Stained Glass (6 page)

Half the younger men had died in the war, yet no one was heard to express resentment when it transpired that their very own dashing count, young Axel, had—for all they knew—shot at their own sons, shot at his fellow villagers. The war (and indeed life itself) was so complicated. And since one wasn't any longer sure what to believe, wasn't it really safer to start all over again, and to believe in the transcendent wisdom and loyalty of their own count, whose ancestors had fought for their village, and for the rights of the people of their village since the beginning of history, or at any rate as much of history as the people of St. Anselm's were concerned with?

Blackford left his car in the courtyard, and as he walked into the huge archway, the small door embedded in the gate swung open, releasing a shaft of yellow light into the late-summer dusk. Someone had been waiting for him. He followed a creaky old man wearing a green vest over a white shirt, and an apron over his pants, through a cold hallway into a warm, chintzy living room, the fireplace crackling, over which a single crystal chandelier, its dozen candles lit, hung, illuminating the eight painted panels depicting the Borghese Gardens in midsummer. The countess was there in her drawing room and rose to greet him, a warm but formal smile on her high-boned face. Did he mind if she spoke to him in German? It had been
so
long since she had practiced the English she had learned as a girl, and in any case she had reports that Mr. Oakes's German was—she raised her hand, thumb and forefinger touching—“perfect.” Blackford smiled, and replied in a German that paid tribute to what he called the sadistic Huns who had taught him the language—after the first grueling day he had looked the two words up in his dictionary, and ever after so referred to the he-she German team retained by the agency to torment him five hours a day for five months in Boston. “My Axel will be here presently,” she said, lifting her hand to signal the butler to bring in the tea. “Dear Axel, he is so busy these days. But he attaches such a high priority to the rebuilding of our little church. Do you have churches in America, Mr. Oakes? I mean, Mr. Oakes, do you have beautiful churches in America? I mean, Mr. Oakes, do you have …”

“Do we have any churches in America built during the thirteenth century? No, Countess, we don't. But we do have the Grand Canyon, and that was built even earlier.” He smiled.

“Ah, yes, I have heard about it. Master craftsmen, those Indians. Tell me, Mr. Oakes—my, but you
are
handsome. What did you do during the war?”

“I fought on the same side as your son, Countess,” he replied cautiously.

“Yes, of course, how silly. I mean, what did you
do
in the war? Really, it is so ironic. It would be ironic perfection if it happened that you were the artillery officer who fired on our chapel! But I suppose that would be just too much? But really, talking about the war is so depressing. And now some of my friends tell me there will be another war if Axel has his way, but I don't believe it, not for a minute. I tell them all the same thing: Axel is a peaceful young man. Even as a child he did not like to quarrel. But he
does
know his mind. Always did. When he was eleven he told us—came right to our bedroom, and told the count and me—that he could not put up one more day with his governess, Mlle. Lachaise, that we would be
forced
”—she laughed with evident pleasure at the recollection—“he told us that we would be forced to
choose
between
him
, our son, and
her
, his governess! Caspar told him to go to bed, to say his prayers, and to wait another ten years or so before undertaking to superintend his own education.

“Well, Mr. Oakes, the next morning at breakfast-time Mlle. Lachaise reported that Axel was gone. No trace of him! Not even the groom knew where he was! It was two days before the police stopped him, all the way south at Eisenfeld. His father dealt most severely with him. But after Axel's tears had dried, he returned to his father—would you believe it, Mr. Oakes?—and said to him: ‘Father, unless you get rid of Mlle. Lachaise, I shall have to run away again tomorrow.' That night the count and I conferred, and the next morning we dispatched Mlle. Lachaise. The alternative was to put Axel in the palace dungeon.

“Do you suppose, Mr. Oakes, that the Russians will deal that way with Axel? Will they decide they might as well let Axel
have
East Germany?”

Blackford reflected that nobody in Washington had trained him to deal with such as Countess Wintergrin. He mobilized himself to attempt a reply to her impossible question, then decided to sidestep it. Instead, he asked:

“Tell me, Countess. What was wrong with Mlle. Lachaise? She must have been a brute.”

