Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You see, the mission I am on is a delicate one. I am pursuing an enemy of Spain, a man who has been found to be a foe of the Revolution that is taking place now. I am supposed to return him to Madrid for trial, but as your government has not recognized our Generals as the leaders of Spain, I have no authority that your country recognizes, nor can I request local assistance. I am very much on my own, and that limits how I can handle my task.” He stared at the chandelier hanging in the center of the dining room.

  “How troublesome,” she said, trying to follow what he was saying.

  “It is, for this man is potentially very dangerous. You see, he had a business that has great strategic value, and he fled before he could—” He stopped abruptly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you any of this.”

  “Why not?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

  “I understand he is a client of your law firm, and that could make for … problems for you,” he told her as if his hesitation was for her benefit. His cigarette went out in the ashtray.

  “Goodness,” she whispered, and drank a little more. This was turning out to be a most astonishing evening, one that made the rest of her life drab by contrast.

  The waiter appeared and handed them menus. “I’ll be back for your order in a few minutes.”

  Mentally cursing the waiter, Cenere said to Miss McAllister, “Order anything you like, Dorothy, even caviar.”

  She beamed. “I wouldn’t do that. Not at such prices! Fifteen dollars an ounce-and-a-half—I ask you!”

  “It is a bit expensive, but for you, it would be worth it. If it is what you want, you must order it, and enjoy it.” He was afraid he had said too much, but she did not give any response that suggested he had gone too far. He studied the menu, finding the selection limited and the side-dishes mundane, but he assumed an enthusiasm for her benefit. “The duck looks promising, and so does the veal.”

  “But they’re so expensive,” said Miss McAllister, who rarely dined lavishly except at home on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  “The soups look tempting,” Cenere said, wanting to distract her from the prices.

  “So they do,” she said. “I do like cream of tomato soup.” She licked her lips in response, saying nothing more for a moment. “Would you mind if I had the soup and perhaps the duck as well?”

  “Have what you like,” he said, growing a bit tired of having to remind her that he could afford the meal. He restored his charming manner. “I’m planning to order champagne, if that might influence your choice.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I ought to have any. I’ve had so much to drink already and…”

  When she did not go on, he said, “I hope you’ll have at least one glass, to toast our meeting. I’m sorry it could not take place under more propitious circumstances, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t make the most of it.”

  “I suppose not,” she said.

  “What else can we do? We have so little time that we must pack as much into it as we are able.” He took another small sip of bourbon and nodded to her to drink again.

  She closed the menu and met his eyes. “All right. One glass of champagne, and I’ll have the cream of tomato soup and the duck.”

  “Good for you,” said Cenere, confident that with such rich foods, he could persuade her to drink more.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, mindful of her behavior. “I really appreciate this evening.”

  “Now you’re the one being kind,” he said, and summoned the waiter with a flick of his hand. “The lady will have the cream of tomato soup to start, and the duck. I’ll have the consommé, and the pork loin stuffed with mushrooms. And bring us a bottle of your Roederer, the ’24 or ’26, chilled and in an ice bucket.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the waiter as he reclaimed the menus and went off toward the kitchen.

  “Foolish sort of fellow, isn’t he?” Cenere asked.

  “He’s got a hard job, and he works at the library during the day,” said Miss McAllister. “I have seen him there.”

  “That explains his demeanor,” said Cenere, aware he had made a misstep and anxious to undo any damage he might have done. “He seems made of crumpled paper.” He was disappointed when she showed no sign of amusement.

  “Many men have to take what work they can get Most of these jobs don’t pay very well, and if he has a wife and family, or parents, to support, his library salary won’t suffice.” She drank down the last of her Sidecar; she was feeling a bit guilty to be here, having such a wonderful meal in a gorgeous restaurant, all the while aware that most of the people she knew could not afford to have anything half as nice as this.

  “We know something of hardships in Europe,” he said, his eyes lowered.

  “And many of them worse than anything we endure here, I’m sure. The privations of war are much more destructive than the problems of economic woes—not that Europe hasn’t had more than its fair share of those.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you on what you must know far better than I.”

  Cenere schooled his features to an accepting partial smile. “You have a better grasp of these things than most of your countrymen, if you will forgive my saying so,” he told her soothingly.

  “I didn’t mean—” she started to apologize.

  “Your knowledge makes my predicament less complex,” he interrupted her. “I should have known that you, working as you do for such a law firm, would be more familiar with European affairs than are most Americans.” He touched her hand again. “I hope you will not be put off by anything I say, but if you are, you must tell me so.”

  “Then you will let me know more about this criminal you’re pursuing?” she asked.

  “I think you will appreciate my dilemma when I have done.” He sandwiched her hand between both of his. “This man, who escaped from Spain on the very eve of his arrest, has been making his way across America. I was sent to deal with him, but to do so, first I must find him. I looked for him first in New York. I wasted four days in that city, and then I went to Boston and discovered he had reached your country there.”

  “And did you find him? How did he escape you?” The questions tumbled out of her.

