Free The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown by Geoffrey Household Page A

bicycled over that morning to demand Perico’s residence permit which had never been renewed. Perico was worried by the man’s severe formality though insisting loudly that there was no need to worry since the Police did whatever the estate told them to do. That seemed to Bernardo too vague a phrase; he asked who actually dealt with the police. Nepamuk.
    It was difficult to get exact details. Perico’s Hungarian, while adequate for the routine of the horses, was not up to translating into Spanish Kovacs’ explanations and resentment. It appeared that the Master of the Horse had already tackled Nepamuk who pretended to know nothing. Bernardo must short-circuit him and appeal directly to the Count. Kovacs reasonably assumed that he must have influence,being a friend of the family and on the best of terms with the Baroness Magda.
    On his return to the house Bernardo remembered Pozharski’s advice to keep Nepamuk in his place; he decided to play the superior and summon the steward from his office. He explained the anxiety over at the stables and asked Nepamuk to fix it, pointing out that Perico was someone to talk to.
    ‘It’s me you ’ave for company,’ Nepamuk answered.
    ‘And very welcome,’ Bernardo said politely. ‘But when you are busy I am sure the Count would not object to my talking to Perico.’
    ‘Sure, are you?’
    Well, no, he wasn’t. It could well be that Kalmody had forgotten all about Perico when he assumed that Bernardo would be limited to Nepamuk or to swopping a little kitchen French with Lajos. This was not going to be an easy interview. Nepamuk hardly bothered to conceal his lack of respect under the usual obsequiousness. It sounded as if he were jealous, too.
    ‘Sorry, Mr. Brown, but we can’t ’ave ’im ’ere no longer.’
    ‘Orders from the Count?’
    ‘I don’t wait for orders when I sees what the family interests are.’
    ‘But Kovacs wants to keep him.’
    ‘That’s why I ’as a short word with the police.’
    ‘It’s a dirty trick. Perico doesn’t know anything about me.’
    ‘’E knows you’re in trouble and no bloody guest.’
    ‘I shall appeal to the Count.’
    ‘Know ’is address?’
    ‘No, Mr. Nepamuk. But naturally I have a way of getting in touch with the Baroness.’
    ‘You ’ave, ’ave you? But she don’t like Perico no more than what I do.’
    So much for bluff. Bernardo was helpless. Even Kovacs would not risk having Nepamuk as an enemy. How had he dealt with the peasants who seized the estate in 1919? Everyone must know but not a soul mentioned it. Nepamuk was like the devoted Chief of Police of a dictator, and Kalmody tolerated him. He could put right the worst of Nepamuk’s injustices whenever he came home and get the credit for it.
    After Bernardo’s evening ride the following day he remained with Perico instead of resigning himself to the melancholy of the house. As soon as the horses had been delivered to a stable lad, Perico fussed over his precious Argentine ponies. It was his pride to keep them as if there were likely to be an international polo tournament the following week, though in fact Kalmody had never got nearer the game than a passing enthusiasm and half a dozen lessons at Hurlingham.
    Perico did not think there was enough good grass for them, the paddocks being brown and dry in the blazing Hungarian summer, and decided to fetch sweet, new hay from a group of stacks out on the plain. Bernardo walked with him over the stubble and sat on a hand-cart entertaining him with anecdotes of Basque character while Perico forked down hay. Such memories of his freedom a bare month earlier kept his mind off Magda, though only the externals of the past—sea, mountains and friendship—seemed desirable in a world where she had not existed.
    The group of stacks, a thatched shelter, a well and a vast manure heap formed an island in the plain cut off from the house and its gardens by a belt of chestnuts. On the other side were miles of stubble, the