by Tessa Lunney
“Revolutions can do that to a family,” said Theo. “Phillip, let me introduce Mademoiselle Kiki Button, society reporter for the Star in London and a great friend.”
“London! It’s a pleasure. Shall we speak English?” He looked to Theo for guidance. “I’m just as comfortable in English as in French.”
“Your comfort is our only desire,” said Theo in stilted English. “Please.” He indicated the chair. Phillip sat too straight, his pointed chin held up as he looked about him.
“I just love Paris,” Phillip continued in French. “I can never get here often enough. I was last here with my friend Siegfried—the poet, Siegfried Sassoon, do you know him?”
“I know him as the war hero who threw his medal in the Mersey,” I said. “Tell me about Siegfried.”
“Ah yes, your interview!” He smiled. “He’s an art connoisseur, just like me. He’s a lovely man, very cultivated…” Phillip waxed on about Sassoon and Italian classical art, playing with his wineglass stem, smiling at the cherubs on the walls. I saw Theo’s jaw twitch with mirth at this little display of Anglo-German friendship.
“Your life has been so fascinating, your highness, I wonder if—”
“Phi!” A rough voice boomed across the restaurant and a small man with an energetic moustache strode ahead of the waiter.
“Charlie! So good to see you again!” Phillip shook his hand in both of his. “Please, this is Prince Theo Alexandrovitch Romanov and Miss Kiki Button. This is Carl Eduard, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, or Charlie Coburg to you Brits.”
“Oh, are you British? Are we speaking English then? Excellent! Garçon!” Charlie Coburg ordered appetizers, more drinks, and generally took over the proceedings. He was the opposite to the art-loving, soft-spoken Phillip. He looked and sounded like he’d never left the parade ground, except perhaps for the soapbox. He was loud for such a French place as the Café de la Paix; the gilt edges seemed to shudder at his vulgarity.
“Oh yes, went to school at Eton. I was also the Duke of Albany, Earl of Clarence, and Baron Arklow until 1917 when parliament took away my titles. I was born in Germany, and that is where I am the residing Duke. Picking a side just seemed the proper thing to do. But we’ve always been internationalists, haven’t we, Phi? Royals generally are, always marrying royalty from a different country and then spending our time shuttling back and forth.” He somehow managed to eat, drink, and talk simultaneously, with the only mess being the crumbs bouncing on his moustache.
“Is that what brings you to Paris?” I asked. “Family?”
“Family in France? Ha! The French would never admit to that. Besides, we’re not Catholic, those families would never marry ours. No, no, doing a bit of political work here actually. Ah, don’t write that in your little magazine, eh? Our movement is very powerful but still young, not yet ready for the tender minds of English working girls.”
“You might be surprised at what the minds of English working girls are ready for.”
“Not just pretty dresses and beaus, eh? Phi and Felix, staunch men, they’ll back me up—we’re waiting for you too, Theo—but our movement, well.” He blew out his cheeks. “I have to say, it’s going to change the world. It’s bigger than Bolshevism.”
“Cheers to that!” Phillip lifted his glass.
“Which movement is this?” I asked, pen poised. Charlie waved my pen down.
“I’ll give you some proper gossip in a minute, but this is a special tidbit just for you. Perhaps tell some of your men friends, hmmm? It was started in Italy but, as we all know, the Italians are far better at food than at fighting. It’s properly a German movement—English too, if they know what’s good for them. It is the last word in anti-Bolshevism… or will be. It’s called fascism.”
I let him run on, nodding enthusiastically as I sipped my wine. I glanced briefly at the other princes—Phillip was listening hard and nodding, while Theo’s face, except for his frequent looks to the door, was so impassive it might have been carved from stone.
“Mmm, this pâté is good. The French, they’re another people who are better at food than at fighting, though they did put up a good show when they were defending those sodden marshes in the north. Our leader—oh yes, we have a leader, I see your skeptical look, Miss Button, but we’re very organized—our leader is the most phenomenal speaker. He could talk Christ down from the cross. Not that he would, he’s a good Christian… a very precise Christian, if you know what I mean.”
