Oliver VII Read online

  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.

  “My friend Oscar is a leading expert in the field of art. In his youth, if I am informed correctly, he was an errand boy in a large Parisian tailoring firm. He finds that the picture will do for our purposes. Of course it would be impossible to take him in—he saw immediately that it wasn’t a real Titian: at best, the work of a pupil. But this Mr Eisenstein, the simple-minded Yankee we’re dealing with, lacks the refinement to understand these things. My dear young friend, you may consider the picture as sold. Which, if I might set modesty aside, is no slight honour for you. If a St Germain buys a picture … What’s more, if certain very short-term considerations didn’t preclude, I’d pay you right now. However, I must ask you to be patient for a little while. You can be quite certain that your patience will be rewarded. Now, my friends, comes the conclusion of the business. Bring this shady American, this Mr Eisenstein, to me.”

  “Excuse me, Count,” said Sandoval, “but the picture will need at least three days to dry.”

  “No need, my young friend. In the possession of my illustrious family is a unique process for treating paintings. It must be applied to the canvas while still wet: it will give it a patina several centuries old, and dry it at the same time.”

  Honoré and Oscar (as we must call our King, for the sake of brevity and a million other reasons) had over the past few days been progressively initiating Mr Eisenstein into the mystery of the painting. First, they revealed only that they had discovered some very interesting pictures in the palazzo of an impoverished old Marchese. Eisenstein showed an immediate interest, but was then told that the old man was very wary and would not allow foreigners into his home. For some time that seemed to be that. Then they brought news that they now suspected that one of the Marchese’s pictures was a real Titian. Next they claimed that certain experts had studied it, and finally they showed him a certificate drawn up by an eminent authority. (That revealed just how far St Germain’s contacts extended: in Italy anything was possible before the war.) Their handling of the situation made Eisenstein more and more excited, not least because not a word was mentioned of business. There was no talk of the picture being for sale; in fact, whenever he did show an interest of that sort they replied that they thought it unlikely that the old Marchese would allow it out of his collection. Then, very gradually, they consented to try and establish if the old chap would be willing to receive Eisenstein, so that he could at least view the masterpiece. The time finally agreed was that afternoon.

  “My young friend,” the Count said to Sandoval, “I should like it very much if you were to be present at today’s memorable meeting. In your own interests, of course. Because when you next see me, as the proud but feeble-minded Italian grandee, it will be something rather special. And you can also help us sell the picture. You could chip in with the usual agreeably persuasive painterly art-historical mumbo jumbo. I like having people play the expert in all my ventures. It’s so much more stylish.”

  Sandoval willingly agreed.

  “All I would ask … ” St Germain continued, “ … is that, while in your role, you try to look like a reasonably elegant gentleman—shall we say, like an art dealer rather than a painter. The Eisensteins of this world don’t think of painters as looking like you, and we have to use whatever means are suited to the taste and level of understanding of our clients. If you will allow me, I shall make you up accordingly.”

  When Sandoval returned to the palazzo that afternoon he was received by an elderly footman whom, after a moment’s hesitation, he recognised as the Major.

  “Sometimes a man has to do strange things in the name of duty,” the Major said apologetically. “One day we’ll explain the secret reasons to you, and we won’t prove ungrateful for your loyalty. I shall now take you to meet the Marchese San Germano.”

  The Marchese was in the great room on the ground floor, sunk in the depths of a large armchair: an alarmingly ancient being in a grey, threadbare jacket, with huge spectacles, mouthing aloud the words in an old book, with the help of a magnifying glass.

  “Who’s that, Zacchinto?” he cried out as they entered. “You know perfectly well, my boy, we don’t like our afternoon siesta disturbed!” This was uttered in a wavering senile bleat.

  “The painter is here, Eccellenza,” the footman announced timidly.

