Utz by Bruce Chatwin

at the Hotel Drouot. This was a complete garniture, without a crack or blemish anywhere.
    Little by little, I was drawn into the spirit of the guessing game. I learned, with practice, to come up with the figures he wanted to hear and, in this way, I valued the bittern, the rhino, the Brühl tureen, Fröhlich and Schmeidl, the Pompadour and even ‘The Spaghetti Eater’.
    We stood for almost an hour. Utz would point to an object on the shelves. Marta would bang her saucepans. I would cup both hands around his ear, stickying my fingers on his brilliantine, and whispering higher and higher prices.
    From time to time, he let out a squeal of joy. Finally, he said, ‘So how much the whole collection?’
    â€˜Millions.’
    â€˜Ha! You are right,’ said Utz. ‘I am a porcelain millionaire.’

T he clatter of saucepans died away: to be followed, a few minutes later, by the sound of sizzling fat.
    â€˜You will eat with me?’ he said.
    â€˜I will,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?’
    Utz pretended not to hear.
    â€˜Do you mind if I use your bathroom?’
    He flinched. His face became contorted with a nervous tic. He fumbled with a cufflink, shot an agonised glance in the direction of the kitchenette — and pulled himself together.
    â€˜Ja! Ja! You may do that!’ he stuttered, and ushered me, past a double bed, into an immaculate bathroom with a frieze of green-and-lilac jugendstil tiles and a bathtub on which the enamel had worn thin.
    I closed the door behind me – and saw an astonishing garment.
    Suspended from a hook there was a dressing-gown: but instead of a plaid or a camel-hair dressing-gown, this was a robe of quilted, peach-coloured art silk, with appliqué roses on the shoulders and a collar of matching pink ostrich plumes.
    The scenario suggested by this unexpected costume set my imagination into turmoil.
    I pulled the lavatory chain. Outside, above the rush and gurgle of the water, I heard Utz and Marta remonstrating, in Czech.
    He was waiting to hustle me out of the bedroom. I was not to be hustled.
    I paused to admire an eighteenth-century engraving, of a fireworks display at the Zwinger. I saw a photograph of Utz’s father. I saw his illustrious decoration on its mount of black velvet. I saw a ‘Venetian’ blackamoor bed-table and, on it, a book by Schnitzler, and one by Stefan Zweig. I saw a large container of talcum-powder – or was it face-powder? – in front of the dressing-mirror. I saw three other unexpected items: a rosary, a crucifix and a scapular of the Infant of Prague. The frilly lace lampshade had been singed by its electric light bulb. The flounced pink curtains and pink satin eiderdown – both of which had seen better days – gave the room an atmosphere of musty, rather coarse femininity.
    I looked at Utz afresh in the light of this discovery. I looked at his shiny scalp. Was there perhaps, hidden under the skirts of the dressing-table, a wig?
    He was unable to look me in the eye. Instead, he tinkered with the gramophone and put on a record: a keyboard sonata by the Saxon court composer, Jan Dismas Zelenka.
    The maid reappeared and laid two places on the glass-topped table, banging down the knives and forks with a show of bad temper. She turned her back, and returned with a larger Meissen dish on which were arranged some pork chops, sauerkraut and dumplings in gravy.
    Utz ate with dulled concentration, pausing now and then to mouth a little bread, sip a little wine, but scarcely saying a word. He blinked at me: apparently furious with himself for having invited this inquisitive foreigner who had disturbed his peace of mind and might, in the long run, cause trouble.
    He cringed whenever the maid showed her face. After helping himself to seconds, he began to relax.
    He cut a cube of meat, impaled it, held it in the air, and addressed me, pedantically:
    â€˜Each time I see a piece