Cambridge Spies - Guernica
It was not yet nine o’ clock and Kim Philby was already working himself into a temper.
“Have you read the Times today?” He demanded as he stormed into the kitchen – to the world at large or to Anthony sitting at the table, it was difficult to tell – shirt and trousers clearly barely thrown on. “The Munich Pact. Chamberlain is paying off Hitler with the freedom of Czechoslovakia and they make it sound like a bloody peace agreement.”
“Yes, I saw it.” Anthony stood up from the table suddenly, but Kim didn’t even notice.
“This is what this damn country wastes its time with. Settlements, discussions, compromises - anything that means that, if it comes to it, someone else can die to keep us safe. And he calls it ‘Peace in our time.’” He paused and looked up from his tirade, seemingly for the first time noticing that Anthony was engrossed in putting on his coat. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“No, sorry.” Anthony finally looked up with a halfhearted smile. “I read the article. We knew it was coming, Kim.” He put on his hat. “I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“There’s a new Picasso on display.”
Kim just stared at him. “You’re joking. This isn’t the time-”
“Turn the page.”
Anthony disappeared out the door even as Kim reluctantly did so, his eyes immediately falling on an announcement for the arrival in London of a new painting by the Spanish artist. The artist’s name meant nothing to him, but he immediately recognized the piece’s title – Guernica.
***
Despite the fact that the exhibition room had to be large enough to hold the massive masterpiece of modern art, it was surprisingly packed with people by the time Blunt arrived. And though he was pressed to the back of the room, he knew it was a lucky thing – if not seen, the (supposedly) arch-conservative member of MI5 and intellectual would not have to explain his presence at the British unveiling of the most controversial and anti-war painting of the decade, if not the century so far. Known art critic or not, he was taking a risk being here, one that would have surprised if not disappointed his friends.
God, but it was worth it, though. Anthony sat on the bench in the back of the room and let his gaze flow methodically over the gigantic mural, piece by piece, figure by figure.
Eventually the crowd began to thin as the first wave of critics, enthusiasts, reporters, and curious onlookers dissipated, but Anthony stayed where he was, his expression unreadable as he continued to study the painting.
“Dear God.” The surprised, familiar voice interrupted the silence that had fallen on the exhibition room. “It really was like that. It was just like that.” Anthony looked up with a smile that was small, but no less genuine, as Kim moved from the doorway and came to join him on the bench, the usually bold charmer struck dumb by the sprawling painting’s raw depiction of the blood and destruction he had seen with his own eyes only a year passed.
For a long moment, the two sat there in silence, but then Blunt spoke. “You see, Kim,” he began quietly, “this is exactly the time. For those who were /not/ there, for those who read an article by a Times correspondent telling them ‘the Reds did it themselves,’ with their morning tea and nodded contentedly along.” Even thought Anthony’s eyes were still on the painting, Kim could not help but feel like his friend’s cool gaze was boring into his skull. “We do what we must,” he added, perhaps trying to soften the blow, “but they – artists, playwrights, poets – have a roll to play as well, perhaps a more important one. A more sacred one, no doubt.”
Anthony stood then, hands clasping smartly behind his back. As he took a few steps towards the painting, Kim almost wondered if Blunt had forgotten that he was no longer alone. Anthony had never spoken to Kim about his academic pursuits, and Kim had far too little interest in art to ask. He had never seen the other man, almost always icily calm, so concentrated, his intensity as he studied the painting etched in every line of his back. Blunt’s mention of poets, though, had sparked something in Kim’s mind.
“I buried his picture there.”
Startled out of his reverie, Anthony glanced briefly over his shoulder. “Hm?”
“Julian Bell’s. Guy… He brought it with him and asked me to bury it. When I was there with the Times… It seemed only appropriate. The least I could do.”
Anthony’s face was turned away from him again, and there was not a twitch, not the smallest movement in carriage of his shoulders that might have indicated an emotional reaction to the news. “Ah.” There was a long pause, and then Anthony began walking again towards the far wall where the mural hung. “Some, many, are even now saying that this modern art, Picasso’s cubism and the like, are not truly art, but mindless scribbles. They say that human emotion is woefully caricatured and beauty forgotten if the painting is not realistic. How, I might ask them, would they have depicted this scene? A charming, perfectly drawn, Basque village with Nazi planes flying overhead? A charred home, a dead child that they might have as easily found in any newspaper photograph, if the photographers were brave enough to take it? They would have not wanted it at all, most likely – God forbid art actually have the potential to move someone.” Anthony’s tone had actually risen a fraction, but then it was calm again. “No, no, this is better.” For a moment he reached out a hand to trace one of painting’s figures, the crying mother with her dead child, in the air, and then he finally turned around to face the other man. “Yes, appropriate. Julian would have appreciated it. Thank you.” And Kim could have sworn he actually saw something flicker in Anthony’s eyes.
“Come on,” Anthony continued, “Donald will be wondering where we are, and Guy will be drunk before noon if no one’s there to stop him.” He smiled slightly and nodded his head towards the door.
They were silent, both their thoughts elsewhere and their expressions unreadable as they walked out into the September sunshine.