Antal Szerb: Oliver VII

“And then what do I do with myself?”

“Just leave that to me. In Paris you’ll make a pile from this chipmunk from the States. He runs after women like a baby.”

“And Oscar?”

“To hell with Oscar,” Valmier snarled, and drew back. “Aren’t I good enough for you?”

At that moment St Germain came charging in.

“Valmier … get your beard on!” he shouted.

“Well … I haven’t got one … ” Valmier parried.

“You see how it is, Marcelle my girl,” said St Germain in a trembling voice. “You spend your whole life slaving away for your friends, and for your noblest ideals; you put up with the fatigue, the expense, you pour your whole life, night and day, into your work, so that, just when you get to the big moment, everything comes crashing down through the obstructiveness of fools and insignificant layabouts. Like Alexander the Great at the gates of Paradise.”

Deeply moved, Valmier struggled to restore his beard to its proper place.

“Only three hundred lire, boss,” he whined. “Two hundred … ”

“And all this for three hundred piddling lire,” St Germain thundered. “What are you thinking of? What are three hundred lire to St Germain? A grain of sand on the beach; a single star in the firmament … Marcelle, my dear girl, give this good man fifty lire.”

Her eyes bright with tears, Marcelle took off her shoe, extracted fifty lire, and held it out to Valmier.

“There you are.”

The Major had been waiting patiently, a Baedeker in his hand, studying the hotels and principal sights of Trieste. Finally the King returned. The Major leapt to his feet.

“So we’re off then?”

“So we’re not going, my Milán. We’re staying.”

“But Your Highness!”

“Pardon: ‘old fellow’.”

“As you wish, Your Highness: but why are we staying?”

“Milán, it’s very hard to explain. Whatever else happens, I want to be with Marcelle tonight.”

“But Your Royal Highness, Marcelle will be following us to Trieste … or I just don’t understand. If you will pardon your most loyal subject, Your Highness was never of such a hot-blooded nature … and women, if I might say so, never influenced your decisions before. So why now?”

“You are right, Milán. You know me well. It’s not really about my wanting to spend another night with Marcelle. This is something entirely different. The fact is, if I left now, I’d feel my love for Ortrud so strongly I might do something insane. For all I know, I’m quite capable of taking up the throne again to marry her. And that I really do not want. Only Marcelle can cure me of this madness.”

“This is terrible,” the Major agreed. “You’ve never suffered from romantic complications before. But just think, Your Highness, what will happen if we stay. This afternoon you will have to negotiate with Coltor. You will have to act as if you’re Oliver VII, former King of Alturia, even though you really are him. How can you get out of such an impossible situation? It makes a man’s brain seize up … ”

“Trust me, Milán.”

“Does Your Highness have a plan?”

“No. Not exactly. But I’ll get by somehow. I shall trust to the spur of the moment, and our Alturian talent for conspiracy. I got out of a far more difficult situation: being king.”

“But Your Highness, we cannot afford to take risks … ”

“Leave it, Major.” This was said in an altogether different tone, altogether more aloof.

Hearing it, the Major stiffened to attention and stood staring in undisguised wonder at the King. This commanding presence was not something he was much used to.

“A king’s fate can be decided only by a king, Major. When I need to, I will make the decisions. Thank you, Major.”

The Major stood at ease.

“Now let’s go and have a well-earned lunch.”

St Germain had been right: there are always traitors, everywhere: as many traitors as there are people. Every one of Coltor’s secretaries had been hand-picked, not just for ability, but for their loyalty. Nonetheless, among them was a traitor.

The moment this person — whose name is of little importance to our story — knew that Coltor had made contact with Oliver VII, he immediately passed what had happened on to Harry Steel, the world-renowned reporter from the New York Times , who happened just then to be in Venice. Steel, who had been the Alturian correspondent at the time of the revolution and had ever since been regarded as America’s leading expert on that country, received the news in understandable excitement. He had instantly written the man a substantial dollar cheque, and was now calling him up every hour for further revelations.

But this wasn’t enough, and he set off to discover more himself. He looked round the Lido, and wherever people congregate in Venice, hoping to come upon someone or something. He was a man whose industry knew no bounds. This was the reporter who had, on one ill-advised occasion, interviewed a terrified Russian Tsar just minutes after a bomb attack.

His vigilance produced a reward. Although, to his puzzlement and surprise, he failed to find the ex-King, he did come upon Count Antas, sprawling alone on the Lido sands and pining for Marcelle. Steel knew the Count by sight from his Alturian days. Wasting no time, he went quickly across and sat down on the sand beside him.

“I say, Count, there’s no denying it. I know everything.”

“Did my wife send you?” Antas replied, in mortal terror.

“Among others, Count.”

“It’s all a pack of lies,” he whined. “A person of my standing cannot move without attracting the most appalling suspicion and speculation.”

“I must advise you, Count, that I have proof in my possession. Handed to me by the secretary … ”

“Secretary?” he gasped. And he thought of Sandoval. Ah, yes, that rascally painter! And this detective — for what else could this American be? — thought that Sandoval was Marcelle’s secretary.

“Now listen here, my good friend,” he said. “Believe you me, the name Antas isn’t just empty air; and, take my word for it, there’s nothing between her and me. On my honour.”

Steel’s smile was benevolent, but sceptical.

“That’s what they all say.”

“I tell you, my feelings towards the young lady in question are those of a father. It’s her creative development that interests me. I want to help her become a great artist.”

(This was the usual formula, before the war.)

Harry Steel frowned.

“Don’t try to put one over on me, Count. What’s this girl you’re talking about?”

“What? You don’t know who I’m talking about, and yet you have the nerve to come here? You crooked rascal!” he shouted, his self-confidence returning. “Who are you anyway?”

“I am Harry Steel,” the reporter declared, and held out his hand. “Correspondent of the New York Times .”

“Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Antas replied loftily. He did not offer his hand. “So what were you talking about, then? Whose secretary?”

“Now come on, Count, no use pretending. This isn’t diplomacy, it’s real life. I’m talking about Coltor’s secretary, of course.”

Once again Antas turned deathly pale.

“Look, it could just be that the secretary saw us together, when we paid our respects to Mr Coltor. But that really means nothing, nothing at all.”

“What? You went there with the King?”

“To hell with the King! What king are you talking about anyway?”

“I wouldn’t try putting one over old Harry Steel, Count. I know for a fact that Oliver VII has been negotiating with Coltor. He wants to get back on the throne and sign the treaty.”

Antas’ sense of mastery returned at once, and he exploded with furious laughter: