The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  "Let us hope so, but let's keep a watchful eye on the surroundings nonetheless," Barnett said.

  "That's what I've been saying all this time," Cecily reminded him.

  "So you have," Barnett agreed.

  -

  Four days later the Barnetts left the Villa Endorra, taking a vapore, one of the little paddle-wheel steamboats that traveled the length of Lake Como, to Gravedona, at the north end of the lake, where they would get a train for Switzerland.

  It was, according to Benjamin's pocket-watch, just ten minutes past ten in the morning when the green-and-white Monte Bollettone huffed into sight around the curve of the lake shore. It was twenty-five past ten when the tubby sternwheeler pulled alongside the dock and two burly boatmen hopped onto the dock and tied it off.

  "Two and a half hours late, by the most liberal interpretation," Barnett said, snapping the gold lid of his watch shut and stuffing it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  Cecily, who had been sitting on one of their steamer trunks, closed her parasol and allowed Benjamin to help her down. "The most liberal British interpretation, dear," she said. "You forget, we are in Italy."

  "I'm not likely to forget that," Benjamin replied. "These people have no sense of time. None at all!"

  "We are not in a hurry," Cecily reminded him. "Our train doesn't leave Gravedona until tomorrow morning, so we have all day to go a little over thirty kilometers. Even an Italian steamboat ought to be able to do that."

  "Let us hope," Barnett said, and watched as four sailors staggered up the gangway with their two steamer trunks, six suitcases, and assorted smaller pieces of luggage.

  The captain of the Monte Bollettone, resplendent in a light blue uniform laced with enough gold braid to ransom a king and a couple of dukes, leaned out from his second-story perch and yelled something at them through his silver speaking-trumpet. Whatever it was did not carry over the chug of the idling steam engine, and so, with an annoyed grimace at their shrugs of incomprehension, he pointed several times at them and then at the deck of his ship.

  "I think we are to get on board," Cecily suggested.

  "In a hurry now, is he?" Barnett asked. "Come along, my dear." He shifted his cane to his left hand and held out his arm for Cecily, escorting her at a deliberate pace up the gangway. He still walked with a slight limp, and his wound still troubled him slightly when he stood for any length of time, making Prince Ariste's gift a most useful addition to his wardrobe.

  After supervising the loading of the last of the suitcases, the mummer skipped on deck, tipped his cap to Benjamin and Cecily and disappeared somewhere below.

  There were two classes of vapore travel: primo and inferiore; which meant "first" and "everyone else." The difference seemed to be mainly the price of the ticket. A first-class passage was about five times the price of the other, and allowed the Barnetts to sit in wooden seats toward the front of the boat, which were identical to the inferiore wooden seats in the rear of the boat. They did have the advantage of being further away from the chuffing of the engine and the churning of the wheel. And, of course, sitting forward of the cabins (which could be made available to the primo passenger by paying a few additional lire to the purser) gave one an unimpeded view of the lake.

  Lake Como and its surrounds were eye-fillingly beautiful. The eye went from the deep blue of the lake to the ever-varying shoreline of cliffs and beaches, rocky promontories and idle inlets; to the vineyards and villas and small towns above; and beyond that to the white-capped mountains which seemed to surround the lake protectively, and thence the impossibly blue sky. "They seem to have a much better sky here than we do in England," Barnett commented to Cecily as they sat holding hands and watching the passing scenery. "I must commend the government."

  The two classes were separated by a white fence stretched across the deck and guarded by a stern-faced sailor. There were about twenty inferiore, a wild assortment of men, women, children, babes-in-arms, chickens, and at least one goat. The Barnetts had but three fellow travelers with them in primo: a solemn but well-fed prelate of advancing years who sat several seats down from them and was troubled, Barnett decided, by either distressing spiritual matters or indigestion, and a man and woman traveling together, sitting on a small bench to the side, who made a most distinctive couple. The man was a stocky, middle-aged aristocratic-looking gentleman of medium height, with a carefully clipped spade beard. His air of self-possessed authority was heightened by the small, twelve-pointed gold star, emblematic of some noble order, pinned to the lapel of his impeccably tailored gray suit. His companion was a strikingly beautiful woman in her early thirties dressed in an elegantly simple blue frock and gray traveling-cloak. She had an expression of quick intelligence, and was studying a paperbound manuscript which Barnett noted was a musical score of some sort.

  "Yes, she is quite attractive," Cecily whispered, closing the Baedeker guide to Austria she was reading and leaning over to him.

  "I, ah, was just wondering where they acquired those cushions they're sitting on," Barnett said.

  "Of course you were," Cecily agreed. "I believe that if we wave a few coins at the deck steward, he'll bring us a couple."

  "Of course. Good idea." Barnett gestured to the white-coated steward, who came promptly over.

  "Signore?" The steward gave a little bow and waited expectantly.

  "Cushions," Barnett explained, reaching into his pocket and bringing out some change. "We would like a couple of cushions for the bench, per favore."

  "Signore?" the steward repeated.

  Barnett turned helplessly to Cecily, who smiled sweetly and went back to reading her guidebook.

  "Cushions," Barnett repeated firmly. He pointed to the red, stuffed objects his neighbors were sitting on. "Cushions!"

  The steward smiled, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. He would clearly, his manner indicated, love to earn even the few centesimi that the signore was waving at him, but unless the signore could figure out how to communicate, they were doomed to never complete the transaction.

  "What's the matter," Barnett whispered to Cecily, who remained immersed in her Baedeker, "forget all your Italian?"

  The lady in blue leaned over toward Barnett. "If you will permit me," she said, and waved a finger at the steward. "Inserviente!" she called. "Il signore"—and she relayed Barnett's request to the suddenly obsequious steward. Her voice had a throaty, musical quality that was pleasant in English and truly magical sounding in Italian.

  "Ah!" The steward nodded happily when she paused. "Desiderai cascini!" and, giving Barnett a glance which clearly said, "Well, why didn't the signore say that in the first place," he grabbed a few copper coins from Barnett's hand and stalked off.

  "Thank you," Barnett said, rising and trying to find the correct European approximation between a nod and a bow. "Thank you very much, Signora. But you're not Italian, are you? You sound English."

  "How very perceptive," Cecily said under her breath.

  "That's right," the lady in blue told him. "I was pleased to be of service to a pair of distressed countrymen." With a gracious smile, she turned back to her manuscript.

  Cecily looked up from her book. "That's strange," she said.

  "What?" Barnett asked. "And why wouldn't you help me with the steward?"

  Cecily patted him on the knee. "I'm sorry, dear," she said. "Call it a whim. But it worked out nicely, didn't it? You got to speak to the nice lady who calls herself English."

  "You mean she's not?"

  "No more than you are, my dear. But it's probably of no significance. I've noticed that you allow yourself to be called English on occasion, to save bother and explanation."

  "I hope you don't think I was, ah, interested in speaking with her," Barnett whispered.

  "Of course you were," Cecily whispered back. "Look at her. You wouldn't be a man if you weren't. I hope you don't think I was jealous."

  Barnett grinned. "Of course you were. You wouldn't be a woman if you weren't. But you m
ust know that I care only for you, my dearest love. Just looking at you makes me absurdly happy. I could never seriously look at anyone else. Not for an instant!"

  Cecily squeezed his hand. "Do you mean that?"

  "Of course I do."

  "I'm so glad."

  The steward reappeared with a pair of red cushions under one arm and gestured flamboyantly with the other hand, obviously having given up attempting to communicate. They stood up, and the steward tied the cushions to their chairs. Barnett rewarded him with another couple of centesimi, and they sat back down. "A fundamental improvement, don't you think?" Barnett asked, bouncing up and down on his cushion a few times.

  "Some fundaments are more in need of it than others," Cecily commented.

  While Cecily read her Austrian Baedeker and made notes in the margin next to what interested her, Barnett went down to check on the mummer and their luggage collection. The luggage was fine, and the mummer professed a preference for remaining among the inferiore. "You learn a lot about the native ways of doing things from sittin' amongst them," he said.

  "As you will, Mummer," Barnett said, and he returned to his cushioned seat and settled down to watch the passing shoreline, a mosaic of laurel-covered cliffs breaking away suddenly to carefully tended vineyards along gentler slopes. He pointed out an occasional particularly scenic villa or church to Cecily as they passed, and she occasionally queried him as to how strongly he felt about Mozart's birthplace, or how long he thought they should devote to the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna.

  The priest had dropped into an uneasy doze, punctuated by periods of snoring and an occasional muttered word in no known language. The distinguished-looking gentleman and his beautiful lady friend had produced a traveling chess board and were bent over it in concentration. The man, Barnett decided, had the look of someone who does not believe that anything is "only a game," while the lady was treating it as an interesting diversion, and would pause to regard some bit of passing scenery. They were interrupted periodically by a servant, up from the rear deck, who would stand at respectful attention while receiving information or instructions from his master, then return whence he came.

  The chess game ended and the spade-bearded man got up and folded the board, looking rather smug, from which Barnett deduced that he had won. He had the look of a man who seldom lost, and would not do it well.

  He suddenly turned to Barnett, who looked away hastily so he wouldn't seem to be staring. "I beg your pardon," the gentleman said, "if I might intrude for a second—" He clicked his heels sharply together and bowed.

  "Excuse me?" Barnett turned to look at him.

  "No, it is I who must be excused for this undue familiarity," the man insisted. "But if I may be so bold ... This lady and I are about to indulge in a bottle of quite bearable white wine; a fine restorative on a warm day such as this. If I may be permitted to suggest that you and your lady share it with us, I would be quite honored." He spoke English with a broad German accent.

  "Well—thank you," Barnett said, after a glance at Cecily, who had pursed her lips thoughtfully, but did not look disapproving.

  "Good!" the man said. "It is true, is it not, that what would be undue familiarity in most circumstances becomes normal intercourse on a ship or a train journey. Among people of the same class, of course."

