The whole situation was complicated by the history of his relationship with Tonio. At school Tonio had hated and feared Micky; more recently Tonio had been admiring of him. Now Micky needed to become Tonio’s best friend — at the same time as he ruined his life.
While Micky was brooding over the tricky day ahead of him, there was a knock at the door to the room and the landlady announced a visitor. A moment later Tonio came in.
Micky had been planning to call on him after breakfast. This would save him the trouble.
“Sit down, have some coffee,” he said cheerfully. “Bad luck last night! Still, winning and losing, that’s what cards are all about.”
Tonio bowed to Papa and sat down. He looked as if he had not slept. “I lost more than I can afford,” he said.
Papa grunted impatiently. He had no patience with people feeling sorry for themselves, and anyway he despised the Silva family as lily-livered city dwellers who lived by patronage and corruption.
Micky pretended sympathy and said solemnly: “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You know what it means. In this country, a man who doesn’t pay his gambling debts isn’t a gentleman. And a man who isn’t a gentleman can’t be a diplomat. I might have to resign and go home.”
Exactly, thought Micky; but he said in a sorrowful voice: “I do see the problem.”
Tonio went on: “You know what fellows are like about these things — if you don’t pay up the next day you’re already under suspicion. But it would take me years to pay back a hundred pounds. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Micky, though he understood perfectly.
“Will you give me the money?” Tonio pleaded. “You’re Cordovan, not like these English; you don’t condemn a man for one mistake. And I would pay you back, eventually.”
“If I had the money I’d give it to you,” said Micky. “I wish I were that well off.”
Tonio looked at Papa, who stared at him coldly and said simply: “No.”
Tonio hung his head. “I’m such a fool about gambling,” he said in a hollow voice. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I go home in disgrace I won’t be able to face my family.”
Micky said thoughtfully: “Perhaps there is something else I can do to help.”
Tonio brightened. “Oh, please, anything!”
“Edward and I are good friends, as you know. I could speak to him on your behalf, explain the circumstances, and ask him to be lenient — as a personal favor to me.”
“Would you?” Tonio’s face was suffused with hope.
“I’ll ask him to wait for his money, and not to tell anyone. I don’t say he’ll agree to it, mind you. The Pilasters have money by the bucketful but they’re a hardheaded bunch. I’ll try, anyway.”
Tonio clasped Micky’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said fervently. “I’ll never forget this.”
“Don’t raise your hopes too high—”
“I can’t help it. I’ve been in despair, and you’ve given me a reason to go on.” Tonio looked shamefaced and added: “I thought of killing myself this morning. I walked across London Bridge and I was going to throw myself into the river.”
There was a soft grunt from Papa, who clearly thought that would have been the best thing all round.
Micky said hastily: “Thank God you changed your mind. Now, I’d better go along to Pilasters Bank and talk to Edward.”
“When will I see you?”
“Will you be at the club at lunchtime?”
“Of course, if you want me to.”
“Meet me there, then.”
“Right.” Tonio stood up. “I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast. And—”
“Don’t thank me,” Micky said, holding up his hand in a silencing gesture. “It’s unlucky. Wait and hope.”
“Yes. All right.” Tonio bowed again to Papa. “Goodbye, Senor Miranda.” He went out.
“Stupid boy,” Papa muttered.
“A complete fool,” Micky agreed.
Micky went into the next room and dressed in his morning clothes: a white shirt with a stiff upright collar and starched cuffs, buff-colored trousers, a black satin stock which he took the trouble to tie perfectly, and a black double-breasted frock coat. His shoes gleamed with wax and his hair shone with macassar oil. He always dressed elegantly but conservatively: he would never wear one of the fashionable new turndown collars, or carry a monocle like a dandy. The English were ever ready to believe that a foreigner was a cad, and he took care to give them no excuse.
Leaving Papa to his own devices for the day, he went out and walked across the bridge into the financial district, which was called the City because it covered the square mile of the original Roman city of London. Traffic was at a complete standstill around St. Paul’s Cathedral as carriages, horse buses, brewers’ drays, hansom cabs and costermongers’ barrows competed for space with a huge flock of sheep being driven to Smithfield meat market.
Pilasters Bank was a big new building with a long classical frontage and an imposing entrance flanked by massive fluted pillars. It was a few minutes past noon when Micky went through the double doors into the banking hall. Although Edward rarely got to work before ten, he could generally be persuaded to leave for lunch any time after twelve.
Micky approached one of the “walkers” and said: “Be good enough to tell Mr. Edward Pilaster that Mr. Miranda has called.”
“Very good, sir.”
Here more than anywhere Micky envied the Pilasters. Their wealth and power was proclaimed by every detail: the polished marble floor, the rich paneling, the hushed voices, the scratch of pens in ledgers, and perhaps most of all by the overfed, overdressed messengers. All this space and all these people were basically employed in counting the Pilaster family’s money. No one here raised cattle, mined nitrate or built railroads: the work was done by others far away. The Pilasters just watched the money multiply. To Micky it seemed the best possible way to live now that slavery had been abolished.
There was also something false about the atmosphere here. It was solemn and dignified, like a church, or the court of a president, or a museum. They were moneylenders, but they acted as if charging interest were a noble calling, like the priesthood.
After a few minutes Edward appeared — with a bruised nose and a black eye. Micky raised his eyebrows. “My dear fellow, what happened to you?”
“I had a fight with Hugh.”
“What about?”
“I told him off for bringing a whore into the house and he lost his temper.”
It occurred to Micky that this might have given Augusta the opportunity she had been seeking to get rid of Hugh. “What happened to Hugh?”
“You won’t see him again for a long time. He’s been sent to Boston.”
Well done, Augusta, thought Micky. It would be neat if both Hugh and Tonio could be dealt with on the same day. He said: “You look as if you might benefit from a bottle of champagne and some lunch.”
“Splendid idea.”
They left the bank and headed west. There was no point in getting into a hansom here because the streets were blocked by the sheep and the cabs were all held up in the traffic. They passed the meat market which was the destination of the sheep. The stench from the slaughterhouses was unbearably disgusting. The sheep were thrown from the street through a trapdoor down into the underground abattoir. The fall was sufficient to break their legs, which rendered them motionless until the slaughterer was ready to cut their throats. “It’s enough to put you off mutton for life,” Edward said as they covered their faces with handkerchiefs. Micky thought it would take a lot more than that to put Edward off his lunch.
Once out of the City they hailed a hansom and directed it to Pall Mall. As soon as they were on their way, Micky began his prepared speech. He started by saying: “I hate a chap who spreads reports about another chap’s bad behavior.”
“Yes,” Edward said vaguely.
