In murmured Russian I promised him some superb cocaine, but he must keep quiet. His friends at the other table were frowning and showing signs of impatience, even nervousness. I said that I thought he was wanted back with his comrades.
‘They’re not comrades! They’re gun-runners, Dimka. I came all the way from Manchuria to meet them. Well, more or less. But I did come all the way from Manchuria. And I know it’s to do with guns. They won’t tell me anything. I’m just a damned dogsbody, really, dear. I had to get out of Bolivia. I can’t tell you what I had to do to leave La Paz.’
‘What were you doing in Manchuria, Mr Tsipliakov?’ enquired Miss Butter with that direct, polite innocence only Americans command. I expected Seryozha to become coy, but he answered quickly.
‘They have an absolutely huge Russian community. All forced out by the Reds, of course, and wretchedly hungry for any kind of art. The old story, ma’mselle. An emissary arrived in Paris. He knew of me and came with an absolutely splendid, unrefusable offer - and the chance to be chief star and choreographer of the Ballet Manchurienne. A marvellous opportunity. The Russians were longing to hear Tchaikovsky performed by genuine Slavs and to watch some decent dancing. Of course, I agreed. My heart was touched, you know. I am too soft, as all my friends tell me.’ He fixed a large, self-loving eye upon Miss Butter.
‘What happened to you there?’ I asked.
‘Well, darling, I arrived in Harbin, by a most unseaworthy Chinese steamer, to discover that I was the entire company and was expected to create an alternative to the Bolshoi out of absolutely nothing. Darling, believe me, I did my best. Every silly little Russian girl that had ever had a dance lesson was auditioned, every little boy who had ever yearned for toe-shoes. And I put something together for them. They thought it was wonderful. But then, of course, they didn’t’ want to pay for a ballet company. Eventually I found myself in financial trouble. A stupid, pointless scandal. Nobody would give me my salary! Luckily, I became great pals with a successful fur trader, late of Nizhny Novgorod and now of La Paz, who told me that the Bolivians were simply crying out for a good ballet master. He promised to back me, but by the time we arrived in Bolivia we’d quarrelled over a stupid matter and he wasn’t speaking to me. I gave private lessons for a while. Then that bastard Salamanca overturned the government and it was all gone. I’d become rather a friend of the president’s wife, who was a keen balletomane, and I suppose I was identified with the ruling class. Luckily, I’d made a couple of German chums there and when they got the chance to leave I went with them. It’s a familiar tale, isn’t it, ma’mselle, for these days? But we soldier on.’
She had not heard my question and had scarcely understood anything Seryozha had said. ‘And you’re performing at the Arts Festival?’
‘I’m here as an observer only.’ A dissolute steer, Seryozha widened his huge bloodshot brown eyes and shrugged at me, as if asking whether he had played his part properly.
Miss Butter was in no way confused. ‘It’s thrilling,’ she said, ‘to be in the company of people with such experience of the world. I have experienced so little.’
‘Then stick with Dimka, sweet mademoiselle,’ guffawed the dancer. ‘No one has had more varied experience!’ He reached to kiss me but this time I avoided him.
‘So I gather.’ She smiled in a way which suggested she was privy to arcana which would astonish even Seryozha. This further alarmed me since, given the opportunity, I knew what a gossip my old acquaintance could be. I was very surprised that he had successfully kept his purpose in Venice unknown to us. I guessed he must be extremely afraid of his employer. Either that or he had been told nothing at all by someone who knew him as well as I did.
He had money to spend. Producing a handful of large-denomination notes he ordered ‘real’ champagne. When Miss Butter had retired to the ladies’ room, he leaned forward and in a thick whisper, begged me to let him have some sneg for old times’ sake. I was glad to hand him the rest of a pillbox I was carrying and privately told myself that I had at last settled the account with him I had had since he left his own snuffbox behind all those years ago on the Petersburg train. That box had proven very helpful to me in my first days as an engineering student at the Institute.
By the time Miss Butter returned Seryozha had pocketed my pillbox, muttered something mysterious about putting in a good word with the ‘vozhd’ for me, kissed me affectionately on the lips, and informed me to my great relief that he was due to leave in the morning, taking the early train to Vienna and from there to Berlin, where he had been promised his own apartment. ‘I’m an official emissary now,’ he said before he staggered back to his ‘business contacts’. By his gestures, I knew he was dismissing me as an old colleague from the ballet.
Miranda Butter complimented me on my fascinating friends. She had a sparkle to her which contrasted rather sharply with the slightly seedy appearance of those around us. ‘This is exactly why I came to Europe. We Americans are all so unsophisticated. You were right to leave when you did, Max. I admire your courage. So few could turn their backs on all you had - Hollywood, fame, wealth . . .’
‘We are too old a family to set much store by such things,’ I told her. ‘We are trained to public service. It is the only kind of work we ever take seriously.’
I saw Seryozha shake hands with everyone at his table and show signs of leaving. He was eager, I was sure, to get back to his hotel and try my gift. He now possessed the contented, almost complacent look of an old cat which has made a successful raid on a well-stocked dustbin.
He waved to us once as he went out, a picture of seedy ebullience. When he had gone, the people he had left leaned back, as if in relief, and were obviously joking about him. One German with the face of an unsuccessful prizefighter made some attempt to imitate him, to loud applause and backslapping.
Seryozha was irritating, but his acquaintances were genuinely sinister. I had never had time for arms dealers. Karl May had given me a clear idea what to think of people who sold guns to Natives. Old Shatterhand would have known how to deal with them and Ace Peters, the Masked Buckaroo, would have rounded them all up and taken them off to jail in an instant. Seryozha’s friends continued occasionally to glance across at our table and discuss us in a speculative way. Eventually I called for our bill. We left earlier than we had planned and dropped in at one of the little tent-theatres erected in a quiet piazza where we watched some rather shrill Moliere before returning to the Palazzo da Bazzanno where our friend’s father awaited us.
As one of the chief architects of the festival, da Bazzanno was constantly busy. Moreover, almost as soon as we had arrived Signora Sarfatti had been forced to leave unexpectedly for Rome. Thus we were left to our own devices. Bazzanno’s father complained that he might as well have stayed at their apartment in Rome, but he was a jovial old soul and glad to entertain us in his huge reception room. Da Bazzanno père had given up his girlfriend, he said, to move back to Venice. He had to admit, all in all, that he preferred it here. Rome had become so rowdy. ‘That man he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, referring to Mussolini — ‘he loves to hear himself talk. And if he can do it through a loudspeaker or on the radio, so much the better. Honestly, it’s like having some garrulous relative staying with you for ever!’ He did not share his son’s admiration for Il Duce, but had to admit things had improved considerably for them since the March on Rome in which Fiorello had taken part. ‘For every one really there, a thousand claim to have been on the march. You would think the whole of Italy followed Mussolini to the royal palace!’