Oliver VII (8 page)

“Perfectly,” Sandoval replied, with a smile.

“I knew you would. Now, I’m sorry I can’t give you an advance for your part in the business. Just at the moment I don’t have sufficient funds with me. The high calling in which I labour has made serious inroads on my fortune. You
understand
me of course, young man?”

“Perfectly,” Sandoval answered, with a smile.

“I knew you would. And I can pay you only if our plans succeed, that is to say, if the American hands over the cash. But in that case I won’t in the least grudge your two hundred lire, since you seem such a thoroughly sympathetic young man.”

“Excuse me, it was three hundred lire!” Sandoval shouted furiously. He was now fully into his role.

“So, let’s say three hundred, then. The reason I’m being so generous is that I want to keep you interested should any future projects arise. And, now that we have understood one another so splendidly, I must ask you to make a start on the work. I don’t wish to press you, young man, but I’d be obliged if you could complete the masterpiece within three days.”

Sandoval felt like a man into whose hand God had placed the trumpet of Joshua. He knew that by doing the picture
he would sooner or later gain a full insight into the plans of the fugitive, self-banished king, which at present remained so totally obscure. He set about his task, and worked away diligently at his Titian masterpiece, without anything
particularly
memorable happening in the gloom of the bogus palazzo. He encountered no one but Honoré, and from him he learnt nothing of interest.

But as night fell on the evening of the second day, he packed up his things and, quite ‘by chance’, did not go back down the way he had come but got himself lost in the
complicated
layout of the house. He ended up in an unlit room, and was just about to open the door into the next when he heard the sound of conversation coming from it. The
speakers
’ voices were very familiar. One he recognised as
belonging
to Mawiras-Tendal, and the other … the other speaker, beyond the shadow of a doubt, could only have been the ex-King.

Sandoval’s heart was beating wildly. This was a chance he could not let slip. He instantly sank down into an armchair and closed his eyes. Anyone opening the door would think he had been sleeping there for some time. But the room was dark, and he reckoned he wouldn’t be seen.

“I beg you, my dear Milán,” the King was saying, “it really is about time you gave up this aide-de-camp manner. You’ve stopped calling me ‘Your Royal Highness’ half the time, thank God, but that’s precisely why now, when you say ‘old chap’, it sounds as if you were piling every one of my titles back onto me. Don’t forget, I am simple Oscar now.”

“In that case, old man,” the Major replied, audibly
suffering
, like a man forced to swallow some bitter mouthful, “permit me to voice a few concerns.”

“Let’s hear them,” the King answered reluctantly. “All I ask is that you don’t talk to me about the situation in Alturia. I’ve
had it up to the neck. I don’t dare to pick up a newspaper any more. These poor revolutionaries! That poor Delorme! But what can any of us do without money? It’s terrible.”

“That not what I want to talk about.”

“All right, then. What?”

“I would like to draw your attention to the fact that Count Antas is on holiday here in Venice.”

“Ah, the old idiot! Luckily he’s no concern of ours any more.”

“Not entirely. Tell me, er … old chap,” he enunciated painfully, “what would happen if he, or anyone else, were to recognise you in your present—in our present—situation?”

“In the first place, they wouldn’t recognise me, because I’ve cut off my moustache and side whiskers—they really made me stand out—and now I look like someone else; in fact, just like anyone else. And what, pray, is your objection to our present situation?”

“Well, you know … ”

“I don’t know! We’re South American planters. Perhaps that’s not a good enough occupation?”

“A good occupation? Thank you very much. It was a real idiot who gave Your High … you … that idea, my dear fellow. The moment we said we were planters people became
suspicious
. It’s why St Germain’s lot decided straight away that we were con men.”

“So then?”

“Well, so there was no point, if I might express myself freely, old fellow” (in his mind’s eye Sandoval could see Mawiras-Tendal making a bow each time he mouthed “old fellow”) “in your making up that long story … ”

“What ‘long story’?”

“Well, how you diddled twenty-four locomotives out of that American railroad king.”

