Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [151]
He was curious to know if the miniature phonograph inside the statue was still working. “Sorry,” he said aloud, as he opened a trapdoor in the statue’s posterior and cranked the mechanism. He put his head, almost resting, against the paw, hoping nobody would see him. But, for some reason, instead of the tune, what he heard was Daria Norton’s voice, joking with Lilian Lake in a distant room about what had just happened to him. Obviously, Daria had lost nothing of her telepathic link with the Polar Kangaroo. The conversation vexed and disappointed him, but he also felt relieved, somehow, that at least two persons were not taking him seriously. Three, with himself included. He suddenly missed Lilian. He meant Sybil. He meant Helen. No. He meant Lilian.
“What are you doing here?” asked a familiar, German-accented voice.
Brentford lifted up his head, so quickly it bumped against the Polar Kangaroo’s jaw.
Hardenberg was at the door with Schwarz.
“I was wondering where you were,” said Brentford, rubbing his skull.
“You don’t doge very well, said Hardenberg, suavely sardonic. “We have just come, Herr Schwarz and I, from giving a little present to Mr. d’Allier, who is, shall we say, lounging in the Hall. In case you were wondering about his whereabouts.”
“Good. I’m glad he’s turned up.”
Brentford stood silent for a while, rubbing his temple.
“I was looking for you in order to—well, I wanted to thank you,” he said awkwardly.
“My pleasure.” said Hardenberg. “It is the only thing that counts.”
“What are you planning to do next?”
“Frankly? I had the idea that I should go and plant a black flag at the pole. But if there is any place in the world that is better off without any kind of standard, even that one, it is certainly the North Pole. There are places where no state should install itself. We have heard—for we have informers everywhere—that the pope has offered a twelve-foot-high cross to an Italian airship captain, to have it dropped at the pole. I’ll just take that airship down, believe me, before the Phantom Patrol does it.”
“What was it you said that you’d take that would be of no consequence to me?”
“Oh! That! It is just that I clinched a deal with the good people of Crocker Land. A permanent rear base against supplies and protection. I hope you do not mind.”
Brentford minded, but he was not sure why, and anyway, what could he say to Hardenberg, after what he had done for him?
“I can very much imagine you in a crystal castle,” said Brentford.
“I can, too, obviously. As Nero once said of his palace, I am now lodged as a man. Every man should have a castle for himself, don’t you think, for every man is a king. Anyway. That makes us neighbours, so to speak. Do not hesitate to come and see us,” said Hardenberg as he warmly shook Brentford’s hand. “And don’t forget to bring the kids.”
“It’s a pity you did not like bombs,” Schwarz muttered as he saluted Brentford.
“Sorry about that. Maybe next time,” Brentford answered, trying to be polite.
He watched them recede down the corridor, their black clothes fading into the darkness. If he remembered correctly, he had one wish left.
Walking down the hall, he passed in front of the guardroom. A huge fire was roaring in the fireplace, and around a long table some Varangian guards were challenging a group of Navy Cadets to a drinking contest that the Nobles of the Poop, in spite of their good will, had not the slightest chance of winning. Lieutenant Lemminkaïnen, his eyes glinting with alcohol, perceived the Regent-Doge in the doorway and warmly saluted him, expressing how happy he was to be rid of those contemptuous, picky old men that he had had to