“Majesty, time is pressing,” said Kemali. “We have a busy day ahead of us. If we are to examine the crown—as you requested—we must go now. This time, perhaps you would care to ride with us.”
So I got in the car with them, facing backward, which I don’t like, staring right at Alberto von Mesmer’s great black glasses as he sat jammed in between Zogolli and Kemali, with the horses trotting behind.
The car made much better progress on the cobbled streets of the town and we rattled on, as merry as a marriage bell, back down the hill and toward the harbor. We turned a corner into a street of solid, respectable merchant houses, some of them with gates and gardens.
“Our finest citizens make their homes in this quarter,” said Kemali.
“My own family stays just here,” Zogolli added. “That house there with the very fine railings.”
“Very fine,” I agreed, and the Professor sat, ramrod straight, looking at the back of the driver’s head. “And our finest citizens, what do they do?”
“Do, Majesty?”
“To pay for those lovely houses? Do they farm? Where are their estates? Where are their factories, the great combinations of capital and labor adding daily to the wealth of the Albanian people?”
Zogolli looked at Kemali and Kemali looked at Zogolli and, before we had bumped through too many more potholes, Kemali said, “I think it would best be described as ‘trade,’ Majesty. Import and export of high-value goods.”
“So they are smugglers,” I said. “I see. Our finest citizens.”
“That is a vicious caricature,” said Zogolli. Even Kemali seemed surprised to see him so exercised. “Our people—your people—have done what they could to survive centuries of tyranny and warfare. Not all of us, Majesty, have the rare good fortune to be born the son of the Sultan. These—” he waved a gloved hand at the mansions passing by on either side—“these are the best and the bravest. These are the ones who have risked the most, gambled the most, survived the longest. Give them peace and good governance and see what they will do.”
“It is what they long for,” Kemali said, “and already they love you.”
It was true. He nodded the top of his cane toward the passing houses and each one was decked in flags and flowers and garlands of ribbons and painted banners with a lot of Albanok writing that I took to be “Long live the King” and similar kind sentiments. Somebody had even taken the trouble to paint a sheet with an image of a man on a camel—a camel with ridiculously spindly stick legs, I grant you, but the magnificent whiskers of his rider were a tribute to the talents of the artist.
“Some day soon,” said Kemali, “I imagine these fine houses will be transformed into the diplomatic quarter, a long row of embassies, the peaceful sovereign outposts of friendly nations eager to establish relations with Your Majesty and his government.”
“That would be you,” I said.
He nodded graciously.
“And me,” said Zogolli.
“Not forgetting me,” said the Professor, “as vizier.”
“Does it pay well, this Prime Minister business?”
“So far, I am pleased to say, I have managed to escape with my life, which is far more than ever I expected.”
“And I come of good family,” said Zogolli, as if that explained everything.
Kemali winked at me. It was quick, but I got it.
“What is the advice of my government regarding the world situation? The world is an armed camp. Will there be war? And, if there is war, which side should the free and independent Kingdom of Albania choose? Or will we have a side chosen for us?”
Kemali spoke to me quietly, as he would to an idiot child. “Majesty, Majesty,” he soothed. “to talk of war is preposterous. There can be no war. The whole world knows that Germany and Austria and the Ottomans are allied together, just as the whole world knows that Russia and France and the English are allied together. A war would be catastrophic. A war would involve a clash of worldwide empires. A war would bleed Europe white. It is unthinkable, it is madness and, for that reason, it cannot happen.”
Poor Kemali. Because he was not himself a madman he could not conceive of a world of madmen. Because he was not insane, he could not believe that kings and countries, governments and empires could all of them go insane at the same time. Because he was reasonable and rational and kind he could not see the terrible truth that was staring him in the face, the way that Arbuthnot, who was none of those things, had seen so clearly.
The car gave another little jolt as it turned down the hill and, within just a few streets, we found ourselves in a commercial area of narrow lanes and warehouses.
“We’re here,” Kemali said.
“I anticipated something grander. More statues. A few bronze lions. Maybe a horn of plenty, spilling out coin.”
“Majesty, as I think I tried to explain, we removed the Treasury for reasons of security, not for reasons of picturesque beauty. Let me demonstrate.”
As we got out of the car, Max and Arbuthnot were tying the horses up to a drainpipe. My ministers brushed the creases out of their fancy frock coats and Kemali went into his pocket and came out with one of those little folding leather wallets in his hand, the kind of thing that’s fitted with a rack of tiny metal spring hooks inside so you can carry your keys around without spoiling the line of your pockets.
I was expecting the Treasury of the free and independent Kingdom of Albania to come with a much bigger key, something more impressive, the kind of thing you could use to tether a Zeppelin in time of need, so you might imagine my disappointment when Kemali produced a tiny little sliver of brass, the sort of key Tifty might have used to open her toilet case.
I looked at Max and he looked at me and, when Kemali put the key in the lock and the whole door shook and trembled and bowed inward at his touch, well, neither of us could keep a straight face.
“You are quite sure that this is the right place?” I said. “You did say you moved the Treasury for greater security.”
Kemali folded his wallet of keys shut and said, “If your Majesty would follow me.”
