28
THE next morning. Albinus made conscientious inquiries at the Tourist Office and then at a German boarding house, but no one could tell him Udo Conrad’s address. “After all, we’ve nothing much to say to each other,” he thought. “Probably I’ll run into him again, if we stay here any longer. And if I don’t, it doesn’t much matter.”
A few days later he woke up earlier than usual, threw open the shutters, smiled at the tender blue sky and at the soft green slopes, luminous yet hazy, as if it were all a bright frontispiece under tissue paper, and he felt a strong longing to climb and wander, and to breathe the thyme-scented air.
Margot awoke. “It’s still so early,” she said drowsily.
He suggested they should dress quickly and go out for the whole day—just the two of them …
“Go by yourself,” she murmured, turning over to the other side.
“Oh, you lazybones,” said Albinus sadly.
It was about eight. At a good pace, he got out of the narrow streets, cut longitudinally in two by the morning shade and sunshine, and began the ascent.
As he was passing a tiny villa, painted a warm pink, he heard the click of shears, and saw Udo Conrad pruning something in the small, rocky garden. Yes, he had always had a green thumb.
“Got you at last,” said Albinus gaily, and the other turned but did not smile back.
“Oh,” he said drily, “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
Solitude had developed in him a spinsterish touchiness, and now he was deriving a morbid pleasure from feeling hurt.
“Don’t be silly, Udo,” said Albinus, as he approached, gently pushing aside the feathery foliage of a mimosa tree, which leaned wistfully in his way. “You know quite well I didn’t miss it on purpose. I thought it would go round the village and come back again.”
Conrad softened a little. “Never mind,” he said, “it often happens like that: one meets a man after a long interval and suddenly feels a panicky desire to give him the slip. I took it that you didn’t enjoy the prospect of having to chatter about old times in the moving prison of a bus; and you avoided it neatly.”
Albinus laughed: “The truth is, I’ve been hunting for you these last days. Nobody seemed to know your exact whereabouts.”
“Yes, I only rented this cottage a few days ago. And where are you staying?”
“Oh, at the Britannia. Really, I’m terribly glad to see you, Udo. You must tell me all about yourself.”
“Shall we go for a little walk?” suggested Conrad dubiously. “All right. I’ll put on some other shoes.”
He was back in a minute and they started to climb up a cool shady road winding between vine-clad stone walls, its blue asphalt still untouched by the hot morning sun.
“And how’s your family?” asked Conrad.
Albinus hesitated and then said:
“Better not ask, Udo. Some terrible things have been happening to me lately. Last year we separated, Elisabeth and I. And then my little Irma died from pneumonia. I prefer not to talk of these matters if you don’t mind.”
“How very distressing,” said Conrad.
They both fell silent; Albinus pondered whether it might not be rather glamorous and exciting to talk about his passionate love-affair to this old pal of his, who had always known him as a shy, unadventurous fellow; but he put it off till later. Conrad, on the other hand, was reflecting that he had made a mistake in going for this walk: he preferred people to be carefree and happy when they shared his company.
“I didn’t know you were in France,” said Albinus. “I thought you usually dwelt in Mussolini’s country.”
“Who is Mussolini?” asked Conrad with a puzzled frown.
“Ah—you’re always the same,” laughed Albinus. “Don’t get into a panic, I’m not going to talk politics. Tell me about your work, please. Your last novel was superb.”
“I’m afraid,” said Udo, “that our fatherland is not quite at the right level to appreciate my writings. I’d gladly write in French, but I’m loath to part with the experience and riches amassed in the course of my handling of our language.”
“Come, come,” said Albinus. “There are lots of people who love your books.”
“Not as I love them,” said Conrad. “It’ll be a long time—a solid century, perhaps—till I am appreciated at my worth. That is, if the art of writing and reading is not quite forgotten by then; and I am afraid it is being rather thoroughly forgotten this last half century, in Germany.”
“How’s that?” asked Albinus.
“Well, when a literature subsists almost exclusively on Life and Lives, it means it is dying. And I don’t think much of Freudian novels or novels about the quiet countryside. You may argue that it is not literature in the mass that matters, but the two or three real writers who stand aloof, unnoticed by their grave, pompous contemporaries. All the same it is rather trying sometimes. It makes me wild to see the books that are being taken seriously.”
“No,” said Albinus, “I’m not at all of your mind. If our age is interested in social problems, there’s no reason why authors of talent should not try to help. The War, post-War unrest—”
“Don’t,” moaned Conrad gently.
They were silent again. The winding road had taken them to a pine grove where the creaking of the cicadas was like the endless winding-up and whir of some clockwork toy. A stream was running over flat stones which seemed to quiver under the knots of water. They sat down on the dry, sweet-smelling turf.
“But don’t you feel rather an outcast, always living abroad?” asked Albinus, as he gazed up at the pine-tops that looked like seaweeds swimming in blue water. “Don’t you long for the sound of German voices?”
“Oh, well, I do run into compatriots now and then; and it is sometimes quite amusing. I’ve noticed, for instance, that German tourists are inclined to think that not a soul can understand their language.”
“I could not always live abroad,” said Albinus, lying on his back and dreamily following with his eye the outlines of blue gulfs and lagoons and creeks between the green branches.
“That day we met,” said Conrad, also reclining, with his arms under his head, “I had a rather fascinating experience with those two friends of yours in the bus. You do know them, don’t you?”
“Yes, slightly,” replied Albinus with a little laugh.
“So I thought, judging from their merriment at your being left behind.”
(“Wicked little girl,” thought Albinus tenderly. “Shall I tell him all about her? No.”)
“I had quite a good time listening to their conversation. But I did not feel exactly homesick. It is a queer thing: the more I think of it, the more I feel certain that there comes a time in an artist’s life when he stops needing his fatherland. Like those creatures, you know, who first live in an aquatic state and then on dry land.”
“There would be something in me yearning for the coolness of water,” said Albinus with a sort of heavyish whimsicality. “By the way, I found a rather nice bit in the very beginning of Baum’s new book Discovery of Taprobana. A Chinese traveler, it appears, ages ago, journeyed across Gobi to India, and stood one day by a great jade image of Buddha in a shrine on a hill in Ceylon, and saw a merchant offering a native Chinese present—a white silk fan—and—”
“… and,” interrupted Conrad, “ ‘a sudden weariness of his long exile seized upon the traveler.’ I know that sort of thing—though I haven’t read that dreary fool’s last effort and never will. Anyway, the merchants I see here aren’t particularly good at provoking nostalgia.”
They were both silent again. Both felt very bored. After contemplating for a few minutes more the pines and the sky, Conrad sat up and said:
“You know, old boy, I’m awfully sorry, but would you mind very much if we went back? I’ve got some writing to get done before midday.”
“Right you are,” said Albinus, rising in his turn. “I must be getting home too.”
They descended the path in silence and then shook hands at Conrad’s door with a great show of cordiality.
“Well, that’s over,” thought Albinus, much relieved. “Catch me calling on him again!”