Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I tell you all this because it will probably mean that I will not be able to get free from my work this summer—like you, I have too many obligations to contend with. There is too much riding on our current project, and as leader of the team, I will have to supervise all our work in the field. I’ve asked Mom and Dad if they would be willing to accompany the boys to Paris to visit you, but Mom is worried about Dad’s heart and a long flight might be too great a strain on him; she is understandably disinclined to make the trip without him. It is a disappointment, I know, but you can see how crucial this year will be for me, and it would be a disservice to out patron, the university, the Department of the Interior, and my team for me to interrupt our efforts for what would appear as a vacation in Europe, especially in light of the suspicions that linger about you. I know you’ll weather this disappointment with your usual aplomb, as you always have.

  I’m attending a reception in Chicago next week, returning late on Sunday, if weather allows us to fly at all: the weather report calls for high winds and snow, and ordinarily I would stay home, but the reception is part of a conference on natural resources, and there will be over six hundred attendees for the reception, discussing our natural resources. I will take the plane up on Thursday, so that I may make the most of the opportunity to talk to all those attending. I’ll be having meetings with Wilkins, Berryman, Clauster, and Szpondiski: when am I likely to get those four within five hundred miles of one another within the year? The featured speaker will be Professor Teller, who is going to deliver a talk on the necessity of building up a nuclear arsenal and preparing for nuclear war. He may be right about the Russians, but I need to hear more before I start telling everyone to build a bomb-shelter in the basement. Don’t worry—I won’t say anything about you to that crowd. I know you understand the need for my attendance at this conference. So I will have to postpone our next-weekend conversation; you would have to stay up after midnight to make the call, and from what you tell me of your landlady, she is likely to refuse your request to book such a late call, let alone put through any call I might make. I’ll plan on talking to you the weekend after, if that suits you. I know you understand, and I thank you for it.

  I have arranged the wire of $120 to you for January. You should be able to access it in five days. Spend it wisely: I know you will. If all goes well, I will be able to provide a little more in February, and possibly for March as well. Keep your spirits up, continue working, make the most of being abroad, and rest assured that all is being taken care of back home.

  Your devoted husband,

  Harold

  1

  SUNSET WAS fading over Venezia, and a slight, chilly haze had begun to glow an intense, deep blue, rising from the water and drifting along the canals large and small, making the whole of the city seem to be floating on dark clouds; it would not last long, but for now, the entire city seemed touched by magic. Traffic on the Gran’ Canale was moving a little slower than usual, as if taken with the dream-like atmosphere of the place. The boats in the canals and the ships at the Basino di San Marco were battling with the occasional gusts of wind that snapped along the buildings as if to scatter the blue mist like annoying water-sprites. One gondoliere swung his boat away from the Gran’ Canale toward the small, elegant palazzo that fronted on the Campo San Luca but backed onto a small canal; the steps leading up from the Rivi San Luca to the loggia of the palazzo were newly scrubbed and shone white as teeth in the swath of illumination from the electric lamps at either end of the landing.

  “Ca’ San-Germanno,” said the gondoliere at his most laconic, pointing out the small jewel of a palazzo that was the second landing in from the Gran’ Canale.

  “I see that,” said Szent-Germain, starting gingerly to rise as the gondoliere nuzzled his boat up to the stairs. He fought down a sudden onslaught of queasiness, reached out to grab the nearest ring on the side of the palazzo, installed two centuries ago to aid those leaving boats in reaching the steps without mishap. It bothered him more than he liked to admit that for those few seconds when he was between the gondola with its special, shallow keel lined with his native earth and the instant he was on the stairs of his palazzo, with his native earth in the foundation, distributed over the cluster of ancient logs, he was hard-put not to succumb to the nausea that water brought on. His exhaustion was taking a toll on him, and he knew he needed to strengthen himself in order to accomplish all he had set out to do in the next three days. He would have to ask Rogers to refill the soles of his shoes with his native earth to avoid another episode of discomfort. He steadied himself, watching the gondoliere hovering at the edge of the landing. “You can put the gondola away for now, Biagio, and have something to eat.” He flipped an old coin to Biagio.

