The Liberation Celebration Machine
Poet and novelist, LAWRENCE DURRELL was born in India and was educated in England at St. Edmund’s School, Canterbury. He served as a Foreign Service press officer in Athens, Cairo, Rhodes, and Belgrade, and from this experience has come the amusing story which follows. Mr. Durrell’s latest novel, Justine, which was a Book Society Recommendation in England, has recently been published in this country by Dutton.
by LAWRENCE DURRELL
I LIKE Edmunds. I can’t really say why — I think it is because he takes everything so frightfully seriously. He is portentous — always dropping into a whisper, clicking his tongue, pursing his lips, turning the palms of his hands outwards and making “what-would-you” gestures. We’ve served together in a number of foreign capitals, he as a regular of the career, I as a contract officer; and whenever I’m in London he gives me lunch at his club and we talk about the past — those happy days spent in foreign capitals “lying abroad” for our country.
“The Ghost Train episode,” said Edmunds, “was a bit before your time. I only mention it because I can think of nothing which illustrates the peculiar hazards of Diplomatic Life so well. In fact it throws them into Stark Relief.
“Every nation has its particular idée fixe. For the Yugoslavs it is trains. No other object arouses the concupiscence of the Serb like a train. They drool over it, old boy, positively drool.
“You twig this the minute you alight from the Orient Express at Belgrade, because there is something queer about the station building itself. It leans to one side. It is neatly cracked from platform level to clock tower. Moreover there are several distinct sets of ruts in the concrete of the platform which are highly suggestive. The first porter you engage will clear up the mystery. Apparently every fifteenth train or so leaps the buffers, grinds across the freight section, and buries itself in the booking office. No one is ever hurt and the whole town joyfully bands together to dig the engine out. Everyone is rather proud of this idiosyncrasy. It is part of the Serbian Way of Life.
“Well, being aware of this as I was, I could not help being a bit concerned when Nimic in the Protocol hinted that the Diplomatic Corps was to be sent up to Zagreb for Liberation Day in a special train which would prove once and for all that the much-vaunted Yugoslav Heavy Industry was capable of producing machinery every bit as good as that of the degenerate Capitalist West. This tip was accompanied by dark looks and winks, and all efforts to probe the mystery further proved vain. A veil of secrecy (one of the seven veils of Communist diplomacy) was drawn over the subject. There was no further information forthcoming about the Ghost Train, as we jokingly called it, so we sat back and waited for Liberation Day to draw on. Sure enough, the customary fat white envelope appeared ten days before from the Protocol. I opened mine with a troubled curiosity. It announced that the Corps would be traveling by Special Train which would be placed at its disposal. The train itself was called the Liberation Celebration Machine.
“Even Mowbray (Sir Claud Mowbray, K.C.M.G., M.C., and all that sort of thing) looked a bit grave. ‘What sort of Devil Car do you think it will be?’ he said. I couldn’t enlighten him, alas. ‘It’s probably a chain-drive Trojan with some carriages built around it in plywood.'
“There was a short-lived movement among the Corps to go by road instead and thus sidestep the Liberation Celebration Machine, but the Doyen put his foot down. Such a defection would constitute a grave slight. The Yugoslav Heavy Industry would be hurt by our refusal to allow it to unveil the marvels of modern science to us. Reluctantly we all accepted. ‘Butch’ Benbow, the naval attaché, who was clairvoyant and who dabbled in astrology, took the omens. Apparently they were not propitious. ‘All I can see is clouds of smoke,’ he said hoarsely.
2
THE day drew inexorably on,” he continued. “The Special Train was to be met in a siding just outside Belgrade, at a small station there whose name I forget. Here at the appointed time, which was dusk, we duly presented ourselves in full tenue. There were to be flowers and speeches by representatives of the Yugoslav Heavy Industry. Most of the representatives looked nearly as heavy as their industry. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the train.
“I’m not saying it was gaudy. It was absolutely breath-taking. The three long coaches were made of painted and carved timber: flowers, birds, liberation heroes, caches-sexes, emblematic devices, post horns — everything you can imagine. The general effect was that of a Sicilian market cart with painted and carved sideboards, or the poop of some seventeenth-century galleon. Every blacksmith, wheelwright, and cartwright in Serbia must have had a hand in it. ‘ C’est un chalet Tyrolien ou quoi?' I heard Du Bellay, the French Minister, say under his breath. His skepticism was shared by us all.
