Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [86]
His accent was curious—a thin, surface layer of fluent upper-class English over a foundation of other, more guttural languages. The effect was in some ways more foreign than if Weidenfeld spoke English badly, like my father. The elegance of his appearance was marred slightly by the fact that he shaved carelessly, leaving several patches of stubble on his plump cheeks—clearly, his good fortune did not yet extend to a valet.
In fact, he was, even then, a man of many achievements. He had fled Vienna just ahead of the Nazis, then made his way to London, where, without money or connections, he soon founded a literary magazine, Contact, from which his publishing house, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, eventually emerged and prospered. In 1949, he was invited to be personal assistant to Chaim Weizmann, the first president of Israel, and managed to hold on to that post while remaining a British subject and continuing to run Contact.
“I’m a great admirer of your father’s,” Weidenfeld said, the first time I met him. The mobile, expressive face moved close to mine, the voice dropping to a whisper. “The Four Feathers is one of my favorite films.”
“That was my Uncle Zoli’s film, actually. My father is Vincent, the art director.”
“I’m a great admirer of his, too,” Weidenfeld said blandly, his eyes already searching over my shoulder for bigger game. “You must come here again, please.”
When I saw him again after nearly nine years, George had invited me to breakfast at his house in Chelsea. The day before, he called to ask what I would like for breakfast. I said bacon and eggs would be fine. Anything I liked, George said expansively—eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes: a real English breakfast.
The next day, I turned up exactly on time and was greeted by a foreign manservant in a white jacket who looked astonished to see me. He reluctantly showed me into the living room, where the debris of a party was still in evidence. From somewhere nearby I could hear the sound of a shower, followed by a murmur of conversation. I heard the sound of toothbrushing and prolonged gargling. About half an hour later, George appeared, beaming with goodwill, as if I had not disturbed him in the middle of his toilette. We chatted about publishing until the manservant came back to say that breakfast was ready.
We sat down in a small but beautifully furnished dining room. The manservant, holding a pot of coffee, his face a picture of gloom, leaned over to whisper in George’s ear.
“It appears that there’s no bacon,” George said.
“Eggs will do just fine.”
“Ah, splendid.” The manservant leaned over to whisper again. George frowned. “There are no eggs, either,” he said.
It was now clear to me that George had forgotten all about our breakfast date. “Toast will do fine,” I told him, conscious of the fact that I was becoming increasingly hungry.
“I’m afraid there’s no bread in the house, for some reason,” George said. “I could send him up to the King’s Road to buy a loaf?”
I said not to bother, and we contented ourselves with coffee. Now that the crisis was over, George relaxed and offered me a job, which he was to do every time we met over the next twenty years or so. I said that I would rather be his friend than his employee, which pleased him, though he answered, “But my dear boy, you could be both!”
By the time I was back on the street and looking for a taxi, I had committed myself to buy one of George’s books—I was already wondering how I was going to explain it to S&S —and accepted an invitation to one of his parties, which was taking place in two days’ time.
I had altogether forgiven him for having forgotten that he had invited me.
“DID YOU realize that it’s a costume party?” Casey asked