Territorial Rights

by Muriel Spark

  The waiter gave thought to these questions, screwing up his eyes. ‘He’s left his hotel,’ Curran said, ‘and we don’t know where he is.’

  ‘I saw him …’ said the waiter. ‘Oh, yes, it was Thursday, our day of rest, We close on Thursdays. I was out where did I see him? He was … yes, outside the church of the Santa Maria Formosa, talking to some people. I greeted him as I was passing. I remember he turned and saw me and said “Buon giorno”, that’s all. It was about midday on Thursday last.’

  ‘The people he was with, who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know who they were, but I think Italians, Venetians, not tourists. There was a middle-aged man and a young woman.’

  ‘The man rather short and the girl a bit taller, with long blonde hair?’ Curran said.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I think so.’

  ‘Well,’ said Curran, to Mary, ‘that brings us up to Thursday, anyway. Let’s order our lunch.’

  When the waiter had gone Mary said, ‘Who are the people Robert was talking to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Curran. ‘But I saw them several times following Lina, then they started following Lina and Robert together. I thought it was Lina they were after.’

  ‘You know,’ said Mary, much revived by a few sips of the wine Curran had poured out for her, ‘you are making my holiday, Curran.’

  But Curran wasn’t thinking of her holiday. ‘He was seen talking to these people on Thursday at noon,’ he said, ‘And he didn’t go back to the hotel on Thursday night. I hope he’s not going to make a damn nuisance of himself. I hope he isn’t up to something.’

  As soon as they entered the hall of the Pensione Sofia, Katerina said, ‘Curran, there’s a letter addressed to you. Someone left it on the desk.’

  The envelope was typed. Curran looked at it before he opened it, and said, ‘Who left it?’

  Katerina said, ‘I don’t know. Eufemia and I weren’t here.’ Curran realised as she spoke that Katerina was agitated and was doing her best to conceal it; after all, he had known Katerina for a long time. He opened the letter. It was typed:

  Curran, you’re making a fool of yourself going round Venice in that company. The blonde is a husband-poisoner. You have been going around enquiring for me. Your sweet old friends Katerina and Eufemia are advised not to inform the police of my disappearance. Side-effects might ensue such as exhumations, etc., etc. From there would follow the implications that touch on your complicity. Collect my things from my room in the Pensione Sofia. You are to pack them yourself and keep them in some safe place. I have been kidnapped. You are to pay the ransom. My custodians will be in touch with you by telephone. Tell everyone only that you have had a letter from me to say I have gone for a trip to an undisclosed destination, that I don’t want to be followed, that I don’t want to be looked for. Prepare the money. It has to be a lot, I warn you. Several million dollars. They know everything. As I do. When I am released, I can promise you that it is over between us. It will be goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,

  Robert

  The signature was Robert’s or very like it. But Curran spent no time studying this or any other detail. He folded the letter and put it in his inner pocket. Mary had sat down and was attempting to make conversation with Katerina, who stood by, fidgeting with the edge of her pullover and watching Curran eagerly. ‘Isn’t it peculiar,’ said Mary in a voice which was rather shrill in an effort to make herself understood to someone not English, ‘how the beauty, the great beauty, of Venice simply changes when one has some worry on one’s mind. Take this morning, for instance, when we were looking high and low for this young man, Robert, it wasn’t so enchanting as it was the other mornings when I went for walks in Venice. The beauty simply—’

  ‘It’s from Robert,’ Curran announced. ‘He’s all right. He got a friend to drop the letter in; very obliging of him. He asks me to pay the bill and collect his belongings. So that’s what I’ll do, Katerina.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s the best. I can get that done for you right away. Eufemia said she hoped we wouldn’t have to tell the police.’

  ‘But where is he?’ said Mary, looking at Katerina as if finding it somewhat curious that Katerina herself had not asked this question.

