I stopped a single pace into the room, my hat in my hand. My mother rose. Quite formally, even solemnly. Then she took a step forward and opened her arms. “My darling Kit,” she said.
I came to her and we hugged and she smelled of greasepaint and mothball camphor and she felt all bones and sinew inside her man’s clothes.
“Isn’t he handsome, my dears?” she said.
The women simply made little muttering sounds in response, ready for the vote but not for boldly voicing the sort of sentiments my mother was challenging them to have.
I focused on her suffragettes, as my mother resisted my incipient withdrawal from her arms, assessing them as she would have them assess me.
They were varying degrees of young—Mother had brought only the more impressionable acolytes into her closest circle—but three of them did not hold my eye even for a moment. One, though, had a strong-jawed, wide-mouthed sort of farm girl prettiness, the kind of girl you’d enjoy trying, briefly, to pry away from her horse.
Mother was letting go of me now, pushing me back to arm’s length but keeping her hands on my shoulders. “Where have you been for the past year?”
Where she had been was a more interesting question, but I politely did not ask it in front of the young women for whom she was still performing.
“Ah yes,” she said, as if just remembering. “I read your stories lately. What a fine writer you are. I taught him to write by making him read a thousand books in countless star dressing rooms on three continents.” The “him” was the only indication she’d suddenly started to talk directly to the other women, as her eyes kept fixed tightly on mine, shining that light of hers on me, making me a willing part of her present performance.
She said, elaborating on her perusal of my stories, “But Constantinople of all places,” she said. “All those poor people suffering under the Ottomans. A terrible business. Why would you ever go out there? I thought you were the great chronicler of bullets and cannon shells and men in battle dress, my darling.”
I did not have a chance to reply.
“And your ordeal on the high seas,” she said, the light changing in her eyes, giving off more heat and less illumination. “Did you get my telegram?”
“No.”
“Well, I didn’t know where to send it.”
Then you already knew I didn’t get it. But I didn’t say this.
“He was on the Lusitania,” she said.
The suffragettes clucked softly in sympathy.
“Closer to three thousand,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Utter non sequitur, my darling,” she said.
“The number of books you had me read. I figured it out not long ago.”
She brightened.
“In an idle moment,” I said. And then, to the others: “She and an ever changing cast of theater people she enlisted taught me everything I knew, before I knew to teach myself.” As she had done, I did not look directly at the suffragettes, letting the pronoun suggest I was addressing them.
Mother let go of my shoulders.
She introduced me to the young women, and I smiled at them and shook their hands, their grips still limply disenfranchised, but I did not endeavor to remember any of the names. Even, though it went against my natural inclinations, the name of the pretty one. Immediately after the introductions, my mother ushered them all out of the dressing room, everyone fluttering ardent good-byes and comradely good wishes every step of the way.
Mother closed the door and leaned back against it. “Was I splendid tonight?” she asked.
The question was not rhetorical, though I knew she knew the answer. “You were,” I said.
“Yes I was,” she said.
“Does all of London realize it?” I asked.
“Much of London.”
Some of the critics surely sneered at any woman playing the role. But she seemed content, so I did not ask.
“Poor Bernhardt,” she said.
Sarah Bernhardt played Hamlet in London in ’99 to vicious reviews. Mother was inviting the comparison. “You did better?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But I was referring to her leg. They cut it off only a few weeks ago and she gave it to a university.”
From Isabel Cobb’s Hamlet in London to Sarah Bernhardt’s losing a leg, service to my government had put me behind in my reading.
“Gangrene,” my mother said.
“So you’re doing better than the Divine Sarah in legs as well,” I said.
Mother lifted her face to the ceiling in a loud bark of a laugh. But when her face came back down, she grabbed a chaw of my cheek between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a squeeze and shake to match the laugh. “I feel bad for her,” she said.
I have a pretty high threshold of pain, but like those Chicago thugs going soft about their mothers, I felt the same at thirty-one years old about Isabel Cobb’s uninhibited mother-cheek-pinch as I did at ten: it hurt like hell.
She finally let go, and she sat down in the chair where she’d been presiding over her suffragettes. I sat in the chair at the idle makeup station next to her. Edged into the frame of her mirror was my formal portrait in a cabinet card, a thing she’d insisted I do for her six years ago upon hearing that the Post-Express was sending me off to Nicaragua on my first war assignment.
She caught me looking at it.
“I carry you with me everywhere,” she said.
I turned to her.
In spite of her being made up as a man—a melancholy man, no less—and being an age that tormented her always for what she no longer was, my mother was still beautiful, her face, in impact, all dark eyes and wide mouth, both restlessly shaping and reshaping in attentiveness to whoever was before her.
It had long pleased me to be able to make her eyes and mouth abruptly freeze. Like now. “Can you think why a tough guy with a gun would be stalking you?” I said.
But I had her for only the briefest of moments. Then, with a tilt of the head, her eyes veiled themselves like a cat showing its trust, and her mouth made a dismissive moue. “Not at all,” she said.
