Oliver VII (14 page)

“Your Highness … ” she began, and performed a deep curtsey, as St Germain had just taught her.

The King raised his hands in front of him, like a man warding off an apparition.

“Sensational,” he stammered.

“Well, how do you like it?” she asked.

He continued to stare in astonishment.

“But, you know, it’s perfect. Just perfect.”

“Am I beautiful?”

“They’re so right for you, the make-up, the dress—you must wear them always.”

“What do you think: do I look like her?”

“Until you open your mouth. The moment you speak, the resemblance stops.”

“Really?” Suddenly she looked at him in amazement. “You talk as if … you’ve seen her.”

“Y—yes. I was over there once … she was playing tennis.”

“So. Is she beautiful?”

“It’s a matter of taste.”

Some jealous suspicion had stirred in Marcelle, and his confused answers were simply reinforcing it.

“Tell me, Oscar … tell me: would you rather I were really her?”

“You know I love you just as you are.”

“What am I ‘just as’?”

“For example, as you are now, dressed as Princess Ortrud. That’s how I love you.”

“How much?” she asked coyly.

“So much,” he replied, embracing her and showering her with kisses.

She pulled away, and snapped angrily at him:

“You snake! You lying snob. It isn’t me you love, it’s the princess!”

The King was horrified. She was absolutely right. The thought of Ortrud had been so strong, and so unexpected. He simply did not understand himself. He had always been too busy to realise how attractive she was, from a distance.

“What are you saying?” he asked, appalled. “Do you really think that?”

“Of course,” she replied, and burst into tears. “Oh, Oscar, the moment you saw me in this mascara you looked on me as someone different—someone utterly different. A woman can tell. You’re already bored with me, Oscar! You’d much rather have a real lady! A baroness, or something. You worm!”

“Not in the least,” he lied: “not in the least, my angel. You’re the only one I love. Don’t cry.”

He tried to hold her in his arms and console her, but she pushed him away angrily.

“You liar, you liar! You haven’t been kissing me. Don’t you dare speak to me. I’ve had enough. You can go to the devil. Go to your baroness.”

“Please, Marcelle, this is very important,” he said quietly. “I have to explain something to you … ”

In truth, he would have loved to explain this double
reality to himself, and the whole turmoil of feelings
contending
inside him.

“No explanations! I know how stupid you are. When a man has to ‘explain’ it’s always been worse than you thought.”

“Don’t talk so much, my angel. I really must explain. It’s true I find you attractive in a different way, in all this
make-up
, but … ”

“Oscar!”

“Don’t shout, angel, don’t shout, just for a moment. The reason why I find you so attractive is that you aren’t a real princess, but, well … because you are Marcelle. That is to say, because you are what you are. How the devil can I put this into words? Look, there are umbrellas that look like sticks, yes?”

“So they say.”

“So you see,” he said triumphantly. “There are books that when you open them you find sugar inside, and there are slide rules you can use as thermometers, and there are trouser-braces with compasses in them, so do you now
understand
?”

“Twaddle!”

“You see, there’s nothing more exciting than when you’re one person and also someone else … and you see how
different
the two of them are, and the separate worth of each … ”

“What a lot of twaddle you talk, Oscar!”

“Quite right, Marcelle. Why am I talking so much? When all I want to say, is how horribly much I love you.”

“So why do you still love me?” she asked, nuzzling up close to him.

“I love you because you are such a straightforward girl, I mean about life,” the King said, more to himself than to her. “The other woman, the Princess … would never know how to say ‘twaddle’, especially not in that dress … Please, say it again: ‘twaddle!’” 

“Twaddle,” she replied, in a voice that wavered, full of love.

“You angel!” At that moment he loved her more than ever. But at the same moment he also loved Ortrud more than ever. It was as if she were the one who had said the word ‘twaddle’. It showed her in a completely new light. She was no longer merely the daughter of the Gracious Empress Hermina. She had suddenly acquired the interest, and the mystery, of a woman.

They kissed again.

“Oh, Oscar … if only it were night,” she whispered.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. And then a sudden horror seized him. “Holy God … tonight … ”

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

“Marcelle, tonight is still a long way away … so much could happen before then!”

