Julian smiles at Liz. “What kind of slapdash story would it be, Liz, if it wasn’t about love?” he says. “Yes. Every good story is about love.”
Now they really want to hear.
“Even the death at sea story?” Liz asks. A romantic tremble animates and beautifies her plain, freckled face.
“Especially that one,” Julian says. “Because that one is about the truest love of all. A love that just is, and asks for nothing back. It’s easy to tell a story full of sexy words about beautiful people loving each other in sunny climes.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing that story,” Mia echoes, sounding like someone who’s rarely seen either.
Julian doesn’t dare look at her, lest he give himself away. He continues to address Liz. “But just try telling an imperfect story about ugly damaged people loving other ugly damaged people and see how far you get.”
With the Swedish flame burning between them and whiskey and nicotine burning their throats, Julian begins by telling his newfound friends about the frozen cave. Bound by grief, he embarked on a perilous journey to find the secret to eternal life. He tells them how long he walked along the river until he was blocked by a vertical cliff of ice, hundreds of feet tall and smooth like a sculpture, with no way to climb it or break it. No way in and no way back. He lay down on the ice and went to sleep, and when he woke up, the mountain was gone. It had melted into the river and refrozen. The only thing left from it was a small mound with a circular opening, like an icy halo. “It is called a moongate,” Julian says. “So I walked through this moongate and continued on my quest. This is before I knew,” he adds, “that the life I looked for, I would never find.”
“What did you really travel to the end of the earth in search for, Swedish?” Wild laughs. “It was some girl, right?”
Mia, Mia, my heart, my dearest one, you are the one.
“What do you call the cliff?” Wild asks when Julian doesn’t answer.
“Mount Terror,” Julian replies.
“Fuck, yeah!”
“Fuck off!” says Nick.
Finch scoffs.
Mia jumps to her feet. “Wait! Stop speaking, Julian.”
“What a splendid suggestion, dove,” Finch says.
“Your story is too good to waste on us wankers.”
“Thanks a lot, Folgate,” Wild says.
“I, for one, would enjoy hearing the rest,” Peter Roberts says in a measured baritone. “The man has finally got around to telling a real story. He began at the beginning and was continuing capably until you stopped him, Maria.”
“That wasn’t the beginning, Robbie,” says Julian. “Not by a long shot.”
“You’ll hear all of it, Robbie, I promise you,” Mia says. “Follow me. Bring your chair.”
Mia leads Julian and the rest to the escalator lobby where a hundred Londoners have collected for the night, spilling out onto both platforms. “These poor folks are starving for entertainment,” Mia says. “You saw how fired up they were last night. What do you say? Let’s give them a story. Some drama, some comedy, a fight. You’ll lift their spirits, make the time pass. What could be better? I wish we had enough drink for them. They would so enjoy a little sip of whiskey.”
“I’ll get some,” Julian says. “I’ll get some as soon as I can.”
“Sure you will.” Mia smiles, as if she’s heard a lot of promises men have not kept. “We’ll do it interview style, okay? I’ll ask you questions and in your answers you’ll tell them what happened.”
“Thank you, Mia,” Julian says, gazing at her, “for explaining to me what an interview is.”
She giggles. “You’re welcome, Julian.” She hops up onto the makeshift stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, come closer,” she yells, motioning the Londoners to her. “Gather round. Tonight, for your listening entertainment, we want to present our new series of tales. They’re called . . . what are they called, Julian?”
“Tales of Love and Hate.”
“Tales of Love and Hate!” she exclaims. “Tonight, we’ll start with the first of—” She glances at Julian. “First of how many?”
“First of five.”
“Tonight, we will start with the first of five, called ‘The Death Match at Sea,’ or the mystery of how Julian nearly lost his hand. I’m Maria Delacourt. Please welcome to the stage, my co-star in The Importance of Being Earnest, Julian Cruz.”
There’s tepid clapping.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that smattering of applause,” an unperturbed Mia continues. “Rest assured, when you hear the story of this fight, you will be standing in the aisles.” She leans to Julian. “Am I overpromising?”
