“Awfully decent of you,” Luis said.
“My day off,” Sammy said.
“Yes? What business are you in?”
“Sammy’s in recreational equipment,” she said. “I could use a beer. There’s a deli on the corner.”
“I’ll go,” Luis offered. “That is, if they’ll let me charge it to your account.”
“My account. Now there’s two words I never thought to hear together … Sammy, you go. Get us some sandwiches too. Swiss cheese and ham on wholemeal for me. Luis wants a BLT on white toast. No pickle.” Sammy saluted and went out.
“I’ve never even heard of a BLT,” Luis said.
“Trust me. I know your taste. You’ve put on a pound or two. Suits you. You were kind of gaunt in those days.”
“It was that frightful wartime food the English gave us. Fish pie. Toad-in-the-hole. Porridge. Spam. You’re looking awfully well yourself. That’s a jolly pretty outfit.”
“Used to be my interview suit.”
There was a pause while they took a long look at each other and assessed the differences that eight years had made. “Spiffing,” he said. “Utterly delightful. Now why don’t you show me the rest of the apartment?”
“This is it, pal. Bathroom’s through that door. One walk-in closet. Bed. Convertible couch.”
“Dear me.” He strode slowly from end to end, counting the paces. “In Caracas, my bathroom alone was bigger than this.”
“So why leave?”
“All my money was spent.”
“All? Not even you could do that. Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
“I must admit, there were other reasons. But crucially it was a question of cash.” He bounced gently on the couch, testing the springs. “And in my hour of need, you were the only person I could think to turn to.”
“Well, think again. I’m broke. Worse than broke. I’m unemployable.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know,” she said.
“Oh.” He stretched out on the couch. His feet overlapped the end. “Not what I expected. A desperate situation, isn’t it?”
“Cut the bullshit, Luis. Being broke in New York is no joke.”
“Madrid was nothing to laugh about. At least here we’re not surrounded by fascists and Nazis.”
“You reckon?” she said. “Stick around.”
*
Madrid was where they first met, in the summer of 1941. Hitler had conquered most of Europe and now he was carving large chunks out of Russia. Britain, he said, would have to wait her turn. The future looked very German. All the more reason to enjoy the present.
They had a few good weeks together, and then suddenly Luis left, went to England, on business. Well, he was Spanish, and Spain was neutral; but Julie felt sure his business was spying for Germany. She traveled to Portugal, hoping to catch a plane to the US, and hey! there was Luis, living in Lisbon. She’d been half-right. He’d been recruited by the Madrid office of the Abwehr, which was German military intelligence, and codenamed “Eldorado.” But while the Abwehr believed him to be spying in England, he had gone no further than Lisbon. All of the top secret information he sent to Madrid came from his imagination. Luis sat in his room in Lisbon, asked himself what the Germans would like to know, and turned his answers into utterly convincing intelligence reports. He knew they convinced the Abwehr because the Abwehr kept paying him. They paid him a lot.
Julie canceled her flight home. She moved into his apartment and became his business manager. They made a hell of a good team. His output was phenomenal—far more than one spy in England could have produced. But Luis had invented a network of sub-agents, fearless and prolific and reporting to him; and naturally Madrid Abwehr paid him for their efforts. The Eldorado Network was a spymaster’s dream. Then the British found out.
Their Secret Service, MI6, persuaded Luis to become a genuine double agent. He and Julie went to England and worked for the Allies until the end of the war. He was part of the Double-Cross System, which “turned” enemy agents and created a steady flow of false information, lightly speckled with fragments of truth. The Allies’ best deception plans were reinforced by Luis’s lies. MI6 still called him Eldorado, although Madrid had changed his codename to “Arabel.” Whatever the label, the product never failed to please. Luis sent the Abwehr radio bulletins by the hundred, written reports by the thousand, all priceless intelligence, which was rapidly transmitted to the High Command in Berlin. To the very end, the Germans trusted him. They never stopped paying.
