mother.
‘The Hapsburg police are worse,’ she said firmly.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got them,’ Seymour had said, as his sister found them and threw them to him.
‘Then you see you keep them!’ thundered his grandfather. ‘No papers, no person! That is how it is with the Hapsburgs. You remember that! It is not like England.’
‘No, it is not!’ echoed his mother.
Seymour had caught his sister’s eye, in the complicit shrugging of shoulders that one generation had for another.
But now he suddenly thought that they might have been right. It wasn’t just a toothless bureaucratic fuss about paper, it was a bureaucracy with an edge of steel.
It was part of that other thing that was there, almost in the air, of Trieste; there in the very buildings, in the heaviness and grandiosity of the architecture, in the height of the official rooms, and the width of the staircases and the thickness of the carpeting, in the marble finishing and the walnut woodwork.
There, most of all, in the portraits of the Emperor, in his peaked military cap and white tunic, displayed in every official building and almost in every room, in Schneider’s office, for instance, and in Kornbluth’s, but also in every tobacconist’s shop and in every bar and hotel.
The day before, he had gone to the Maritime, the fine, classical building on the waterfront which housed the Ministry of Maritime Affairs. When Seymour had gone up the flight of stairs and into the marble-floored reception hall, what had struck him was the resemblance to the Foreign Office in London: the same confidence, the same air of superiority, the same grandiloquence.
It was, he realized now, the insignia of Empire. And it told of grip.
When he had entered the hall, Seymour, unused to such places, had stopped for a moment, slightly daunted. But then he had recovered. Was he not, after all, himself the representative of Empire? Even if not in proper person. He told himself wryly that his grandfather would have been proud of him.
Thinking about it now, however, he felt exactly what his grandfather would have felt: the tremor of rebellion.
That evening, going, as had now become as habitual to him as to the rest of the population of Trieste, to the Piazza Grande, he ran into Kornbluth, who invited him to join his table at the other end of the piazza.
As they walked down there, keeping time to the slow movement of the passeggiatta , Seymour thanked him for sending the medical report and asked him how he had been getting on that day.
‘Badly,’ said Kornbluth gloomily. ‘I have not found a single person who saw him after he came out of the Edison. I have asked everyone in the piazza, down to the dog in the taverna.’
‘I find –’ began Seymour, and then shut up. He was not supposed to be a policeman.
Kornbluth did not seem to notice.
‘Of course, we shall go round again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And the next day. And probably the next. Spreading out.’
‘Have you tried the docks?’ said Seymour. ‘He must have been killed near the sea.’
‘We tried there first,’ said Kornbluth.
‘It might not have been the docks. Anywhere along the sea front. It could have been the bottom of the Piazza Grande.’
‘Tried there,’ said Kornbluth. ‘And the Molo.’
‘It’s a big area.’
‘And the red-light houses,’ said Kornbluth. ‘We’ve tried them too. You never know with these quiet people.’
He led Seymour to a table at which a plump, grey-haired lady was sitting. She smiled up at Seymour.
‘We always sit here,’ she said.
‘My wife likes the music. And the dance, too, yes, Hilde?’
‘And the dance, too,’ said Hilde. ‘Although preferably with someone lighter on his feet than my husband.’
‘She likes the bandmaster, too,’ said Kornbluth looking round roguishly. ‘Is Lehar here this evening?’
‘I hope so,’ said his wife. ‘Then at least we’ll get some decent waltzes.’
‘Hilde comes from Vienna,’ said Kornbluth
‘The Hapsburg police are worse,’ she said firmly.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got them,’ Seymour had said, as his sister found them and threw them to him.
‘Then you see you keep them!’ thundered his grandfather. ‘No papers, no person! That is how it is with the Hapsburgs. You remember that! It is not like England.’
‘No, it is not!’ echoed his mother.
Seymour had caught his sister’s eye, in the complicit shrugging of shoulders that one generation had for another.
But now he suddenly thought that they might have been right. It wasn’t just a toothless bureaucratic fuss about paper, it was a bureaucracy with an edge of steel.
It was part of that other thing that was there, almost in the air, of Trieste; there in the very buildings, in the heaviness and grandiosity of the architecture, in the height of the official rooms, and the width of the staircases and the thickness of the carpeting, in the marble finishing and the walnut woodwork.
There, most of all, in the portraits of the Emperor, in his peaked military cap and white tunic, displayed in every official building and almost in every room, in Schneider’s office, for instance, and in Kornbluth’s, but also in every tobacconist’s shop and in every bar and hotel.
The day before, he had gone to the Maritime, the fine, classical building on the waterfront which housed the Ministry of Maritime Affairs. When Seymour had gone up the flight of stairs and into the marble-floored reception hall, what had struck him was the resemblance to the Foreign Office in London: the same confidence, the same air of superiority, the same grandiloquence.
It was, he realized now, the insignia of Empire. And it told of grip.
When he had entered the hall, Seymour, unused to such places, had stopped for a moment, slightly daunted. But then he had recovered. Was he not, after all, himself the representative of Empire? Even if not in proper person. He told himself wryly that his grandfather would have been proud of him.
Thinking about it now, however, he felt exactly what his grandfather would have felt: the tremor of rebellion.
That evening, going, as had now become as habitual to him as to the rest of the population of Trieste, to the Piazza Grande, he ran into Kornbluth, who invited him to join his table at the other end of the piazza.
As they walked down there, keeping time to the slow movement of the passeggiatta , Seymour thanked him for sending the medical report and asked him how he had been getting on that day.
‘Badly,’ said Kornbluth gloomily. ‘I have not found a single person who saw him after he came out of the Edison. I have asked everyone in the piazza, down to the dog in the taverna.’
‘I find –’ began Seymour, and then shut up. He was not supposed to be a policeman.
Kornbluth did not seem to notice.
‘Of course, we shall go round again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And the next day. And probably the next. Spreading out.’
‘Have you tried the docks?’ said Seymour. ‘He must have been killed near the sea.’
‘We tried there first,’ said Kornbluth.
‘It might not have been the docks. Anywhere along the sea front. It could have been the bottom of the Piazza Grande.’
‘Tried there,’ said Kornbluth. ‘And the Molo.’
‘It’s a big area.’
‘And the red-light houses,’ said Kornbluth. ‘We’ve tried them too. You never know with these quiet people.’
He led Seymour to a table at which a plump, grey-haired lady was sitting. She smiled up at Seymour.
‘We always sit here,’ she said.
‘My wife likes the music. And the dance, too, yes, Hilde?’
‘And the dance, too,’ said Hilde. ‘Although preferably with someone lighter on his feet than my husband.’
‘She likes the bandmaster, too,’ said Kornbluth looking round roguishly. ‘Is Lehar here this evening?’
‘I hope so,’ said his wife. ‘Then at least we’ll get some decent waltzes.’
‘Hilde comes from Vienna,’ said Kornbluth
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