by Marc Laidlaw
Would it be best to send a brief letter announcing his impending arrival, detailing his hoped-for escape from persecution in his homeland? Surely that would touch the hearts not only of the scientific community abroad, but also of the common people, lovers of human interest. On the other hand, his reputation might have gone ahead of him. Who would dare import a doctor known chiefly for having brought a tyrant (well, Emperor) to power? The red carpets that news would unroll at his feet were not necessarily ones he wished to tread. No, he needed a subtler plan.
Angelica’s house lay around the corner, but he was slowed by a sudden desire to see his former residence. She had waited six months to see him, after all. He knew it might be unwise to haunt his old home, but the impulse was as irresistible as it was irresponsible. Perhaps if he threw an egg at the place he would remove any suspicion from his presence.
Well, he would have a quick look. He doubted they would have made a monument of it, but it was such an elegant building that he couldn’t imagine them razing it on account of its most recent inhabitant. It must have housed worse men since the year of its completion. Buique had probably handed it to one of his lackeys as a gift.
Joseph had to change his course only slightly to reach the old house; in bygone days he had slipped between his house and Angelica’s in secret, taking the servants' walk that joined the rears of each place. Thus their relationship had remained a private matter; not even Mome, who mooned for her constantly, had known. She had always insisted on that, and it was fortunate for her that she had; else where would she be now, with the world turned on its head? She had kept herself poised in the worst of the upheaval. And he had always considered it a statement of her high regard that she had not attended his execution.
Now he slowed as his colonial manor came into view. It had been painted recently, he was pleased to see, and the lawn kept in excellent condition. He knew instantly that he dared not draw close, for hunched among the hedges at the side of the house was Kulchong, the gardener who had raked the lawn clippings and fed the flowers for all the various occupants of the last forty years. A pleasant old man, Kulchong, and good company, appreciative of fine liqueurs and candid with his opinions of Joseph’s latest scents; but this was not the time to strike up old acquaintances. Careful, now. Curtains drawn, Kulchong preoccupied, no one else on the street. He glanced at the post-box with its gilded letters, expecting to see the name of some innocuous public servant, and instead he almost betrayed his anonymity.
He turned swiftly on his heel, a brisk military movement in keeping with his outfit. It was necessary to keep his composure. Self control was essential now. The days ahead would surely be full of many such rude little shocks. Little? He was stupefied actually. That was not the house of a public servant: the name of his nemesis was emblazoned the mail-box!
Doctor Dodo had gone too far.
Shame burned him, hotter than the sun over Bamal. Why must fate be so intent on rubbing his nose in misfortune? Let Dodo dwell in his former home, let him commit obscenities on the same mattress where Joseph had slept; why did Joseph have to learn of these things? Couldn’t they simply go on without his knowledge? It was as though his own apprehensions created a vacuum that nature rushed to fill with dreadful oddities. If this were so, he must resolve to be fearless, to give nature no advantage, to follow his course without deviation.
The weight of the morning’s events sat on his shoulders as he ambled toward the last person in San Désirée capable of disappointing him. It seemed inevitable that she would be waiting to spring some trap, however innocent. Very well. He wouldn’t be discouraged; to bow before circumstance would get him nowhere, least of all to freedom.
He straightened his back, tried to look at ease although the sky was like a vast lens focusing the sun’s rays on his head; he led himself by the nose to the house of his last hope.
There was no one in sight, not on the wide lawn nor in any of the French windows. He hoped she was awake. The gate crashed behind him when he went through, and the Dobermans she kept began to howl; they were not let loose until nightfall, but the sound of their baying struck a chill through him. The beasts had never learned to recognize or trust him, though with her they were like puppies. He chuckled. Angelica treated them all like puppies. The more vicious and violent a man threatened to become with her, the more she babied him, the less serious became her attention. That was why Mome had never gotten close to her; his cruelty repelled her, but she’d always convinced him that the distance between them was something he’d created. She made it seem like chivalry, a game.
He reached the door without mishap or mauling, only to find it already open and Angelica’s valet waiting. Leon could be a startling chap, appearing the moment before you called him, vanishing with your request half-uttered only to return with more than you had asked for—exactly as much as you needed. Leon must have recognized him immediately, but he was implacable. Bowing slightly, he asked Joseph in, then started away into the depths of the house.
“A moment, please,” Joseph called. “Who will you say is calling?”
Leon smiled very faintly. “An officer, sir, of the police. Of course, if you wish to give a name. . ..”
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
“I’m sure Madame will be with you shortly.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it. I’ll wait in the study, shall I?”
“As you wish.” Leon did not offer to show him the way.
Joseph went into the richly furnished library whose tall windows overlooked the lawn and the blazing street. The noonday sun ruled the rest of the city, but here Angelica was queen and she kept a cool house. Nothing had changed here since his last visit. Her gilded lorgnette rested on the corner of her writing desk, beside an unfinished letter written in lavender ink. He knew nothing of antiques, but every piece of furniture was a collector’s piece according to Angelica. She had once offered to redecorate his house, imparting her knowledge of fine objects to the task, as well as her European connections. Hers was an old family with its roots extending far beyond Bamal.
