by Tessa Lunney
“ ‘I follow the waning moon, like a dying lady, who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil out of her chamber…’ ”
“Yes, yes, alright—though aren’t you pale for weariness of these Romantics?”
“ ‘Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room…’ ”
“I’ll take that as a no.” Not just tired, but cold and alone. I touched the radio like it was a good luck charm. “So, bella Roma: Put your man there on standby. You do have a man there, don’t you? Because I’m traveling there tonight. I’m takin’ the bacon.”
I watched a single taxi trundle up the road.
“Take him to the aerodrome. I need you to fly.”
“I have other passengers. I need them to complete the mission.”
Fox’s pause stretched to breaking point. “Why?” His voice was steel again.
“To be lads and ladies for the ladies’ lads.”
“Find some Italians.”
“Sure, and I would… if I spoke Italian, or the princes spoke Italian.”
“How many other passengers?”
“Three.”
“At the aerodrome in Paris, Bacon knows what to do. At Rome, insist on only Vittorio. Anyone else will either sell you to the Communists or the squadristi, whichever side they’re working for.”
“And your man in Italy? Will I know him by his Sobranies cigarettes?”
“I heard that another of my men has joined Hausmann.”
“You clearly inspire them.”
“They teach me half the gladness that their brains would know.”
“How is the fascist cause ‘harmonious madness’?”
“Because the world is listening now.”
“So, it’s all part of your plan… that sounds incredible. I am incredulous.”
“You will know my man by his Sobranies cigarettes.” I could hear the smile in his voice. My cape provided no protection against the night’s chill.
“When’s the flight?”
“How’s the sky in Paris?”
I moved aside the curtains to stare above the streetlamps. “Clear as a heavenly highway.”
“Then as soon as you arrive. Be there in an hour.”
I waited but there was no click, no beep, no operator barking at me in either English or French.
“Fox?”
“I expect a full report on this mission, Vixen.”
“And you’ll have it, when the mission is complete.” Is that all he wanted to say?
“Such harmonious madness…”
“Do you think this mission is half my gladness?”
“More than half, blithe spirit.” Then he hung up. I stared at the receiver. Not more than half, not even half… yet I couldn’t help but feel that it was true, partly true, some shade of true. Why else would I feel happy that Fox was happy, even if it did make me feel sick the moment after? I hunted through the loungeroom until I found some cigarettes and lit one with shaky fingers. “Blithe spirit” and “harmonious madness” were from “To a Skylark,” and I couldn’t help but think of other lines from the poem: “We look before and after and pine for what is not, our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught.” Pleasure in pain, pain in pleasure; this was a perfect description of Fox and everything he touched. I felt ashamed that I enjoyed it. I leant against the window and let the cool glass soothe my cheek. But it didn’t really matter, all this nonsense with Fox. All that mattered, in the end, was that I did all I could to get Tom’s charges cleared. Even if I had to walk through fire, I would do it.
“Katie King.” Maisie popped her head in. “What’s next?”
It was Ray who ran out to find us taxis, a blonde angel in a blue dressing gown, hailing the cabs and kissing his wife in the street. I think all of us looked on with a pang at his obvious passion for Maisie. I needed to go home and put on some sensible warm clothes, as did Bertie and Tom, then we all needed to go to the aerodrome on the city’s outskirts. Fry said he had “business to attend to” and would meet us there, though I had a suspicion that his business included a bottle of gin and a quick private sob. He looked hangdog as he gingerly lowered himself into his taxi.
“Headache,” said Bertie once we’d settled in the cab. “I offered to give him some morphine I had in my hotel bedroom and he looked at me like I’d suggested something lewd.”
“Had you?” I asked.
“He may be built like a sailor but he certainly doesn’t act like any of the sailors I’ve met.” The streets were empty in a way that felt like metaphor, like prophecy, as they whizzed by the cab windows.
“No, I think he’s less sailor and more fly-boy,” I said.
“You know, I’ve never been in an aeroplane.”
“Nor me,” said Tom.