“ We entered and found our reserved carriages, which seemed normal enough. The band played. We accepted a wreath or two. Then we set off in the darkness to the braying of donkeys and cocks and the rasping of trombones. We were off across the rolling Serbian plains.
“Two things were immediately plain. All this elaborate woodwork squeaked and groaned calamitously, earsplittingly. How were we to get any sleep? But more serious still was the angle of inclination of the second coach with the Heads of Mission in it. It was about thirty degrees out of center and was only, it seemed, held upright by the one immediately before and behind it. It was clear that the Yugoslav Heavy Industry had mislaid its spirit level while it was under construction. People who looked out of the windows on one side had the illusion that the ground was coming up to hit them. I paid Mowbray a visit to see if he was all right, and found him looking rather pale, and drawn up on the higher elevation of the coach like someone on a sinking ship. The noise was so great that we couldn’t speak — we had to shout. ‘My God,’I heard him cry out, ‘what is to become of us all?’ It was a little difficult to say.
“We were now gathering speed. The engine was a very old one. It had been abandoned before the war by an American film company and the Yugoslavs had tied it together with wire. Its gaping furnace, which was white-hot, was being passionately fed by some very hairy men in cloth caps who looked like Dostoevski’s publishers. It seemed to me that the situation had never looked graver. Despite its age, however, the engine had managed to whip up a good forty-five. And every five hundred yards it would groan and void a bucketful of clinkers into the night which set fire to the grass on either side of the track. From far off we must have looked like an approaching forest fire.
“Another feature of the Liberation Celebration Machine was an ingenious form of central heating which could not be turned off, and as none of the windows opened, the temperature inside the coaches rapidly mounted into the hundreds. People were fanning themselves with their tall hats. Old man, never have I seen the Corps subjected to such a strain. Sleep was impossible. The lights would not turn off. The washbasins appeared to empty into each other. And all the time we had the ghastly thought of all the Heads of Mission in the Hanging Coach, drinking brandy and gibbering with fright as we sped onwards through the night.
“The chance of some frightful accident taking place was far from remote, and consequently nobody was able to relax. We did not even dare to get into pajamas but sat about in that infernal racket staring desperately at one another and starting at every regurgitation of the engine, every shiver and squeak of the coaches. The American Ambassador was so overcome that he spent the night, singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’ Some said that he had had the forethought to take a case of rye into his compartment with him. Madame Fawzia, the Egyptian Ambassadress, spent the night on the floor of her compartment deep in prayer. From time to time when the wind changed, the whole train was enveloped in a cloud of rich dense smoke containing fragments of half-digested coal the size of hailstones. But still the ghoulish crew in the engine cab plied their grisly shovels and on we sped with mournful shrieks and belches.
“At two in the morning there was a ghastly rending noise as we entered the station of Slopsy Blob, named after the famous Independence fighter. The Hanging Coach somehow got itself engaged with the tin dado which ran along the roof of the station and ripped it off as clean as a whistle — by the same token almost decapitating one of the drivers. The noise was appalling, and the whole Corps let out a unified shriek of terror. A lot of cherubs and floral devices were ripped off the Hanging Coach in the encounter, and the people in the rear coaches found themselves assailed by a hail of colored fragments of wood which made them shriek the louder. It was all over in a moment.
“Then we were out in the night once more, racing across the dark plain, the Brothers Karamazov still plying the engine with might and main. It is possible that, in the manner of Serbs, they had heard nothing. We spent the rest of the night in Sleepless Vigil, old man. The guardian angel of the Yugoslav Heavy Industry must have been with us, for nothing worse happened. But it was a pretty dispirited and shaken Dip Corps that was finally dragged into Zagreb Station on that Liberation morning. I can tell you, never was liberation so much in the forefront of everyone’s thoughts.
“It must have been about, six o’clock when we stormed into Zagreb, squealing and blowing out an Etna of steam. The brakes had been applied some three miles outside the station, and their earsplitting racket had to be heard to be believed.