There was a price for illusion. Julie paid it. The strain of living with a professional liar was great. Sometimes Luis behaved as if his phantom sub-agents were real. When the Abwehr wasn’t sufficiently grateful for their reports, he became moody, sour, resentful. When the Abwehr sent warm congratulations, Luis became smug. He was more comfortable in his fake world than in the real world.
He and Julie were still in love, but it was a prickly, arms-length kind of love. And when the war ended, and suddenly nobody needed double agents any more, his brilliant bullshit had no market value. Thanks to the Abwehr, he had a fortune tucked away. On a gray and gloomy day, he and Julie took a long, sad look at each other and agreed they were incompatible. He caught a plane to South America. Big mistake. She still had a husband somewhere, left over from pre-war, a footloose newspaperman called Harry whom she hadn’t seen in four years. She went looking for him. Not a happy idea, either.
*
“Look, this is important, so don’t give me any of your bullshit,” Julie said. “Have you any funds? Investments? Property?”
“When did I ever give you any bullshit?” Luis asked.
“Eight years ago. You gave everyone bullshit, remember? You were in the bullshit business. You couldn’t tell the truth if it took its clothes off and sang Rule Britannia.”
“Dear me,” he said. “You Americans can be awfully Prussian. Sometimes I wonder whether you might have been happier fighting on the German side.”
“You wonder. All you ever did was wonder. That’s how you ended up working for both sides at once.”
“Well, if I did, then so did you.”
Sammy Fantoni had gone, and they were strolling in the park next to Gracie Mansion, the mayor’s official residence. Dogs chased squirrels, contrary to city bylaws, and challenged His Honor to come out and stop them. The East River surged past, keeping Queens and Brooklyn at a decent distance from Manhattan. An old man was feeding gulls, tossing up bits of bread as the birds swooped and flailed and grabbed. “Look. He thinks they are his friends,” Luis said. “He is a fool.”
“Have you got any money?” she asked. “Anywhere?”
“None. No dollars here, no cruzeiros in Venezuela, no Swiss francs in Zurich. I’m totally broke.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than he is. At least he can afford bread. Why the hell did you come here? New York is absolutely the worst place to be broke in.”
“Is it? I can think of worse places. Siberia is uncomfortable, and large parts of China are not at all attractive.” Julie groaned. He said: “When you want to make money, go where people have money. Right? New York is rich. Besides … I wanted to see you again.”
“After eight years?” They sat on a park bench. “We agreed, back in ’45, remember? End of story.”
She was hunched and tense. He was relaxed, sprawling, his arms hooked over the back of the bench. She kicked his ankle. “Hey!” he said. “That wasn’t a very kind thing to do.”
“Did I get your attention? Listen. This is not a kind city. New Yorkers murder each other for no reason at all, it happens every day. You, you’re not even American, you’re an alien. What makes you think anyone here is going to be nice to you?”
“Why are you so angry? And don’t hit me.” He raised an arm in defense. That annoyed her; she got up and walked away. “We only just sat down,” he called. “It’s all rush, rush. I’m an old man, I can’t stand this pace.” But he followed her.
“You’re thirty-four,” she said
. “And you’re an idiot. You had at least a hundred thousand pounds when the war ended. A quarter of a million dollars, give or take a buck. That’s more than most Americans make in a lifetime. How could you possibly spend it all? Where did it go?”
“Oh … here and there. This and that. I had some bad luck at the track.” She looked at him as if he had said: there was a hole in my pocket. “All right,” he countered, “how come you’re broke?”
“I got fired.”
“There you are, then. You’ve been working, and look where it got you. I haven’t been working, but at least I enjoyed myself.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They passed the old man, no longer throwing bread in the air. He was mopping a sleeve with his handkerchief. “Little bastard shat on me,” he said. Luis smiled, courteously. “That’s New York for you,” he said.
They were on 84th Street again before Julie spoke. “How did you know where I live?”
“Simple. MI6 has a man in Caracas, awfully nice chap, we played tennis. Anything I can do to help, he told me, just ask. So I did. He got in touch with Kim Philby, and Kim did the rest.” Luis leapfrogged a fire hydrant. “You liked old Kim, didn’t you? Best brain in MI6, and manners to match.”
