I’ll send this off to you tomorrow morning on my way into the lab. Your signature will confirm that you have it, as you know, and at present, it will be helpful to us both. I’ll write again in two weeks, or maybe a bit more. You can answer this, but don’t write again until I write to you. Doug says we’ve been communicating too often, and now that we have agreed to our divorce, I should write less frequently, since we have worked out all our problems and you have accepted my settlement terms; the FBI will be suspicious if we write frequently. Same thing with phoning. It will be at least a month until I call you: I’ll book the call from here. If there’s an emergency, of course I’ll let you know promptly, but otherwise, it’s best if we keep our distance, as it were.
Until next time,
Your soon-to-be-ex, Harold Treat
P. S.
Don’t hesitate to send the boys a copy of your book as soon as it’s published. They will be thrilled to see what you’ve been doing. But it’s best not to send one to me, or to pass along any announcement—that could be enough for real trouble.
1
A LIGHT spring mizzle was falling, looking like a dusting of minute diamonds in the shine of the streetlamp. Across the Seine and a short way ahead of them, the Louvre appeared to be a painted backdrop, its image flattened by the mist and the night. There was almost no wind on this cool, late evening, though the damp was adding a chill to the air; sidewalks and streets shone black, and the river glinted silver where the spill of lamplight struck it; a barge headed upriver was leaving a frothy, spangled wake behind. It was almost midnight and the streets were nearly empty of traffic; only the two-toned whoop of an ambulance a block away gave any reminder that this was a large, active city, not a forgotten, abandoned relic of a metropolis.
Szent-Germain and Charis had been walking for more than two hours, the sound of their footsteps seeming preternaturally loud, like nearby gunfire. When they had first set out they had indulged in desultory conversation now and again, but for the most part, their nearness created a private dialogue that was welcome to them both; they had covered the last kilometer in companionable silence.
“I gave Harold’s letter to Bethune—well, I put it in an envelope with his room number on it and left it at his hotel,” Charis said as if continuing a discussion rather than beginning one; she stopped walking to pull a scarf from her coat-pocket and tie it over her head; her desire for Szent-Germain was banked within her, but its heat remained powerful and strangely comforting. “I wanted to destroy it—burn it or tear it to pieces—but I knew that wouldn’t be smart. So I did what I was supposed to do and left it for Bethune.”
“The better choice of the two,” he agreed, and waited for her to continue; he could feel her exasperation with her estranged husband and had no wish to add to it; he was aware that if he said anything derogatory about Harold Treat, she would feel the need to defend him, so he only asked, “Have you spoken with Bethune yet? Has he made any recommendations to you? You needn’t tell me if you’d rather not.”
“No, I haven’t spoken to him, but I already have an appointment with him—Bethune—on the eighteenth. I guess two days isn’t too long to wait. It may even be a good thing; I don’t think I want to talk about Harold’s letter with Bethune just yet. I’m too … muddled about it all. I want to be sensible, rational, make considered decisions, but my impulse is to demolish the letter and find some way to upset Harold as much as he has upset me.”
“And yet, you’re ambivalent about his eagerness for the divorce. Do you want to remain with him?”
She shook her head several times. “But the letter confuses me: is Harold being spiteful, or is he really trying to protect our boys? I can’t decide. He may find it difficult to be forthcoming with me, but he may also want to keep me at a distance. He knows the letter is likely to be read by one of the intelligence organizations, so he may be reticent on that account. And maybe he’s got some other intention I can’t figure out. Bethune might be able to explain it all. Or you.” She stifled a sigh. “He seems so … self-righteous when I read what he wrote. I mean Harold, not Bethune.”
“Do you think he is being encouraged to be autocratic with you?” It was a possibility that had first occurred to him when Charis had telephoned him, nearly in tears from fury and despair.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t say much about his parents, or what they think about the divorce. And it could be that his attorney, Douglas Pond, might have something to do with it, but my guess is that it’s Harold, wanting to keep me off-balance and cooperative.”
“Has he always been that way?” Szent-Germain asked calmly, suiting his tone to her mood.
“A little. He’s a big cheese in his field, and he knows it, so he…” She shook her head again and pressed her lips together as if to keep any critical words from escaping. When she was certain she had succeeded, she went on, “And he could get pompous when he wanted to have his way. He’d take an attitude that was indignant and … petulant rather than yell and scream. Why do I speak of him in the past tense?” She frowned, then went on, “Sometimes when he gave formal lectures, he ended up sounding like Sydney Greenstreet—portentous, orotund, and gravelly—but with a bit of a Loosianna drawl. I never realized how much that annoyed me until recently.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or maybe I didn’t let myself notice it before.”
“Which is it, do you think?” He took a step to the side so that he could see her face more clearly.
“That’s the problem,” she said, her frustration making her abrupt. “My thoughts are like jackrabbits, bouncing about in all directions. I can’t keep my attention on anything for very long, not even my work,” she said, as if admitting to a failing of character. “I can’t sustain my concentration.”
“Hardly surprising, considering everything he’s thrown at you,” said Szent-Germain.