“Underpromising, I reckon,” Julian says.
“Why don’t we have a real fight instead?” a man in the back says.
“Yeah,” another man says. “Now that would be bloody entertainment.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be fair for me to fight Mr. Cruz,” Mia says. “He wouldn’t stand a chance.” She winks at Julian. “How about if we begin with a story, and then we’ll see what we see. Prick up your ears, give Julian your full attention. You won’t be disappointed.”
And they’re not.
Raptly they listen, gasping at the horror of being vastly outnumbered by murderous men with evil intent in the middle of an ocean, gasping even more at the girl’s shocking betrayal. Even Mia loses her put-on composure. “Did she really do that?” she whispers, wide-eyed.
“She really did,” Julian replies, studying her face.
“How could she do it? I thought she loved you.”
“She did. But she didn’t want to die.”
“Julian, why do you keep staring at me, as if I have the answers to my own questions?” she whispers. “Did you forgive her?”
“What do you think?”
“You fool, I think you did.”
Julian ends the story of his Valkyrie, the chooser of the slain, with Tama’s demise, not with the actual end, which is too cruel for this setting and these people. Probably too cruel for any setting. Ending it early makes it almost a happy ending. Masha at the Cherry Lane was lost and then was found, just as she had always dreamed of.
The crowd applauds with gusto. Wild cheers wildly. Even Peter Roberts claps, his face flushed and satisfied. The only one who doesn’t clap is Finch.
“Well done! You definitely want them more ecstatic at the end,” Mia says to Julian, grabbing his arm and raising it together with hers as they take their bows. “That’s how you know you’ve done your job.”
“I agree, it’s always good to end ecstatically,” Julian says, squeezing her fingers. Blushing, she doesn’t return his gaze.
“Fight! Fight!” the crowd keeps yelling. “Show us a real fight! A boxing match! There must be some plonker in your group who’ll fight you. Come on! Give us something!”
“We’re not going to do that,” Mia tells the audience. “But if we’re still here tomorrow, God willing, and you return, we might have some whiskey for you . . . and we’ll tell you another story—which one, Julian? The murder in a brothel?”
“That one’s good.”
“Okay,” she says. “Are there any details to the brothel story besides cold-blooded murder?”
“Oh, one or two,” Julian says, making Mia blush again. He smiles. She smiles.
“How about a hot-blooded fight right now, Swedish?” Wild yells from the sidelines. “Finch over here just told me he’ll fight you.”
“You bet I will,” Finch says. “I’ll kick his arse. He won’t know what hit him.”
“Finch is dying to fight you, Swedish!” Wild yells. “What do you say?”
“Fight! Fight!”
The howl of the siren sounds. There’s a collective groan of disappointment and misery. The bad part of life has intruded on the good part of life.
9
Cripplegate
“ARE THE DOORS OF ST. PAUL’S STILL OPEN?” JULIAN AND MIA are walking briskly down Whitechapel. Earlier that morni
ng, they rode with Shona to the Royal London Hospital to get resupplied with bandages and antiseptic. With Julian carrying the heavy canvas bag, they’re headed back to the jeep on Commercial Street, where Finch is undoubtedly steaming and waiting.
“Sure, it’s open,” Mia says. “Why, do you want to hide inside?”
“Yes,” Julian says. “Inside the Bank of England, inside St. Paul’s. Inside the Stock Exchange. Inside Monument.” Inside things that don’t fall. Things that won’t fall. The gods of the city have cloaked the Bank of England and St. Paul’s in an invisible shield, as if the mystical dragons of London jealously guard its greatest treasures.
“I’ve never seen London like this,” Julian says as they walk, “without its people.”
Mia nods. “It’s like a ghost town. But believe me, the people are still here.”
“Yes,” he replies, not looking at her. “They’re just ghosts.”
The rain turns to ice. Frozen pellets drop out of the sky and pound Julian and Mia like gunfire. He notes her falling apart boots as they hurry down the street.
“Did you know,” he says to her, “that if you run in the rain instead of walk, you won’t get as wet?”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m serious. If we run, we won’t get as wet as when we dawdle and take in the sights. Want to try it? Here, give me your hand.”
