Somewhere East of Life. Brian Aldiss
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the twentieth century rumbled about everyone’s heads.
A major interest in Burnell’s life, perhaps strangely for such a passive nature, was travel. The sort of travel he engaged in on behalf of WACH hardly involved the idea of escape. His consignments involved him in the usual discomforts travellers experience, particularly those who travel alone: delay, disappointment, indifferent rooms, poor food, the insolence of petty officials, and sometimes even danger. Although Burnell gave no indication that he willingly embraced such discomforts, his friends observed how he volunteered for work in those parts of the world where such discomforts were most readily available. Italy, and Milan, had been for him, as he said, ‘an easy number’.
He scarcely realized that to his English and foreign friends he was already something of a legend. They saw him as the cool Englishman of tradition. Those who knew him in the field discovered his preoccupation with trivia: airline timetables, various states of the prints of Piranesi’s Carceri, the alcoholic strengths of various Hungarian raki, the perfumes used by whores, details of brickwork, barrel vaulting and buttresses, and the flavour of a samsa eaten in an ex-Soviet republic.
He was cool under fire and in love. He was kind in a weak way, though certainly never intentionally cruel to women. Being well born, he had a mistrust of others well born.
He had no vision. He regretted his divorce. He was cynical. But he ate his honeycomb with slow pleasure. Sitting in the sun by his window, he drank coffee and read the newspaper.
The main headline of the paper ran: ‘STAVROPOL AIRPORT BATTLE. First Use of Tactical Nukes: Crimea “Ablaze”.’ The accompanying photo consisted mainly of smoke and men running, like the cover of a lowbrow thriller.
There was as yet no admission by the EU that war had broken out in the Crimea. It was represented merely as a disagreement between Russia and the Ukraine. The disruptions would cease after various threats and admonitions from the EU Security Council. It was the form of words that that admonition would take which was currently being discussed in Brussels and Berlin.
He set the newspaper aside to gaze vacantly at the window. He admitted to himself he was feeling lonely. Blanche would be back in Madrid by now. Perhaps one of her many friends would have met her. She moved in cultivated circles. He looked at the photograph of his ex-wife on his bedside table, without seeing it. He just moved in circles.
In the afternoon, he visited Remenyi, still silent in his coma, and read to him as usual.
The grand steam baths under the Gellert Hotel were choked with bodies, male and female. Many of the bathers exhibited the bulk and the posture of wallowing hippopotami. Encompassing steam provided some kind of cloak for the torpid anatomies, while reinforcing a general impression of a bacchanalia or, more accurately, a post-bacchanalia.
The baths had been in use since Roman times; occupying Turks had enlarged them. Allowing himself his usual afternoon soak, Burnell reflected that little had changed since then. Everyone was taking it easy. The hairy stomachs surrounding him, the monumental buttocks, belonged to affluent members of Hungarian and European society. Next to him, Swedish was being languidly spoken. What with wars and trouble in the old Soviet Union republics, in the Caucasus and beyond the Caspian Sea, Swedes were prospering. Hungary was neutral, the Switzerland, the crooked casino, of Central Europe. It sold Swedish-made armaments to all sides with business-like impartiality.
Surveying hirsute figures wantonly reclining, Burnell thought, ‘That one could have made Pope; he has the nose for it. And there’s Messalina, with the cruel and creamy thighs, and that one could be Theodora, her blue rinse beginning to run a little in the heat. That little rat is Iago to the life … Blanche would be amused.’ It was Blake, it was Doré, it was also super-heating. He thought of Blanche’s nakedness, and was embarrassed to find an erection developing. He climbed from the sulphurous waters, wrapping himself with English discretion in a white towelling bathrobe.
On the way back to his room, Burnell encountered a lean bearded man clad only in a towel and hotel slippers. He was moving towards the baths, head forward in something between a slouch and a run, one eyebrow raised as if it were the proprioceptor by which he navigated. He and Burnell looked at each other. Burnell recognized the haggard lineaments, the eroded temples, the eyebrows. They belonged to a distant acquaintance from university days, Monty Broadwell-Smith.
Monty, eyebrow swivelling, locked on to Burnell at once.
‘Roy, old chap! How jolly to see you.’
‘Hello, Monty.’ Burnell knotted the bathrobe more tightly. Monty had been sacked from his post at the University of East Anglia some while ago. There had been a small scandal. Finances had gone missing. Burnell, not caring about the matter, had forgotten the details. ‘What are you doing in Budapest?’
‘Little private matter, old chum.’ He had a dated way of addressing people, smiling and nodding as he did so, as if agreeing with something off-stage. ‘Helping out a bit at what they call the “Korszinhaz”, the round theatre in the park. Scenery, you know. Well, scene-shifting. To tell the truth, only been here four days. Wandered round in a daze at first. Didn’t know where I was …’ He paused and then, seeing Burnell was about to speak, went on hastily, leaning a little nearer. ‘Between you and me, old boy, I’m here consulting a very clever chap, sort of a … well … a specialist. You see, something rather strange has happened to me. To say the least. I’d like to tell you about it, as an old friend. You still with WACH, I presume? Perhaps you’d care to buy us a drink? Fellow countryman and all that kind of stuff, compatriot … Excuse the towel.’
They went up to Burnell’s room. After opening the mini-bar, Burnell slipped into a shell-suit. He handed Monty a sweater to wear.
‘Fits me to a T,’ said his visitor. ‘You wouldn’t mind if I hung on to it, would you? Bit short of clothing, to tell the truth – here in Budapest, I mean. Some crook nicked all my luggage at the airport. You know what it’s like … They’re a dodgy lot.’
Burnell poured two generous Smirnoffs on the rocks. They raised their glasses to each other.
‘That’s better.’ Monty Broadwell-Smith sighed. He licked his lips. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, old pal. “Music when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory …” So says the poet. I expect you remember the quotation. But let’s suppose there’s no memory in which those soft voices can vibrate …’
Burnell stood by the window, saying nothing, contemplating Monty with distrust.
‘I’m forty, or so I believe. Four days ago, I found myself in an unknown place. You’ll never credit this. I found myself in an unknown place – not a clue how I got there. Absolutely at a loss, mind blank. Turned out that I was here, in Budapest. Budapest! Never been here before in my natural.’
He was already contradicting himself, Burnell thought. If he were lost, how had he known his luggage was stolen at the airport?
‘So now you’re staying in the Gellert?’ Burnell spoke challengingly, determined not to be touched for Monty’s air fare to England. Knowing something of the man’s background, he felt no particular inclination to help.
Monty leaned back in his chair so as to look as much the invalid as possible. ‘Terrible state poor old England’s in. Read the papers. To what do you ascribe it, Roy?’
‘Neglect of education, lack of statesmen. What’s your problem?’
‘Couldn’t agree more. I suppose that’s why someone like you has to scout round for a job abroad?’
‘No doubt. What’s your problem?’
‘It’s very serious. I know you’re a sympathetic chap. I’m attending the Antonescu Clinic. Mircea Antonescu is a foremost specialist, right at the cutting edge of psycho-technology. Well, he’s Romanian. They’re a clever race …’ He gave Burnell a sidelong glance under the eyebrow before hurrying on. ‘I’m not staying at the Gellert. Couldn’t afford it. Too expensive for someone like me. I’m renting a cheap room in Pest – view of the gasworks, ha ha … You see, Roy, old pal, this is the bottom line: