by John Jakes
Joe intended to wait until the end of the concert, then stroll or take a ricksha ride in hopes of catching another glimpse of the young Cuban woman. It irked him when von Rike sat down in the next rocker, immaculate in his white ducks and black jackboots.
Captain von Rike polished a monocle on his sleeve. “I inspected several of the regiments today. I have never seen such careless, carefree encampments.” He fitted the monocle in his right eye. “Where is the rigor, my dear general? Where is proper discipline?” He lit another cigarette from his flat gold pocket case; he smoked incessantly.
Joe considered the attaché’s challenge and gave a considered reply. “Americans tend to reserve the discipline for the engagement.”
“Yes? They will suddenly and magically discover it when the shooting begins? Begging your pardon, General, I am doubtful. Victories are built on discipline that is ingrained by months, not to say years, of training.”
Von Rike smoked with his hand inverted and the cigarette held between thumb and index finger. Pink and white lights along the eave glittered on the convex curve of his monocle. “And this hotel! A headquarters with a luxury menu? Peacocks and lawn tennis? Nightly dancing? I find it wholly unprofessional.” He inhaled smoke again, quite satisfied with himself.
Joe finally decided he didn’t like the attaché. “Captain, are you saying you like to suffer before as well as during the battle? I can arrange it.”
“Oh?” Von Rike was confused; he had no grasp of subtle mockery.
“Yes indeed. Let me give you several tins of our newest ration. What our War Department describes as canned fresh beef. It’s unsalted. Ghastly. Some sharp contractor foisted it on Washington.”
Von Rike still missed the sarcasm. He frowned. “Was bedeutet foisted?”
“Persuaded them to take it. Perhaps by deceit, or passing a bribe or two.”
“Ah. Bestechungsgeld. Bribe. I see!”
“I’m joking with you, Captain. The stuff isn’t fit to eat.”
“But good for building character, ja? We Germans—true Germans—” Joe absorbed the thrust; fought a rush of annoyance. “We would swallow and suffer in silence.”
“Then you’d never make an American, I’m afraid.”
“Certainly not. It is not my desire.”
Under the smiles, the exchange had grown sharp and unpleasant. Joe stood up. “It’s late. Will you excuse me?”
“Of course, General. We’ll talk another time.”
I hope it won’t be soon.
He walked swiftly to the nearest door into the hotel. He could feel von Rike’s eyes burning on his back. Prussians, he thought. All the same, they never change.
At the iced-tea table he helped himself to a tall glass. He carried it outside by another door and stood in a patch of shadow, puffing a cigar and sipping. The chat with von Rike had put a cloud on the evening. The regimental band didn’t improve matters with its closing number, an arrangement of “Vesti la giubba.” Joe hated Italian opera, which he considered an insult to the genius of Richard Wagner.
Joe finished his tea, his cigar clenched in his jaw. He noticed General Shafter and his wife talking with another couple. After a moment the general moved on, rather like a shambling elephant.
And then Joe saw her. She was wearing the same close-fitting white dress; perhaps she’d left Cuba with only a few belongings. The dress was stunning, clinging to her breasts, which showed brown and full above the round neckline. She was again on the arm of the man from the refugee forces. Disappointing.
A civilian to whom he’d been introduced stood a little way to his left, jotting notes on a pad. He’d recently come up from the naval station at Key West. He was a journalist, but he also had some connection with Miss Barton of the Red Cross, whom Joe had seen around the hotel. Her chartered hospital ship, the SS State of Texas, was anchored in Old Tampa Bay.
“Beg your pardon, Kennan, do you know that young woman up there on the porch? The one in white.”
“I know her slightly,” Kennan replied. “One of the exiles. Estella Rivera is her name. Attractive, isn’t she?”
“Very much so.” Joe hesitated before the next question. “Is that her husband?”
“Her brother. He’s with the rebel forces. I’m told their father is still in Havana. An old gentleman who believes the Spaniards are perfectly right to …”
Joe didn’t hear any more. His head buzzed. He took fast nervous puffs on his cigar. You’re too old, furthermore you’re married, said the cautioning voice he’d come to despise. He paid no attention.
