Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Most sincerely at your service,

  Everett Hawsmede

  EH/psj

  4

  CHEZ ROSALIE was on a side-street not far from the Sorbonne, an unpretentious place with a large dining room in the front of a seventeenth-century house that catered to graduate students and young faculty, and a meeting room that had long ago been a card room was reserved for private groups seeking a pleasant, private location with more to provide than the excellent food offered here by Rosalie’s son Dudon; it was set up more like a small, exclusive club that provided little beyond coffee and wine for those using it. This evening the meeting room was the gathering-place for the Ex-Pats’ Coven, which had their monthly meetings at Chez Rosalie. It being a chilly evening, there was a fire burning in the tile-fronted fireplace; the flame-shaped light-bulbs in the two brass chandeliers were augmented by five floor-lamps so that the room was bright and pleasant. At five-thirty, the usual beginning of the Coven’s gathering, only eight of its members had arrived and had selected the most comfortable of the upholstered chairs and love-seats, and were filling the time by sharing desultory bits of news and small-talk while they waited for the rest to arrive.

  “What’s keeping them?” asked Julia Bjornson, an attractive, fair-haired woman on the verge of forty; she was staring at her husband Axel—a studious fellow who had been teaching city planning at Columbia until some of his theories were interpreted as being of a collectivistic nature; tonight he was in a tweed jacket over a turtleneck sweater and wearing horn-rim glasses—as if to pry the answer out of him. Tardiness always made her worry, and although it was not uncommon among the Coven members, she could not stop complaining when anyone was late. “Don’t they know when we meet?” She stared at her wristwatch as if she expected her dissatisfaction to animate the watch; after a few seconds, she clicked her tongue and sighed.

  “Don’t fret, Julia. They’ll be here,” he answered. They were sitting near the fire in overstuffed chairs, a small writing-table between them.

  Winston Pomeroy was sitting near the French doors that served as windows; the curtains were drawn across them, shutting out the high walls of the next house and the path that ran through the gap between the business-street in front of the restaurant and the service-alley behind it. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s pretty cold, so cabs will be hard to get. They’ll be along.” He was thirty-three, had been a professor of horticulture at Cal Davis, and just now was smoking one of those strong French cigarettes most of the Coven avoided; the smoke wreathed his head like a ghostly halo.

  Russell McCall, sitting near the door in an old-fashioned grandfather’s chair, had been reading the newly arrived New York Times—which, as a journalist, he followed devoutly—now folded the paper and slipped it into the small valise he carried. He wore an anorak over a turtleneck sweater, and multi-pocketed trousers. “Two-day-old news isn’t.” And when this complaint was met with blank stares, he added, “News. It isn’t news.”

  “There’s not much American news on the radio, either,” Mary Anne Triding observed soothingly. She was a self-possessed widow in her early forties, as neat and tidy in a wool suit over a lace blouse as a Doctor of Library Sciences was expected to be; Indiana State University had been her home until the HUAC took exception to her attitude toward leftist writings and the meaning of the First Amendment.

  At the far end of the room, Tolliver Bethune, feline-slick in a well-tailored three-piece suit of navy-blue wool, was in deep conversation with Hapgood Nugent, who, with his wrinkled shirt, shabby jacket, and unpressed trousers, was as rumpled and thrown-together as Bethune was polished. The lawyer was listening to the disheveled mathematician describing the harassment of his sister Meredith and her family. Near them, Stephen diMaggio, a twenty-nine-year-old electrical engineer from MIT wearing bottle-bottom glasses and a heavy wool duster over a turtleneck sweater and slacks, was writing a note, rushing to finish it before the meeting began.

  “The weather’s probably slowing them down,” Mary Anne remarked. “It slowed me down, and I left for this meeting with time to spare.”