“Mlle. Lachaise? Now let me see. Which one was that? She was not Mlle. Bouchex. No. And she wasn't Mlle. Longueville. No. Mlle. Lachaise … I can't really remember. When Axel comes, we must ask him.”

Blackford very nearly panicked. “No no, thank you very much, Countess. It doesn't really matter. I'm sure Count Wintergrin had good reasons, whatever they were.”

“Oh, indeed, Mr. Oakes. Axel
always
had good reasons. It's just that other people don't always know what those good reasons
are
. I'm sure that's true of you, Mr. Oakes. I am sure you have good reasons for being here.”

Axel Wintergrin strode into the room, leaned over to give his mother a light kiss on the forehead, then extended his hand to the visitor. He was dressed in his favorite rust-colored tweed, and though the jacket was unbuttoned, the trimness of his body was evident. He took a biscuit absent-mindedly from the tray on the table and sat down, extending his long, thin hand to take the cup and saucer the butler handed him.

“It is very good to meet you, Mr. Oakes. Good evening, Mother.”

“Good evening, darling.”

“You are most welcome, Mr. Oakes”—he spoke in English. As fluent as Blackford's, though the accent was British. Not surprisingly, there was a trace there of the distinctive Greyburn slur—“as I hope I have made clear. In due course we'd have attended to the church ourselves. But it would have been a long time. Perhaps ten or fifteen years from now. Even the Russians, who can conscript their laborers and their artists, are talking in terms of twenty-five years to rebuild all their palaces in Leningrad. It is irrelevant that the liquidation of the state as promised by Karl Marx will be delayed even longer. The gesture of your government, in any case, is greatly appreciated. You are familiar with my father's book?”

“Yes, I am. An admirable work. I trust one day it will be translated into English.”

“You anticipate me, Mr. Oakes. It is my intention to subsidize a translation in a memorial edition dedicated to the American people when the rebuilding is done.”

“Dear Axel”—the countess rose, upon which the two men followed suit—“forgive me. You have matters to discuss with Mr. Oakes. I have matters to discuss with my cook. So nice of you to come, Mr. Oakes.” She extended her hand, but drew it back with that abruptness of the European who suddenly recalls that it will not be kissed, because the gentleman is American and doesn't … know; so don't embarrass him, and she smiled wholesomely through her lightly tinted lips, turned her tweedy presence to the door, and muttered something to the butler, who followed her out.

“We will stay here, since my mother has left us alone.” Blackford had his first direct experience of the surefooted authoritativeness of Axel Wintergrin. (He hadn't said—important difference—“Shall we stay here, now that my mother is gone?”) Black nodded, and Wintergrin began to talk.

“You know, Mr. Oakes—from my father's history book—that the building of St. Anselm's church coincided with the settlement of the village. When the church was consecrated, just after 1250, the first Baron of Wintergrin was charged by the bishop to maintain the church in its pristine mini-magnificence. Probably that is the single charge all my ancestors have taken seriously.” He smiled. “Though that's not entirely fair. On the whole they have been a good lot, and the one who was executed for adultery simply lived at the wrong time: the German Catholics were especially anxious, at that period, to distinguish their own position on marital fidelity from that of the British king.” Blackford smiled. Fancy. Royal adultery!

“I have, as you certainly know, undertaken the organization of a national political party to compete in the elections in November. This will require me to spend a great deal of time away from St. Anselm's. But I make every effort to get back here on Sundays and Mondays. I shall always be at your disposal to review your work and that of your assistants—I look forward to meeting them to check every particular. The chapel must be authentic.”

He paused, reflecting. “The supreme challenge is the stained glass. The colors were magnificent! Tomorrow I shall take you through my father's library, which has a complete collection of photographs of the church: every square inch, with careful colorwork and coding. My understanding is that you have made preliminary arrangements with carpenters, stonecutters, masons, and glassmakers.”

