The Exiles Return by Elisabeth de Waal

that! – but would acknowledge gratefully, almost humbly, that thanks to his connections, his reputation and, if he might say so, his expertise, his client’s wishes could be met.
    But this interview was not conforming to the usual pattern. Something in Kanakis’s appearance, in the ease of his posture as he reclined in the deep armchair, his elegance and his tranquillity, intimidated Traumüller and inhibited him from asking Kanakis why he had come to see him. Ever since the appointment had been made the previous afternoon, Traumüller had been asking himself this question. There might be great opportunities for him here. For why had Kanakis come back to Vienna at this particular moment, after an absence of so many years? Did he plan to invest on a large scale in the rebuilding of the city? There was so much property for sale, so many building sites, so many houses whose owners would be only too glad to dispose of them if they could obtain a tempting price. And surely, if such were Kanakis’s intentions, he would not want to handle this business himself? He would want a man on the spot who had all the local knowledge. But meanwhile Dr Traumüller was not at all sure how this matter ought to be approached. He knew himself to be shrewd, but possible this dark-browed man with the heavy black moustache and the blue-shadowed cheeks might be even shrewder. Or was it only the aura of wealth about him which gave him something intimidating? In spite of all the altered circumstances, his education and professional standing, Dr Traumüller felt almost as obsequious towards Theophil Kanakis as the elder Traumüller had felt towards his father.
    Kanakis was taking his time. ‘I see,’ he said again, adding nothing to this non-commital remark, while his eyes seemed to wander dreamily round the room, feeling their way up and down the tall ebony bookcases, appraising the leather-bound volumes half-hidden by the reflecting glass of their sliding doors, caressing, as it were, the velvety surface of the tobacco-coloured suede upholstery of the two large armchairs, in one of which he was sitting. His left foot shifted a little as he settled himself more comfortably in its embrace: the slight movement might have been a testing of the quality of the Persian carpet. ‘I see,’ he said a third time into the silence, which seemed to Traumüller to have lasted interminably, though only a few seconds had ticked away on the big clock in its mahogany casing framed in intricate volutes of burnished bronze. These repeated ‘I see’s’ appeared, in the end, to have a more literal application and to refer to what Kanakis was actually seeing of his surroundings rather than to the remarks Traumüller had been making about his sources of information. At any rate, their repetition, and their ambiguity, were making Traumüller more and more nervous.
    At last Kanakis’s eyes came to rest on the two dark, heavily-framed pictures hanging on the wall opposite his chair, and a faint smile creased his eyelids.
    ‘Do you really recognise those pictures?’ Dr Traumüller exclaimed, unable to bear this silent scrutiny any longer, and immediately cursing himself inwardly for this unwarranted suggestion. For a very unpleasant thought had entered his mind. What if Kanakis had returned to Vienna not to deal in real estate, but to recover some of the property which had been confiscated by the German Secret Police or their agents when the owners had been deported, ‘liquidated’ or had simply fled, abandoning all they possessed? A quick appraisal reassured him that nothing in this room could have belonged to the Kanakis family who, in fact, were not Jews, and should not have suffered confiscation, except perhaps by mistake, for the rich Jewish and the rich Greek families had been very close to each other.
    ‘Recognise them?’ Kanakis repeated with a hint of astonishment, real or simulated, in his voice. He had divined Traumüller’s suspicion. ‘Why? Ought I