“I’d like to think so,” she said, and could not meet his kindly gaze. “I feel so lacking, that I should be bowled over like this: I knew it was coming. As soon as I discovered that I wouldn’t be able to return this year or next, I anticipated something like this, and made myself prepare for it. But I was bonked on the noggin, all the same,” she burst out, more loudly than she intended, and pinched the bridge of her nose to try to keep from crying.
“Why do you try to trivialize your feelings? Bonked on the noggin turns your outrage into a fit of peevishness.” He waited until she looked at him. “You don’t have to do that for me. Rail at him, swear, cry, shriek, weep, whatever you want.”
She tried to keep her tears at bay and very nearly succeeded. “Maybe I do it because … because if I don’t let this get to me, I can salvage something at the end of it—something with the kids.” This time when she wiped her eyes, there was a smudge of face-powder on the handkerchief he had handed to her.
He gave her a little time to compose herself again. “Why do you think your husband is being so peremptory about your divorce? other than to badger you into compliance?” There was no condemnation in his tone, but no approval, either.
“That’s what’s been driving me nuts. I wish I could figure that out,” she said, sounding tired. “When I tried earlier, I couldn’t get a handle on it. I wanted to scream.” She announced this last in a burst of self-condemnation.
“But you didn’t?”
“No. But I smoked almost a whole pack of Luckies. I haven’t done that since the night before I sat for my orals.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “My mouth still tastes awful.”
He had smelled tobacco smoke on her clothes when he had come to her flat in answer to her summons. “Did it help?”
“Smoking? It gave me something to do with my hands.” She shrugged. “Not really.” She went half a block without speaking.
“If you want to talk about any of this, I’ll listen,” he offered. “Sometimes talking helps.”
“Are you trying to analyze me, Doctor Freud?” she challenged playfully, but with a hint of feeling affronted behind her too-ready sm
ile.
“I don’t believe so, no; I’m not qualified for one thing, and I’m too much concerned for your welfare to have the therapeutic removal from your perceptions that is necessary for the analytic process,” he answered directly, with a suggestion of humor lurking in his eyes. “Attempting to psychoanalyze you would be intrusive as well as condescending, and you do not need either of those right now.”
“Then what do I need?” she asked, and suddenly flushed, the return of her sexual desire taking her by surprise.
“I’ve told you before: an ally.” He took her hand and settled it in the bend of his elbow, then resumed his ambling pace. “I’m doing what allies do.”
“An ally,” she echoed, as if she had never heard the word. It was unnerving to touch him, but she strove to conceal her emotions.
“Isn’t that why you called me? Weren’t you looking for a kind of shock-absorber? Allies are supposed to do that, aren’t they?” he asked as if he were inquiring about the thickening mist or the lack of taxis on the street. “You told me you wanted to talk about what Harold said in his letter. Is that still what you want?”
She looked over the low wall at the river. “I don’t know why I called you, to be honest. I felt I was in a bad situation that was getting worse, and I could do nothing about it. I didn’t want to bother you, but I was sick of thrashing about the flat like a caged tiger, and I didn’t want to dump this on any of the Coven. I don’t want to add to what they’re already dealing with.” The last sounded a bit too uncertain, so she added, “You don’t want to compare scars, the way the rest often do.”
“No,” he agreed, “I don’t like comparing scars.” He wondered what she would make of the broad swath of striated, whitened tissue that covered his torso from sternum to genitals, a continuing reminder of his execution over four thousand years ago. Roman matron though she was, Olivia had been squeamish about his scars, Tecla had been condemnatory, Gynethe Mehaut had flinched when she touched them, and even sensible Rowena Saxon had been put off by them; he worried that Charis might share their repellence if she ever saw them, a notion he dismissed because it reminded him of how much he wanted that to happen.
She glanced at him; she was slightly shorter than he, and in her high heels, they were about even. “And you won’t tell me to buck up, or take it on the chin, the way Happy would if he were still in Paris. His sister is worse than he is that way. Relentlessly optimistic and … confident.”
“Sounds like you know them both,” said Szent-Germain, trying to draw her out.
“In a way. I don’t know Mimi, not as well as Happy.” She used his handkerchief to blot her face and to conceal her expression from him. “Mimi’s what the family calls her: her name is Meredith.”
“You’re close to Professor Nugent?” Szent-Germain asked with mild surprise.
“You mean theoretical math and cultural history make an odd combination?” she asked sharply, folding his handkerchief carefully.
“No, I mean I’m curious how your paths came to cross. Academia is like most professions are becoming in this century: essentially small towns spread all over the world, where almost everyone in the profession knows the hierarchical position and the gossip about everyone else.” He could feel her welling defensiveness keenly, and went on, “Isn’t his sister in France just now?”
“She was; she left a couple of days ago,” said Charis, wanting to appear unconcerned. “I’m not surprised that she wanted to stay away from the Coven—she doesn’t want to make her own situation more awkward than her visit to Happy is already, and she probably doesn’t want to make any trouble for her husband and kids. You can bet the CIA kept an eye on the two of them for the whole of their visit.” In spite of her efforts to remain calm, she shuddered at the thought of surveillance.
