by Muriel Spark
‘He sooner screw me,’ Lauro said.
‘That, too, I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘I would hit you on the face if you were not a servant.’
He jumped up; flash and flutter went his eyes closing on her face, and tight went his hands on her bare arms, as if he were directing the film as well as playing the principal part. ‘Next time, you relax,’ Lauro said, smiling through his teeth. ‘For the first time, no good.’
Mary closed her mouth tight and pushed back her hair with a gesture of every-day indifference. He turned and took up the jewel-box whose contents were half-spilled on the earth, and with her help scooped up the lurking gold. He laughed as if the coins were some sort of counters in a party-game, while Mary, still trembling and crying, stood up; she tugged at her clothes and smoothed her hair; she said, ‘Give me that box.’
‘I’ll take it to Hubert,’ he said, and started off in that direction.
Mary caught up with him. ‘Are you sure you’ll find the right place to leave it? It’s not mine, it’s Maggie’s. Hubert mustn’t know.’
He smiled, and turned to put his face close to hers again, smiling. ‘Leave it to me, Mary,’ he said. He clutched the box under his arm as if it were a man’s business, and looked as if he had earned the takings within.
She turned and ran back to the house, not sure how far she was guilty, or what she must do next. She became uncertain whether Lauro could be trusted with those coins. She was perplexed about the relationship in which she stood with Lauro now, and above all she was anxious to take a shower.
Hubert was at that moment counting some coins which he had found in a curious way at six o’clock that afternoon.
Pauline had gone in to Rome in Hubert’s station-wagon, taking with her, wrapped in lengths and strips of sackcloth, a second Louis XIV chair of Maggie’s to be delivered to the address in Via di Santa Maria dell’Anima where the copies were made. Of these transactions Pauline knew nothing, thinking only that the chairs were being examined and repaired, and that the bill for this service would be sent to their mysterious all-pervasive owner, Maggie. Pauline had never seen Maggie; to Pauline she was a hovering name, an absent presence in Hubert’s house and his life.
She delivered the chair, with its penitential sackcloth secured by a winding string round its beautiful legs and tied over its seat and back, ordering the man who carried it up the stairs to take care, great care. She left it with him while she went to find a legitimate parking place for the car. When she returned the man was with a younger man, tall, in blue jeans and a smart shirt; the chair had already been unshrouded and they were examining it with pride.
As Pauline approached the younger man disappeared into a back room from where he carried a chair identical in appearance to the one Pauline had brought. She had been instructed to fetch this back to the house; apparently it was the first of Maggie’s best chairs to be sent for inspection and overhaul and, apparently, it was now in perfect order. In reality, it was a new and very clever fake; one of its legs was all that remained of Maggie’s former chair. Most of these clever fakes contained at least one limb of the original, and in that way the dealer was entitled, or felt entitled, to proclaim it ‘Louis XIV’. To Pauline, it did not matter very much what period the chair belonged to. She had her orders to collect it and she was anxious to get back to Hubert quickly. She asked the men to wrap the chair carefully, which they duly did, with new rags, and much wadding placed over the sparkling green silk of the seat. It was carried to the car.
‘Tell Mr Mallindaine to pass by early next week,’ said the smart young man in blue jeans.
‘He isn’t leaving Nemi much, at the moment,’ Pauline said, thinking of Hubert, how he was afraid to leave the house in case Maggie should come and reclaim it in his absence.
But the man repeated his request.
Meantime Hubert, at Nemi, was counting the gold coins he had found at six o’clock. It was his usual tea time and he had gone into the kitchen to make it. As he had fetched down the teapot from the shelf he heard a strange rattling inside it. He took off the lid. He had found a quantity of gold money inside the pot.
He sat down at the kitchen table, looking inside the teapot. Then he looked round the kitchen to see what else, if anything, was amiss. Nothing seemed to be out of place. He wished for Pauline to return. He had emptied the gold coins on the table, and now was counting them.
