Oliver VII (3 page)

“Well, that’s how it is: even I don’t know. I have speculated about various foreign powers and interests, but none of them seems very probable. I simply cannot imagine who would have anything to gain from my father’s taking the throne.”

“Delorme insists that the Nameless Captain will declare himself at the critical moment. Perhaps we’ll see him
tomorrow
. Meanwhile I must speak to the Duke and have one last try. Does Your Highness think he might be fully rested by now?”

“Yes, I should think so. Shall we go and see?”

The Duke was completely his old self again. He greeted Sandoval with delight, having forgotten that he had met him earlier.

“What news, Sandoval? Would you like to see
something
really special?” And he produced the netsuke again. “Marvellous, eh? Fifteenth century.”

Sandoval expressed proper admiration for the carving, then said:

“And I’ve brought you something rather fine.”

“What’s that? One of your own paintings?” the Duke began, rather anxiously, as Sandoval produced a lengthy scroll.

“No, no. Here you are. How do you like this etching?”

The Duke peered at it, initially rather unsure, then his face lit up, and he immersed himself with increasing delight in contemplation of the picture.

“But it’s a Piranesi! Why didn’t you say so at the start? It’s wonderful! From his best period! How in the devil’s name did you come by this? If it’s for sale I’ll buy it immediately.”

“But Father … !” Princess Clodia broke in, clearly
exasperated
. “You know how … And you, Sandoval, why are you teasing him like this?”

“It’s not for sale,” Sandoval hastened to reassure her. “It belongs to the National Gallery in Lara—the Director is a close friend. He lent it to me, on the side.”

“Would you let me have it on loan, then? Or as a present?” the Duke began. And his face filled with a child-like
yearning
. “I’ve always longed for a Piranesi like this. Only this sort, mind you; none of the others.”

“I’m sorry, but the Director has no power to give the
gallery
’s treasures away. That would require an order from the highest level.”

“The devil with all that. You know perfectly well that I give orders to no one in this country. Take your picture away. Take it away!”

Petulantly, he turned his face to the wall.

“But Your Highness, the day after tomorrow … ”

“What about the day after tomorrow? Are you insane?”

“Your Highness, you must remember that, very soon, you will be the highest authority in the land, and it will be yours to command.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard that so often. And as soon as I wanted to buy that tiny little Ostade, all hell broke loose … ”

“But when Your Highness is King of Alturia, it will be an entirely different matter.”

“What do you mean? You know Alturia. Do you think kings here have money for paintings? All they can afford is their own portraits. Or … will I really be able to have them for nothing?”

“Your Highness simply instructs the Minister of Culture that such and such a picture is to be transferred from the National Gallery to the Royal Palace, or, if you like, here to Algarthe.”

“Is that right? Can I really do that? I’d never thought of that.”

He pondered the idea.

“That changes everything,” he said, after a pause. His voice was fresh, almost youthful. “That makes the whole thing much more interesting. Why didn’t you say so at the start? So, where are these revolutionaries? Let’s see them; let’s have a look at them. I want action, not empty words! Clodia, I hope you’ve made all the necessary arrangements. I’ll keep the Piranesi here anyway.”

He plucked the picture out of Sandoval’s hands and
disappeared
with astonishing speed into the next room.

“That was an excellent idea,” said Clodia. “Let’s hope he hasn’t forgotten it by the morning.”

“Your Highness, I shall leave you the National Gallery catalogue. Please study it carefully. If the Duke seems to be losing interest, just repeat one or two little propositions: Fouquet … Boltraffio. And a genuine Van Eyck.”

He left the mansion soon after. Once inside the taxi, he sank into a pleasant daydream.

The calendar pursued its relentless course, and the next day was indeed the eighth of April. In the morning Sandoval reported to the revolutionary committee in the
Barrel-Makers
Joint Stock Trading Company building, and learnt that the whole plan was moving punctually towards its goal. On early morning trains, on foot, in hay-wagons and specially hired coaches, a mighty throng of aggrieved fishermen and winegrowers had arrived in the capital and been lodged in garages, cellars and attics, to keep them out-of-sight until the moment of action arrived. Meanwhile the Twelfth Regiment was on duty at the palace.