“Look, my dear Milán, everyone shows off when he finally gets to meet the girl he’s been skulking after for days. When I realised what line of trade Marcelle’s lot were in, I thought a story like that might be just the thing to help establish a good working relationship with them.”

“I was just amazed that that old fox St Germain actually believed we were, er … in the same line of business.”

“It’s really strange; but you see, he did believe me. And that’s the thing. For once in my crummy life something came off.”

“But that’s precisely why we shouldn’t form that sort of casual connection with these people. I mean, the fact is, we have ended up as … members of a gang.”

“And so? At least that way I’ll really get to see life from below. That’s what I’ve always wanted … and besides, I’ll be able to be with Marcelle all the time.”

“But I’m sorry, that situation has certain practical
consequences
, which do you no credit and could easily put you in danger. While I fully acknowledge Mlle Marcelle’s feminine charms, and respect the intimate relationship between you two, I really can’t approve, for example, of the fact that we have accepted money from St Germain. It’s awkward, to put it mildly.”

“You can rest assured that I’ll give him all his money back, down to the last centesimo. But until then, we do have to take it, or Marcelle will become suspicious.”

“We really must get away from Venice, before some really serious danger arises, some huge scandal that will hit the whole of Europe. Just think what would happen if word got out that the former monarch of Alturia had become a … con-man.”

“Now please, Milán, you always look on the dark side of things. You know perfectly well I have managed so far to steer
clear of anything that might be called confidence trickery. But every woman calls for some small sacrifice.”

For a while nothing more was said. Sandoval could hear the sound of footsteps. It seemed the King was striding up and down the room. Finally, he spoke again.

“No, my dear Milán, there’s no question of my leaving, now that I’m at last beginning to enjoy myself. You won’t
understand
this, because you were never a king. If I don’t keep all that firmly behind me, I will never get to know life.”

“Your Highness … I mean, my dear fellow … I can to some extent understand what you’re saying, though for my own part I have never wanted to get to know ‘life’ better. I always had too much to do. What I don’t understand is why you insist on this particular version of it. What makes you think that the Lido, and its idlers roasting themselves black in the sun, and this ancient Venice—something that escaped from a museum in an unguarded moment—and above all, this particular bunch of swindlers, are its true
representatives
?”

“Why? I’ve never given it thought, it all seems so natural to me. What would you consider real life, Milán?”

“Only something that would involve serious work. The military life, if that were at all possible. In your situation … our situation … I would propose serving in the Turkish army … where a chap can still find things to do.”

“Perhaps. I think of life quite differently. Somehow I have always believed that the real test of life was uncertainty. Perhaps that is why I have always been so deeply drawn to Venice. Here, the whole city is like a theatrical backdrop: at times it even seems to wobble, and you never feel quite sure that the whole thing won’t have been whisked away by the morning. Believe me, Milán, this is life. The life of St Germain. This is real uncertainty, from one day to the next.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll be rolling in money; and maybe we won’t have enough to eat. Without that level of uncertainty … you might as well be a king. But that sort of certainty I absolutely do not want. Holy God! To put that appalling marshal’s greatcoat on again! My worthy cousin Clodia can rule in my place, to the very end.”

Sandoval’s instinct whispered to him that the dialogue was coming to an end. Besides, he had learnt quite enough. He got up and tiptoed out. But he wrote no report to Princess Clodia about what he had heard, not that day or the next. Some feeling, very hard to define, held him back. Perhaps it was the solidarity of artistic minds.

Two days later the painting was ready. Sandoval made his way down to the ground floor and there, in the great room facing out onto the street, he found Mawiras-Tendal and Honoré. He told them he had finished, and that it needed only to dry.

“You don’t say—finished already?” Honoré gloated. “God knows what sort of rubbish you’ve painted.”

“What do you expect, for what you’ve paid me so far … ”

“Ja, ja, just you be quiet. I’ll go and call the old man.”

Sandoval and the Major were left alone. The Major
suddenly
bent over to catch the painter’s ear.

