Oliver VII

by Antal Szerb

  “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.

  His vigilance produced a reward. Although, to his puzzlement and surprise, he failed to find the ex-King, he did come upon Count Antas, sprawling alone on the Lido sands and pining for Marcelle. Steel knew the Count by sight from his Alturian days. Wasting
no time, he went quickly across and sat down on the sand beside him.

  “I say, Count, there’s no denying it. I know everything.”

  “Did my wife send you?” Antas replied, in mortal terror.

  “Among others, Count.”

  “It’s all a pack of lies,” he whined. “A person of my standing cannot move without attracting the most appalling suspicion and speculation.”

  “I must advise you, Count, that I have proof in my possession. Handed to me by the secretary … ”

  “Secretary?” he gasped. And he thought of Sandoval. Ah, yes, that rascally painter! And this detective—for what else could this American be?—thought that Sandoval was Marcelle’s secretary.

  “Now listen here, my good friend,” he said. “Believe you me, the name Antas isn’t just empty air; and, take my word for it, there’s nothing between her and me. On my honour.”

  Steel’s smile was benevolent, but sceptical.

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “I tell you, my feelings towards the young lady in question are those of a father. It’s her creative development that interests me. I want to help her become a great artist.”

  (This was the usual formula, before the war.)

  Harry Steel frowned.

  “Don’t try to put one over on me, Count. What’s this girl you’re talking about?”

  “What? You don’t know who I’m talking about, and yet you have the nerve to come here? You crooked rascal!” he shouted, his self-confidence returning. “Who are you anyway?”

  “I am Harry Steel,” the reporter declared, and held out his hand. “Correspondent of the New York Times.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Antas replied loftily. He did not offer his hand. “So what were you talking about, then? Whose secretary?”

  “Now come on, Count, no use pretending. This isn’t diplomacy, it’s real life. I’m talking about Coltor’s secretary, of course.”

  Once again Antas turned deathly pale.

  “Look, it could just be that the secretary saw us together, when we paid our respects to Mr Coltor. But that really means nothing, nothing at all.”

  “What? You went there with the King?”

  “To hell with the King! What king are you talking about anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t try putting one over old Harry Steel, Count. I know for a fact that Oliver VII has been negotiating with Coltor. He wants to get back on the throne and sign the treaty.”

  Antas’ sense of mastery returned at once, and he exploded with furious laughter:

  “King Oliver negotiating with Coltor? Wonderful. Quite wonderful … Now you can clear off, young man. We Antases like to enjoy the sunshine on our own.”

  “Count, it seems you still don’t grasp what I’m talking about, or you wouldn’t think it a joke. They’re keeping it top secret. But it’s your duty to take an interest in what’s happening, and you could be of assistance to me … ”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about? I was the one who opened Coltor’s eyes to the fact that he had been caught by swindlers.”

  Steel became highly excited.

  “Swindlers? I didn’t know that. For God’s sake, tell me more, Count. At this moment the whole of America is hanging on your lips.”

  The image seized Antas’ imagination. Half the world dangling from his lips, like a cigarette. He told Steel all he knew, while the reporter listened amazed, in a fever of curiosity. Then he jumped to his feet and said:

  “Count, wait here a moment. I’ll be right back. Warm your illustrious person in the sun for a moment. It’s crucially important that you wait for me.”

  “Just be quick, young man,” Antas replied. “My skin feels as if it’s starting to burn.”

  Steel raced headlong to the nearest telephone booth and rang Coltor’s secretary.

  “Hello. Steel here. Mr Secretary? Have you heard the great news?”

  “Oh yes. Four this afternoon.”

  “What’s at four this afternoon?”

  “Letting the canary out.”

  (This was the name for the negotiations that had been agreed for use over the telephone, to prevent Coltor’s entourage knowing of the secretary’s betrayal.)

  “Where?” Steel asked.

  “That I can’t tell you right now. Come to the hotel right away.”

  Steel dashed back to the beach, then ploughed his way between the sprawling bathers.

  “Count,” he puffed, “something doesn’t add up. Either they’ve misled you, or you’ve misled me. The King is going to negotiate with Coltor this afternoon. There’s no question about it. Coltor’s secretary told me.”

  “What?” shouted the Count, as he scrambled to his feet. “It’s impossible. Coltor talking to those scoundrels after all that? In spite of my warning?”

  “Did you give your warning sufficient emphasis, Count?”

  Antas became troubled.

