Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  V

  A rather amusing episode arose out of Lanny’s dealings with the vegetable-oil king. The latter said: “I mentioned you to Mr. Robert Murphy, and he expressed a desire to meet you. What do you say?” Lanny had been carefully keeping away from the Counselor and his twelve vice-consuls—one of whom, according to the gossip now going the rounds, had fallen under the spell of a French woman who was revealed to be a Nazi spy! Lanny, a spy himself, didn’t want to have anything to do with any of his fellow workers, whether German, French, or American. But he couldn’t very well say that he was unwilling to make the acquaintance of the man who was his country’s ambassador to this colonial world. He told Lemaigre that such a meeting would give him pleasure, and Lemaigre offered to arrange another luncheon. Lanny protested that it ought to be his turn, but the other answered that it was such a small matter they surely didn’t have to talk about it; some day they would meet in America, and then it would be the American’s turn to feed the Frenchman.

  Lanny gave thought to this meeting in advance. He had heard about Mr. Murphy wherever he went, among rich and poor, for Mr. Murphy was a super-important person. Many of the farseeing French were looking upon him as soon to be consul, not in the modern commercial sense, but in the ancient Roman sense, the civil governor of a province. He was a person acceptable to the French because he was a Catholic, and also because he was genial and friendly, a democrat in the human sense of that word. The Americans had sent such a representative to France in the days when the young nation was striving to be born; his name was Benjamin Franklin, and he had made a hit with the liberal elements of France both rich and poor. It was very probable that Mr. Murphy had read about this eminent predecessor, and would try in a modest way to follow his footsteps.

  Lanny was bound to assume that Mr. Murphy, a career diplomat in Paris prior to the war, was nobody’s fool. He could hardly have failed to have suspicions concerning a fellow countryman who traveled about so freely in wartime. Mr. Murphy received mysterious missives marked “Personal to the President, from Traveler,” and he had orders to forward these promptly in the diplomatic pouches, which couriers bore by way of Tangier, the Azores, and Brazil. Could the Counselor have failed to note the fact that these letters ceased when Mr. Budd left North Africa and were resumed when he came back? Could the thought have failed to occur to him that his Chief had set somebody to watching him and his twelve subordinates? Mr. Murphy would have been less than human if he had not been curious about such a person; and he would have been less than a shrewd diplomat if he had not “pumped” the vegetable-oil king on the subject and hinted that a meeting might be brought about in a way that would not seem too obvious.

  Lanny had been told by Roosevelt that he might reveal himself to the Counselor if he saw fit, but he had decided not to see fit just now. What the P.A. had on his mind were those six words which Hess had written on a scrap of paper, and the hope he was cherishing of taking them into Germany. If that should come about, the iess he had had to do with American agents in North Africa, the better for him. He knew that the place was swarming with agents of the enemy’s Armistice Commission. Now and then one of them sought out Herr Budd, who talked volubly about the charms of Arab and Moroccan architecture, and the wonders of Timgad which he had seen and of Volubilis about which he had been told. He expressed also the conviction that war was a sad and cruel thing with which an art lover could not possibly have anything to do. And he was careful not to let any one of them get him alone in a dark alley.

  VI

  The career diplomat came to the Golf Club; tall, handsome, comfortably dressed, but not at all “high-hat.” He was an agreeable talker, and Lanny liked to listen, but knew that he had not been invited there for this purpose. Presently the Counselor mentioned having been told that Mr. Budd had had the advantage of knowing some of the Nazi leaders. That was an invitation, and Lanny talked about the personal characteristics of Numbers One, Two, and Three, and told illustrative anecdotes. Mr. Murphy asked the art experts guess as to the circumstances under which the war might end. When and how would the Nazis give up? To this Lanny said that Hitler was a fanatic and would die fighting like a rat in a corner; Göring, on the other hand, was a practical man and had sound military judgment; he would know when victory was no longer possible. Lanny smiled as he said: “I think he would be willing to surrender all Germany, provided that he was allowed to keep his castles, and the money he has deposited abroad, and above all, his art collection.”

  They commented upon that curious psychological complexity, a genuine love of beauty combined with monstrous greed. The Frenchman told a story about a refugee of his acquaintance, a German Jew who had been a great capitalist and had owned fine paintings. For a moment Lanny thought he might be talking about Johannes Robin, but no, it was another man, who had lived in Nürnberg. He had been put under house arrest, for his own good, he was told, to protect him against the anti-Semitic mobsters. The person who came to give him advice and to aid his exit from Germany was none other than the fat Marshal’s wife.

  “Emmy Sonnemann, the actress,” Lanny remarked. “I had the pleasure of meeting her several times. She is a really kindhearted person and tried to help a number of the Jews.”

