Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

“ Chère Marcelle,” said Sandoval, “allow me to introduce my most distinguished patron Count Antas, former Royal Chief Steward to King Oliver VII.”

Marcelle smiled a very friendly smile, and a lively conversation started between the two. At Antas’ suggestion, they took a seat in one of the cafés. Sandoval listened with half an ear to the Count’s naive bragging while he considered what to do. He gathered from what was being said that the Count had left his hotel soon after lunch and had not been back since. Perhaps he hadn’t yet had the Major’s letter. By the next morning, when he did get it, he would be on the very best of terms with Marcelle.

Suddenly he could refrain no longer from asking him:

“Count, forgive me if I presume on our old intimacy to ask: what did Her Ladyship say when you returned home after our last little outing?”

“Ah, my boy, I had a stroke of luck. Enormous luck. By the time I got home the revolution had broken out and I was relieved of my duties. And then it really played havoc with her nerves. She forgot about everything else. The poor thing has never recovered from the disaster. That’s why I came to Venice for a break.”

Marcelle explained that she too was a painter, though not one who needed to work. She was in Venice on a study trip. And she adored seafood. She spoke in a refined, distinguished way, to Sandoval’s delight. They took their leave of Antas towards midnight, having planned a trip for the following day to the little fishing village on Burano, whose colourful boats and lively water-life Marcelle would be sure to find interesting.

In the boat going back she said: “Tell me, is he a real count?”

“Absolutely the real thing. And his grandfather before him.”

“Yes, it showed. Such a fine gentleman. Not like that poor Oscar. But that’s why I love Oscar all the more. Now why would that be?”

“Like attracts like.”

“Quite probably.”

St Germain was still up when they called round to tell him what had been happening. Naturally they said no more than what was necessary, and did not implicate Mawiras-Tendal. Sandoval said that he just happened to know this Palawer person who had written the letter: he had been in his company on several occasions in France and they had now met again in Venice.

“Chance events are always interesting,” was St Germain’s response. “What we need to establish now is how this Palawer knew about our plans. Do you have any suggestions?”

Sandoval had the feeling he was being cross-examined. But he had come prepared for the question.

“All I can think is someone in Coltor’s entourage has been blabbing about what an amazing deal his boss is working on. And of course Palawer, as an Alturian, would have known that the King isn’t in Venice, so Coltor could only be dealing with an impostor.”

“Hm. Are you so sure the King isn’t in Venice?”

Sandoval began to feel rather uncomfortable. Did this man actually suspect something? Was his illustrious ancestor whispering something to him through the mists of ages?

“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “The King is hunting big game in Central Africa.”

“So they say,” said St Germain, thoughtfully. “Oh well, no matter. Perhaps tomorrow … ”

And he reworked the details of the rest of the plan, taking Antas into account.

Early next morning they set off for Burano.

Sandoval had arranged a particularly early rendezvous so that Antas would not have time to call on Coltor beforehand. When they met, the Count appeared rather agitated, as if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Obviously Mawiras-Tendal’s letter, which he must have now read.

Once they were sitting in the boat and heading out over the unruffled water towards the ring of tiny islands that encircle the city, Antas could restrain himself no longer and poured out his troubles.

“I had a letter this morning, from a certain Dr Palawer, a former Secretary of State in my homeland, Alturia,” he began. “He tells me there are swindlers on the prowl, here in Venice, passing themselves off as King Oliver VII and his royal household. They hope to take in the great financier Coltor. The whole story is so improbable that I would never have believed it if anyone other than Palawer had told me. And the most outrageous thing of all, he says, is that one of the gang is preparing to impersonate me. Calling himself Count Antas … it’s monstrous! Just imagine, Sandoval, if my wife heard that I was consorting with swindlers! I’d never be able to set foot in Alturia again.”

“And what do you intend doing about it, Count?”

“I’ll go to Coltor later today, show him the letter, and expose the whole ungodly business.”

“Today? I thought we might have the whole day together,” whimpered Marcelle. “I thought we were going out to Burano.”

“Oh, how wonderful you are,” Antas enthused. “How happy I would be, my God, how happy I would be, if we could stay there … ”

He wavered for a moment, then heaved a profound sigh.

“Duty is not a bed of roses, as our national poet tells us. I really must speak with Coltor today. Who knows, tomorrow may be too late. Sometimes you can be taken in so quickly you hardly even notice.”

“Then at least let me go with you,” Marcelle pleaded. “I’ve never seen a great financier like Coltor close up. I’d love to see what sort of face he has. Faces really interest me, as a painter!”

“I’ll take you most gladly, but how?”

“Oh that’s not a problem! Tell him I’m your niece, and you didn’t want to leave me alone in the hotel.”

“True! Wonderful, pure genius!”

“Count,” Sandoval intervened, “would it be terribly indiscreet if I asked you to show me this letter?”

“Of course not. Here it is.”

He drew it from his pocket and gave it to Sandoval. The painter immersed himself in studying the text. Meanwhile Marcelle called Antas to the other side of the deck to show him something. Sandoval exchanged the letter for another that St Germain had written that morning. It had not been very difficult to concoct a very similar-looking one as the Major had typed his letter on Sandoval’s writing paper — a ‘chance event’ that St Germain was not of course aware of. When the Count returned, Sandoval gave him the second letter, carefully placed back inside the envelope. The Count didn’t look inside, but simply stuffed it into his pocket.

They arrived at Burano. When they had seen what there was to see, they sat down to lunch. Antas, as we have already mentioned, would happily drink alcohol whatever the time of day. Now he set about it with gusto. Amorousness and a loyal nostalgia for home induced an even greater thirst in him, and Marcelle and Sandoval did little to discourage him.

“Tell me, Count, are you on good terms with this Coltor?” Marcelle asked.

“On good terms? My dear, I might say that he was frankly eating out of my hand on his last visit to Alturia. We caroused together every night. The only problem was that the poor little chap couldn’t hold his liquor. He got drunk immediately and talked total rubbish from then on.”

“How interesting. And how did you address each other? Were you on first-name terms?”

“But of course we were,” Antas fibbed, seeing how much this seemed to impress Marcelle. “It was always things like ‘my dear boy’.”

“He called Coltor his ‘dear boy’! Did you hear that, Sandoval? Wonderful! And you would just go up to him and pat him on the cheek like that, and say things like ‘What ho! my dear boy,’ and that sort of thing?”

“But of course. Coltor loved my informal manner, and my eternal good humour.”

“But that I can’t believe, Count, if you will forgive me. These Norlandians are so dour, and so very reserved, it just isn’t possible to talk to them like that,” said Sandoval.