Sustenance (3 page)

The noise that wakened her returned, and this time she realized it was the squeak of brakes on the delivery van that had just unloaded the day’s produce at the hotel’s kitchen door. She made herself chuckle at her fears, saying, “Next you’ll be jumping at phone calls.”

When she was finished with her meal, she went into the bathroom to wash and put herself in order. At thirty-six, she was still passably attractive, especially for an academic, she thought wryly, but she knew enough to be careful with her make-up and hair-style, to put the emphasis on her best features, which were her large, smoky-blue eyes and her teak-colored hair. She wished she had a shower, but made the most of a quick turn in the tub. The towel she had been provided was a pale blue, a bit threadbare, and scratchy. She rubbed herself down quickly and then took a minute to stare at herself in the mirror. She patted the dark smudges under her eyes and decided to use her Elizabeth Arden foundation—it gave the best coverage. She took a moment to pluck a few stray hairs from her dark, angled brows, and sighed. “I’ll have to rely on charm, I guess. Looks aren’t going to do it today.” She applied her make-up with care, hoping to conceal the anxiety that had taken hold of her; it would be foolish to reveal how desperate her situation was becoming.

She left her room a few minutes ahead of schedule, her fawn-colored wool jacket long and princess-cut over an ecru blouse an understated version of Dior’s New Look. Her skirt was not quite the right length for sticklers, but its deep Prussian blue matched her gloves, her shoes, and her hat. Her purse was a simple dark-blue clutch—shoulder bags had vanished from American stores when Hoover had declared that Communist sympathizers carried them—and her briefcase was a darker version of her jacket. All in all, she was pleased with the impression she could make.

The expression on the face of the clerk at the front desk confirmed her good opinion; he took her order for an eighteen-hundred-hours call to America, saying, “Will you take it in your room or in the telephone lounge?”

“I think my room would be better, thank you,” she said, wondering if she should tip him.

He recognized her predicament. “Gratuities are offered when the service is complete.”

She could feel her face grow warm. “Thank you,” she said again, and added, “Your English is very good.”

The clerk smiled. “My parents sent my brothers and me to our aunt in Canada during the war years.”

“Probably sensible,” she said, missing her own sons, and turned toward the entrance. Stepping out of the hotel, she asked the doorman to hail a cab and gave the driver the address she had memorized the night before. “I understand we should need about twenty minutes to thirty minutes, perhaps a little longer. The roads won’t be crowded yet. In half an hour, they will be.” He swooped into the street and lit a cigarette. “I will have you there shortly after zero-eight-hundred. I know a shortcut.” He grinned around the cigarette and signaled to turn left, making a rude gesture with his hand.

The morning was nippy—not quite cold, but chilly enough to make her think she had been wrong not to wear a coat. She settled back in the cab and watched the traffic around her, but gradually anticipation of the morning’s meeting claimed her thoughts: she tried to decide what she would say to this Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain; how should she address him? In what language? Did he speak English? French? She knew a little Italian, but not enough to discuss her book in it. She suspected he was Hungarian: the
sz
looked Hungarian, but it might be Polish or Czech. Probably not Russian: Russians weren’t supposed to use titles like Grof any longer, unless he was one of the Old Regime, whose family fled before the Revolution. Certainly not Bulgarian or Croatian or Serbian or Montenegron, and probably not any other Jugoslavian ethnic group; for a while she mentally ran through the list of nationalities that Grof Szent-Germain might be but probably wasn’t. She resisted the urge to bite the end of her little fingernail, telling herself it would smear her lipstick. The cab took an energetic turn to the left, and she grabbed the loop hanging down between the front and rear seats.

“Sorry; there was an obstacle in the road,” said the driver, who was on his third cigarette.

“So I gather,” said Charis, adjusting her hat and sitting back once more.

