he said: "I can't see her any more, there are too many people milling about, but she was heading straight down the street, the way we came."

"Towards the circus field?"

"Yes. Would you like me to do a quick recce and see just where she goes?"

"Would you?"

"Sure thing." He was already half out of the car. "I've always fancied myself in the James Bond line, who hasn't? You stay there and pay the parking fine."

The door slammed behind him. I tilted the driving mirror so that I could watch his tall young figure striding back down the middle of the street with all the magnificent local disregard for traffic. Then he, in his turn, was lost to view.

I leaned back in my seat, but not to relax. It was no surprise to feel myself trembling a little as my eyes reluctantly yet feverishly searched the crowds.

It was true, then, that my eyes had not deceived me: so much of it was true. Now that I had had this confirmation, I found it a profoundly disconcerting experience. The sight of Lewis and the girl in the dark cinema, that flickering brief scene still echoing with ugly tragedy and made more mysterious by its foreign setting, had been like a dream, something distant, unreal, gone as soon as seen, and believed no more than a dream in daylight. And as always, the light of day outside the cinema had set the dream even further apart from the world of reality. My own hasty action in coming out to Austria had seemed even while I did it as unreal as the dream itself; and up to now the enchanting strange prettiness of the country had helped the illusion that I was still far astray from reality.

But now ... Oberhausen, the circus, the girl herself . . . And next, Lewis . . . ?

"What, no parking ticket?" It was Tim, back at the window.

"No parking ticket. You made me jump, I never heard you."

"I told you I'd found my vocation." He folded his length beside me into the driving seat. "I shadowed your subject with the greatest possible skill, and she did go to the circus. I think she must belong there, because she went straight in through the gate and then round towards the caravans. The village people-quite a lot were there with children-were being allowed in, but they all went to the other side; there's a menagerie or something there, open to the public. There was a man taking the money at the gate, but I didn't ask questions. Was that right?"

"Yes, quite."

"And I've got news for you. They're leaving tomorrow. There was a sticker across the poster, last performance tonight at eight o'clock."

"Oh? We're just lucky, then. Thanks a lot, Tim."

"Think nothing of it. It was fun. I tell you, I've come to the conclusion I'll be wasted on the Spanish Riding School. James Bond isn't in it-though as a matter of fact Archie Goodwin's my favourite detective; you know, Nero Wolfe's a.s.sistant, handsome and efficient and a devil with women."

"Well, now's your chance," I said. "If we don't fall over Lewis pretty soon, I'll send you after the girl."

"What they call 'sc.r.a.ping an acquaintance'? Can do," said Tim cheerfully. "Golly, if this road gets much narrower we'll sc.r.a.pe more than that. . . . Wait a moment, though, I believe this is it."

The Gasthof Edelweiss was charming and, in spite of its name, without a hint of chichi. It was a long, low, single-storied house with a s.h.i.+ngle roof where doves sunned themselves, and window boxes full of flowers. It lay at the very edge of the village, and in fact the road petered out in front of it to continue on past the house as a country track leading to some farm. Between house and road lay a s.p.a.ce of raked gravel where tables stood under chestnut trees. There were a few people sitting there over coffee or drinks. Between their feet the doves strutted and cooed. Swallows, thinking already perhaps of the hotter south, wheeled and twittered overhead. One could smell the pines.

Timothy and I were offered adjacent rooms, giving on the wide verandah at the back of the house. Here the windows faced the fields, and the small spotless rooms were very quiet. Mine had a pinewood floor scrubbed white, with two small bright pseudo-Persian rugs, solid pine furniture, and one reasonably comfortable chair. There was a really beautiful old chest of dark wood with painted panels, a rather inconvenient wardrobe, and a lot of heavy wrought ironwork in the lamp brackets and on the door, which was studded and barred like something from a Gothic cathedral. On the walls were two pictures, bright oily colours painted on wood; one showed an unidentifiable saint in a blue robe killing a dragon; the other a very similar saint in a red robe, watering some flowers. It seemed that in Austria there was a pleasantly wide choice of saintly qualities.

I unpacked quickly. I had thought I would be glad to be alone, just to think about what was to come, but in fact I found that I was refusing to think about it. I had, as it were, switched my mind out of gear and was concentrating only on folding away my clothes, on selecting something fresh to wear, and on the drink which I would shortly have with Timothy under the chestnut trees.

But when I was ready to go I still lingered. I pushed the long windows wide and went out onto the verandah.

This was set only two or three feet above ground level, so that immediately beyond the rail, and directly, it seemed, beneath one's feet, the fields began. These had been recently mown, and the almost forgotten smell of new-mown hay filled the late afternoon. Beyond the stretches of shorn velvet the river ran, sunk deep in trees, and behind this feathered girdle of ash and willow rose the pines, slope after slope to the silver mountaintops. One side of the valley was deep in shadow. It was nearly half past six.

A sound made me look round. Timothy had come out of his window onto his section of verandah. He had put on a clean s.h.i.+rt and looked alert and excited.

"There you are, I thought I heard you. I wondered if you'd decided what to do next?"

"Actually, I hadn't. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm a bit of a dead loss. I haven't got over seeing that girl. It was a bit of a facer if you want the truth, like seeing a ghost."