He bade Kennan good night, stepped onto the veranda, and buried his cigar in a sand urn. He smoothed the buttoned front of his double-breasted dark blue frock coat. He would introduce himself to the young woman. He would invite her to the Oriental Annex to dance. There was some force rushing in him, insisting on it. He wasn’t too old …
On the arm of the slender man in uniform, the young woman went toward the arched entrance to the hotel. Joe swore, so audibly that the Austrian attaché passing by gave him a stare. Estella Rivera paused; turned slightly. Over her shoulder, she sought Joe’s eye.
And smiled.
In a moment she was gone.
She’d known he was there! She’d been looking for him too. Elation sang through Joe Crown. He felt transformed; like a man of twenty again. He was certain he could dance half the night and never tire.
And he would, with Señorita Rivera in his arms. It was inevitable now, the hell with consequences. He only hoped there might be a few, of a sort he found himself wanting very keenly.
90
Dutch
TO GO TO YBOR City he put on the best clothes he had, with a few new embellishments. He thought he’d better. The man he’d seen at the hotel wasn’t the grimy, disheveled Rhukov of old.
Paul was being frugal in Tampa—a necessity, given Shadow’s grudging twenty-cent per diem for incidentals. But he was a journalist of sorts, and as a group, the journalists were dropping a lot of money into Tampa cash registers. Most had decent expense accounts, so they ate and drank with little regard for the cost and were always buying natty clothes. Paul followed their example. Using his carefully hoarded daily allowance, he bought a new shirt of blue chambray, one dollar at Davis Brothers, the best men’s store. To this he added tan elastic suspenders with nickeled buckles, fifteen cents; the suspenders matched his duck trousers, which were a popular color called dead grass. As a last extravagance, he chose a washable tie of blue, pink, and brown madras cloth, seven cents. All this together with his straw hat, made him feel presentable, even a little rakish, as he set out.
He found the place with no trouble. Tin numbers were tacked to the siding at the foot of a stair on the windowless side of a corner building on Fourteenth Avenue. The corner’s ground floor was occupied by Mantiquería Estefan, a grocery.
A man in an apron was carefully sweeping the wooden sidewalk that already looked clean. His bushy black hair and heavy mouth blended oddly with his sand-colored skin. There were many Afro-Cubans in Tampa, Paul had discovered. The man smiled and greeted him in Spanish. Paul said hello in English. Someone yelled, the man dropped his broom and dashed inside. “Al instante, Señor Estefan!”
Paul walked around the corner to the stair, which was in shade. A hot wind was blowing. He took off his straw hat and the wind immediately arranged his hair into its usual disarray. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his madras tie hung crookedly.
He climbed the stairs to the solid unpainted door weathered to a dishwater gray. He knocked. Inside a man grumbled. Paul was startled to hear a woman’s voice too. The man called out.
“Crane? That you? Hell of an hour to come calling.”
The voice made Paul’s flesh crawl. It was Rhukov’s. But as everyone at the hotel had sworn, the accent was definitely English.
“Blast it, Crane, will you answer?”
“It isn’t Mr. Crane, it’s Paul Crown, from Chicago. Looking for Mr. Michael Radcliffe.”
“God save us. It is you. Come in, old chum, come in!”
The flat was a single large room with a few pieces of inexpensive furniture, a sink, a small single-door ashwood icebox, a rumpled double bed in a sleeping alcove. In the bed lay a slim, attractive young woman who had covered her lower body with the sheet, leaving her round brown breasts on display.
Still bewildered, Paul said, “How are you?”
“Top-hole. Couldn’t be better. Stevie Crane obviously trusted you enough to give you this temporary address. Sit, won’t you?” He indicated a chair next to a small deal table by an open window with gauzy curtains blowing, then snagged white duck trousers from the back of another chair and slipped into them. “I am absolutely agog, Paul. Why are you in Tampa? Good Christ. Not in the military, I hope?”
“No, a new profession. I am a photographer.”
“You mean a journalist, like me?”
“Of sorts. I operate a camera. I film living pictures for theaters in the North.”
