Mendoza in Hollywood (9 page)

“Three hundred and nine,” I said. “But who’s this?”

The big man bowed. “Vasilii Vasilievitch Kalugin, mademoiselle, at your service. I am indebted to you for an excellent botanical survey of the Novy Albion region, though you may not recall the occasion—?”

I accessed hurriedly and suddenly placed the name. “In 1831.
You
were that operative up at Fort Ross?”

“The very same. My eternal thanks.” He took my hand and kissed it. The clothing was aristocratic Russian; but the accent was exquisitely Continental, as was hers now. She wore her servant’s calico with her customary grace and style, and believe me, they didn’t in the least look mismatched as a couple. Some of Kalugin’s bulk was his Russian coat, but he was genuinely a big guy, with sort of harsh sneering features in a round pink face framed by amazing muttonchop whiskers. His eyes were timid and kindly, though, and he couldn’t keep them turned from her for long.

“I’ll just go bring up the trunks, shall I, my love?” He squeezed her hand. “Your pardon, mademoiselle. I return directly. I daresay
you ladies have much to discuss, no?” He turned and bustled after the trunks like an anxious husband. Gosh, he was cute.

“Well!” I burst out laughing, and she just stood there looking happy. “When did
he
happen to you?”

“We’ve known each other since 1699,” she said. “It’s a long story.”

Sixteen ninety-nine? That was just before I’d been posted to California. “I’ll bet. And you’re really—? He’s really—? It’s love?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to watch him. “Oh, Mendy, it is.”

Mendy
. God, the years were rolling back. “So, like, are you married?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not as mortals marry, of course. We’ve exchanged certain vows of our own. Our work has parted us frequently, years at a time, on occasion. Fortunately the Company is understanding and arranges our work near each other whenever possible.”

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a marine salvage technician,” she said, and I nodded, because she was an art conservation specialist. I couldn’t think their jobs would overlap much.

“So he’s away at sea a lot? But what are you two doing here in California?”

“All those San Francisco millionaires are returning from Europe with art treasures for their mansions,” she said. “Half of them will be beggars within the next five years, and their collections will be blown to the four winds. I’m doing a preliminary survey before Beckman’s sent in. It should be easy to get domestic positions. I have several letters of recommendation from persons of the highest quality, all giving me an excellent character.” She smiled, narrowing her eyes. “As you are doubtless aware, although California is technically a Free State, it is inadvisable for a Negress to travel alone. Kalugin has been assigned duties in San Francisco, and dear Eucharia agreed to travel with us to lend
respectability
to our journey.”

Eucharia was stepping back from Porfirio and regarding him, hands on hips. “We’ll have a high old time tonight,” she said. “Got any tequila?”

“No, and no Southern Comfort, either,” replied Porfirio, and that set both of them roaring with laughter. I guess there was some history there. I hadn’t seen Porfirio smile like that in the whole time I’d been there, not a real smile like he was enjoying himself.

“But what of you?” Nancy took my hand. “Have you been happy?”

“Happy? I—well, of course. I’ve mostly worked alone, you know, back in the mountains. Remember how I wanted to come here after I graduated, how I made New World grains my specialty? Well, the Company finally noticed. Here I’ve been, years and years now.”

“I heard about what happened in England,” she said quietly, looking at my hand. “I was so sorry. I wrote to you.”

I shivered. “I was in therapy for a while. I probably never got your letter. Well, it was a long time ago, and I’m over it now. But thank you for writing.”

“Here we are!” Kalugin came puffing up the trail, a trunk under either arm. “Everything seems to have survived the journey, Nan. Will you do me the kindness of showing me where I can stow these, mademoiselle?”

“This way.” I gestured, and took one of the trunks from him and swung it up to my shoulder. He made a little dismayed sound but followed me to the adobe, where I led them down the long corridor to the guest room that was kept for visiting operatives. “Here you are. Don’t be scared of the cowhide bed, they’re actually very comfortable,” I said. “Dinner at 2000 hours, alfresco. The menu includes such authentic regional delicacies as grilled beef, frijoles, and tortillas, but I should warn you that a tortilla here bears no resemblance to the Spanish item of the same name.”

“Yes, I’ve discovered that.” Kalugin hastened to relieve me of the trunk. “Allow me, that really is too heavy for a lady.”

I could lift a horse, let alone a trunk, if I had to, like any cyborg; but how sweet of the man.

I left them alone to get the dust of the journey out of their teeth, and went to pace around in the oak trees for a while. Was I happy for my old friend? Yes, unquestionably; but I didn’t want to be reminded of being young, or of England, or of the mortal man who had died there so long ago. He was after me again, following me relentlessly from shadow to shadow through the trees.

Eucharia helped Porfirio prepare supper for the rest of us, but then the two of them disappeared into the night with pistols, a small box of ammunition, and a lot of aguardiente. Imarte was away on one of her sleepovers at the Bella Union, thankfully, and Oscar had trekked far afield on his quest for a buyer for the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe; so the company around the cookfire was fairly intimate that evening. Juan Bautista even brought out his guitar.

“But how charming,” Nancy said. “That was made in Old Spain, was it not? And by a master, to judge from the inlay work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Juan Bautista in a tiny voice. He’d fallen in love with her, desperately, of course. “One of the mortal travelers left it. Lucky chance, huh?”

“Can you play it?” I peered at him across the firelight. “I’ve never seen you actually play it, Juan.”

“Sure he can,” said Einar, putting another log on the fire. “I hear him practicing sometimes.”

