Oliver VII Read online

  In that instant Sandoval realised why the voice of the Nameless Captain had sounded familiar. It was the voice of the King.

  Sandoval’s work was now very much in fashion. His sole exhibition was opened by Prime Minister Delorme himself, and all the leading lights of Alturian society queued up to commission their portraits. He was much sought-after, and profoundly bored. His lack of enthusiasm began to reveal itself in the pictures: faces whose pouting lips hung below their chins, eyes popping out of the heads, and heads that sat not on a neck but on an alarmingly elongated tongue. The extended tongue became a leitmotif. Houses, trees, mountains, all were painted with this elongated tongue, and above them a radiant sun or moon with its own tiny version of the same. Finding a way to incorporate the theme into seascapes proved more of a problem. The younger painters, under the spell of his glamour as a revolutionary, developed Tonguism into a full-blown school, though the thoughts of his bourgeois clientele whose portraits were done during this period turned increasingly to suicide.

  Sandoval himself became more and more ill-humoured. Anyone who has breathed the heady air of conspiracy finds it hard to accommodate himself to the inconsequential skirmishings of the art world.

  One day he returned as guest to Algarthe. When the Duke became King Geront the First, he refused to leave his home. He would not be separated from his collections, and, because he feared they might be damaged in transit, he had been unwilling to move to the palace. That was now occupied by Princess Clodia and her personal court.

  The Duke (now, more properly, the King) showed Sandoval his new acquisitions. He had been, Sandoval decided, a real gentleman, both moderate and discreet. He had not sent for the greatest treasures of the National Gallery: the Van Eyck still hung in its place. He had commandeered nothing excessive, just delicate little rarities, things that meant nothing to most people but were revered by the true collector. But he had changed very little. He took no more interest in politics than before, entrusting everything to the statesmanlike wisdom of his daughter.

  He was now so far removed from events that there would have been no mention of Sandoval’s last visit had he not chanced to meet Princess Clodia, who happened to be calling on her father at the time.

  That she carried the burden of state on her shoulders, it was clear to see. By now Alturia’s problems were not trivial. With the rejection of the Coltor Plan the public finances had sunk to the state of an intractable mess. At the Princess’s wish Pritanez had been replaced by the chief accountant of a large bank who, a week later, committed suicide in a fit of bookkeeping insanity. He was followed by a wine-merchant who fled the country without embezzling a single cent; then a business tycoon, who promptly arranged for his own denunciation, and a university professor, who simply disappeared, said to have been lost in the labyrinth of the Exchequer and never seen again. After that no one had the courage to take on this ill-fated post, and Princess Clodia now handled the state finances herself, in ever-mounting despair.

  But the moment she saw Sandoval her furrowed brow became smooth again.

  “Sandoval,” she cried. “Just the person I was looking for!”

  Sandoval instantly assumed that she wanted to appoint him Minister of Finance, and protested in horror:

  “Your Highness, I have embezzled every cent ever trusted to me. Don’t put me in the way of temptation! There must be a few taller left in Alturia, though God knows where … ”

  “Now just listen, please! This is something else altogether. I want to send you abroad on an important and deadly secret mission. I can’t use a detective. That would immediately give it an official character and there would be all sorts of complications. I need a private individual, and what’s more, one who would easily understand the deranged mental state of the missing person in question—and find out where he is and what he is doing. In other words, I want to know the whereabouts and present doings of my daft cousin Oliver.”

  “King Oliver! But surely everyone knows that. First he was in Paris, then in London … ”

  “True, so far … ”

  “But then he joined an English expedition to Central Africa, hunting big game. He’s been there ever since. We’ve heard nothing more, these past few weeks.”

  “Yes. That’s what everybody thinks, and I have no objection to their thinking that. He slipped quietly out of the country, and when he returns no one will be the least bit interested in him. And it would be a very good thing if it were true. But I am quite convinced Oliver never went to Africa.”

  “Why do you think that, Your Highness?”

  “First of all, because I know Oliver of old, and I know that all his life he has loathed hunting. In our childhood I was the one who climbed up trees after birds and used his pellet gun, while he cried over the poor little creatures I shot. Later on, when he was almost of an age when hunting was required of him by his rank, he always pretended to be sick when there was an official shoot. And when he took the throne he abolished hunting altogether. I really can’t imagine why he would go after big game now … ”

  “This really is a surprise.”

  “On the other hand, he’s so shifty and so unreliable—as his behaviour showed during the revolution—he’s so devious that if he tells us he’s gone on safari, and is giving interviews on the subject to the English press, then we can be pretty sure he’s got something quite different in mind.”

