Sustenance (4 page)

“Yes,” she admitted. “Several.”

“Very wise. It’s always useful to have new works in progress. It keeps thoughts fresh.” He offered another brief smile. “Will you leave that copy with me? I’ll take care to get it to the Board. If it’s accepted, we will discuss further works.” He got up from the sofa but only to ring for Rogers. “Would you like more coffee, Professor Treat? Or would you prefer Lundquist?”

“Treat will be fine.” She was about to say no to the offer of coffee, but changed her mind. “Yes, please.” She suddenly felt very vulnerable; she gathered up her courage and went on. “I am in contact with other American academicians who are seeking publication abroad, since they cannot find any editor at home willing to—” She broke off. “May I tell them how to submit manuscripts to your Editorial Board and peer review? For the most part, they’re in a similar predicament to mine: trying to do work while improvising a living here in Europe.”

His enigmatic gaze rested on her for almost a minute before he said, “I have an information packet that Rogers will give you when you leave. Another pot of coffee for Professor Treat, and more milk.” This last was to Rogers, who had come to the open door. “And a copy of our submissions protocol,” he added.

“It will be ready when she departs,” said Rogers, and went away.

The Grof turned back to her. “Now, if you will tell me a little about your book? Just the barest outlines, if you will—and some idea of its level of scholarship. Do you intend it for university students, or a more general readership?”

“For university level students of history or anthropology,” she said. “And perhaps some of the general public with such interests—history buffs and the like.”

“And how do you present your material? How academic is your style? Might a well-informed layman be able to read it without difficulty?” He sat back and propped one ankle on his opposite knee; she saw that the soles of his shoes were unfashionably thick, and was diverted by this little vanity; so many short men, she thought, wanted to be tall.

“I hardly know where to start,” she said, his inquiry having taken her by surprise.

“Then please begin with the title.”

She took a deep breath. “
Social Structures of Communes and Communards in Medieval Europe.
I’m primarily interested in social structures as they relate to folklore and cosmologies of the past, but the difference between Western Medieval societies before the Black Plague and afterward was so compelling that I used this for my work.” She paused, then added, “Europe had to reinvent its social structure.”

“Compelling,” Szent-Germain repeated, recalling the terrible years that began with the first epidemic and the chaos he saw everywhere he went; the Plague continued on for more than a generation through two additional, less catastrophic epidemics, and in the end he had gone to Delhi to avoid the ruin in Europe. “The Black Plague was … harrowing,” he added. “So few survived.”

“But I touch only a little on the Plague itself,” she said, a bit defensively.

Szent-Germain’s laughter was more sad than mirthful. “But focusing on the communes: no wonder you couldn’t find a publisher in America for such a book in these times.”

“Exactly,” she said, relaxing a bit when he said nothing more. “The Dean of the History Department advised me to burn the master copy and my notes, then refused to consider any paper I submitted for his opinion. The Dean of the Anthropology Department refused to look at it at all. Tulane has been pressured about what they teach, and it isn’t the only university to discontinue research if the subject of the research displeases men in high places.”

“A prudent notion on the part of the two deans, under the circumstances, but certainly against all the principles of scholarship. I am honored that you decided to approach Eclipse with your work.” He held out his hands for the manuscript. “I trust you have other copies, and that they are protected.”

“Yes,” she told him, a touch of defiance in her posture; she removed the manuscript in its heavy cardstock file from her briefcase and passed it to him. “I have them in the safe at the hotel.”

“Very wise. Take care to keep them under lock and key throughout your travels.” He got up again and went to put the manuscript in the second drawer of a tall, old-fashioned wooden file cabinet. “As I will here.”

She had to fight down a rush of fear as the lock clicked audibly. “Can you let me know how long it will take your Editorial Board to reach a decision? I’m returning to Paris shortly, and I want to know what information you will need to reach me.”

“I would say between two and three months for the Board to decide, all things being equal, assuming there is no delay in getting my new presses installed and working. Two of the old ones were reduced to scrap during the war. If there is going to be any delay, Rogers will contact you as soon as possible.” He came back to the sofa just as Rogers brought another small tray into the room, set it down and removed the one that was there, then left silently.

