Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

While it would give me the greatest pleasure to leap into action myself, I am not someone Coltor knows and he might well decline to believe me. It would have much greater force if you, who are so very well known and respected by the man, were personally to remove the scales from his eyes.

The situation, dear Count, calls for instant action. St Germain intends to set up this meeting in the very near future. We must not fail to act. I would like to suggest that you write Coltor a preliminary letter and call on him immediately afterwards, at the Hotel Excelsior, for further discussion.

I beg you again, in the name of Alturia and in your own interests, to step onto the field of battle without delay.

Your respectful adherent

Dr Palawer (former State Secretary for Transport)

“There we are,” said the Major. “If you’d just let me have that sheet of paper, I’ll type it up and take it to the Hotel Bonvecchiati myself. It was quite by chance that I discovered he was staying there. Sandoval, this is the very first time I ever have been disloyal to His Highness, but there are times when betrayal is the truest mark of loyalty.”

Left to himself, Sandoval got up, put on his coat and went down to the seafront to think. The Major’s course of action did not please him in the slightest. He was in Venice as the trusted emissary of Princess Clodia, of Delorme and, more generally, of the victorious revolution. As recently as yesterday it had been clear to him that he could only serve their cause by joining in the King’s little game. If they could entrap Coltor, the whole affair would then come to light in all its ridiculousness. That could only be of advantage, in one of two ways. On the one hand, it might compromise Coltor and the whole treaty and thus prevent the latter ever becoming reality, perhaps at the same time destroying any desire on Coltor’s part to attempt similar experiments. On the other, now that he had got to know Oliver and to understand the motives behind his actions, Sandoval felt that he might still make use of the situation to the King’s advantage. True, if it came to light that Oliver had personally taken part in such an inappropriate and foolish game, it would make a return to his ancestral throne much more difficult, perhaps impossible — but then the King feared nothing so much as going back. Perhaps it really wouldn’t bother him at all if these events made him seem an even more bohemian type, and even more of an enigma, in the public eye — in fact, the role he had chosen to play was probably quite close to his heart.

But then, Mawiras-Tendal’s intervention might not only put an end to St Germain’s plans but also to his own expectations. But how could he stop it? It seemed impossible. By now the letter would undoubtedly have been written and delivered. All he could hope for would be to take some sort of step to mitigate its effect. It was lucky the Major had not been able to keep his thoughts to himself but had shared them with him. But what could he do? Either stop Antas going to Coltor, or prevent Coltor giving credence to Antas’ words. But how?

Sandoval was not a man to spend much time in contemplation. He was one of those people who always act on the immediate impulse, and then have no idea what they are doing. He had one positive fact to go on: that Antas was here in the city, in the Hotel Bonvecchiati. Minutes later, he was sitting in a boat and drawing alongside the Riva dei Schiavoni.

He made his way through St Mark’s Square, passed under the arch of the Oratorio, through the Merceria and into the Calle dei Fabri, where all the little jewellers were. Here he bumped into Marcelle. For the first time he noticed what a very attractive girl she was. “Not the sort of beauty you’d notice indoors,” he thought, “but one of those girls who really stand out in a street … ”

Marcelle explained what had passed at the jeweller’s, and the other errands she had been running for St Germain. Together they made their way back to St Mark’s.

“Tell me, Sandoval,” she asked. “What do you think of all this?”

“Pure genius,” he replied. “A plan like that occurs to the human brain once in a hundred years.”

“Do you think so? To me it all seems too perfect. To be perfectly frank, these big projects leave me cold. I’d much prefer some … some decent, responsible old guy in whose company I could relax. You don’t happen to know of anyone?”

“I’ll think about it. And what about Oscar? Oscar is horribly jealous.”

“True. But isn’t it wonderful? For a man, in this day and age, to be jealous of a woman … perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of him, and why I forgive him his stupidity and dullness … I’ve seldom met such a cack-handed bloke in my life.”

They were now standing on the embankment opposite the tall, slender tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, looking out at the marine panorama that, before the war, every human being worth the name gazed on once in his lifetime, like a Muslim on pilgrimage to Mecca. Though he had seen it a hundred times, Sandoval now gave himself up fully to the roseate loveliness of the Venetian scene. Just then a large, white-painted boat glided slowly by on the golden water of twilight, on its way to anchor somewhere beside the church of Santa Maria della Salute. And that boat, on its mysterious journey, gave Sandoval the great idea that he had been searching for the whole afternoon.

“Marcelle,” he shouted, “I have it. I’ve found someone for you!”

“Who’s that?”

“A wonderful old pasha, the greatest buffoon on the entire planet! He’s simply made for you. He’s here in Venice. You must get onto him straight away. I have his address.”

“Now look here, chum. You’re not going to drag me down that road!” she protested, bristling with moral indignation. “You must learn to give people their due. Do you think I’m some sort of tart? That I want that sort of relationship? Certainly not. Listen, boy, my relationships last at least a fortnight. Some have been a lot longer.”

“God help me, my precious, but I had no such thought,” he replied by way of apology. “I know very well who I’m talking to. Listen, I’m a portrait painter, I can tell the difference between one woman and another. We’ll just be putting on a little show. Now, let’s first go and have dinner.”

They wined and dined very pleasantly in a little restaurant just off St Mark’s. When they had finished they returned to the Square.

St Mark’s Square is the centre of the world. Before the war broke out, the world was much smaller than it is now, and there were far fewer people; that is to say, fewer people who counted as such. There were just one or two locations that could claim to be such centres, on the grounds that at some time or other ‘everyone’ ended up strolling around them. St Mark’s was certainly one of these.

Sandoval had calculated correctly. They did indeed meet Antas, and in the most fortunate of circumstances. The Count was alone, ambling around the piazza in a pair of black-and-white chequered trousers and white linen jacket, with an imposing carnation in his buttonhole, and eyeing the ladies through his monocle with a degree of interest that belied his age. Sandoval made sure they approached along his line of vision. As they drew closer, Antas became so overwhelmed by admiration for Marcelle that he failed to notice the painter, until his loud and enthusiastic greeting:

“Good evening, Count.”

Antas was horribly startled, but, recognising Sandoval, his astonished face was transformed into a happy smile and he advanced towards the two of them.

“Oh, Sandoval! Forgive me for troubling you, but I really can’t pass over the opportunity of having a couple of words with you … here in St Mark’s Square … ” (bowing furiously all the while in Marcelle’s direction, and leaving no doubt why he was so very delighted to meet him).