"You mean you didn't really believe in her till now? I know exactly what you mean," added Timothy surprisingly. "I felt a bit the same about Christl. But you know, I don't know why you're worrying, not about her ... I mean, if there was any connection . . . seeing them together on the newsreel like that ... it wouldn't be-" He hesitated, trying to choose his words, then abruptly abandoned finesse. "Dash it, she may be pretty and all that, but you don't need to worry about her! You're beautiful. Did no one ever tell you?"

It was a fact that, now and again, people had; but I had never been so touched-or so completely deprived of speech.

I said eventually: "Thank you. But I-it's not just that side of it that's worrying me, you know. It's just that I've no business to be here at all, and now I'm not so much wondering how to find him as what in the world to say to him when I do. ..." I turned my back to the fields and straightened up with what might pa.s.s for decision. "Oh well, it's done now, and the circus is the obvious lead. Did you say it started at eight? Then we've plenty of time. We can have a meal, and talk to Frau Weber, and then walk down through the village. If this village is anything like our village at home, the bush telegraph's faster than the speed of light. In fact, if he's here still, he probably knew all about us within thirty seconds of my signing the hotel register."

"If this is the last performance, they'll start the pulldown the minute it's over, and they'll be clear of the place by morning." He eyed me. "I thought-shall I just go along there now and see about getting tickets?"

"But if they've been stuck here a week there'll be no rush, and-" I laughed. "Oh, I see. Well, why not? If you do track down 'the subject,' you won't do anything rash, will you?" "The soul of discretion," he promised. "I won't say a word.

I'll be back in good time for dinner."

"I bet you will," I said, but he had already gone.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

Shakespeare: Much Ado About Nothing

The shadows of the chestnuts lay lightly across the cafe tables, and there was a slight warm breeze which fluttered the red checked cloths. Curled in the roots of one of the trees, an enormous St. Bernard dog slept, twitching slightly from time to time in his dream. The place was quiet and very peaceful. I sat sipping my vermouth, telling myself that I must think, must think . . . and all the time my eyes were fixed on the street up which presently, I was sure, Lewis must come.

So strong was my imaginative sense of his presence that when, in fact, Timothy reappeared, coming at high speed up the street, I was almost startled to see him. Next moment I was genuinely startled to see who he had with him. Not Lewis but-inevitably, it now seemed-Lewis's blonde.

Next moment they were standing beside the table and Timothy was performing introductions.

"Vanessa, this is Annalisa Wagner. She belongs to the circus. . . . You remember we saw a circus in the field the other side of the village? Miss Wagner, this is Mrs.-" Too late, he saw the pitfall. He stopped dead.

I said, watching the girl: "My name is March. Vanessa March."

"How do you do, Mrs. March?" There was no flicker of expression outside the normal noncommittal politeness. She had, I noticed sourly, a charming voice, and her English was excellent.

"Won't you join us for a drink, Miss Wagner?"

"Why, thank you. If you would please call me Annalisa?"

Timothy said: "What will you have?"

"Coffee, please."

"Only coffee? Not a vermouth or something?"

She shook her head. "You'll find that we circus people drink very little. It's something that doesn't pay.

Just coffee, please."

Timothy lifted a hand to the pa.s.sing waitress, who responded immediately-an unusual circ.u.mstance in any country, but in Austria (I had already discovered) a miracle. It seemed he was even going to pa.s.s the waiter test with honours. He and the girl sat down, Timothy telegraphing "Over to you" with a subdued air of triumph that had nothing to do with the waitress, Annalisa with a smile and a graceful spread of the blue flowered skirt.

Seen at close range, she was still very pretty, with an ash-blonde Teutonic prettiness quite different from Christl's. One could not picture Fraulein Wagner as altogether at home in a kitchen. She would seem more in place among those slim, tough beauties who win Olympic medals for skating, or who perform impossible feats of skill and balance in the slalom. I wondered if the impression of fragility and helpless appeal that I had got from the newsreel had been a.s.sumed for Lewis's benefit or if it had merely shown up in contrast to his size and air of tough competence. Or perhaps- I realized it now, more charitably-she had just been caught in a moment of shock and distress. It appeared that it was her circus, after all.

I said as much. "Your name's Wagner? The circus must belong to you, to your family?"

"To my father. Timothy says that you are coming to see it tonight?"

"Yes. We're looking forward to it. We've only just arrived, but I understand that you're leaving tomorrow, so we don't want to miss you."

She nodded. "We move on tonight, after the show. We have already been here too long." I waited, but she didn't pursue this. She asked: "You are keen on circuses?"

I hesitated, then said truthfully: "Not altogether. I've never liked performing animals much, but I love the other acts-high wire, trapeze, the clowns, all the acrobats."

"Not the horses?"

"Oh, I didn't count the horses as 'performing animals'! I meant bears and monkeys and tigers. I love the horses. Do you have many?"

"Not many, we are a small circus. But a circus is nothing without its horses. With us they are the most important of all. My father works the liberty horses: we think ourselves they are as good as the Circus Schumann, but of course we have not so many."

"I'll look forward to seeing them, I always love them, and they're my friend's ruling pa.s.sion."

She laughed. "I know. I found him down in the horse lines. I don't know how he got in."

Timothy said: "I took a ticket for the menagerie, but you couldn't expect me to look at parrots and monkeys when I could see the horses just round the corner."