Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “All Paris doesn’t speak English,” Bjornson reminded him, but got back onto his high-perch chair. When he spoke again, it was softly. “I’m sorry that I’m being so abrupt. It’s been a hard couple of weeks, ever since diMaggio found bugs in Charis Treat’s flat, and in McCall’s apartment. I’m afraid that we’re still under scrutiny. I have no proof,” except for the feeling on the back of my neck, he added to himself, “but I don’t think we should ignore the possibility.”

  “Indeed, no,” said Pomeroy. “Effering has some of the same concerns; he said so.”

  “It’s either the truth or a clever ploy to make us think he’s truthful.” Bjornson took a swig of the Burgundy.

  “The question is, which one,” said Pomeroy, and poured the last of the wine in the bottle into Bjornson’s glass. “Unwind, Axel. You’re going to get the job; they need your experience. As you said, there’s no one with a background as thorough in recovering from natural disaster as what you have, and that’s certain.”

  “We’ll see,” said Axel gloomily. “There are a lot of matters to consider, you know. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “You provided your degrees, your CV, four analyses of your rebuilding plan—what else can they want?” Pomeroy asked, signaling Olivier for a second bottle. So far the wine had had little impact on him, and he was mildly disappointed.

  “A Frenchman?” Axel suggested, and reached into his pocket for his pipe, and realized his tobacco pouch was almost empty; he put his pipe back in his pocket. “Sorry—that sounded surly, didn’t it? It’s nothing to do with you, it’s—I had another dispatch from Mother today. Julia is supposed to testify in Washington, DC, next week. That makes the third time she’ll be in front of them.”

  “So they wore her down; that’s unfortunate, but you said they would,” said Pomeroy, looking up as he saw Samuel Effering coming up to them, looking a little worn-out and bedraggled. “You know how they do it. They lean and lean and lean until their target can’t support their push anymore.”

  “No disagreement,” said Bjornson, adding, a bit guiltily, “Julia loves to dish it out, but she can’t take it.”

  “I have a cousin like that,” said Pomeroy in commiseration.

  “Mind if I join you, gentlemen? I won’t stay long. I know you have things to discuss about what I’ve told you.” He looked around. “It’s just so nice to speak English again. I’m getting so tired of French.”

  Pomeroy hooked a long-legged chair, and pulled it nearer to them. “Olivier, another glass while you’re at it,” he called in passable Parisian French.

  The man who had just taken up his post behind the bar reached for another wine-glass and set it where Effering could reach it. “More Burgundy, or would you like something else?” He spoke in heavily French-accented English, wondering how much longer Pomeroy would insist on Burgundy.

  “A Cotes du Rhone, perhaps,” said Bjornson, adjusting his face to a smile. “Pull up one of these bar chairs, Effering.”

  “I don’t mean to be pushy, but I have to know your decision as soon as possible. If I can’t join the Coven, then I’ll have to look elsewhere for work, and Americans. I’ve already tried England, you know, which was hard enough, but Paris!—and the language barrier gets more imposing with every move I make. But I can’t sit around doing nothing, letting my imagination run wild and getting more broke by the minute.” He watched Olivier open a bottle and pour a taste for Axel Bjornson so he wouldn’t have to look the two Americans in the eyes. He had mixed feelings about the Ex-Pats’ Coven and wished that Dudon would not encourage them to meet here. He thought it would be easier to serve the members by keeping as much secret as they could, but it was too late to reclaim that privacy in Paris, not after more than a year of even-numbered months’ meetings.

  “Very pleasant,” Bjornson pronounced. “We’ll have some.” He indicated Pomeroy and Effering. “If you’ll leave the bottle for us?”

  “Bien sur,” said Olivier, and went back to preparing for the evening crowd.

  “You say you worked with Salk,” said Pomeroy as soon as Olivier was out of ear-shot.

  “Yes. I still think he’s on the right track. I expect him to release a vaccine in the next three years. He’s had encouraging results.” His smile lessened. “I’ve got a half-brother in an iron lung. It matters to me, this vaccine.”