There were, in fact, far fewer than the amount entrusted to Lauro who had kept the black box and more than half the gold. Indeed, his sense of prudence in carrying out Mary’s orders was mixed with a feeling of decided benevolence that he had deposited any of these coins in Hubert’s teapot. It had sunk into his mind that Mary had told him she had made a list of the coins. It had seemed to him both a fruitless thing to do and a suspicious thing, as touching on his honour.
By the time Hubert, at his customary hour for tea, was puzzling over and re-counting the coins, Lauro was back at the Radcliffes’ house, and had changed into his smart houseman’s coat. He filled the ice-buckets, arranged the drinks and the glasses, set the terrace furniture to rights, then, chatting with the cook in the pantry, he waited for the cocktail hour.
On her return to the house, after her careful shower and before going down to dinner, Mary had sat for a long while in her room, with her head in her hands, thinking God knows what. Then she skipped to her feet and changed into a long skirt and a blouse. She took up her list of coins, where it was lying on the writing table, and put it down again. She sat down at the table, and pulled out another piece of her list paper. At the top of the page she wrote ‘Michael’ and underneath it she wrote ‘Lauro’. She settled for the thought that she could not have been faithful to Michael all her life, but she felt it was too soon because a year had not passed since her marriage. But then she considered how she had not herself planned the incident with Lauro. One way and another, she tidied up her mind, aligned the beauty preparations in their bottles on the dressing table, and put away the paper she had just written Lauro’s name on with Michael’s together with the coin-list, her guest-lists and her other lists, locking them up in her desk. Mary had then patted her face with a paper tissue, and had gone down, passing Michael, home from the office, on the stairs. Maggie was already sitting on the terrace waiting for her husband to arrive and her son to come down. Lauro came forward to hover till they were ready to say what they wanted to drink.
‘Oh, Lauro,’ Mary said very uppishly, ‘did you remember that errand?’
‘Yes, Mary,’ he said in his usual friendly tone, ‘how could I forget?’
Mary turned to Maggie and said in a decidedly natural voice, ‘He’s delivered the box. You see, Lauro knows the house so well, I sent it by him.’
‘Oh!’ said Maggie. ‘But then Hubert will know where it came from and who sent it, and—’
‘He didn’t see me,’ Lauro said. ‘I got in through the bathroom window while he was sleeping upstairs. I put the box beside the teapot, so when he came to make his tea he’d be sure to find it.’
‘That’s brilliant. Lauro, you’re brilliant,’ Maggie said. ‘Mary, darling, you’re brilliant. I feel so much relieved now he’s at least not likely to starve, because you know I have to get him out of the house. How I’ve been in the past to Hubert is no guide to how I shall be in the future.’
‘Get the police and have him thrown out,’ said Mary rather impatiently. ‘Lauro, a Campari-soda, please.’
‘Well, in our position we can’t have a scandal. You know what the Italian papers are like, and all those Communists,’ Maggie said.
“We do it discreet,’ Lauro said.
‘That’s right, Lauro. A gin and tonic. Lauro’s got the right ideas. Lauro, you’re brilliant.’
Hubert, meanwhile, having counted the coins and made his tea, taking it outside on the handsome terrace, gazed out on the panoramic view and pondered. He then began an inspection of the house and decided that one of the ground-floor windows had been entered. There was a narrow
pantry window and a narrow bathroom window. The bathroom window was open. It had not been forced. He decided to put bars on the ground-floor windows. He went on a tour of the whole house, opening drawers and cupboards. Nothing was disarranged, nothing missing; it seemed to Hubert that his burglar had been motivated by sheer benevolence towards him. It was a pity to have to bar the windows. Nothing could have been more clearly intended as a personal and rather touching present than those golden coins in his own teapot. For the first time for nearly a year, Hubert started to feel, singing within him, innocence and happiness.
