The Bergström case needed no introduction. Bergström was a Swedish businessman who had been accused of selling war munitions to the Germans. It would have been perfectly admissible for a businessman from a neutral country, but since Bergström had business dealings with England he had always denied dealing with the Central Powers. Bergström was a very well known man in the more frivolous parts of London, rich, young, attractive and famous for his private parties. That such a man could fall into disgrace was a scandal that went from espionage to high politics, and all wrapped up with a patina of glamour. Which is to say, the Times of Britain’s speciality. As for Marcus, Hardlington summed it up somewhat laconically.
‘Mr Garvey is a secondary character in a strange story set in the Congo.’
‘No, no!’ I protested, from behind my load.
No one had given me permission to sit, and my arms began to tire under the weight of the files. But I had to defend Marcus.
‘Garvey is the main character of a universal epic! His story deserves an entire issue of the Times of Britain!’
‘Which of the two stories has more human interest?’ the editor asked.
‘Both,’ said Hardlington, ‘but Bergström’s is more patriotic. It’s a financial scandal with military implications. Thanks to the intervention of the Home Office it has been discovered that the Swede had double-dealings. And I’m quite sure he’s a Jew …’ He very enthusiastically raised his fist and stated, ‘The boys in the Home Office are true heroes!’
‘But, Mr Editor, sir!’ I permitted myself to intervene. ‘Heroism isn’t a question of numbers, it’s a question of generosity. And Marcus is a unique hero.’
‘A hero,’ said the editor, intrigued. ‘I like heroes.’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Garvey saved all of humanity!’
‘Humanity all over the world? He’s saved the lives of every person in this world?’ He shifted his cigar with an ironic look at Hardlington and asked, ‘My mother-in-law’s as well?’
Hardlington didn’t get the joke. And I couldn’t laugh, because I was on the point of collapse. But while Hardlington pondered whether or not Marcus had saved the editor’s mother-in-law or not, I took advantage of the pause to say, ‘Bergström is just a Swedish millionaire who is a victim of circumstances.’ Speaking required superhuman effort. ‘But Garvey is an anonymous hero. Unlike today’s heroes he didn’t become one by eliminating a nest of machine-guns. He’s a hero because he sacrificed his happiness in exchange for the world’s freedom.’
‘That’s good, that’s good,’ said the editor, shaking one hand im patiently. ‘But which story has more sex? Bergström’s or Garvey’s?’
‘Both of them!’ I shouted. I was folding like a human leaning Tower of Pisa but I managed to declare, ‘But in Marcus’s story, there is love too.’
‘Love!’ exclaimed the editor. ‘I like it. Love sells a lot of papers. Make it Garvey.’
I heard him and I collapsed. The muscles in my arms slackened like springs. All the files scattered on the ground, and I fell on top of them like onto a mattress of paper. The pile was so big that the editor hadn’t even seen my face. He didn’t recognise me until that moment.
‘Oh, Thomson, it’s you, the shell-less turtle lad,’ he said bending down a little. ‘How’s the work suiting you?’
The Times of Britain wasn’t the first newspaper to cover the Garvey case, not even the first weekly. But it was one of the first that took a position that was devoid of all nuance. The Times of Britain’s business consisted in offering straightforward stories of good guys and bad guys. It wasn’t about generating debate, just about provoking emotion. And in that case the victim, naturally, was Marcus. For once sensationalism allied itself with the truth. Well, that’s not entirely true either. When the Times of Britain published headlines announcing that ‘The British people clamour desperately for Marcus Garvey’s freedom’ what it meant was that the Times of Britain clamoured desperately for Garvey’s freedom. Or more accurately, that the Times of Britain hoped to sell many copies clamouring desperately for Marcus Garvey’s freedom.
A self-perpetuating circuit was soon established: the book sold copies of newspapers and magazines like the Times of Britain, and reading the Times of Britain sold more books. Working in a newspaper room allowed me to gauge the direction of changing public opinion. On one hand, the Times of Britain wanted to know which way public opinion was leaning (in order to sell more copies). On the other hand, it was clear that the Times of Britain collaborated in creating that very same public opinion (due to the fact that people read the Times of Britain).