Even the streets had taken on an unusual appearance. The presence of flags flying to mark the next day’s royal wedding lent them a festive air. Everywhere banners,
garlands
of flowers and other insignia lauded King Oliver VII and his bride-to-be, Princess Ortrud. Sandoval was visited by the strange, oddly perverse feeling that this carnival atmosphere, created ostensibly to honour the King, would in fact prepare the way for his dethronement. Inside the great Westros department store he noted the huge portraits,
seemingly
made from entire rolls of silk and broadcloth, of the King and Princess, and he shuddered to think of the ironic workings of destiny. A great many shops and businesses were closed—officially for the approaching celebration, but actually because the owners feared for the safety of their windows and warehouses in the events that were about to unfold.

On the afternoon of that memorable day a ministerial council of the highest importance was taking place in the royal palace. The moment had arrived for the signing of Finance Minister Pritanez’s great work, the Coltor Treaty.

They had been in session for quite some time, deliberating every detail before the arrival of the King. The Minister for
Internal Affairs was concerned about reports he was
receiving
of serious unrest across the country. The Prime Minister remained optimistic:

“Nonsense; this is Alturia, remember. Our people are always hatching plots and conspiracies, and in the end
everything
stays exactly as it was. Think of the time when Balázs II or the Unfortunate was strung up by the heels. They took him down five minutes later, and he continued to rule to general acclaim.”

At that moment King Oliver entered the chamber, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Major Mawiras-Tendal. The King, who is in fact the hero of our history, is a young man of twenty-four, with a handsome, rather dreamy face, one that might seem perfectly at home on an athletics track or in a nightclub, or, come to that, since its finely formed brow betrays an unusual intelligence, in the comfortable room of a library hung with portraits. Here, among the stern and generally rather misshapen features of his fellow countrymen, he seems somehow out of place. The
incongruity
of his appearance is intensified by the uniform he is wearing. It is a field marshal’s greatcoat, magnificent, severe and severely old-fashioned, with high-winged collars. It
visibly
restricts his every movement, and weighs no less
heavily
on his mind. He is forever complaining about having to wear it: “I can’t get comfortable in it,” he insists. “It’s like sitting on a cactus, or as if I’d become a cactus myself.” But tradition decrees that he can never take it off. The kings of Alturia have gone about in full field marshal regalia ever since one of their ancestors, Philip II or the One-Eared, suffered the indignity of having his enemies burst in upon him while he was wandering down a palace corridor in his nightshirt.

The King greeted each of his ministers in turn, then
withdrew with his Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior for a private discussion.

“Your Highness,” the Prime Minister began, “this is a rather delicate matter, and a rather bold step to take, but we believe that Your Highness’ aide-de-camp, Major
Mawiras-Tendal
, is not a suitable person to be carrying out a duty of trust beside Your Highness in critical moments like these.”

“Mawiras-Tendal not suitable? What possible objection can there be to him? He’s a first-class soldier, and an even better friend.”

“Your Highness,” the Interior Minister interposed, “I’m afraid that—from confidential reports—we are only too well informed of the Major’s political views. He is in contact with the leaders of the opposition press, and, worse, with the fire-eating Delorme himself. He is in regular correspondence with political exiles abroad. Besides all this, he is the
grandson
of our national hero, whose sole bequest to us as a people was a predisposition to anarchy.

“This would be a highly suitable moment to get rid of him,” the minister continued. “The post has become vacant of Director of the State Mercury Mines. Poor Colowar died the day before yesterday, of poisoning.”

“Mercury poisoning?” the horrified King asked.

“No, alcohol poisoning. Mawiras-Tendal would be just the person to replace him.”