  The group fell silent for a few minutes, then the door opened and a cheerful greeting was called out: Boris and Willhelmina King had arrived. He was a blocky man of fifty-two, more used to smiling than frowning, dressed in English worsted and a long, heavy, knit cardigan under a grey trench-coat, which he shrugged out of as he and his wife came into the room; he had been a musicologist at the University of Virginia for twenty-two years, and she, a comfortable figure of a woman of forty-eight, in a long, dark-gray jacket over a funnel-necked sweater and women’s trousers, who, until sixteen months ago, had taught high school science.

  “And Washington will be along in a moment; he came in with us,” Willhelmina announced, smiling eagerly. “Good evening, everybody.”

  Before there could be much of a response to her friendly greeting, the door opened again to admit Jesse Praeger; he had taught political science at Northwestern, and his wife Elvira, who returned the greetings from the group in an unenthusiastic manner, but at least they smiled. They were among the younger members of the Coven, both of them in their late twenties. Each was in conspicuously American clothes, for both of them wore blue-denim jeans under winter sweaters, like grown-up versions of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.

  Once again the door swung back, but it was not Washington Young who opened it: Moira Frost held the door so that her husband Tim could maneuver his wheelchair into the room. “Good to see you all,” said Moira. She shoved the chair over toward the fire, for Tim was often cold, which was revealed in his clothing; he was looking more as if he intended to go for a sleigh-ride than a car-ride; Moira wore a frock-coat jacket in mauve wool over a silk, high-necked blouse, and a straight skirt with a deep pleat in the center of the front.

  “It’s like parking a bus,” Tim said by way of apology to Julia Bjornson, who had moved her chair over to accommodate Tim’s wheeled one.

  Washington Young was the next into the room—a tall, square-shouldered, clever-eyed black man of forty-seven, a printer by trade and a Wobbly by conviction, he produced The Grimoire quarterly for the Coven. He offered a lackadaisical wave to the group, and half a smile as he made for the chair on the far side of the fireplace, where he always sat. His overcoat showed wear at the collar that had been neatly repaired. As he hung his coat on the rack, he revealed his jersey beneath was topped by a leather vest, and his ink-stained trousers were made of grey canvas. He wore serviceable boots. “Where’s Allanby?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “Not here,” said McCall, getting up to go to add another cut length of wood to the fire.

  “A lot of us are running late tonight,” Mary Anne remarked.

  The late arrivals jockeyed for seats, and gave orders to Dudon for wine and coffee, then took out their notebooks and pens, preparing to begin.

  “I know we’re late; sorry. There’s a good reason,” said Charis as she came through the door, Szent-Germain close behind her. “Someone was following us, and we had to approach this place by an indirect route.”

  “Are you certain?” Nugent asked.

  Before Charis could answer, Szent-Germain said, “I’m certain. A man in a dark-blue Renault.”

  The assembled Coven stared at them, their expressions running the gamut from curiosity to consternation.

  Charis stood still while Szent-Germain helped her out of her coat, saying as soon as she selected a chair for herself, “You don’t have to worry about him: this is Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain, and the publisher of Eclipse Press. Some of you have already seen the Eclipse submission protocols. He’s on our side, as I told you last meeting. He’d like to talk to you tonight. And I think some of you will want to talk to him after you hear him out.” She could not help but smile at the relief that went through the Coven.

  Russell McCall spoke up, his journalistic sense engaged. “Any idea who was following you, or why?”

  “Not actually, but I intend to find out,” said Sze
nt-Germain. “I’m not even sure that he was following Professor Treat or me, but he stuck to us like a burr. I was finally able to lose him about a mile from here, and I parked two blocks away, in case he goes looking for my car. He’ll find a tobacconist’s shop, a cafe, and a shop selling hats, all but the cafe closing up for the night in the next hour.”

  “Clever,” Pomeroy approved.

  “We walked the last couple of blocks,” Charis said, “on the Rue Tranquille.” She cocked her head toward the rear of Chez Rosalie, indicating the access-alley that ran behind the restaurant and the rear of houses for more than half a mile.

  “So you’re not new to the game, then?” asked Tolliver Bethune, prepared to continue questioning the stranger in their midst.