“St Germain is just now with a mutual acquaintance of ours, His Highness King Oliver VII … you met him one memorable evening in Lara. The King is living under the strictest incognito. Certain higher purposes have induced him to form a connection with St Germain, strange as that may sound. In the interest of those purposes—which I’m sorry I’m not in a position to disclose—it’s very important
that we don’t give the secret away in front of St Germain, who has no idea of the King’s true identity. I already know, from experience back home, that we can trust you absolutely. So, don’t show you recognise him.”

The next moment the King entered. St Germain greeted the painter affably and introduced him to the King, whom he referred to simply as Monsieur Oscar. He appeared not to consider him anyone special. The King seemed to know who Sandoval was and half-closed an eye, with ironic significance, in his direction. Then they all went up together to look at the painting.

St Germain immersed himself for some time in the
contemplation
of Sandoval’s masterpiece, then he turned to the King:

“What do you say to that, my dear Oscar?”

The King tilted his head back and gazed thoughtfully at the picture, before murmuring:

“Hm. Yes.”

“You see, what I really like about you,” said the Count, “is the way you always express yourself so clearly and decisively, like a man used to giving orders.”

Then he turned to the painter.

“My friend Oscar is a leading expert in the field of art. In his youth, if I am informed correctly, he was an errand boy in a large Parisian tailoring firm. He finds that the picture will do for our purposes. Of course it would be impossible to take him in—he saw immediately that it wasn’t a real Titian: at best, the work of a pupil. But this Mr Eisenstein, the simple-minded Yankee we’re dealing with, lacks the refinement to understand these things. My dear young friend, you may consider the picture as sold. Which, if I might set modesty aside, is no slight honour for you. If a St Germain buys a picture … What’s more, if certain very short-term
considerations didn’t preclude, I’d pay you right now. However, I must ask you to be patient for a little while. You can be quite certain that your patience will be rewarded. Now, my friends, comes the conclusion of the business. Bring this shady American, this Mr Eisenstein, to me.”

“Excuse me, Count,” said Sandoval, “but the picture will need at least three days to dry.”

“No need, my young friend. In the possession of my
illustrious
family is a unique process for treating paintings. It must be applied to the canvas while still wet: it will give it a patina several centuries old, and dry it at the same time.”

Honoré and Oscar (as we must call our King, for the sake of brevity and a million other reasons) had over the past few days been progressively initiating Mr Eisenstein into the mystery of the painting. First, they revealed only that they had discovered some very interesting pictures in the palazzo of an impoverished old Marchese. Eisenstein showed an immediate interest, but was then told that the old man was very wary and would not allow foreigners into his home. For some time that seemed to be that. Then they brought news that they now suspected that one of the Marchese’s pictures was a real Titian. Next they claimed that certain experts had studied it, and finally they showed him a
certificate
drawn up by an eminent authority. (That revealed just how far St Germain’s contacts extended: in Italy anything was possible before the war.) Their handling of the situation made Eisenstein more and more excited, not least because not a word was mentioned of business. There was no talk of the picture being for sale; in fact, whenever he did show an interest of that sort they replied that they thought it unlikely that the old Marchese would allow it out of his collection. Then, very gradually, they consented to try and establish if the old chap would be willing to receive Eisenstein, so
that he could at least view the masterpiece. The time finally agreed was that afternoon.

“My young friend,” the Count said to Sandoval, “I should like it very much if you were to be present at today’s
memorable
meeting. In your own interests, of course. Because when you next see me, as the proud but feeble-minded Italian grandee, it will be something rather special. And you can also help us sell the picture. You could chip in with the usual agreeably persuasive painterly art-historical mumbo jumbo. I like having people play the expert in all my ventures. It’s so much more stylish.”

Sandoval willingly agreed.

“All I would ask … ” St Germain continued, “ … is that, while in your role, you try to look like a reasonably elegant gentleman—shall we say, like an art dealer rather than a painter. The Eisensteins of this world don’t think of painters as looking like you, and we have to use whatever means are suited to the taste and level of understanding of our clients. If you will allow me, I shall make you up accordingly.”