The Military Philosophers - Anthony Powell [41]
‘Just the same – amaranth.’
‘That’s the name of a colour?’
‘An English writer named St John Clarke called one of his books Fields of Amaranth. It was a novel. The flower is supposed to be unfading in legend. The other name for it in English is Love-lies-bleeding. Much play was made about these two meanings in the story.’
‘Love-lies-bleeding? That’s a strange name. Too good for a pair of breeches.’
‘Not if they were unfading.’
‘Nothing’s unfading, my friend,’ said Clanwaert ‘Nothing in Brussels, at least.’
‘I’ve enjoyed visits there before the war.’
‘It was a different city after ’14-’18. Most places were. That was why I transferred to la Force Publique. I can assure you the Congo was a change from la Porte Louise. For a long time, if you believe me, I was Elephant Officer. Something to hold the attention. I would not mind going back there at the termination of this war. Indeed, one may have no choice – be lucky if one reaches Africa. Nevertheless, there are times when the Blacks get on one’s nerves. One must admit that. Perhaps only because they look at the world in a different manner from us – maybe a wiser one. I shall be writing you another letter about those officers in the Congo who want a share in this war of ours. As I told you before, they feel out of it, afraid of people saying afterwards – “As for you, gentlemen, you were safe in the Congo.” It is understandable. All the same your High Command say they cannot see their way to employ these Congo officers. I understand that too, but I shall be writing you many letters on the subject. You must forgive me. By the way, I met a young lady last night who told me she knew you.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Mademoiselle Flitton.’
‘How was she?’
Clanwaert laughed, evidently aware of the impression the name would make.
‘She told me to remind you of the Pole she mentioned when you last met.’
‘She did?’
‘That was some joke?’
‘Some people thought so. I hope Mademoiselle Flitton is in good Belgian hands now.’
‘I think she has higher aspirations than that.’
Clanwaert laughed, but revealed no secrets. As it turned the implications of the words were clarified through the agency of the Czechs.
‘Colonel Hlava is an excellent man’ Hewetson had said. ‘More ease of manner than most of his countrymen, some of whom like to emphasize their absolute freedom, as a nation, from the insincere artificialities of social convention. Makes them a bit dour at times. Personally, I find it oils the wheels when there’s a drop of Slovak, Hungarian or Jewish blood. Not so deadly serious.’
‘Hlava’s a flying ace?’
‘With innumerable medals for gallantry in the last war – where he served against the Russians, whom he’s now very pro – not to mention international awards as a test pilot. He is also rather keen on music, which I know nothing about. For example, he asked me the other day if I didn’t get rather tired of Egyptian music. As I’m almost tone deaf, I’d no idea Egypt was in the forefront as a musical country.’
‘Tzigane – gipsy.’
‘I thought he meant belly-dancing,’ said Hewetson. ‘By the way, when you’re dealing with two Allies at once, it’s wiser never to mention one to the other. They can’t bear the thought of your being unfaithful to them.’
It was at one of Colonel Hlava’s musical occasions that the scene took place which showed what Clanwaert had been talking about. This was a performance of The Bartered Bride mounted by the Czechoslovak civil authorities in the interests of some national cause. I was not familiar with the opera, but remembered Maclintick and Gossage having a music critics’ argument about Smetana at Mrs Foxe’s party for Moreland’s symphony. No recollection remained of the motif of their dispute, though no doubt, like all musical differences of opinion, feelings had been bitter when aroused. I was invited, with Isobel, to attend The Bartered Bride in a more or less official capacity. We sat with Colonel Hlava, his staff and their wives.
‘The heroine is not really a bride, but a fiancée,’ explained Hlava. ‘The English title