Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [74]
‘Jacky’s no worse than usual. Only worried about having a couple like us staying with him.’
‘You and your husband?’
‘Yes.’
Rosie laughed lightly. ‘Why should he be worried by that?’
‘One accused of murder, the other of spying.’
‘Oh, really. Which of you did which?’
Still smiling, Rosie spoke quite evenly. Pamela allowed herself a faint smile too.
‘The French papers are hinting I murdered Ferrand-Sénéschal.’
‘The French writer?’
Rosie’s tone suggested that to have murdered Ferrand-Sénéschal was an act, however thoughtless, anyone might easily have committed.
‘They haven’t said in so many words I did it yet.’
‘Oh, good – and the spying?’
Pamela laughed.
‘Only those in the know, like Jacky, are fussing about that at present.’
‘I see.’
‘Jacky thinks he’ll get in wrong with one lot, or the other, through us. Jacky’s got quite a lot of Communist chums, movie people, publishers, other rich people like himself. Some of them are Stalinists, and quarrelling with the new crowd. Jacky doesn’t want a stink. It looks as if a stink’s just what he’s going to get. He didn’t bargain for that when he said we could come and stay, though he wasn’t too keen in the first place. I had to turn the heat on. He thought I’d keep an American called Louis Glober quiet, and we might both be useful in other ways. Now he wants to get rid of us. That may not be so easy.’
She laughed again. The joke had to be admitted as rather a good one, even if grimmish for Jacky Bragadin. Rosie smiled tolerantly. She did not pursue further inflexions of the story by asking more questions. She picked up the bag resting on the table, its long chain still looped round Pamela’s shoulder.
‘How pretty.’
‘Do you think so? I hate the thing. This man Glober gave it me. He keeps saying he’ll change it. He’ll only get something worse, and I can’t be bothered to spend hours in a shop with him.’
‘Is Mr Glober over for the Film Festival?’ asked one of the Americans.
‘That’s what he’s put out. He probably wants to pick up some hints from the German film about the blackmailing whore.’
‘I rather wish we were staying for the Film Festival,’ said Rosie.’ I’d like to see Polly Duport in the Hardy picture. We know her. She’s so nice, as well as being such a good actress.’
There was a lull in conversation. Stevens remarked that his new interest was in vintage cars. The Americans said they would have to be thinking of returning to their hotel soon. Rosie confirmed the view that it had been a tiring day. Stevens looked as if he might have liked to linger at Florian’s, but any such intractability would clearly be inadvisable, if matrimonial routines were to operate harmoniously. He did not openly dissent. Within the limits of making no pretence she found the presence of Pamela welcome, Rosie had been perfectly polite. Stevens could count himself lucky the situation had not hardened into open discord. Retirement from the scene had something to offer. Pamela appeared indifferent to whether they stayed or went. Goodbyes were said. She nodded an almost imperceptible farewell and dismissal. The Stevens party withdrew. They were enclosed almost immediately by the shadows of the Piazza. We sat for a minute or two in silence. The orchestra sawed away at Tales of Hoffmann.
‘What a shit Odo is,’ said Pamela.
‘Rosie is nice.’
It seemed best to make that statement right away, declare one’s views on the subject, rather than wait for attack. That would be preferable to a follow-up defending Rosie, as a friend.