Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “It appears to have hit hard everywhere.” She thought of the war and how destructive it had been, and wondered if the Plague was as bad as World War II.

  Szent-Germain braked for a bend in the road that led to the bridge. “As you see, very old, but serviceable enough for our purposes.” He moved ahead, the Delahaye going at a walking pace. The shoulder of the road was sloped and fallen away in a few places, nothing too broad or potentially dangerous but sufficient to require an even slower advance.

  “Are you sure it will hold up?” Charis asked, her smoky-blue eyes worried.

  “I believe so; it did in October,” he said as the Delahaye rolled off the bridge onto a little track that wound its way around a stand of berry-vines. “If you can see that thick pediment at the edge of the vines, that was the main gate to the convent. It was made of thick slabs of wood and heavy iron banding.” He thought back to his time with the Khazars, aware that they would have called these ruins orphans of memory.

  “Is the rest of the gate pediment in the thicket?” Charis asked, trying to imagine it.

  “No, it went the other direction. This gate was in the curtain-wall, and was reinforced. The inner door was a bit smaller and lacked the iron. The inner part of the convent was more like the usual Medieval design, but between the inner wall and the curtain wall there was an apple orchard and a long line of coops and hutches for chickens and ducks and rabbits.” He set the brake and turned off the engine; the sound of the wind rose up around them, its chill no longer playful. “The village may have snow tonight.”

  Charis sat, perplexed. “How many nuns lived here?”

  “At its height, possibly a hundred-fifty or -sixty, not counting slaves.” He saw her give him a startled look as he was opening the door to get out. “Oh, yes, those Dark Age nuns had slaves, as did many of the clergy but anchorite monks, and so did what passed for upper classes then; most of the slaves came from Eastern Europe, but others from Africa through Spain, and from the Greek islands. The last century the convent was active it had forty or so. The local Bishops ignored the place, and the nuns were left to fend for themselves. By eighteen hundred, they had sold off much of their livestock and their geese, but they continued to labor in the traditions of their Order. Such as they were, in time all of them died, and there were no novices to take their places.” He had come around the back of the car and now went to open the door for Charis, then reached into the back for the camera-case. “Come, Professor Treat.”

  “Are you making those figures up? or have you some basis in fact to account for them?” As she spoke, she realized how remote from the rest of the world she felt here. Why had she come so far from what little she knew of Paris with this smooth-mannered foreigner who might, in truth, be anyone, or anything? She put her hand on the door-release and made herself conceal the first quivers of panic that had taken hold of her. He held out the camera-bag to her; she took it. “Thank you, Grof Szent-Germain,” she said, taking care not to slip on the swath of dry grass that encroached on the road.

  “Professor, let me—” He held out his hand to her, and was nonplused by the jolt of sexual need he felt from her as her hand took his wrist; he had sensed loneliness in her from the first time he met her, and occasionally a twinge of erotic longing, remembering Rosza of Borsod at Otakar the Great’s Court, and Melidulci when Heliogabalus reigned in Roma; Rosza had been as demanding as what he sensed now; Melidulci was unabashedly hedonistic, but nothing like this, nothing that was as potent a mix as desire, yearning, and despair. He recovered himself almost instantly, and guided her onto safer footing. “Be careful where you walk,” he advised her. “There are stones and tumbled stairs all over the old convent. The people of Sainte-Thecla don’t often come here, they say the convent lands are unsafe. It’s one of the reasons no one’s farming it—too much labor for too little return.” He glanced at her, then pointed with his free hand to a tumble-down stone tower about half a kilometer away. “That’s the north-east limit of what’s left of the convent’s property.”

  “Is it?” she asked with an assumption of innocence; she was finding it difficult to talk at all. “Unsafe?”

  “No; overused perhaps, and the Church occasionally tries to reclaim it, but nothing more.”

