“That not what I want to talk about.”
“All right, then. What?”
“I would like to draw your attention to the fact that Count Antas is on holiday here in Venice.”
“Ah, the old idiot! Luckily he’s no concern of ours any more.”
“Not entirely. Tell me, er … old chap,” he enunciated painfully, “what would happen if he, or anyone else, were to recognise you in your present — in our present — situation?”
“In the first place, they wouldn’t recognise me, because I’ve cut off my moustache and side whiskers — they really made me stand out — and now I look like someone else; in fact, just like anyone else. And what, pray, is your objection to our present situation?”
“Well, you know … ”
“I don’t know! We’re South American planters. Perhaps that’s not a good enough occupation?”
“A good occupation? Thank you very much. It was a real idiot who gave Your High … you … that idea, my dear fellow. The moment we said we were planters people became suspicious. It’s why St Germain’s lot decided straight away that we were con men.”
“So then?”
“Well, so there was no point, if I might express myself freely, old fellow” (in his mind’s eye Sandoval could see Mawiras-Tendal making a bow each time he mouthed “old fellow”) “in your making up that long story … ”
“What ‘long story’?”
“Well, how you diddled twenty-four locomotives out of that American railroad king.”
“Look, my dear Milán, everyone shows off when he finally gets to meet the girl he’s been skulking after for days. When I realised what line of trade Marcelle’s lot were in, I thought a story like that might be just the thing to help establish a good working relationship with them.”
“I was just amazed that that old fox St Germain actually believed we were, er … in the same line of business.”
“It’s really strange; but you see, he did believe me. And that’s the thing. For once in my crummy life something came off.”
“But that’s precisely why we shouldn’t form that sort of casual connection with these people. I mean, the fact is, we have ended up as … members of a gang.”
“And so? At least that way I’ll really get to see life from below. That’s what I’ve always wanted … and besides, I’ll be able to be with Marcelle all the time.”
“But I’m sorry, that situation has certain practical consequences, which do you no credit and could easily put you in danger. While I fully acknowledge Mlle Marcelle’s feminine charms, and respect the intimate relationship between you two, I really can’t approve, for example, of the fact that we have accepted money from St Germain. It’s awkward, to put it mildly.”
“You can rest assured that I’ll give him all his money back, down to the last centesimo. But until then, we do have to take it, or Marcelle will become suspicious.”
“We really must get away from Venice, before some really serious danger arises, some huge scandal that will hit the whole of Europe. Just think what would happen if word got out that the former monarch of Alturia had become a … con-man.”
“Now please, Milán, you always look on the dark side of things. You know perfectly well I have managed so far to steer clear of anything that might be called confidence trickery. But every woman calls for some small sacrifice.”
For a while nothing more was said. Sandoval could hear the sound of footsteps. It seemed the King was striding up and down the room. Finally, he spoke again.
“No, my dear Milán, there’s no question of my leaving, now that I’m at last beginning to enjoy myself. You won’t understand this, because you were never a king. If I don’t keep all that firmly behind me, I will never get to know life.”
“Your Highness … I mean, my dear fellow … I can to some extent understand what you’re saying, though for my own part I have never wanted to get to know ‘life’ better. I always had too much to do. What I don’t understand is why you insist on this particular version of it. What makes you think that the Lido, and its idlers roasting themselves black in the sun, and this ancient Venice — something that escaped from a museum in an unguarded moment — and above all, this particular bunch of swindlers, are its true representatives?”
“Why? I’ve never given it thought, it all seems so natural to me. What would you consider real life, Milán?”
“Only something that would involve serious work. The military life, if that were at all possible. In your situation … our situation … I would propose serving in the Turkish army … where a chap can still find things to do.”
“Perhaps. I think of life quite differently. Somehow I have always believed that the real test of life was uncertainty. Perhaps that is why I have always been so deeply drawn to Venice. Here, the whole city is like a theatrical backdrop: at times it even seems to wobble, and you never feel quite sure that the whole thing won’t have been whisked away by the morning. Believe me, Milán, this is life. The life of St Germain. This is real uncertainty, from one day to the next. Maybe tomorrow we’ll be rolling in money; and maybe we won’t have enough to eat. Without that level of uncertainty … you might as well be a king. But that sort of certainty I absolutely do not want. Holy God! To put that appalling marshal’s greatcoat on again! My worthy cousin Clodia can rule in my place, to the very end.”
Sandoval’s instinct whispered to him that the dialogue was coming to an end. Besides, he had learnt quite enough. He got up and tiptoed out. But he wrote no report to Princess Clodia about what he had heard, not that day or the next. Some feeling, very hard to define, held him back. Perhaps it was the solidarity of artistic minds.
Two days later the painting was ready. Sandoval made his way down to the ground floor and there, in the great room facing out onto the street, he found Mawiras-Tendal and Honoré. He told them he had finished, and that it needed only to dry.
“You don’t say — finished already?” Honoré gloated. “God knows what sort of rubbish you’ve painted.”
“What do you expect, for what you’ve paid me so far … ”
“Ja, ja, just you be quiet. I’ll go and call the old man.”
Sandoval and the Major were left alone. The Major suddenly bent over to catch the painter’s ear.
“St Germain is just now with a mutual acquaintance of ours, His Highness King Oliver VII … you met him one memorable evening in Lara. The King is living under the strictest incognito. Certain higher purposes have induced him to form a connection with St Germain, strange as that may sound. In the interest of those purposes — which I’m sorry I’m not in a position to disclose — it’s very important that we don’t give the secret away in front of St Germain, who has no idea of the King’s true identity. I already know, from experience back home, that we can trust you absolutely. So, don’t show you recognise him.”
The next moment the King entered. St Germain greeted the painter affably and introduced him to the King, whom he referred to simply as Monsieur Oscar. He appeared not to consider him anyone special. The King seemed to know who Sandoval was and half-closed an eye, with ironic significance, in his direction. Then they all went up together to look at the painting.
St Germain immersed himself for some time in the contemplation of Sandoval’s masterpiece, then he turned to the King:
“What do you say to that, my dear Oscar?”
The King tilted his head back and gazed thoughtfully at the picture, before murmuring:
“Hm. Yes.”
“You see, what I really like about you,” said the Count, “is the way you always express yourself so clearly and decisively, like a man used to giving orders.”
Then he turned to the painter.