Kindling by Nevil Shute
They walked down the shore of the lake among the flowers; the air was cool and refreshing after the heat of Visgrad. At the café they sat for a while and drank Turkish coffee, served to them by a veiled girl.
“They are not civilised, these people,” said Pepita.
They drove back to Visgrad and entered the city a few minutes before half-past five. Warren turned to the girl. “Where shall I put you down, Mademoiselle? You wish to do some shopping?”
She thought for a moment. “There is a large shop in the Litescu.” She spoke rapidly to the driver through the screen; he nodded his head. “I have asked him if he will stop in the Litescu; it is on the way to your hotel.”
The car ran swiftly through the streets, and slowed down in the shopping quarter. “M’sieur,” she said. “I have enjoyed this afternoon; I thank you infinitely. We will dance again this evening?”
“But certainly,” he said. The car drew up to a standstill by the broken pavement; Warren looked at the shop. It was a toy shop.
He smiled. “You go to buy toys, Mademoiselle?”
“M’sieur,” she said, “I declare—I am ashamed. All of the afternoon I have talked to you of my little one—it was not gentil, that. But in ten days will arrive her day of birth, and it is necessary that I should post her present now, or it will be late.”
“You would prefer to be alone, perhaps?”
“But no, M’sieur. But for you—it is not interesting—to buy a doll?”
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I should enjoy it infinitely.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Come, M’sieur, and we will choose a doll together.”
In the shop she hesitated for a long time over the choice. There were dolls in Greek peasant costume, in Laevatian peasant costume, in Albanian peasant costume; baby dolls, little girl dolls, soldier dolls, black dolls. After endless discussion in broken Laevatian with the old lady of the shop she chose a large baby doll, with long draperies.
“Mademoiselle,” said Warren, “I have never been a father. But I understand that a young child like that requires a perambulator. Is it permitted that I should send a perambulator for the doll, that your little one may wheel her about?”
The old lady dragged forward a selection of doll’s perambulators.
“M’sieur,” said the girl, a little huskily, “you are too kind. My little one will be enchanted.”
They chose a perambulator and gave instructions for the packing and the carriage to Sulina, in Corsica. Then he went back to his hotel. In the evening he danced a little with the girl, and was in bed by midnight.
He went down next day to the Embassy and had a talk with Pennington. “I seem to be at a dead end,” he said. “Unless I can get on the right side of Theopoulos I may as well go home. I haven’t yet been able even to have a word with him.”
The Secretary rubbed his chin. “That often happens here, you know. I’m glad you got on well with Deleben. But if he can’t get you in to see Theopoulos, it certainly is difficult.”
“I think I’ll go direct to his office,” said Warren. “Send in a card, and see what happens.”
“You may get a rebuff,” said Pennington.
“I don’t know that I greatly care. If there’s nothing to be done here, the sooner I know about it the better.”
He left the Embassy and went down to the Ministry of Marine. The doorway was guarded by a sailor, unshaven and dirty and armed with rifle and bayonet. He barred the entrance.
Warren produced his card. A non-commissioned officer of the army strolled up from behind the sailor, took the card and scrutinised it.
“For M. Theopoulos,” said Warren. “Take the card to him; he will wish to see me.”
The man looked at him insolently. “You are the Englishman from London,” he said in broken French, “M. Theopoulos is too busy to see you.”
“Nevertheless,” said Warren, “you will take the card to him.”
For answer, the man tore the card in two and threw it on the ground. Then he spat, ostensibly towards the gutter. The saliva hit the leg of Warren’s trouser and trickled down.
The man turned back into the hall. “M. Theopoulos is busy,” he said indifferently. “You must come another day.”
Warren turned back into the street, black with anger. He stopped a few paces from the door and wiped his trouser with his handkerchief. Behind him a taxi drew up at the door of the Ministry; he turned and saw the two Germans get out, Herr Braum and Herr Linersoppe. They were immediately admitted.