“Such as?”

“Such as … a serpent rising out of the sea.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Of course not. It’s happened a thousand times in the past, in history.”

He began kissing her with real passion, filled with grief at the approaching separation.

“Let me go, Oscar—you’ve completely ruined my princess face. What’s the matter with you? You were always such a quiet boy … ”

“I had time to spare then. I always believed that I’d start really loving you the next day. But now … ”

He pulled her close once again, and started to kiss her.

Being French, Marcelle liked to talk in moments of passion.

“Oh, Oscar … I love it, you’re like an express train … like a wild sheikh … like a bartender at closing time … ”

At just that moment in came Valmier, in full livery and side whiskers.

“Hey!” he said, and went up to the King, who hadn’t noticed the arrival in the heat of his ardour.

“That’s quite enough, old boy,” he observed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

The King spun round, seized him by the throat, then immediately released him.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “harbinger of the sea serpent.”

“Tell me, girl,” Valmier asked Marcelle: “Does this man pass as normal with you people?”

Then, turning to the King:

“Now, get a move on. Pronto! The boss is calling for you. He wants a word with you right away.”

“Coming,” the King replied. “So then … tonight, Marcelle.”

“Hey, old boy, hang on a sec!” Valmier shouted after him. “Look, you’d better tell St Germain it’s not on.”

“What do you mean? What’s not on?”

“What I said earlier. Just my expenses, my livery, my travel … it’ll cost you people at least three hundred lire.”

“Three hundred?” Marcelle laughed. “You’ll be lucky. There aren’t three hundred lire in the whole building.”

“I don’t care—that’s your problem,” Valmier said,
furiously
. “What a bunch of … And this is what I left the old Yank for!”

“Look, Jean,” Marcelle replied. “Just be a little patient. Tomorrow, money will be raining down on us. Isn’t the name of St Germain good enough, in our line of trade?”

“I’ve heard of better. I think he’s gone a bit senile. Well, old boy, you can tell him that if I don’t get my three hundred lire, I quit.”

Marcelle began to plead with him.

“Jean, you couldn’t leave us in such a fix? Jean—for my sake … !”

“For your sake? Not for yours, or anyone else’s. I’m going on strike. This minute.”

And he ripped off his beard.

“Holy God,” Marcelle shouted. “Oscar, talk to the Count!”

“I’ll send him up straight away,” the King replied, and raced off.

Valmier came up to Marcelle.

“Marcelle, I sent that jerk away so I could ask you: how serious is this thing? Do you really like that puppy?”

Marcelle turned away and replied, almost as if ashamed:

“Well … yes … I do. Why?”

“Rubbish. What do you see in him? He hasn’t got a clue about anything. Uselessness is written all over him. The only thing he’s good for is a fall guy when the cops arrive.”

“Yes, I know. But perhaps that’s just why I love him. You know, he is just a little bit soft in the head. He was going on just now about some serpent from the sea.”

“Marcelle, this whole thing is just wrong for you.”

“I think so, too,” she said, sadly. “He’s starting to get bored with me.”

“So it’s obvious. In your place I wouldn’t wait for the bloke to dump me.”

“And … ?”

“Clear out. Marcelle, this whole thing really isn’t making you happy. There’s going to be a complete smash-up, and we two’ll have the cops round our necks.”

“Nonsense. What makes you think so?”

“You don’t think anyone with any intelligence will believe this chum of yours is a king? This infant? This halfwit? It’s
a joke. The moment your mister claps eyes on this king of yours, the whole thing’ll go up in smoke.”

“You think so?”

“I’d lay good money on it. And then you’ll all be in the nick.”

“My God, and my diamond ring’s gone down the spout.”

“I’m telling you, we’d better get out before it’s too late. Marcelle, come with me. I’ve got this gondolier friend; he’ll take your things to the station.”

“And then what do I do with myself ?”

“Just leave that to me. In Paris you’ll make a pile from this chipmunk from the States. He runs after women like a baby.”

“And Oscar?”

