Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Charis did not allow herself to be distracted by the bittersweet jollity. “I … I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” he said, and went on as if unable to stop himself. “She was around thirteen when it happened; she had been orphaned by the Great War, or so it appeared. Whatever questions she may have had about my true nature, she never asked them.” That was not quite true: Laisha had challenged him once; his chagrin from that confrontation was still with him; he had told Laisha that he was very old, and she accepted that for the time being, which was all the time they had had together.

  Charis set her plate of food aside, her appetite reduced to nothing. “Would you have told her, if she didn’t ask?”

  “At some point, yes; I would have had to.” He thought back to some of the explanations he had rehearsed in his mind but had never ventured to use.

  “Do you miss her?” She held up one hand. “That’s a foolish question. Of course you do. How could you not?” She drank some of her wine. “Does long life make it easier to bear, does it soften the blow?”

  “No, but the passing of time does, or it always has before; I haven’t lost anyone so young and so close to me, and it may take longer to release her than some memories.”

  “You must treasure your memories,” she said by way of indirect apology.

  “Memories are slippery things. There are decades of my vampire life from when it began that I am not at all certain are as accurate as I want to believe them to be. They are quite offensive, but not as profoundly atrocious as I fear my acts may have been. Who knows how those ancient recollections might have shifted if Rogers weren’t with me to keep the memories clear for me.” Rogers’ predecessor, Aumtehoutep, had not known Szent-Germain until he had walked the earth for more than eleven hundred years, and he had not often challenged Szent-Germain on matters of his past.

  She offered him a baffled stare. “How do you mean?”

  “Rogers has been with me about half my undead years, and he remembers many things I might have forgotten, or that could shift in my mind, to spare myself the pain and ignominy of some of the things I did long ago—or a few more recent acts, for that matter—things that I cannot recall without distress; I sometimes believe that I have allowed the centuries to ameliorate the horror of what I did so that I can endure to revisit the past without untenable shame. Some capacity for that kind of murderous fury remains within me, whether I want to admit it or not.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything … too reprehensible,” she said, uncertainty coming over her.

  “Why not?” There was something in his conduct—so remote that Charis felt chilled by it—that gave conviction to what he said. “They slaughtered my family, ran my people out of the Carpathians, and enslaved those of my people they were able to capture. It was a harsher time then, and I had not yet learned to honor the brevity of human life.”

  This time, when he stopped talking, she got up, saying, “I’ll just go and have Jesse refill my glass,” and did not wait for him to respond before she left him under the willow with only his memories for companions.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM JAMES EMMERSON TREE, CURRENTLY LIVING AS T. J. EMMERSON IN TORONTO, CANADA, TO GROF SZENT-GERMAIN, IN CARE OF ECLIPSE PUBLISHING IN PARIS, FRANCE; SENT BY AIR LETTER AND DELIVERED THREE DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

  c/o Gemma McCrorie Literary Agency

  Suite 47, DeVere Building

  Queen Street at Edmonton Road

  Toronto, Ontario CANADA

  September 6, 1950

  Dear Saint-Germain,

  I was pleased to hear from you last week, and having thought about your present difficulties, I’ll now try to answer your questions: I have to admit I hadn’t realized how far the current paranoia has spread.

  So you have encountered the current zeal of US security: my sympathies. There is a fatal taint of Puritanism in a large portion of the US national character—I sometimes feel a touch of it myself—that sees argument with their position as heresy, and deliberate ignorance as purity. They proclaim their love of the Constitution without comprehending its principles, just as they seek to view the document as Christian Holy Writ, ignoring the First Amendment’s provision regarding freedom of religion, and its reaffirmation in the decisions of the Supreme Court—off the top of my head I can’t recall which decisions are crucial—which do not permit the establishing any state religion, and which also prohibit any religious test being a requirement for holding public office.

