This Shared Dream (54 page)

“Babe? I wouldn’t have thought you were the fainting type.”

“I said, I didn’t faint! It’s these stupid shoes.”

“He says his name is Anderson? The Anderson from the party?”

“The very same. Bill is mainly German. I used to work with him a lot more, but when I went back to school they put me in Africa. I’m not sure that I’m the best person for the job, mainly because I know a lot more about European history and World War II. I’m part of a team, of course, but I’m not sure I’m doing Africa much good. And now that I’m missing that reception, not to mention looking so stupid in front of everybody—”

They were on the porch now; Daniel had practically hoisted her up the stairs and settled her in a chair as she chatted. The condensation on a tall glass of something cold sitting on the table next to her, shimmered in the streetlight. The front door was open a bit.

“Did you go in?”

“Nope. I walked over here with my drink. Nice evening for a stroll.”

“I assume there’s nothing alcoholic in that open drink.”

“Of course not.”

“Why is the front door open?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I waited. I knocked, and there was no answer, but Manfred came out and said hi. I called Brian, and he said you’d gone to a party and they were all at the apartment, packing—they’re still moving in?”

“We all hashed it over, and they decided that they still want to.”

“Well, Brian was surprised about the door, but said that they must have left the door unlocked and that I should lock it. I thought I’d finish my drink on your porch. It’s quite pleasant.”

“It’s odd that the door was unlocked. We’re trying to be more careful. Oh, shit—” She staggered to the railing and vomited into the garden. “Ugh.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then was sick again.

Daniel put his drink into her hand. “Rinse.”

She rinsed out her mouth and spit. “Wow. That’s strong.”

“Something you ate?”

She returned to her chair rather shakily and plopped into it. “No. I didn’t have time to eat anything. I only had a few sips of wine—” She frowned.

“What?”

“I wonder if someone put something in my drink.”

“Like who? Like what?”

“Like Wilhelm. He thoughtfully brought me the wine. Like what? I’m not sure. But I’ll tell you something interesting. He didn’t ask me the way to the house.”

“Major mistake.”

“Well, he did come to the party.”

“I only retract major.”

She took a deep breath. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a bath. Want to wait downstairs?”

Daniel stood at the foot of the stairs while she pulled herself up by the banister. “You seem kind of weak, honey. Holler if you need some help.”

“You wish, babe,” she said, over her shoulder.

*   *   *

When she got back downstairs, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, Daniel was reading one of her mother’s Chinese poetry books. He closed it and held it on his lap. “Elegant. And ancient. Huang Po is one of my favorites. Helps put things in perspective. Feeling better?”

“A little. A lot, actually. Wow. That’s never happened to me before. Very unpleasant.” She lay down on the couch. “So you just came by to visit?”

He looked slightly apologetic. “Yes and no. I have something to tell you.”

“What? That you work for some kind of black ops part of the government and know where my parents are?”

His hand went to his mouth. Astonishment filled his eyes, but his voice was mocking. “Jill! How did you know?”

“Well, let’s see.” She held up both hands and ticked off points with her fingers. “One, you showed up suspiciously quickly when the house was broken into.”

“Mistake.”

“Major.”

“Minor.”

“Major. Two, you know way too much about jazz.” He and Brian had talked jazz into the wee hours after the picnic.

He protested, “It’s my heritage.”

“Way too much. You’ve studied it in order to ingratiate yourself.”

“Ellington
was
my uncle. Brian wanted to know about Uncle Ed Ellington. And a lot of people know about—”

“Okay. I’ll give you that. But three, you act in ways that seem unprofessional for a police officer, but fine for a spy, because they have no morals.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t you of the opinion that your mother was—is—a spy?”

“She is not a spy. She works in intelligence, and she is saving the world.”

“That’s no excuse. Besides, I have plenty of morals.”

“I didn’t say that you have no morals.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I said that you act unprofessionally, for a police officer. It seems to me that they don’t generally start personal relationships with the people they’re helping. They especially don’t show up at their house all the time not dressed—”

“I’m dressed!” he objected. He grinned, and then he couldn’t stop laughing. “Jill, you sure can spin a tale! You’re amazing.”

