Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

It was he who effected the connection between Bubi and Effi Perko.

It happened on the same morning as the altercation between Bubi Brill and his father, after which the father, Usher Brill, paid a visit on old Hirsh Leib, Baronet von Merores, Senior. What happened was as follows:

Bubi showed up at the tennis courts as Wolf von Merores — his middle name, Leibish, was usually suppressed — was winning his game against the director of the Anglo-Maghrebinian Bank, a certain Dr. Sudbinsky, with one final well-aimed overhead smash. Herr von Merores was walking up to the clubhouse, a towel draped casually around his neck and half a dozen first-class rackets bunched beneath his arm, while Bubi Brill idly surveyed the tennis courts, still morose following the “scene with the old man.”

“Good morning,” Wolfi shouted, in English, in a comradely way. “What’s new?”

“Morning,” replied Bubi Brill. “Just the usual. Are you done?”

“Yes. I have to be in town at eleven. You missed an interesting game. I’ll have to take away Sudbinsky’s handicap if he keeps playing like this. He nearly beat me.”

“I’d like to talk to you about a small matter,” said Bubi Brill.

“Sure. Come on over here. I just have to take a quick shower.” He carefully wrapped his towel around his neck. “Evidently there was another scandalous incident last night that everybody’s talking about,” he mentioned casually. “Have you heard anything more about it?”

“Not a thing,” Bubi lied, since his mind was too focused on something else.

“People are talking about a Nazi demonstration on the main street. Your father’s store was hit as well?”

“Oh, the usual slogans smeared on the shutters. Not worth mentioning,” Bubi admitted sullenly.

“Wait just a minute,” said Baronet Wolf, “I just want to tip the ball boy.”

“It will just take a second,” said Bubi, on the way to the clubhouse. “I’m sure you’ve read in the papers about the delegation from the Ministry of War coming to town.”

“Naturally,” said Wolfi von Merores. “Border security, so the story goes.”

“Exactly. I’ve found out from a dependable source that they’re going to contact old Paşcanu.”

Wolfi looked up and smiled. “Interesting,” he said.

“Supposedly it’s about developing a preliminary contract for lumber consignments to the army.” Bubi paused a moment. “I figured the information would not be entirely uninteresting to you, just as you said. Should the occasion present itself, I hope you will keep me in consideration?”

Wolfi went on smiling his fine smile. “Where does the information come from, if I may ask?”

“From a reliable source. By the way, have you thought of me in regard to the person we were speaking of yesterday?”

“Effi Perko? Yes, I have been thinking of you. Speaking of which, what are you doing tomorrow? Why don’t you come up to my office for a few minutes. Let’s say at eleven. Perko will just happen to be there. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

“Fine, I’ll be there. Then I’ll tell you more about the other business. In any case: old Paşcanu is still very active.”

“Evidently,” said Wolfi. “So, tomorrow at eleven. Ciao , my friend.”

They each waved a friendly goodbye, and Baronet Wolfi disappeared into the clubhouse. Bubi Brill sauntered down to the courts and soon found a game among the young people there.

By the time Wolf Baronet von Merores had changed, shaved, and combed his hair, the Chrysler was already waiting out front. His chauffeur held the door for him, then climbed behind the steering wheel and gave an impressive blast of the three-toned horn — the signal he used to inform the members of the club of the arrival and departure of their president. At the same time, the vehicle surged forward.

The splendor of the trees in the Czernopol Volksgarten was without comparison. Seated in the back of the Chrysler, he had taken off his gray homburg and set it beside him, and the summer light floated down through the treetops onto the avenues like smoke spilling from a censer, occasionally flashing in the baronet’s smoothly parted black hair. Wolfi von Merores was of less than medium height, a little on the chubby side, with a delicate bone structure. He carried himself with the distinction and elegance of a businessman at the peak of his power. With a hint of dreaminess in his dark almond eyes, he peered through the raised windows of the sedan into the park, which glided past him like a tapestry, the consummate background for a princely profile, but once the vehicle reached the officers’ casino and the backdrop shifted abruptly from handsomely cultivated nature to the uncivilized doings of the main street, his manicured hands reached for the paper and he spent the rest of the drive into town reading.

In Neuschul Street the Chrysler gently braked in front of the von Merores’ house. Baronet Wolf, who never failed to deliver a personal word of thanks to his staff, gave his chauffeur a friendly nod: “Thanks, Kozarishchiuk. I won’t be needing you before five o’clock bridge.”

He made a very lordly impression as he climbed out of the car, folded his newspaper, and stepped into his father’s house, carrying his gray homburg.

The von Merores’ house was well tended, with an air of patrician stability. In the nineties it had belonged to a very rich Armenian. The front rooms exhibited an Oriental sumptuousness, with mosaic floors and deep window niches. Corridors that were almost devoid of light led back to a variety of small rooms that once may have sheltered servants, or perhaps even harem wives — one never knew what kind of family arrangements prevailed among the Armenians.

A slender man who served as the Merores’ secretary met Wolf in the corridor, which they referred to using the English word “hall,” took his hat, and said: “You have a visitor. Old man Brill.”

“Interesting,” said Wolf von Merores. “Anything else?”

“He wants to speak to your papa. I told him he should wait until you came. Other than that, nothing unusual.”

“Mail?”

“A few letters. I’ve set out everything that requires signing.”

“Thank you, Seligmann,” said Baronet Wolf. “I’m going back for a few minutes to wish Mama good morning. Then you can let Brill in to see me.”

He set off into the dark labyrinth of the rear wing. Stopping outside one of the doors, he gave a careful knock, and when he heard someone invite him in, he swept open the door and bounded lithely to his mother and, as he was well bred, kissed her hand. The old lady in her peignoir was in the process of shaping her Eton crop with a curling iron. A few experiments with bleaching agents had given her hair a somewhat violet tinge.

“You are incorrigible, Mama,” said Wolf, patting her on the hand. “How often do I have to repeat how happy I am that we can afford a hairdresser, thank God.”

“Why should I give good money to that Figaro when I can do the same thing myself? Or is it maybe for making an impression on people? I’m telling you, I don’t give a damn what people say. I’ll do my hair the way I want and that’s that.”

“It’s not on account of the people, Mama, please. Only, you’ll burn the tips of your pretty hair. And the money you save on that you spend anyway on sweets you shouldn’t be eating. So it’s really on account of your liver. Emancipation is fine and good, but one has to consider one’s health.” He smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Papa is doing well?” he asked.

“From what I hear he is.”

“Now, there’s a striking example of tender marital affection, by God, Mama,” laughed Baronet Wolf. “That really makes me want to attend to your wishes.”