  "Oh, of course," Barnett agreed, standing up. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Benjamin Barnett, and this is my wife, Mrs. Cecily Barnett."

  The man went through the heel-clicking routine again. "A privilege," he said. "And I, myself, am Graf Sigfried Karl Maria von Linsz. My companion is Miss Jenny Vernet, the well-known operatic contralto."

  Miss Vernet laughed. "It is the sopranos who are well known," she said. "We contraltos are merely tolerated." She lifted a gloved hand for Barnett to shake. "It is actually on my account, Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, that Count von Linsz has braved the rules of etiquette and thrust himself forward, so to speak. And it is pure selfishness on my part. I merely wished to speak my native language for a while."

  "Quite understandable," Cecily said. "You are English?"

  "American, actually. I grew up in Boston. I came to London with my mother when I was fourteen."

  The count raised a hand. "First the wine, and then the conversation!"

  Von Linsz's minion appeared almost instantly from the rear deck, carrying a small wooden box and a stoneware sleeve holding a bottle of wine. He slid the bottle out of the sleeve and deftly uncorked it. From the box he produced a stem glass, poured a taste of wine into it, and passed it to the count, who tasted it and pronounced it good. Then he produced three more glasses and poured the wine.

  "Thank you, Trapp," Count von Linsz said, handing the glasses around. "That will be all."

  Trapp closed the box, slid the bottle back into its stoneware sleeve, snapped off a bow, and departed as quickly as he had arrived.

  The count raised his glass. "To a pleasant journey," he proposed.

  They all touched glasses and sipped the wine. It was light, fruity, fairly dry, and agreeably cool. "You must have a supply of ice," Barnett commented, "to keep the wine at such a drinkable temperature as mid-day approaches."

  "Not at all," von Linsz explained. "The secret lies in the porous stoneware sleeve into which the bottle is inserted. The sleeve is kept moist, and evaporation cools it and the bottle."

  "How clever," Cecily said.

  Jenny Vernet looked at them over her glass. "Graf von Linsz is a very clever man," she said.

  Von Linsz glanced sharply at her and then turned his attention back to the Barnetts. "And what do you do, Herr Barnett?" he asked, balancing his glass precariously on the armrest of his chair.

  "I'm a newspaper man," Barnett replied.

  "A journalist? That must be very interesting work."

  "At times."

  "Surely a peripatetic profession, Mr. Barnett," Jenny Vernet said. "Tell me, Mrs. Barnett, how do you feel about having a husband who keeps such erratic hours?"

  "My hours are also fairly erratic," Cecily told her. "But Mr. Barnett and I manage to be together as much, I imagine, as most couples."

  "We share the same disability," Barnett explained. "My wife is editor of a monthly magazine. For the magazine's schedule to be kept, sometimes the schedules of its employees must be sacrificed."

  Graf von Linsz shifted his gaze to Cecily. "So you also work," he said. "How—quaint."

  "Are you one of those men who believes that a woman's place is in the home, Count von Linsz?" Cecily enquired sweetly.

  "Küche, Kirche, und Kinder" the count pronounced. " 'Kitchen, church, and children.' In Germany no woman of quality would consider working."

  "Perhaps more women than you know would consider leading lives more fruitful than the bearing of children, if there were not such firm social strictures against it," Cecily said.

  Jenny Vernet laughed, a musical sound that cut through the gathering tension. "There are certain misunderstandings here," she said. "Perhaps I should point out that the count doesn't believe in anyone working. But he realizes that anyone so unfortunate as to be born without an inheritance of fifty thousand acres in, around, and including the town of Uhmstein, might be forced to consider accepting remuneration for what he does."

  "It is so," the count agreed. "The army and politics are the only fit occupations for a man."

  "And, despite his talk of 'Küche, Kirche, und Kinder,' no woman in his family has seen the inside of a kitchen for five generations," Jenny added. "Of that I am sure."

  "The expression," von Linsz explained, "is symbolic, only. It indicates the strong Germanic belief in the importance of women."

  "Indeed," Cecily murmured.

  "Truly, for what can be more important than the raising up of children? The future of the race is in the hands of the mothers of the race. This I strongly believe."

  Barnett decided that he'd better change the subject. After her miscarriages, Cecily didn't need to hear a paean to the glories of motherhood
. "I assume then, Graf," he said, "that you are well on your way to becoming either a general or a prime minister."

  "You are right," the count said. "I have trod both paths. I was an officer in His Majesty's Seventeenth Regiment of Uhlans, until invalided out. Then I was in the Reichstag for two terms until I tired of pretending to make laws. Some people make a career of this pretense, but I found it soul deadening. I thought I could influence the course of events, but soon found that talking accomplished nothing but tiring the jaw."

  "Human affairs are not so easily influenced," Cecily offered.

  "Ah, but they are, madam," von Linsz told her firmly. "But the legislature is not the place to do it. A group of men—powerful men—working together for a common goal, are capable of influencing the affairs of the entire world. Look at the influence a comparative handful of Europeans—British, French, even Belgians and Portuguese, have had in Asia and Africa."