“Not wearing their uniform.”
She frowned, crossed her arms, and stared at the ceiling. “Now you made me lose count.”

“Wait, Jill, wait.” He caught his breath. “I’m pulling your leg. I am not a spy. I do not report to Langley, then drive around D.C. in an out-of-date police car. I do have a confession to make, though. I find you attractive, and interesting, and I wandered over here to see if I could help with the moving process and further ingratiate myself. And make sure the arson team came by today; they should have sent me a report.”

“They were here. Excuse me if I get just a wee bit upset, but it seems to me as if there are a lot of people nosing around here, including you. And another thing: You knew about my mother’s school. A very major mistake. To mention it. You’re trying to throw me off the track.”

“I was … surprised,” he said. “Truly. That’s what opened all this up for me. Like—I don’t know—like those buried memories that seem to conveniently surface on the witness stand, I guess. I’m helping you—or rather, I want to. I’m on your side.”

“I’m not on a side.”

He sighed, sat cross-legged on the floor next to her, but not too close, and took her hand. She didn’t object. In fact, it was comforting. “Jill, I’m sorry. I know this must be disappointing.” He smiled, but quickly made his face serious again. “I’m really, really, not a spy. I’m not quite that glamorous. But I am a moderately smart guy, if I do say so myself, and I’m afraid you are on a side. It certainly seems that way. At least, there seem to be people on some
other
side who are hatching conspiracies, breaking into your house, tailing you, burning your house down, slipping you drugs, and things like that that you really oughtn’t ignore quite so strenuously. But—and excuse once again this untoward talking behind your back—but Brian says that you’re very good at ignoring things.”

She wanted to jump up and yell at him, but felt a bit weak, and she didn’t know what she’d say. “Then tell me what my side is. The side of good, I hope?”

He shoved aside the coffee table, stuffed a handy couch pillow under his head as he stretched out on the floor, crossed his arms, and looked at her appraisingly. “I would imagine, knowing you, and observing the other side’s criminal behavior, that you are probably on the side of good. Or, at least, law-abiding. But you tell me. What in the world is going on? I don’t want to scare you, but I’m pretty sure that Brian locked the door when he left. So let’s put it together. That guy slipped you a drug, and took few pains to hide it. I guess he’s never done it before because he overdosed you and you vomited it all up. Otherwise, you’d probably have forgotten the rest of the night. Just a blank. Someone came over in advance of your friend Wilhelm and made sure the door was open so if he couldn’t find your keys he could get in.”

“How do I know it wasn’t you?”

“It wasn’t, but you don’t know.”

She sighed. “I do know. He keeps trying to ask me out, and I keep avoiding him. Are you saying he gave me a date-rape drug?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure that rape was the object.”

“Well, look, he knew I’d be occupied all evening there. If he wanted to rob my house, why not have his cohorts come over while I was busy?”

“Maybe he wanted you here, so he could talk to you. So you could just show him what he was after. Those drugs erase volition. Do you know what they’re after?”

She was silent.

“If you want me to leave, just say so. No offense taken. I’d rather stay here until somebody gets back, but you can lock the door and I can sit on the front porch.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Okay. Then can I get you something to eat? To drink? Some hot tea and crackers?”

“Crackers, cheese, and wine. And water. And peppermint tea. It’s in the side cupboard. No drugs, please, or I’ll report you.”

*   *   *

“This spy stuff is hungry work,” she said, finishing off her snack. “Nice wine choice. You’ve been paying attention.”

“Thank you very much, but I got it out of your own pantry. Do you normally buy wines that you don’t like?”

“Don’t change the subject. Tell me what you’ve deduced about this grand overarching conspiracy.”

“It has something to do with Q.”

“I may fall asleep.”

“Let me jump forward a bit.”

“Do.”

“It seems that there are a lot of people—a new kind of people, I suppose, that walk from one time line, one gestalt, to the other.”

Jill set down her wineglass and looked at him. “Just like walking across the room.”