He stuffed more appetizers in his mouth as he gave me a loaded look. I did not like the idea of a “very precise” Christian.
“You should remember the name: Adolf Hitler. I met him recently, when he was in Coburg, at the Deutscher Tag we held there recently. So many of his people—our people, I should say—came and showed their support! I haven’t seen anything like it since the start of the war and, to be honest, I didn’t expect to see anything like it for years to come. Not in Germany, at any rate. It was… well, I probably shouldn’t say, not here in Paris with you and Theo, ha! But I know you hate Bolshevism, Theo, there’s no point in denying it. Trotsky and his cabal, that rascal Lenin, they have destroyed your magnificent empire! They murdered my cousin Nicholas. They are devils. If you have any sense at all, you will see that fascism is not a threat to you—in fact, you’re just the kind of man we need! Fascism is only a threat to the Bolsheviks, and the middle-class doctors and lawyers who support them.”
I had a sinking feeling that Charlie Coburg’s rhetoric was supposed to inspire another pogrom. He gesticulated like a ham actor, his fists and pointed fingers at odds with the delicate blush on the murals’ reclining nudes.
“Our leader has really hit the nail on the head, how the world has been undermined by the Bolshevik revolution. Civilization has fallen apart under these demonic ideas. We must band together and fix the problem. You’ve heard of ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’? No? Illuminating reading—now there is something proper for the minds of young English girls.”
Charlie smoothed down his moustache, gulped his wine. I was right; a “very precise” Christian was code for a new kind of pogrom. I stole a look at Theo, but he was still made of stone.
“Not that the weak Weimar government approve.” Charlie glowered. “They think we’re rabble-rousers. As if we’d have anything to do with the rabble! But they are too ineffectual to do anything about the Bolsheviks. Unlike us.” He smacked his lips and wiped his fingers, looking at me the whole time. I took my cue.
“How so? What effect are you having?”
“I’m glad you asked.” His smile was smug. “We’re going to Rome to join in the march with Blackshirts. On Saturday, actually, but it’s very hush-hush. We’ll be wearing our brown shirts, it will show everyone that fascism is the answer, not only to Bolshevism but to the endless fragmentation of our current world. The treacherous end of the war meant that empires collapsed! The peasants demanding to run the country when they’ve never even run their own farm! So many good men, ready to lead their country to greatness, men who were born to rule, were stabbed in the back by a conspiracy of… well.” He raised his eyebrows significantly, as if to indicate that we all knew who ran this conspiracy. Although I didn’t agree, unfortunately I knew exactly who he meant.
“We need as many men as possible to join. Phillip here is coming. Theo, we’re relying on you, and bring your brothers too.”
“Will Felix join you?” Theo was far too polite.
“I hope so! He’s an important member of our group!”
“A truly international group of soldiers,” I said. “What other nationalities do you have?”
“Well, I shouldn’t say this, but…” He leant forward so much that Theo was obliged to lean back out of the way. “My young cousins, the princes David and George, will be joining us. David—that’s Edward, the Prince of Wales, to you—he’s got a sound head on his shoulders, he knows how the world should be run. He’s just the man to do it, and seeing as he’ll be King of England and Empero
r of India, he probably will too! His brother’s still a boy, but a very charming boy, who’ll do excellent work for us under David’s guidance. So, there you have it!” He tapped the table with a triumphant look on his face. Glasses and cutlery clinked, laughter erupted at the table behind us, but Charlie paid no attention.
“We are in the lap of power! All my doing too. Even if their stuffed-shirt father won’t see me—I mean, we played together on Granny’s lawn at the palace, for heaven’s sake—those boys know that we’re living in a new world. The Bolsheviks changed who was friend and who was enemy, shook up the whole hierarchy that had persisted for centuries! This is the beginning; you men are right here with us at the very beginning. Together we will change the world.” He held his arms wide to encompass both Phillip and Theo.
“My deepest apologies!” Felix stopped up short and bowed theatrically. “I can’t tell you what a time I’ve had to get here. Where were you when I needed you, eh, Theo?” Felix smiled and winked as he shook hands with everyone.
