Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov [57]
But to return to the roofs of Paris. Courage was allied in Oswin Bretwit with integrity, kindness, dignity, and what can be euphemistically called endearing naïveté. When Gradus telephoned from the airport, and to whet his appetite read to him Baron B.’s message (minus the Latin tag), Bretwit’s only thought was for the treat in store for him. Gradus had declined to say over the telephone what exactly the “precious papers” were, but it so happened that the ex-consul had been hoping lately to retrieve a valuable stamp collection that his father had bequeathed years ago to a now defunct cousin. The cousin had dwelt in the same house as Baron B., and with all these complicated and entrancing matters uppermost in his mind, the ex-consul, while awaiting his visitor, kept wondering not if the person from Zembla was a dangerous fraud, but whether he would bring all the albums at once or would do it gradually so as to see what he might get for his pains. Bretwit hoped the business would be completed that very night since on the following morning he was to be hospitalized and possibly operated upon (he was, and died under the knife).
If two secret agents belonging to rival factions meet in a battle of wits, and if one has none, the effect may be droll; it is dull if both are dolts. I defy anybody to find in the annals of plot and counterplot anything more inept and boring than the scene that occupies the rest of this conscientious note.
Gradus sat down, uncomfortably, on the edge of a sofa (upon which a tired king had reclined less than a year ago), dipped into his briefcase, handed to his host a bulky brown paper parcel and transferred his haunches to a chair near Bretwit’s seat in order to watch in comfort his tussle with the string. In stunned silence Bretwit stared at what he finally unwrapped, and then said:
“Well, that’s the end of a dream. This correspondence has been published in 1906 or 1907—no, 1906, after all—by Ferz Bretwit’s widow—I may even have a copy of it somewhere among my books. Moreover, this is not a holograph but an apograph, made by a scribe for the printers—you will note that both mayors write the same hand.”
“How interesting,” said Gradus noting it.
“Naturally I appreciate the kind thought behind it,” said Bretwit.
“We were sure you would,” said pleased Gradus.
“Baron B. must be a little gaga,” continued Bretwit, “but I repeat, his kind intention is touching. I suppose you want some money for bringing this treasure?”
“The pleasure it gives you should be our reward,” answered Gradus. “But let me tell you frankly: we took a lot of pains in trying to do this properly, and I have come a long way. However, I want to offer you a little arrangement. You be nice to us and we’ll be nice to you. I know your funds are somewhat—” (Small-fish gesture and wink).
“True enough,” sighed Bretwit.
“If you go along with us it won’t cost you a centime.”
“Oh, I could pay something” (Pout and shrug).
“We don’t need your money” (Traffic-stopper’s palm). “But here’s our plan. I have messages from other barons for other fugitives. In fact, I have letters for the most mysterious fugitive of all.”
“What!” cried Bretwit in candid surprise. “They know at home that His Majesty has left Zembla?” (I could have spanked the dear man.)
“Indeed, yes,” said Gradus kneading his hands, and fairly panting with animal pleasure—a matter of instinct no doubt since the man certainly could not realize intelligently that the ex-consul’s faux pas was nothing less than the first confirmation of the King’s presence abroad: “Indeed,” he repeated with a meaningful leer, “and I would be deeply obliged to you if you would recommend me to Mr. X.”
At these words a false truth dawned upon Oswin Bretwit and he moaned to himself: Of course! How obtuse of me! He is one of us! The fingers of his left hand involuntarily started to twitch as if he were pulling a kikapoo puppet over it, while his eyes followed intently his interlocutor’s low-class gesture of satisfaction. A Karlist agent, revealing himself to a superior, was expected to make a sign corresponding to the X (for Xavier) in the one-hand alphabet of deaf mutes: the hand held in horizontal position with the index curved rather flaccidly and the rest of the fingers bunched (many have criticized it for looking too droopy; it has now been replaced by a more virile combination). On the several occasions Bretwit had been given it, the manifestation had been preceded for him, during a moment of suspense