“There is probably a lot in what you say,” I pursued stolidly; “I meant, however, that I had never even met Ferning.”
“How unfortunate! How very unfortunate. I think you would have liked him, Mr. Marlow. You would, I think, have had sympathies in common. A man-how do you say? — sensible.”
“You mean sensitive?”
“Ah, yes, that is the word. A man, you understand, above the trivialities, the squalor of a petty existence-a man, Mr. Marlow, with a philosophy.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, Mr. Marlow. Ferning believed, as I believe, that in such a world as this, one should consider only how to secure the maximum of comfort with the minimum of exertion. But, of course, that was not all. He was, I used to tell him, a Platonist malgre lui. Yes he had his ideals, but he kept them in the proper place for such things-in the background of the mind, together with one’s dreams of Utopia.”
I was getting tired of this.
“And you, General? Are you too interested in machine tools?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I? Oh yes, Mr. Marlow. I am certainly interested in machine tools. But then”-something very nearly approaching a simper animated him-“but then, I am interested in everything. Have you yet walked through the Giardini Pubblici? No? When you do so you will see the attendants wandering round like the spirits of the damned, aimless and without emotion, collecting the small scraps of waste-paper on long, thin spikes. You understand me? You see my point? Nothing is too special, too esoteric for my tastes. Not even machine tools.”
“Then that was how you met Ferning?”
The General fluttered a deprecatory hand. “Oh dear, no, no. We were introduced by a friend-now, alas, also dead-and we discovered a mutual interest in the ballet. Do you care for the ballet, Mr. Marlow?”
“I am extremely fond of it.”
“So?” He looked surprised. “I am very glad to hear it, very glad. Between you and me, Mr. Marlow, I have often wondered whether perhaps poor Ferning’s interest in the ballet was not conditioned more by the personal charms of the ballerinas than by the impersonal tragedy of the dance.”
The drinks arrived, a fact for which I was heartily thankful.
He sniffed at his cognac and I saw his lips twist into an expression of wry distaste. I knew that the Parigi brandy was bad, but the grimace annoyed me. He put the drink down carefully on a side table.
“Personally,” he said, “I find this city unbearable except for the opera and ballet. They are the only reasons for which I come. It must be lonely here without any friends, Mr. Marlow.”
“I have been too busy so far to think about it.”
“Yes, of course. Have you been to Milan before?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, then you will have the brief pleasure of discovering a new city. Personally I prefer Belgrade. But, then, I am a Yugo-Slav.”
“I have never been to Belgrade.”
“A pleasure in store for you.” He paused. Then: “I wonder if you would care to join my wife and I in our box to-morrow night. They are reviving Les Biches, and I am always grateful for Lac des Cygnes. We might all three have a little supper together afterwards.”
I found the prospect of spending an evening in the company of General Vagas singularly distasteful.
“That would be delightful. Unfortunately, I expect to be working to-morrow night.”
“The day after?”
“I have to go to Genoa on business.” This, it afterwards turned out, was perfectly true.
“Then let us make it next Wednesday.”
To have refused again would have been rude. I accepted with as good a grace as possible. Soon after, he got up to go. There was a copy of a Milan evening paper lying on the table. Splashed right across the front page was a violent anti-British article. He glanced at it and then looked at me.
“Are you a patriot, Mr. Marlow?”
“In Milan, I am on business,” I said firmly.
He nodded as though I had said something profound. “One should not,” he said slowly, “allow one’s patriotism to interfere with business. Patriotism is for the caffe. One should leave it behind with one’s tip to the waiter.”
There was a barely perceptible sneer in his voice. For some reason I felt myself reddening.
“I don’t think I quite understand you, General.”
There was a slight change in his manner. His effeminacy seemed suddenly less pronounced.
“Surely,” he said, “you are selling certain machinery to the Italian Government? That is what I understood from my friend Ferning.”
I nodded. He gazed at my tie.
“So. That would seem to raise a question in the mind.” He raised his eyes. “But, of course, I appreciate the delicacy of these affairs. Business is business and so logical. It has no frontiers. Supply and demand, credit and debit. I have myself no head for business. It is a ritual which I find bewildering.”
He had lapsed into Italian again. We moved towards the door and I picked up his coat to help him on with it. We both bent forward simultaneously to pick up the hat and stick; but he was still settling his overcoat on his shoulders and I forestalled him. The stick was fairly heavy and as I handed it to him my fingers slid over a minute break in the malacca. He took the stick from me with a slight bow.
“On Wednesday then, Signore.”
“On Wednesday, General.”
At the door he turned. By the hard light of the electric chandelier in the corridor, the rouge on his cheeks was ridiculously obvious.
“Shall you be remaining here at the Parigi, Mr. Marlow?”
“I don’t think so. It is a little too expensive for me.”
There was a pause. “Mr. Ferning,” he said slowly, “had a very charming apartment.”
“So I believe. Mr. Ferning could probably afford it. I cannot.”
His eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Marlow.” He coughed gently. “To a man of intelligence, a business man, there are always opportunities.”
“No doubt.”
“It is a question only of whether he has the will to take them. But I must not take up any more of your time with these ideas of mine. Good evening, Mr. Marlow, and thank you for a pleasant meeting. I shall look forward to seeing you again next Wednesday.” He clicked his heels. “ A rivederci, Signore.”
“Good evening, General.”
He went. I returned to my room but, for the moment, I had forgotten about my bath.
General Vagas puzzled me. I had, too, an uncomfortable feeling that there had been a point to his conversation that I had somehow missed. I found myself wishing that I had known more about Ferning. There had obviously been something odd about him. His apartment, Vagas’ veiled hints… but Ferning was dead, and I had more important things to think about than effeminate Yugo-Slav generals. In a day or two I would write to the man and tell him that a business engagement prevented me from meeting him and his wife on the Wednesday. It would probably be true, anyway. I should have to present the letters of introduction that Pelcher had given me and make myself agreeable to the company’s excellent customers. Yes, that was my job-to make myself agreeable. If Spartacus were willing to sell shell-production machinery and someone else were willing to buy it, it was not for me to discuss the rights and wrongs of the business. I was merely an employee. It was not my responsibility. Hallett would probably have had something to say about it; but then Hallett was a Socialist. Business was business. The thing to do was to mind one’s own.
I had turned my bath on and was beginning to undress when there was a knock at the door.
It was the Manager of the Parigi in person.
“I must apologise profoundly for disturbing you, signor Marlow.”
“That’s all right. What is it?”
“The police, Signore, have telephoned. They understand that you intend to stay in Italy for some time. It is necessary to deposit your passport for registration purposes. The passport is retained for only a few hours and then returned to you.”
“I know. But I gave you my passport. You said that you would arrange these formalities.”