  “Would you be able to teach in any language but English?” Bjornson asked.

  “Not virology; basic high school science, perhaps, but nothing more complex,” said Effering.

  “But you are conversant with other languages, aren’t you?” Pomeroy inquired.

  “How do you mean, conversant?” Effering regarded the other two men with a slight sign of unease.

  “You say you spent two years in Czechoslovakia after the war,” Bjornson prompted.

  “In refugee camps, for the most part. The conditions were pretty primitive there, and almost everyone living in the Army tents we provided needed more food and shelter and medical care than we were in any position to give them. We had a translator with us, sometimes two of them.”

  “A group of you were tracing break-outs of diseases as part of a United Nations effort to keep from a repeat of the Spanish ’Flu after the First World War, according to what you’ve said in your CV,” Bjornson said quietly with an obvious glance at the three-ring binder.

  “United Nations, you say. So you weren’t all Americans, then?” Pomeroy asked.

  “No. We had a Scot, a Belgian, a Pole, a Swiss, and a Ukranian. Six of us in all. I was the only American.” He took another sip. “It was over in ’forty-eight, and I went to work with Salk and his team.”

  “Not letting any grass grow under your feet, were you?” Bjornson remarked.

  Effering sighed. “That’s why the Committee began investigating me. I’d done some work with the Red Cross during the war, and the Committee thought I might pass on information to the Russians because we had worked together as the war was ending. I told them that even if I had done that, the USSR was in no position to develop a polio vaccine at present, with or without our help. They didn’t like that, and so I ended up out of work, and no one was willing to hire me.” He took another sip of the wine and smiled. “Very nice.”

  “Truly,” said Pomeroy, pointing to the ring binder Effering had supplied to the Coven. “It says here you’re divorced. When did that happen?”

  “In ’forty-three. Ellie didn’t like me being gone so often, and not allowed to talk about my work when I came home. I can’t say I blame her. She wanted a social life with a genial man, and with me she had neither. I don’t condemn her for that. I didn’t oppose her suit, and I gave her as much of what we had together as my lawyer would let me. I didn’t need it, and being gone meant that I’d have to sell the house in any case—I let her have it, and the car. I’m lucky. I could afford to do that much for her.”

  “Very generous of you,” said Bjornson.

  “I was making good money doing epidemiological studies on viruses, and I have a good-sized trust fund—that I cannot easily draw upon while I’m here, but I was in a position to use to help my ex-wife. I arranged for reasonable alimony, and agreed to keep my life insurance paid up, and have her remain the beneficiary.” He tried to chuckle. “I didn’t think any of this would happen. Not this whole witch-hunt.”

  “No kids?” Pomeroy asked, deliberately blunt.

  “None planned, either.” Effering put his wine-glass on the bar. “She still sends me Christmas cards, Ellie does. She’s a good gal.”

  “That’s nice,” said Pomeroy, to encourage Effering to go on.

  “How much time have you spent in Paris?” Bjornson pursued.

  “About four months this time. Maybe a couple more if my previous visits were added up. I’d be happy about it if the circumstances were different.” He turned to Pomeroy. “You’re from Cal Davis, or so I’ve heard. You worked with the Russians on improving their food supply during the war, didn’t you?”
/>   “Yes,” said Pomeroy, a bit remotely.

  “The Russians had a hard time of it, trying to maintain their farming during the war, from what I’ve read.”

  Pomeroy stared past Effering. “They did.”

  “Did you think the war changed anything for them?” Effering asked.

  “I don’t know.” Pomeroy shook his head. “You know what it was like. My … Comrades weren’t encouraged to communicate with me, nor I with them once the war was over. They say Stalin sent a couple of them to the Gulag.”

  “You’re in a kind of exile, aren’t you? We all are,” Effering said.

  “My situation is unpleasant; the Russians in the Gulag are as wretched as all those Jews and Gypsies and Catholics in Hitler’s concentration camps,” said Pomeroy with unusual force.

  Undaunted, Effering went on. “Still, I guess Oppie’s reputation hurt you, too, after the war.”