  “Grazie, Signor’ Conte,” said Biagio, who knew the worth of an authentic ducat. “Is the gate open, or will you send someone down to open it?”

  “It should be open: we’re expected. Tie up in the boathouse and come inside. There should be food in the staff’s room; if not, go to the kitchen and ask for a meal.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “The wind’s picking up and you will want to be secured for the night. The tide is starting to rise, and that will mean more water in the boathouse.” His arrangements made, Szent-Germain went up the stairs rapidly, wanting to be free of the disorientation water engendered in him; vertigo swam at the edge of his vision, and he swallowed twice against it. As he entered the magnificent loggia, he allowed himself a sigh of relief as his native earth in the foundation worked its annealing magic on him.

  “I will bring your bags up to you,” Biagio called out, for he had seen that the Grof was exhausted from travel.

  “That is good of you, Biagio,” Szent-Germain replied, glancing through the pillars up at the scudding clouds sweeping across the sky, chasing away the last of the afterglow; with most of the color gone from the evening, the luminous, sapphire-blue mists were becoming little more than low-lying fog.

  “A hard trip, my master?” Rogers asked him from the gallery in front of the main reception room on the floor above; he spoke in Byzantine Greek. “It’s worse because you’re tired.” He faltered, trying to decide what more he should say that would not cause the Conte to withdraw into himself, with only bad memories for company.

  “Hectic,” said Szent-Germain in the same tongue. “More so than I’d like. The weather made for delays, and a lot of crowding on the trains when they finally ran. A day ago, there was talk at Bern of closing the tracks until the storm blows through—they decided to keep the tracks open for five hours—though when I reached Verona, they claimed it was a miracle that we got through, and prepared to close the tracks again, but that hasn’t happened yet, so far as I know. The station in Verona was a madhouse. The train to Milano and Genova left an hour late.”

  “You have never liked things hectic, not in all the years I’ve known you.” There was a glint of amusement in his faded-blue eyes—the years they had known one another numbered almost two thousand.

  “A fault of mine,” Szent-Germain conceded, his tone of voice lowered a little to indicate he would not discuss it yet. “How have your travels been?”

  “Some good, some not,” Rogers answered, his glance around the loggia alerting Szent-Germain to the likelihood of being overheard. “Winter is always hard on traveling.”

  “Meaning there is some trouble,” said Szent-Germain in a resigned voice. “Why do I suspect that the trouble was not about trains?” he added in the language of Visigothic Spain.

  Rogers gave a tactful cough. “You might be more comfortable in the withdrawing room; there’s a fire lit in there, and the carpet on the floor helps keep it warm.” He, too, continued in Visigothic Spanish. “We can be more private.”

  “Very good,” said Szent-Germain, and made for the broad staircase that had replaced the old steep, narrow one two centuries ago. Despite his fatigue he climbed steadily; with the night drawing in around them, and being over his native earth, much of his strength was returning.
He glanced over his shoulder toward Rogers, who was coming to the head of the staircase. “You mentioned in your report before last that there is some trouble in Barcelona and in Genova,” he remarked as he took off his overcoat and handed it up to Rogers.

  “There are problems, and in more places than those two ports, although the trouble is most obvious in those places,” said Rogers. “Not all of them small.”

  “I suppose it was to be expected. After all the black market dealings in the war, it is hard to give up the trade,” Szent-Germain said as he reached the top stair. “Should we be prepared for legal action?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to inform the attorneys.” He lowered his eyes, and said in English, “Better safe—”

  “—than sorry,” Szent-Germain finished for him, and went on in the same tongue. “True enough. Will there be any action taken, by police or other agencies?”