  “Ah, the painter … ah ah ah … oooh oooh oooh … yes, the painter, now I remember,” he bleated. Then, in his normal tones: “Come in, young man!” And he leapt up nimbly and led Sandoval into another room, where he fitted him out in a scarlet waistcoat, bow tie, and a baroque wig of somewhat doubtful cleanliness.

  “Now I look like a painter of the last century,” Sandoval observed. “Isn’t that anachronistic?”

  “In these matters, it does no harm to go a little over the top,” the Count insisted. “In our world it isn’t enough simply to say you’re a count. You have to wear a label on your neck and a nine-pointed crown with your title on it. It’s not enough for someone just to say you’re a king. You have to put a tin crown on your head. Our art is closely akin to the theatre.”

  “Mr Eisenstein has arrived,” the elderly footman, alias Mawiras-Tendal, announced soon after.

  Oscar and Honoré entered, elegantly attired, followed by a man and a woman. Sandoval studied both very thoroughly, particularly the woman.

  She was the Mlle Marcelle of whose existence Sandoval had become aware when he eavesdropped on the conversation between the King and the Major.

  “No arguing there,” he said to himself. “His Highness has excellent taste.”

  Marcelle was a petite young woman, with a fine, piquant face and alluring figure, one of the type often called Parisian. Despite the fact that in Paris Sandoval had seen and known many women of this kind, Marcelle would still have exercised a special charm on him; but here, in this very different environment, she had a pleasantly refreshing effect, and he could imagine that she would be quite a new experience for the King, who, unlike himself, had not spent years in Paris. In her dress, and in the way she moved, there was something just a little coquettish.

  “It seems St Germain was right,” he said to himself. “In the world of the trickster you only believe it’s a woman if her face is made up. Actually, if I had to choose between the two, I’d go for Princess Ortrud without a second thought. But then, I’m not a king.”

  Mr Eisenstein was just the sort of person you might imagine from his name: a stout, slovenly man with a large chin and nose, and a wide, sarcastic, self-satisfied grin, perhaps the permanent defence of a naive individual against the world.

  “Marchese,” Honoré began, in his rather weak Italian, “do pardon us for disturbing your rest.”

  “Not at all, my boy,” St Germain bleated in reply. “Not at all. I’ll carry on resting while you’re here. It’ll be just as if you weren’t. I love young people. Youth … ” he continued, with a dreamy, idiotic smile on his face. “Just come and go, make yourselves at home, just as you like.”

  “And permit me to introduce this gentleman from America, Mr Eisenstein, a great friend of Italy and of painting.”

  “Aw, yes,” said Eisenstein.

  “Interesting point, that,” bleated the Marchese. “I’ve always thought so myself. Not that I do much thinking these days. Haven’t for some time. Zacchinto, serve some refreshments. Make yourselves at home, everyone. Make yourselves at home.”

  “Our visitor is very interested in pictures,” said Oscar.

  “What’s that?”
<
br />   “Pictures, Marchese, paintings.”

  “Ah yes, paintings. Oooh, paintings! … ” He rubbed his hands together. “Paintings. He should go to the Accademia. Some very fine pictures there. At least, there used to be. Perhaps they’ve all been taken away.”

  “The old boy’s a bit obsessed,” Honoré whispered.

  “And maybe he’s forgotten about the Titian. He’s not all there.”

  But, very slowly, he managed to bring the Marchese round to the Titian. After a proper parade of reluctance he at last showed willingness to take them upstairs.

  The picture was still in the room on the first floor where Sandoval had created it, hanging a little to one side, to signify how little the Marchese valued it.

  “This is a very old picture,” he pronounced without interest. “Lovely woman. Beautiful woman. That’s why I keep it. Used to like those sort of women, once. Oooh, how I loved them. But I don’t any more. Not any more.”

  Oscar and Honoré nudged Eisenstein in the ribs to indicate that this was the picture, and then gazed at it with expressions of ecstasy. Marcelle too did her best to assume the face of an art expert.

