Free The Balkan Trilogy by Olivia Manning Page A

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, ţ uic ǎ 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 andstarted 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 aboutme, 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