“Nor me,” said Maisie.
“I understand Fox wanted to get us there quickly, but all of us, with no experience of air travel…”
“We’ll be fine.” Tom shrugged. “What more have we got to lose?”
46
“i’ll build a stairway to paradise”
Fry was waiting for us at the aerodrome. He looked like he was off to explore the Arctic—huge boots, thick wool trousers, leather jacket with fur collar, woolen cap, and huge goggles. He made the rest of us, in our city suits and little suitcases, look like refugees or gullible tourists. He handed each of us an oddly shaped metal bucket.
“Unless you’ve weathered a storm in a dinghy, you will find the seasickness on your first flight unbearable. Be sick into this.”
“Why is there a tube? Wouldn’t an open bucket be more useful?” Maisie was always so practical.
“If you’re feeling sick, it’s because the aeroplane is bouncing around too much. No point vomiting into a bucket for the sick to bounce out and slop all over you. Be sick down the tube. Don’t miss or you’ll wear it.” The rickety metal stairs, the hard bench seats, and the exposed metal frame of the aeroplane did nothing to expel the tension created by Fry’s statement. Nothing could expel that except the view.
Is there anything more spectacular than your first time in an aeroplane?
When the possibility entered my head that I would need to go to Italy, I knew immediately that I would take Tom and Bertie and Maisie. But I had imagined a leisurely train trip south, changing at the border, ordering hot drinks and biscuits from the tea-lady, my head on Tom’s shoulder as we gazed out the window, or whispering to Maisie about life and love while Tom and Bertie were asleep. Not for one second did I imagine gripping a vomit bucket, my suitcase clenched between my feet, as we put our lives in the hands of a man who had recently got stitches to his head.
We submitted to the terrifying takeoff, where the whole machine rattled like a bomb had exploded and Fry cursed so loudly and continuously that what he thought of the aeroplane and its makers could be clearly heard over the roar of the engines. But after this, I forgot to be scared, or practical, or even to care that Fry could be woozy with concussion. I was absorbed by the transcendent beauty outside the window. The lights of Paris as we left the city behind us. The moon on top of the clouds. I had never thought I would see the other side of clouds or the endless star-bright sky above them. All the constellations were visible in the velvety night. Maisie took a quick look, smiled wanly, before curling up and willing herself unconscious as I’d seen her do many times before. Bertie cradled his little bucket like a long-lost lover, his face pale and sweaty. But Tom, iron-tum Tom, had his face as close to the freezing glass as he could go. We couldn’t speak, the engines were too noisy. We didn’t need to. Tom held my hand tightly as we stared out our separate windows, occasionally pointing out this star group, or that cloud, as we flew by.
We were flying into sunrise and saw the sun start to lighten the sky. The ground came back in sight, a quilt of green and brown with threads of black road and blue river. The Alps appeared in all their splendor to our left. We flew through the gray, pink, gold, orange, and finally blue of the new day. Silver cities rose from the ground, beetled with cars. Tom a
ctually laughed with joy. It was magical.
We saw the aerodrome below us. I was aware of a tiny thank-you that rose up, to Fox, for these hours of wonder. But any gratitude I might have had for Fox vanished with the descent into landing. We were dice shaken by a furious hand, we were dumped by a wave, we were an eagle shot from the sky. I even checked to see if Fry had lost control of the aeroplane, but he turned and gave me the thumbs-up. Tom made the “he’s crazy” sign at his head and I had to agree with him. The landing strip rushed up to us and I wanted to scream, but we bumped and thumped across it and the aeroplane came to a stop without crashing or catching fire. I could see signs in Italian by the side of the landing strip.
We were in Rome.
47
“on the gin gin ginny shore”
“I’ve only been here once before,” said Fry. He stood, arms akimbo, enjoying the flashes of sun on his face. He stood exactly like an explorer, his discovered territory the Rome aerodrome with its huge tin hangers and oil-stained concrete. I looked around for a pie-cart, a tea-stand, even a tap to ease the aftereffects of queasiness, but all I could see were the signs in Italian first, then French, then English, pointing to the west hangar, east hangar, passenger passport control, information. The air stank of fuel.