He pushed at the flimsy front door and we all followed him into a small whitewashed room. The only light came from an unglazed window at the back—more of a hole in the wall than a window—protected by a couple of iron bars which my mate Max could probably have pulled out with his teeth if he decided not to smash the door down instead. It was pretty dark, but there was light enough to see that the place was empty. No money. No crown. No nothing.
Kemali went to the back wall and took down a hurricane lamp from a hook, lifted the glass, lit it with a match and held it high. At the other side of the room Zogolli had done the same and, at his feet, what had looked like a fireplace in the shadows opened into the beginnings of a staircase leading down into the earth.
“Would you follow me, please?” he said, and we all trooped after him, Zogolli leading the way and Kemali bringing up the rear with the Professor leaning on Arbuthnot’s arm and Max looking about from side to side like a frightened bear, just in case some phantom should suddenly leap from the shadows.
The stairs went down and curved a little to the left so you couldn’t see the top from the bottom, and the light from Kemali’s lamp shone back from the damp walls. At the bottom of the stairs there was a short passage and then another flight of stairs, only this time they were cut through solid rock. Behind me there was the tap-tap-tap of Professor von Mesmer’s cane and Arbuthnot speaking kindly, “A step here, worthy vizier, and another and this is the last.” In front of me only shadows, but I began to see why the Treasury had moved.
The walls of that passage were solid granite. There was no way of guessing how thick they might be and nothing but dynamite could cut a way through them, and there, at the end of the tunnel, dark and gray as a thundercloud, was the reason we had come—a wall of steel that blocked the width of the passage, with a door set into it.
Kemali held his lamp up proudly. “Majesty, Excellency, gentleme
n, permit me to introduce Atlas.”
Sure enough, “Atlas” was painted on the front in fancy gold letters, along with a picture of a bloke who looked a lot like my mate Max, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders which, I’d noticed, was something that Max was prone to do.
“Is he not magnificent?” said Kemali, like a bloke presenting his first grandson, and we all agreed that, indeed, he was.
“Majesty, my friends, Atlas is built from manganese steel two inches thick—the very stuff that King George and the Kaiser use to build the gun turrets of their magnificent battleships. Perhaps if one of them could float into this little passage, the guns could be brought to bear against Atlas and, who knows, he might even crack. But that’s not very likely to happen. This is a very little passage with not much water in it.
“On the other hand, even the toughest steel can be cut—otherwise how could these ships be made?—so let me explain that, behind the walls of this magnificent safe, two enormous cannonballs hang from soft metal chains. If a thief should manage to come here, undetected, dragging his gas cylinders down these stairs, if he should apply his torch to Atlas here—” he gave the steel walls a friendly slap—“though that torch be hotter than the fires of hell, Atlas would not budge. Instead he would become unbearably hot, those soft metal chains would melt, the weights would fall and sixteen separate bolts, each thicker than my thumb, would shoot into place securing the doors against attack.”
“Magnificent,” I said, because it seemed to be the thing to say.
“Thank you, Majesty.”
“And how did we come to acquire this astonishing piece of engineering and set it here, in this impenetrable tunnel?”
“Oh,” said Kemali. “Well, if your Majesty recalls our conversation earlier, I mentioned the lively contribution made to commerce by some of our finest citizens.”
“The smugglers, you mean?”
Zogolli gave an exasperated sigh. And Kemali said, “One of our leading merchants tragically passed away.”
“You mean he was killed.”
“During an unfortunate misunderstanding involving the Italian navy, Majesty.”
“That is indeed tragic.”
“Consequently this valuable business asset became available.”
“And it is quite impregnable.”
“Absolutely, Majesty.”
“But you can open it, Kemali?”
“No, Majesty.”
“Well, that’s not much good, is it? What’s the point of a safe if you can’t open it?”
Kemali gave another one of his patient sighs and explained, “Majesty, please observe: on either side of the door there is a combination lock. I cannot open the vault, and Zogolli here, he cannot open the vault, but, together, Zogolli and I can open the vault.”
“Very good,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Impossible, Majesty. I do not know the combination of that lock and Zogolli does not know the combination of this lock. The greater part of the riches of Albania is behind these doors. The four millions of leks set aside by your waiting people as your Majesty’s personal wealth are behind these doors and the crown of the free and independent Kingdom of Albania is behind these doors. That is too great a burden of temptation for one man to bear.”
“Very good,” I said again. “Let’s get on with it.”
Zogolli stepped forward, holding up his lamp. “If I could prevail upon you to come back to the surface with me, Majesty.”
“You want me to leave?”
“Only while the Prime Minister opens his lock. Then he will leave, I will return and open my lock, and the crown will be in your hands.”
“But I am the king,” I said. “Am I not to be trusted with my own Treasury?”
Zogolli said nothing. Kemali said nothing. I bristled my not inconsiderable whiskers at them. It turned into a staring contest until Kemali said, “Four millions of leks, Your Majesty. Every lek is your own. If your Majesty wishes to withdraw all four millions, or only one single lek, you are free to do so, and, at a word from you, day or night, Zogolli and I will come to this place and open the doors. The rest—the crown and the Treasury—are a sacred trust.”
