Sustenance (9 page)

She turned around, her face rosy with heat from the newly installed Swedish stove where two chickens were boiling with celery, vinegar, and chopped carrots to make broth. “Heer Rogers,” she said; a widow of thirty-nine, she was accustoming herself to her advancement in the household. “You’re leaving, then?”

“In about twenty minutes. I’ll have Arnestus drive me to the station. He’s in the garage, I suppose?” He had found it difficult to call the old coach-house the garage, but in time he knew it would be as natural to call it that as coach-house had been. “Thank you,” he added in his overly formal Dutch.

“Yes. He’s entranced by the XK120,” said Willemyn, adjusting the hang of her kitchen smock. “You’d think it was a girl and not an English auto.”

“How am I to say as much to him?” Rogers made a sound that might have been a stifled laugh, then said, “You have your instructions to the bank and the Grof’s authorization to draw on household accounts, and you have the list of provisions you will need to stock and at what time. If you have questions, you may call me, or the Grof, who will be in Paris for a time; the number will be provided to you. The same for Venezia. You already have my current schedule; I will inform you of any changes. You have the address of Szent-Germain’s attorneys in Den Hague and Lisboa; do not be afraid to use them if you deem it necessary. Szent-Germain would expect it of you, and if you worry for your post, failure to act will be seen as more disturbing than making the contact. I am sure you will do well. Have you any questions?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “It is all very clear.”

“Good,” he said, and went along past the mud-room to the narrow, cobbled courtyard at the back of the house that gave onto the alley that led to the canal-side street.

The coach-house entrance was at right angles to the alley, and just now, it was standing open, the maroon Jaguar XK120 sitting just inside. Arnestus was lying under the Jaguar, his oily work-trousers and new boots marking his presence.

“Arnestus?” Rogers asked. “When you said you’d be working on an auto, I thought you meant the Peugeot, not this.”

“Oh.” The shaggy-haired young man wriggled out from under the handsome vehicle, pausing to wipe his fingerprints off the lustrous maroon paint before he got to his feet. “Is it time already?”

“Coming up to it,” said Rogers. “If you’ll load my bags into the boot, and raise the top, you will have time for a bite to eat before we leave.” He took a step back, then asked, “Why were you under the XK120?”

“I thought there was an odd sound in the brakes, but it’s probably some loose cobblestones that made the noise as I drove over them when I went to get petrol.”

“A good thing to be certain of, brakes,” said Rogers, and went back into the house as the first spatters of rain began to fall.

Rogers’ departure was not quite half an hour later, unobserved by anyone in the household but Arnestus, who sat in the driver’s seat, grinning. “Do not drive rapidly, the streets are narrow and crowded,” Rogers said as he ducked under the drooping canvas top, removing his dove-grey hat as he slid into the seat.

“It is a shame not to drive an auto like this one as fast as it will go,” the young man said petulantly as he started the engine and then the windshield wipers.

“It may be, but if you damage it, you will have to bear the cost of repairs,” said Rogers, and closed the door.

Arnestus glared, but put the Jaguar in motion at a sober pace as he started off toward the train station. He hummed as he drove, dodging bicycles and pedestrians with balletic ease. Only when they were within sight of the station and the work going on around it did he speak to Rogers again. “Do I have the Grof’s permission to drive this during his absence?”

“No, you do not,” said Rogers. “You may drive the Lea-Francis, or the Peugeot, if you like, but while the Grof is away, put the cover over the XK120 and park it in the last stall on the left. You may start it once a week, and back it up and repark it, for the tires, but otherwise, leave it alone.”

With an exasperated sigh, Arnestus slowed as he pulled up to the station. “All right. He’s the boss.”

“The Lea-Francis isn’t a shabby vehicle,” Rogers pointed out as he opened the door, swung his legs around so his feet were on the pavement, stood up, and donned his hat. He signaled for a porter and set about unloading his trunk and suitcases, fully aware that Arnestus wanted to argue with him about the XK120. “The Grof will explain it to you, if you insist,” Rogers added as he lowered the lid of the boot now that all his things were on the porter’s hand-trolley.