She sounded sincere. But she was arguably the greatest living actress of the American stage. She could sound however she liked. What I needed to figure out: had the oddness of the question itself been enough to make her pause for that brief moment or had it revealed she was now lying?
I had good reason to suspect the latter.
Last year she got involved in some undercover detective work in New Orleans while she was trying to make an escape from the theater.
“Are you still in bed with Pinkerton?” I said.
“What do you take me for?” she said. “Old man Pinkerton’s been dead for thirty years.”
She winked.
“Okay, Mother,” I said. “I usually let you get away with ending a serious conversational topic with an ambiguous theatrical gesture. Not this time. Does the wink mean you’re not sleeping with a dead man but if he were alive it would be a different matter, or does it mean you’re not sleeping with a dead man but you may still be working for his detective agency?”
This stopped her face once again.
She squared around to me, leaned forward, straightened her back, and pressed her hands onto her knees. A manly gesture. A man with more backbone than Hamlet. But I recognized it from a lifetime with this woman as a no-nonsense Isabel Cobb gesture. She said, “Listen to me, my darling. Consider my ego. Did you think I would be happy to play that role for long? Going after two-bit hoodlums for a corporation of private dicks?”
I kept my own face still. I wasn’t going to let her get away with the ambiguity of a rhetorical question.
She knew. She smiled a that’s-my-boy smile. “It was beneath me,” she said. “I am not now nor will I ever again work for the Pinkertons or any other detective agency.”
She held my eyes steadily with hers.
Okay.
“Okay,” I said.
She didn’t move.
“That leaves
the man with the pistol in his coat,” I said. “He was in the flies above you.”
She didn’t flinch. Her face was placid, but she said, “That’s unsettling.”
How to read my mother? That had been a daily challenge for much of my life. It probably made me the hell of a good newspaper reporter that I was. Right now I believed what she was saying about the detective work; her reasoning acknowledged who she was behind the mask. This quiet in her also felt real. I supposed. But she was perfectly capable of playing, from her actor’s book of tricks, Placid and Calm. Playing the untrue thing was her life. If the calm were true, wouldn’t she be squeezing every flinch and flutter from a fictitious endangerment?
She said, “Maybe the theater put on some security. A woman playing a man provokes a lot of people on both sides.”
“Your stage manager said he didn’t know who he was.”
She nodded faintly. Then she shrugged. “We do only a matinee tomorrow and the run ends Thursday night.”
There wasn’t much left to say about this. It worried me. But this was my mother I was dealing with.
I let her change the subject. “Do you tour on from here?” I asked.
“Yes.”
A few moments of silence clock-ticked away as we looked at each other, as if casually.
“As Hamlet?”
“Yes,” she said. “And you? Will you be waiting in London for the German bullets and cannon shells to arrive?”
Another beat of silence and then she smiled. And she winked. She was reminding me that we’d long ago tacitly agreed not to question how we led our lives.
“I’ll be touring on,” I said.
3
I asked nothing more of her. Nor she of me. By the very early hours of the next morning, however, as I lay sleepless in bed in my rooms at the Tavistock Hotel across from Covent Garden Market, I’d become less and less convinced by her performance. Not her Hamlet. That remained swell. In temperament she’d always been something of a man—a tough guy, in fact—trapped in a leading lady body. Indeed, last night she’d played the catching of the murderous uncle at his prayers so fiercely and had so clearly kept that edge in all her character’s later delays that she’d utterly transformed Hamlet’s Wilsonian vacillation into the overriding desire to kill his uncle only when it was most likely to send him, unrepentant, to Hell. That was Mama. She knew how to draw on her toughness, play it as if that were all there was. Which was why it took me till three in the morning to begin to doubt her nonchalance about the man in the flies with the gun. Something more was going on.
But it wasn’t my affair. I was still a war correspondent. There was that. But I was also working for my country’s secret service now. Primarily now. She wasn’t the reason I was awake. I’d always figured she could take care of herself. And I was my tough-guy mother’s son. Which wasn’t to say certain things in my new profession didn’t get to me. It meant I played the essentials of my character convincingly and I did what I needed to do.
I just might not sleep for long stretches in the night.
I fidgeted mightily around on the bed. I paced about the room, smoking Fatimas. A room I’d occupied for going on ten weeks now. My own issues were about the thirteen months prior to that.
But I was tough guy enough to keep any extended replays of those scenes out of my head. From the battlefields I’d covered I’d learned the attitude I had to hold on to: the man you watched die yesterday doesn’t exist today; he fell to yesterday’s bullets and you’ve got today’s bullets to deal with. Nevertheless, sometimes it got me to brooding. Only it was in indirect ways.
Like noticing a little girl, maybe nine years old or so, from a working family, passing in James Street with a sad face.
Or a newspaper headline about a film actress—a star—formerly thought rescued but now assumed lost on the Lusitania.
Or the arcaded portico along the front of the Tavistock, which felt, in spite of obvious differences, very much like the portales of a certain hotel in Vera Cruz.