He spread out the coins on the terrace table in the late bright sunlight: Queen Victoria still with a firm young profile and high curly bun, on the coin which was dated 1880 although she was born in 1819. St George and the Dragon, 1892, whose Queen Victoria on the reverse had now been minted with an incipient extra chin, a little coronet and a veil. Gulielmus IIII D: G: Britanniar: Rex F: D:, drooping jowls, a thick neck, a curly quiff on top of his head, 1837. Who, thought Hubert, adores me enough to send me all this glittering mint? And here’s Nero wearing a laurel wreath tied with a pretty ribbon at the nape of his neck, or, rather, it’s Georgius IIII D: G: Britanniar: Rex F: D: 1830. And now, Sub . Hoc . Signo . Militamus—a Knights of Malta ten scudi, 1961. Another juicy young Victoria D: G: Britanniar: Reg: F: D: darling Victoria, 1880, and that poor downtrodden dragon on the reverse. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and I wonder, thought Hubert, what utterly charming gentleman hath rendered these things unto me? It then occurred to Hubert that the actual bearer of the coins was hardly likely to be the sender. Hubert had instantly formed an image of largeness, if only of heart, for the sender; he was certainly rich, anyway, and would most likely have young men at his beck and call. Only a young man and slim could have got through the bathroom window so silently and softly. Then, it was someone who knew Hubert’s habits and who knew the house. Someone rich. Who? He scooped up the many dozens of coins and took them into the kitchen, where he spread them out and looked at them again.
Pauline returned with the fake chair which they placed in the drawing-room and admired. ‘He wants you to call in and see him. Better go soon,’ Pauline said. ‘I hope it isn’t about the bill.’
‘I hope not,’ Hubert said. ‘Maggie gets the bills for this servicing of her stuff. However, if you’ll hold the fort I’ll go and see him very soon. Always hold the fort. Let no one into the house. I’m thinking of getting bars put in these lower back windows as it seems to me someone might easily get in that way. Once they’re in, they can take possession of the house and we’re done for.’
It was in any case his intention to call on the furniture restorers and collect payment for the genuine parts of Louis XIV. It would be a considerable sum. Hubert looked at Pauline in a kind of dream, wondering how he could explain to her the good supply of drinks and food he intended to bring back from Rome with him. She had brought back a chicken and some meat and wine from Rome, the good girl; she had spent her own money and was about to prepare a special supper.
After a glass of wine he was moved to tell her about the gold coins.
‘It’s my opinion,’ he said, ‘that the spirit of my ancestors Caligula and Diana are responsible for this.’ He gave Pauline two sovereigns.
She accepted them after a little hesitation. ‘They could have been stolen,’ she had said.
‘Well, we didn’t steal them. They were in my teapot, so they’re plainly mine. My dear, they are our crock of gold and we have come to the end of the rainbow.’
‘Someone must have got into the house.’
‘Through the bathroom window,’ Hubert said. ‘So tomorrow we arrange to have the windows barred.’
‘Then your ancestors won’t be able to come again,’ Pauline said, looking at her sovereigns.
‘Those are not on account of wages,’ said Hubert. ‘Wages I’ll pay later and in good measure. I don’t like that touch of scepticism in your voice. Remember that my ancestor Diana is very much alive and she doesn’t like being mocked. But of course if you’re going to express doubts and behave like a French village atheist—’
‘It could have been one of those boys who worked for you last summer,’ Pauline said, looking at the pile of gold on the table and touching the coins tentatively from time to time.
‘Not on your life,’ said Hubert.
‘It’s someone who wants to help you,’ Pauline said. ‘A well-wisher. Why didn’t they send you a cheque?’
Hubert found himself suddenly irritated by this speech. Her kindergarten teacher’s tone, he thought. All this being penniless, he thought, has lowered my standards. I should have better company, witty, good minds around me. I find a pile of sovereigns in the teapot and all the silly bitch can say is, ‘Someone wants to help you. Why didn’t they send a cheque?’
He took up the newspapers and weeklies she had brought in with her, and, leaving the gold coins littering the kitchen table, went off to his study to take a couple of tranquillizers and further hypnotize himself with the current American government scandals of which everyone’s latent anarchism drank deep that summer.
Lauro left for Rome very early next morning with his list of shopping at the supermarket. His first stop, however, was at one of the little cave-like shops in the village, filled, as they were, with the richest of fruits, plants and cut flowers. It was perhaps unusual, but not noticeably so, that he locked the car when he left it outside the door on the village street. Lauro went in and waited his turn.