  “Your Highness’ supposition is strengthened by the fact that he seems to pop up in such widely different places. There are reports of him spending the summer in the Austrian Alps, and studying folk costume in Albania, and not long ago an American journalist spotted him in Kansas City, in his shirtsleeves: the King told him he was buying up petrol stations and living off the proceeds.”

  “Of course it’s all fairy tales. I believed these reports myself, for a while, but since yesterday I’ve known for certain where he is. I had a letter from Countess Tzigalior. She says she’s seen him in Venice. He was very much changed; he’d shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers, to look like an actor. Obviously, so that he wouldn’t be recognised. But Countess Tzigalior knew him at once. And from all I know of my daft cousin Oliver, Venice is just the place where he’d feel at home.”

  “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.”

  “A Titian? I don’t follow. I do only Sandovals. You’ll have to make do with that. Not a bad name, that.”

  “Look, what I’m saying … I know you painters sometimes—as part of the training—you sometimes copy old masters.”

  “Yes, I did when I was younger. So, you need a picture copied?”

  “No, anyone could do that. I wouldn’t need you for that. What I’d like is for you to paint the sort of picture that someone who didn’t know very much about art might think was a real Titian.”

  “Aha, now I get you. Hm … It could be done. You realise of course, the result wouldn’t depend on me but on the competence of the person who views it. No real expert would be taken in. But then, who is an expert? What is the actual purpose of this picture?”

  “You see, that’s something I can’t tell you, just at the moment. But does that matter, so far as the actual painting is concerned? Surely not. Look, this isn’t a question of art; it a question of serious business. How much would you want for doing it?”

  “For you, Major, five hundred lire.”

  “Good. I’ll convey your offer to the appropriate quarters. And when could you start?”

  “Tomorrow, I suppose. But my hotel room isn’t really suitable for painting in.”

  “I’ll give that some thought. So then, my dear Sandoval, give me your address. I’ll call on you tomorrow morning and take you where you can create this masterpiece without anyone bothering you. I’m very glad I met you. Till we meet again.”

  The next day the Major did indeed appear.

  “Good morning, Major,” Sandoval greeted him.

  Mawiras-Tendal became suddenly most serious.

  “My dear Sandoval, this is where the discretion bit comes in. You must understand, and must never forget for a moment, that in Venice I am not a major. I live here completely incognito. None of the people I happen to meet in the course of the day’s business has any idea who I am and what my role was in Alturia. They know me simply as Mr Meyer, and that I came here from Prussia, which accounts for my rather stiff, military bearing. Though, as you can see from the way I’m dressed, I do my best not to be too stiff and military. But it’s not much use. You can’t just wipe away all those years of service.”

  Having made his confession, the Major became visibly more relaxed, and less self-conscious than he had been the previous day.

  “Allow me, my dear Sandoval,” he went on, “to treat you as an old friend, as if you were still at home. Allow me to relax for a moment
into my natural priggishness and stiffness. It would make the time I spend with you into a holiday. I need a break from time to time, or I could never cope with all this civilian ease and informality.”

  The Major moved with practised confidence through the tangled labyrinth of streets, while Sandoval quickly lost his bearings. Narrow little streets bent and twisted beside other narrow little streets, with the Grand Canal glinting every so often between the houses. They crossed over little white bridges, from one side of the street to the other and back, with the water swirling blackly in between, as if still heaving with the forgotten corpses of past ages. Sandoval had a notion that they might be winding their way through the district behind the Frari, but he could not have taken an oath on it.

  The Major came to a stop before an immensely old house In Venice every house is immensely old, as old as anyone can conjecture, in those long-forgotten centuries. But this house was not simply ancient, it was near-derelict. Sandoval was oppressed by the feeling that the inhabitants had not for many decades had the money to spend on a decent spring-cleaning.

  “The Palazzo Pietrasanta,” the Major announced. “Of course, it’s as much the Palazzo Pietrasanta as I am Meyer.”

  But he left this cryptic remark unexplained. They went inside, passed through a courtyard, narrow but lined with columns, then up a once rather fine staircase to the second floor, where they came into a room that might, in Venice, have passed for well-lit, the windows not being directly overshadowed by any kind of building across the way.

  “You can work here in peace,” said the Major. “A colleague of mine will be here any moment now. He’ll give you everything you need. And please, never forget what I said, about myself. And, you in fact … are no longer the famous painter you are in the real world. You’re a penniless down-and-out acquaintance of mine, someone I picked up yesterday, and very glad to have a job. I’ll explain all this later. Ah, here’s Honoré.”