My friendship with Peppi and Lucy filled a gap in my life as well as in theirs. Usually, I packed my suitcase with joy for the flight to London and with a glum face for the return trip back to my barren home.
I could fill a whole ‘bundle’ with anecdotes from my visits to London. Despite his advanced age, Peppi had retained his zest for life and his keen intellect; and he was full of fun. Lucy too was an excellent companion. Occasionally, when Peppi was reluctant to go out in the evening, the two of us went to the West End on our own. After the show, we would have a snack or a drink in one of the numerous bars where, often, I listened with admiration to Lucy’s witty critique of the performance.
Then, one bright day, a crucial event took place when I was all alone in the shop. I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the small kitchenette, hoping to clear my head from the drowsiness occasioned by the sumptuous lunch in Chelsea and the three glasses of Moselle I had downed with it. Unexpectedly, the electronic bell chimed. The door opened slowly and through it came a tall man, wearing a dark, old fashioned and loosely fitting suit and a navy-blue raincoat.
“Is Miss Stölzl available?”
“I’m afraid she has stepped out for a while,” I answered, startled by his German accent.
“How long will she be?”
“About half an hour, or perhaps longer. Would you like to wait, or can I be of help?”
“I have some pieces for sale. I always deal with Miss Lucy. So, I’d better wait.”
“Can I perhaps offer you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?”
“A coffee would be nice. But tell me please: aren’t you from Vienna?”
“You have an acute ear. Would you prefer to speak German?” I asked.
“It makes no difference to me – but, yes, very well then.”
We sat down, clasping the steaming mugs. Having refused sugar and milk, the caller sipped his coffee appreciatively. He seemed unperturbed by the silence whilst I – feeling the duty to act as host – searched for words. At the same time, I had a good look at him. For no apparent reason, a twinge of fear shot down my spine.
“Do you come to this shop often?” I assumed the courage to ask.
“Once or twice a year – when I decide to sell some of my pieces. But I’ve not seen you here before.”
“I’m just a friend of the family. I visit them when I come over to London.”
“So that’s why we have not met before! And, as a matter of interest, do you collect porcelain, Herr …?”
“Berger, Peter Berger. And yes, I do.”
“I have a large collection,” he told me. “This is why I sell some of my pieces. I hate cluttering. Well, would you like to see what I’ve got with me today?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took a parcel out of his shabby briefcase. I viewed the figurines with approval. They were of the type to be found in Peppi’s showcase and in my own collection.
“This hunting group is splendid!” I said, letting my fingers run gently over the pack of hounds keeping a lion at bay. “Kändler at his best. I’ll see if Lucy agrees to sell it to me. You would have no objection, Herr …”
“Duval, Friedrich Duval,” he told me, and, to my surprise, his eyes started to dance merrily. “They call me Mr X in this shop. But you might as well call me by my name. And, of course, after we have clinched a bargain, Miss Lucy is free to sell her pieces to whomsoever she wants.”
“She might think it fit for Peppi’s cabinet.”
“True. Obviously, you’ll have to persuade her.”
“I’ll certainly try. But tell me, please, from where do you hail, Monsieur Duval?”
“From Göttingen, Herr Berger. I used to teach Theology and Philosophy. But I retired years ago.”
“I thought ‘Duval’ was a French name.”
“It is. But then, Europe is a hotchpotch. And, of course, Duval is derived from a longer name.”
He paused for a moment. Then, without any change in his mannerism, he said: “Please, have a look at this piece – it is not for sale. But I should value your opinion.”
For the next few minutes the shop, the desk with the coffee mugs and Herr Duval himself ceased to exist. My eyes were glued to the aging yet unbeaten Harlequin-Boulevardier. I was fascinated by his Mephistophelian airs, captivated by his proud posture and by the extravagant costume he wore for the carnival. A black mask concealed the figurine’s face.
Lost in a fantasy, I pictured the Boulevardier strolling down the Champs Elysée’s, looking over other gallants and allowing his eye to rove over the dresses of the attractive women walking in the opposite direction. His face, though, remained an enigma. Then, as if by magic, the mask lifted itself and revealed the very face of my caller, Herr Friedrich Duval, alias Mr X.
“Well, what do you think of it, Herr Berger?”
“Need I tell you?”
“Speaking as a fellow connoisseur, I should like to have your views.”
“Needless to say, it is brilliant!”
“I am gratified by your assessment. But what captivated you?”
“The Boulevardier’s subtle irony! Your Boulevardier finds life ironic. He’ll take what he gets (provided he wants it) and won’t flinch when he loses out.”
“What did you think of his face?”
“It’s hidden behind the mask. Still, it appeared to uplift itself for a moment. And the face behind the mask looked strangely like yours! I must have had a hallucination!”
“Why couldn’t the artist have modelled me?”
“This piece is over 200 years old!”
“You base your conclusion on general experience?”
“Well, yes. I’d rather describe it as ‘universal experience’.”
“Let’s not quibble over words. Why not start with a different premise?”
“Such as?”
“That ‘general experience’ cannot refute what you see with your own eyes!”
“But can I deny a universal truth in reliance on a single peep, a mere impression?”
“But do you have to accept common wisdom, or experience, as absolute truth?”
“I see what you mean. All the same, a great deal of evidence would be required to convince me that a man can live 200 or 250 years. I find it difficult to shed my belief in the ‘universal truth’ respecting man’s life span.”
“More difficult than others have found it to rid themselves of their own gospel truths?”
There was a long pause, and then I responded. “I think I get your point, Herr Duval. You are telling me that my application of reason is predetermined by the premises I accept as my foundation?”