  “Well, you know, the constraints of the situation … considering the long-standing intimate friendship between the two of us … it could be that I did express myself in too frivolous a manner; perhaps he was just carried away by my irresistible wit … ”

  “ … and didn’t take you seriously?”

  “Yes, that’s always possible. These Norlandians are such dour people, if you aren’t wearing sackcloth and ashes when you tell them something they don’t actually believe you. That could be it. How horrible! These swindlers will make Alturia a laughing stock forever!”

  “We’ve no time to lose. We can still expose them, and then all the glory will be ours. What a report that’ll make!”

  “I am at your service, Mr Editor. What do we have to do?”

  “First of all, get your clothes on. Then be so good as to come to my hotel. You’ll get the rest of your instructions there.”

  When the King and the Major returned after lunch to the Palazzo Pietrasanta, preparations had reached fever pitch.

  A revoltingly ugly old woman was darting back and forth with surprising energy.

  St Germain introduced her: “The Plantagenet Duchess. She’s a little deaf.”

  “A little deaf, but very ugly,” the King observed.

  “Not so fast! I heard that,” said the Duchess, alias Sandoval.

  Honoré arrived from Sandoval’s upstairs studio, brandishing a large picture.

  “Is the ladder here?” St Germain asked. “Now you need to hang it. I’ll tell you where in a moment.”

  All expertise, he paced up and down the room, then pointed to a spot on the wall.

  “We’ll put it there. It’ll be seen to best advantage there.”

  Honoré nailed the picture to the wall.

  “Who is this monster?” the King asked. “Why is he leering at me like that, and why has he got a tooth mug in his hand?”

  “It’s the toothpaste advert. We repainted it,” said St Germain. “It was originally a king brushing his teeth, now it’s Philip II or the One-Eared, a former King of Alturia. You can recognise him from his enormous ear, a triumph of artistic skill by our friend Sandoval. Oscar, you should have learnt more Alturian history. I’ve told you enough about it.”

  “But why is he grinning like that?” the King asked.

  “Because in the advertisement there was a toothbrush in his hand. But I took it out,” Sandoval explained modestly.

  “The canary, Honoré,” commanded St Germain.

  Honoré had already brought it.

  “Diogenes, His Highness’ favourite canary. It conjures up a bit of cosy Alturian atmosphere.”

  Valmier entered, the perfect footman.

  “Here’s the jewellery, boss.”

  “Indeed? I’ll go and sort it out and have the necklace made up—the one Princess Ortrud is to have as a gift from the King. Oscar, time to robe up.”

  “Me? What in?”

  “The marshal’s greatcoat of course. I’ve already told you, young man, it’s a sacred tradition. He never appears in public with
out his marshal’s greatcoat on. It’s up in the studio. Sandoval will be so kind as to show you how to put it on and wear it. Off you go, young man.”

  Off he went, at speed.

  “The greatcoat?” he sighed. “My Milán,” he whispered: “is this what the revolution was for?”

  In the room next door he stumbled over a gentleman sleeping in the depths of an armchair with his legs splayed out.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s one of the Count’s great discoveries,” Sandoval answered. “Gervaisis, the eternal sleeper.”

  “Wake him,” said the King.

  Sandoval shook the man.

  “Hey, mister, wake up.”

  The sleeper came to and spoke:

  “Who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind.”

  “Excuse me?” the King replied.

  “Nothing,” Gervaisis remarked. “Just an old proverb. I always say one when I wake up.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he retorted, and went back to sleep.

  “St Germain brought him here because he thinks his aristocratic somnolence will raise the tone of the meeting.”

  “I’ve also been wondering about the tone,” the King observed.

  They arrived at the studio. Even with the assistance of two helpers the King had great difficulty getting the coat on. It was rather more extravagant and ornate than the original.

  “Do I have to?” he asked. “Compared to this, the one at home was a housecoat.”

  “Your Highness,” the Major implored him. “You can still reconsider!”

  “How can you think that, Milán? Now that I’ve come this far, and actually got inside this damn thing? I’m not going to take it off now. You’d better get your major’s uniform on. It’s over there, on the bed. You’ll see what a strange feeling it is, meeting it again.”

  By the time they returned to the hall, everyone was assembled. Honoré was strutting proudly up and down in his military costume; the eminent pseudo-lawyer Baudrieu, in a green jacket, was seated at the negotiation table, with its covering of green baize, putting his papers in order. Gervaisis was deep in an armchair, asleep. Suddenly he gave a loud snort.

  “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Gervaisis,” St Germain remarked. “It had quite slipped my mind.”