  It is those links to Puritanism that present an opponent as a devil, not just a military or political adversary. As the Puritans justified hanging upstart women for being witches, so now the government uses the specter of Communism to justify the expulsion of those whose opinions do not march with the majority of their countrymen. Not that most know anything more than the demonic interpretation of Communism. They have no knowledge of Marx’s theories, and refuse to explore them for fear of contamination. They believe that Communism is soul-numbing, godless, and dehumanizing but that it is so highly contagious that anyone even remotely connected to it is in danger of being seduced by it. It pains me to speak so about US citizens, having been one myself, but it is apparent that they have been frightened into embracing the exaggerations and mythologies the so-called Right has been spreading since before the war ended.

  You’re correct, of course; I have had a few run-ins with the security division of the government, in my own name. As an overseas reporter, I was exposed to certain workings of the security agencies, and was put on a watch-list for endorsing some of the actions of the French Left, which in turn propelled me into other sorts of writing. No more reportage. T. J. Emmerson didn’t come into being until I Changed during the war, and, as you know, T. J. Emmerson is a Canadian. Because James Emmerson Tree was “known” to have perished in France while covering the fighting for the Detroit Free Press, I had few options about returning. So rather than practice journalism, I now write juvenile adventures, and live a very quiet life here in Toronto. In this regard, I was most fortunate to have your good tutelage at Montalia, and although at the time I was let down by Madelaine’s absence, I believe that the intervening eight years have brought me into a greater appreciation for what this Change has wrought in me, and what I will need to do to preserve myself from close scrutiny, which in these days of photography and fingerprints, is not readily avoidable.

  If the foregoing seems too prejudiced to you, I ask you to wait another year before discounting my opinions. I believe you will find that the fear I mentioned is insidious as well as deplorable, and that you will need to be inclined to be cautious as well as alert.

  Sincere good wishes,

  T. J. Emmerson

  6

  LYDELL BROADSTREET’S desk was laden with files, all conspicuously stamped SECRET in red ink, which, harried as he was, he regarded with pride, and a niggle of dismay. The last few weeks had seen a step-up in activity concerning the Ex-Pats’ Coven in France, and all the efforts were starting to show how much his dedication had accomplished. Perhaps he was finally being given the credit he had earned in singling out this group for increased surveillance. He decided that it was a favorable omen to have submitted all his project summaries on the Equinox, two days in the past, for that would mean equal weight would be given to what he predicted was coming with what had already happened, which would give him six months to prove his case. And he knew he would need those six months. There was so much to explain, so much to account for. He raked his fingers through his light-blond hair, as if he could dredge up a solution from his brain through such action. He had, he reminded himself, delivered four large binders to Deputy Director Manfred Channing’s home a little before nine P.M on the Autumnal Equinox, filled with information about Ex-Pats’ Coven friends and relatives still living in the US, with recommendations as to how these connections could be used to Agency advantage. Then he had almost held his breath for a full day, but when no complaint was forthcoming, and no rescinding of his orders, Broadstreet felt the
first, timid thrill of success. The completion of that phase of the project marked one conclusive event with another—one political, one astronomical—and though he still had an hour’s work to finish up, he allowed himself the luxury of putting his feet up while he drank his coffee. It was a cool evening with the threat of rain in the air, the sky scumbled with leaden clouds, their lowering underbellies lit up by the lume of the city. He allowed himself ten minutes to luxuriate in the glow of his success.

  There was a tap on his door, and before he could rise to open it, one of the night patrolmen came into his office, a flashlight in one hand, the other resting on his holster. “Working late again, I see.”

  “Just doing my job, like you,” said Broadstreet with a modesty he did not feel; he glanced at his watch. “Nine-forty-eight,” he said. “I won’t stay much longer; probably about an hour or so.” He had already decided to leave at eleven, but he wanted to know if the Guard would be here longer than he would.

  “I’ll be gone by then,” the Guard said. “Shift change at ten.”

  “That’s coming up fast,” Broadstreet said. “And it’s important that I get back to my reports. Thanks for checking on me. Who knows who might have been in here?”