The driver double-clutched down into second gear and climbed up a small rise; the street was very narrow, with ancient cobbles and the narrowest of walkways along the edge of the stones. The buildings here were old—most a couple of centuries at least—Charis realized, and wondered why a publishing house should be in this older part of the city. She was more startled when the driver turned into an even smaller side-street, barely wide enough for the cab to negotiate, and drew up in front of an elegant four-story building that looked to be about three hundred years old. “Number 32, Madame,” said the driver as he flipped up his trip-flag, and told her the price. “It’s zero-eight-hundred-twelve.”

She worked out the fare in American dollars: one-twenty-eight, more or less, yet another reminder of how the war had driven up the price of fuel and of operating a car. She handed over the appropriate coins, which still seemed dreadfully unfamiliar to her. “Thank you,” she said, letting herself out with care onto the narrow strip of brick sidewalk, her purse in one hand, her briefcase in the other; the cab was put into reverse and backed away from Charis’ destination.

It was in beautiful repair, she thought as she climbed up to the front door, pausing to look at the various ornaments above the windows: most of it was scroll-work in a subdued Baroque style. Reaching the broad top step, she saw the modest bronze plaque above the knocker:

E
CLIPSE
P
UBLISHERS

AND

TRANSLATION SERVICES

and above that was another one, saying, she assumed, the same thing in Danish.

Charis hesitated, her confidence faltering, then remembered that Harold had not sent her the full hundred and fifty dollars he had promised her; she grabbed the knocker and swung it down on its strike plate twice and waited for someone to answer.

Roughly a minute later, a man who looked to be about fifty, with sandy hair touched with white and eyes the color of old, much-washed blue jeans, opened the door. He nodded to Charis. “Professor Treat?” he asked in English; his accent was almost flawless.

“I am,” she said, trying to conceal her sudden return of nervousness with a smile. “I’m a little early, but I don’t know the city and didn’t want to be late.”

“Please come in; I’m Rogers, the Grof’s personal assistant,” he said, stepping back and opening the door wider into a two-story entry hall with a single, broad staircase leading to the gallery circling the hexagonal room one floor up. He indicated a comfortable drawing room on Charis’ right. “If you’ll be seated, I’ll tell the Grof that you’ve arrived.”

“Thank you,” she said, and glanced in at the muted blue-green walls and several large, oaken bookcases filled with hard-bound editions of all kinds, some looking to be almost as old as the building. Two sofas and a coffee-table stood in front of a handsome fireplace; the whole room was alight with watery sunshine.

“May I bring you some coffee or tea while you wait?”

“Will that be long?”

“Well, as you say, you are early, and the Grof is in a meeting.”

She hesitated, worried that her appointment might be cut short because of her early arrival, which might be seen as American pushiness; she knew Europeans disliked it. “Coffee,” she said when she realized that Rogers wanted an answer. “With milk, no sugar.”

“Very good.” He nodded again and left her to inspect the shelves, hoping to learn more about what Eclipse published.

She had removed her gloves and was perusing a volume on the archeology of the Peruvian Andes, translated from the French; the date of publication was 1948, and the book was printed on coated stock with wonderful photographs, many in color. This was most encouraging, she decided, and turned around to find Rogers returned with a tray holding a large cup-and-saucer, a plunger coffee-maker, and a jug of milk. “Oh. Good.”

“Shall I set it down, Professor Treat?”

“Yes, please,” she said, putting the book back on the shelf. “It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Professor de Montalia’s work? Yes, it is,” Rogers agreed as he placed the tray on the coffee-table. “The Grof will be with you shortly. He has been in a meeting with his printing staff, and they’re going to run over—something about the new presses. He apologizes for the delay.”

“Thank him for informing me,” she said as she went to the nearer sofa and sat down, reaching for the small lacquer-work tray as she did.

Rogers nodded toward the fireplace. “Would you like me to light the kindling?”

The room was a little cool, and without a coat she was growing uncomfortable; she did not know how much longer she would be here, she reminded herself as she depressed the plunger on the coffee-pot. “If it isn’t inconvenient for you, that would be nice.”

“No inconvenience at all.” Rogers went to a small, antique secretary and removed a box of fireplace matches, then moved the fire-screen and lit the kindling under the quartered logs. He remained where he was until he was satisfied that the logs were starting to burn. “If you need anything more, please press the button by the door,” he said, putting the fire-screen back in place, and going away.