“But you know you’re being followed,” he said, his voice gentle. “All the members of the Coven are.”
“I don’t like it. Happy has the most trouble with it, because there’s some kind of connection he has with someone whom the CIA and the Committee consider to be much more dangerous than what most of us have seemed to the powers-that-be, or what the Committee or the FBI or the CIA thinks we might be part of. Happy doesn’t talk about it, but he is touchy, knowing that he’s got more strikes against him with the government than any of the rest of us, except for Win Pomeroy.” She did not look directly at him, worried that she might see distrust or something worse in his eyes.
“And why is his case more troublesome than yours, or the Kings’?” He was conscious of this difference but had not been able to find out why it should be so.
“I thought you knew all about us. Pomeroy worked on improving strains of wheat with the Soviets, from the late Thirties until the end of the war, poor guy.”
“I see,” he said.
“The Committee is doubly wary about people who’ve had direct contact with the Soviets. Look at Washington Young: he’s a Wobbly, and he used to print pamphlets for them for free. He might have it easier if he weren’t colored.” She was relieved to have something to talk about that did not involve Harold. “It’s tricky for me because I knew Happy and Mimi before.”
“And that might make your position more precarious?” he suggested. “Because you know both the brother and sister?”
“Sort of. The Coven is wary about having members who have any kind of personal history, and if anyone does have such a connection, we’re asked to deny it outside of the group.” She made an impatient gesture. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. His sister and I were in grad school together for a couple of semesters, and shared an apartment the size of a rabbit hutch. I met Happy then. He was a bright kid, very ambitious about his theories, and blithely unaware of his ambitions.” She managed a partial smile that lacked the brittleness that her previous attempts had possessed. “I liked him more than her.”
“Ah,” he said.
“Not that kind of like,” she amended. “He’s a lot more accessible than Meredith wants to be. She had the idea to be a free spirit back then, but somehow, that didn’t really suit her. She and Happy are very close.”
“Her name is Meredith?” Szent-Germain asked. “The family calls her Mim—”
“Meredith Isadora. They called her Mimi; at least they did then. Happy told me she’d gone back to Meredith when she got married.” She lowered her head. “We didn’t part on good terms, I’m sorry to say. Among other things, Mimi didn’t think the war would come, so she dropped out of her PhD program, and went on some kind of extended travel, about a year or so before the war broke out in Europe. She had trouble getting home. Happy told me she married a car dealer about ten years ago, and that she has a couple of kids, now. She isn’t as much a free spirit as she used to be.” She felt a strange pang of jealousy, and wondered if it were because Mimi had settled down, or because she, herself, had been deprived of her own security.
“Did Nugent offer to bring you and Meredith together during her visit?” Szent-Germain asked, encouraging her to talk.
“No.” She stopped again. “Aside from Happy, we don’t have anything in common, Mimi and I.”
“You have children,” he pointed out.
“Not that that’s anything remarkable,” she answered darkly.
They had reached one of the flights of stairs leading down to the river; they paused under the light that marked the spot. “The clocks will strike midnight in two or three minutes,” he remarked, looking down the street. “I should probably get you home.” He spoke reluctantly but with a pragmatic half-bow.
“Have we really been walking for almost three hours? My ankles will be the size of softballs tomorrow,” she lamented.
“In that case, I should definitely see you home.” Night and his native earth in his soles provided him with increased strength and stamina, and he knew he could easily carry her back to her flat if she required it, but he only added, “Don’t wear yourself out; you have enough to deal with. If you like, I can try to find a taxi.”
“It’s nice … no, it’s kind of you to say that, but I’ll walk,” she told him, staring at him with an air of discovery that she did not realize was apparent to him; her attraction to him had modified during their walk to something more comprehensive than it had been; seeming to hasten them on, a chorus of pleasantly discordant bells began to ring from nearby churches. They increased their speed from an amble to a more rapid clip; she felt her desire become yearning, and she started to consider what she might do to express that yearning. When she realized what she was seeking, she had a brief, internal scuffle with herself, appalled that she should consider making their alliance physical as well as affectionate, then decided that if he wanted the same thing, she would take him up on it, and wrestle with her conscience afterward. They would have to keep their lapse quiet, she knew, and that one consideration jangled at the back of her mind like an out-of-tune piano. She wondered if he were as discreet as she had assumed.
They spoke little, but as they turned into the rear alleyway behind the building where her flat was located, she brought her keys out of her purse, mentally chiding herself for the risk she was taking.
“Do you see anyone?” she whispered as she hurried with the lock.
“No; but then, I’m not supposed to,” he said, ironic amusement softening his observation; no one had been posted at the mouth of the alley, and the windows looking out on the cobbled narrow street were covered with draperies and shutters; there might be observers behind the dustbins, but he thought it unlikely. He listened intently but heard nothing more sinister than the hum of a new refrigerator in the rear apartment beneath Charis’ flat; Charis’ pulse was rapid.
She could not keep from glancing around, but she, too, saw nothing. “You’ll come upstairs?”
“If that would please you,” he said, perceiving the fluctuations of need and expectation and desire that were creating such foment within her.
Sustenance Page 28