  “Well, you keep at it. And call down to the Guard Station when you’re ready to leave; they’ll tell you which door to use to get out.” The Guard rubbed the stubble on his face. “You parked in the lot?”

  “In Lot B, yes,” said Broadstreet.

  “I’ll ask them to try to set up the north door, but it may have to be the east one: the cleaning crew is doing the floor in the north lobby.” With that, the Guard touched the brim of his peaked cap, and stepped back into Broadstreet’s outer office. Three seconds later, the outer door slammed.

  What sort of omen was that? Broadstreet wondered when he was certain the patrolman had gone. Was he being warned not to be smug about what he had accomplished, or was it not connected to his achievement? But how could that be? To have a night patrolman enter his office without so much as a by-your-leave was unusual, and that stood out alone in his thoughts providing an alert, like a Civil Defense siren. He considered the possibilities as he left and locked his office in order to go thirty feet down the hallway to the men’s room. He used the toilet, then threw cold water on his face and wiped it away with two stiff paper towels, all the while telling himself to calm down. “It’s going to work. It’s going to work,” he muttered to his reflection, telling himself as he did that this room surely was not bugged. “It’s going to work.”

  When he got back to his office, he was astonished to discover the door unlocked and Opal Pierce seated behind her desk, rolling a sheet of paper into the typewriter. “Missus Pierce,” he said as if her being here were the most natural thing in the world. “How good of you to work late. I hadn’t expected you.” He wanted to know why she was here, but thought it was better if she volunteered the information than he demanded it.

  “Oh, Mister Broadstreet, I didn’t realize you were still in the building,” she said in adorable, fallacious confusion, concealing her disappointment that he was here at all. Her smile was quick, with just enough seductive charm to ensure his attention. “I have about an hour’s work I didn’t finish earlier, and as this was on my way home, I thought I might as well…” She shrugged as her explanation fizzled. “So here I am.” And now that he had seen her, she would need to spend some time on completing her assignment so he could see her do it.

  He had noticed that she was dressed for a night out, in an evening suit of emerald-green peau-de-cygne with a high neck-line and an elaborate lace jabot to set off her face; she was wearing scent, something delicious and disturbing, and her mouth was painted deep-red. “You didn’t have to do this,” he told her, trying to decide if it would be proper to close the hall door with the two of them alone in the office together.

  The strikers clacked on the paper. “But I do. I thought you were aware of the report I haven’t completed; I’m sure I mentioned it to you. I don’t want to leave you hanging because I lacked determination. This way, you won’t have to be responsible for my error.” She stopped typing long enough to pat her steno pad, just now open to a page that was filled with her meticulous shorthand. “I’ve had this on my mind all evening; I couldn’t pay attention to the concert at all.”

  He felt himself nonplused. “I appreciate you doing this, Missus Pierce, but it isn’t necessary that you … extend yourself in this way. You certainly didn’t have to abandon your seat for the chamber music festival.” He recalled vaguely that she had mentioned her anticipation of delight at an evening of Bach and Handel; it all seemed a little outre to him, too fussy and high-brow. Give him Louis Armstrong or the Dorsey Brothers any day, or Gershwin. He liked Gershwin—but he supposed it was a matter of taste. “I know how much you enjoy it.” He was glad to see her, but she was a distraction, or perhaps an omen of ambiguous meaning. To have her so near, in the implied intimacy of night, engaged his fantasies much more than she did when she was working by the full light of day.