“A camera operator! Of course. Magnificent solution!” He applauded. Paul didn’t understand until his friend said, “You’re still drawing. Only it isn’t an ill-proportioned mess of scribbles any longer, I expect the pictures are actually recognizable.”
Paul laughed. “Well, I hope so. Excuse me, I am unsure about something. What shall I call you?”
“Radcliffe. Now and forever, Michael Radcliffe. Took it from a book I found in the British Museum. Family name of the earls of Sussex. Couldn’t be more English—in the old times, Queen Elizabeth’s day, it was Ratclyffe.” He spelled it. “I prefer the more modern version. Here, I’m being a wretched host. Can I offer you a lemonade? A soda?”
“A beer if you have one.”
Michael opened the icebox and pulled out a bottle of beer with a Spanish label. He poured himself a tall glass of lemonade.
“Why are you staring?”
“Because you are transformed, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Michael.”
“All right—Michael. I still can’t believe it.”
“Please do believe it.” He extended his left hand to show a wide gold ring with an intricate weave of tiny gold wires between the raised rims. “Married, too.”
“Yes, I heard that.” He couldn’t help darting his eyes to the bed.
“Luisa? A dear friend, that’s all. I have a strong and frequent need for the kind of friendship Luisa provides. Should you ever feel a similar need, I can assure you Luisa is a kind, caring, accomplished professional.” The brown girl smiled. “The half-breed chap who works for Estefan can always find her. Just telephone the grocery and ask for Tomaso.”
He moved to the bed, sat next to Luisa and spoke in Spanish while gently caressing her right breast. She gave him a nod and an agreeable smile. “I asked her to go out for some air. We two must have a good solid chat.”
Luisa bounded from bed, her large black bush fully in view as she pulled items of clothing from under the bed. She kissed Michael and ruffled his hair, then leaned over Paul and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead.
When she’d gone, Michael opened a cabinet and took down a water glass holding cigars. “They make them down the street. Perfectly splendid smokes—have one?”
“Thanks, I will.”
Michael chuckled. “Well. The waif has certainly grown up.”
“It’s true. I have changed in many ways. I have a nickname now.”
“Fancy that! What is it?”
“Dutch.”
“Not very original. But it suits.” They sat a moment, puffing and relinking themselves in these surprising surroundings.
“I want to ask the question you asked me,” Paul said. “How did you get where you are? I don’t mean Florida, I mean the splendid state of your clothes. The English you speak so well—”
Michael waved the cigar, leaving blue traceries. “Quite simple, really. I got tired of poor. Poor is disgusting. Poor means no one takes you seriously. No one invites you to a proper dinner or introduces you to important personages. No one likes the way you smell—even in some dirty pub in the East End of London, they won’t sit next to you. This is hardly a surprise to either one of us, I’d known it forever. But in London four years ago—a year after I saw you in Chicago—my tolerance of poor ran out. I was still spewing my usual sour opinions, a thousand words at a time, but fewer and fewer editors were having any. I realized I wasn’t a young man any more. I was steadily sinking. One night when the city was experiencing some bloody awful weather, a revelation came to me. I was sleeping in the only accommodations I could afford. A space under the Tower Bridge. Rain pouring down like bloody hell. I was feverish. Self-diagnosis, I couldn’t afford a doctor. It must have been a high fever because I was sleeping blissfully soaking wet. I woke with a bobby shining his lantern in my face. ‘Move on,’ says he, giving me a nudge with his boot. Move on? Where? The Savoy? Windsor Castle? I couldn’t afford to move on. I didn’t have a farthing. My last four articles had been rejected on Fleet Street. Too liverish and impolite to be read by the gentlefolk. In a flash, I understood that I could move on to but one definable destination—death. Finis. The end. The Thames was handy. Or I could hop over to the nearest railway station and jelly myself under the wheels of a locomotive. Any number of options! But I had years to live. I wanted more women! I’d come to adore fish and chips! I left Tower Bridge, and that very night, while I wandered wet and sick, in places I can’t remember, the heavens opened and gave more than rain, they gave the answer. I must sell out.”