  “He had taken a train here, to Chicago. And something I learned in London led me to your office; I had reason to believe that he had had dealings with your firm. In fact, for all I know, he is still in this city.” He set his half-finished bourbon aside, releasing her hand again.

  “Gracious me,” said Miss McAllister.

  “The man was in Russia at the start of their Revolution—I find it suspicious that he has been so recently in Spain.” Cenere had become aware of the American dread of Russia and Communism, and he decided to use that fear now, at least by implication.

  “And you say he’s here?” Miss McAllister queried, trying to keep her thoughts in order. “In Chicago? Are you sure?”

  “I said he might be here. He may also have left the city. That is what I was hoping to find out when I called at your office. I was hoping to discover where he has gone.” He admitted this as if he was expecting her to be shocked.

  “For whom are you searching?” she asked, leaning forward as if to listen to a whisper. “And how urgent is your mission?”

  He was spared the necessity of putting her off momentarily by the arrival of the champagne. “Now we can have a proper toast, and a promise for more and better times together, once my mission is over.”

  She blinked as if she had not heard him correctly. “Do you mean you might come back?”

  “If there is reason to, I will,” he said significantly, and watched as the waiter removed the guard on the cork. “I’m glad we can have this special occasion and mark it properly. Prohibition must have been as dreadful in its way as the Depression is.”

  “Some certainly thought so,” said Miss McAllister in a slightly condemning tone. “Not that it truly worked; people continued to drink, but they did so illicitly, and that put a great
deal of money into the pockets of criminals and politicians. There was a shocking disregard for law: ordinary citizens, who usually wouldn’t dream of breaking the law, bought illegal alcohol and frequented speakeasies, and counted smugglers and moonshiners their friends, and mocked the police for trying to keep order.” She was sitting very straight now. “Not that the criminals were always readily identified. My maiden aunt used to make elderberry wine; she served it on special occasions—New Year, birthdays, and such—even that was breaking the law.”

  “Then you must have some of this excellent champagne, now that it’s legal,” said Cenere, motioning to the waiter to fill her glass. “When we recall this evening, in times to come, I want it to be the most unforgettable night in your life.”

  She picked up her glass and looked down into the pale, fizzy liquid. “I’ve only had champagne twice before,” she admitted.

  “That alone makes this evening memorable, and there are many other reasons to mark it,” he said, and lifted his own glass to be filled. They touched the rims of their glasses. “To memorable nights,” he said.

  “Amen.” She gulped down almost half the champagne. “You’re being … very nice to me. I’m having a wonderful time.”

  “It’s easy to do, Dorothy, being nice to you,” he said, a trifle too glibly; he had to make a recovery. “I’d begun to think that Americans only thought about money and movie stars. I was beginning to believe that it was impossible to find someone of substance in this country. And then I met you. You are an intelligent and sympathetic woman, and those are wonderful qualities to find in anyone.”

  “You are a flatterer,” she said, the merest hint of a slur in her speech.

  “I hope not. I may compliment you, which is only speaking the truth favorably; flattery assumes I am praising you for what does not exist” He let this sink in, and added, “I must assume all the men in Chicago are dolts, to leave you on the shelf.”

  There was just enough of a sting in his remarks for her to wince; she collected herself and managed to say, “Thank you, Mr. Cenere” before she drank more champagne. He carefully refilled her glass.

  “I would like to think that you would not be entirely adverse to seeing me again, when I’ve finished with my mission.” He let the suggestion hang in the air between them.

  “Oh, Mr. Cenere, that would be … quite splendid,” she said, knowing it was folly to let a man know you were interested in him so early in the acquaintance.

  “Good. Then we should toast to that, as well,” he said, lifting his champagne glass and prompting her to do the same.

  Miss McAllister threw caution to the winds, and said, “I’ll look forward to it.”

  The waiter arrived with their bowls of soup on polished brass chargers and set them in place. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Not now,” said Cenere, expecting the man to go away. He gave his full attention to Miss McAllister. “This looks very good, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does,” said Miss McAllister, less than truthfully, for she was beginning to feel the impact of her drinks, and food seemed oddly unappetizing.

  “Then enjoy your meal,” said Cenere, and picked up his spoon.

  Miss McAllister managed to finish about half her cream of tomato soup before it became too much for her. She began to wonder if she had been right to order the duck; her digestion wasn’t what it was a decade ago, and this might prove too much, no matter how good it was. When her soup-bowl was removed, she had to fight the urge to ask the waiter to be sure the leftovers were given to a soup-kitchen or other service, so it wouldn’t go to waste. She drank a little more champagne, as if that could make up for her leaving the soup. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to feel the alcohol,” she said to Cenere.

  This was precisely what he wanted to hear, but he managed to look concerned. “The food will sop it up. You don’t need to worry, Dorothy.”

  “You’re being so nice to me,” she said, not wanting to appear ungrateful for all he had done for her.

  “I’m glad I can do this,” he said. “I only hope I can do something more to show you how much I value this evening.”

