Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Colonel Senda was on his feet, shouting something Saint-Germain could not quite make out. “Your master is shot! A terrible accident! He is shot!” he repeated at the top of his lungs, and came to Saint-Germain’s side, bending over him, not quite touching him. “Where were you hit?”

  Saint-Germain blinked as if to clear his thoughts. “Shoulder,” he said at last.

  Lips pursed, Colonel Senda got down on one knee. “No blood pumping. Your artery is spared.” He still held the snifter in his right hand, and he emptied the little bit of cognac remaining over the spreading patch of blood on Saint-Germain’s jacket. “You may even live. If you have good care.” He was struggling to his feet when Rogerio rushed into the room, an apron still tied around his waist. “He’s shot in the shoulder: the right one, by the look of it,” the Colonel informed him, then went back to his chair to sit down. “An outrage.”

  Rogerio knelt beside Saint-Germain. “My master,” he said in a quiet tone that demanded attention.

  “The bullet’s … still…” Saint-Germain muttered; the pain had struck now, and left him breathless in a way the initial shock had not.

  “In the wound. I will remove it as soon as I can be rid of the Colonel,” he said in an under-voice in Greek, then spoke up, in Spanish for Senda’s benefit. “I must telephone his physician. If you will excuse me?”

  “Will you not take him to hospital?” Colonel Senda inquired as if he were discussing primroses.

  “If his physician so orders, of course: to the hospital of his designation,” said Rogerio. “If the streets are safe enough to travel just now.”

  “Very well,” said the Colonel. “If you should prefer, I can order my men to transport him to San Gil’s; they will take very good care of him there.” When Rogerio did not seize the opportunity, Senda shrugged. “No? Then I will not linger. I should report this; accidents like this are on the rise, and care must be taken. Random shots are as dangerous as intentional ones, aren’t they?” He put the snifter down and stood up. “I leave you to it. Do let me know how he fares.” With that, he went to the door and let himself out.

  As soon as he was gone, Rogerio went back to Saint-Germain and again knelt beside him. “Are you still—”

  “I am … conscious,” said Saint-Germain. His voice was thready, and his skin was paler than usual. “How bad is it?”

  “I will have to dig out the bullet,” Rogerio said apologetically. “I don’t think it would be wise to go to hospital.”

  “I agree,” Saint-Germain managed to say.

  “Can you get to your feet?” Rogerio put his hand on Saint-Germain’s wounded shoulder.

  “With help,” said Saint-Germain. He prepared to push himself with his good left arm; his whole body felt wobbly.

  Rogerio put his arm over Saint-Germain’s back and helped to pull him upright, then shifted his position so he could lever Saint-Germain to his feet, letting his master lean against him as he did. “This is a very bad wound. You should be on your bed.” He spoke levelly, though his faded-blue eyes were filled with trouble.

  “Yes,” Saint-Germain said, his head ringing from this simple effort. He swayed, his vision swimming. “It’s deep.”

  “Can you feel it?” Rogerio asked as he adjusted his hold on Saint-Germain, wedging his shoulder against Saint-Germain’s chest as he began to guide him out of the room and toward the corridor; as they went, he saw a ribbon of blood following them. He said nothing of this ominous sign, but did his best to make Saint-Germain move a little faster.

  “Yes … I’ll let … you know where … it is.” He took an uneven breath and went on. “Use the pansy paste.”

  “Will it help?” Rogerio asked, knowing that few analgesics or anesthetics worked on Saint-Germain.

  “A little.” He grunted as he almost tripped.

  “Colonel Senda said this was an accident,” said Rogerio, doing his best to keep Saint-Germain awake and alert.

  “Hardly,” said Saint-Germain. He made an effort not to drag his feet.

  “So I thought,” said Rogerio as he guided Saint-Germain into the anteroom to his bedroom. “I am going to remove your jacket and your shirt.” The room was shadowed, being on the north side of the building, and the windows still shuttered against the brightness of the day, and Rogerio made no attempt to change this.

