Oliver VII

by Antal Szerb

  “To save me? Me? From what?”

  “My poor old Coltor, you are such a trusting little chap you don’t even know what danger you are in. My boy, I have words to whisper in your ear. Coltor, you are entangled in a swindlers’ net!” he bellowed, inches away from the man’s ear.

  Coltor leapt back.

  “What sort of swindlers are you talking about?”

  “Well, that I can’t exactly say, because, whaddya call it … you know … because, right now, I’m in love. But take a look, here’s the letter, from my good friend Palawer, you’ll find it all in there.”

  And he handed over the letter.

  It read:

  Most respected Mr Coltor,

  I must ask you to make allowances for my unfortunate friend Count Antas. The events of the Alturian Revolution and the abdication of his beloved monarch disturbed him so much that he has not yet managed to regain his mental balance. He suffers from a number of paranoid delusions: there are swindlers everywhere, he is quite convinced there is conspiracy afoot—which is understandable—and he is forever trying to expose it. He has now asked me to write to you since he absolutely insists on talking to you, to reveal yet another great plot. I felt unable to deny his request, but I am sending his niece to keep an eye on him, and perhaps head off any unseemly behaviour. Again I beg you to make allowances for a sadly afflicted man, and to do your best, in all kindness, to steer well clear of him.

  Till we meet again soon

  St Germain

  Coltor folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket. Antas remained seated, and in a trice had nodded off to sleep.

  “Is it often like this with the poor chap?” he asked Marcelle quietly.

  “Poor Uncle Ugolino, his drinking really is a bit excessive these days … but you can understand why … the grief … ”

  Antas’ head jerked upwards.

  “Well, my dear boy,” he shouted, if somewhat groggily, “what ho, what ho?”

  “My dear Count, I am delighted to have seen you, and I am most sorry that you have to leave, but your kind niece informs me that you have pressing business elsewhere.”

  “Yes, yes, of course … And the letter? Have you read it?”

  “Of course I’ve read it. And I must thank you very much for bringing it to my attention. I shall be forever in your debt for exposing this plot.”

  “No need for thanks; what I did … you know … what I did … sacrifice to honour and country … do you follow me?”

  “But of course.”

  “That’s good, then. God be with you.”

  And, supported by Marcelle, he staggered out of the room.

  The next morning St Germain gave Sandoval and Marcelle a lively ovation on their arrival at the Palazzo Pietrasanta to hear about his plans.

  “Well done, maestro Sandoval. You did a marvellous job. I never knew so much talent in a painter. If you ever decide to give up art for another profession I predict a great future for you. But the most important thing we’ve learnt from all this is that we have to move quickly. Who knows, this Palawer could still bring us down. We can’t afford a second’s delay. I’d prefer to wait a bit longer but I can see that that’s not possible. My dear Sandoval, by the end of today we shall have held a meeting that will resound throughout history.”

  “By this afternoon? Including the preparations?”

  “My people are already here: Baudrieu, Valmier and Gervaisis have arrived. I’ll brief them before lunch and they’ll see to everything we might need. We’re still short of one person. That is to say, Princess Ortrud is to be here in the palace. Marcelle will take the role. Then, along with Marcelle, we need an elderly countess to chaperone her. After all, Princess Ortrud can hardly call in at her fiancé’s palazzo, even in incognito.”

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” said Sandoval. “First of all, where are we going to get an old countess at short notice? Also, Coltor already knows Marcelle as Antas’ niece. Is Ortrud’s presence really necessary?”

  “At any rate, it’s highly desirable. It would persuade Coltor that the King’s intentions are serious, that he really does want to return to the throne, he wants to marry her, and he’s not going to have second thoughts. The fact that Coltor has already seen Marcelle is immaterial. Marcelle will wear entirely different make-up, and she’s a superb actress. As for the old countess … now, where can I find one of those?”

  “Well, where?”

  “I have it. St Germain’s resourcefulness is inexhaustible. Now, my young friend, can you guess who will be the old countess?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “But it’s so simple. Like a crossword puzzle. You will be the old countess.”

  “Me?”

  “Naturally. I’ll make you up myself. The sort of wonderfully ugly old countess you might paint in one of your pictures.”

  “Splendid,” said Sandoval, resignedly.

  “So, no difficulty there. No difficulty at all. There’s only one problem, and that’s a rather specific one.”

  “What’s that.”

  “The leading man. Oscar. Oscar the psychological mystery. Because, whether you think so or not, Oscar is a psychological mystery. A mystery even my rapier brain can’t penetrate.”

  “How do you mean, Count?”

