The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [71]
“Geven!”
Geven looked up and gave him his wet smile. “Vive la Compagnie,” he said convivially, and reached for a dirty glass. “Un petit verre, monsieur?”
Fischer ignored the invitation. “I wish to know what you are preparing for dinner tonight,” he said.
“It is prepared.” Geven gave him a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to me again.
“Then you can tell me what it is.” At that moment Fischer caught sight of my plate. “Ah, I see. A risotto, eh?”
Geven’s lip quivered. “That is for us servants. For the master and his guests there is a more important dish in the manner of the country.”
“What dish?”
“You would not understand.”
“I wish to know.”
Geven answered in Turkish. I understood one word of what he said: kuzu, baby lamb.
To my surprise, and to Geven’s, too, I think, Fischer answered in the same language.
Geven stood up and shouted something.
Fischer shouted back, and then walked from the room before Geven had time to answer.
Geven sat down again, his lower lip quivering so violently that, when he tried to drain his glass, most of the brandy ran down his chin. He refilled the glass and glowered at me.
“Pislik!” he said. “Domuz!”
Those are rude words in Turkish. I gathered that they were meant for Fischer, so I said nothing and got on with my food.
He refilled my glass and shoved it towards me. “A toast,” he said.
“All right.”
“There’ll be no promotion this side of the ocean, so drink up, my lads, bless ’em all!”
Only he didn’t say “bless.” I had forgotten that he had been educated in Cyprus when it was under British rule.
“Drink!”
I drank. “Bless ’em all.”
He began to sing. “Bless all the sergeants and W.O. ones, bless all the corporals and their bleeding sons! Drink!”
I sipped. “Bless ’em all.”
He drained the glass again and leaned across the chopping table breathing heavily. “I tell you,” he said menacingly; “if that bastard says one more word, I kill him.”
“He’s just a fool.”
“You defend him?” The lower lip quivered.
“No, no. But is he worth killing?”
He poured himself another drink. Both lips were working now, as if he had brought another thought agency into play in order to grapple with the unfamiliar dilemma my question had created.
The Hamuls arrived just then to prepare for the service of the evening meal, and I saw the old man’s eyes take in the situation. He began talking to Geven. He spoke a country dialect and I couldn’t even get the drift of what he was saying; but it seemed to improve matters a little. Geven grinned occasionally and even laughed once. However, he still went on drinking, and, when I tried to slip away to my room, there was a sudden flare of temper.
“Where you go?”
“You have work to do here. I am in the way.”
“You sit down. You are my guest in the kitchen. You drink nothing. Why?”
I had a whole tumblerful of brandy in front of me by now. I took another sip.
“Drink!”
I drank and tried to look as if I were enjoying myself. When he wasn’t looking, I managed to tip half the brandy in my glass down the sink. It didn’t do much good. As soon as he noticed the half-empty glass, he filled it up again.
Dinner had been ordered for eight-thirty, and by then he was weaving. It was Mrs. Hamul who did the dishing up. He leaned against the range, glass in hand, smiling benignly on her while she ladled the loathsome contents of the stewpot onto the service platters. Dinner was finally served.
“Bless ’em all!”
“Bless ’em all!”
“Drink!”
At that moment there was an indistinct shout from the direction of the dining room. Then a door along the passage was flung open, and there were quick footsteps. I heard Miss Lipp call out: “Hans!” Then Fischer came into the kitchen. He was carrying a plateful of food.
As Geven turned unsteadily to confront him, Fischer yelled something in Turkish and then flung the plate straight at his head.
The plate hit Geven on the shoulder and then crashed to the floor; but quite a lot of food went onto his face. Gravy ran down his smock.
Fischer was still shouting. Geven stared at him