  “Maybe so,” replied the vegetable-oil man. “The way she helped this particular Jew was by telling him that he had to sell his art works, his palace, and his shares in several big German companies, all for a few thousand marks. Emmy’s husband was the buyer, and I have often wondered if Emmy got a commission on the deal.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Lanny. He was astounded, for he had thought that this stage star was really a kindly creature. Millions of Germans had thought so, too; she was built on a generous scale, the very archetype of Nordic blond beauty, praised by Hitler under the name of “Aryan.” Lanny said: “I didn’t think there was anything more for me to learn about the Nazis, but I see I was naïve.” In his mind was the night which he and his father had spent in Karinhall, and in their bedroom Robbie had written on a scrap of paper, being afraid that the room might be “wired,” a warning to his son not to be too cordial in manner to the Reichsmarschall’s wife. Göring was known to be of a jealous temperament, and Robbie was afraid that he might resent even the ordinary social courtesies.

  When the time came for the luncheon party to break up Lanny decided to make a brief “pass” at the Counselor. He remarked: “My mother is living on the Riviera, and she is talking about coming to Morocco this fall to help me in selecting some works of art for which I have orders. I don’t know what to advise her. Can you tell me whether it is likely to be safe?”

  There were only three in the private room, and certainly there wasn’t any reason for caution in the presence of the vegetable-oil king. In his talks with Lanny this man of great affairs had made plain that he knew what was coming, and Lanny suspected that he had got it from his Irish-American friend. But perhaps Mr. Murphy didn’t realize that Lanny had got that far with the French collaborator. What he answered was: “I wish I could tell you. I hear many reports, but I really couldn’t say.”

  Lanny recognized this as the kind of skillful answer he had been taught to cultivate from his youth on. Mr. Robert Murphy hadn’t made any false statement. No doubt he “wished” that he could tell, just as he wished many other good things—that the war was over, and that the world was a better place, with no gangsters and no gangsters’ molls in it. Also, he heard many reports and read many, and he “couldn’t” say—because he had been told not to. (He had just come back from a flying visit to Washington and London.)

  VII

  Lanny took a plane to Casablanca, leaving the faithful but too talkative Hajek to follow by the slower method of the rundown railroad. The P.A. had already written a note to General Béthouart, at military headquarters, saying that he was coming and hoped to have a chance to inspect the especially fine mosaic which the General had told him about. The General hadn’t told any such thing, but Lanny guessed that he wouldn’t be too dumb,
and he wasn’t. There came to the hotel a note making an appointment for the next day; and when the pair met they didn’t talk about objets d’art, but about the American agents who were now at work in “Casa,” and when was the Army coming, and in what force? There were several key persons whom the General could name, in the strictest confidence: persons whose help would be invaluable, but who would not move until they were certain that the great Army overseas was no dream. They were ready to climb onto the bandwagon, but not until they heard the music!

  Beauty had written to Algiers, and now she wrote to Morocco. Lanny had warned her not to say a word about her reasons for coming, or to ask any questions, and to this she carefully conformed. She said that good old Jerry had offered to escort them, not even asking for his expenses. Of course she was insisting upon paying these. “As you know,” wrote this playful mother, “I have never failed to have a man to ‘lean on’ if I could get him, and usually I could. Parsifal, I fear, will not be much good for travel, because he is absent-minded and is apt to be ‘saying his prayers’ while the train conductor is asking for his tickets, or while the cusstoms man is ‘going through’ his bagage.” It was a peculiarity of Beauty’s epistolary style that she used a great many quotation marks, seeming to have the idea that they served for emphasis. Also, she was not strong on spelling, and the small dictionary which Lanny had bought for her always got covered up by other things. When he called her attention to errors, her answer would be: “Gertrude Stein writes as she pleases and gets away with it, so why shouldn’t I?”

  Anyhow, she was coming, and on a baking hot day Lanny went by the four-hour, overcrowded, dusty train to Marrakech and made hotel arrangements for the party. Incidentally he renewed acquaintance with the Moorish caid who owned an oasis and had presented him with a mosaic. Lanny had sent him in return a snappy chiming clock with bright-colored figures which came out and danced the hours. This gift was appreciated immensely, so Lanny had to attend another of those overwhelming banquets. He couldn’t mention to this host that he was seeking a fountain, lest it be taken for a hint.

  He put Hajek on the job, and very soon the word spread throughout the city, small in population but large in acreage. Partly it was an “old town,” and partly a retreat for the rich, both native and foreign, with large estates planted in orange trees and date palms. They had very little interest in their native art and spent immense sums of money upon the crudest and gaudiest objects produced in Europe and America for colonial markets.

  In this great center of Mohammedan piety, ritual ablutions were common, and fountains for that purpose were everywhere. Lanny inspected many and picked out one he wanted. He directed Hajek to start negotiations for half a dozen, and didn’t tell the paynim Sancho Panza which one he really meant to purchase. The elaborate negotiations went on day and night, and meantime Lanny collected military information and stowed it away in his mind, for he would never trust the mails of French North Africa. When the negotiations were completed, the fountain had to be taken apart and boxed piece by piece, an elaborate task, and Lanny would be glad when the family arrived so that the efficient Jerry could replace the somewhat bungling Mohammedan at this job.