  “Now that’s nice,” she remarked, turning to Oscar. “I’d be very happy to have one like that.”

  “And I’d happily buy it for you, my sweetest,” Oscar replied. “But the Marchese won’t part with it. I’ve already asked him.”

  “There’s a painter standing right here,” the Marchese noted, indicating Sandoval. “He likes it too.”

  Sandoval launched into his art-historical spiel on the subject of Titian’s greatness. Everyone listened in devout silence.

  Then there was a further silence, which Eisenstein finally broke with the long-awaited question:

  “How much? Quanto costa?”

  The Marchese made a gesture to indicate that he hadn’t heard the question.

  “Do make yourselves at home,” he pronounced, without enthusiasm.

  “You can’t talk to the old man in that blunt way,” Honoré whispered to Eisenstein. “I told you, he won’t hear any talk of selling. You’ll have to be content for now with the fact that you’ve seen it. We’ll see to the rest, if it’s at all possible.”

  “Aw, yes,” said Eisenstein.

  They took their leave shortly afterwards. St Germain, Mawiras-Tendal and Sandoval stayed behind, waiting on tenterhooks for what news the others might bring back.

  “What’s your impression?” the Count asked the painter.

  “This American seems to be a real fool. I think everything depends on how far our friends can influence him. Particularly our most important friend. Even a blind man could see how much he fancied her.”

  “Of course,” the Major agreed. “We got to know him through her, as her admirer. I’m quite confident about it. In my experience Americans trust women implicitly and do whatever they want.”

  “Do you think so, Mr Meyer?” St Germain asked, rather thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure. I’m afraid my instinct tells me something isn’t quite right. There was something I didn’t like about that shady Yank. But I really can’t say what it is.”

  St Germain’s instinct had been only too accurate in suggesting that something might be wrong. Oscar and Honoré soon returned, in a state of considerable tension. They had obviously had a disagreement on the way.

  “So, what’s up with our American friend?” the Count asked.

  “Well, he likes the picture all right,” Honoré began. “It hasn’t occurred to him that it might be a fake. But he wants to talk the matter over with Marcelle. Tête-à-tête. So he’s taken her out to dinner.”

  “So far so good!” said the Count. “Marcelle is a clever girl. She’s brought off tougher deals than this before.”

  “Yes, it’s just that this idiot,” Honoré continued, pointing to Oscar, “I’m ashamed to say this in front of you, boss: this idiot is jealous!”

  “My dear young friend,” the Count returned. “I’m aware that you have this noble, chivalrous affection for Marcelle—you have never made a secret of it—and in other circumstances I might almost think of the two of you as being in the sort of situation I remember from my own youth … and I would not deprecate pure love, not even among our own little band. Plato himself observed that the army in which the warriors are bound by chains of love is invincible. But such feelings should never be allowed to get in the way of business. It’s the basis of Kant’s philosophy. I really don’t understand you, young man. You’re supposed to have been a long time in this game, and you certainly aren’t the first admirer in her life. How could you permit yourself the luxury of feeling jealous? My dear friend”—flinging his arms wide and shouting—“my dear Oscar, I simply don’t understand you!”

  “I’m sorry, Count,” Oscar replied. “but I can tell you most earnestly that as far as I’m concerned this game just isn’t worth the candle, if Marcelle and this revolting slug, this Eisenstein … my God! … ”

  “It may not be worth it to you, but then I don’t know what sort of financial background you have. My young friend, you must have been born a millionaire! We can’t afford such eccentricity. We have to think of the group before everything else. And for present purposes, I am the group.”

  “But there’s no point in talking about this,” Honoré intervened. “Luckily Marcelle has a lot more sense than this idiot. She ignored the sulky look on Oscar’s face and went off to dinner with the creep.”

  “Yes, I trust her judgement, and her very manly attitude,” the Count agreed. “But I can’t get rid of this feeling that something is wrong.”