  “Oppie had nothing to do with it. Cal Berkeley has its own agricultural department, with greenhouses on Oxford Street at the north edge of the campus. Robert Oppenheimer might have hurt the work they do in Berkeley, but Cal Davis is not that kind of university. The two campuses are nearly a two-hour drive apart.” He realized that Effering was goading him, and made himself calm down. “I doubt the Committee understands that difference in campuses—that’s more apt to be the reason for coming after me rather than the work on the atom bomb. Besides, most of that was done in New Mexico.”

  “And the scientists who worked on it came from all over, not only New Mexico,” added Effering with a nod. “Oak Ridge, Chicago, Princeton. Everywhere.”

  All three men drank more of their Cotes du Rhone and kept their thoughts silent for a short while as a light spatter of rain dashed against the two large windows at the front of Chez Rosalie.

  “DiMaggio’s going to scan the meeting room for us tomorrow afternoon,” said Pomeroy as if that had been the subject of their discussion all along. “Tomorrow night, we’ll make our recommendation to the Coven, Effering.”

  “I guess that’ll have to do,” said Effering. “The thing is, if I’m going to be part of this group, I want to find something more than a tourist hotel to live in, and I’d like to have my situation set before I sign a lease or arrange to move my things again.” He watched as Bjornson poured more wine into his glass and then topped off Pomeroy’s and his own. “I don’t like having to push, but you see my predicament.”

  “That we do,” said Bjornson before Pomeroy started up again. He held out his hand to Effering. “We’ll be back in touch with you in two days, to discuss your background one last time.”

  Pomeroy gave him a startled look. “Are you certain?”

  “I believe so,” said Bjornson for both Pomeroy’s and Effering’s benefit. “We do have an associate who should be able to get us the information we need, and quickly.”

  “Do you mean the Grof?” Pomeroy asked, too startled to show it. “Are you sure we need to approach him?”

  “Yes. We have too little time to address these questions. If Szent-Germain can’t provide the information himself, he’ll know who it is we should contact,” he said, and gave Effering a brief scrutiny. “I will use your own CV, if you don’t mind?” He indicated the three-ring binder. “You have a great deal of information for us to digest. We’ll call upon the Grof first thing in the morning.”

  “Is he one of those wild noblemen? The kind that are all over Monte Carlo?” Effering asked skeptically, paying no attention to the wine Bjornson was pouring into his half-empty glass. “Paint-the-town-red exile?”

  “He does not gamble that I know of,” said Bjornson. “If he does, he chooses private clubs and not the glamour of Monte Carlo.”

  Pomeroy gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Bjornson has a book with the Grof’s publishing company. So do about half the Coven.”

  “Does that present a problem?” Effering was being cautious now, aware he was on uncertain ground.

  “He’s been most reliable,” said Bjornson. “I’ve liked doing business with him so far, and yes, that contributes to my generally good opinion of him.”

  “Okay.” Effering drank about a third of the wine in his glass. “If you trust him, I suppose I must do so as well.”

  “He’s been reliable in all other matters,” said Pomeroy. “I can think of no reason he would play us false on such a question as this.”

  “That’s not very reassuring,” said Effering.

  “Probably not,” Bjornson agreed. “But it will speed up your answer, Mister Effering, and I would encourage you to wait two days in patience. Otherwise, it will take us three or four weeks to find our if your claims are true and you are who you say you are, and that will be a long time to set your membership before the Coven.”

  “Fine,” said Effering. “I’ll try to hold body and soul together as long as I can.”

  “Does that mean you are short of funds?” Pomeroy asked, sounding a bit sympathetic for the first time. “If you are, we can extend a small loan to you, to tide you over. We’ve done it before.” He did not add that some of those loans came from Szent-Germain, not the Coven.

  Effering looked astonished, but the expression faded quickly and he nodded. “If you’re willing, I’m in no position to refuse. Thank you very much for anything you can spare. As soon as I have work, I’ll pay you back, with interest.”

  “That’s agreeable,” said Pomeroy with a supporting gesture from Bjornson.

