Peter Ustinov - The Old Man and Mr. Smith

First published in Great Britain in 1991 by

Michael OMara Books Limited

9 Lion Yard

Tremadoc Road

London SW4 7NQ

This electronic edition published in 2011

ISBN: 978-1-84317-805-7 in EPub format

ISBN: 978-1-84317-806-4 in Mobipocket format

ISBN: 978-1-85479-100-9 in paperback print format

Copyright Dunedin N. V. 1990

All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by Florencetype Limited, Kewstoke, Avon

www.mombooks.com

Tamara, Pavla, Igor, Andrea

IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

God? Presumably with two ds, said the concierge, without looking up.

With one d, said the Old Man, apologetically.

Thats unusual, remarked the concierge.

Unusual? Its unique. And the Old Man laughed mildly at his own observation.

Given name?

I havent one.

Initials will do.

It stands to reason since I havent a first name, I havent initials either.

The concierge looked at the Old Man penetratingly, and for the first time. The Old Man fidgeted, eager to put an end to the awkwardness.

Are you going to say that thats unusual too? he suggested, and then went on, reassuringly, Theres a perfectly normal reason for it, which should satisfy you. I had no parents, you see.

Everyone has parents, stated the concierge, dangerously.

I havent, retorted the Old Man, hotly.

There was a moment while the two protagonists weighed each other up. The concierge resumed the verbal contact in a tone of enforced relaxation.

And this for how long?

I cant say. I am subject to whims.

Whims, echoed the concierge. And what will be your method of payment when you leave?

I have no idea, said the Old Man, betraying signs of weariness. I would have thought that in a hotel of this class

Of course, the concierge replied defensively. Although even a hotel of the highest category must ask itself questions when a potential client declares himself to be a Mr God with one d, and isnt even the possessor of initials, let alone luggage.

I told you, my luggage is on its way.

With your friend?

Yes. We both realize it is practically impossible to get a hotel room without luggage.

Oh, youve tried before?

Oh, yes.

And so? If I may ask?

And so, he has bought some luggage.

Just luggage? With nothing inside?

How inquisitive you are!

I beg your pardon. But Id still like to know your method of payment. I am not particularly inquisitive, you understand, but my employers

I have been asked for much more than mere method of payment health, peace, victory, salvation substantial things, you understand, often involving nations, or at least peoples. I must say, I usually turn such requests down as too imprecise, too vague. I wonder then why I am so irritated by your quite rational request? It must be old age creeping up on me Here, is this of any use to you?

And he dredged a fistful of coins out of the cavernous depths of his pockets, spilling them in great profusion over the glass top of the concierges desk. Some fell to the floor, and rolled away, but not far, for few of them were perfectly round.

Chasseur! called the concierge, and a small boy in uniform crawled about on the floor, collecting the coins. The concierge examined those that remained on his desk. I hope you are not thinking of paying with these.

Whats wrong with them? asked the Old Man.

They look Greek to me, and ancient at that.

How time flies, sighed the Old Man. And added, Ill have another go.

The concierge tapped his pencil on the glass top of his desk in a rhythmic tattoo while the Old Man patrolled his pockets for something more viable. He seemed at one point to be making a physical effort, as though his activity were both more obscure and more complicated than he allowed to let on. Then he produced green notes as if they were parts of a disintegrating lettuce.

This any good? he enquired, rendered breathless by his activity.

The concierge examined the notes, which opened up like flowers as though they had a life of their own.

On the face of it

How long can we stay on that?

We? Oh, yes, your friend On the face of it, about a month, but it naturally depends on room service, the valet, mini-bar, all that

A month. I dont think we will possibly stay as long as a month. We have far too much to see.

You are sightseeing here in Washington? asked the concierge, trying to be agreeable in order to disperse any possible traces of friction.

We see new sights wherever we go. Everything is new to us.

The concierge was at a loss how to deal with this exultant innocence, which seemed oddly self-sufficient, and unwilling to communicate. He doggedly continued to take the initiative. As a concierge of note in the profession, he had to be able to recognize a nuance when he observed it, and to ignore it when it suited his professional purpose.

There are excellent tours arranged by the Yankee Heritage people, he said, producing a handful of brochures. They enable you to visit the National Gallery, the Smithsonian

The White House, suggested the Old Man, consulting a piece of paper.

That is more difficult, smiled the concierge. They dont allow groups any more, owing to security.

I wouldnt want to go with a group in any case, said the Old Man. When I go I will want to go alone, or perhaps with my friend.

For that you have to have an invitation.

The Old Man took on a surprising air of authority. I have never had an invitation in my existence, and its not now I intend to begin.

Never had an invitation?

No. Ive had prayers, intercessions, even sacrifices, burnt offerings, in the old days, but never an invitation.

At that moment, another old man attracted attention to himself by attempting to negotiate the revolving doors leading to the street while carrying two revolting plastic suitcases. His hair was black and dank, and hung around his face like the physical expression of despair itself. His face was in marked contrast to the porcelain chubbiness of the Old Man, a lined and terrible object, pitted, prised, and pummelled into a mask of melancholy, the black eyes, which seemed to have reticently observed all that is horrible, afloat on tremulous tears, which every now and then shook free to lose themselves in the crevices in the damaged parchment of his cheeks.

Mon Dieu, said the concierge, watching the struggle. He looks older than God.

No, were roughly the same age, observed the Old Man.

Bertolini, Anwar, ordered the concierge.

The two employees of the hotel were too fascinated to move without being called to order. They now rushed forward, and helped the newcomer, whose bags seemed of suspicious lightness.

The newcomer walked unsteadily towards the desk.

At last! said the Old Man, pointedly.

What do you mean, at last? snarled the newcomer.

I have been engaged in small talk while waiting for you. You know how tiring I find it. Where did you get the bags?

I stole them. You dont expect me to buy them, do you? In any case I had no money!

And your name is ? the concierge asked, pretending not to hear the rest.

Before the newcomer had time to reply, the Old Man said, Smith.