  This effusiveness would have alerted her, had she been more watchful, but her usual keenness was blunted, so she struggled to return the compliment. “It’s very special to me, as well, Mr. Cenere. I wish I could tell you how much. You quite … overwhelm me with kindness.” This seemed a bit too impersonal, but she could think of nothing more intimate to say. She wanted to learn his first name, but she knew that Europeans could be a great deal more reserved about such things than Americans were; Mr. Bishop insisted on a high level of decorum in the office, and for Miss McAllister, that tended to carry over into everything she did.

  “Thank you, Dorothy; I’ll try to be worthy of your high regard.” He saw the waiter approaching with their entrees and fell silent.

  She beamed at him, thinking things she had not dared to think for more than a decade, not since George Eastman had died in Flanders. To be treated so well—almost courted—was an experience she had assumed was lost to her. When the waiter set down her dinner, she tried to push those burgeoning hopes away, reminding herself that this man was a foreigner and a stranger, and she actually knew almost nothing about him, that his attention might not be anything but courtesy to a secretary who had been useful to him. Finally she murmured, “This is really superb,” and trusted he would think she meant the food.

  Cenere ate sparingly, finding the meal fairly ordinary, but he was careful to give no indication of this. He also refilled both their glasses. “Just in case,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t have any more,” she said as she fiddled with the half-duck; the skin glistened and she had to press down with the knife to slice it, an action that made her wince. The temerity she had thought was so enlivening a few minutes ago now seemed rash and ill-considered. “In fact, I probably shouldn’t have had any.”

  “As you wish,” he said, not pressing her, but he did not move her glass.

  She ate less than half of what was on her plate. “I’m sorry, but I’m full; I can’t manage another bite,” she said contritely.

  “They are generous in their servings,” he said. “But you aren’t compelled to do anything you wouldn’t like, including finishing your entree.”

  “It seems so … wasteful. I ought to eat everything on my plate.” She could feel color mount in her cheeks and she thought she should say something more. “It’s wrong to leave so much behind.”

  “Perhaps they will let you take some of this with you,” he suggested. “I’ll ask the waiter, if you like.”

  Now she was very confused. “Would it be correct to ask? Doesn’t the kitchen staff dine on the left-overs?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cenere, who did not care what became of the unfinished dinners. “But if you want the rest of the food, you shall have it.”

  She shook her head, and, without meaning to, took another sip of champagne. “If you don’t think I’ll overstep—”

  “Does it matter? The waiter is here to serve us. Let him do his job,” said Cenere.

  She dropped her eyes. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “I’ll have him box up your food. You can get another evening’s meal out of what’s on your plate.” He signaled the waiter and issued his orders. “So you see,” he said to Miss McAllister as the waiter left, “it’s done.”

  “Thank you,” she said, admiring his air of authority. “I hope this isn’t an imposition, but—”

  “I do understand,” he said, and paused for a long moment. “I hope, when I return from my mission, that you’ll let me take you out again.”

  She hesitated, reminding herself not to read too much into this simple request, and at the same time longing to have it be a promise of something to come, and she spoke in a rush. “If you decide you’d like to see me again, I’d be delighted to see you. You could have a long way to go to find your criminal. I know you may not come back through Chicago, so I wan
t you to know, whether or not I see you, I’ll always remember this evening.”

  For a short while Cenere said nothing; then he said, “I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to find this Ragoczy.” He saw Miss McAllister start at the name. “Do you know who this man is?”

  “I think I may,” she said carefully.

  “The attorney I spoke to in London indicated as much,” he said, “but your employer wasn’t willing to tell me anything about him. If Ragoczy weren’t such a dangerous man…” He let this dangle; he took care not to look at her.

  “He is a client of the firm,” said Miss McAllister, ignoring the uneasy sensation that niggled at her. “And he is no longer in Chicago.”

  Cenere turned an expression of gratitude on her. “Oh, Dorothy,” he said in a manner calculated to engage all her compassion. “I don’t know how to thank you for that. It makes my mission much easier, knowing he has left Chicago. I won’t have to spend time here looking for him.” He paused as if to weigh his options. “You probably shouldn’t tell me anything more, but for as much as you have said, I am grateful. I hope it won’t put you at a disadvantage with Mr. Bishop, but I must tell you: you’ve been very helpful.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I’m glad to help you, even though I probably shouldn’t I’m supposed to maintain Mr. Bishop’s confidentiality, and generally I would. This is different. If Ragoczy is a dangerous criminal, as you say he is, I think it may be my duty to give you what information I—” Now that she thought about it, she began to wonder if it might not be imperative to help Cenere, if Ragoczy was an enemy of the state in Spain, and moving through America without any limitations on him.

  “You know what these exiled aristocrats can be like—decadent, exploitive, treacherous,” he said flatly, as if everyone shared his opinion.

  Miss McAllister gave a shudder of dismay. “I wish I could tell you as much as I know. He bought a car here.” That much seemed to be all right to tell him, since vehicle registration was a matter of public record.