Warren walked back to his hotel and rang up Vislan. “You must tell M. Deleben,” he said, “that I can wait no longer. I shall be at the hotel for the remainder of to-day, but to-morrow I return to London. If the business should move at all to-day, I will put off my return, otherwise I leave on the first plane.”
He heard the other sigh. “It is so difficult,” he complained. “But I will see my uncle, and I will tell him.”
In the late afternoon he went down to the Embassy again. He told Pennington what had happened. Then he walked over to the window, and stood there for a minute looking out upon the garden, sweetly scented by the lilac trees. “I think I’m through,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake; I was too eager to get the business. I should not have come here till the deal was much farther advanced.”
“We get a lot of this out here, you know,” said Pennington. “They’re not very good people to deal with.”
Warren turned back into the room. “I know.” He took up his hat and stick. “I’m leaving for London on the morning plane to-morrow,” he said. “It’s been terribly good of you to give me all the help you have.”
He went back to his hotel and booked a seat upon the Berlin plane; he would have to go by Berlin to get to London. Then he rang up Vislan, and told him again that he was leaving.
“My uncle is very much upset that you are going,” said the Laevatian. “He says that it is a great pity. He has said to me to tell you that he is sure that M. Theopoulos will be able to see you in a day or two.”
Warren laughed. “He will have to come to London if he wishes to see me in a day or two,” he said. “Tell M. Deleben that I am desolated that I have not had the opportunity to do business in your country. It would have been the greatest pleasure to me.”
“I will tell him so.”
Warren dined alone, and went out to the Gonea. Pepita rose and came to meet him; they danced once or twice.
“Mademoiselle,” he said presently, “this evening is the last that I come here. I leave for London in the morning.”
She stared at him. “M’sieur … you are leaving Visgrad to-morrow?”
He smiled. “I have to go.”
She pouted. “I declare, M’sieur—I am not at all content. You have told me that you would be here, perhaps, for several weeks, and I have looked forward to dancing with you. And now, you say that you must go back to London. No, M’sieur—I declare—I have been badly used! This business that takes you back to London—can it not wait for a few days?”
He smiled. “It is not business that takes me back to London,” he said. “But I can do no business here, and so I must go back to my own country.”
She leaned her elbows on the table. “M’sieur, I have read about your business in the journal. I do not understand why you must go away. They say here that you are very close to M. Deleben. No, I do not understand at all.”
“You understand a great deal of Visgrad politics, Mademoiselle. I did not know you understood so much.”
“Bah! Everybody comes here, and in the early morning, late, you understand, one hears much talk of politics.”
He nodded slowly. “You may know, perhaps, Mademoiselle, that in my business nothing can be done without the goodwill of M. Theopoulos. I have not that goodwill, and I find that I am unable to get it. I cannot even get to see Theopoulos—he finds himself too busy to give me an appointment. My business, which is finance, can only flourish with goodwill on either side. Therefore, I must return
She stretched her hands out on the table before her, “M’sieur has been unable to meet M. Theopoulos?”
“That is so.”
A smile wreathed about her lips. “And for that reason you return to London?”
“Certainly.”
She threw her head back, and burst into a peal of laughter. “Oh, M’sieur—it is droll, that.” She laughed again, continuously.
Warren smiled. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am glad that I am able to amuse.”
She turned to him, choking with laughter, wiping the tears from her eyes. “M’sieur, I ask your pardon. It is not gentil that I should laugh. But M’sieur—you must understand—M. Theopoulos comes here every night. All the Ministers of the Cabinet come here, every night. If M’sieur wishes to meet M. Theopoulos, nothing is more easy.”
“You could arrange that?”
She burst again into a peal of helpless laughter. “M’sieur, it could have been arranged on that first night that you were here. Always M. Theopoulos will arrive at half-past one or two in the morning. But, M’sieur … the English … they—go—to—bed—too—soon!”