One day two letters arrived from readers interested in Garvey. Another day three more. On another not a single one, but on the day after five very indignant ones. The following week, a journalist who worked for the competition showed up, a friend of mine and of the other writers at the paper, and told us that they too were going to do a special issue dedicated to the Garvey case. And on another day one of the most prestigious columnists of one of the most prestigious papers in the country dedicated his space to the Garvey case.
All of that made me happy. But if that was the case, if the echo was extending and as a result many copies of the book were being sold, what was the publishing house waiting for? Why hadn’t they brought out the second edition with Norton’s note? Two more weeks passed without any news, and I could only say to myself, ‘Norton has tricked me again.’ Because it was clear that the Garvey story exceeded the limits of our modest editorial staff. Those days I was able to get away from Hardlington, at least for brief periods, attending the Army’s press conferences as a Times of Britain journalist, which were so tedious that no one ever wanted to go to them. Until one day, when I came back to the newsroom after attending one of those informative meetings, and found myself in an unusual situation.
The editor was running crazily through the newsroom with one hand raised showing a book’s spine.
‘Listen up!’ he said, his favourite war cry. And then, ‘We have to change the headline!’
I had never seen the editor out of his seat. I’ve already mentioned that he resembled a giant toad, always embedded in his chair, but once out of it he moved with the agility of a hippopotamus out of water: as quickly as possible so that he could get back to his natural element. The comings and goings of that man had turned the newsroom into a henhouse. Without taking the cigar out of his mouth he bellowed, ‘The second edition has appeared of that book about the gypsy who gets it on with the albino girl!’
‘I completely agree, Mr Editor, sir!’ Hardlington hastened to second, trotting behind him. He was a man who was ill accustomed to physical exercise and he ran raising his knees very high. ‘That book is a very, very important work of British literature and it deserves a thousand editorials in the Times of Britain!’
‘Idiot! Who cares about literature?’ shouted the editor without stopping. His gaze found me, and he came closer. ‘It turns out that the author is an employee of the Times of Britain! Did you hear me?’ and rotating his neck on its axis, accusing everyone and no one, ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? I had to find out from my wife, who wastes her time going to coffee mornings.’ And pointing with his cigar towards the machines: ‘Write this down. Headline with lettering in Imperial font: THE AUTHOR OF THE STORY OF MARCUS GARVEY IS AN EMPLOYEE OF THE Times of Britain. Smaller line below: THE Times of Britain CONTINUES TO DEMAND MARCUS GARVEY’S IMMEDIATE RELEASE.’
Then he turned to me and said, ‘Thomson, my boy, why didn’t you tell us?’
The editor handed the book over to me as everyone watched expectantly. It was the second edition. The author’s name read Thomas Thomson. And on the first page Norton had added the note we had agreed on. He’d had been true to his word.
After me, the person most affected by the news was, naturally, Mr Hardlington. If someone had touched him with a finger in that instant he would have collapsed like a statue made of sand. I had never seen anyone so stunned. His lower lip hung down to his c
hin. That shred of shiny red flesh was the most repugnant and obscene thing I had ever seen. It is the only time in my life that I wanted to laugh and throw up at the same time.
The editor put an arm over my shoulder and introduced me to the entire staff, as if we had never met. When we got to Hardlington, who was frozen to the spot, I was afraid he might have a heart attack right there. But I was too worried to think about revenge. The very next day Marcus’s trial was set to begin, and I took advantage of the editor’s public euphoria to ask him for a few days off.
‘Of course!’ he conceded. ‘Well, before you go someone will have to interview you. But what the hell! Why should we waste our time? Truth is, since I founded the Times of Britain we haven’t published a single interview without rewriting it from top to bottom. You go ahead and come back when you feel like it. I’ll do the interview myself.’