I didn’t know what to say. The message was pretty clear. Whatever was behind that door, it was none of my damned business and, king or no king, whiskers or no whiskers, they weren’t going to let me near it.
“Very well,” I said. “I will withdraw with my gentlemen.”
And then Professor von Mesmer spoke up. “Those stairs are so difficult. Down the stairs, up the stairs, down the stairs again. Such a trial. In the circumstances, and while respecting the worthy and honorable requirements for the security of the Treasury, might an old blind man be permitted to remain here?”
We waited in the little whitewashed room for a few moments, standing around awkwardly with nothing to say to one another until we saw the light of Kemali’s lamp come bobbing up the stairs.
“I left the vizier alone in the dark,” he said. “In my heart of hearts I know it makes no difference to him, but it pained me to do it, as it would to abandon a child down there.”
“It’s only for a short while,” said Zogolli. “I’ll go to him and call you in a moment.”
Zogolli disappeared into the tunnel, and very soon the glow of his lamp vanished too. I imagined him in the first passage, walking doubled over so his top hat would not scrape the ceiling, then looking at his feet on the stone stairs, down and down, then in the tunnel through the granite to where Professor von Mesmer was waiting, alone in the dark just as he was always alone in the dark. I pictured Zogolli down there, setting his lamp down on the floor of the passage, taking his silly gloves off and putting them in his pocket, lifting the lamp close to the combination dial, so many turns right, so many turns left, so many turns right, a mechanical click that only the Professor could hear.
“You may come down now,” faint and far away and echoing.
Kemali said, “Majesty, we have only one lamp and the stairs are steep. I suggest you lead the way and I will try to stay in the middle of our little group to share what light there is.”
To tell the truth you could probably have got more of a glow off a well-slapped backside than we got off Kemali’s lamp, but I put my hand against the wall and made my way down the stairs safely enough, with the others coming at my back.
Ahead of me, at the end of the second passage, I could see Zogolli’s lamp standing on the floor and then two figures, their outlines painted with yellow, the way the thin edge of the moon stands out against the velvet sky.
But the doors of the vault were still closed against us and Atlas was still glowing in the lamplight, the world still balanced on his shoulders.
“Open up!” the Prime Minister said, and Zogolli spun a ship’s wheel set in the steel door. If well-oiled cogs and finely engineered gears and tiny bits of machinery turned and spun and slotted into place, they did it too quietly for me to notice and, when Zogolli gave a tug on the wheel, the doors of the vault glided open with barely a murmur.
It was all I could do to stop myself from running forward into the dark and plunging my hands into all that lovely money, but instead I picked up Zogolli’s lamp from the floor, lifted it high and, with as much dignity as I could muster, I walked into the vault with Max and Arbuthnot crowding behind.
Have you ever imagined what it would be like to walk into Barbarossa’s cave under the mountains and find the old king sitting there, asleep in his golden throne, treasure chests piled high around the walls with pearls and diamonds falling out of them, rubies and emeralds glinting like dragon scales, stacks of gold bars just lying in heaps on the floor and great drifts of coin spilling out of busted barrels all over the place? Well, this was nothing like that. We walked from the dark of the passage into the dark of the vault and there was nothing to see. It was just another dark room and, even when Kemali arrived with his lamp, there wasn’t much to see.
The walls were of granite, just lik
e outside, the floor and roof the same, black granite and it seemed that Atlas was not so much a safe as a great steel wall, thrown up to block the mouth of the cavern.
Somebody, probably the unfortunate, patriotic businessman who donated the place to the Albanok people, had built wooden horsebox contraptions against the sides of the cave—you know, the kind of thing they use to divide up a stable so each horse gets a little room of its own. Kemali raised his lamp and pointed to one of the divisions. “This,” he said, “is Your Majesty’s portion.”
Max hurried across the vault to stand at my side and I heard the quick tap-tap-tap of the Professor’s cane behind me.
“What can you see?” he said, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“Boxes,” Max said, “a lot of boxes.”
“More like crates, I’d say, Uncle Vizier. Heavy wood crates, long and narrow, eight of them, bound round with copper wires and with a rope handle at each end.”
“Half a million leks in each box,” the Professor said, and he said it as if somebody had offered him new eyes.
“The loose change, a few thousand leks only, is kept in my office at the castle, should Your Majesty have any modest personal needs,” said Kemali. “Now, over here is the portion belonging to the state.” He swung his lamp toward the next horsebox, but on the way the light fell on a rack of rifles, all standing at attention with ammunition boxes at their feet.
“What the hell are they for?” I said.
“Oh, just something the last tenant left behind, Majesty. Tools of the trade, I imagine. But this is why you came.”
The government horsebox was stacked with crates—far more than I had in my personal Treasury, but I suppose that was fair enough. To tell the truth there was barely room for us all to stand in there, what with all the crates of cash stacked up, higher than the lamplight could reach, but in the middle of the floor four crates had been set on end together in a square to make a sort of column and, on top of the column, there was a red leather box about the size of a coal bucket.
If You're Reading This, I'm Already Dead Page 20
