Free Oliver VII by Antal Szerb Page B

roasting themselves black in the sun, and this ancient Venice—something that escaped from a museum in an unguarded moment—and above all, this particular bunch of swindlers, are its true representatives ?”
    “Why? I’ve never given it thought, it all seems so natural to me. What would you consider real life, Milán?”
    “Only something that would involve serious work. The military life, if that were at all possible. In your situation … our situation … I would propose serving in the Turkish army … where a chap can still find things to do.”
    “Perhaps. I think of life quite differently. Somehow I have always believed that the real test of life was uncertainty. Perhaps that is why I have always been so deeply drawn to Venice. Here, the whole city is like a theatrical backdrop: at times it even seems to wobble, and you never feel quite sure that the whole thing won’t have been whisked away by the morning. Believe me, Milán, this is life. The life of St Germain. This is real uncertainty, from one day to the next.Maybe tomorrow we’ll be rolling in money; and maybe we won’t have enough to eat. Without that level of uncertainty … you might as well be a king. But that sort of certainty I absolutely do not want. Holy God! To put that appalling marshal’s greatcoat on again! My worthy cousin Clodia can rule in my place, to the very end.”
    Sandoval’s instinct whispered to him that the dialogue was coming to an end. Besides, he had learnt quite enough. He got up and tiptoed out. But he wrote no report to Princess Clodia about what he had heard, not that day or the next. Some feeling, very hard to define, held him back. Perhaps it was the solidarity of artistic minds.
     
    Two days later the painting was ready. Sandoval made his way down to the ground floor and there, in the great room facing out onto the street, he found Mawiras-Tendal and Honoré. He told them he had finished, and that it needed only to dry.
    “You don’t say—finished already?” Honoré gloated. “God knows what sort of rubbish you’ve painted.”
    “What do you expect, for what you’ve paid me so far … ”
    “Ja, ja, just you be quiet. I’ll go and call the old man.”
    Sandoval and the Major were left alone. The Major suddenly bent over to catch the painter’s ear.
    “St Germain is just now with a mutual acquaintance of ours, His Highness King Oliver VII … you met him one memorable evening in Lara. The King is living under the strictest incognito. Certain higher purposes have induced him to form a connection with St Germain, strange as that may sound. In the interest of those purposes—which I’m sorry I’m not in a position to disclose—it’s very importantthat we don’t give the secret away in front of St Germain, who has no idea of the King’s true identity. I already know, from experience back home, that we can trust you absolutely. So, don’t show you recognise him.”
    The next moment the King entered. St Germain greeted the painter affably and introduced him to the King, whom he referred to simply as Monsieur Oscar. He appeared not to consider him anyone special. The King seemed to know who Sandoval was and half-closed an eye, with ironic significance, in his direction. Then they all went up together to look at the painting.
    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