I went to the prison as fast as I could, with the intention of giving Marcus support, even though I was convinced they wouldn’t let me see him, especially without my legal pass. Luckily that day Long Back was in a good mood and he was very genial with me.
‘Ah, Mr Thomson!’ he said. ‘That’s strange. You and Mr Norton don’t usually coincide. Well, I’m sure Garvey can handle two visitors at once.’
It was weird seeing them together. The truth is neither of them paid much attention to me. They were busy preparing for the trial. They looked like a theatre director and a lead actor during a dress rehearsal. Norton, who had taken off his jacket, was standing beside Garvey and pointing his finger at his nose vigorously.
‘If someone in court says something funny, don’t be the first one to laugh. Wait until laughter breaks out in general, just in case. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Marcus submissively.
‘Don’t lower your gaze, they’ll think you are hiding something. Don’t ever look at the ceiling, they’ll think you’re lying. When in doubt, buy time. How? With some candid, sad gesture. The judge must think that he has someone in front of him who’s incapable of insulting a dog. Do you think you can give that image?’
‘Well … no … I … never …’ faltered Marcus.
‘Perfect!’ said Norton. ‘Like that, just like that! Rehearse that gesture as much as you can.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
GARVEY’S TRIAL HAD CREATED a buzz of anticipation. Perhaps because it was one of the first cases of the twentieth century where justice and heroism intersected. The journalist the Times of Britain had sent, a real veteran, was astonished by the crowd of his colleagues. He told me that in the military press conference where the Somme offensive had been announced there were thirty-eight journalists. And there were already almost fifty covering the Garvey case. It’s difficult to know whether that audience was drawn by the literary Marcus or the martyr Marcus. In any case, the room was filled to overflowing. Luckily I had had the foresight to show up an hour early. Even still, and although the room held about five hundred people, I was among the last few to be admitted and I had to sit at the back, very close to the door. At least that allowed me a small pleasure: when they brought Marcus into the courtroom, shackled and escorted by two guards, I was able to greet him briefly.
‘Don’t worry, Marcus!’ I said, grasping his hand in mine. ‘Everything will work out fine, have faith in Norton!’
The guards didn’t let me retain him much longer. Maybe it was better that way. I am one of those men whose voices catch when they get emotional, and my words convey more concern than hope.
Now I understood the scope of the strategy that Norton had explained to me. The public wanted Marcus’s freedom. And popular indignation was not a force to be trifled with. But in that first session it was also made clear that we had to fight against immensely powerful forces.
In the first place, the setting itself. The judge, the wigs, the red and black gowns, the ornate mahogany furniture. It was all done on a scale designed to reduce human beings to insects. And when the prosecutor stood up, when he pointed at Marcus Garvey with his finger and accused him of murder in the name of the British Crown, at that moment my heart shrank to the size of a little cherry. And if I was so affected, imagine poor Marcus. He seemed smaller than ever. From where I was sitting I could only see the nape of his neck. It was as if he had been plugged into an electrical current: his hairs were standing on end so that they looked like the spines of a sea urchin. The entire weight of the British Empire was falling onto one man.
At the beginning of his speech the prosecutor was restrained. But his tone rose progressively. And through it he expressed a righteous fury. He described Marcus as a vile creature, a treacherous snake, a monster unworthy of belonging to the human race. When he asked for the gallows there was silence throughout the courtroom. The five hundred people present all inhaled at the same time.
But while Marcus and I were being exposed to the legal universe for the first time, it was Edward Norton’s preferred territory. I can still see him now, erect, calm and resolute, his bald head hidden underneath the white wig. The prosecutor’s speech had been firm and ponderous. Norton, on the other hand, limited himself to the following words. I remember each and every one.
‘Mr Garvey is innocent. And at the end of this trial we will have destroyed all the rational elements that could lead one to think the contrary. Mr Garvey is innocent. And he is a hero. At the end of this trial we will have shown all the evidence necessary to prove that.’
I think with that brief statement Norton won half of the trial. His tone was so deliberate, so sure of the truth that it pronounced, and so detached from the prosecutor’s emotional incitement, that any neutral spectator would have tended to lean towards Garvey.