“But this was not the end. Though we missed the red carpet by a quarter of a mile, and though the waiting dignitaries and the Zagreb Traction and Haulage Workers’ Band padded down the platform after us, our troubles were not yet at an end. It was found that the doors of the coaches on the platform side were fast shut and could not be opened. I suppose Zagreb Station must have been on the opposite side of the track from Belgrade Station and consequently nobody dreamed that we should need more than one exit from the train. It was of course fearfully humiliating. We leaned against the windows making inarticulate gestures of good will and vague grimaces in the direction of the Traction and Haulage Workers’ Band and the Liberation Reception Committee.
“We must have looked like a colony of dispossessed fairground apes pining for the old life of the trees. After a good deal of mopping and mowing there was nothing for it but to climb out of the Zagreb Flier onto the permanent way and walk round the train to the reception point. This we somewhat shamefacedly did. But when all was said and done it was good to feel terra firma once more. Drawn up in order of precedence on Zagreb platform, we submitted to the Liberation anthem sung by the Partisan choir in a register so low that it could not drown the merry cries of self-congratulation with which the Karamazov brothers were greeting the morn. Their observations were punctuated by blasts of hot steam and whiffs of sound from the whistle of the Liberation Celebration Machine, which looked even more improbable in the cold morning light than it had the evening before.
“All this went off as well as such things can be expected to; but sleepy as we were, a sudden chill struck our hearts at a phrase in the Speech of Welcome which plainly indicated that the authorities were expecting us to make the return journey in the Liberation Celebration Machine on the following day. This gave us all food for thought. Madame Fawzia made an involuntary retching noise which was interpreted by our hosts as an expression of joy. Several other ladies in the Corps showed a disposition to succumb to the vapors at this piece of intelligence. But the old training dies hard. There was many a tight lip and beady eye but not a word was said until we were assembled for breakfast in the card room of the Slopsy Blob Hotel. Then the pent-up floodwaters of emotion overflowed. Ambassadors, Ministers, Secretaries of Embassy, and their wives began as one to gesticulate and gabble. It was a moving scene. Some called upon the gods to witness that they would never travel by train again; others spoke wonderingly of the night they had just spent when the whole of their past life flashed before them as if on a screen; the wife of the Spanish Republican Minister, by far the most deeply shaken by events, fell upon the Doyen, the Polish Ambassador, and named him as responsible before God for our safety and well-being. It was an interesting study in national types. The Egyptians screamed, the Finns and Norwegians snarled, the Slav belt pulled at one another’s lapels as if they were milking goats. The Greeks made Promethean gestures at everyone. They could afford to take the Balanced View since they had already hired the only six taxis in Zagreb and were offering seats for the return journey at a thousand dinars each.
“One thing emerged clearly from all this. The Corps was in a state of Open Mutiny and would not easily be persuaded to entrain once more with the Brothers Karamazov. The Doyen pleaded in vain. The Italian Ambassadress, who looked as if her anger would succeed in volatilizing her, went so far as to draw up her dress and show the company a bruise inflicted on her during the journey.
“Well, that day most of us spent the time in bed with cold compresses and aspirin. In the evening we attended a performance of the Ballet and a Torchlight Tattoo. Liberation Day was at an end. That night the Doyen convened another meeting in the hotel, at which he harangued us about diplomatic procedure in general and our obligations to the service in particular. In vain. We were determined not to travel back on the Ghost Train. That evening a flock of telegrams fluttered into the Protocol Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs — pleading sudden illness, pressure of work, unforeseen political developments, migraine, influenza, or Events Beyond the Writer’s Control. At dawn a convoy of taxis set out on the homeward track bearing the shattered remnants of the Corps, unshaven, unhonored, but still alive, still breathing.
“In a way I was sorry for the Brothers Karamazov and the Liberation Celebration Machine. God knows, one did not wish them ill. But I must confess I was not surprised to read in the paper a week later that this latest triumph of the Yugoslav Heavy Industry had jumped the points at Slopsy Blob and finished the good work it had begun by carrying away most of the station buildings. No one was hurt. No one ever is in Serbia. Just badly shaken and frightened out of one’s wits. It is all, when you come to think of it, part of the Serbian Way of Life.”