“Will you have some, Grof?” she asked, more from good manners than desire to share.

“Alas, no. Coffee does not agree with me.” He resumed his place on the sofa. “How long have you been in Europe?”

“Not very long; a little over four weeks,” she said, her hand shaking a little as she depressed the plunger.

“You have come alone? Or have you someone waiting for you in Paris?”

There was such gentleness and sympathy in his question that she felt the welling of tears in her eyes; she looked away to conceal them, coughing a little before she answered. “My husband and sons are still in New Orleans. For now, we agree that it is wise for him to remain there. Arthur, my older son, has polio and neither his father nor I believes that his treatment should be interrupted.”

He nodded. “How unfortunate for you, Professor Treat. For all of you,” he added.

“That’s very kind of you.” She poured the coffee into the new cup Rogers had left, and added milk from another little jug.

“I do not mean to pry, but I have seen a number of Americans—not all academics—in similar circumstances,” he said. “I take it your husband does not teach.”

“Most of his work is research, but he does have grad students; he is a soil chemist taking part in a governmental series of experiments; the project is in its fourth year. Had I remained with him, he would most likely have had to leave his job, and might not find work easily.” She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “I’ve scheduled a call to him this evening.”

“Very good,” he approved.

She picked up her cup and sipped. “I want to give him some encouragement,” she said before she could stop herself.

“About the book? You may certainly tell him that it is under consideration, and that you will have a response by mid-February if all goes well,” he said to her. “The Editorial Board will meet just after the new year. I will send a copy to each of the members in a week.”

“That should relieve him,” she said, and wondered what form that relief might take.

“I cannot yet promise you a contract, for I haven’t read your manuscript—oh, yes, I do read what I publish—but your topic is intriguing. I, myself, have some knowledge of those times, and I’m inclined to believe that it is an area of study that has been neglected. Your work will receive close attention: believe this.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling less nervous with this revelation. “Any location or period in particular? that you have studied?”

“Praha—Prague—during Otakar the Great’s reign, and Padova in the decade before the Black Plague, among others,” he said. “Would you like to discuss these periods when I return to Paris, if you will still be here?”

“I would be delighted,” she said with enthusiasm. “How long will you be gone?”

“Ten to fourteen days, or that is presently my plan,” he said, and saw her face fall. “I’ll be in Amsterdam for a week; Eclipse Publishing Amsterdam is also getting new presses installed, and I expect to be there for the event; beyond that, I cannot anticipate how long I will need to remain with the various branches of my company. After Amsterdam, I have business in Venice, including a branch of Eclipse Publishing. I’ll be in Paris after that, and keep you abreast of any changes in my plans.” He watched her more closely than she knew, and saw the little moue of disappointment touch her mouth. “I will have to be in Paris for three weeks in November. Perhaps we might meet then?”

She restored her calm. “I’d like that very much.” Then she chuckled at her own confusion. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said, and took another, longer sip of milky coffee. “Be good enough to chalk it up to my American ways.”

“Hardly on the spot,” he said, and continued genially, “I’ve been to your country, you know, and have some understanding of American ways. I was there shortly before war broke out. I drove from Chicago to San Francisco. It’s quite a remarkable place.”

Mentally chastising herself, she said, “Which crossing did you use? Forty? Sixty-six?”

“Forty,” he answered.

“Then you haven’t seen the Gulf Coast,” she said.

“No, which is unfortunate,” he confessed, and, after a brief pause, remarked, “You will pardon me for saying it, but your accent does not seem to be of the American South. I would have supposed you came from Illinois, perhaps, or Michigan.”

“Neither. I was born in Colorado, but grew up in Madison, Wisconsin. My dad taught at the University of Wisconsin. I did my doctoral studies at Chicago, and taught at Wake Forest in North Carolina for two years. Someone in the southern academic grapevine recommended me to Tulane. I’ve been on the faculty there for nearly a decade.” She coughed once, afraid she might sob instead, and resolutely went on, “As a Coloradan, I have to know what you thought of the Rockies.”

