Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

“What’s that?”

“Pictures, Marchese, paintings.”

“Ah yes, paintings. Oooh, paintings! … ” He rubbed his hands together. “Paintings. He should go to the Accademia. Some very fine pictures there. At least, there used to be. Perhaps they’ve all been taken away.”

“The old boy’s a bit obsessed,” Honoré whispered.

“And maybe he’s forgotten about the Titian. He’s not all there.”

But, very slowly, he managed to bring the Marchese round to the Titian. After a proper parade of reluctance he at last showed willingness to take them upstairs.

The picture was still in the room on the first floor where Sandoval had created it, hanging a little to one side, to signify how little the Marchese valued it.

“This is a very old picture,” he pronounced without interest. “Lovely woman. Beautiful woman. That’s why I keep it. Used to like those sort of women, once. Oooh, how I loved them. But I don’t any more. Not any more.”

Oscar and Honoré nudged Eisenstein in the ribs to indicate that this was the picture, and then gazed at it with expressions of ecstasy. Marcelle too did her best to assume the face of an art expert.

“Now that’s nice,” she remarked, turning to Oscar. “I’d be very happy to have one like that.”

“And I’d happily buy it for you, my sweetest,” Oscar replied. “But the Marchese won’t part with it. I’ve already asked him.”

“There’s a painter standing right here,” the Marchese noted, indicating Sandoval. “He likes it too.”

Sandoval launched into his art-historical spiel on the subject of Titian’s greatness. Everyone listened in devout silence.

Then there was a further silence, which Eisenstein finally broke with the long-awaited question:

“How much? Quanto costa ?”

The Marchese made a gesture to indicate that he hadn’t heard the question.

“Do make yourselves at home,” he pronounced, without enthusiasm.

“You can’t talk to the old man in that blunt way,” Honoré whispered to Eisenstein. “I told you, he won’t hear any talk of selling. You’ll have to be content for now with the fact that you’ve seen it. We’ll see to the rest, if it’s at all possible.”

“Aw, yes,” said Eisenstein.

They took their leave shortly afterwards. St Germain, Mawiras-Tendal and Sandoval stayed behind, waiting on tenterhooks for what news the others might bring back.

“What’s your impression?” the Count asked the painter.

“This American seems to be a real fool. I think everything depends on how far our friends can influence him. Particularly our most important friend. Even a blind man could see how much he fancied her.”

“Of course,” the Major agreed. “We got to know him through her, as her admirer. I’m quite confident about it. In my experience Americans trust women implicitly and do whatever they want.”

“Do you think so, Mr Meyer?” St Germain asked, rather thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure. I’m afraid my instinct tells me something isn’t quite right. There was something I didn’t like about that shady Yank. But I really can’t say what it is.”

St Germain’s instinct had been only too accurate in suggesting that something might be wrong. Oscar and Honoré soon returned, in a state of considerable tension. They had obviously had a disagreement on the way.

“So, what’s up with our American friend?” the Count asked.

“Well, he likes the picture all right,” Honoré began. “It hasn’t occurred to him that it might be a fake. But he wants to talk the matter over with Marcelle. Tête-à-tête. So he’s taken her out to dinner.”

“So far so good!” said the Count. “Marcelle is a clever girl. She’s brought off tougher deals than this before.”

“Yes, it’s just that this idiot,” Honoré continued, pointing to Oscar, “I’m ashamed to say this in front of you, boss: this idiot is jealous!”

“My dear young friend,” the Count returned. “I’m aware that you have this noble, chivalrous affection for Marcelle — you have never made a secret of it — and in other circumstances I might almost think of the two of you as being in the sort of situation I remember from my own youth … and I would not deprecate pure love, not even among our own little band. Plato himself observed that the army in which the warriors are bound by chains of love is invincible. But such feelings should never be allowed to get in the way of business. It’s the basis of Kant’s philosophy. I really don’t understand you, young man. You’re supposed to have been a long time in this game, and you certainly aren’t the first admirer in her life. How could you permit yourself the luxury of feeling jealous? My dear friend”—flinging his arms wide and shouting—“my dear Oscar, I simply don’t understand you!”

“I’m sorry, Count,” Oscar replied. “but I can tell you most earnestly that as far as I’m concerned this game just isn’t worth the candle, if Marcelle and this revolting slug, this Eisenstein … my God! … ”

“It may not be worth it to you, but then I don’t know what sort of financial background you have. My young friend, you must have been born a millionaire! We can’t afford such eccentricity. We have to think of the group before everything else. And for present purposes, I am the group.”

“But there’s no point in talking about this,” Honoré intervened. “Luckily Marcelle has a lot more sense than this idiot. She ignored the sulky look on Oscar’s face and went off to dinner with the creep.”

“Yes, I trust her judgement, and her very manly attitude,” the Count agreed. “But I can’t get rid of this feeling that something is wrong.”

It was. The next day a sombre Marcelle arrived at the palazzo, where the whole company were waiting anxiously.

“The creep didn’t mention the picture once in the whole evening. Whenever I brought it up, he immediately started talking about something else.”

“So what did you talk about, the whole evening?” Oscar interjected, with fire in his eyes.

“What about? What do you think a man and a woman talk about?”

Oscar went white with anger.

“Look, Count, I think even you can see now that this whole business isn’t worth it. I said from the start that the revolting creature wasn’t interested in the Titian, he was only interested in Marcelle.”

“Indeed he was,” Marcelle said modestly.

“My dear Oscar,” said the Count reflectively. “I very much fear you are right. I’m afraid nothing will come of all this. Or at the most, only for Marcelle. We can’t interfere in any business she might arrange through her own efforts and enterprise. After all, we must all make concessions for the team.”

“But my feeling,” said Oscar (turning threateningly towards Marcelle) “is that — at least as far as I’m concerned — I do have a right of veto over her business … ”

“My children,” St Germain intervened, gently but very firmly. “You should never conduct your little love-games in public. It isn’t the style. Look, I’m giving you ten lire. Take yourselves off to a coffee house and sort out your little quarrel, as young people must. I don’t want to spoil the fun.”

Oscar seized Marcelle’s arm and dragged her off.

“Now that we grown-ups are alone,” said St Germain, raising his hand, “let us spare a moment’s thought for the young people now departed, and then bring this tediously drawn-out Eisenstein business to a conclusion. I think it would be best if Honoré and Sandoval called on him this evening and asked him directly if he has any intention of buying our wonderful Titian. I put my trust in your tact and discretion to get a decision out of him, one way or the other.”