“Precisely, Herr Berger. Except that I prefer to call them ‘axioms’ rather than ‘premises’.”
“Are my axioms then too narrow?”
“They are: if they require you to reject all metaphysical experiences without analysis.”
“Come to think of it, certain religious dogmas were ‘real’ to the medieval mind,” I mused.
“They were. But to you such dogmas are irrational.”
“They are. But – if I understand you correctly – so is my a priori rejection of them.”
“Quite so,” he said gently and, once again, his eyes danced merrily.
“You have certainly given me food for thought, Herr Duval,” I said.
“I am gratified.”
He was about to add something when the doorbell rang and Lucy stepped through the door. The warm smile on her face melted when she spotted Herr Duval. Gone was the self-assured, forthright lady of the house. We were, instead, facing an apprehensive Lucy looking ill at ease.
“Have you been waiting long, sir?”
“Not at all,” replied Herr Duval. “Professor Berger and I had a most interesting and enlightening conversation about porcelain and related topics.”
“Herr Duval is an expert,” I added. Lucy’s expression conveyed her surprise that our caller had seen fit to introduce himself to me.
“As before, I have come to your fine shop to see if you might be interested in some of my pieces.”
“We always are. But I wish you would let me pay you a better price.”
“I have no use for extra money,” he assured her. “And I forgot to mention: the Boulevardier is not for sale.”
“How much can I pay you for the rest?” she asked, still apprehensive.
“The usual two thousand pounds, if you please.”
“But there are eight pieces here altogether. More than you ever brought before!”
“Consider it a windfall,” he said benignly. “You know I never haggle. But tell me, please, what do you think of my masked Boulevardier?”
Lucy had already cast several surreptitious glances at the splendid figurine. Facing our caller with mounting unease, she said candidly: “I’m sure it’s an excellent piece; but I don’t like it. It’s uncanny.”
“In what manner?” he wanted to know.
“He is mocking me from behind his mask.”
“Well, well,” he said, unoffended. “So, Herr Berger, our assessment of the piece is not universally accepted. I suspect it is a matter of orientation: like most rationalists we are drawn to the metaphysical!”
“Oh, I know it is a fine piece,” said Lucy contritely. “But you did ask for my personal view.”
“So I did; and the truth is always acceptable.” He paused for a moment and added in haste: “But it is getting late. I’d better be on my way.”
Lucy disappeared into the office and returned with a sheaf of notes. Duval shoved them into his wallet without counting, offered his hand to both of us and stepped toward the door.
“You forgot your Boulevardier, Herr Duval!” I exclaimed.
“Please take good care of him. I have looked after him since he came out of the kiln,” he replied.
“But you mustn’t part with him,” I said, distressed.
“I’ll come back for him when he is needed,” he said with a warm smile and walked out.
I stood dumbfounded, then rushed after him. But there was no trace of the tall, dark clad figure. Herr Professor Dr Friedrich Duval had vanished into thin air.
“He gives me the creeps,” shuddered Lucy as she placed her new figurines in one of the display cabinets and proceeded to pack the Boulevardier for me.
“I think he likes you,” I said, surprised by the edgy tone of my voice.
“I know. I feel sort of guilty for reacting to him like this. Still, I can’t help it. But you got on with him famously!”
“He is brilliant,” I concluded. “But I know what you mean. It’s as if he can read your thoughts.”
“Precisely,” said Lucy. “And you, Cousin Peter, couldn’t take your eyes off that figurine!”
We tried to relax over a coffee, and then Lucy went upstairs to take a cup to Peppi. When she came down, she looked puzzled.
“Papa tells me you want the hunting group. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have packed your two pieces in one box.”
“I completely forgot,” I prevaricated.
“A sign of aging, Cousin Peter! Well, I think Papa wants to have a chat with you. Why don’t you run upstairs while I wrap your second treasure.”
Peppi was rubbing his eyes as people do when they have just roused themselves from sleep. “How did you know about the hunting group?” I asked straight away. “You couldn’t have overheard my conversation with that fellow Duval.”
“I watched the two of you and heard every single word!”
“How? Weren’t you up here?”
“I was. But I sort of saw it all as if in a dream – like then, in the Munich station.”
“Is he who I think he is?”
“Of course he is,” said Peppi. “But then, you don’t believe in his existence.”
“I’ll certainly have to think it over carefully. What I can’t understand is why he doesn’t communicate directly with you.”
“Perhaps he fears the pull would be too great. Or, maybe, he prefers just to talk to me.” As he sat up, the light fell on his face. He looked drained and I was alarmed by his pallor. “You alright, Peppi?” I asked anxiously.
“Just a bit tired – like that day in Munich. Peter’le, do you mind opening that safe behind the painting? The combination is Abracadabra. I need a drink from the bottle I keep in it.”
Peppi took a few swigs. He waited for a few moments, smacked his lips and took another hearty draught. To my relief, the blood returned to his face and his weary expression gave way to his usual smile. Soon his eyes were illuminated by a knowing, warm twinkle.
“What a potent drink!” I observed.
“It is! It surpasses even Slivovitz.”
“Can I have a sip?”
“Let’s see.” Peppi handed me the bottle. To my surprise, the cork refused to budge when I pulled at it. Grinning slyly, Peppi handed me a corkscrew; but the screw turned without penetrating the cork.
“I think you are not meant to partake,” smiled Peppi.
“Have I offended him?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He might communicate with you in a different manner.”
“Could I at least smell it?”
To my surprise, the stubborn cork popped out and a sweet, alluring scent filled my nostrils. “Thanks,” I said, bewildered. As the cork slipped back into its place, a voice in my mind replied in Friedrich Duval’s German accent: “Don’t mention it!”