“That is correct.”

“Splendid. Let me ask, How many men will be working on the project at the outset?”

Blackford said probably a half dozen, with an additional two or three coming in, as skilled craftsmen were located.

“It is a vulgar question. But
do
you have any idea how long it will take?”

“We've talked about it—Overstreet, Conditti, and I. Not less than a year. Say a year, if all goes well. Knock wood.” This mundane appeal to superstition had the effect of prying his host loose from his preoccupation.

“A glass of wine? Or do you prefer beer? Whiskey?” Wintergrin rang the bell at his side, without waiting for an answer.

“Thank you, a glass of white wine.”

“I understand you flew during the war. Do you still fly?”

“Not regularly,” Blackford said. “I did fly the new American Saber at an exhibition in London recently. My father is the European salesman for Saber. You perhaps read about it: the British flier in the Hunter was killed.”

Axel looked sharply at Blackford, and his voice went up a half tone.

“
Of course. It was you!
I was related to Viscount Kirk. And we were at school together. Greyburn.” Wintergrin did not advertise that—like Kirk—he too was related to the Queen.

“I spent a few weeks in Greyburn myself.” Oakes stepped forward. He had decided, in his dealings with Axel, that he would hide only what he had to hide.

“Indeed? When were you there?”

“From September, 1941, until December. I would tell you that I left on account of Pearl Harbor, and it's true that I'd have had to leave on account of Pearl Harbor, but in fact a couple of days before Pearl Harbor I ran away.” Blackford was tempted to add that he did so because the headmaster declined to discharge Mile. Lachaise.

Axel looked as if he would ask why Blackford had run away, thought better of it, and instead tilted the conversation to a slightly different course.

“We did not overlap, in that event. I was graduated in 1938. Kirk was a couple of years younger. A fine horseman, even then. An impressive war record.”

Blackford sipped his wine. “Yes. And a fine flier. The whole thing was tragic and … inexplicable.”

“Did they ever discover the cause of the accident?”

“No,” said Blackford—and thought, God help me if ever they do.

Axel asked whether he had known this person, and that person. Whether he had had experience with this teacher, or that teacher. What was his opinion of the headmaster, Dr. Chase, who was still there? Blackford said he thought Chase a cold fish and a bully, but had never studied under him. Wintergrin said he had had fair treatment from Chase up until the Austrian Anschluss. “After that, he thought of me first as a young Nazi, only then as a student at his school.”

“Were you”—Blackford's risk was calculated—“at that point a nationalist, er, a defender of German policies?”

“You are asking if I was identified with the Nazis?”

“I simply wondered, knowing Chase.”

Axel trilled his fingers on his glass of wine which, Blackford noticed, he had not touched. “I decided when I went first to Greyburn at age fourteen that I would answer no questions and involve myself in no discussions having to do with the policies of my government.”

“I wish I had followed the same rule,” Blackford said.

“No one who knew me at Greyburn would have had any grounds to know what was on my mind. That training proved useful. And during the holidays I avoided political discussions here in Germany, pleading that any involvement in them would make life difficult for me back in England where, after all, I was spending nine months of every year. When I left Greyburn and went to officers' school I was assigned to the Kavallerieschule in Hanover, where the traditions are very strict, very … venerable. There are no political discussions—for the simple reason that it is commonly accepted that everyone is entirely enthusiastic about every policy of the government.”

Blackford decided to press his luck.

“When did you decide to defect?”

“I decided to defect after an incident at officers' school.”

Blackford said nothing. He would let Wintergrin decide, without any pressure, whether to tell the story. Wintergrin said nothing. After a moment's pause, Blackford decided to take him off the hook:

“Perhaps one day you will write your story completely?”

“When my story is written,” Axel said, “what I did or experienced as a nineteen-year-old will not greatly matter.” Again Blackford thought it wise to ease off.

“I hope they will find it appropriate to say about you, Count Wintergrin, that you always found time to give to the concerns of St. Anselm.”

Axel rose. “Indeed.”