  “It’s something I can’t quite put into words. I just feel—it’s my miraculous intuition—that I can never be quite sure of him. You can never be certain he’s actually there. He could go off the rails at any moment. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just suddenly disappeared. Or at the very last moment, on the field of battle, face to face with Coltor, he might do something completely unexpected. For example, blurt out that he isn’t really the king, or that he is the king but he won’t sign the treaty. I tell you, he’s capable of anything. Ah, but here are the excellent Baudrieu, and the inimitable Valmier. Allow me to introduce you gentlemen to one another. Baudrieu, you must call on Coltor before lunchtime, and inform him—with all the usual bowings and scrapings—that the hour of decision is upon us, and he must come to the Palazzo Pietrasanta tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Very good, boss.”

  “Valmier, here is an Alturian flag. Find a place for it on the wall. There we are. And now hang there, glorious banner, with your two golden sardines on a field of silver, and bring blessings on your sons. Now, Valmier, you must don your time-honoured livery, and apply your celebrated cheek-whiskers. A visitor will be arriving in the next few hours and we need a footman.”

  “Very good, boss.”

  “Then why aren’t you going?”

  “Well, boss, I had to take out the livery from the pawnbroker, and then my travel expenses … if I could trouble you for a little advance … ”

  “When you are properly dressed, my young friend, I shall give your request consideration … and you, Sandoval, are to undertake any artistic duties we decide on. The toothpaste advertisement is up in the top room. Turn it into a portrait of Philip II or the One-Eared. We must spread a little meaningful Alturian atmosphere around the place.”

  At that moment Mawiras-Tendal entered, with a birdcage in his hand.

  “Very suitable,” said St Germain. “Here we have Diogenes, His Highness’ favourite canary. Things are starting to take shape.”

  “Where are we going to put it?” the Major asked.

  “We’ll take it up to the great hall, where the meeting will be held. His Highness doesn’t like being without his favourite canary for a single minute. Oh yes, I haven’t yet told you, Mr Meyer. I have decided on the time. It’s this afternoon.”

  The Major looked at St Germain in astonishment.

  “Why so soon?”

  “We can’t act quickly enough. There are traitors all around us. Somebody is trying to scupper our little enterprise. He’s already tried to expose us. But the miserable fellow forgot that he was dealing with St Germain. My arm has a long reach. I’m not referring to statesmen, of course, but I would venture to assert that there is no privat
e individual in all Europe whose arm has such a long reach. I knew of this shabby little plan, and I put a stop to it with no trouble at all. That’s the person I am.”

  The Major went pale, and put the cage down.

  “To the devil with this bird,” he said with exasperation. “Does Oscar know it’s this afternoon … ?”

  “He doesn’t know, because I have only just decided. Do go, my dear Meyer, and tell him. He’s here in the palazzo somewhere.”

  There was no need to tell the Major twice; he rushed off immediately. He found Oscar in the room assigned to Marcelle.

  “Oscar, I have to talk to you urgently. Alone.”

  They went out onto the street so that they could speak without fear of being interrupted.

  “Your Highness,” the Major began.

  “‘My dear fellow’,” Oscar corrected him.

  “Your Highness,” the Major repeated, rather more firmly. “We haven’t time just now for casual informality.”

  “What is it, what’s happened? Don’t make me nervous!”

  “Permit me, Your Highness, to make you very nervous. We haven’t a second to waste. St Germain has invited Coltor to this damned palazzo this afternoon.”

  “Hm. He’s in such a hurry?”

  “Yes. And now we really have no choice but to disappear.”

  For some time the King maintained a sombre silence. Then he replied:

  “Can you think of no other solution, Major? I really would like you to find some other way out. I would feel terrible leaving them in the lurch. St Germain is such a decent chap. A great talent. Without him I would never have known what to do if I were still king. It just proves it—even kings have to get to know life.”

  “Your Highness, there is no other solution. You simply cannot meet Coltor here. We must leave for Trieste on the twelve o’clock train.”

  “Yes, yes, I see that. And Marcelle?”

  “I’d say yes, we should take her with us, but I’m afraid she would never leave St Germain in the lurch a few hours short of the realisation of his great plan. But we can write to her from Trieste a day or two after we get there and ask her to come. If Your Highness would still wish that … ”

  “ … if I still wished it. You are quite right, I would. But the fact is, if I leave now it’ll be the end of everything, signed and sealed; and Marcelle, I am afraid, would no longer be a concern. Well, Milán, I must go and take my leave of her.”

  “But Your Highness!”

  “It’s all right, my Milán. I know what you want to say. She won’t suspect for a moment that I am saying goodbye. I just want to see her once more. She was very good to me … and this whole business has been very instructive.”

  The King found Marcelle alone in her room. She had been putting on her Princess Ortrud costume, as they had conceived of it after studying pictures in the newspapers of the way she wore her hair, and how she looked at the time of the revolution. When the King saw her made up like this, he just stood there in the doorway, turned to stone: so strong was the resemblance to Ortrud.

  “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.”