  Szent-Germain’s answer was composed. “I am an exile, not unlike all of you, and so yes, I’m not new to the game, and I do not play it for entertainment.” He did not add that his familiarity with clandestine dealings went back more than three millennia.

  The door opened again and Joseph Allanby bustled in, his expression more than usually sad. A somber man in his mid-forties, he had been the mainstay of the biological sciences at Cornell; the son of Professor Emeritus Vercingetotrix Allanby, the foremost theorist on meteorology at Yale, Joseph Allanby had assumed he was academically bullet-proof until he found himself bluntly dismissed for the good of the students. He had been advised to leave the US until—as his father put it—this current hysteria blows over. Joseph’s wife Norma moved in with her brother and his family in Cambridge while Allanby was away in Europe. As the unofficial leader of the Coven, he was rarely late, and when he was, it boded ill. He looked around, staring at Szent-Germain for several seconds before he said, “Sorry, everybody. I had a call from my brother-in-law, family matters. From Edward. Does Medieval studies at Harvard, you recall. I must have mentioned it. He’s the one who took in my wife and youngest child. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I? The one who was working as a code-breaker during the war? He’s been planning to join us here; the Committee is breathing down his neck.” This nervous repetition indicated to all the Coven that Allanby was badly upset. He took off his raincoat, and as he went to hang it on the brass coat-rack, his heavily lidded eyes filled with tears. “Norma is in the hospital. It’s serious.”

  “What hospital?” asked Boris King.

  “Massachusetts General.” This was met by concerned silence; Allanby added the worst part. “She took sleeping pills.”

  “Norma’s his wife,” Charis whispered to Szent-Germain. “She’s from Cambridge, like most of her family.”

  Moira Frost spoke for most of them. “That’s dreadful, Joe.”

  Allanby just nodded; took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Do they know if she’ll pull through?” Pomeroy asked impulsively, then changed his tone. “Sorry to put it that way.”

  “Edward didn’t say,” Allanby replied, and reached for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “I don’t think the doctors have said anything yet. Waiting for tests, and all. Edward said he’d let me know as soon as he hears.”

  “Could be too soon to tell,” Willhelmina said consolingly.

  “Probably; yes, you’re probably right,” Allanby muttered, wadded up his handkerchief, and thrust it back into his pocket. “Edward will call again day after tomorrow, after he sees her doctor; I’ll have to telegraph a next-of-kin transfer to him in the morning. I don’t know how to word something like that.”

  “I’ll give you a hand with it, Joe,” said Tolliver Bethune.

  “Do you think that’s going to be necessary?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Better safe than sorry. I don’t want Norma to suffer if nothing can be done, but I want everything done that can be should it turn out she can recover,” said Allanby, taking his place in front of the fire. “Well. Enough of that.” He smoothed back his disordered hair, then looked over the gathering and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for being here. Now then, let’s get down to it. Who has the—”

  Before anyone else could raise a hand, Charis leaped up from her chair. “I think we should have Grof Szent-Germain speak first; then, if you like, he can leave us until the meeting is done. I know you’ll all be interested in what he has to say, and a few of you don’t like to talk in front of strangers.” Then she blushed and sat down.

  Moira seconded the idea, then offered, “I’ll ask Dudon to bring some cognac. Give yourself a little time to compose yourself, Joe.”

  “And order some pastries while you’re at it,” McCall requested.

  “Only if you’ll pay for them,” said Julia.

  Allanby thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Unless someone objects, let him talk. Moira, do you mind if we start while you’re—”

  “Yes. Go ahead,” she said, leaving her husband’s side and opening the door. “I won’t be more than a couple of minutes.”

  “All right,” Allanby said. “The floor’s all yours, Szent-Germain. I’ll wait on the cognac; Pomeroy, you can take over for me.” He relinquished his place in front of the fire.

  “Okay,” said Pomeroy, trying to hide his anxiety at having an outsider address the Coven.

