Ice by Anna Kavan Page A

a psychopath and totally unreliable. We are investigating an atrocious crime against an innocent pure young girl: I ask you to note his unnatural callousness, his indifferent expression. What cynicism to come here with that flower in his buttonhole! How arrogantly he displays his utter contempt for the sanctity of family life, and for all decent feeling! His attitude is not only abnormal, but depraved, infamous, a desecration of all we hold sacred...
    Somewhere high up in the room, where I could not see it, a bell rang. A superior, unimplicated voice stated: 'A psychopath is not an acceptable witness.'
    I was taken away, locked in a cell for seventeen hours. In the early morning they released me without explanation. In the meantime, the ship had gone, and with it my luggage. I was stranded with only the clothes I was wearing. Luckily, I had not been deprived of either my passport or my wallet, and was well provided with money.
    I had a shave, a wash and brush up, and looked carefully at my reflexion. I needed a clean shirt, but the shops were not yet open; I would buy one later and change. For the moment my appearance was passable, or would be when I had got rid of the dead carnation. I meant to throw it into the gutter as I left the barber's shop, but a boy just outside offered to clean my shoes, and while he did so I asked him which was the best café. He pointed out one further along the same street; I walked on, liked the look of it, and sat down at one of the tables outside in the sun. At that hour the place was deserted. The solitary waiter on duty brought coffee and rolls on a tray, then returned to the dark interior, leaving me there alone. I drank the coffee, wondered what to do next, watched the passers-by: there were not many of them so early.
    A girl went past carrying a basket of flowers, reminding me that, in the end, I had not disposed of the carnation. I tried to pull it out of my buttonhole, but the stem had been securely pinned by the steward. I turned back my lapel, peered down, felt about for the pin. Someone said: 'Let me do that for you.' I looked up; the flower girl was smiling at me. I seemed to have seen her face somewhere, I felt I already knew her and liked her. Having removed the carnation neatly, she prepared to replace it with one exactly the same from her basket. I was on the point of saying I did not want it, when something occurred to me and I kept silent. She fixed the fresh flower in my buttonhole and continued to stand beside me, though not as if she was merely waiting for payment. It looked as if my idea was correct, but I said nothing in case I was mistaken. I knew I had been right when she asked: 'Is there anything else you'd like me to do?' I glanced round. The other tables were still deserted, the people on the pavement were out of earshot. She had put down her basket on a chair; I pretended to examine the flowers, picking up one bunch after another. To anyone watching, even through field-glasses, we would have appeared to be conducting a normal transaction. I said, 'Certainly;' though I wondered if she. . . . But I had to find out without delay what had been going on in the world. 'I've been at sea; out of touch. There are lots of things you can tell me.'
    I asked cautious questions, trying not to show the extent of my ignorance of the latest developments. It appeared that the situation at home was obscure and alarming, no precise information was coming through, the full extent of the disaster was not yet known. The warden of a northern country had escaped to the interior and joined forces with one of the various warlords, between whom hostilities had broken out.
    I went on questioning her. She was always polite and friendly, and tried to be helpful. But her answers grew vague, she seemed afraid to commit herself. When one or two people drifted into the café and sat down near us, she said in a whisper: 'You'll have to discuss these matters with somebody higher up. Do you want me to