And making all this worse was the Corona portable on my desk, which I’d paced past a hundred times already tonight and kept my eyes from seeing. This time, however, I stopped. The electric bulb above the desk, wired into the gas-jet fixtures of this sixty-year-old hotel, pissed its yellow light onto a blank sheet of paper in the roller. One more story to write under a phony name.
No. I couldn’t think of it as phony. That was the point.
I was Joseph W. Hunter speaking through my Corona now. Joseph William Hunter. Formerly Josef Wilhelm Jäger, which I was keeping quiet about. From Chicago he was publishing widely in the German-language newspapers and the German-American English-language newspapers in the U.S.A. He was a damn good writer, sentence to sentence at least, though he clearly had an agenda. He was a justifier and apologist for the home country.
No. Not he. I. I was this guy Hunter. Becoming him, at least. I was still in love with mein Vaterland and anxious that my fellow Americans understood why. I was writing about the war as if America was smart to remain out of the fray. As if we were getting the wrong dope about Germany and its goals and its intentions. We had far more in common with the Germans than we did with the Brits.
It turned my stomach but it had to be done. It was quite likely, given recent events, that Christopher Cobb was known to the German Foreign Office as a dangerous man. Journalism was what I knew best as a cover identity and Germany was still courting sympathetic American journalists. Joe Hunter would be useful.
He was in the works even before my mix-up with the Huns this past spring. I’d been creating him ever since I came out of my secret service training in February speaking damn good German, the language training aided by a lifetime of intense and varied private education in the back stages and dressing rooms of the thousand theaters of my childhood and by my mother’s gene for mimicry.
I’d lit the electric light with the reasonable intent of making good use of my sleeplessness. I had a story to cook up about a movement among Chicago school administrators who advocated more classes in German in anticipation of a new order in Europe. But I reconsidered. I was Cobb alone tonight. Only Cobb. I reached up and turned the key and extinguished the light.
I moved to the window and opened the heavy blackout drape. It was the newest thing in the room. Since January London faced the nightly possibility of a Zeppelin attack. Since May the attacks had come to city center and were increasing in number and bomb load. The Brits still hadn’t figured out how to defend themselves. The airships could climb faster and higher than the Sopwiths and Bleriots of the Royal Flying Corps, and the best the anti-aircraft ground defenses had were Hotchkiss six-pounders whose range was less than half the Zepps’ attack altitude. The city was defenseless.
My rooms were at the back of the hotel on the upper floor, the fourth. I looked along the parapets and chimneys of the rooftops stretching north on James Street, all of it barely visible, blacked out, as was the whole city in the overcast night.
And as I watched, the darkness to the west cracked open from ground to clouds with a white searchlight and then with another, the two beams stiffly scanning the ceiling of clouds. I took in a quick breath. These Zeppelins were as vast as ocean liners, piston droning a mile overhead, slowing down almost to a float to aim their bombs, giving off a strange kind of elegance in their dangerousness. They were unlike anything you knew, no matter how much tough stuff you’d seen. They could set off a quick reflex of fear you didn’t quite know how to suppress.
I watched the two restless pillars of light searching, searching, and then one abruptly vanished and, moments later, the other. The darkness resumed unmitigated. It had been a false alarm.
In this part of the city the dark was not silent. Though I was high up and facing away to the north, I could hear the muffled bustling at the Covent Garden Market across from the front of the hotel. The market carts and wagons were rumbling in and unloading cabbages and cauliflowers, turnips and tomatoes, broad beans and brussels sprouts to awai
t the greengrocers of London before dawn.
I closed the drape.
I’d been here too long.
I knew too much about this neighborhood.
I was too much like a Londoner, waiting for bombs from the night sky with nothing to do in response but keep the lights off and duck.
I went to the armoire and opened the doors and I felt my way into the bottom of my Gladstone bag. I put my hand to the Luger there, which I’d acquired on a difficult night in Istanbul. I drew it out.
I faced into the darkness of the room and held the pistol as if to fire, holding the grip with the crotch of my thumb pressed into the curve beneath the hammer, the trigger snug in the tip-joint of my forefinger, my hand part of the Luger now, an exact prolongation of its axis. Calming.
And unsettling. I’d been calmed through the other wars by typewriter keys. What had I come to? But this reservation was of the mind. My body, my beating heart were calmed by holding this pistol.
I let the thought go.
I put the Luger back into the bag and I moved to the bed and lay down and slept.
And a knock at the door awoke me. I did not know what time it was. I didn’t even know if the sun had risen, the blackout lingering in the be-draped room.
I rose. I moved to the door. There was no peephole in this aging hotel. I turned my ear to the place where a peephole should be.
“Yes?” I said.
“Mr. Cobb?”
I recognized the voice. A bellhop as old as the Tavistock.
I slid the chain lock off its metal groove and opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Cobb.”
“Good morning, George,” I said.
George lifted a long, paper-wrapped parcel with the hook of a clothes hanger protruding from the top. “From a gentleman,” he said.
The Empire of Night: A Christopher Marlowe Cobb Thriller Page 2