  ‘It’s infantile,’ Curran said, sitting down beside her. ‘I’m afraid Robert’s behaving in a quite infantile way. But it’s quite simple really. He says … he says. …’ Curran pulled the letter out of his pocket and scanned it casually. ‘He says … “Tell everyone that I have gone for a trip to an undisclosed destination, that I don’t want to be followed, that I don’t want to be looked for.” Those are his very words. Pompous, infantile. Anyway, at least we can forget him, now. He asks me to take his belongings. I’ll get Violet to look after them. Well, Mary, we might have saved our shoe-leather and our breath.’

  ‘Could I see the letter?’ Mary said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Oh, later, later,’ Curran said, putting it back in his pocket. ‘I’ll have the key to his room, Katerina. I’d prefer to do the packing myself, since he asks me to do so. Where’s Eufemia? One of you had better come with me to make everything correct. I don’t suppose he has anything valuable, but I want to make a list, and I’ll give you a receipt.’

  ‘Eufemia’s in bed with a headache. She’s taken a bad turn,’ Katerina said, in Italian.

  ‘Speak English,’ said Curran. ‘Mrs Tiller is present.’

  ‘I understand a good bit of Italian,’ Mary piped. ‘More than you think.’

  ‘The Signora understands Italian,’ Katerina said.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Curran. ‘But we don’t want to be rude, do we?’

  One of the clients was at the desk waiting to pay for some postcards. Katerina went over to serve him. Then she said, pointing rather angrily to the rows of pigeon-holes, ‘The key to number 28 isn’t here. The maid must have taken it.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ said Curran. ‘We’ll go up together.’

  ‘But I can’t leave the desk,’ Katerina said. She buzzed on the intercom, evidently to Eufemia’s room, and spoke in rapid Venetian, from which it emerged that Eufemia was by no means able to rise from her bed at that moment. Katerina said something final and harsh-sounding, and banged down the receiver.

  ‘I can wait,’ Curran said. ‘What does the maid want with the key?’

  ‘She has to tidy the room.’ Katerina was distraught, with a number of people now crowding round the desk.

  Curran sat down beside Mary. ‘You’d better get back to the Lord Byron,’ Curran said. Tell Arnold that there’s nothing more to worry about.’

  ‘He isn’t worried. He won’t be a bit surprised that Robert’s walked off like this. Arnold thought that’s what he’d probably done. I’d like to come and help you pack.’

  ‘There won’t be much. He travels light,’ Curran said. ‘I have to pay the bill, and so on. Please do go ahead. I’ll join you later.’

  After many protests he at last persuaded Mary to leave. Just as she was going out of the front door, in came Grace Gregory followed by her bright and hairy Leo. This caused Mary to change her mind and turn back, all eager as she was to be the first to impart the news from Robert. It was just on four o’clock when afternoon life was starting up again. People were coming downstairs; they were coming in the front door and going out of it; they were crowding in the hall, going out to the footpath and coming in from it. Curran sat mutely with the letter burning in his pocket, while Katerina frantically coped alone with the guests who wanted postage stamps, and with the telephone-board that kept buzzing with incoming and outgoing calls.

  Grace pushed through the crowd towards where Curran sat at a low round table which was covered with some sensational Italian, glossy magazines of an old and ragged date. He lifted one of them as if he hadn’t recognised Grace, although he had seen her on one of her sallies to the Lord Byron. But he glanced up as she came to his table followed by Mary and Leo. Mary was still in the process of recounting
their morning’s hunt. ‘And then,’ said Mary, as she crowded in on Curran with Grace and Leo, ‘when we got back here there was this letter for Curran from Robert. My dear, the fatigue. …’

  Curran stood up, while Mary introduced him. The women settled themselves in the chairs beside him; there was no chair for Leo, but he stood in a vacant space blocking, as it seemed to Curran, the only route of escape. ‘And you see,’ Mary rattled on, ‘Arnold was right after all. Robert simply went off, leaving all his stuff for us to mop up. It’s really very inconsiderate of him, even though, between ourselves, it’s understandable if you remember your own young days. I feel like a drink. Is the bar open? Oh, yes, of course it’s open, I forgot; this is Italy. I wouldn’t say no to a gin and tonic.’

  Curran was looking at her abstractedly as if he hadn’t heard. But he pulled himself together when Leo, who was ready to go and fetch the drinks, put his hairy head close to Curran’s face, saying ‘Place your order, please.’