  “Carefully,” Saint-Germain admonished him, wanting to sink into the nearest chair and knowing that he must not. “Bed,” he murmured; he needed the annealing presence of his native earth in the chest upon which his bed was made. Sitting on the chest, he could feel the first anodyne touch of his native earth seep into him; stoically he permitted Rogerio to remove his jacket and, more gingerly, his shirt. “Ruined,” he remarked as Rogerio dropped the white silk into the hamper.

  “So is the jacket,” said Rogerio.

  Now that his skin was exposed, Saint-Germain almost shivered, although he was rarely cold; in a remote part of his mind he knew this was a sign of shock. “Fetch a blanket,” he made himself say, then lay back, allowing Rogerio to pull a blanket from the closet over him as far as his bleeding shoulder. At first this made no difference, but then the combination of the blanket’s warmth and his native earth combined to shield him from the worst of his shock.

  Rogerio left Saint-Germain for a short while, going to the makeshift laboratory in the third suite; he opened Saint-Germain’s chest of medical tools and medicaments and selected three small, specialized knives not unlike scalpels, and put them into a neat, metallic container that began to hum as soon as he closed the lid. Then he took two vials of heavy glass filled with various substances and fitted with glass stoppers, closed the chest and locked it, retrieved a stack of bandages and a sling from the shelves near the inner door, picked up half-a-dozen sheets of spongy cotton, then hurried back to Saint-Germain.

  “Do you … have everything?” Saint-Germain asked, his eyes opening a little.

  “I think so,” said Rogerio; he opened the writing desk and set out all he had brought. “I’ll get distilled water from the kitchen and I’ll be ready.”

  “Good … I’m weakening,” Saint-Germain told him as he closed his eyes again.

  “I’ll get this over as soon as possible. I’ll need your help,” said Rogerio, and went to the kitchen for the distilled water. When he returned, he could see that Saint-Germain’s pale olive skin had an ashen hue. He forced himself to be methodical, setting out his instruments and putting all he would need in proximity to Saint-Germain. As soon as he was ready, he went to the side of the bed and gently touched Saint-Germain’s hand. “My master?” he asked in the Latin of Imperial Rome. “I will have to begin.”

  “I’m almost … ready,” Saint-Germain answered in the same language.

  “It is going to be painful,” Rogerio warned, looking at the sluggishly oozing blood on his shoulder; the wound was a messy one, with bits of wood and fabric embedded in it, and would require careful cleaning.

  “I expect so,” said Saint-Germain through clenched teeth.

  “Can you tell me where the bullet is?” Rogerio asked as he reached for the knife with the slight curve in its blade.

  “It’s lodged just … behind my … right scapula, about a … a thumb-joint below … my clavicle … go between the … deltoid … and trapezius.” He took a long, unsteady breath. “Both of them … must be torn.”

  “There’s a fair amount of damage,” said Rogerio at his most neutral. “The trajectory seems fairly straight, and the entrance not too badly torn.”

  “Nothing as bad as … the road to … Baghdad,” Saint-Germain said with a rictus smile.

  “No, nothing like that,” Rogerio agreed, and brought up the little knife. “I am going to start now.” The low light did not particularly bother him, and his hands remained steady as he began to probe for the bullet, listening for Saint-Germain’s instructions as he proceeded. Finally he located it, and reached for the small tube that contained four tiny grapplers that could extend to take hold of the b
ullet and help to remove it. The process was slow and painstaking, and Rogerio was constantly aware of the pain he was causing Saint-Germain, though the Comte remained doggedly silent. Rogerio went on with meticulous care, removing all the bits of cloth and wood he encountered even while he tried to locate the bullet; he did not bother to apologize but kept at his work with steady purpose, his hands as steady as a glass-carver’s. Once he had the bullet out, he took care to remove all the fragments of cloth and wood that he could find, wiping each of these on the remnants of Saint-Germain’s shirt, and then sluiced the wound first with the distilled water, then with the contents of one of the vials, absorbing the blood and other matter with one of the spongy cotton cloths. “I am almost finished,” he told Saint-Germain.