“Even an old Transylvanian like me must be impressed with the Rockies, and the Pacific Ocean.”

“Transylvanian?”

“Romanian, if you like. In the east end of the central plateau of the Carpathian Mountains, to be more specific,” he said.

“The USSR holds that territory, don’t they?” she asked, then put her hand to her mouth, finally saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“For now, the Russians are in charge. The Hungarians have been several times before, and the Ottomans. The Romans gave the country its name, but the Daci were there before them, as were many others.” He met her eyes with his own steady gaze. “These things change, with time.”

“You’re an”—she tried to choose a more polite term, but could not—“exile?”

“For most of my life,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she responded. “No wonder you understand my situation.” As soon as she said it, she flushed with embarrassment. “I wish I could say something more comforting.”

“You need not,” he answered. “I’m used to it.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “Shall I let you know when I plan to arrive in Paris?”

She nodded. “If you would, please.”

“If you will provide an address to Rogers before you leave? Thank you.” He rose. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Professor Treat. I must thank you for coming to Eclipse Press before seeking out another publisher.” He saw the astonished look in her eyes. “Well, you have not been in Europe very long, so what should I think than that Eclipse was your first choice?” With a half-bow, he took a step away. “I am sorry, but I must leave. Do finish your coffee. Zoltan will drive you back to your hotel whenever you like.”

She watched him cross the entry-hall and vanish down a corridor on the far side of it. She sighed, trying to decide if she had succeeded or failed in this most perplexing interview. She wished she knew what to make of Grof Szent-Germain, and almost at once frowned as she strove to come up with a description she could offer to Harold when they spoke that evening. Twenty minutes later, as she left Eclipse Publishing, she had convinced herself that the less she said, the better it would be.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM BETTY-ANN PARKER IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, TO HER COUSIN, MOIRA FROST, IN PARIS, FRANCE, SENT AIR MAIL, DELIVERED THREE DAYS LATER.

October 19, 1949

Dear Cousin Moira,

Uncle Howard asked me to send you news of the family, so I’m doing it. He’s afraid his mail’s being opened, and he doesn’t want to expose you and Tim to any more trouble than you’re already in. We’ve heard that the CIA is after you. Uncle Howard told me to ask you again if you wanted to send Regina to him and Aunt Clarise. He’s worried about her schooling, you know, and says that he will be glad to act as her guardian as long as you and Tim are away. Uncle Howard says he’s still trying to find a lawyer who’ll take your case for something less than a ten-thousand-dollar fee. Who has ten thousand dollars they can spare? No luck so far, but he’s going to keep looking. He wants the family to kick in something to help you and your family out. It doesn’t seem fair that you have to stay in Europe just because you can’t get a good lawyer. If criminals can do it, you should be able to, shouldn’t you? It’s not like you robbed a bank.

The Thanksgiving’s going to be at Uncle Frederick’s this year, in Raleigh. He remarried last August as you should know, and he’s eager to have the family meet Alexis, get to know her. Mom tells me that she doesn’t know if we should attend, given the uproar there’s been about their marriage, Alexis being a Catholic and all. I think she’s being too fussy, but several of the family members share her feelings. Uncle Clay has already said he and Doreen can’t make it, and Uncle Frederick thinks this means that Uncle Clay doesn’t approve of his new wife. There’s an uproar in the making. I’ll tell you how it turns out.

I made the swim-team at last; I’ll be competing in the butterfly. They’re starting girls’ swim meets with some of the other high schools in the district, and I volunteered for them. They took me! Ward Springer High School has had a new pool built and they’re upgrading the main building and adding a real auditorium, which means for now, half our classes are in trailers. The new buildings should be ready by the time I graduate. Everyone says it’s worth it, but it feels strange to go to school in a trailer. I’m taking Math and English and American History and Home Economics and French. PE is swimming, of course. And there’s a study hall every day. Next year we get Science instead of American History. Principal Houghton is very excited about Science, saying it is the wave of the future, and half of the Board of Education agrees with him. In my junior year, we’ll have a choice of Biology or Chemistry.