They race down Whitechapel to where it crosses Commercial Street and duck into a covered archway at Aldgate East tube station to catch their breath and get out of the hailstorm for a minute.
“I don’t know, Swedish.” Mia laughs. “I’m pretty soaked.”
“Well, you started out soaked,” Julian says, “so it doesn’t count. Try it when you’re dry. Run through the rain. You won’t get as wet.”
“If you say so.” She is full of good humor.
His newsboy hat on, her winter hat on, they resume their dash up Commercial Street, slowing down when they realize they’re almost at the jeep, parked at the usual spot near the Ten Bells pub.
“Hey, so where’s the best place for me to get things?” Julian asks. “Things that aren’t rationed.”
“Like on the black market? They cost a lot.”
“I didn’t ask that. I asked where to go.”
“Find the back of a lorry,” Mia says. “Not in the center of town, or where you need to be good.” She points to the police station they pass on Commercial. The sign on its door says, “BE GOOD. WE’RE STILL OPEN.”
Mia tells him to try north Cripplegate. “Though I should warn you, if you haven’t been that way recently, you’re in for a nasty shock. But if you manage to get beyond it, in the back of Smithfield Market there’s a lot of stuff being sold off lorries. Watch out, though, because Finch doesn’t like that stuff.”
“What doesn’t he like, whisky, bacon, wool blankets?”
“All that.” She pauses. “But also be careful because stray bombs are always falling, even during the day. You keep forgetting that. They fall without a siren. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“I promised Finch good Scotch whisky, so that’s one thing I’m getting.”
“You’re not going to win him over with that.”
“Trust me, nothing I do is going to win him over,” Julian says. Mia bites her lip. “What else should I get? What would your friends like?”
“Bacon rashers. Eggs. Anything out of ration would be good.”
“What about you? Would you like something?”
She gets flustered. “I wouldn’t mind putting on a costume and singing a song. All the girls would love some nylon stockings, even tough old Shona, even Kate, who pretends to be hard but that’s only because she doesn’t want people to think she’s soft and take advantage of her.”
“Is she soft?”
“Nah, she’s hard.”
“What about you?” He pauses. She blushes. “I mean . . . would you like some nylon stockings?”
Not answering, she points to her thick black hose. “I wouldn’t say no. We’re saving our money to go dancing sometime. And to the cinema. Gone with the Wind is playing at the Empire. They’re charging something exorbitant for it like half-a-shilling, and it’s always sold out now that there’s only one show a day, but we’re definitely going. I wouldn’t mind some nylon hose to go to the pictures. We’re planning to take a day off from the war for it. Would you like to come, too?”
“Would love to,” Julian says. “What else?” He points to the soles coming off her boots, the mud leaking in. “Maybe some new boots?”
“Good luck finding a pair of those.”
They’ve arrived at Finch’s vehicle.
Finch sticks his head out. “Where have you two been?” he says loudly, almost yelling. “We’ve been waiting an hour!”
“We got bandages, Finch. Show him, Julian. And we got caught in the downpour.”
“I just bet you have.” Wild wakes up just in time to quip and grin.
Julian raises his hand in a goodbye. “You go on without me, Finch,” he says. “I’ll be back tonight—maybe. Today, I have things to do.”
“Take all the time you need,” Finch says. “A week, a month.”
“No, don’t go by yourself, Swedish.” Wild starts to open the door. “I’ll come with you.”
Julian stops him. “Another time, Wild. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you come back?” says Wild.
“Fuck, I hope not,” Finch mutters.
“Hey, aren’t you going to ask me my boot size?” Mia calls out to Julian.
“Nah, I’m good,” Julian says, waving. Around seven and a half, right, Mia? It’s all he can do to not blow her a kiss.
* * *
Julian has seen London unpaved and swallowed by a great fire. He’s seen London in the muck of the rookery and in the white gloved elegance of Sydenham. He’s seen the impoverished Monmouth Street and the well-to-do Piccadilly. He’s seen London in the present day, teeming and open, lit up and loud, Ferris wheels, museums, white marble houses, black doors, green parks, red coats of the Grenadier guards, everything familiar and right as rain.