“Prince Phillip von Hessen told me that the princes are staying at Hotel Hassler,” I said, “so perhaps we might camp next to the quarry.”
“The Hassler? It’s lucky Fox has deep pockets.” Fry spoke gruffly as he took my cigarette and carefully put it out.
“Fox is paying for this? I’d have thought the palace would be happy to bear the expense.” I took out another cigarette. “And why can’t I smoke?”
“I think the palace probably will, in the end. Fox doesn’t stay rich by being kind.” Fry took that cigarette too and tucked it behind his ear. “Too much fuel around. Second rule of the aerodrome.”
“And the first?”
“Learn how to land.”
I looked back at my team, shaken and woozy and still trying to find their land legs.
“We haven’t slept, we haven’t bathed, we still smell of elephant and martinis, with top notes of vomit and aviation fuel.” No one had come out to greet us, but Fry didn’t act as though he expected anyone. “We need to get to the Hassler.”
“1500 hours, I’ll be in the foyer to organize things.”
“I think you should come with us now. You need a check-up. I can’t believe you piloted that plane.”
“Our man here knows a doctor and where to get pharmaceuticals. Maisie is excellent but…”
“Not a drug dispensary. Speaking of, I have some ideas for tonight.”
“Heaven help us.” He caught sight of someone and waved. “Vittorio!”
A small dapper man walked swiftly toward us. He wasn’t smoking Sobranies, or smoking at all actually. I looked around for a man who, if not smoking, looked like he would smoke gold-tipped cigarettes. The empty tarmac, the huge aircraft hangar, and the distant woods didn’t provide many places for a man to hide.
“Our man isn’t here yet,” said Fry. “Fox told me it’d be Tinker.”
“That’s his name?”
“Like mine is Fry. His parents called him Brabazon Tailor, so he only ever gives the nickname he acquired at school.”
“And Soldier and Sailor?” I asked, that rhyme again, but Fry ignored me as the small dapper man had reached us, his hair in perfect, unmoving waves above his charcoal pinstripe suit and wide, quick smile.
“This is Kiki Button,” said Fry.
“You’re Vittorio?” I asked.
“Sí, signorina.” He bent low and kissed my hand instead of shaking it. His touch was gentle for such rough hands.
“Well, if all of Rome is like this, I don’t think the mission will be too hard.”
“Just don’t flirt with the squadristi,” said Fry. “Their idea of flirting is to club you over the head and drag you to a meeting.”
“Shoot first and ask questions later? Unfortunately, I’m used to that.”
* * *
I had six hours until I met with Fry and Tinker and I needed to prepare. By prepare, I meant sleep. We hired two adjacent rooms that opened in the middle to create one large apartment, with beds at either end, an arrangement that excited Bertie (“It’s like some kind of Baroque orgy”). The rooms had ornate ceilings, striped upholstery, and a cream and gold color scheme. There was even a cream and gold telephone. Bertie’s excitement was somewhat subdued with the aftereffects of severe nausea; in fact, we all headed straight for the bathrooms to rid our skin of the stench. We kept the doors closed, me and Maisie on one side and Tom with Bertie on the other. I wanted to sleep, but all I could manage were spots of dozing.
It would have been easy to spirit the princes back to London from Paris. Now, despite the increased distance and our complete lack of Italian language, we had to somehow manage it from Rome. Could we physically bundle them into a car? No one would appreciate the princes returned with bruises and split lips, even if that was Fry’s preferred modus operandi. It would be much better if they were enticed, or tricked, into leaving their German cousins behind. The frescoes on the ceiling cavorted and jiggled as I moved in and out of sleep. I knew what had to be done, I just didn’t want to admit it, I didn’t want to have Fox use me once again… but it was too late now: I would have to seduce the princes. Some heavy flirting would probably suffice, especially if I provided enough alcohol and other intoxicants. I probably would not need to reenact the mission from Madame Rouge’s brothel. I tossed and turned, the blankets heavy enough to smother me. I could do it, especially with Maisie and Bertie and Tom. It all depended on getting Charlie and Phillip out of the way.