“You’re telling me the British Secret Service knows where I live.”
“Evidently so.”
They stopped at York Avenue. The traffic thumped past, an unhurried tidal wave. Luis was puzzled by Julie’s attitude, her seriousness, the flickers of annoyance that flared into anger. At Hoboken he’d expected a kiss, even if it was just a brush of the lips on his cheek. But no kiss. No handshake. They hadn’t touched in any way. She kept coming back to money. During the war, money had never excited her. He had been the one always concerned about getting paid. Now their roles were switched. He could sense the tension in her body. The lights said WALK. They walked.
“Would it be insensitive of me to ask about your husband?” he said.
“Dead. Car crash in Belgium. Four years ago.”
“Oh dear. I never met him, of course, but—”
“Don’t let it bother you. Belgium, for God’s sake. What a dumb place to die.”
That seemed to dispose of Harry. Luis allowed a decent interval to pass, and asked: “Where does Sammy Fantoni figure in your life? He seemed very attentive, and …”
“We met at a party. He’s a hood. He thinks he’s in love with me.”
“A hood? A gangster? Such a cordial chap.”
“Yeah. If I asked him to, he’d cordially break your arms. As a demonstration of affection.”
For once, Luis was silenced. They went back to the apartment.
THE VOLCANO DROPPED OFF
1
Luis had picked the best day to arrive. Once a week, Julie and three others ate supper at the cheapest pasta joint in Manhattan. It was called Vesuvius and it was far to the east of Greenwich Village, even beyond the Bowery, out where the rent was very low. The owner cooked the food, served it, washed the plates. Enrico was very old, face like a pickled walnut, had fought the Austrians when Italy was on the Allied side in the first war, later got slung in jail by Mussolini for his politics. Came to America, got his citizenship, did time for smuggling booze out of Canada during Prohibition, learned to cook in Sing-Sing. “No family,” Julie told Luis. “Enrico takes in waifs and strays like me and the rest of the supper club. All you can eat for a dollar, sometimes wine too. Enrico won’t take more than a dollar a head. Politics.”
“What politics?”
“Ours and his. Act polite, don’t talk smart, and he’ll feed you too.”
A taxi came to pick them up. She introduced the driver as Herb Kizsco. Fiftyish, bald as an ostrich egg except for a thick gray ruff, long face that would have suited an El Greco cardinal. “Herb knows more about Shakespeare than even Ann Hathaway did,” she said. “Unless, that is, he was really Francis Bacon, in which case I guess she married the wrong guy. Is that right?”
“No,” Herb said.
“Good. Shortest lecture you ever gave. Let’s go.”
He drove over to Park Avenue and turned south. The meter was not on. “I like Park,” he said. “I like cruising past these doormen, all blowing whistles and waving, busting a gut to get a cab for their rich tenants. Let ’em take the subway, I say.”
“Subway stinks,” Julie said.
“It wouldn’t stink for long if they had to ride it. The mayor himself would be down there, spraying Chanel Number Three.”
“I hate Chanel.”
“Comes the bloody revolution, you’ll get Chanel whether you like it or not.”
“Is there to be a revolution?” Luis asked.
“It was a joke,” she said. “I like Herb’s jokes. I always have.”
They turned west on 42nd Street. Beyond the cinemas and the soft-porn peepshows, the buildings became hulking, grimy, industrial. Herb stopped outside the steel-shuttered offices of a corsetry distributor and honked his horn. After a minute, a woman came out of a side door. She was a short and chunky redhead, hair in a scarf like Rosie the Riveter; keen, alert face, or maybe she was just hungry. No make-up; denim skirt and jacket; old sneakers. Age thirty-plus.
“Bonnie Scott, meet Luis Cabrillo,” Julie said. They shook hands. “Bonnie was the best fiction editor this side of Chicago.”
“I met Graham Greene once,” Luis said. “Awfully nice chap.”
“Huh.” Bonnie was impressed, but not much. “What did you talk about?”
