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Authors: Lionel Davidson
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conversation, watched with somewhat proprietorial pride.
‘Stephanie,’ he said at length, reproachfully, noticing her cigarette for the first time. ‘It is the second cigarette you have smoked this morning. You promised me. Your throat…’
‘I have been writing letters,’ she said loudly. ‘I must smoke when I am writing letters. Of course,’ she said confidentially to me, ‘it is not my throat that worries him. It is the price of the cigarettes. Oh, you will be repaid!’ she told him scornfully. ‘I know you keep an account of the small loans. Be so kind as to let me have a list. My son will attend to it very shortly now. Really,’ she said, drawing me to her again, ‘the creatures one has to rely on these days.’
‘Stephanie,’ said Imre, with pain, ‘you know this is not the case …’
‘But you, Nicolas,’ said Maminka, disregarding him entirely. ‘I cannot tell you how delighted I am at the news. Of course, I had not the slightest doubt that you would open the offices again. Your father often spoke of it. Can you get the same building, do you think, on the Prikopy? I used to look in every day on my way to Wartski’s in the Vaclavske Namesti. There was a little lift with golden gates, and such a darling old man who worked it. He had a fresh flower for me every day. Ah, those days! Will they ever return? Now sit down and tell me all.’
I sat down with acute enervation. ‘It isn’t anything important, Maminka. Just an exploratory visit. Nothing might come of it, you know. Things have changed greatly.’
‘Of course. Nothing stands still,’ said my mother with great energy, looking swiftly at Imre. ‘Men of affairs have to be up and about. Are you thinking of taking Nimek with you?’
‘No.’
‘Your father had a high opinion of his shrewdness. He is a low creature and I could never see the need for taking him into partnership, but he is undeniably shrewd. Would it not be safest to take him?’ she asked wisely.
I regarded her with helpless affection. ‘Maminka,’ I said, ‘Nimek is running the business now. Don’t you remember, I told you?’
‘Certainly. Of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘It was merely a suggestion. Not that it matters. I have written you several letters of introduction to the people who count. And, of course, to Hana Simkova – you remember old Baba who used to nurse you? And now,’ she said briskly, seating herself beside me and taking my hand, ‘if Mr Gabriel could only be persuaded to respect the privacy of other people’s rooms, we have much to talk about.’
Poor Imre went presently. My mother’s high clear voice went on and on.
Imre got me on one side before I left, on Sunday. ‘Those letters,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t prevent her writing them. What was I to do? It made her happy.’
‘That’s all right, Uncle.’
‘Even to your old nanny, Hana. Hana is dead. She died two or three years ago. Of course, I didn’t tell her. Even the husband moved away somewhere. … She is very much behind the times, your mother,’ he said sadly. ‘You are very angry with me, Nicolas?’
‘No, Uncle. I’m not angry.’
‘Here, give me the letters. I’ll throw them away. I’ll burn them.’
He was so contrite and anxious to please that I did so.
I left after tea, and tooled back to Fitzwalter Square at half past eight. It was growing dark and quiet in the square. I sat in the car for a while in a mood of profound melancholy. I had no wish to see Maura. I had no wish to go up to my room. I sat and brooded, on Cunliffe, on Pavelka, on the trip to Prague. I wondered where I would be next week at this time.
Presently a few lights began to come on about the square and I got out of the car and walked to the Musketeers in the High Road. I had a drink there every Sunday. Mrs Nolan was in the saloon bar with a friend, transfixed by the television. I ordered a pint and drank it. She did not take her eyes off the screen.
I went into the
‘Stephanie,’ he said at length, reproachfully, noticing her cigarette for the first time. ‘It is the second cigarette you have smoked this morning. You promised me. Your throat…’
‘I have been writing letters,’ she said loudly. ‘I must smoke when I am writing letters. Of course,’ she said confidentially to me, ‘it is not my throat that worries him. It is the price of the cigarettes. Oh, you will be repaid!’ she told him scornfully. ‘I know you keep an account of the small loans. Be so kind as to let me have a list. My son will attend to it very shortly now. Really,’ she said, drawing me to her again, ‘the creatures one has to rely on these days.’
‘Stephanie,’ said Imre, with pain, ‘you know this is not the case …’
‘But you, Nicolas,’ said Maminka, disregarding him entirely. ‘I cannot tell you how delighted I am at the news. Of course, I had not the slightest doubt that you would open the offices again. Your father often spoke of it. Can you get the same building, do you think, on the Prikopy? I used to look in every day on my way to Wartski’s in the Vaclavske Namesti. There was a little lift with golden gates, and such a darling old man who worked it. He had a fresh flower for me every day. Ah, those days! Will they ever return? Now sit down and tell me all.’
I sat down with acute enervation. ‘It isn’t anything important, Maminka. Just an exploratory visit. Nothing might come of it, you know. Things have changed greatly.’
‘Of course. Nothing stands still,’ said my mother with great energy, looking swiftly at Imre. ‘Men of affairs have to be up and about. Are you thinking of taking Nimek with you?’
‘No.’
‘Your father had a high opinion of his shrewdness. He is a low creature and I could never see the need for taking him into partnership, but he is undeniably shrewd. Would it not be safest to take him?’ she asked wisely.
I regarded her with helpless affection. ‘Maminka,’ I said, ‘Nimek is running the business now. Don’t you remember, I told you?’
‘Certainly. Of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘It was merely a suggestion. Not that it matters. I have written you several letters of introduction to the people who count. And, of course, to Hana Simkova – you remember old Baba who used to nurse you? And now,’ she said briskly, seating herself beside me and taking my hand, ‘if Mr Gabriel could only be persuaded to respect the privacy of other people’s rooms, we have much to talk about.’
Poor Imre went presently. My mother’s high clear voice went on and on.
Imre got me on one side before I left, on Sunday. ‘Those letters,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t prevent her writing them. What was I to do? It made her happy.’
‘That’s all right, Uncle.’
‘Even to your old nanny, Hana. Hana is dead. She died two or three years ago. Of course, I didn’t tell her. Even the husband moved away somewhere. … She is very much behind the times, your mother,’ he said sadly. ‘You are very angry with me, Nicolas?’
‘No, Uncle. I’m not angry.’
‘Here, give me the letters. I’ll throw them away. I’ll burn them.’
He was so contrite and anxious to please that I did so.
I left after tea, and tooled back to Fitzwalter Square at half past eight. It was growing dark and quiet in the square. I sat in the car for a while in a mood of profound melancholy. I had no wish to see Maura. I had no wish to go up to my room. I sat and brooded, on Cunliffe, on Pavelka, on the trip to Prague. I wondered where I would be next week at this time.
Presently a few lights began to come on about the square and I got out of the car and walked to the Musketeers in the High Road. I had a drink there every Sunday. Mrs Nolan was in the saloon bar with a friend, transfixed by the television. I ordered a pint and drank it. She did not take her eyes off the screen.
I went into the
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