  She let go of him. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her leather coat. There was heat mounting in her face which she hoped in vain that he would interpret as the work of the cold wind. “I’ll be careful.” She moved a few steps away. “Okay. Tell me where everything was.” As she spoke, she thought of her mother’s firm but kind rebuke not to be vulgar or to tell men what to do; her jaw clenched.

  “The curtain-wall went from that low tower to about where those willows are standing,” he said, pointing the trees out and directing her attention to the crossroad shrine. “And another seventy degrees or so to the north, you can see the hayward’s guard-post—they grew hay here for a few centuries…” For the next two hours, he led the way around the wreckage of the convent, explaining each building’s function as well as its location while she photographed the places he indicated. They had made a circuit of the field and were approaching the place they had begun. “Are you getting tired?” he asked, and held up his hand to add, “Because I am.” The sun and the near-by water had done their worst, and now that it was mid-day, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up the pace he had set for himself.

  Charis could not bring herself to admit that she was exhausted, so she said, “Maybe another half-hour?”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He turned and lifted his arm to point at a heap of berry-vines with a portion of a squat broken column emerging from it. “We can go through where the old gate was, and that would put us in the nuns’ part of the convent.” He indicated some broken stones that had once been stairs. “That was the entrance to the refectory. There were three rooms in it: a kitchen, a dining room for travelers, and the nuns’ dining room. There were fireplaces in the dining rooms where meat was cooked on spits, and the kitchens, where there was a kind of stove where the rest of the meal preparation was done. The bakery was just beyond it—it’s all gone now, but in the part of the plan for the convent, it’s clearly shown.”

  “Will you let me photograph that plan?” She had not expected to ask such a favor, but once she had spoken, she all but held her breath waiting for his answer. “If it’s not inconvenient,” she added.

  “If you’ll let me bring it to you, yes. The house I have in this part of the countryside lacks electricity, and you will need a good, strong light to bring out the ink; it’s quite pale now.” He was a few steps ahead of her, his fatigue starting to give him a headache while he did his best to recall the original buildings.

  She was not paying much attention to where she was walking until she felt him seize her shoulder an instant before she turned her ankle; sharp hurt from the sprain warred with intense sexual desire that erupted with his touch. She pulled away from him, and very nearly fell again, and the camera slipped out of her hands, falling through the brush onto the convent’s stones below. She shrieked softly as she heard the clatter of falling metal and breaking glass. “Oh, Grof. I am so sorry,” she exclaimed, then fell, entangling herself in berry-vines and weeds while cutting herself on some of the glass.

  This time he did not bother to ask for her permission; he bent down to lift her from the ground. “If you try to walk you’ll only make it worse.”

  His nearness made it difficult for her to breathe. “But you’re tired. I can make it to the car.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, moving a bit more quickly, his muscles straining against the weariness that would enervate him until the annealing arrival of nightfall. “But I would prefer you don’t fall down again.” He slogged onward, and although it took him a little more than five minutes to reach the Delahaye, by the time he set her down in the passenger seat he felt her passionateness as if it had been on the road to Damascus once more. Closing the door, he leaned on the boot for a long moment, doing his utmost to ign
ore the sunlight that gnawed at him, using the time to think and to marshal what little stamina remained in him. How had this happened? He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with his fingers, getting rid of the fine dust that blew off the fields; he buffed his dark lenses with the lining of his jacket and put the glasses back on. How to go on from here? They were doing well as colleagues, and, he had hoped, might have arranged a brief affaire during her stay in Europe, something that would allow each of them a glimpse of the soul of the other and relieve the burden of loneliness for a short while; he knew now that would not be possible: she was married and had not recognized her degree of attraction to him. She was lonely and would endure it as part of her exile, at odds with the emotions now stirring in her. There was also, he acknowledged, his esurience responding to her unidentified desire. He felt her conflict wearing at her, and wanted to offer sympathy, but was aware that would make her discomfort all the greater. For now, he would have to be careful during his time with her or risk summoning up as much demoniacal hatred in her as the concupiscence he had awakened. He got into the auto and saw her head turn toward him, her gaze avoiding his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about the camera. Really.” The contrition in her voice was for something more than the camera.