They took many days to call Marcus to the stand. When he finally moved, he dragged his legs exaggeratedly, making his defect seem worse. I knew that those little legs were short and that the knees didn’t work well. I knew that when Marcus walked, his body moved as if his kneecaps were defective pistons. But I also knew that he was exaggerating. And it was a good thing he did.
The prosecutor began his interrogation. I don’t remember the question. I remember Marcus looking from one side to the other, as if he was searching for protection, and that little gypsy, who was accused of two heinous murders, surprised everyone with an incredibly polite tone of voice, saying, ‘Pardon. Would you be so kind as to repeat the question?’
And I, who knew from personal experience the effect of that hesitant gaze, could only think: ‘Bravo!’
The prosecutor hadn’t gauged well enough the magnitude of the opposition he was up against. In the first stage of the trial Norton kept himself to a strategy of containment. It was as if all the efforts of the prosecution came up against an unexpected wall that diluted any incriminating argument. That human breakwater was Edward Norton. During the first days he demolished each and every piece of evidence against Marcus. He did it methodically, with a premeditated slowness, as if he enjoyed murdering the hopes of his adversary. Then he entered into a more languid phase.
It is remarkable the amount of insignificant things involved in a trial. Trials, even the most spectacular, are essentially mind- numbing. Most of the sessions are devoted to completely dull pro cedural minutiae, at least for those of us who aren’t versed in legal matters. During the second week the room emptied. All those who had no direct relationship with the cause stopped coming, waiting for the most decisive days. On the eighth day, there was almost no one left in the room. I only stuck it out in solidarity with Marcus. I remember that one day the prosecutor referred to the Duke of Craver. I felt a lump in my throat, as if I had swallowed a piece of meat the wrong way. I thought of him and his robust stature. He had been a great man and had died a year ago. In that endurance test that the Garvey case had become, he was one of the victims that fell by the wayside. Maybe it was better that way. Whatever the results of the trial, the book’s success had condemned his sons in a parallel trial that he could never win.
On the eighth day I was sittin
g in one of the front rows, closer than ever. Since I was very close to the bench, I made sure to cover my mouth with my hand. But I only managed to draw more attention to my yawns that way. At one point I turned half my body to hide from the judge’s condemning gaze.
The rows of wooden benches behind me were practically empty. There must have been, at most, ten people. Some of them were completely uninterested in the trial, like the fifty-year-old woman who brazenly crocheted. The light in the room was reduced to a sad penumbra. On the ceiling, high above, there were large glass skylights designed to allow in natural light. A very praiseworthy intention on the architect’s part, but he hadn’t taken British clouds into account. There I was, trying to stifle a yawn while mulling over the architecture and flagging attendance, when I saw her.
It was her. In the last row, very close to the exit. Even seated, her body rose practically to the height of the porter who was standing next to her. She was severely dressed as before, with that thick black veil over her face.
I was frozen in shock. But that was to my benefit, since my immobility gave me a few extra seconds to think. Instead of rushing to her wildly, this time, I decided to move slowly to the side aisle, where the darkness was even denser. Once I was there I stayed tight against the wall and moved discreetly among the shadows. But I realised that the veiled face was turning a few degrees. She had located me. I was sure that behind the black cloth two eyes scrutinised each and every one of my movements. I decided to stop. ‘It’s impossible that she’s seen me,’ I said to myself. ‘Not for someone with the pupils of a cat,’ I replied to myself. I took a step forward. In response, she stood up, but didn’t move. I understood that she had established a safe distance. If I didn’t respect it, she would disappear. What could I do? Not much. I put my hands together as if praying, begging her with that silent gesture not to run from me, that I didn’t want to harm her. With one hand I wrote in the air with an invisible pencil. I was trying to tell her: I am the author of the book, I understand it better than anyone else. Behind me Norton was speaking to the court. I don’t know what he was saying, I didn’t care either. I made a small bow with my head, and then took a step. She remained immobile. I took two steps. She turned and left the room.