Читать книгу Uncle Rudolf - Paul Bailey - Страница 13

I did not know you could kill hours until that afternoon in Bucharest.

—We have hours to kill, Andrei. We must think of something to do. Are you hungry?

—A little bit. How do you kill hours, Tata?

—By keeping busy. You kill time by forgetting about it. You pretend it doesn’t exist. Let’s see if Cina is open.

I have a memory of crossing a huge square in order to reach my uncle’s favourite restaurant. I see again a fat, bald waiter greeting my father as we enter Cina, stamping the snow from our boots. The waiter knows my father’s brother from the time he broke the hearts of every woman in the city. There was never a Danilo more wickedly handsome.

—How is the great Rudolf?

—He is well, Sandu. This young man is his nephew. Andrei is going to London to live with him for a while.

Sandu brings us the dishes the great Rudolf Peterson most enjoys and we eat as much as we can. My father drinks the red wine his brother loves and soon the hours we needed to kill have gone by, only to recur in vivid snatches, a whole lifetime later, in the dreams that beset an Englishman named Andrew Peters. The beaming Sandu is shaking my hand and saying:

—Tell your uncle, the moment you meet him, that he must come back to his country. Tell him that is Sandu’s command. We do not have many heroes, Andrei, but Rudolf Peterson is one of them. Remind him that he is a national hero.

I promised to pass on the message and did so, on the twenty-third of February, 1937, on the platform at Victoria Station. It was something to say to the man who had lifted me up in his arms till my face was level with his. Uncle Rudolf laughed, and kissed me on both cheeks.

—I am no hero, Andrew. I am a hero on the stage, but nowhere else.