Julian has never seen London like this.
A sore evil has ravaged the city. Bitter hail has mixed with smoke and blood, it has blackened the air and the sun, destroyed the things that were good, left behind jackhammered ruin.
Julian, who knows London so well he can walk it in his dreams, loses his way without any street signs.
Julian loses his way without any streets.
North and west and east of St. Paul’s, blocks of the old city have been cremated into skeletal dust. Nothing whole is left standing, nothing.
As he walks shellshocked through the deserted plain, Julian sees that the destruction of the cramped city around St. Paul’s has exposed the church from all sides. In somber marble immensity, it rises above the ruins of the city that once teemed at its feet. No more alleys and skewed close-up perspectives from which to admire St. Paul’s majesty. Yes, London has been brought to its knees, but the unbowed cathedral looms on its solitary hill, seen for miles from the ground and the air—now more unprotected than ever.
The area between St. Mary le Bow and Cheapside is a wasteland.
But because the British are the British, there’s an arrow on Ludgate Hill in the middle of the devastation, and a sign underneath it that reads: Berlin—600 miles.
At the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, the statue of John Milton has been blown off its plinth, the bell tower destroyed, and the roof of the nave blown in. The walls have survived somehow, but the rest of the church lies broken on the ground.
The area around St. Giles, like St. Paul’s, has been bombed out of existence. There’s almost no Roman wall left where Julian hid his money. It’s dust like all the rest. Only a short, damaged chunk of the wall remains.
The stone with the little cross Julian etched into it stands exposed almost at the break. The graystone is loose, having been dislodged from its neig
hbors. Julian barely needs a chisel. As he’s pulling out the stone, there’s a loud rumble nearby and an explosion. It startles him, and he drops the boulder, almost on his foot. The stone falls and hits another. Both of them crack into smaller pieces.
For a long time, Julian sits on his haunches and stares at the weathered and dried-out leather bag with the dulled gold silk ribbons, stares at the shiny coins inside, forty-one of them, still gleaming. There is no stashing it away anymore for later. There is no later. He is never coming back. It’s impossible to believe, impossible to accept. There’s another explosion, another stray bomb detonated. It breaks his reverie. Black smoke, flames. The fire engine sirens slice through the silence. Julian grabs the purse with the coins in it, doesn’t bother closing up the hole in the wall, glances at it once last time, and walks away, leaving it for good.
10
Blood Brothers
THAT NIGHT JULIAN RETURNS TO BANK A CONQUERING HERO. He has been to several gold dealers on Cheapside, shopped around, got the best price, and sold two of the coins for three hundred pounds each, half of what they’re actually worth but decent enough in the middle of a war. He has been to Smithfield, has strolled past all the lorries. He returns carrying a breakwater stormcollar raincoat as a gift to Wild for taking his cloak, and sackfuls of gifts for the rest; Julian, a blackened bearded wartime Santa Claus.
“The whisky is in!” shouts Wild in his new raincoat, jubilantly running up and down the empty platform. “The whisky is in!”
“Are the boots in?” Mia asks shyly.
He smiles at her. The boots are also in, black leather, brand new. She beams. Julian wants to kiss her. But Finch is watching.
He’s brought them bacon and dry sausage and ham that’s not in a tin. He’s brought more kerosene, boxes of matches, a knife for Wild, a straight razor to shave with, he’s brought soap, new gloves, a yellow wool cardigan for Mia (Wild: “How did he know what size to get you, Folgate? Did he measure you out with his hands?” Julian: “Lucky guess.” Mia: “Shut up, Wild!”), toothpaste, and bottles of ODO-RO-NO liquid deodorant. He’s brought three blankets that don’t itch. He bought all that he could carry. That night he makes another Swedish flame, uses Wild’s new knife to cut up the meats, they pour out the excellent Scottish whisky and for five minutes sit by the fire on the empty Central Line platform, drinking and smoking and joking around like they’re nothing but young.
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