  Szent-Germain nodded to Allanby as he passed him, seeing anguish in his face. “I wish I could help you,” he said quietly, and saw a startled look in Allanby’s eyes. As Szent-Germain turned to face the room, he saw several closed expressions on the faces of his audience; in spite of doubts, his presence was undeniable; dressed in a black suit of a wool-and-silk blend, his dark-red tie standing out against the white of his shirt, he had an air of capability and self-containment that held the attention of everyone in the room. “Thank you for this opportunity.” He wanted to be both thorough and brief, and set out to put the Coven at their ease. “I’ll try not to take up much of your time; you have more to deal with than me and my publishing company,” he said, and saw the surprise felt by some of his audience. “First let me say that I am sympathetic with your situation here, I understand how being an exile feels, being one myself. It is no easy thing to restart a life in a new place, away from your families and colleagues and friends.” He did not allow himself to think of the hundreds of times he had done that—although none of his family remained, and he had lost more friends and colleagues than he could number—and the wrench it was to him, every time. “Exiles and orphans lose their contexts, and that is … profoundly discomposing.” He felt the skepticism that greeted his statements. “Since I left my country, one of the things I have done to make my way in the world is my publishing company; it has proven to be a durable investment as well as giving me a way to sustain my ties to what I have left behind. Eclipse has branches in several cities in a number of countries, and distributes widely where it is permitted.”

  Moira, who had been standing by the door, turned to take a snifter from their host, then closed the door before she took the cognac to Joseph Allanby. “Pardon me, Grof. Please go on.”

  Unflustered by this interruption, Szent-Germain continued. “My contracts include translation rights for a dozen languages which are handled by Eclipse, and appropriate advances paid for all such translations. The translators consult closely with authors so that the translation accurately reflects the original text.”

  Russell McCall raised his hand. “You mention advances. Tell us more.”

  “God, McCall.” Julia made his name a curse.

  “I pay generous advances, and report royalties quarterly.” Szent-Germain saw a startled look in Young’s eyes. “It’s customary to pay bi-annually, I know, but the accountants submit figures for taxes quarterly in several countries, including the US, so it’s not a problem to pay the authors then, as well.”

  McCall shook his head. “How long have you been at this?”

  “Long enough to know it works very well this way; Eclipse Press is quite well-established with a long history of publishing innovative work,” said Szent-Germain. “You needn’t worry that the company is an experiment, over-committed
and inexperienced. Our advances start at twenty-five hundred dollars, and grow larger by increments of five hundred dollars. This amount is not lavish, but it will allow an author enough to work without haste, an arrangement that has been the policy of Eclipse Press since its inception.” To be precise, the Press had existed for more than five centuries, he thought before he went on, and had originally paid advances in ducats. “We are generally an academic publisher but we have a very broad definition of academia, and we occasionally take on popular works, including fiction and art books. One of our most recent art books is a retrospective on the oil and watercolor works of Rowena Saxon, an American artist from San Francisco. Five-color reproduction, coated stock, three essays on her work by respected critics. One hundred ninety-seven pictures in it.” Rowena had died during the war and was now living in Wellington, New Zealand, accustoming herself to Szent-Germain’s undead life and the demands it imposed upon her. “If you would like to see a copy of it, or any of our titles, please let me know and I’ll make sure you have it.”

  “Aren’t you generous,” said Julia Bjornson at her most caustic.

  “Julia,” her husband snapped. “Let him talk.”

  “Hey, Julia, I’m interested,” Young said.

  “Why? So he can trot out more malarkey? What kind of publisher acts like that? Pays like that?” She twisted around in her seat as if rallying support. “It’s all a ploy of some sort. Mark my words. He’ll get money out of the group and then disappear.”

  Russell McCall cut this burgeoning dispute short, saying, “Let me have a week and I’ll let you know if he’s telling the truth, and what kind of record his company has.” His smile was vulpine, anticipating a vigorous hunt.