“Thank you,” Charis called after him, then added milk to her coffee and tasted it, knowing it was still very hot. She set the cup down and rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, feeling the first onset of interview-jitters take hold. Somewhere in the house, a clock sonorously rang the half-hour. It was the time appointed for her interview; in spite of all her good intentions, Charis began to fret. She drank her coffee and added more from the pot.

Some five minutes later, she heard crisp footsteps approaching through the entry hall, and thinking this was Rogers coming to fetch her, she reached for her briefcase, preparing to rise.

A moment later, a man of slightly less than average height, graceful yet sturdily built, came through the door. He appeared to be in his middle forties, had well-cut dark hair with a slight feathering of gray at the temples, and an angled arch to his brows; his face was more attractive than handsome, with a broad forehead and a slightly askew nose, his eyes an arresting, strange blue-black. He was dressed in a black suit of understated elegance. His shirt was off-white and obviously silk, as was his dark-red damask tie. His waistcoat had a subtle pattern of what looked like wings in its fine black wool. “Professor Treat. Thank you for waiting,” he said in English with a faint accent she was unable to identify. “And I apologize for the early hour, but I will be leaving Copenhagen tomorrow and wanted to see you before I left, which is why I suggested an eight-thirty appointment.” His voice was low and musical, and his manner, though formal, was welcoming.

“Grof Szent-Germain,” she said, recovering herself, and, starting to rise, held out her hand, while struggling to get out of the deep sofa cushions.

He came closer and took it, bowing slightly. “A pleasure, Professor Treat. Welcome to Eclipse Publishing. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

“Thank you,” she said, standing up a bit awkwardly. “The cab-driver smoked a great deal.”

“And your journey from America?” he asked.

“When is a long flight ever comfortable?” she asked, wanting to seem more broadly traveled than she was.

He offered a wry half-smile, saying, “I concur, especially over water,” then motioned to her to be seated, and took his place on the sofa opposite hers. “Before we begin, let me assure you that I am aware of the lamentable developments in the United States. It is a difficult time for academics in your country, is it not?”

“America has always had a streak of anti-intellectualism in its make-up,” she said, using her lecture tone. “When the people are frightened, they often seek refuge in religion and reject science. Science is not often comforting.”

“They reject knowledge out of fear,” he added.

“Out of fear,” she agreed.

He shook his head. “I hope you are finding a better reception here in Denmark. And in Paris, for that matter.”

“I hope so; most everyone has been polite, but I don’t speak Danish, and that is a problem for me,” she said, and reached for her coffee-cup to finish what was left in it, wanting her throat to be less dry. “I have pretty good French.”

“The French will appreciate that,” Szent-Germain said with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow.

Charis managed an uneasy chuckle.

“I’ve noticed you have the name Lundquist in your query-letter,” he went on in the same easy manner.

“My maiden name,” she said, and felt herself blush. “With my situation being what it is, I don’t want my … political difficulties to reflect poorly on my husband or my sons. By my using my maiden name, Harold can protect his place at Tulane.”

“I thought it might be something of the sort,” Szent-Germain told her in a deliberately neutral tone. “If you will be kind enough to tell me what I may do to help you achieve what you are seeking?”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, and then tried to explain herself. “Not that I want to impose upon you, but I would like to find a publisher who can produce my work without being in danger from the government. As I told you when I first wrote to you and mentioned my work, I’m aware that many publishers are … chary about what topics they consider. Your reply was encouraging, and so I’m hoping you don’t feel constrained to follow the example of American university presses. I’d be grateful if you would consider my work for that reason alone, but I have learned that Eclipse Publishing has an enviable reputation, and that adds to my hope that your company will want my book.” She patted her briefcase. “I have a copy of my current manuscript here, which I would like to submit to your Editorial Board. I was hoping to discuss that with you, as well as what other sorts of books you are seeking.”

“You have more projects in mind?” The flicker of amusement in his dark eyes took the sting out of his question.