“The war, and the dreadful damage it did to literature. Graham thought that Hemingway’s metaphors, in particular, had suffered horribly.”
“I’m so hungry, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” Bonnie said. “Is that metaphor bad enough for you? Let’s go.”
Herb drove downtown on 9th Avenue, took 14th Street east all the way across town to Avenue C, and found a block of tenements that looked just like the next block and just like the last ten. Fire escapes zigzagged down every building. One house had been gutted by fire; smears of smoke blackened the tops of windows. Kids on roller skates were playing street hockey. They parted reluctantly. Their voices were unbroken but the curses were adult enough. “Are we still in Manhattan?” Luis asked.
“I sometimes wonder that myself,” Herb said. “In the greater sense, does Manhattan exist, or are we all just looking for it?”
“There’s Max,” Julie said. “He’s looking for us.”
Max was six-two, late thirties, dressed mainly in army surplus clothing. “You’re late, and I’m starving,” he said as he got in. His voice was as rich as rum.
“If you’re in such a hurry, get out and take a taxi,” Herb said, driving on.
“Not wise. They shoot taxi drivers on sight in Avenue C.”
“Actors ought to be shot on sight,” Bonnie said, casually.
“Her ex is an actor,” Julie told Luis.
“Allegedly,” Bonnie said.
“In that case he should only be allegedly shot,” Max said.
Herb had to slow and swerve to avoid some garbage cans. “This is a truly terrible part of New York,” he said.
“Max Webber, meet Luis Cabrillo,” Julie said. “He got his fruit boots in Venezuela.”
“I got the clap in Guatemala,” Max said. “It happens.”
They crossed into First Avenue, drove a few blocks, turned left into 5th Street. By now Luis had no idea which was east or west. The shape of the conversation baffled him too. It was rapid, clipped, throwaway. Nothing anyone said seemed to lead anywhere. Caracas had not been like this. He kept quiet and looked out the window. The view was grim and repetitive.
“At last!” Julie said. “Shangri-la.”
Enrico’s restaurant was small. The name Vesuvius was spelled out in thick plywood letters. Most of them had lost their paint. There had once been a neon-lit eruption, but the volcano had dropped off and now only the dead lava-flow clung to the building.
Max led the way in. Their arrival was like a h
appy invasion, everyone smiling in anticipation of greeting Enrico and his steaming pasta. The old man wasn’t there. The place was empty. No customers. No message, no notice, no explanation. “Huh!” Bonnie said. Herb dragged a bentwood chair from a table and sat astride it. “Too damn quiet,” he said. “There’s Apache up in them hills.” A priest came out of the kitchen. “Don’t tell us he’s dead,” Herb said.
“Enrico? No, no, he’s alive. But he’s in prison, poor fellow.” A hint of Dublin in the voice, a rusty streak in the gray hair, a calmness that suggested the priest knew of many worse predicaments than being in jail. “I visited him this morning. Complains about the food, but then so he should, it’s abominable, if they had any brains they’d put him in charge of the kitchen, but when did you ever see a jail with any brains?”
“What did he do?” Julie asked. “Why is he inside?”
“Well now, that’s a bit of a mystery. All we know for sure is some people from the Immigration Department came and took him away.”
“Enrico’s a citizen. He showed me the papers.”
The priest nodded. “They’ll have to let him go. The thing is, he’s been questioned rather a lot by a couple of men in similar suits who are nothing to do with Immigration. They want to know all about his customers. The ridiculous part is they already knew everything. Whenever Enrico forgot someone’s name, they reminded him. So what do you make of that?”
“They’ve been watching the place,” Bonnie said. She walked to the window. “There’s probably a telescopic lens pointing at me right now.” She waved. “Shove it, buster!”
“No need to shout,” Herb said wearily. “Just talk to the bugs.”
Gloomy silence. Luis leaned against a wall. He had no idea why they were so angry, so grim; but he knew it was caused by more than the absence of pasta. He was hungry. If they couldn’t eat here, he hoped they would rapidly move on.
“I guess Enrico looked after a lot of guys like us,” Max said.
Red Rag Blues Page 2