Figs, peaches, strawberries, all so local and proudly selected, there was not one inferior fruit to be seen. The flowers were mainly of the aster family, huge, medium-sized and smallish, in white, yellow, mauve and pink. Among them were some deeply coloured small roses and a variety of ferns and leafy plants. The woman who was serving and she who had just been served looked at Lauro with the look of curiosity which comes over the faces of people to whom nothing much happens, and which, to people of more elaborate lives, looks like hostility. The Radcliffes had their own orchards and rarely shopped here. However, the local people knew very well who Lauro was, and of his recent transference from Hubert’s mysterious home to Mary Radcliffe’s spectacularly rich one. Lauro, in his smart clothes, the transparent beige shirt and fine-striped pink trousers, was to be treated with a touch of deference. What would he desire? Grapes, peaches fresh this morning, fine tomatoes…?
Lauro desired some plants, strong and lasting, with the roots, for transplanting.
What type of plants? What did the gardeners at the Radcliffes’ advise?
‘Oh, no,’ Lauro said, rather impatiently, almost as if to suggest that not any roots, not any plants, would do, ‘they’re for my mother’s grave. I’m going to visit her at the cemetery.’
The woman who had been served, although she had received her change, made no sign of leaving, but entered the discussion. Surely the Radcliffes had plenty of plants and to spare…?
‘For Mama,’ said Lauro with a haughty masculine bark that sent the women scurrying, ‘I prefer to pay.’ And he bought four chrysanthemum plants not yet in flower and rattled his money while they were being carefully wrapped in newspaper and placed in an orange-coloured plastic shopping bag. He left, and was watched to his car. It was only when he was seen to unlock the empty car, there on the harmless street, that he looked behind him and saw the two women exchanging glances. Carefully, he spat on the pavement. Then he got into his car and drove away too fast. Suspicious old fat cows, what did it matter if they knew what he might be up to, and he knew that they knew that he knew, since, if he put his mind to it he could easily make as many accurate guesses about their doings as they about his. It was for this reason that he had not even bothered to take the precaution of buying his plants in Rome: in Rome they were twice the price, whereas in Nemi they were cheap and he didn’t need to care what the people thought. So ended one of those telepathic encounters that go on all the time among compatriots who have foreigners in their midst.
Arriving in Rome, Lauro made first for the cemetery. He found his mother’s grave, well-tended and neat, with its hovering marble angel and the little inset photograph. There was room here for his father; their five children would later buy their own burial-plots in the new cemetery, since this one would then be fully occupied. ‘Cara Mama,’ said Lauro. He had brought his packages in the bright orange plastic shopping bag from the car. He had unpacked the healthy plant-roots, the little strong trowel and another newspaper-wrapped package containing the black leather box with most of the coins that Mary had given over to him the afternoon before.
Some people passed, old people on the way to visit their dead. They gave Lauro a muted ‘Buon giorno’, inclining their heads towards him with approving piety. Lauro, on his knees, dutifully digging and tending his mother’s flower-bed, looked up and returned the greeting with wistful repetition, one quiet ‘Buon giorno’ for each of the three figures who passed. He was a nice boy in their eyes, which made him feel nice as he dug. The figures, a fat woman in black, a thin man and another, less fat woman with difficult-walking feet, passed from his life. When he had dug enough and laid on the grass verge some of the flowers and plants he had dislodged in the process, he opened up the sheets of newspaper which contained the black leather box. He had almost thrown away the box, keeping only the coins to bury, but it was such a well-made, a well-bred box, such as Lauro sometimes saw in the shops and boutiques of Rome, and it was so connected, now, with the desirable coins and the casual and exclusive quality of Mary and Maggie in their inherited wealthiness, that he had decided to bury the box along with the coins, despite the nuisance. He opened the box, lifted the paper-tissues which he had stuffed inside to keep the coins from rattling, sifted a few of the beautiful golden disks through his brown ringers, quickly replaced the lot, put the black box in the orange plastic bag for safe preservation and, seeing that it was well-covered, he buried it deep. On top of this he replaced some of the short shrubs he had dug up.