  It was. The next day a sombre Marcelle arrived at the palazzo, where the whole company were waiting anxiously.

  “The creep didn’t mention the picture once in the whole evening. Whenever I brought it up, he immediately started talking about something else.”

  “So what did you talk about, the whole evening?” Oscar interjected, with fire in his eyes.

  “What about? What do you think a man and a woman talk about?”

  Oscar went white with anger.

  “Look, Count, I think even you can see now that this whole business isn’t worth it. I said from the start that the revolting creature wasn’t interested in the Titian, he was only interested in Marcelle.”

  “Indeed he was,” Marcelle said modestly.

  “My dear Oscar,” said the Count reflectively. “I very much fear you are right. I’m afraid nothing will come of all this. Or at the most, only for Marcelle. We can’t interfere in any business she might arrange through her own efforts and enterprise. After all, we must all make concessions for the team.”

  “But my feeling,” said Oscar (turning threateningly towards Marcelle) “is that—at least as far as I’m concerned—I do have a right of veto over her business … ”

  “My children,” St Germain intervened, gently but very firmly. “You should never conduct your little love-games in public. It isn’t the style. Look, I’m giving you ten lire. Take yourselves off to a coffee house and sort out your little quarrel, as young people must. I don’t want to spoil the fun.”

  Oscar seized Marcelle’s arm and dragged her off.

  “Now that we grown-ups are alone,” said St Germain, raising his hand, “let us spare a moment’s thought for the young people now departed, and then bring this tediously drawn-out Eisenstein business to a conclusion. I think it would be best if Honoré and Sandoval called on him this evening and asked him directly if he has any intention of buying our wonderful Titian. I put my trust in your tact and discretion to get a decision out of him, one way or the other.”

  That evening Honoré and Sandoval met Eisenstein in St Mark’s Square, where, like every other foreigner residing in the centre at the time, he sat over a black coffee listening to the music. He greeted them warmly, with a steady grin flickering around his lips, as if his habitual mockery had intensified a shade or two.

  “It’s just to hide his naivety,” Sandoval reassured himself. But the bad feeling
grew steadily worse.

  After a brief conversation, Honoré boldly raised the subject. The Marchese San Germano was interested to know, he said, whether Eisenstein wanted to buy the painting, because someone from the Ministry of Culture had called on him on behalf of a famous foreign gallery who wanted to purchase it, and the Marchese, who came from a family of diplomats, was quite happy to let it go to the friendly foreign power concerned, only he felt he was now to some extent under an obligation to Mr Eisenstein and did not wish to part with it without asking him first.

  Eisenstein’s grin was even wider than before.

  “I know what this is about, gentlemen, I get the whole picture, and I’ve been expecting the honour of your call. Of course the Marchese is under no obligation towards me whatever. He can send it to any friendly or hostile foreign power he likes: they must be queuing up for it. But please, don’t get up so quickly; don’t leave me so suddenly.”

  “Sir,” said Sandoval, “your cool-bloodedness astonishes me beyond words. You’re passing over the sort of chance that comes up once in a hundred years. Sir, a priceless Titian … do you realise what that is? If the news of it got out, the world’s top dealers would be marching in columns four men wide down the streets of Venice, sweeping all before them.”

  “And you can have all this for a trifling hundred and fifty thousand!” Honoré added. “Just think: the old fool hasn’t yet realised what he’s got there, and that’s all he’s asking. You could get ten times that for it, easily.”

  “But have I ever said I don’t want to buy it?” Eisenstein returned. “Of course I haven’t. I’ll take it very gladly, and hang it up back home as a souvenir of Venice. There’s just one condition. That Mlle Marcelle brings it in person to my lodging, at night. And of course not for a hundred and fifty thousand lire … where did you gentlemen get that idea from? It’s ridiculous! Let’s say, a round thousand, and then I’m being very, very generous.”

  “But Mr Eisenstein!” Honoré snapped back. “You’re mad! A genuine Titian! … ”