Pumped up with pride and mirth, he thumped the table. “And I did! From that moment, I relaunched my life in a new direction. I began immediately to gentrify myself. I obtained a razor and soap from the Salvation Army. I burgled a jumble shop with poor padlocks for a new wardrobe at no cost. I pinched newspapers—outran the old blokes selling them on corners—and through the advertisements I located a position. Night dishwasher at Claridge’s Hotel. My English was adequate—the vocabulary, the grammar—but the accent? Unacceptable! Thanks to working below-stairs at Claridge’s, however, I was eventually able to rectify that. Took elocution lessons twice a week from a poor old actor who hung around the Covent Garden pubs. He was a master dialectician but too drunk to get parts any longer. I myself drank only cold water or hot tea. I didn’t squander my wages on whores, it was either free goods or nothing.”
He sighed. “I don’t mind telling you, there were some long, dry, difficult spells. But I finally escaped the wretched doss house where I lived for months. Got a cheap bed-sitter in a vile neighborhood. But it was mine so long as I paid the rent. I began to write a novel in the style of Walter Scott, having no real interest in it but hoping it would make money. Please don’t ask to read it, I burned the manuscript when the Goddess Prosperity smiled. That was approximately two years after my awakening under Tower Bridge.”
“Somewhere in there you married the daughter of a publisher?”
“Yes indeed. And I was sent over here by my father-in-law’s paper to trail around after Captain Lee and write colorful prose about him and this noble war—if we ever have it. As you’ve undoubtedly seen, everything so far is confusion, heat, and ennui. One can send only so many cables describing the Florida orange trees. There’s a lot of marmalade in England, from much better oranges.”
He inhaled his cigar. “I’m still confused on one point. How did you spot me?” Paul described the moment in the corridor. “Ah. I don’t recall seeing you, though perhaps I did. Truthfully, I didn’t want to see anyone, I wanted to get the hell away from there. I was, as you might suppose, entertaining a lady.”
“Married,” Paul said, grinning.
“Indeed yes. Right at the climactic moment of our third romp in as many hours, the telephone clanged. Her idiot husband was in a dive in West Tampa. He’d drunk a lot of cheap dago wine and he thought
it might be ripping to pop across to the hotel and exercise his marital rights before he crawled back to his camp. I certainly didn’t want to meet him, I’d glimpsed him once or twice before. The brain of a gnat but the stature of a great ape. And on his hip, a sidearm like this.” He measured a long pistol barrel in the air.
“Since Her Majesty’s military attaché is doing little but playing tennis or boringly describing Sandhurst to anyone foolish enough to listen, I felt I could take a short French leave without unduly arousing my editors. I kissed the hand of my damsel and advised her that if she wanted no further attentions when her spouse arrived, she should lie there and plead an attack of neurasthenia, a popular affliction among the fair sex. I sincerely hope the strategy worked. I’ll never meet dear Margo’s spouse in Cuba, you can count on that. You won’t find me anywhere near the fighting. Imagination will create battles more vivid than the real ones. It did for Mr. Crane, why not for your humble and obedient?”
By now, Paul couldn’t contain his laughter. “You haven’t changed, not at all.”
“Don’t let my secret out, dear boy.”
“I just can’t get over this. I hear everything you say but I don’t know how it could happen. There are fairy tales where the frog changes to a prince—this is one, Mikhail. Sorry. Michael.”
The thin curtains blew. A seller of flavored sodas passed in the street, shouting in Spanish, then English. Michael studied the end of his cigar reflectively. Paul’s was down to a stub; it was fine mellow leaf, the smoke soft and soothing on the tongue.
“Possibly you’re right,” Michael said at last. “But it wasn’t a kiss that transformed the frog, it was a free ticket.”
Quite by chance (Michael said), an acquaintance of my elocution teacher had a theater seat he was unable to use. He couldn’t sell it because it was a different sort of ticket, a regularly reserved seat for a series of special matinee performances at the Independent Theater Club. Not the usual West End tripe, but plays of content. Provocative works. What they’re calling the theater of ideas.