“Dear Felix.” Charlie bowed and acted the host. “I was just finishing telling Miss Button about our little organization.”
“Pooh, ladies don’t want to hear about that!” Felix kissed me on both cheeks. “Nor do the readers of the Star, I’ll wager. They want to hear about the Marchesa Casati’s party. We’re going, and I have it on good authority that the English princes will be going as well.”
“By ‘we,’ do you mean…”
“But of course, you’re coming, Kiki! The readers of the Star absolutely must know how fabulous we can be! All these cafés”—he waved his hand in dismissal—“these are nothing. The Marchesa knows how to put on a show. You will see the best of us!”
Just as Felix intended, the conversation veered away from politics and onto parties, all the royals in Paris, intricate familial connections, what was on at the opera, the best places to eat. Felix, in his beige suit and two-tone shoes, was the unannounced leader of the group. Despite having the lowest rank among them, he had the most charm, the most conversation, and the most money—and that last point, I could see, was what swayed Charlie. It seemed he wanted Felix in his fascist club in any way possible.
At the end of the meal, I was glad to see Bertie come through the door, his camera in hand.
“Please, can I introduce my editor and traveling photographer, Bertie Browne. If you wouldn’t mind, we would love to take a picture for the piece.”
The princes posed—Theo serious, Charlie leering, Phillip almost shy, Felix flamboyant. I could see he was flirting with Bertie, subtly enough that Charlie didn’t notice, but not so subtly that Phillip did and smiled along with me.
“Bring your camera along to the Marchesa’s party—Bertie, was it?—and anyone else that takes your fancy. It’s a costume party: the theme is the Circus.” Felix leaned in and touched Bertie’s wrist just for a moment. “I’m going as the Bearded Lady.”
We said our goodbyes at the door and Theo kissed my hand.
“Theo, this was just perfect. I can’t thank you enough.”
“But I know how you can try.” Theo took up my other hand. “I have to leave with my cousins, golden one.”
“Just quickly, tell me—Phillip, Felix, are they…”
“Not with each other,” he said with a wink. “Will I see you tonight?”
“I have a friend, and another friend, and work for the Star. Perhaps… I’ll see you at the party?”
Theo looked quickly at Bertie and back at me. I may have imagined it but it seemed that his face fell just a little bit, that his smile became a little heavier to hold in place.
“As you wish, golden one.”
* * *
Bertie took my arm and steered me to one of the many cafés that surrounded the opera house. He took a seat at the bar under a huge sign for Cointreau.
“Bertie—cognac, merci—I’ve only got a minute. Have your watchers found you?”
“Not a golden cigarette butt in sight.”
“Good.” But also, what was Fox up to?
“So, Charlie,” said Bertie. “I didn’t fancy him.”
“Charlie is a dyed-in-the-wool committed fascist. It was all he could talk about. We only talked about culture and society because Felix insisted. But Charlie gave me the gold. I know for certain who the princes are.” I smiled. “Wales and young George.”
“No!” I delighted in Bertie’s delighted shock.
“I have all the clues now. All we need to do is stop them before they get to Rome.”
“Before? But I was so looking forward to a spot of the sunny South.”
“If my plan works, we still will.”
We finished our drinks and our gossip. Bertie took hold of my shoulders and kissed me softly on the lips.
“Take care of yourself, Kiki darling. Don’t trip over that devil-may-care attitude of yours.”
40
“thru the night”
I toyed with the idea of not calling Fox. I was full of food and booze, I was keyed up and exhausted, I was already running late. But if I didn’t call as soon as I arrived, then I would need to call Fox with Tom next to me, with Tom listening to my banter, seeing my smile… it was not something I liked to admit to myself, the fun I had with my manipulative boss, the pride in proper work and solving puzzles and winning wars, the pleasure in making my spymaster my spy-servant, even if only for a moment, those seductive games. Because seduction was the game; only who was seducing whom? I looked out the window of the taxi and saw nothing but memories. Fox in dress uniform, looking every inch the soldier, looking me over as he passed by with the visiting commander. Fox resting after surgery, laid out on the grass in the dawn, blood even on his cigarette, eyes unfocused in the hazy morning light. Fox in his house in Kent, the moonlight in his silver hair, watching me watching the stars before he kissed me. Fox in the apple orchard, again and again, his collar open, his sunshine smile. My heart beat uncomfortably, but whether it was from excitement or fear, I couldn’t have said. Perhaps I could no longer tell the difference between the two.