  Effering drank the last of his wine. “Thanks for this, too. I hope your meeting goes well on Friday.”

  Pomeroy bit back a sharp remark. “We all know it’s not easy, once you’re on the outside like this; we all went through what you’re going through.”

  “You can say that again,” Effering declared, a trifle too loudly.

  “Are you completely on your own? No money from home in any way? No relatives still living in the Old Country to help you out?” Bjornson asked in sardonic amusement.

  “No. Not really,” said Effering. “I have some war bonds back home in a safe deposit box, and they’ll be mature in 1961, as I recall. It seems strange to have to be careful with money—we came through the Depression without significant losses, and we have significant inheritances from our father and grandfather.”

  “We?” Pomeroy inquired.

  “My sisters and step-brothers. Three sisters, two step-brothers.”

  “And one in an iron lung?” Bjornson asked.

  A couple entered the restaurant and were escorted to a table by Gaspard, who served as head waiter and maitre d’; Pomeroy, Bjornson, and Effering went quiet, and when they began to speak again, did so in lowered voices.

  “That sounds like a goodly sum to me, right about now,” said Pomeroy, sympathy returning to his manner. “It wouldn’t hold you out for much more than a year, if it’s all you have, but it’s enough to keep the wolf from the door, even here in Paris, if you don’t mind being frugal. If you were in a smaller city, it would go a little further.”

  “I was able to get some money out of my ordinary savings before I left, but not as much as I wanted.” Effering shook his head, the vein in his neck showing that his pulse had increased. “I don’t dare to try to touch any other money from here, not the way the Committee has been poisoning the well for me.”

  “For all of us,” said Bjornson, a suggestion of bitterness in his tone.

  “You’re right about that,” said Pomeroy.

  “I’ve exhausted almost all my contacts here in France, yet I can’t think of where else to go. I don’t speak German or Italian or Spanish or Portuguese, or Dutch and Danish, for that matter, at least not at a level that would get me hired. I don’t know that the English would be eager for someone like me with a cloud over his head.”

  “And what do you make of your chances of getting work just now?” Bjornson asked as politely as he could.

  “In finding work in my own field?—few to none.” He drank down the rest of his wine and put the glass on the bar. “Th
at should hold me until I get back to my hotel. Thank you for giving me some.” He got down from the tall chair. “I’ll call you day after tomorrow, around noon, if that’s satisfactory,” he said to Pomeroy.

  “Please do,” said Pomeroy. “I’ll tell you anything that might affect the Coven’s willingness to include you in the group.” He gave an automatic smile. “And I’ll let you know how much we can loan you. That’s assuming you can make it for three more days on what you have.”

  Effering sighed. “Thank you. You’re being very kind.”

  Bjornson barked out two abrupt laughs, then said, “Wait to see what the Coven decides before you thank anyone.”

  Effering nodded as if his neck hurt. “Yes. You’re right.” He went toward the door, not quite steady on his feet. He paused to wave, then stepped out into the bustle and rain.

  The bar was quiet for almost a minute; it was Pomeroy who broke it first. “Well, you sure put the fear of God into him,” he said.

  “I wanted to make sure he understood we won’t be made fools of,” Bjornson declared as he emptied the second bottle into their two glasses.

  “Why don’t we wait to see what Szent-Germain discovers for us?” Pomeroy asked. “We have no reason to suspect Effering, given what he has provided us.”

  “Right you are,” said Bjornson. “But I want to have real confirmation on those various points before I recommend him to the group.” He rested one elbow on the bar and said with growing fatigue, “We already have one mole in the Coven, and we can’t afford a second mole. We have to be very careful about Effering, or don’t you agree?”

  “But what if there isn’t a mole at all? Maybe it’s just paranoia for all we’ve been through in the last three years?” Pomeroy said, his face showing a sadness that unnerved Bjornson. “I don’t want to think we have to contend with any of that here, but we’re in the habit now, and we might be seeing ghosts because of—”

  “Our experiences,” said Bjornson, ending their discussion. “Were you thinking of having dinner here, or going somewhere else?”