He calmed her with kind words and French champagne. “M’sieur,” she said, wiping her eyes, “ten thousand pardons. It is wrong that I should laugh. But as for M. Theopoulos, we will arrange a meeting for to-night. It is of all things the most easy. If M’sieur will arrange a little party with a few of the demoiselles of the house—especially Hélène—and with plenty of champagne, M. Theopoulos will join us of his own accord. It will not be necessary for M’sieur to go to M. Theopoulos. He will come to M’sieur.”
“It would be most kind if you would arrange such a meeting, Mademoiselle.”
She leaned back in her chair and beckoned to a waiter. “Hélène—and Rita—and Virginio,” she said. “Ask them to come to meet M’sieur—we make a party for to-night.”
“You may bring, for a commencement,” said Warren, “another half-dozen bottles.”
His guests arrived in a few minutes, a couple of magnificently-built young women and a saturnine young man, who partnered one of the young women—Rita—in an acrobatic dance. Pepita did the honours.
“Hélène,” she said, “permit that I present you to M’sieur Ouarren.” He bowed. “Also, Mademoiselle Rita, and M’sieur Virginio.”
“I am enchanted,” said Warren.
Hélène turned to him. “M’sieur,” she said, “I have longed to meet you.” He could hardly follow her Rumanian French. “The patron who has bought the perambulator for the doll.” There was laughter; she turned upon them. “No—no—no! It is not to laugh. It was bien aimable, that.”
“It is true,” said Pepita. “M. Potiscu has said the same.”
Warren wrinkled his brows. “M. Potiscu?” he inquired. “Does he know about it?”
“But certainly,” said Pepita. “You understand, M. Potiscu is of the department of the Treasury, which controls the Customs. In the ordinary way, a parcel such as that—there would be much delay. There would be declarations—and forms—and carnets—and attestations—and very, very many dinars to be paid. It would be insupportable, that. But last night I have seen and danced with M. Potiscu and I have told him that the parcel is a gift for my little one. So all is arranged.”
“It is good to give presents to little children,” said the saturnine Virginio. “I myself very much enjoy doing that.”
Pepita turned to Hélène. “It is necessary that M’sieur here should become acquainted with M. Theopoulos,” she said. “Perhaps we can assist M’sieur—yes?”
“Of a certainty,” said Hélène. She added something in a language that Warren could not understand, which left the table convulsed with laughter. Pepita explained in French to Warren. “She has said, if you would take him away from her and put him in the closet—you understand?” She made a motion as of one who pulls a chain.
Warren laughed. “Mademoiselle,” he said to Hélène, “I will do my utmost to engage his entire attention.”
“That,” she said, “will be a very considerable relief.”
Virginio interposed. “M. Theopoulos also plays cards,” he said. He bowed slightly to Hélène. “It is his other amusement. M’sieur is acquainted with the game of Polski Bank, perhaps?”
Warren shook his head.
“It would perhaps assist M’sieur,” said Virginio, “if he were to play cards with M. Theopoulos. To win a little money—forty, fifty dinars, no more—makes M. Theopoulos very happy. It will be easy for you, then.”
“That is true,” said Hélène. “I have seen it many times.”
Virginio said, “If M’sieur wishes, I will show him how the cards should be played.”
Irresolute, Warren glanced at Pepita; she nodded slightly. “That would be a great pleasure,” he said.
Virginio departed to get cards; Pepita leaned across to Warren. “He is safe for you to trust,” she said. “He is very clever with the cards—I knew him before, in Beirut. He has been croupier in a casino. He is also conjuror a little, for the cards to go as he wishes. But he will not cheat you, because you are my friend. You should make an arrangement with him to give him, perhaps, ten per cent of what you wish to win or lose.”