  “I have others, Professor. You didn’t plan to have such a fall, or to break the camera. No apology is needed,” he said calmly; he could feel her frenzy diminishing, as well as the effort it cost her. Starting the engine, he said, “Try to rest as we go back. I’ll call a doctor to have a look at you when we get there.” With that, he turned the auto around and started for the bridge; he found himself trying to decide how he should deal with Charis Lundquist Treat.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM NUGENT HAPGOOD IN PARIS TO HIS SISTER, MEREDITH RUTHERFORD, IN ST. LOUIS, SENT BY AIR MAIL AND DELIVERED IN THREE DAYS.

  General Delivery

  Paris, France

  December 5 th, 1949

  592 Sinclair Way

  St. Louis, Missouri

  USA

  Dear Mimi,

  Apologies for not writing sooner but it’s been one hell of a time here. Good news first: I finally got a job, not teaching math or anything rational like it, but working four hours a day at a tourist kiosk, helping the lost and bewildered who speak English find their way around the city. There’s a Spanish guy who does the same for Spanish-speakers, and he says he can do some Portuguese. We have another American who handles the Italians, and a guy from Hamburg to help the few Germans who venture to Paris. The pay isn’t very good, yet better than nothing at all. You can tell Jim that you won’t be sending your pin-money to me for now. I know you say it’s no problem, but Jim isn’t an idealistic academic like me, he’s an ambitious entrepreneur with cars to sell, and I’m not his brother, I’m his brother-in-law: you can’t expect him to share your inclination to help me. Anyway, for now, I’ll be busy explaining to baffled American and English tourists how to find their hotel, or the Louvre, or the Left Bank. It’s not hard to do, and it leaves me some time for working on my own.

  Believe it or not, there is more good news. A fellow I met through the Coven runs a publishing company, and he’s interested in a book on the applications of calculating machines that are neither military nor governmental. He agrees with me that such machines—once they have become smaller and need less constant attention—have a place in commerce and travel and archiving of all manner of information. He has offered me two thousand dollars for such a manuscript, paid in two installments. That should keep the wolf from the door, at least for a little while. Once I’ve finished the book, I’ll discuss other topics with him, including my theories on how mathematics should be taught in schools as a language, not a code. I won’t bore you with another harangue on the subject.

  Speaking of the Coven, there is sad news there. Joe Allanby’s wife died, having never truly responding to attempts to revive her from the overdose of sleeping pills she took. That happened about a week ago. Joe didn’t come to our unofficial Thanksgiving dinner we had at Chez Rosalie, and we all understood why, or thought we did. His housekeeper found him the following Sunday, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He left a note, blaming the Committee and J. Edgar for Norma’s death and saying he couldn’t think of any reason to stay alive any longer. He was sorry he hadn’t arranged for a successor for the Coven. I think it’s just as well that we, the Coven, get a little time to debate among ourselves to resolve that problem. His brother arrived yesterday to arrange for transportation of the body back to the US. We’ve asked his brother if he would join us for a private memorial service here before he leaves, and we’re waiting for his answer.

  On the subject of brothers, how is Corwin doing? Sorry I missed his graduation, for all manner of reasons. You said he might try for Cambridge for a year, to get a good start on his Masters with someone like Ronkowski or Haste. How’s that coming along? His work so far should open many doors for him. And what is he doing in the meantime? Don’t tell me he’s still playing brass with that jazz-band. All right, tell me if he is doing it, but let him know that he ought to be concentrating on studying; blasting away at Eubie Blake and Scott Joplin may be fun but it doesn’t support the assumptions of his devotion to math. Given Mama’s opinion of jazz, I must suppose he isn’t living at home now, in which case, where is he staying? He’s the most aggravating fellow I know, and I miss him like stink.