“To hell with Oscar,” Valmier snarled, and drew back. “Aren’t I good enough for you?”

At that moment St Germain came charging in.

“Valmier … get your beard on!” he shouted.

“Well … I haven’t got one … ” Valmier parried.

“You see how it is, Marcelle my girl,” said St Germain in a trembling voice. “You spend your whole life slaving away for your friends, and for your noblest ideals; you put up with the fatigue, the expense, you pour your whole life, night and day, into your work, so that, just when you get to the big moment, everything comes crashing down through the obstructiveness of fools and insignificant layabouts. Like Alexander the Great at the gates of Paradise.”

Deeply moved, Valmier struggled to restore his beard to its proper place.

“Only three hundred lire, boss,” he whined. “Two hundred … ”

“And all this for three hundred piddling lire,” St Germain thundered. “What are you thinking of ? What are three
hundred
lire to St Germain? A grain of sand on the beach; a
single star in the firmament … Marcelle, my dear girl, give this good man fifty lire.”

Her eyes bright with tears, Marcelle took off her shoe, extracted fifty lire, and held it out to Valmier.

“There you are.”

The Major had been waiting patiently, a Baedeker in his hand, studying the hotels and principal sights of Trieste. Finally the King returned. The Major leapt to his feet.

“So we’re off then?”

“So we’re not going, my Milán. We’re staying.”

“But Your Highness!”

“Pardon: ‘old fellow’.”

“As you wish, Your Highness: but why are we staying?”

“Milán, it’s very hard to explain. Whatever else happens, I want to be with Marcelle tonight.”

“But Your Royal Highness, Marcelle will be following us to Trieste … or I just don’t understand. If you will pardon your most loyal subject, Your Highness was never of such a hot-blooded nature … and women, if I might say so, never influenced your decisions before. So why now?”

“You are right, Milán. You know me well. It’s not really about my wanting to spend another night with Marcelle. This is something entirely different. The fact is, if I left now, I’d feel my love for Ortrud so strongly I might do something insane. For all I know, I’m quite capable of taking up the throne again to marry her. And that I really do not want. Only Marcelle can cure me of this madness.”

“This is terrible,” the Major agreed. “You’ve never suffered from romantic complications before. But just think, Your Highness, what will happen if we stay. This afternoon you
will have to negotiate with Coltor. You will have to act as if you’re Oliver VII, former King of Alturia, even though you really are him. How can you get out of such an impossible situation? It makes a man’s brain seize up … ”

“Trust me, Milán.”

“Does Your Highness have a plan?”

“No. Not exactly. But I’ll get by somehow. I shall trust to the spur of the moment, and our Alturian talent for
conspiracy
. I got out of a far more difficult situation: being king.”

“But Your Highness, we cannot afford to take risks … ”

“Leave it, Major.” This was said in an altogether different tone, altogether more aloof.

Hearing it, the Major stiffened to attention and stood
staring
in undisguised wonder at the King. This commanding presence was not something he was much used to.

“A king’s fate can be decided only by a king, Major. When I need to, I will make the decisions. Thank you, Major.”

The Major stood at ease.

“Now let’s go and have a well-earned lunch.”

St Germain had been right: there are always traitors,
everywhere
: as many traitors as there are people. Every one of Coltor’s secretaries had been hand-picked, not just for ability, but for their loyalty. Nonetheless, among them was a traitor.

The moment this person—whose name is of little
importance
to our story—knew that Coltor had made contact with Oliver VII, he immediately passed what had happened on to Harry Steel, the world-renowned reporter from the
New York Times
, who happened just then to be in Venice. Steel, who had been the Alturian correspondent at the time of the
revolution
and had ever since been regarded as America’s leading
expert on that country, received the news in understandable excitement. He had instantly written the man a substantial dollar cheque, and was now calling him up every hour for further revelations.

But this wasn’t enough, and he set off to discover more
himself
. He looked round the Lido, and wherever people
congregate
in Venice, hoping to come upon someone or something. He was a man whose industry knew no bounds. This was the reporter who had, on one ill-advised occasion, interviewed a terrified Russian Tsar just minutes after a bomb attack.