“I can imagine that. A lot of people feel at home in Venice.”
“Well, not me. The whole time I was there I felt as if I were walking around a sugary pink ice cream that was melting. Now, you’re also the sort of man … so I think you would be just the person to track down his hiding place and discover where he’s off to next. You see, I’m not entirely happy about him. Anyone capable of undermining and destroying his own claim to the throne can also be expected to try and get it back by some underhand and unpredictable means. We have to keep him under steady surveillance. He was just the same as a child. If you let him out of your sight for five minutes you prepared for every sort of catastrophe. You must travel to Venice without delay. Venice isn’t as large as its reputation suggests. I think if you wander round for a few days with your eyes open, in the streets and on the Lido, you’re bound to find him. Anyway, that’s not my business. How you do it is up to you. All I’m interested in is that you give me a precise report on what he’s up to, who he is in contact with and what his plans are for the foreseeable future. Are you willing to do this?”
Sandoval didn’t have to think. Of course he was willing. He adored Venice, Alturia bored him, and right now this sort of irregular mission interested him much more than painting. Above all, he too was curious to know what the ex-King might be doing. Indeed, ever since that memorable evening when he realised that the King and the Nameless Captain of the conspirators were one and the same person, his imagination had steadily cast around for an explanation of the mystery. What could have brought the King to the point where — a thing without parallel even in Alturia’s history — he could conspire against himself? Perhaps if he could find him in Venice, he would discover the key to the whole enigma.
“Talk the details over with my secretary, Baroness Fifaldo — including the financial details,” the Princess added. “And don’t say a word about this to anyone. Not even Delorme must know. Be as gentle as a lamb, and as wise as a serpent. This last point is the most important of all. And look to yourself, if you get involved with Oliver. Venice is not a nice place, whatever they say, and Oliver is bad company.”
Two days later Sandoval arrived in Venice. It was now high summer, with few people — in fact only the natives — out on the streets in the heat of the day, the foreigners tending to stay out on the Lido, where he too took a hotel. If the King were in Venice, that was where he would be lodging, Sandoval reckoned — at the Excelsior. But after a single day on the watch he was quite sure Oliver was not a guest in that particular establishment.
Over the next few days he made no attempt to look for the King, so full was he of the joys of being once again in Venice. He wandered down the narrow little streets, beside the dark green lagoons, through the shady underpassages, making his way at last to the Grand Canal, where every one of the old mansions spoke in its own distinctive way to his painter’s heart. He sought out the famous pictures in the Frari and the Accademia, travelled to Padua to pay a visit to Giotto, sat in the evening sipping iced coffee, and a little bored, listening to the music in St Mark’s Square, met some old acquaintances on the Lido, bathed, and felt very much at home.
But then his conscience began to stir, and he tried to devise a system to achieve his aim. Princess Clodia had been perfectly right: Venice is tiny and sooner or later people must bump into one another. After all, where does one go there, if not to the Lido or St Mark’s Square? Sandoval scoured these places systematically. He immersed himself in every square inch of the Lido, and stood staring with Argus eyes round the crowds of tourists in the little arcades around St Mark’s Square where, by now, the whole of Europe was gathering. But there was no trace of the King.
After spending another week in fruitless staring he came to the decision that, if he had failed to find him in all that time, the King could not be in Venice. If he had indeed ever been there, he must certainly have moved on by now. He would have to extend his search to every city in Italy, which would be a great pleasure, if not exactly promising. All the same, he would have to try, and perhaps the Princess would approve.
He was sitting on the terrace of a little café opposite the statue of Goldoni, in a little square no bigger than a public dining room, writing to the Princess’ secretary Baroness Fifalda to ask for funds and authorisation to set up a more protracted investigation. He was completely immersed in its composition, and caught totally by surprise when a heavy hand pressed down on his shoulder.
He looked up and was so astonished he leapt up involuntarily from his seat. Before him stood Major Mawiras-Tendal. And if the Major was here, could the King be far behind?
The Major had in fact followed the King into voluntary exile, making his way from Alturia independently. Oliver’s firm wish had been to leave behind everything to do with his household and his entourage while on his travels. Only his aide-de-camp would be permitted to accompany him, and then not in an official capacity but as a friend and travelling companion.
The Major had changed a great deal since Sandoval had last seen him. He was, as always, a man of lofty, commanding presence, but once out of his soldier’s uniform his military bearing came across as extremely odd. He had become a sort of concept. In his urge to conceal his officer qualities he had made himself altogether too summery, debonair, gypsy-like — and irresistibly comic. A royal tiger, domesticated to the level of a pussy cat.
“Sandoval, how splendid to see you here,” he declared, having powerfully shaken his hand. “So, how are you, my dear chap, and what are you up to? Painting, painting?”
The chummy tone, Sandoval decided, though not the Major’s usual style, must be an accessory to the costume. And his curiosity intensified by leaps and bounds. What had brought Mawiras-Tendal, nephew of the great revolutionary hero of Alturia, to put himself through such a transformation?
“I, er … you know … I’m here on holiday … ” he replied. “I’m not painting at the moment, just having a look at the world. A man needs to, from time to time. But what about you, Major? Everyone ‘knows’ you’re in Central Africa with His Highness.”
“Sh … sh … ” the Major responded, and looked round in alarm. “I … as for that … I’m actually here in Venice. Business, Sandoval. Business. You know, since I stopped being his aide-de-camp, I have business interests. But I’m delighted to see you here. Because, well, you’ll see what a strange chance it is if I tell you that I’ve been running round all morning looking for a painter, drawn a blank everywhere, and now I bump into you. What luck!”
“A painter? You’ll find plenty of those in Venice. The churches are crawling with them. Any hotel porter could bring you a dozen.”
“Yes, I thought of that. But it matters what sort of painter.”
“Ah, so you’re looking for one with talent,” said Sandoval, his face brightening.
“Well, er, not entirely. Rather, one who can be trusted.”
“Trusted. From what point of view?”
“Someone who would be discreet; someone you could do business with.”
“It seems, Major, you’ve forgotten, from the good old days in Lara, that I am very discreet, and someone you could deal with.”
“Of course, of course, it’s just that … actually, it’s a question of your having to paint a Titian.”