The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown

by Geoffrey Household

  Perseus, Prince of the Rosicrucians, had taken a room at the Principesa for the three weeks of his engagement. Bernardo met him while washing down the men’s lavatories—a tiled and dignified ensemble when first installed but still suffering from the playful habits of German soldiery billeted in the hotel. The girls’ establishment next door had not helped. In spite of notices they were inclined to get rid of unnecessary objects, shut their eyes and pull the plug. It was this problem of disposal which now occupied Bernardo. With a bucket and mop at his side he was manfully driving a plunger down into the unknown viscera of the hotel where male and female elements were united. He had two hours of the night ahead of him in which to clear the system before the little dears returned. Failing a charge of dynamite he doubted if that would be enough.

  Perseus, a dark and romantic figure in a Chinese dressing gown, hesitated at the outer door across which Bernardo had built a dam of sacking.

  ‘I think that I had better borrow your boots,’ he said in excellent French.

  ‘For a personage as distinguished as monsieur,’ Bernardo answered, ‘I hesitate ...’

  ‘Well, what would you advise me to do?’

  ‘May I suggest a hotel of more modern comfort?’

  ‘It is my first visit. I was told this was the right place for a performer. One’s needs would be appreciated.’

  Bernardo could well understand that the Prince of the Rosicrucians, his doves, his goldfish and the secrets of his trunks might be out of place in the first-class hotel which he could easily have afforded. He was at the top of his profession: an amazing fellow, able to stop and talk at any table, remove a watch or cigarette case undetected and then accuse some innocent member of the public on the other side of the cabaret which he had never visited of having it on his person. He was equally good at arousing gasps of disbelief and yells of laughter.

  ‘And I am not talking of to-morrow, man brave. This is pressing,’ Perseus added sternly.

  His eyes were becoming fixed and desperate. Bernardo realised that in such a situation magic was no help and gratitude would be generous.

  ‘If monsieur would have the goodness to follow me,’ Bernardo invited, proceeding up the passage in his socks.

  There was only one private bathroom in the hotel which would undoubtedly have been allotted to Perseus if it had not been already occupied by Madame Hortense, a French contralto of opulent middle age and magnificent shoulders who had once been described—and had the newspaper cutting to prove it—as the Nightingale of Milan. Her voice was still true but its power had so faded that it could safely be exploded in the limited space of cabaret. She, like Perseus, was not required to sit at tables and so retired early to the Principesa. It was necessary for her to calm her nerves before going to bed. She had explained this dramatically to Bernardo when sending him out to buy a bottle of brandy.

  Bernardo opened Mme. Hortense’s door with his pass key. The inner door to the bedroom was safely shut; the bathroom was half open. Perseus eyed the excellent sanitary equipment with the same expression of delighted relief which he used when a goldfish flung into his empty top-hat appeared a second later floating comfortably in a bowl of water.

  ‘Our guest sleeps very soundly, monsieur,’ Bernardo said. ‘But may I recommend a certain discretion?’

  It was most unlikely that the Prince of the Rosicrucians had any money in the dragon-embroidered pocket of his dressing gown; so Bernardo waited to accompany him back to his room and wish him pleasant dreams. Meanwhile he stayed on guard in the passage, a trusty figure in his black and yellow waistcoat.

  Perseus was in no hurry. He might be merely meditating or possibly considering all the magic potentialities of an unwinding toilet roll—though in those days that would have been thought intolerably vulgar. Bernardo was appalled to hear Mme. Hortense open her door, a fierce contralto oath as she bumped into the handle, a rattling at the locked bathroom and what sounded like a heave of the immaculate shoulders.

  Pretending to have been attracted by the noise and just arrived, Bernardo enquired through the door if there were anything wrong. Mme. Hortense flung it open. She was attired in a vast and virginal cloud of whiteness as if for a belated first communion.

  ‘There is some sort of dirty pig in my bathroom!’

  She was swaying a little and, Bernardo hoped, incapable of lucid observation. He declared with confidence that the door must be stuck and rattled it cautiously.