“Be damned to him,” muttered Arnestus, preparing to drive away from the station. “He’s going to be away, and I’ll be here.”

“If you want to remain in the Grof’s employ, I suggest you change your manner,” Rogers said as Arnestus leaned over and rolled up the window.

The Jaguar’s tires stirred up a slurry of mud and small pebbles which sprayed over Rogers and his luggage as it pulled out into traffic, Arnestus hunched over the steering wheel with a wolfish smile on his young face.

Rogers watched him go and tried to make up his mind if he should mention this behavior to Szent-Germain or send Arnestus a letter explaining what could happen to him if he continued in his present manner. He did not want to do either, but he realized that this could lead to greater problems as time went on. Perhaps, he thought, Szent-Germain could take the XK120 to Paris, or have it delivered there.

“What train, sir?” the porter asked as he shoved his hand-trolley through the crowd toward the platform and piers and the trains.

“Oh. Bremen.” He looked at the line of ticket booths. “Which one?”

“Third from the end,” said the porter, and waited while Rogers went to purchase his first-class ticket.

While Rogers stood in line at the ticket-booth, Szent-Germain was upstairs in his laboratory, removing a tray of jewels from his athanor. He placed the tray on a small shelf in a protected corner of his large trestle-table, and made sure that no breeze through the room could reach it, for air, cooler or warmer than the newly made stones, could cause fine cracks in them that sometimes reduced them to powder. He walked the length of the room and looked out over the canal, now freckled with rain. His gaze was preoccupied, and he asked himself if Rogers had not hit upon something when he had asked Szent-Germain if he missed America. It was Charis Treat and the prospect of dealing with other academics from the United States that had brought back memories of his short, hectic stay in that country that began fifteen years ago. He had kept his property in San Francisco as well as his partnership in the Geyserville winery, and received regular reports on both, as well as from Eclipse Trading. He found that his businesses were subject to unusual scrutiny just now, which somewhat blighted his view of the United States; the countryside was quite lovely, but it all still seemed to be far away from him now, and from those Americans taking refuge in Europe. He sighed. That had always been the way of the world: those with intelligence pressed into service by those serving the priests and generals unless the priests and generals were suspicious, at which time, those with well-trained intelligence had to flee for safety. Over the centuries he found himself in accord with the intellectuals, the teachers, and the innovators, and never more so than now.

There was a tap on the door and Trinka, the maid, called out, “The afternoon post has come. There is a large packet of papers for you, Grof.”

“Put it in the ’tiring room, on the chest-of-drawers. I’ll come to get it shortly.”

“Yes, Grof,” said Trinka, and left him to his contemplation.

Szent-Germain scowled out at the weepy day. There was not much demanding his attention just now, and that left him prone to frustration and irritation. The packet of papers was waiting for him, but he was not ready to examine them. He went to a large chest standing in the corner and worked the combination on the lock that held it closed. Once the lid was open, he took out a small scale and a set of weights, set them down, and next removed a little measuring-spoon and a heavily stoppered jar, which he opened with care. “Might as well do something useful,” he said in his native tongue, and busied himself combining the ingredients for treating irritations of the intestines, allowing himself a brief, ironic smile, aware that he had none of his own since his execution, over forty centuries ago.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM EISLEY BUTTERTHORN & HAWSMEDE IN LONDON TO RAGOCZY FERENZ, GROF SZENT-GERMAIN, IN PARIS; SENT BY COURIER AND DELIVERED IN TWO DAYS.

Eisley Butterthorn & Hawsmede

#4-7 Upper Beresford Walk

Greenwich, Britain

11 November, 1949

Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain

President & Owner, Eclipse Trading Company

49, Rue des Freres Gries

Paris, France

My dear Grof,

Having spent two meetings with your secretary, C. Rogers, I follow his advice and write to you.

First let me assure you that we are not planning to remain in Greenwich, but will establish our chambers in offices that are even now being built not far from Pall Mall; it is not the traditional home of solicitors and barristers, but as our practice is almost wholly devoted to international contracts and the enforcement of same, we believe we need not position ourselves in proximity to the Courts of Law, but to the seat of shipping. Our previous location was damaged during the Blitz, and returning to it would add another three or four years to our displacement here which we would prefer to avoid.