  “Possibly,” said Rogers carefully, turning back toward the reception-room door. “You will probably want to ask a few of your factors to … retire, or take them to court.”

  “Retirement is a far better solution,” said Szent-Germain. “How badly are we … dipped?” His choice of this old-fashioned word earned a wan smile from Rogers.

  “Millions of lire,” said Rogers. “And franks, and reales. The Genova office particularly has been secreting money in plenty, and gambling on not being noticed.” He gave a single shake to his head. “I don’t know that anyone gambles the way Gennaro Emerenzio did, but Signore Bastone in Genova appears to be working in that direction.” Emerenzio had nearly bankrupted Eclipse Trading and Eclipse Press in Venezia four centuries ago, having misappropriated most of the money Szent-Germain then had in Venezia to support his gambling fever. Leonardo Bastone had established a money-laundering business with ties to the remaining Nazis still at large in Europe, and was backing his work with Szent-Germain’s money. “That is something to be thankful for, isn’t it? Think what greater damage he could have done if you hadn’t been warned?”

  “This is not much different, though by the sound of it, less single-minded. Is there any indication how the money was acquired? Smuggling, or black market dealings.” He was thoughtfully silent for several seconds, then said, “Millions of lire are not worrisome, but franks are another matter. Reales must be considered as well.” He looked around, taking stock of the room. “At least nothing has been initiated yet. I don’t remember matters being this complicated after World War One.”

  “They weren’t, not for your businesses, in any case.” Rogers waited for Szent-Germain to say something, and when he did not, he added, “The level of destruction was less after the First World War. This Second War has been more than a continuation of the hostilities of the First, it has dragged in countries that played no part in the First, or had not yet existed. Also, there were no atomic bombs in the First.”

  “There was the ’Flu, though,” said Szent-Germain, his face for an instant showing his age. “In many ways it was deadlier than the war.” He studied Rogers’ posture. “You think there is another one coming, don’t you: another war.”

  “As you do,” Rogers said.

  “I hope it will not, but there are so many temptations that accompany wars, they are difficult to avoid at the start.” Szent-Germain paused. “About these problems you’ve encountered. Have you completed your assessment?”

  “Not yet; I have only a few preliminary notes for your businesses here; I had intended to do more before you arrived, but, as it turns out, I was also delayed in getting here,” Rogers told him. “I have a summary for your attention of the state in the French and Spanish offices, if you would like to see it now.”

  “Is it that urgent that I must undertake to study it tonight?” It was an atypical question for Szent-Germain to ask, and it ignited Rogers’ curiosity.

  “Urgent, but not desperate, at least not yet,” said Rogers. “No doubt, one night won’t make much of a difference.”

  Szent-Germain nodded. “Will this summary of problems take long to discuss?”

  Rogers studied him as he hung the overcoat on a brass rack near the door. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I will be going out later this evening, after I have a bath and change clothes. On foot—no reason to use the gondola for this.” He wanted no one to know where he was going, or why, as much as he wanted to avoid another journey over running water; he removed his muffler and dropped it onto his overcoat.

  Rogers made no attempt to conceal his relief. “You will visit a woman? Long overdue, my master. Have you decided whom it will be, or will you decide later, after you have seen who might welcome you?”

  “It is my intention to visit a specific woman; her name is Evangelista Bonuomo. I shared a compartment with her on the train; a widow from Milano, personable, well-mannered, not quite forty would be my guess, and missing her husband profoundly. She told me a great deal about him. He was fortunate to have her high opinion. I believe she would be glad of a dream that brings her pleasure.” He went to the brocade-upholstered sofa and dropped onto it. “The war was hard on her, particularly after her husband died.”

  “Does she have children?”

  “Two, she said, in what the Americans call boarding schools, an odd term for them; it almost sounds like a stable for horses. The older one is in Switzerland, the younger one in Firenze. She misses them, but she has to work—her words, not mine—and not for money, for a sense of worth. She teaches the blind.”

