Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [48]
He stopped, overwhelmed by his troubles. I did not know why I was being told all this. Widmerpool’s jaws worked up and down. He gave the impression of hesitation in asking some question. I enquired if he were in Venice on business, since he did not care for the city in other respects.
‘Yes – no – not really. A slight rest. Pamela wanted a short rest. To be quiet, out of things, just for a little. You may be able to help me, as a matter of fact, in something I want to know. Your Conference has been going on for a day or two?’
‘Yes.’
‘You meet and mix with the other members – the foreign ones, I mean?’
‘Some of them.’
‘I was hoping to kill two birds with one stone. Pamela was given an open invitation to stay in this imposing residence. The owner – Bragadin – is one of the smart international set, I understand, what the papers call café society, I’m told. All that sort of thing is a mystery to me. Distasteful too, in the highest degree. At the same time, it was convenient for Pamela to take a rest, even if in a style I myself cannot approve. But to get back to the Conference, am I right in supposing all these people round about are its members? I am. There chances to be one of them I am particularly anxious to meet, if here. It is a most lucky opportunity the two things coincided.’
‘The Conference, and your visit?’
‘Yes, yes. That is what I mean. Have you run across Dr Belkin? He is familiar to me only by name, through certain cultural societies to which I belong. By an unhappy mischance, we have never set eyes on each other, though we have corresponded – on cultural matters, of course. He was, incidentally, a mutual friend of poor Ferrand-Sénéschal. How sad that too. I am, of course, not sure that Dr Belkin will have been able to put in an appearance. He could have become too much occupied in the cultural affairs of his own country, in which he plays a central part. They may not have been able to spare him at the last moment. He is a busy man. Belkin? Dr Belkin? Have you heard anything of him, or seen him?’
I was about to answer that the name was unknown to me, when Pamela, overhearing Widmerpool’s strained, eager tone, got her word in first. She turned from where she stood with Gwinnett, looked straight at her husband, and laughed outright. It was not a friendly laugh.
‘You won’t find your friend Belkin here.’
She spoke under her breath, almost in a hiss, still laughing. Widmerpool’s face altered. He swallowed uneasily. When he replied he was quite calm.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say.’
‘You only know about Belkin because you’ve heard me refer to him.’
‘That’s sufficient.’
‘What information have you got regarding him then?’
‘Just what you’ve told me. And a few small items I’ve picked up elsewhere.’
‘But I haven’t told you anything – I – that was what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Why should you think he won’t be here? You don’t know him personally any more than I do. Nothing I’ve said gave you any reason to draw that conclusion. Only quite a recent development makes me want to meet him rather urgently.’
‘It wasn’t what you said. It was what Léon-Joseph said.’
Considering the circumstances, Widmerpool took that comment stoically, though he was showing signs of strain.
He seemed to want most to get to the bottom of Pamela’s insinuation.
‘He told you this before he …’
Widmerpool put the question composedly, as if what had happened to Ferrand-Sénéschal did not matter much, only out of respect he did not name it.
‘No,’ said Pamela, also speaking quietly. ‘He told me after he’d died, of course – Leon-Joseph appeared to me as a ghost last night, and gave the information. He was gliding down the Grand Canal, walking on the water like Jesus, except that he was carrying his head under his arm like Mary Queen of Scots. I recognized the head by those blubber lips and rimless spectacles. The blubber lips spoke the words: “A cause de ses sentiments stalinistes, Belkin est foutu.”’
Widmerpool appeared more disconcerted