Temporary Kings (22 page)

‘Keep
calm, Odo. He’s not a friend of mine. I never met him before the Conference
went over his Palazzo. That was how I knew the Widmerpools were staying with
Jacky Bragadin.’

Rosie
caught the name. She left the Americans to chat together with Gwinnett, who had
assumed, with his compatriots, a blunt, matter-of-fact, all-purposes air.

‘Did
you mention Jacky Bragadin? How is he? His heart wasn’t too good when I last
saw him, also that trouble with his chest. We thought of getting into touch. Do
you know who’s staying there?’

‘I
was telling Odo – the Widmerpools, among others.’

‘Good
heavens, the Frog Footman, and that
ghastly
wife
of his. What can Jacky be thinking of? Thank goodness you warned me. Who are
the other unfortunates?’

‘An
American film tycoon called Louis Glober. Baby Clarini, who used to be Baby
Wentworth. Those are the only ones I know about, in addition to the
Widmerpools.’

Rosie
made a face at the name of Baby Wentworth.

‘Jacky
certainly can take it on the chin, Baby and Pamela Widmerpool under the same
roof. What about Louis Glober? I seem to know the name. Is he up to the weight
of the others? I hope so.’

One
of the Americans enquired about Glober.

‘What’s
he up to now? Louis Glober hasn’t made a picture in years. The last I heard of
him was automobile racing, in fact saw him at the Indianapolis Speedway.’

They
talked of Glober and his past exploits. Gwinnett remained silent. I had not
caught the name of the Americans, indeed never found that out. The husband
began to enlarge on the Glober legend.

‘Did
you ever hear of Glober’s Montana caper?’

That
looked a possibility as the story of Glober’s meeting with Pamela, but turned
out to have bearings of interest chiefly on Glober’s many-sidedness. It
explained, too, a Montana connexion.

‘One
time Glober was in Hollywood, he went north with a cowboy actor – I’ll think of
the name – who was starring in a picture of Glober’s. The Indians were
bestowing some sort of a tribal honour on this actor, who’d invited Glober to
accompany him, and watch the ceremony. Montana, it seems, went to Glober’s
head. That’s how he is. He talked of starting life again up there, buying a
defunct cattle business, refinancing Indian leases, that sort of stuff. He was
crazy about it all.’

‘Wouldn’t
mind that kind of life myself,’ said Stevens. ‘In the open all day.’

‘Oh,
darling?’ said Rosie. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Glober
stayed up there quite a while, talking of becoming a cattleman. All sorts of
yarns came back to the Coast about his doings. There was supposed to have been
a gun fight. A rancher found Glober in compromising circumstances with his
wife. He pulled a gun, took a shot at Glober, and missed. Glober must have been
prepared for trouble, because he had his own gun by him, blazed back, and
missed too. They ran out of shells, or the lady herself intervened, so they
settled to cut the cards for her. Glober lost, and returned to Hollywood.’

‘His
luck was in,’ said Stevens.

The
story suggested the
monde
in which Cosmo Flitton had come to rest. I caught Gwinnett’s eye.

‘That’s
all pure Trapnel – the sort of thing X would have loved, but never managed to
bring off.’

Gwinnett
nodded, without giving any indication whether or not he agreed.

‘When
the tale got back to Beverly Hills, Dorothy Parker said Glober planned to take
the lead in his next picture himself. It was to be called
The Western of the Playboy World
.’

The
American lady broke in.

‘Louis
Glober’s got a fine side too. All that money he gave for the mental health
research project, that institution for schizophrenics. It was all done on the
quiet. Not a soul knew it was Glober, until — ’

Stevens
kicked me under the table. I lost track of the precise history of Glober’s
generous act, but caught enough to gather it had been brought about in
deliberate secrecy, the teller of the story having happened quite by chance on
the magnanimous part Glober had played. I could not at once understand whatever
Stevens was signalling. His eyes stared fixedly in front of him. Glancing round
in the direction towards which they were set, I was now able to observe Pamela
Widmerpool moving between the closely packed tables and chairs. As usual she
gave the impression almost of floating through the air. She was apparently
looking for someone thought likely to be sitting at Florian’s. At least that
was the impression given. Possibly she was merely taking an evening walk,
choosing to wander through the crowded caffè to give spice to a stroll, cause a
little inconvenience, draw attention to herself. The people at the tables
stared at her. As she wove her way amongst them, she paused from time to time
to stare haughtily back. Stevens was rather rattled. ‘She’s bloody well making
in our direction,’ he muttered. Pamela had hit him in the face the last time I
had seen them together, but no doubt he feared her unhappy moral impact on his
wife, rather than physical violence. The others had not noticed Pamela’s onset.
Rosie, always a great talker, had a conspicuous rival in the American lady.
Gwinnett seemed resigned to the position in which he found himself. Pamela had
marked down our table. She was steering for it, without the least hurry. The
course unquestionably was intentional. She was still wearing her white
trousers, carrying from her shoulder a bag hung from a gold chain. Stevens was
surprisingly disturbed.