As he stood staring up at the shelves of dark wood, gilded leather volumes standing arow, a voice like polished Florentine marble spoke out of the air behind him.
“Promoted to Sergeant? You’ve come up in the world since I last saw you.”
He turned slowly. “It would have been impossible to sink any lower without going under. Angelica.”
If he had expected her to rush into his arms, to smother him with kisses and the scent of her perfume, he would have been disappointed. But it had never been that way with them, and he was ready for the worst. She stood in the doorway, a jade fan slightly spread in one hand, the other outstretched. Her eyes told him nothing, not even when he straightened from kissing her soft brown fingers and risked clasping her hand firmly for a moment. He was the first to draw away.
“I apologize for my appearance,” he began.
“Not at all, you look rather dashing. It’s a change from your white frock, I’ll admit, but I’ve always loved the soldiers, you know.”
“I remember. Angelica—”
She waved away her name. “Don’t be rushed, Joseph. You’re not being followed, I trust?”
“I wouldn’t have come here if I were.”
“Then you’ll join me for lunch?”
Somehow he had not thought of food until that moment; he had gotten out of the habit. A memory of Angelica’s table, like a sumptuous dream, momentarily weakened him. He managed a smile but his reply was a rude gasp: “Lunch!”
“Come then.” She slipped her arm through his and led him down the hall toward the sound of silverware. He watched her in profile, her coffee and cream complexion blurred and illumined by the sunlight falling through the windows they passed, filtered by white curtains; deep Tibetan carpets muffled their footsteps. Her green-eyed Persian cats watched them pass, inscrutable; he had never trusted the animals, with their serpent eyes, but Angelica had them everywhere, all alike
.
“You look well,” he said. “More beautiful than ever.”
“And to a man dying of thirst, hydrochloric acid must look inviting.”
Her tone, and the image, sobered him. He realized that he had been softening toward her, bending in a ridiculous direction, slipping into the role he had played in overturned times; the man she loved had died six months ago at the President’s hand. Stupid, stupid of him! Thank God Angelica did not lend herself readily for his support; he must stand on his own feet,now more than ever. He wanted to thank her, but there were no words to express his
feelings. He seated her at the long white table; her eyes when she thanked him for the courtesy were sharp and unsentimental. She understood his situation better than he himself. In that moment he no longer feared her; she was the last true friend he had on the planet.
He took the chair opposite her, and for several long minutes—while cold soup was served, wine poured—he was unable to meet her eyes. Any contact now would have been highly charged. What was said at this table would determine many things, among them his fate. He had never realized before what a focus of power she had become in San Désirée. He saw how inevitable it had been that he would come to her; it had taken six months, but in all that time he had felt the tugging.
“You expected me,” he said finally, and took a first sip of wine which dried his mouth and set his brain spinning above the conversation. He groped for a soup spoon, hardly remembering that he had just spoken.
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “I hoped I would see you again. It’s good to know that you’ve managed to live out there. You have been on the outskirts, haven’t you?”
He nodded, his throat so soothed by the cream soup that he was reluctant to speak.
“I’ve thought of you often, wondered how you managed to survive. I see you’ve managed, barely.”
He felt ashamed, sitting there in the oversized uniform, stinking up her dining room, but there was no hiding the strain of the recent past. He felt his stomach turn over and come to life like an ancient engine. Nausea welled up, along with the taste of soup, and he realized too late the effect of the wine and rich food on his metabolism. She must have known what was happening.
“Excuse me,” he blurted, staggering to his feet.
“Nonsense, stay where you are. Leon!”
He waved at the air by his face. “The wine, I’m not used to this life. . . ”
But there was no need for further explanation, and in fact he would have been unable to elaborate. He collapsed across the table, suddenly shivering and dizzy, and the last thing he felt was a cold smacking kiss that nearly covered his face. He had fainted into his soup.
-4-
“I’m sorry I must turn you out so soon,” she said to him an hour later, when he was quite revived and the soup had been scrubbed from his uniform. “You might have been seen coming in, and if you do not leave presently I’m sure there will be some pointed questions asked. But don’t fear, Joseph, this time I’m not throwing you to the dogs.”
He swallowed the last of a cup of weak tea, ate one more soda cracker, and stood up, brushing the crumbs from his lap.
“I have much to tell you, Angelica.”
“Listen to me, Joseph, and don’t get yourself in a fit. All you need do is walk several blocks to the Regency Hotel, wait in the alley behind it, and I will send a car to pick you up immediately. You’ll be brought back here invisibly this time. Now all you have to tell me must wait. I can probably guess most of it.”
“I would not be surprised.”
“By the time you return, I’ll be properly prepared. I have some of your belongings, you know.”