* * *
“My apologies, miss, Dr. Fox left for London about an hour ago.”
“Left! But… do you know, is he traveling by train, by plane…”
“I couldn’t say, miss.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Do you know?”
I heard a muffle on the line. “It seems he left for the train station, miss.”
I thanked him absentmindedly and hung up. Fox could be here, Fox could be in this train station, waiting to get the Blue Train back to London. Surely, surely he would have taken a flight if he was used to flying, because why would he take the long way home? Only if he knew Tom was coming, only if he wanted to surprise me, scare me, shock me after not seeing him for so many years… no, it couldn’t be, he wouldn’t. I struggled to control my breathing but found I could not. Two minutes until Tom’s train arrived. Which platform did the Blue Train back to London leave from? No, Fox wouldn’t wait on the platform, he’d wait inside. I scanned the station bar and the café. No, he wouldn’t wait, he’d get to the train in the nick of time… out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of some silver hair. I moved forward, drawn to it, the head turned—it wasn’t Fox. My legs felt weak from relief and disappointment. The whistle blew, steam blasted the platform: Tom’s train was here. Was Fox at Gare du Nord or not? My thoughts rattled, I kept seeing and unseeing silver hair and a straight posture, until I saw black hair with a tilted hat, a worn navy suit on a too-large frame, a grin, now boyish, now like a dingo, that ploughed toward me. I jumped into Tom’s arms.
“Button.”
“My Tom-Tom.”
We stayed that way for a long time.
* * *
“You’re here to stay.”
“I like how that isn’t a question, Button.”
“Of course it isn’t a question, but I’d like confirmation all the same.”
We’d walked straight into the nearest welcoming café. Tom’s bag was
at our feet as the warm light flowed over and around us. The café was full of train workers, guards half in uniform, boiler stokers, ticket sellers, cleaning ladies with their buckets of brushes next to them. His worn-out suit and wild-eyed stare fit right in. It was only my silk and embroidery, suede and high color that looked out of place, but then again, it’d look out of place anywhere but Montparnasse. I was beginning to realize that I looked like a bohemian artist—colorful but scruffy, eccentric and too modern—too declassé for the Café de la Paix, too luxurious for a workers’ bar, too fragile for the streets, too robust for the drawing rooms. In Sydney, I wouldn’t be served, and in London, I would be stared at. In Paris, however, I got a single glance and people went back to their drinks. Was this real freedom? I ordered another round of beers from a passing waiter and waited for Tom to lift his eyes from the table.
He fiddled with his beer glass. “I can’t give it to you, not yet. I want to stay, I’ve argued with Old Buffer that I should stay—and I should, it’d save me time and save the paper money—but it depends on this next story.”
“Smyrna?”
“Rome.”
“You’re coming with us.”
“Us?”
“Me, Maisie, Bertie, Fox’s other agents.”
Tom frowned and looked confused.
“They’re my mission unit. I think it’s a given that I’ll be going to Italy for this Blackshirt gathering, even if my mission is completed beforehand. I’m sure Fry will go too, and his helper, aka Roger the Dodger. Maisie and Bertie want to go as well… in fact, I might need them to.”
“Button, you’re speaking in riddles. How do you know all this?”
“You told me! In your letter. Fascists and princes, it’s what my mission is all about… you know this!”
He shook his head and stared at the table again. “Yes. No. Perhaps I do. It’s been…” He looked around as if the unspoken part of his sentence was obvious, his eyes unfocused, as though he couldn’t really see the sweat-stained uniforms around us.
