Hi! Wordsworth shouted. Hi! Mr. Pullen be here, and I heard the click of high heels along a passage overhead. A flight of pink marble stairs rose to the first floor, and at the head of them my aunt appeared. The light was too dim to see her clearly, and it may have been my imagination which read into her voice an older, more tremulous tone than I had remembered. Why, Henry, she said, you are welcome home. She came slowly down the stairs, and perhaps it was the bad light which caused her to clutch at the banister. I am so sorry, she said, that Mr. Visconti is not here to greet you. I had expected him yesterday.
Mr. Visconti?
Yes, my aunt said, Mr. Visconti. We are happily reunited. Did you bring the picture safely?
Ar got it, Wordsworth said, holding up his new suitcase.
Mr. Visconti will be relieved. He was afraid of the customs. You look well, Henry, she said, kissing my cheek and leaving on the air a smell of lavender. Come, let me show you your room. She led me up to the first landing, which was as bare as the hall, and opened a door. This room at least contained a bed and a chair and a cupboard, though nothing else. My aunt may have thought some explanation was needed[266], for she said, The furniture will be arriving any day now. I opened another door and saw a room which was empty except for two mattresses laid together on the floor and a dressing-table and stool that looked new. I have given you the bed, my aunt said, but I couldnt do without my dressing-table.
Is this your room?
Sometimes I miss my Venetian glass, but when the curtains go up and the furniture arrives You must be hungry, Henry. Wordsworth will bring your bags. I have a little meal prepared.
I could no longer be surprised by the furnishing of the dining-room an immense room which had been lit once by three chandeliers; the wires sprouted like weeds out of holes in the ceiling. There was a table but no cloth, and the chairs were packing-cases. Its all a little rough, my aunt said, but when Mr. Visconti returns you will see how soon we shall get things in order. The meal came out of tins, and there was a sweet red wine of local origin which tasted like an evil medicine of childhood. I thought of my first-class ticket on the boat with shame.
When Mr. Visconti is back, Aunt Augusta said, we plan to give you a party. A house like this is made for parties. We shall have a barbecue with an ox roasted whole in the garden, and there will be coloured lights in the trees, and music, of course, for dancing. A harp and a guitar that is the fashion here. The polka and the galop are the national dances. I shall invite the Chief of Police, the Jesuit Provincial (for his conversation of course), the British Ambassador and his wife. The Italian Ambassador, no it would not be tactful[267]. We must find some pretty girls for you, Henry. A splinter from the packing-case scratched my thigh.
I said, You will need a little furniture first, Aunt Augusta.
That goes without saying. I regret that I cannot ask the Italian Ambassador he is such a handsome man, but under the circumstances I shall have to tell you something, Henry, that only Wordsworth knows
Where is Wordsworth now?
In the kitchen. Mr. Visconti prefers us to eat alone. As I was going to say, Henry, when you interrupted me, Mr. Visconti has taken to an Argentine passport and he is known here as Mr. Izquierdo.
I am not altogether surprised, Aunt Augusta. I told her how the two detectives had searched her flat. General Abdul is dead, by the way.
I rather expected that. Did they take anything away?
Nothing except a picture postcard from Panama.
Why did they want that?
They thought it might have something to do with Mr. Visconti.
How absurd the police always seem to be. The card must have been sent by Monsieur Dambreuse. I met him on the boat going out to Buenos Aires. Poor man, he had aged a great deal. I didnt even recognize him until he began to tell me about his metallurgical company and his family in Toulouse.
And he hadnt recognized you?
That is not so surprising. In those days, when we were living at the Saint James and Albany, I had black hair, not red. Red was Mr. Viscontis favourite colour. I kept red especially for him.
The police were acting for Interpol, I said.
Its absurd of them to treat Mr. Visconti like a common war criminal. There are lots of such men hidden around here. Martin Bormann[268] is just across the border in Brazil and the unspeakable Dr. Mengele[269] of Auschwitz is said to be with the army near the Bolivian border. Why doesnt Interpol do anything about them? Mr. Visconti was always very kind to Jews. Even when he had those dealings with Saudi Arabia. Why should he be chased out of the Argentine, where he was doing quite well in the antique business? There was an American in Buenos Aires who made the most impertinent inquiries, Mr. Visconti told me. Mr. Visconti had sold a picture to a private purchaser in the States, and this American, who claimed to be a representative of the Metropolitan Museum[270], said the picture had been looted