  ‘Fais pas l’idiot!’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘One shits. I heard it.’

  ‘It is perhaps a chambermaid, Madame. I will report the matter to the Manager. Meanwhile if Madame would be good enough to accompany me ...’

  There was only one refuge and that was the Manager’s private bathroom. It was kept locked, but Bernardo knew very well that the key was over the door frame. He had not offered its facilities to Perseus since the Manager was awake and working and might come up from his office any moment.

  Madame cheerfully rollicked behind him from side to side of the corridor, entertaining herself with the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust. Bernardo quickly shut the door on her and returned to the Prince of the Rosicrucians to report that the coast was clear. Perseus had decided that for himself. Five minutes later Mme. Hortense, now prettily baby-carolling Sur le Pont d’Avignon returned to her room. Bernardo locked the managerial bathroom, returned the key to its hiding place and resumed his menial occupation.

  When the day porter took over, he went to bed with an untroubled conscience. He had done his duty. There had been a sense of satisfaction when with one tremendous gurgle the waters of Yin and Yang had simultaneously returned beneath the earth. It was the first time he had been of honest service to his fellows since gallantly agreeing to cause no embarrassment to Zita.

  He was roused soon after eleven by the Manager, sternly enquiring whether he had been awake all night and what his movements were. It appeared that some petty thief had got into the hotel unless it was an inside job. Bernardo accounted for his time, but was ordered to proceed immediately to the bedroom floor.

  The whole corridor was enjoying the excitement. Doors were half open with unmade-up faces, pale yellow from lack of sun, looking out and twittering. A chambermaid was in tears. The Nightingale of Milan was in full voice.

  ‘But I tell you they are not lost. They are not in the laundry. They were laid decently upon a chair. They have disappeared while I slept as in my mother’s arms. I have been robbed, I tell you!’

  Bernardo asked exactly what was missing.

  ‘Mon caleçon!’

  He could of course have stolen her drawers while she was out of the room. So could the supposed chambermaid, who must be cleared at once. He was about to confess the incident of the night when it occurred to him that she herself had never mentioned it. What was the catch? She must surely remember.

  ‘Madame, I hope, does not accuse me?’

  ‘I accuse no one. Give me back my drawers and not a word more!’

  ‘Perhaps the maid may be allowed to search Madame’s room?’ the Manager suggested.

  ‘On no account!’

  She slammed the door. Possibly she was embarrassed by the empty bottles at the bottom of the cupboard, yet the chambermaid knew as well as Bernardo how the Nightingale calmed her nerves.

  It seemed unlikely that the Prince of the Rosicrucians was a type to steal female underclothing. But in spite of the racket not a sound came from behind his closed door. That was suspicious. When the passage had cleared, Bernardo knocked on his door, knocking more loudly when there was no answer.

  ‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’

  ‘Only Mitrani.’

  ‘Ah, it’s you. Wait a minute!’

  Perseus’ brazenly innocent face left no doubt who was the culprit.

  ‘Sit down, my dear Mitrani, sit down! I am glad to have this opportunity of thanking you. What was all the noise about?’

  ‘Madame Hortense. It appears she has lost an intimate
garment.’

  ‘Her spirits were a little elevated. Is it possible she threw it out of the window?’

  ‘If she did, no doubt a conjurer such as monsieur will be able to return it to her room. I will be his stooge.’

  ‘You suspect me, Mitrani?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘But what motive could I have?’

  ‘If monsieur would prefer to tell me rather than the police....’

  Perseus sighed and dived into his trunk. From its depths he hauled out the missing garment and spread it wing and wing with one flick of his conjurer’s wrist. It was a pair of knee-length drawers of remarkable size and elaboration with lace insets and frills, threaded with blue and pink ribbons.

  ‘You ask my motive, Mitrani. You are a man of imagination. Conceive, I implore you, the enthusiasm, the laughter when I produce these from a hat. I could search for years without finding such a property.’