  ‘Whisky on the rocks,’ said Curran, getting out his money which Leo waved aside. Grace put in for a nice sherry.

  ‘Many a nice sherry,’ said Grace, when Leo had gone to the bar, ‘I had at Leo’s expense one time at Ambrose College where I was Matron, when he brought back from half-term a large medicine bottle labelled “To be taken twice a day before meals”. But it didn’t fool me. One sniff and I could tell it was the very best sherry, medium-dry. So I confiscated that item and enjoyed every drop of it; and while we’re talking about confiscations I brought off another coup this morning. You’d never guess what I found upstairs in Robert’s room. I just thought—’

  ‘Here, in Robert’s room?’ Curran said.

  ‘Yes, well, as he’s gone AWOL I thought I’d just pop in and enquire, but there was nobody at the desk, it was half-past eight this morning so I helped myself to the key. As a former Matron I feel it’s my right to know. Well, there wasn’t much. Only a few clothes and his notebooks. No drink, drugs or money. But I found some notes for a novel he’s writing and believe me, it’s a revelation into his mind. I’ve only had time to read the first two pages because I like to take it easy, you know, but—’

  ‘You had no right to touch anything,’ Curran said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to hand over the notes, Mrs Gregory. I have a letter from Robert authorising me to pack his belongings because he’s gone away on a trip to a destination that he does not wish to be disclosed. It’s really quite a serious thing to go into someone’s room without their permission and take their property. It’s breaking and entering. It’s—’

  ‘No, it isn’t breaking and entering,’ Mary said. ‘I know that for a fact, Curran. It’s only entering without due consent. The law—’

  ‘Mary, perhaps you know the laws of England better than I do,’ Curran said. ‘No doubt you have reason.’

  ‘Oh, plenty of reason,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve been burgled twice. Why don’t you show Grace your letter of authority from Robert? I’m dying to see that letter. Here come our drinks.’

  Leo came, followed by the lanky boy who tended the bar, carrying the drinks. Curran rose and went over to the desk where Katerina was for a moment free from any of her guests. ‘I’ll have to wait till these people are gone,’ he said, ‘but it seems that Robert Leaver is going to give us trouble; we must talk.’

  ‘Eufemia had a phone call an hour ago,’ Katerina said. ‘I must tell you—’

  ‘Wait till later,’ said Curran. ‘I want to pack Robert’s things. But now I’ve just heard that Mrs Gregory—that’s the old one in the fur coat and blue jeans with spectacles—went up to his room this morning and took some of Robert’s papers. They might be important. Would you mind stepping over to our table and asking her politely to return them?’

  ‘Oh, no, I won’t do that,’ Katerina said. ‘I tell you it’s best not to show fear. There is a book that Robert is writing. Eufemia got the message, all of it on the phone. Robert is writing all about us because he knows all about the past, all of it. I don’t want to be involved.’

  ‘But you are involved,’ Curran said.

  ‘It’s a threat,’ Katerina said.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Curran. ‘Why did you give the key of his room to the maid?’

  ‘I have the key to his room,’ Katerina said. ‘I have it in my pocket. No one else can enter.’

  ‘Well, his room was rifled at eight-thirty this morning. You were too late,’ Curran said.

  ‘But how could I know so early? We didn’t get the call till after lunch.’

  Curran returned to the table where Mary was describing in elaborate detail a Renaissance Italian recipe for a sweet sauce comprising cane sugar, vinegar, pepper and spices. ‘Around the year fifteen hundred,’ she was saying, ‘they used a lot of spices which have practically been forgotten and herbs which, you know, were probably the same as our forbidden drugs, not to mention the poisoning that went on. My dear, if you read your—’

  ‘Mrs Gregory,’ said Curran. The proprietor of this establishment wants those notes back, and any other thing that you took from Robert’s room. She is entitled to inform the police of an illegal entrance to her clients’ rooms.’

  ‘I should think Robert’s father is the one who should have the say,’ Mary said. ‘But I don’t see any harm if it’s only notes for a novel he was writing.’

