Im offering you security, OToole said, not money.
Im used to being insecure. It doesnt worry me. In my situation cash alone has a tongue.
I was wondering what kind of an overdraft I would have granted Mr. Visconti on his say-so alone[300], when my aunt took my hand. I think, she whispered to me, that we should leave Mr. Visconti alone with Mr. OToole. Aloud she said to me, Henry, come with me a moment. Ive got something to show you.
Has Mr. Visconti any Jewish blood? I asked when we were outside the room.
No, Aunt Augusta said, Saracen perhaps. He always got on well with the Saudi Arabians. Do you like him, Henry? she asked with an appeal which touched me under the circumstances. She was not a woman who found it easy to make an appeal.
Its early for me to judge, I said. He doesnt seem to me very trustworthy.
If he were, would I have loved him, Henry?
She led me through the kitchen one chair, a drying rack, an ancient gas stove, tins of food stacked upon the floor to the back of the house. The yard was full of wooden crates. My aunt said with pride, You see our furniture. Enough for two bedrooms and a dining-room. A little garden furniture too for our celebration.
And for the food and drink?
That is what Mr. Visconti is discussing now.
Does he really expect the CIA to pay for your party? What happened to all the money you had in Paris, Aunt Augusta?
It was very expensive settling with the police, and then I had to find a house worthy of Mr. Viscontis position.
Has he got one?
He has walked in his time with cardinals and Arabian princes, Aunt Augusta said. You dont imagine that a little country like Paraguay will hold him down for long.
A light went on at the bottom of the garden and then was extinguished. Who is it prowling there? I asked.
Mr. Visconti doesnt altogether trust his partner. He has been betrayed too often. I couldnt help wondering how many he had himself betrayed: my aunt, his wife, those cardinals and princes, even the Gestapo.
My aunt sat down on one of the smaller crates. She said, I am so happy, Henry, that you are here and Mr. Visconti is safely returned. Perhaps I am getting a little old, for I shall be quite content with a spell of family life. You and me and Mr. Visconti working together
Smuggling cigarettes and whisky?
Yes.
And the bodyguard in the garden.
I wouldnt want my days to peter out[301], Henry, with no interest in them at all.
Mr. Viscontis voice called from somewhere in the vast house. My dear, my dear. Can you hear me?
Yes.
Fetch me the picture, dear.
My aunt rose. The deal, I think, must have been concluded, she said. Come, Henry. But I let her go without me. I walked away from the house towards the trees. The stars were so brilliant in the low sky that I must have been easily visible to anyone watching from the trees. A small warm breeze blew around me the scent of orange and jasmine. It was as though I had plunged my head into a box of cut flowers. As I entered the shade a light flashed on my face and went out again, but this time I was ready for it and I knew exactly where the man stood. I had kept a match ready and I struck it. I saw leaning against a lapacho a little old man with long moustaches; his mouth had fallen open with surprise and perplexity so that I could see the toothless gums before the match burnt down. Buenas noches[302], I said, which was one of the few expressions I had picked up from my phrase-book, and he mumbled something in reply. I turned to go back and stumbled on the uneven ground and he flashed on his torch to aid me. I thought to myself that Mr. Visconti could not as yet afford much in the way of a bodyguard. Perhaps with the second load from Panama he would be able to afford something better.
In the dining-room I found all three of them, gathered round the picture. I recognized it from the frame, for it had been propped in my cabin for four days.
I dont understand, OToole said.
Nor do I, said Mr. Visconti. I expected a photograph of the Venus of Milo.
You know that I cant stand torsos, dear, Aunt Augusta said. I told you about that murder on the chemin de fer. I found this photograph in Wordsworths room.
OToole said, I dont understand what in hell all this is about. What murder on the chemin de fer!
Its too long a story to tell you now, Aunt Augusta said. Besides, Henry knows it, and he doesnt care for my stories.
Thats not true, I said. I was simply tired that night in Boulogne
Look, OToole said, Im not interested in what happened in Boulogne. I made an offer for a picture which Mr. Visconti here stole
I did not steal it, Mr. Visconti said. The prince gave it me quite voluntarily to present to Field-Marshal Goering in recognition
I did not steal it, Mr. Visconti said. The prince gave it me quite voluntarily to present to Field-Marshal Goering in recognition
Oh sure, sure, we know all that. The prince didnt give you a photo of a lot of African women
It should have been the Venus of Milo, Mr. Visconti said, shaking his head in perplexity. You had no need to change it, dear. It was a very fine photograph.