  Bernardo saw his point; it was impossible for Perseus to resist the temptation. Doves and goldfish were trivial. Some delicate article of female underwear—well, it would only produce a polite titter. But this now unobtainable caleçon presented by itself the pre-war world of Empires, the luxury of Archdukes. It belonged in a chambre privée of Maxim’s where—culmination of supper after the Opera—it had been respectfully removed by some Paraguayan Papal Count and laid upon the velvet of the day-bed while its owner parted noble, Edwardian thighs and whispered—if she didn’t sing it—‘Excellency, my resistance is at an end.’

  Yes, the Prince of the Rosicrucians must have it. Mme. Hortense would have to adjust herself to the shorter silken fantasies of the nineteen twenties. Bernardo regretted that money had to enter into the transaction, but he was in no position to be charitable.

  ‘I will do my best to arrange the matter with Madame Hortense, monsieur. What’s it worth to you?’

  ‘Five thousand lei,’ Perseus suggested, a little too hastily.

  It was more than Bernardo expected, equal to about seven pounds and double that in what it would buy. No need to jump at it, however.

  ‘It is a pleasure to serve monsieur. But there will also be the police.’

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘Another five thousand. They are very poorly paid.’

  Perseus handed over the money at once and asked if he could safely hang on to his prize.

  ‘We will see. If you hear nothing from me, we are safe.’

  He cautiously slipped out of the room. The row at the other end of the passage had started up again, and the Manager was evidently on the point of sending for the police. That could be the end of David Mitrani who dared not be questioned about his past and that arrival with a horse from Morocco. Perseus would have to unstick at once from Mme. Hortense’s property. He assured the Manager that it would be found.

  ‘To hell and the devil with her caleçon! Someone has stolen my bath salts.’

  It was a most expensively cut crystal jar which had been presented to the Manager by a grateful client. He kept it in his bathroom cupboard and valued it highly. Nobody in the hotel would have dreamed of telling him that the luxurious jar with its Coty label had been empty and that the client had refilled it with Romanian bath salts from the nearest chemist.

  All was now plain to Bernardo. That was why Mme. Hortense never mentioned that she had left her room and she objected to anyone searching it.

  ‘May I suggest, sir, that you leave the matter in my hands till lunchtime?’ he said. ‘I am sure I can clear myself and the chambermaid. After all I know more than anybody else of what goes on in this hotel between ten at night and seven in the morning.’

  ‘You are a scoundrel, Mitrani! You have all the vices of Jew and Christian in one!’

  ‘And so it is unnecessary to call in the police. Calm, dear sir, calm! By lunchtime I will tell you where your bath salts are.’

  The small gathering dispersed. The big eyes in the little lemon-coloured faces vanished behind their doors. It was nearly time for Mme. Hortense’s petit déjeuner. Bernardo had no trouble in persuading the waiter to let him take up the tray.

  ‘Well, you! So you have the impudence to bring my coffee in person! Where is my caleçon?’

  ‘I do not know, Madame. Perhaps some admirer ...’

  ‘You disgust me. I await the police.’

  ‘Madame may not have to wait long. The Manager has lost his bath salts.’

  ‘His bath salts? What story is this? Who was using my lavatory last night? He is the thief. Two jolly presents for his girl! My caleçon and a little something to freshen her up where she needs it most!’

  ‘But whoever he was, he did not enter the Manager’s bathroom.’

  ‘Insolent! You dare to accuse me?’

  ‘Unavoidable, Madame. We are all under suspicion.’

  ‘Is it true that he is sending for the police?’

  ‘I doubt if I can prevent it. I only hope I shall be able to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Would you care for a little drink, Mitrani?’

  ‘Willingly, Madame.’

  ‘You will find a bottle in the cupboard. Serve yourself, and a little in my coffee if you would be so good.’

  Bernardo took a quick look round the cupboard. Meanwhile Mme. Hortense allowed her bedjacket to slip back. It was only too evident that she would have won the red ribbon at any dairy show with Eva only a Highly Commended.

  ‘The needs of beauty excuse everything, Mitrani.’