“My dear sirs, we cannot possibly discuss this now. How could you think it? You surely know that I would part with anyone rather than my old Milán. He’s the best person for the job, and my most sincere friend. But if you wish, we can talk about it tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Why only then?” asked the Prime Minister, dumbfounded.

“Because by then so much will have changed. I shall be a married man. But meanwhile we have a duty to perform.
Could we please get it over and done with? Let’s swallow the bitter pill, and put our names to this famous treaty.”

Everyone took his appointed place round a large circular table. The Finance Minister once again summarised the significance of the document while the others sat in a bored, restless silence waiting for the decisive moment of
signing
. Their restlessness stemmed from a shared feeling that the King’s good breeding and seeming impartiality might well conceal some inscrutable, deeply impractical
character
—some unsuspected trait lurking beneath his general good sense. That he might, at the very last minute, change his mind.

But that did not happen.

Having listened carefully to all they had to say, he asked, in the most natural voice in the world:

“So, you gentlemen are all agreed that the country has no other means of salvation than for us to ratify this loathsome, humiliating treaty?”

“That is so,” the Prime Minister answered. “If Your Highness does not sign it, and we fail to secure Coltor’s advance payment, we might as well close down the Treasury and lock up the Chancellor. That is the stark reality.”

“And you gentlemen are prepared to share with me the
odium
that will attach to this, that you … to put it politely … ? Well, you know what I am thinking.”

“We shall stand by Your Highness to the last drop of our blood,” the Prime Minister averred.

“We will give our all,” the Minister for the Interior chimed in, “to the last drop of wine and the very last sardine.”

“I do not doubt it. Then I can hesitate no longer. I shall go down in history as the king for whom no sacrifice was too great. Kindly pass the document so that I may sign.”

They watched, each man mouthing a prayer, as the King,
very slowly, inscribed his name, and then stood for another moment, gazing in wonder at what he had written.

“So, all we need now is for you gentlemen to put your names to this document, and to send it on to the other
signatory
. With this I call the Royal Council to a close, and take my leave. Before it gets dark I would like to test-drive my new car, which arrived from Paris yesterday. And so, goodbye.”

“Your Highness … ” the Prime Minister began, hesitantly.

“Well?”

“If you would grant another respectful request from your concerned well-wishers. Your Highness must surely be aware that the population is waiting in a fever of excitement for the signing of the treaty. Sadly, the opposition press has inflamed their feelings. It would seem advisable, in the interests of Your Highness’ personal safety and of public order, that Your Highness should not leave the palace for one moment. At least, not before the wedding. The people will be calmer after that delightful ceremony.”

The King hammered angrily on the table.

“This is outrageous. For two weeks now I have been under
virtual
house arrest. I can’t go and play golf, because the road runs beside the military barracks. I can’t go to the theatre, because the low light might favour an attempt on my life. I can’t dine in the palace, because the head chef has republican sympathies. I can’t go walking alone on Mt Lilión, or lie under an apple tree reading Dante. To say nothing of this damned coat … Who am I, to be debarred from every pleasure in life that any citizen of Alturia can enjoy? Everyone else can play golf and drive a car. Everyone, except me. So what am I then?”

The Prime Minister rose, bowed deeply, and declared:

“You are the King!”

The King’s face darkened, and he muttered, very quietly:

“Indeed.” 

“Your Highness well remembers,” the Prime Minister continued, “those wonderful words of our great poet Montanhagol: ‘duty is not a bed of roses’.”

“Yes, of course. And on the subject of rose beds, I shall stay in tonight. But now I really must leave you gentlemen. My bride is waiting for me.”

With much ceremonial bowing, the ministers
departed
. Pritanez set off at speed to the Palace Hotel, where Coltor’s emissaries were waiting anxiously to know
whether
the King had signed or not. The favourable news was like a galvanic charge to their cold Norlandian blood. They shook Pritanez’s hand warmly, and decided to
celebrate
the happy occasion with an expensive dinner later that evening. Then they talked over the final details of the down payment.