48
“a brown bird singing”
I was sitting in the square outside the hotel at five to three. I had left the others in bed, each sound asleep. I felt shaky and electric and was very glad of the coffee and pastry and cigarettes that the waiter brought out to me. The day had been spitting rain and I wrapped my red coat closer to my neck. Odile had done a beautiful job, lining the coat with silk so it was now warm enough for a European autumn. Bicycles trilled their bells across the cobbles until the children scattered. Women called from upper windows to the fruit sellers as they crossed. The square was lined with shops, from the useful newspaper kiosk to the decadent purveyor of Florentine leather to the stall with touristy postcards. My pastry was heavier and sweeter than I was served in Paris, but the coffee was black gold and I quickly ordered a second.
I almost laughed when Fry walked over with Vittorio and a man who could only be Tinker. He was medium height and strongly built, his hair slicked back so you could see the streaks of gray, scars on his cheeks and rigid posture, smoking a black gold-tipped cigarette. For all Fry’s irritating amazement that I, a woman, could actually be competent, at least he wasn’t one of these Fox lookalikes. I lit a cigarette and prepared myself for a fight.
“You must be Tinker.” I didn’t get up, merely extended my hand, which he shook with more force than necessary. “Take a seat. Fry, Vittorio.” I nodded my greetings.
“Fry filled me in.” Tinker’s voice was clipped and stern. “It was foolish to bring a team of amateurs to Rome. It compromises mission security.”
“Yet to be without them would compromise my security.” I exhaled into the gray sky. “During the war, Fox often left me to scramble home at mission’s end. Once I cycled a hundred kilometers across two stretches of front, flirting my way through the checkpoints. I can see you’re just the same as him… so now I bring my own guard, to make sure I’m not stranded on the Spanish Steps like some half-baked Keats.”
“And why are you in charge of the mission?”
“Because it needs a woman. The princes aren’t interested in your sort.”
“My sort?” Tinker’s scowl made his face ugly.
“Prison guards. Prefects.”
Fry couldn’t keep the smile from his face; clearly, he did
n’t like Tinker much either. Vittorio looked between us, barely comprehending.
“But seeing as you are in charge,” said Fry, “what’s your plan?”
* * *
“Well, well, Miss Button, what a delightful surprise!” Charlie Coburg leered at me. I put my hand on his arm and smiled my coyest smile. Bertie coughed away his laugh from where he stood at the other side of the hotel bar. The bar itself was stuffed with armchairs and couches, the walls marble and mirror, so that Charlie’s leer repeated itself ad nauseum.
“I had to come, I just had to see it for myself.” I turned up the breathless-girl patter. “The march! The new political force! You painted such an entrancing portrait of the new world order, and their handsome uniforms. I knew our readers wouldn’t want to miss it!”
Charlie laughed in an arrogant way. I got the sense that it would never occur to him that he could be less attractive to others than he was to himself.
“But… how did you know we would be here?” He leant in and said, sotto voce, “Have you been spying on us?”
“Me?” I opened my eyes wide and he laughed at the improbability of it.
“Phillip mentioned it.” I leant in and whispered. “I have an excellent memory for luxury.”
“All ladies do, don’t they?” he said and I smiled through clenched teeth. The bar was too claustrophobic, so I steered him to the café outside, chattering about Paris and fashion and parties. I was wary of overdoing it; I hated this breathless-girl disguise and felt the urge to pull into parody by hyperventilating or falling over. I managed to keep my head until I got him onto the small matter of the fascisti march, then I reduced my act to nodding and yes-ing. Charlie was the type of man who not only couldn’t conceive of a woman spy, but could barely conceive of a woman being able to understand the nuances of politics. He boasted, secure in the delusion that I would do nothing with the information. The lights disappeared down the Spanish Steps.