  “Is she expecting you?” Rogers asked as neutrally as he could, realizing that too much interest could cause Szent-Germain to become more reserved in his answers.

  “I think not. She only talked to me because there was no one else to listen; we were the only occupants of the compartment. As it is, I don’t plan to arrive until after midnight. Have you any plans for tonight, old friend?”

  “Nothing very exciting. I had thought I might listen to some music on the radio. There’s a concert of early music being played in Padova and it’s being broadcast.” He looked to the windows behind Szent-Germain. “There’s going to be snow in the mountains tonight. The wind will be cold.”

  “Early music,” Szent-Germain mused. “Medieval or Renaissance?”

  “Some of both,” said Rogers. “Ancient music.” He gave a solitary laugh. “Historic might be a more appropriate term. There was music well before you restored me to life, most of which is lost.” He resisted the urge to sigh. “I wish I could hear some of the songs from Nero’s reign, including some of his own. He came up with a few good songs before he angered the Senate. The one he wrote for the Legions was a fine march.”

  “Wherever the—no, that’s not right, it’s As far as any eagle flies, the might of Rome will go/From out of steaming Africa to Hyperboric snow,” Szent-Germain sang quietly. “Is that the one you mean, with the octave jumps in the refrain?”

  “That one, and Jupiter, the Biggest and Best,” said Rogers, surprised at how these memories stirred him.

  “Oh, yes. But you need a hydrolic organ and a crowd of fifty thousand voices singing to do it justice,” Szent-Germain said with a touch of nostalgia. He ran one hand through his hair. “Best to get this trimmed tomorrow—after I see the press-men.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to do before then?” Rogers inquired, his demeanor as inscrutable as a cat’s.

  “If you would, have Duracoprir draw me a warm bath, and, if you would, set out my black suit I bought in Chicago, and a black roll-top pullover. Foreign but not obviously so; not easily remembered.”

  “Certainly. Should I plan to shave you, as well?”

  Szent-Germain rubbed his chin. “Probably. I don’t want to scratch her. I should have had the barber tend to it before I left Paris, but time was short.”

  “I’ll ask for the razor, and the lather-mug.” Rogers let himself smile as he went to the door and motioned to the servant in the loggia to come up. When the young man arrived, Rogers said, “Tell Duracoprir to draw a bath for the Conte, and fetch t
he razor, mug, and shaving basin.”

  The young servant nodded twice. “Now?”

  “Within fifteen minutes; they’ll be wanted in the Conte’s bathroom,” said Rogers, then stepped back into the reception room. “You’ve selected your clothes, and your bath is arranged. Is there anything else?”

  “Keep the fires lit until two hundred hours, if you would,” he said, “and banked for heat after that.”

  Rogers pretended to be shocked. “Feeling cold? You?” He answered his own question. “Or it is for the staff?”

  “The staff, of course.” He sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll need to go to the press. Ogniosso has been fairly insistent that we discuss the problems with the press-men. He, being their foreman, is determined to address the issues as soon as possible.”

  “They want raises now that the war is over and Italy is rebuilding?” Rogers said, accepting the change of subject without annoyance.

  “Among other things. They want greater participation in the decisions about what we publish. And want to have a board or committee oversee our publishing program.” Szent-Germain made a gesture of helplessness. “Most of them don’t understand the books we publish and those who do don’t know why we bother, so that is unlikely to work out to anyone’s satisfaction if some changes aren’t made. They need something they can call theirs, or we’re apt to lose them.”

  “Have you anything in mind?” Rogers asked, knowing it was expected of him.

  “I thought perhaps a secondary line of books, more popular, would please them, something they could point to at a bookshop and give as presents. Nothing too slick or obviously commercial, but attractive and stylish. Perhaps a series of illustrated travel books that could be updated regularly, or perhaps something for children. Or both.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to see.”