  VIII

  The family arrived, decidedly worn after four days and nights on three trains and one steamship in hot weather. Beauty had brought her Provencal maid, grandniece of her old-time cook, to take care of little Marcel; she had also brought Madame Zyszynski, which had not been according to plan. “I just couldn’t bear to leave her,” the mother explained. “The Nazis have been so cruel to the Poles. It wasn’t such a difficult trip after I had once made up my mind to it. But the visas were hard to get. It look a lot of ‘drag.’” Lanny told the old woman he was delighted to see her, for to have done otherwise would have broken her heart. And besides, he could try some more experiments.

  Living here was going to cost the family dear, but Lanny hoped it needn’t be for too long, and, as he told his mother, it was no time to save when you might lose your life. Beauty had a thousand dollars a month which Robbie’s secretary mailed to her New York bank account on the first day of every month unless it was Sunday; and she had sums which Lanny’s colleague, Zoltan Kertezsi, kept adding to that same account for the Detaze paintings he was authorized to sell. Also, her man of God had a small income from investments he had made back in the State of Iowa; God had protected them as per request. So they could afford four thousand francs a day at the Hotel Mamounia, and the incidental expenses which were necessary to the happiness of a one-time “professional beauty.”

  It didn’t take them long to get settled. Beauty had never failed to find people she knew in whatever part of the world she visited, and soon she was in the “social swim,” which wouldn’t completely stop its splashing for any wars. She was delighted with this unique Mohammedan city: the mud walls, the tall towers, the great market place with snake charmers and dancing boys from the Atlas Mountains. It was cold at night and hot by day; and strolling on its streets you saw not merely all the tribes of North Africa, but refugees from all Europe, French Syria, and even Indo-China.

  As for Parsifal Dingle, he sat in his elegant room, sipping tea with various Mohammedan devotees who came to call, astonished and delighted to find an American gentleman taking a genuine interest in the technicalities of their Prophet’s faith. So the two parents both had what they wanted; and Lanny could only hope that his judgment had been correct, and that Marrakech was a safer place for Americans than Juan-les-Pins. He believed that the fighting in North Africa would be on the beaches, and he knew that this city of mosques and millionaires was not equipped to stand a siege, even if the French had been minded for it. Of course if the “Yanks” were repelled, the Wehrmacht would come here, but the situation would be no worse than on the Riviera.

  IX

  Lanny put Jerry in charge of the packing of the fountain and left himself free to continue the gathering of information. Also, he had a little time for play, and took Madame to his room and seated her in a well-stuffed chair, where she could rest her head back and go into one of her trances. He had decided that her powers were waning, if not entirely gone, but he had to indulge her once in a while because she had adopted him in her heart as a son and must not be made to feel that she was put away on the shelf.

  Perhaps it was that travel had stirred up her faculty. Whatever the reason, she gave a demonstration that reminded him of the old days. There came the familiar voice of Tecumseh, the Amerindian chieftain who said he had been an Iroquois, and much superior to the one known to history. What he actually was Lanny had never been able to decide, but he talked in character and his voice was sometimes like Madame’s, sometimes not. For thirteen years the Polish ex-servant had assured the Budds that she knew about this voice only what other people had told her; she had never heard it in her life.

  “So here you are again, young man!” boomed the “spirit.” “Where have you been keeping yourself?” That a man of stone-age culture two centuries dead should be using modern slang was something you just had to guess about.

  “You ought to know as well as I,” bantered Lanny. They had treated each other in this fashion through the years.

  “I am not nearly so much interested in you as you are in yourself. What is it you are looking for?”

  “Nothing in particular, Tecumseh. Just the pleasure of a chat with you.”

  “You know you don’t believe in me and never will. You just want to sit and make a lot of notes, and then what do you do with them?”

  “I study them diligently, old friend.”

  “To what purpose? A ten-year-old child would know more. He would understand simple facts and wouldn’t need such long words.” Then, abruptly: “There is a man here, a foreign fellow. He speaks English badly, word by word. Why can’t people learn a sensible language? I am tired of these queer ones who come crowding around you, always in trouble.”

  “I have lived most of my life in Europe, Tecumseh, and met all sorts of people. Ask the man his
name.”

  “He says it is Hoo-go. Is that right?”

  “I knew a man by that name.”

  “Is he an Indian? He gives the name Bear.”

  “He is a German. They spell it B-E-H-R. I remember him well. Ask him how long he has been in the spirit world.”

  “He says eight years. He says he went suddenly.”

  “No man could go more suddenly,” declared Lanny, who held the event as one of the most vivid memories in his life. He had been driving the young Nazi in his car, and two Schutzstaffel men had driven up from behind, ordered Hugo out of the car, and shot him in the face, scattering his blood and brains over the pavement of a Munich street. Such things had been going on all over that city and also Berlin—it was part of the dreadful Blood Purge at the end of June and the beginning of July 1934. Adolf Hitler had become Chancellor upon a program of fundamental economic reforms, and after a year and a half his most sincere followers had realized that he had sold out to the cartelmasters and had no idea of abolishing “interest slavery” or breaking up the great landed estates. Adolf Hitler was getting ready for war, and the first thing he had to do was to rid himself of those “old companions,” the Sturmabteilung men who had helped him to power and were clamoring for their reward. “National Socialists,” they had called themselves, and they wanted the “Socialist” part, while their “Adi” was going to give them only the “Nationalist” part.