Warren considered for a moment. He had nothing to lose. Before he had come into the place he had thrown up the sponge, booked his ticket for London, acknowledging defeat. If now he could reverse the position by these means, why not? But to play cards with a conjuror …
Abruptly there returned to him the memory of his conversation about Sharples. “Nothing whatever can be done,” he had said, “legitimately.…”
Virginio returned with the cards. Warren retired with him to an adjoining table. “See, M’sieur,” he said, “the game of Polski Bank is so. I am the Bank. I deal the three cards—so—face down.…”
In five minutes Warren had mastered the intricacies of the game. It seemed to him to be suitable for very young children, or for the feeble-minded, but with an added tang of viciousness about it. He found it not unlike the three-card trick.
At the conclusion of the lesson he eyed Virginio for a moment. “It would be well that I should lose this evening forty or fifty dinars to M. Theopoulos,” he said. “But in a game where chance must play so great a part, that may not, perhaps, be very easy.”
“That can be arranged, M’sieur.”
“I should be infinitely obliged. Should we say ten per cent of the winnings of M. Theopoulos, up to fifty dinars?”
Virginio bowed slightly. “M’sieur is too kind. Now, if M’sieur will note carefully—when I have the Bank, and perhaps also at some other times, if a court card should be the highest, then in the next hand the highest card will find itself on the right. If the highest card should be from ace to seven, then in the next hand the highest card will find itself on the left—so. Eight, nine, or ten, then in the next hand the highest card will find itself in the centre. That will be easy to remember, is it not so?”
“But certainly. That will be of a great assistance.”
They rejoined the ladies.
It was at a quarter to two that M. Theopoulos appeared. He came in a waft of scent, a tall, broad man, with curly, negroid hair and a good-natured oily face. With him came Herr Braum.
He hesitated for a moment, and approached their table. Hélène rose to meet him, stretched out a hand, and dragged him down into the seat beside her. “Dear Elias,” she said. “I had thought that you were not coming to-night, and I was sad. Permit that I introduce M’sieur Ouarren, who has been entertaining us so well.”
The Minister’s eyes flickered to the bottles, critically, and then away. “I am enchanted,” he said thickly. “It is a pleasure to meet M’sieur Ouarren.”
“On the contrary,” said Warren, “and beyond doubt, the pleasure is entirely mine. M’sieur will do me the honour to drink a glass of wine?”
Herr Braum sank down into a seat by Virginio, ill at ease. Hélène poured a glass of champagne for the Mini
Warren caught the waiter’s eye. “Cigars,” he said. “Havanas, of the best.”
The Minister settled into his chair, one arm around Hélène. “You have visited in Visgrad before?” he asked Warren.
“Twice before—in connection with the Visgrad waterworks. I had some part in that business.”
“Ah, the waterworks. M. Potiscu has told me.” The Minister ruminated for a moment. “That was a very good business,” he said at last, reflectively.
“If all my business could be of equal benefit to the Laevatian people,” said Warren, “I should indeed be pleased.”
The band beat to a heavy rhythm, the dancers moved upon the floor, the cigar smoke curled about them, thickening the air. Twice Theopoulos took Hélène down to dance upon the floor, but returned each time to the cigars and French champagne. From time to time one or other of the party left to do a turn of cabaret, and returned.
The evening was drawing on. The air grew thicker, heavier; small beads of perspiration appeared upon the heavy countenance. Warren turned to the Minister.
“It grows warm,” he said, “too warm to dance. M’sieur would perhaps prefer the cards?”
The heavy face lit up. “Assuredly. You know our game of cards?”
Warren smiled, and shook his head. “I have been here for so short a time. One game, perhaps—when I was here before.… You put down three cards, so——”
“Ja—ja—ja,” said the Minister. “And then one other, so. That is in order. That game we call Polski Bank.”
Warren nodded. “I remember the name, now. We could play that game, if you wish?”
“With all my heart.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a wad of greasy notes. They cut the cards round, and Herr Braum took the first Bank.
Half an hour later they paused. The Minister had won sixty-three dinars—about six pounds; Warren had lost seventy-two; the German and Virginio were about all square. In high good-humour Theopoulos took Hélène down to dance again.