  Bernardo politely agreed but remained the passive servant of the hotel. Mme. Hortense, realising that there was no alternative, pulled out a neat little purse and presented him with a hundred lei. Bernardo gave it a cabman’s cold look and said nothing.

  ‘But that is for you on condition ...’

  She put one finger to her lips.

  ‘I have my duty to consider, Madame.’

  ‘And there is another!’ she declared with an air of splendid generosity.

  ‘The police will be here shortly, Madame. Shall we say five thousand?’

  ‘But this is blackmail! I will report it. Tiens! I’ll give you a thousand. There!’

  ‘Five thousand lei, Madame.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Four or there will be a scandal.’

  ‘Mitrani, I was told the Romanians were gallant. I will give you three. Or, naked and defenceless as I am, I will consent to be dragged to gaol.’

  Bernardo gave up. It was impossible to bargain with a Frenchwoman. He took his three thousand and removed the tray.

  He threw on his uniform coat and shot into the Manager’s office, feeling that he had not done badly for one whose commercial experience had been limited to shipping and Susana. But his nerve was going. The Manager was furiously throwing papers from the Out tray to the In tray with the fateful telephone far too near his hand. He turned his temper on the night porter.

  ‘Well, Mitrani, well? Where are my salts, half-wit?’

  ‘I have warned you, sir, not to leave the key over the door of your bathroom.’

  ‘And I told you that the girls were not tall enough to reach it.’

  ‘But Mme. Hortense? On tip-toe? You must remember that when she returns at two she is almost alone in the hotel.’

  ‘Why should she? She has everything she needs.’

  ‘Like Bluebeard’s wife—merely because the door is locked. And a cupboard! Wherever she is, she is incapable of not rummaging in it.’

  ‘She’d never take the risk.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir! The jar was full. So there was a chance that you never used it and would not miss it. And soon she leaves for Belgrade.’

  ‘At her age can one be a thief?’

  ‘Impulse, dear sir. The needs of beauty excuse everything.’

  ‘Beauty, my backside!’

  ‘One must be charitable. The years pass so quickly.’

  ‘You learned that from your English papa?’

  ‘It’s in the works of St. Spiridon.’

  ‘And her pan
ts, clown?’

  ‘Obviously, sir, she invented this story of a thief in case the salts were missed.’

  ‘But how can I get them back without a scandal?’

  ‘There is a large doll in her room in our glorious national costume and its stuffing is on the floor of her wardrobe among the empties. I suggest that before she leaves we put something of similar shape in its belly.’

  ‘Mitrani, you should be in the police!’

  Bernardo took the opportunity to remind him that the help of the police was always expensive. No tip was forthcoming, but he did get the genial promise of a rise in pay. The precious bath salts must have been of great sentimental value.

  With a total of thirteen thousand lei earned—when one came to think of it—solely by helping his fellows in their distress Bernardo jumped into a higher orbit of optimism. Another wad of this easy money and he might get a sight of Magda again. Meanwhile there was that child on his conscience. An abomination! God only knew where she could fetch up and what more indignities she might have to suffer.

  He made some enquiries about fairs. Craiova was finished. There was no regular route for the side-shows and amusement stalls which moved according to the hunches and preferences of the owners. Up in Moldavia were two possibles, besides some sort of grubby affair at Giurgiu on the Danube and a probable at Târgu-Jiu in Transylvania which seemed the easiest run from Craiova. Bernardo called up the police station at Târgu-Jiu, pretending to be the manager of the Alhambra, Bucarest’s smartest cabaret, to ask if the Stepanovs were at the fair.

  He struck it lucky at once. He was warned to have nothing to do with them. An impossible show for the Alhambra—did he understand the nature of the exhibition? There had been complaints from some impertinent Protestant League of the Magyar minority. As men of the world, the police could see no harm, but they had had to shut the Stepanovs down and move them on. Bernardo asked if it was known where they had gone. Well, that filthy eunuch had asked for a Bulgarian visa and got it, so it was very likely that they were working the Giurgiu fair and would cross over to Rusciuc by the ferry when it closed.