  “Good,” Saint-Germain muttered. “You know … what to do.”

  “I’ll make sure the wound is as close to closed as it can be made; I will put bandages to hold it in place; then I’ll bind the wound. You’ll have to wear a sling for a month or so.” He had the bandages at the ready; at least, he thought, he did not have to stitch the wound closed. That would have been hard to take just now.

  “I’ll do … it,” Saint-Germain said, sounding exhausted.

  “And,” Rogerio went on as he began to wrap the shoulder with broad strips of linen, “it will not heal immediately.”

  “But … it will heal,” said Saint-Germain, and let himself drift off into a dreamless state that was more than slumber and less than unconsciousness. When he wakened, a single light burned on his writing desk and he had been given another blanket to keep warm. The carriage clock on the single large chest-of-drawers indicated that it was 3:49, and the silence of the night made the ticking of the clock loud by contrast. As he took stock of his surroundings, the injury that had sent him to bed came back to him in vivid detail. He attempted to rise, and was stopped at once by a bolt of agony that went through him like a hot iron. Lying back down, he tested the bandages that enveloped his shoulder and crossed his chest, trying to determine how incapacitated he was. He was deciding that this was not as bad as he had expected, when he realized that he was not alone in the room.

  Rogerio rose from the chair he had pulled in from the sitting room, anticipating Saint-Germain’s need of assistance. “You’re awake.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Saint-Germain, waving him back.

  “I reported the incident to the police. I told them you had received private care here, since there was shooting in the streets.” He had been reading the newspaper, but he now set it aside. “According to La Revista del Cádiz, nine people were killed and twenty-six wounded in yesterday’s outbreak of gunfire.”

  “Did they say who is responsible?” Saint-Germain asked, unable to keep a degree of cynicism out of his question.

  “‘Unknown groups of anti-military insurgents,’ according to this; the usual diatribes about Basques and Communists,” said Rogerio, putting his hand on the paper. “The editor is calling for a stricter enforcing of the laws, and more severe punishment to those who are caught causing public mayhem,” he added.

  “In other words, he is playing into the army’s hands.” Saint-Germain used his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Is that the sum of it?”

  “There is also a long piece on General Franco,” said Rogerio. “You would find it interesting, I think.”

  “Oh? What does he say?” Saint-Germain knew Rogerio well and recognized this remark as an indication that there was more to the article than was immediately apparent.

  “More of what he has been saying all along,” Rogerio told him. “But what he does not say is particularly interesting.”

  Saint-Germain closed his eyes. “I’ll have a look at it in the morning, when I wake up.”

  “Do you want more sleep?” Rogerio asked, relieved to hear this.

  “Want it or not, I need it,” he said, preparing to drift off again. “And remind me: tomorrow I must spend some time…” He yawned.

  “Some time?” Rogerio prompted.

  “What?” Saint-Germain blinked. “Oh. Yes. Some time finding out who ordered me shot, and why.” With that, he let his attention fade as sleep overcame him again.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM DRUZE SVINY OF ECLIPSE AEROPLANO INDUSTRIAS TO ESTANISLAO MENENDEZ Y MORRO.

  729, Calle de las Piedras

  Córdoba

  11 May, 1936

  Estanislao Menendez y Morro

  Mininsterio de Carretera

  Departamento de Desarrollo

  Madrid

  My dear Señor Menendez y Morro,

  I have in hand your inquiry of 29 April, and I have read it over carefully. As acting Chairman of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias, I am willing to answer your questions, except those that I deem unsuitable by reason of confidentiality, which I am legally required to maintain. I am sure you understand, and will not intrude further into such issues as those I cannot and will not now answer, and I thank you for respecting my decision, and honoring the obligation under which I make it.