International law is complex, as I am sure you know. We have made it a goal for our firm to strive for clarity and concision in all we do, so that no client need fear being drawn into dealings that are obfuscatory or are represented deceptively. We will always seek to combine accuracy with lucidity; I assure you that you may rely on us to make all terms and conditions clear to you before entering into any contractual agreements.

Mister Rogers has told us of the widespread nature of your trading company, and we agree that with so many offices in such a far-flung business, careful attention to your various ventures would prove beneficial as well as making it possible for you to maintain your dealings on sound legal grounds. We have the list of your various legal representatives in several countries, and I am pleased to inform you that we have dealt with Oscar King in San Francisco most gratifyingly on two occasions: assuming the other firms listed are as competent and ethical as King, we should be able to provide satisfactory representation for you.

There are a great many changes taking place in international trade, as you must know; I believe that the range of legal services we can offer will surely prove worthwhile to you and all your undertaking. We also have translators available for contractual negotiations as well as all such correspondence as may be needed in your trading. I am taking advantage of this initial communication to include some examples of our work—all names and particulars deleted, of course—for your perusal. If you find our work to your standard, I will await your visit for the purpose of finalizing our representation of Eclipse Trading, and Eclipse Publishing.

Most sincerely at your service,

Everett Hawsmede

EH/psj

4

C
HEZ
R
OSALIE
was on a side-street not far from the Sorbonne, an unpretentious place with a large dining room in the front of a seventeenth-century house that catered to graduate students and young faculty, and a meeting room that had long ago been a card room was reserved for private groups seeking a pleasant, private location with more to provide than the excellent food offered here by Rosalie’s son Dudon; it was set up more like a small, exclusive club that provided little beyond coffee and wine for those using it. This evening the meeting room was the gathering-place for the Ex-Pats’ Coven, which had their monthly meetings at Chez Rosalie. It being a chilly evening, there was a fire burning in the tile-fronted fireplace; the flame-shaped light-bulbs in the two brass chandeliers were augmented by five floor-lamps so that the room was bright and pleasant. At five-thirty, the usual beginning of the Coven’s gathering, only eight of its members had arrived and had selected the most comfortable of the upholstered chairs and love-seats, and were filling the time by sharing desultory bits of news and small-talk while they waited for the rest to arrive.

“What’s keeping them?” asked Julia Bjornson, an attractive, fair-haired woman on the verge of forty; she was staring at her husband Axel—a studious fellow who had been teaching city planning at Columbia until some of his theories were interpreted as being of a collectivistic nature; tonight he was in a tweed jacket over a turtleneck sweater and wearing horn-rim glasses—as if to pry the answer out of him. Tardiness always made her worry, and although it was not uncommon among the Coven members, she could not stop complaining when anyone was late. “Don’t they know when we meet?” She stared at her wristwatch as if she expected her dissatisfaction to animate the watch; after a few seconds, she clicked her tongue and sighed.

“Don’t fret, Julia. They’ll be here,” he answered. They were sitting near the fire in overstuffed chairs, a small writing-table between them.

Winston Pomeroy was sitting near the French doors that served as windows; the curtains were drawn across them, shutting out the high walls of the next house and the path that ran through the gap between the business-street in front of the restaurant and the service-alley behind it. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s pretty cold, so cabs will be hard to get. They’ll be along.” He was thirty-three, had been a professor of horticulture at Cal Davis, and just now was smoking one of those strong French cigarettes most of the Coven avoided; the smoke wreathed his head like a ghostly halo.

Russell McCall, sitting near the door in an old-fashioned grandfather’s chair, had been reading the newly arrived
New York Times
—which, as a journalist, he followed devoutly—now folded the paper and slipped it into the small valise he carried. He wore an anorak over a turtleneck sweater, and multi-pocketed trousers. “Two-day-old news isn’t.” And when this complaint was met with blank stares, he added, “News. It isn’t news.”