  She finished typing the heading. “I promise I won’t bother you while you work. Only you need to get this in to Deputy Director Channing before tomorrow night, and you’ll need me to do it tonight if that’s going to happen.” All through the afternoon she had struggled to leave a small amount of work incomplete so that she could account for her presence in Broadstreet’s office tonight; she had estimated to Channing that it would take a week to accustom Broadstreet to her after-hours presence; she wanted Broadstreet to go home, so she could do what Channing had charged her to do: slip two memos into specific SECRET flies among those stacked on Broadstreet’s desk. She disliked working for Broadstreet, and this assignment was beginning to rankle, so the sooner she could accomplish this, the better. With any luck she would be out of here in under a month—two or three at the most. She had a brief moment to consider what Channing was doing to Broadstreet, but any compassion she might feel toward Broadstreet faded when she recalled his selfish clumsiness the first two times he tried to kiss her—the third time she let him, and that told her more than she wanted to know about him.

  “I … I’m grateful. You don’t have to do this,” he said, more out of good manners than belief. “I was planning to work until eleven, but don’t let that—”

  “I have to get home before then,” she said, and put him at something that was almost ease. “So I should get to work.” And she would have to slip in the memos at another time, an aggravating thought.

  He coughed diplomatically. “So must I. You’ll want me to inform the Guard when you’re ready to leave. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” With that, he turned on his heel and went into the large, inner office, and sat down, staring at the stack of files, but trying to keep the image of Opal Pierce from his mind.

  Twenty minutes later, while he fretted over how to show links and connections from known Communists with members of the Ex-Pats’ Coven, he looked up at the dark windows, clapping his hand over his mouth to keep from shouting. “Baxter! That’s it. Baxter.” Baxter was clearly the solution to this coil; now he would have to decide how to go about bringing him into it. He wondered vaguely why he had not thought of Baxter before, but did not linger on that question as he considered the possibilities Baxter provided. Baxter could be invaluable if Broadstreet worked him right. He would come up with a trail that would lead from one of the Coven members—Hapgood Nugent would be a good choice, considering that Nugent’s brother-in-law would help out—to suspected Communists in the US. He sat very still, weighing the omens, then he squinted his eyes and nodded. It would work. It had to work.

  Goaded into action, he took his notepad and fountain-pen, and began to work out how he might construct a link from … which of the Coven members: that was the problem, he realized. Nugent was his choice, but mightn’t Axel Bjornson be better? Or Charis Treat? Or Mary Anne Triding? Not Winston Pomeroy: he had a couple of good connections who might object, both of them in strong positions in
the judiciary, including some kind of cousin newly appointed to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals—who could cause trouble, just as Russell McCall could, if he found an editor to back him. It would have to be one of the solos, anyway, that obviously was necessary. Stephen diMaggio, then? Probably not: his use to the Coven was very limited and specific. Same thing with Washington Young. He couldn’t use Bethune, either; this wasn’t the kind of game you played with a lawyer if you could avoid it. It might be best to look at the US families of the Coven members again, and work that angle. He could feel his mind racing, and he tried to jot down enough of what sped through his brain so that he could work it into a sensible plan, and quickly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Missus Pierce rapped on the door. “Mister Broadstreet? The report is done, and I’ll drop it off for Mister Channing, if you like. I’m leaving. I’ve cleared myself with the Guard and will be going out through the north door. See you in the morning.”

  Broadstreet looked up from the litter he had spread on his desk; he was glad now that he had closed the door between their offices, for he would not want anyone to see what he was working on. “Thank you for working late, Missus Pierce.” He thought he should say something more, something that would show her that he valued her. “I appreciate your dedication. See you in the morning. Oh, and I may be out tomorrow afternoon,” he added. “I’ll phone in where I can be contacted. But that’s for later.”

  “I gather it’s important,” she said, hoping to lure him into explaining to her.

  “I’ll know more tomorrow evening, when the meeting is over,” he said. “It may be the break I’ve been looking for.” He had stumbled upon a possible tie-in between Hapgood Nugent’s sister and Szent-Germain’s publishing company in Amsterdam; on one of her madcap rambles through Europe, she had kept a journal, which Eclipse Press had published for the American market with some success. If that was too flimsy, he could cobble together a tie-in with Baxter. He frowned as he reminded himself that he needed to find a Social Security number for Baxter, or Channing would have more questions to ask.