  ‘It’s a very unnatural piece of work, Grace said. ‘I must say, so far as I’ve read, he names names. But that’s just like him, to make up stories about the people who’ve been good to him. I tell you, Mr Curran, what I’ll do. I’ll hand it over to you when I’ve read it. I don’t think it would be fair to hand it over to Mr Leaver Senior, really I don’t. How low can one sink? I have to ring Anthea tonight cost what it may. I couldn’t get through last night at the cheap rate. She doesn’t know Robert’s gone away. But good riddance to him, that’s what I think. Well, Mrs Tiller, I’ve been glad to meet you again for a talk face to face. Come along, Leo.’

  ‘Tell Anthea,’ said Mary, ‘that her husband is in good hands.’

  Curran swallowed down his whisky.

  Mary was gazing upward. Then she said to Katerina, ‘Allow me to pass a compliment on your beautiful chandelier.’

  Chapter Eleven

  MONDAY NIGHT. VIOLET HANDED back Robert’s letter to Curran after she had read it. They were together in her study at the Ca’ Winter.

  ‘It’s the word “exhumation” …’ she said.

  ‘That affair of Pancev had nothing really to do with me,’ Curran said. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Violet. ‘I wish I didn’t even know about it. I hardly remembered much about it, as a matter of fact, until Lina Pancev turned up. It hadn’t crossed my mind for years, and years. … I’ve had other things to think about.’

  ‘Did you notice that phrase “the implications that touch on your complicity”? Ghastly pompous phrase, and he means it. I would have thought it was a hoax, but really. …’

  ‘Well, you must know your Robert,’ Violet said.

  ‘Whoever has told him about Pancev is deliberately misinforming him in order to blackmail me,’ Curran said.

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly it’s the Butcher who’s got hold of him,’ Violet said. I suppose the Butcher needs more money, now that the cost of living. …’ Katerina and Eufemia have been paying the Butcher all these years, but of course they don’t have a fortune like you.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with Pancev’s death. I dined with Pancev at the Villa Sofia the night before he died. I had the shock of my life when I heard. I liked Victor Pancev.’

  ‘Oh, I know that he was killed by those Bulgarians. But I’m terrified of what Robert can say.’ She was sitting very straight in her chair. She looked rather wooden. ‘I got a letter, too,’ she said. ‘It’s clear that Robert has got a true bit of the story, or perhaps two bits, and is prepared to elaborate the rest.’ She opened her little purse, took out a square-folded piece of paper, and handed it to Curran. She got up and arranged th
e curtains of her small study, pink and mauve English chintz, quite a different background from that of her drawing-room. She looked out on the lamplight and darkness without noticing whether it was raining or not, whether the wind was blowing, cold or warm, she was indifferent to what was outside as if she were young again, unbothered by the weather and concerned only with the atmospherics of her own senses. She straightened the cosy hangings. I can’t believe this is happening,’ Violet said.

  Curran’s hand gestured for silence while he stared at the letter.

  … know you, although you do not know me, except for one time we met in Curran’s flat in Paris. It has been brought to my notice that both you and Curran were co-responsible in the year 1945 AD for (A) the vivisection of Victor Pancev, and his subsequent burial in two parts of the garden of the then Villa Sofia now Pensione idem. (B) You were the lover of Victor Pancev. (C) Curran was an agent for the Germans. He turned on Pancev, who had been involved in a German plot to poison King Boris, and arranged for Pancev to be killed, to silence him. (D) Curran is involved with yourself in a drug racket. Exhumations and revelations might ensue if you, Countess de Winter, do not persuade Curran quickly, repeat quickly, to prepare a substantial sum of money. I am in the hands of armed kidnappers who will stop at nothing. Phone call to follow.

  Robert Leaver

  P. S. You and your late husband, Count Riccardo de Winter, were also spies for the Germans 1942–1945.

  ‘Vivisection’ said Violet, ‘is not true. He was already dead.’

  ‘Drug racket is not true,’ said Curran.

  ‘You were Victor’s friend,’ said Violet.

  ‘And you were his lover,’ he said.