  There. I’ve had my spasm for the month now, and I won’t cry on your shoulder any longer, at least not until January. Keep in touch as much as you can, give my love to the family, including Jim, and let me know how things are going for all our family. I don’t like to be away, especially not for the reason I’m away; hearing from you, and from Aunt Jenny, makes it a little less awful. So even when I growl, never doubt that I am almost pathetically glad to hear from you.

  Your loving brother,

  Happy (who isn’t)

  P. S. I had a note from George last week—he says he’s been traveling. The note came from Ceylon—and he asked me to tell you that India is really beautiful and recommended you—and I quote—“bone up on it.” There. I have done it. Mission accomplished. I told him to write to you directly next time, but he probably won’t.

  7

  “COME IN, Broadstreet,” said the voice Lydell Gerold Broadstreet had heard often, one of those attention-demanding announcements that were unfamiliar to a quiet, sonorous voice that oozed with the power of the man, beneficent and sinister at once, making an omen that was hard to understand. “It’s about time we have a face-to-face, don’t you agree? Sorry I had to ask you on such short notice, but you got here in good time.” The invitation had come to Broadstreet in Baltimore yesterday afternoon at four, and was fairly sternly worded: he would be expected at one of the CIA satellite offices in Washington, DC, where he would meet with the Deputy Director for Clandestine Services at ten A.M.

  Broadstreet had dressed for the occasion in the same three-piece pin-stripe suit he had worn to testify before the Congressional Subcommittee on International Intelligence, his ivory shirt and foulard tie proper to the nth degree. Knowing he was presentable enough, he summoned up all the courage he could and opened the rosewood door, stepping into a surprisingly small, ascetical room: simple, paneled walls bare of ornamentation, two windows looking out on the rear entrance to a hotel, draperies without valances, three chairs, an old-fashioned oaken desk, a glassed-in bookcase, and a pair of filing cabinets—pretty meager for a man of Channing’s position. Broadstreet held out his hand, not daring to come too close to the desk, and saw then that Channing was in a wheelchair and that his left hand ended in a hand-like prosthesis. How the devil, Broadstreet wondered, had Channing come by such private calamities? Channing moved the wheelchair near enough that he could reach across the desk. Broadstreet remained utterly still until Channing raised his right hand to take Broadstreet’s, who gripped it heartily, inwardly grateful that he did not have to touch the artificial hand.

  Channing held up the art
ificial hand. “Jimmy Riggs’ work. Some eight years ago.”

  “His heyday, I’ve heard,” said Broadstreet with as much savoir-faire as he could muster, hoping to show his knowledge effectively.

  “Sit down, Dell, and thanks for driving into DC; it’s a bit of an inconvenience for me to travel,” said Channing. He, too, was in a three-piece suit—his was of charcoal wool, his shirt was chalk-white, and his Prussian-blue tie had university colors worked into it just below the perfect Windsor knot. “That’s what your friends call you, isn’t it? Dell for Lydell?” Channing tried to lighten Broadstreet’s demeanor. “I’m assuming you’ve discovered who I am. I would have done so were I in your position.”

  “You’re Channing. I believe your first name is Alfred.” He shivered a little, and he decided that the room was chilly—not surprising on this sleety day.

  “Manfred, actually, but like Alfred, known as Fred,” Channing said, indicating a comfortable wing-back chair. “I’ll have some coffee brought in a bit later. You take yours with one sugar and a little cream.” Channing slipped his chair behind the desk more fully, and leaned forward, his elbows on his blotter-pad. “You’re here about that luncheon you had some weeks ago—that contact you went to meet before Thanksgiving … anything ever come of that? Or did it fizzle? Or was it a way to distract your attention from something else?” He gave Broadstreet no chance to answer as he laid his hand on the report that lay on his desk. “By the looks of it, you washed out there, but it might not have been a total debacle. I’ve gone over your report and your contact’s failure to present himself. Most disappointing. But if there’s hope of something developing, then it’s in our best interests to be patient. Anything more about D. G. Atkins from your more accessible informant?”