‘Had
this got to happen?’

Pamela
halted behind the chair of the male American. He was unaware of her presence
there.

‘Have
you seen Louis?’

‘Glober?’

‘No,
Louis the Fourteenth.’

‘I
haven’t seen either since lunch.’

‘Did
you lunch with Louis?’

‘Yes,
Glober – not the Roi Soleil.’

‘I
thought he was giving lunch to that old cow Ada. Do you know she put round a
story that I left a picador in Spain because I found a basket-ball player twice
his size?’

‘Ada
was there too.’

‘Where?’

‘The
restaurant in the Giardini.’

‘Did
he take Ada back to screw her – if he can still manage that, or can’t she face
a man any longer?’

‘So
far as I know Glober left for the Gritti Palace to meet a business
acquaintance, and Ada returned to the Lido to work on a speech she’s going to
make at the Conference.’

‘Louis’s
been seen at Cipriani’s since he was at the Gritti.’

‘Then
I can’t help.’

‘I
want some dope from him.’

Although
the word might be reasonably used for any entity too much trouble to
particularize, Pamela spoke as if she meant a drug, rather than, say, schedule
of airflights to London, programme of tomorrow’s sightseeing, name of a recommended
restaurant. She sounded as if she felt a capricious desire for a narcotic
Glober could supply, no breathless despairing longing, just what she wished at
the moment. The possibility was not to be wholly dismissed as an aspect of
Glober’s courtship. The men of the party had risen, standing awkwardly beside
their chairs, while this conversation proceeded, waiting for her to move on.

‘How
are you, Pam?’ asked Stevens.

He
still sounded nervous. She glanced at him, but gave no sign of having seen him
before. Stevens himself may have hoped matters would rest there, that Pamela,
failing to obtain the information she sought, would continue on her way without
further acknowledgment. She remained, not speaking, looking coldly round,
regarding Gwinnett with as chilly an eye as the rest. There was no suggestion
they had met, far less touched on the religious life, shared some sort of
physically sexual brush. Gwinnett himself was hardly more forthcoming.
Absolutely poker-faced, his expression was that of a man determined not to fall
below the standard of politeness required by convention towards an unknown
woman pausing by the table at which he had been sitting, at the same time not
unwilling that she should move on as quickly as possible to enable him to
resume his seat. Pamela had no intention of moving on.

‘I’m
not going to drag the canals for Glober. I’ll get the stuff from him tomorrow.’

She
stepped forward to occupy the chair temporarily vacated by the American
husband, thereby putting an end to any hope that she was not going to stay. The
American managed to find another chair, then good-naturedly asked what she
wanted to drink.

‘A
cappuccino.’

Stevens
was forced into mumbling some sort of general introduction. Rosie, of course,
knew perfectly well who Pamela was, but either the two of them, by some chance,
had never met, or it suited the mood of both to pretend that. Gwinnett, without
emphasis, allowed recognition of previous acquaintanceship of some sort by
making a backward jerk of the head. Rosie, undoubtedly angry at Pamela imposing
herself in this manner, was at the same time, unlike Stevens, quite unruffled
in outward appearance.

‘We
heard you and your husband were staying with Jacky,’ she said. ‘How is he? Free
from that catarrh of his, I hope?’

She
expertly eyed Pamela’s turn-out, letting the assessment pause for a second on
what appeared to be a wine-stain, at closer range revealed, on the white
trousers, which Pamela, in spite of other signs of grubbiness, had not bothered
to change. Rosie also contemplated for a moment the crocodile-skin bag. Its
heavy chain of gold looked rather an expensive item. This was all very cool on
both sides, the sense of tension – though neither glanced at the other – between
Pamela and Gwinnett, rather than Pamela and Rosie. When the cappuccino arrived,
Pamela did not touch it. She sat there quietly, taking no notice of anyone.
Then she seemed to decide to answer Rosie’s question.

‘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 Hoffman
n.

‘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. Rather surprisingly, Pamela agreed.

‘Yes,
she’s all right. I suppose she gets a kick out of keeping that little ponce.’

‘You
must admit his war record was good.’

‘What’s
that to me?’

To
stay longer at the table would be not only to prejudice Gwinnett’s opportunity
for further pursuit of Trapnel investigations, but also, if Pamela had taken a
fancy to him, risk being told in uncompromising terms to leave them
à deux
.