Hadjimoscos, still gripping Yakimov’s arm, spoke effusively: ‘I was just saying, we must – a little later of course, when we are in the mood – play a delicious game called Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Mon cher, I insist that you be a dwarf.’
‘Not much good at games, dear boy.’
‘This is no ordinary game. We invented it ourselves. We choose an attractive girl – Mimi, say, or Lulie – and she is Snow White. Then we choose seven men to be the dwarfs. They leave the room and take off all their clothes. Inside the room, Snow White takes off hers. Then one at a time, the dwarfs enter and are confronted by Snow White. According to the reaction of each, so we name them – Happy, Sneezy, Grumpy and so on.’
‘And Dopey,’ Mimi cried, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
‘Now promise me’ – Hadjimoscos gave Yakimov’s arm another squeeze – ‘promise me you will be a dwarf!’
Yakimov stepped back nervously. ‘Not me, dear boy. I’m no good at that sort of thing.’
‘How sad for you.’ Hadjimoscos spoke gravely, then, releasing Yakimov and excusing himself, he trotted off on his soft shoes to where Princess Teodorescu sat on a sofa embracing a young man with a large red moustache. Above the other noises of the room, Yakimov heard Hadjimoscos’s whisper: ‘He said: “I’m no good at that sort of thing”.’ Yakimov was not disturbed. He was used to being quoted.
Suddenly Mimi, like a little clockwork doll that had been wound up, began chattering in French. Yakimov spoke French as well as he spoke English, but this Rumanian French confused him. He gathered she was speaking of a man who stood a few yards distant, a Baron Steinfeld, who was, it seemed, paying the rent of the apartment. Despite this, the Princess was devoting herself to a certain “Foxy” Leverett, while the Baron was ‘complètement “outsider”.’ As the girls bent together, Yakimov made off, thankful they were laughing at someone other than himself.
His move brought him to the Baron, who, showing all his large yellow teeth, greeted him courteously. Yakimov introduced himself.
‘Ah, my dear Prince,’ said the Baron, ‘needless to say, I have heard of you. A great name. Was not your father equerry to the Czar?’
‘Not to tell a lie, dear boy, he was.’ But even as Yakimov spoke he regretted what he said. The Baron had so eagerly awaited his reply, he feared it might be a trick question. He might be denounced to the party as an impostor. But the Baron, whose handsome high-coloured face was fixed in its eager smile, merely asked: ‘Are you an old friend of the Princess?’
‘We met for the first time tonight. Hadjimoscos brought me.’
‘Ah!’ Steinfeld nodded, then went on to speak, with relish and respect, of the Princess’s ancient lineage: ‘She is descended from Dacian kings,’ he said. ‘She can trace a direct descent from Decebal, who defeated the Romans.’
‘Can she, indeed, dear boy?’ Yakimov did his best to attend to Steinfeld while keeping his eye open for a waiter to refill his glass.
‘The Teodorescu estates in Moldavia were once very fine, but now? Mortgaged and frittered away! Frittered away! These Princes, they think they can live in Paris or Rome and their lands will thrive without them. So feckless, yet so charming!’ The Baron moved closer. ‘Now, my own little estate in Bessarabia is very well husbanded. We Germans, perhaps not so charming but, we understand to work. On my estate I make my own red wine, white wine, ţuicǎ and martini. The martini you can see in the shops. The King sells it in his own grocery store: Martini Steinfeld. It is excellent.’
Yakimov, making an effort at approbation, said: ‘I suppose you make it from Italian recipes?’
‘But naturally,’ said the Baron, ‘from raisins and recipes and herbs and all such things.’ As the Baron drew breath and started to talk again, Yakimov said: ‘Must get another, dear boy,’ and, ducking away, found himself in an ante-room where a buffet table stood laden with food.
The food was untouched, no invitation to eat having yet been given. Transfixed like one who has stumbled upon treasure, Yakimov murmured to himself: ‘Dear boy!’ There was not even the presence of a waiter to curb his appetite.
He saw a row of roasted turkeys with breasts ready sliced, two gammons baked with brown sugar and pineapple, crayfish, salmon coated with mayonnaise, several sorts of paté, three sorts of caviare, many aspic dishes, candied fruits, elaborate puddings, bunches of hot-house grapes, pineapples and autumn raspberries, all set on silver plates and decorated with white cattleyas.
Trembling like a man in dire hunger, Yakimov darted forward. He stuck a table-spoon into the fresh caviare, brought it out full and licked it clean. He decided he preferred the saltier variety to which he was used, and of this he took three spoonfuls. While he held some turkey slices in one hand, eating them like bread, he piled up a plate with salmon mayonnaise, quails in aspic, paté and creamed chicken, putting into his mouth as he went along oddments of anchovies, olives and sweets. When the plate would hold no more, he ate ravenously. About to set upon the puddings, he was interrupted by a step – a very light step. He stared guiltily, Hadjimoscos was at his elbow.
‘Felt a trifle peckish,’ said Yakimov.
‘Please!’ Hadjimoscos smiled, making a gesture towards the food, but Yakimov felt it seemly to say:
‘Thanks, dear boy, had about enough.’ Regretfully he put aside his plate.
‘Then come back to the party. We are going to play baccarat. Everyone will be playing. There will be two tables, at least. Do come. We would not have you feel neglected.’
At the word ‘baccarat’ there came down on Yakimov memory of the boredom he had suffered in the casinos to which Dollie used to drag him. He said: ‘Don’t worry about me, dear boy. I’m quite happy here.’ He noticed some tiny pies standing on a hotplate and, unable to control his longing, snatched one up and swallowed it. A scalding interior of mushrooms in cheese sauce poured into his throat. His eyes streamed.
Hadjimoscos’s laugh was a hiss, his lips widened to disclose his white, small, unconvincing teeth. For a second he looked as vicious as a little puma, but he was all persuasion as he said: ‘The Princess is mad about play. She would never forgive me if I failed to include you.’
‘As I told you, dear boy, your old Yaki hasn’t a leu. Cleaned out till m’remittance arrives.’
‘No one,’ said Hadjimoscos, ‘would refuse your IOU.’
‘Scarcely know how to play,’ said Yakimov.
‘To learn is the matter of a moment.’
Sighing, Yakimov gave a farewell glance at the buffet and, for the first time, noticed it was overhung by a portrait of an old boyar – no doubt some member of the great Teodorescu family. The boyar wore a fur turban of enormous size and a brocaded tunic beneath a mantle of fur. A pair of hands, white and delicate, rested on an embroidered cummerband, one thumb curled round the hilt of a heavily bejewelled dagger.
Yakimov was abashed, not by these accoutrements of wealth but by the face they surrounded – the long, corpse-pale nose and cheeks, the lips with their tattered fringe of beard, the heavy eyelids beneath which a thread of iris peered malevolently.
He let himself be led away.
The lights had been switched on over two oval tables. A servant was shuffling the packs. A dozen or so people sat at one table and a few others stood about behind the chairs. Yakimov could see no rush to join in the play. The Princess and the red-haired ‘Foxy’ Leverett remained in an embrace on the sofa. Other couples were lying about in shadowed corners. The Baron, still grinning, stood at the table, but at such a distance that it was clear he did not intend to be drawn in.