“You have—”
“Calm, calm, and do as I say.” She brushed him away. “Leon will show you the door.”
“I can’t believe . . . you have . . . Angelica, you really . . . ?”
“Go, you baby, or I’ll have you thrown.”
Disbelief silenced him. He turned numbly away from her, remembered his manners, returned to give a formal farewell, and found that she had already gone away. Leon waited at his elbow, and Leon closed the door on him once he was outside. Joseph walked slowly, seeing nothing of his surroundings, surfacing from his thoughts occasionally to check his whereabouts. There had been some changes in the neighborhood, but not many; the houses were an amalgamation of colonial originals and modern townhouses. The greatest change in the estate community must have been its residents. There would be more developers waiting out the heat behind the drawn shades, and fewer of the old-money aristocrats and colonial hangers-on who had for reasons unknown chosen San Désirée as their home. It had always been possible to live like royalty here if your currency was printed elsewhere. But San Désirée meant nothing to him now, and he resented the intrusive musings that the city provoked. He wanted to know what Angelica had meant with her talk of his belongings. What could she have of his? What would have been worth saving, except for the attars?
How could she have acquired them? He tried to imagine her in the first hours of the coup, hurrying along their secret path to his house, risking everything she had to rescue the things that were most precious to him. What an amazing woman!
He stayed where she had sent him, skulking in an alley, until her silver limousine glided past and he could duck in.
The chauffeur made no comment on seeing him, and Joseph was thankful for the discretion. In minutes they had slipped into the garage adjoining Angelica’s house, and he was taken through the kitchen, then upstairs into the dark reaches of the manor, finally to a small bedroom where fresh clothes smelling of sachets were laid out on a luxurious bed. It was the bed that held his attention, more than the clothes. Six months since he had last felt a mattress beneath him. This thought was accompanied, inevitably, by the thought of Angelica. Another thing he had been without for half a year. Another thing? It was not things he missed, not possessions, but companionship.
There was a door on the far side of the room, slightly ajar, and beyond it the sound of rushing water. He went to the threshold and saw a bathtub, almost full. The water was cool to the touch; without delay he stripped and immersed himself.
Adrift, dreaming, he began to forget his perfumes, his plight, while the waters did their work. He felt himself dissolving.
A knock woke him. It was Leon with a bathrobe.
“Sir, Madame is ready for you. She asks me to inform you that there is some urgency.”
He dressed quickly. Leon was waiting for him in the hall, and he led Joseph to Angelica’s private salon.
“I hope you are ready for me, Joseph,” said Angelica. She sat in a high-backed chair; the window behind her faced the rear of his former home. He could almost see into his old room.
Sitting opposite her, he said, “I have no intention of wasting time, Angelica. I only came to tell you that I plan to leave Bamal as soon as possible, with or without your help. I think it would be difficult without it, but—”
She laughed merrily. “With my help it will be difficult; without it, impossible.” She covered her mouth lightly with several fingers, seeming apologetic. “I shouldn’t say that. You’ve surprised us many times, Joseph. Still, if you would accept my assistance—if, as you say, you came seeking it—I am prepared to offer what I can. This may not be much, but surely it is more than you have at the moment. You know I have friends outside Bamal.”
“It is the enemies within Bamal who worry me. How can I get on a plane without a passport?”
“Passports can be acquired. Plane tickets, and custom agents, can be bought. Of course, flights are unreliable; we can’t have you waiting in line two weeks, under the noses of the military. On the other hand, the only private jet in Bamal belongs to the President, and I can’t see you riding with him.”
“Buique,” he said. “I’d as soon ride with Dodo.”
Her eyes looked half-open, sleepy, as she said, “We’ll get you out of here somehow, never fear. But I’m concerned with where yo
u will go after that. You say you have friends. Who can these be?”
From an inner pocket of the clothes she’d found him, he removed the soiled sheet of text that he had rescued from the bulldozer in the night. “Colleagues,” he said, extending it for her perusal. “The greater scientific community. Scientists are always defecting from one place or another where they can continue their research with liberty.”
She looked up from the sheet. “These are Americans.”
“Well?” He didn’t see the point; her expression was problematic. “Then I’ll go to America.”
She shook her head. “You’re out of touch, Joseph. America takes in no one these days; the new President Burdock’s policy is strict. Buique has been flattering the United States with every conceivable manner of fawning since his election, but without avail. You know he counted on American support because he instituted what at first glance is a democracy in Bamal, but none has been forthcoming.”
“Then where did Mome go? I thought they would have begged to add the old tyrant to their collection.”
“I doubt your reason, Joseph. There was never much to Mome except what you distilled. He couldn’t have fled Bamal with more than a few vials of charisma, and that would hardly have impressed them over any distance. There’s been no method of transmitting odors until quite recently.”
“What do you mean, until recently?”
She would not meet his eyes now. “You must promise not to get upset, Joseph.”
“Upset? With you?”