  First, as you must know, Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias is well-funded. You have access to banking records, and all transactions regarding this company have been subjected to the usual scrutiny. But let me assure you that should Eclipse not sell another airplane for two years and continue its production at the current rate, the company would not be in financial trouble for at least four years. I think you will agree that this is adequate for the projected output of this plant. Additionally, as you have certainly found out, the company is privately held by Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, who is a registered resident alien, just as I am, and who has been most careful to observe all governmental regulations imposed on the airplane industry since he acquired Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias. No doubt you can find the specific terms of that agreement in public records, along with the articles of incorporation.

  How much has been paid can be found out from a careful inquiry into the banking arrangements that were part of the purchase of the business. You need not get such information from me, unless you suspect fraud; if that is the case, I would require a subpoena to release our records as part of your investigation. I cannot confirm any link with Eclipse Shipping for the same reason.

  Your question about the use of our planes for surveys I can answer. Of course the airplanes can be used for such work. In fact, the Scythian can be fitted with cameras for the purpose of filming newsreels and motion pictures from the air. The cost of this adaptation is minimal, and depending on the number of airplanes ordered, can be adjusted to your advantage. The Moghul is not as versatile, but can be fitted out with cameras as well; it has the greatest carrying capacity of our present models, and as such, may be the most potentially versatile of our airplanes. The Spartan is not adaptable for cameras, but it can be given pontoons for water landings.

  I am not at liberty to divulge the reasons for the dismissal of Señor Lundhavn; I am not certain he was dismissed, for there is a letter of resignation in his file which presupposes he left voluntarily. If, as you say, he has accepted employment in Germany, you may have hit upon the reason for his leaving here, for undoubtedly the Germans are offering excellent salaries to engineers. I can propose no reason why he should not be granted permission to accept the offer of work, for all the designs of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias remain here with us, under the terms of our contracts with the company.

  How can you ask that this company divert our work from that which we are chartered to do? We could lose our business license if we fail to produce airplanes for nonstrategic use: you are as aware of the terms of our corporate grants, and you must know we are under specific mandate regarding the use of our airplanes.

  It would be improper for me to provide you with our production schedule without the express permission of le Comte de Saint-Germain. I doubt he would refuse to tell you what he has arranged in that regard, but the information must come from him, not from me, or any other employee of this company. I will be pleased to forward your request to
him if you would prefer I do so.

  None of our employees have been the subject of governmental scrutiny, at least not to my personal knowledge. If such inquiries have been made, no part of the investigation has been revealed to me. Your interest in le Comte de Saint-Germain is well-known in this office. If suspicion has fallen on any other men, or upon me, I am unaware of it; if there is any such inquiry being made, I ask you to make a formal statement of such probes to this office as soon as is convenient for you.

  Our test pilots are not currently available to train military personnel to fly reconnaissance missions in our airplanes, nor do I think you would find their techniques appropriate. If you would like to interview them, I ask that you arrange to do so through this office so that even the appearance of duplicity is avoided.

  There are no plans at present to develop a new model of airplane, so your questions in that regard have no significance. However, if you mean to ask if we are able to develop new models, then I must tell you that of course we are. This company has five of the best airplane-design engineers working in western Europe, even with Señor Lundhavn gone. Our staff is second to none; le Comte has made it worth their while to work here, and unless the government should force a change in company policy, I cannot believe that you will find any other designs superior to ours.

  In the hope that this will allay your fears and promote a cordial relationship between Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias and the government,

  I remain

  Most sincerely,

  Druze Sviny

  Acting Chairman

  Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias

  DS/jp

  chapter five

  “I still can’t believe I’m actually leaving tonight,” Doña Isabel said, not looking directly at Saint-Germain. “I must thank you again for arranging for me to lease that fine house fairly near London. Does it have moors and heaths? When next you have contact with the owner, tell him I am grateful to him.” She was dressed for the theater, in a long, drapey, sleeveless and backless silk dress the color of poppies; a fox wrap was negligently thrown around her shoulders—although it had been quite warm during the day, there was now a brisk wind off the Atlantic, and besides, the fox set off her lovely arms and back to spectacular advantage—and she carried a small, beaded bag worked in an Egyptian motif of jackal-heads. “It is Solita’s night off and she will not come until after siesta tomorrow. I should be well out of España by then.”