Europe was gathering. But there was no trace of the King.
After spending another week in fruitless staring he came to the decision that, if he had failed to find him in all that time, the King could not be in Venice. If he had indeed ever been there, he must certainly have moved on by now. He would have to extend his search to every city in Italy, which would be a great pleasure, if not exactly promising. All thesame, he would have to try, and perhaps the Princess would approve.
He was sitting on the terrace of a little café opposite the statue of Goldoni, in a little square no bigger than a public dining room, writing to the Princess’ secretary Baroness Fifalda to ask for funds and authorisation to set up a more protracted investigation. He was completely immersed in its composition, and caught totally by surprise when a heavy hand pressed down on his shoulder.
He looked up and was so astonished he leapt up involuntarily from his seat. Before him stood Major Mawiras-Tendal. And if the Major was here, could the King be far behind?
The Major had in fact followed the King into voluntary exile, making his way from Alturia independently. Oliver’s firm wish had been to leave behind everything to do with his household and his entourage while on his travels. Only his aide-de-camp would be permitted to accompany him, and then not in an official capacity but as a friend and travelling companion.
The Major had changed a great deal since Sandoval had last seen him. He was, as always, a man of lofty, commanding presence, but once out of his soldier’s uniform his military bearing came across as extremely odd. He had become a sort of concept. In his urge to conceal his officer qualities he had made himself altogether too summery, debonair, gypsy-like —and irresistibly comic. A royal tiger, domesticated to the level of a pussy cat.
“Sandoval, how splendid to see you here,” he declared, having powerfully shaken his hand. “So, how are you, my dear chap, and what are you up to? Painting, painting?”
The chummy tone, Sandoval decided, though not the Major’s usual style, must be an accessory to the costume. And his curiosity intensified by leaps and bounds. What hadbrought Mawiras-Tendal, nephew of the great revolutionary hero of Alturia, to put himself through such a transformation ?
“I, er … you know … I’m here on holiday … ” he replied. “I’m not painting at the moment, just having a look at the world. A man needs to, from time to time. But what about you, Major? Everyone ‘knows’ you’re in Central Africa with His Highness.”
“Sh … sh … ” the Major responded, and looked round in alarm. “I … as for that … I’m actually here in Venice. Business, Sandoval. Business. You know, since I stopped being his aide-de-camp, I have business interests. But I’m delighted to see you here. Because, well, you’ll see what a strange chance it is if I tell you that I’ve been running round all morning looking for a painter, drawn a blank everywhere, and now I bump into you. What luck!”
“A painter? You’ll find plenty of those in Venice. The churches are crawling with them. Any hotel porter could bring you a dozen.”
“Yes, I thought of that. But it matters what sort of painter.”
“Ah, so you’re looking for one with talent,” said Sandoval, his face brightening.
“Well, er, not entirely. Rather, one who can be trusted.”
“Trusted. From what point of view?”
“Someone who would be discreet; someone you could do business with.”
“It seems, Major, you’ve forgotten, from the good old days in Lara, that I am very discreet, and someone you could deal with.”
“Of course, of course, it’s just that … actually, it’s a question of your having to paint a Titian.”
“A Titian? I don’t follow. I do only Sandovals. You’ll have to make do with that. Not a bad name, that.”
“Look, what I’m saying … I know you painters sometimes —as part of the training—you
After spending another week in fruitless staring he came to the decision that, if he had failed to find him in all that time, the King could not be in Venice. If he had indeed ever been there, he must certainly have moved on by now. He would have to extend his search to every city in Italy, which would be a great pleasure, if not exactly promising. All thesame, he would have to try, and perhaps the Princess would approve.
He was sitting on the terrace of a little café opposite the statue of Goldoni, in a little square no bigger than a public dining room, writing to the Princess’ secretary Baroness Fifalda to ask for funds and authorisation to set up a more protracted investigation. He was completely immersed in its composition, and caught totally by surprise when a heavy hand pressed down on his shoulder.
He looked up and was so astonished he leapt up involuntarily from his seat. Before him stood Major Mawiras-Tendal. And if the Major was here, could the King be far behind?
The Major had in fact followed the King into voluntary exile, making his way from Alturia independently. Oliver’s firm wish had been to leave behind everything to do with his household and his entourage while on his travels. Only his aide-de-camp would be permitted to accompany him, and then not in an official capacity but as a friend and travelling companion.
The Major had changed a great deal since Sandoval had last seen him. He was, as always, a man of lofty, commanding presence, but once out of his soldier’s uniform his military bearing came across as extremely odd. He had become a sort of concept. In his urge to conceal his officer qualities he had made himself altogether too summery, debonair, gypsy-like —and irresistibly comic. A royal tiger, domesticated to the level of a pussy cat.
“Sandoval, how splendid to see you here,” he declared, having powerfully shaken his hand. “So, how are you, my dear chap, and what are you up to? Painting, painting?”
The chummy tone, Sandoval decided, though not the Major’s usual style, must be an accessory to the costume. And his curiosity intensified by leaps and bounds. What hadbrought Mawiras-Tendal, nephew of the great revolutionary hero of Alturia, to put himself through such a transformation ?
“I, er … you know … I’m here on holiday … ” he replied. “I’m not painting at the moment, just having a look at the world. A man needs to, from time to time. But what about you, Major? Everyone ‘knows’ you’re in Central Africa with His Highness.”
“Sh … sh … ” the Major responded, and looked round in alarm. “I … as for that … I’m actually here in Venice. Business, Sandoval. Business. You know, since I stopped being his aide-de-camp, I have business interests. But I’m delighted to see you here. Because, well, you’ll see what a strange chance it is if I tell you that I’ve been running round all morning looking for a painter, drawn a blank everywhere, and now I bump into you. What luck!”
“A painter? You’ll find plenty of those in Venice. The churches are crawling with them. Any hotel porter could bring you a dozen.”
“Yes, I thought of that. But it matters what sort of painter.”
“Ah, so you’re looking for one with talent,” said Sandoval, his face brightening.
“Well, er, not entirely. Rather, one who can be trusted.”
“Trusted. From what point of view?”
“Someone who would be discreet; someone you could do business with.”
“It seems, Major, you’ve forgotten, from the good old days in Lara, that I am very discreet, and someone you could deal with.”
“Of course, of course, it’s just that … actually, it’s a question of your having to paint a Titian.”
“A Titian? I don’t follow. I do only Sandovals. You’ll have to make do with that. Not a bad name, that.”
“Look, what I’m saying … I know you painters sometimes —as part of the training—you
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