Read Online The Night of Wenceslas by Lionel Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lionel Davidson
Ads: Link
Cunliffe?
Somewhat dazed by the rush of sun and shade and with only the mildest groundswell of despair, I drew up at the Pleasance Hotel at eleven-thirty.
Imre, who had evidently been lurking in the foyer, came out at once, and stood rather helplessly like some huge, embarrassed baby in his black alpaca jacket.
‘Nicolas, my boy! It is good to see you. There is so much to talk about.’ The hairs of his nose were waving in his powerful breath. ‘We will walk in the garden, it is such a pleasant day.’
He was gripping my arm tightly as I walked with him. ‘How are you, Uncle?
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘And mother?’
‘She is a remarkable woman. Today she is in excellent health. Of course, she expects you. This, naturally, must be taken into account. But Nicolas, I must tell you …’
He was labouring under some powerful anxiety, the hairs of his nose billowing.
‘You have not told her about Bela?’
‘I could not. This was an impossibility. Her health … I would like you to understand, Nicolas …’
He was in the throes of some large agitation. I said kindly, ‘No harm done. There are plenty of complications anyway …’
‘Complications,’ he said. ‘ Yoh , complications!’ He stopped in the path and faced me, breathing stormily. ‘You will not be angry, my boy? Promise me you will not be angry.’
‘What is it?’
‘How to explain?’ he said, looking at the sky. ‘I decided – it seemed a sensible thing to do – that while she was not well enough to hear the sad news about Bela, she could hear thegood news about you. After all, good news. … Your mother has wonderful recuperative powers.’
‘What is it you’ve told her?’
‘It is not what I have told her,’ he said with some heat. ‘It is what she has made of it. She is a wonderfully imaginative woman. … I merely said,’ he went on hastily, noting my expression, ‘that you had had a success in business and might be travelling abroad. I wanted to work round to Canada – I suppose you will have to make a trip there – so that in a week or two perhaps we could come round to the subject of Bela. … And right away she took it you would be starting your father’s business again in Europe. In Prague,’ he said nervously.
He was gazing at me apprehensively, but I said nothing.
‘Your mother does not keep up with the news,’ he said anxiously. ‘She thinks Prague is as she left it. It is not possible to tell her of the changes. … You are very angry?’ he said at length.
I was not angry. I was merely enfeebled. Short of jumping on his shoulders and tattooing with my fists on his head or driving endlessly there and back through the New Forest to resurrect my mood of nihilistic freedom, there was nothing to be done.
‘I think we should go in,’ he said, looking round. ‘She will have seen your car. We must cheer up, she will expect it. You don’t know what it is, my boy,’ he went on aggrievedly as we walked back, ‘when an imaginative woman gets an idea in her head.’
I do, I thought with melancholy. Better than you. Better than anyone. There was a weird and lowering feeling of inevitability in my vitals as I walked up the steps to the hotel. I knew I would be going to Prague on Tuesday.
Maminka was smoking a cigarette and writing a letter at her little escritoire when we went in.
‘Nicolas, bobitchka ! But you are so thin. You are working so hard. Why have you not been to see me? Let me look at you. Come, kiss me.’ It was seldom necessary to speak for the first five minutes in my mother’s company, and I made no attempt todo so, merely smiling at her with melancholy affection. My mother demands much affection and can always claim it. She is tall, with large, beautiful almond eyes. Her hair is grey, rinsed with blue. She has the complexion of a young girl and has enjoyed, all her life, perfect health.
She engulfed me now in kisses and caresses, speaking rapidly as Imre, only slightly subdued by our
Somewhat dazed by the rush of sun and shade and with only the mildest groundswell of despair, I drew up at the Pleasance Hotel at eleven-thirty.
Imre, who had evidently been lurking in the foyer, came out at once, and stood rather helplessly like some huge, embarrassed baby in his black alpaca jacket.
‘Nicolas, my boy! It is good to see you. There is so much to talk about.’ The hairs of his nose were waving in his powerful breath. ‘We will walk in the garden, it is such a pleasant day.’
He was gripping my arm tightly as I walked with him. ‘How are you, Uncle?
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘And mother?’
‘She is a remarkable woman. Today she is in excellent health. Of course, she expects you. This, naturally, must be taken into account. But Nicolas, I must tell you …’
He was labouring under some powerful anxiety, the hairs of his nose billowing.
‘You have not told her about Bela?’
‘I could not. This was an impossibility. Her health … I would like you to understand, Nicolas …’
He was in the throes of some large agitation. I said kindly, ‘No harm done. There are plenty of complications anyway …’
‘Complications,’ he said. ‘ Yoh , complications!’ He stopped in the path and faced me, breathing stormily. ‘You will not be angry, my boy? Promise me you will not be angry.’
‘What is it?’
‘How to explain?’ he said, looking at the sky. ‘I decided – it seemed a sensible thing to do – that while she was not well enough to hear the sad news about Bela, she could hear thegood news about you. After all, good news. … Your mother has wonderful recuperative powers.’
‘What is it you’ve told her?’
‘It is not what I have told her,’ he said with some heat. ‘It is what she has made of it. She is a wonderfully imaginative woman. … I merely said,’ he went on hastily, noting my expression, ‘that you had had a success in business and might be travelling abroad. I wanted to work round to Canada – I suppose you will have to make a trip there – so that in a week or two perhaps we could come round to the subject of Bela. … And right away she took it you would be starting your father’s business again in Europe. In Prague,’ he said nervously.
He was gazing at me apprehensively, but I said nothing.
‘Your mother does not keep up with the news,’ he said anxiously. ‘She thinks Prague is as she left it. It is not possible to tell her of the changes. … You are very angry?’ he said at length.
I was not angry. I was merely enfeebled. Short of jumping on his shoulders and tattooing with my fists on his head or driving endlessly there and back through the New Forest to resurrect my mood of nihilistic freedom, there was nothing to be done.
‘I think we should go in,’ he said, looking round. ‘She will have seen your car. We must cheer up, she will expect it. You don’t know what it is, my boy,’ he went on aggrievedly as we walked back, ‘when an imaginative woman gets an idea in her head.’
I do, I thought with melancholy. Better than you. Better than anyone. There was a weird and lowering feeling of inevitability in my vitals as I walked up the steps to the hotel. I knew I would be going to Prague on Tuesday.
Maminka was smoking a cigarette and writing a letter at her little escritoire when we went in.
‘Nicolas, bobitchka ! But you are so thin. You are working so hard. Why have you not been to see me? Let me look at you. Come, kiss me.’ It was seldom necessary to speak for the first five minutes in my mother’s company, and I made no attempt todo so, merely smiling at her with melancholy affection. My mother demands much affection and can always claim it. She is tall, with large, beautiful almond eyes. Her hair is grey, rinsed with blue. She has the complexion of a young girl and has enjoyed, all her life, perfect health.
She engulfed me now in kisses and caresses, speaking rapidly as Imre, only slightly subdued by our
Similar Books