“Right.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Evidence.”

“What evidence?”

He looked at her with his head tilted. “Are you one of them?”

“If I were, why would I tell you? Or, for that matter, why would I not tell you?”

“You might not tell me if you were afraid that I might have you committed.”

“Oh. Right. So why would I tell you?”

“To increase the gestalt.”

“To what?”

“I have more to tell you, and it’s what I intended to tell you tonight, anyway. I’ll start with a little story about my dad. It’s about when he was in the war.”

“But—”

“Just listen. He was recruited to spy on the Nazis in Morocco. I grant you that this was unusual, but he’d had a high school year in Europe studying architecture. Arabelle had connections. She always pushed him, and got him that scholarship—chiefly, she said, to show him that elsewhere in the world, Negroes were treated like people. He spoke French and German. He’d learned them so that he could read novels and philosophy in the original. When he came back, he was an able draftsman, and got a drafting job in a local, prominent, open-minded architectural firm, and started school at Howard. Because of his language skills, his firm took him along to the high-profile parties and diplomatic dinners where they made connections and got jobs—they discovered he could sell the firm to foreigners pretty well. He met Dulles at one of these parties, and Dulles snapped him up. He was perfect for the OSS; they sent him to Istanbul and then Morocco.

“No one ever suspected he was a spy; he was just an African working the black market, not to make a pun or anything, tending bar, waiting tables, operating as a manservant so he could be in people’s rooms and go through their papers and pockets. In Casablanca he met a gypsy violinist. The violinist knew a woman named Eliani Hadntz. My dad heard the most amazing things about what she thought. Now, he was terrifically unuseful in Europe, being black and therefore always a bit too remarkable. But after Berlin fell, there were months of complete chaos, and he was right in there with his cigarettes, dollars, and diamonds—all OSS issue. And he was able to trace something that intelligence was calling the Hadntz Device.”

Jill felt weak. “And?”

“He traced it to Germany. To a small city called Gladbach, actually. He was there, ostensibly part of the French Underground that was allowed to retaliate against the Nazis. It was a thin cover, of course, but it was pretty chaotic then. He was there when a certain … event occurred. It was an event related to the Device. But then the Device went to Russia. And then the leads all went dead. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Your mother gave the plans to someone who sold it to the Russians.”

“They were our Allies.”

“Yes. They were.”

“Can you prove this?”

“No. Of course not. And my old man is as closemouthed as your parents apparently were. He returned, picked up his architecture career, but as you might know, and I know from being in law enforcement, one is never really free of the OSS, or the CIA. At some point, he was alerted about your mom being right here.”

“So—Truman was a baby spy?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I imagine that he was behind Truman coming here to school. I imagine he came to any gatherings. But by that time I think he’d sworn off all of that. He didn’t want to do it anymore. Happy family man and all of that. Then, with all the assassinations and riots, he might have become a little more serious.”

Jill asked, “He remembers? You remember? You know, I’ve wondered for years what happened to all the people from what I called Before. Now I know. They’re everywhere. Except that my therapist isn’t one. Or maybe she is. She’s a spy, like you.”

“Jill, I’m not a spy. I didn’t really remember until I saw that Monet. Mom is the one who told me all this about Dad, before she died. Not him. She told me never to tell him that I knew. I think she kind of wanted me to understand his … quirks. But I don’t think that she knew about the jump, the implications of what he’d told her. She just kept living along, like most everybody else, and was completely in this new reality. And I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure—till I came here. Just vague dreams, questions, that déjà vu feeling. When I saw that picture, I just suddenly made the connection. That’s all.”

Jill felt exceedingly dark, and grumpy too. “Now that your dad has been to the picnic and allowed to prowl all over the house, courtesy of me, what does he think?”

“I don’t know.”

Jill glared at him.

“Really, I don’t. He’s a philosophical man. Prone to long spells of quiet. I did ask him, believe me, when we got home. What he thought of the house, and all, and he said he was utterly delighted to have the chance to see such an architectural gem, with hardly anything ruined by uninformed renovations.”