“I play for Erich von Stroheim,” Juan Bautista said. When Nancy and Kalugin stared at him, he hastened to add: “My condor. Baby condor. I rescued him. It helps him get to sleep sometimes when he’s nervous.”

“Ah, of course,” Kalugin said with a nod of understanding. “Would you perhaps do us the honor of playing for us now?”

Juan Bautista hung his head and fiddled with the tuning pegs. “Sure,” he muttered. I braced myself, expecting him to clutch painfully at the frets in a beginner’s “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,”
but to my astonishment he went into a classic Segovia piece, and it flowed out on the night air smooth as coffee with cream. He kept on with beautiful classical stuff all evening, Rodrigo and de Falla and Five Jaguar, quiet and unobtrusive, the background to our talk.

“I have to know,” I said, leaning forward, “how the two of you met. It’s so rare, you know, for any of us to find . . .what you’ve found.”

“It was terribly romantic,” Kalugin said, smiling where he lay with his head in Nan’s lap. “I’d been in a shipwreck, and washed up on the coast of Morocco. She was all in silks and bangles, third wife to one of the sultan’s corsairs.”

Einar leaned his chin on his fist and grunted. “Our anthropologist will be disappointed she didn’t get a chance to talk with you.”

Nancy opened her reticule. “I’ll leave her one of my calling cards. It is, after all, the correct thing to do in these circumstances in polite society.”

“Calling cards,” I said. She nodded serenely and handed me a tiny square of pasteboard, embossed, beautifully engraved. I read:

“D’Araignée?” I asked.

“An artistic decision,” she said. “French for
spider
, you see. I have always retained the clearest memories of the folktales of my mortal parents. Indeed, I can scarcely recall anything else from my mortal life.”

I remembered the angry four-year-old girl that she’d been, telling me how the spider god of her tribe had deserted them, saving only her.

“Anansi,” she said. “The friend and helper of men, as I understand from my researches into the work of M. Griaule and Mr. Parrinder.”

I stared into the fire. The immortal operative who’d rescued the child must have named her for the word she repeated most often, thinking it sounded like Nancy. Had the little girl been calling on her god? Had she finally made her peace with him now, since she’d taken his name for her own? I’d never made peace with mine.

But how wonderful, what style she had, to what good use she’d put her anger.

“What’s Salon Algeria?” I asked.

“One of the Company safe houses in Paris,” she said. “I reside there when Dr. Zeus has no pressing errand on which to send me. And it’s useful, too; a certain segment of the artistic denizens on the Left Bank know that I am always interested in seeing canvases, and perhaps paying cash for them. Regretfully, members of the criminal class are also aware of this, and I’m afraid I have purchased stolen paintings on more than one occasion.” She shrugged. “One has the consolation of knowing that everything one purchases in this way will survive for the ages rather than burn in the political upheavals with which France is so frequently visited these days.”

I nodded. God, she even had a home.

“What were you doing in a shipwreck?” Juan Bautista raised his head and looked at Kalugin. “I thought we always know when a ship’s going to sink.”

“We do,” Kalugin told him ruefully. “But when history records that a ship’s going to disappear with all hands, young man, she becomes fair game for the Company. And when history records that she carries valuable cargo, the Company acts. Most people suppose a marine salvage technician is some sort of diver, and it’s true; but, you see, I don’t go down after the wreck. I go down
with
it.”

This extraordinary statement was followed by a distant salvo of gunfire, followed by wild laughter from somewhere up the canyon. Porfirio and Eucharia were apparently target shooting by infrared.

“Anyone can dive down to retrieve gold or jewels,” Kalugin explained. “They aren’t spoiled by a little seawater. But what about manuscripts, paintings, Stradivarius violins? You need someone there,
on the scene, someone with the knowledge of what’s to come, who can secure all those perishable treasures in sealed containers before the ship sinks. You need someone to ride the poor wreck to her final resting place, and transmit exact coordinates on her location to a Company salvage team. You need someone to stay with her on the bottom, lest she drift, lest she break up and any of those carefully sealed boxes float away. And you need someone there to guard her, in her grave, lest the chance fisherman or swimmer should find her before the Company team arrives.”

“You mean you stay in the wreck with all the dead guys?” Juan Bautista asked, horrified. His music faltered for a moment.

Kalugin nodded sadly.

“How can you stand that, man?” said Einar.

“I go into fugue,” said Kalugin. “I shut down. I respond only when there’s a threat to the ship. When the Company divers come, they pull me out, and I go bobbing up to the surface to breathe again. Wretched business, isn’t it? To do one’s work by impersonating a bloated corpse.” He gave a little embarrassed laugh. Nancy took his hand and kissed it.

“But living on board with those guys, knowing all the time that they’re doomed . . .” Einar shook his head.

Kalugin seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Well, it’s rather like what we all face every day, isn’t it? Every mortal who stops here is doomed, eventually. All our fellow passengers in the stagecoach, every one of them bound for the unknown. I just . . . try not to think about it.” He turned his face up to Nancy and smiled. “Fortunately, when not thinking becomes impossible—as it does—I have an angel to pray to.”

A silence fell. Juan Bautista had stopped playing. I suppose we were all sitting there with identical expressions of appalled sympathy on our faces.

A voice began to sing, somewhere up on the hill, a woman’s voice powerful and harsh, raw with emotion and alcohol, echoing in the night.

You hear no sound but my silenced voice.
You feel no beat but the fire that burns me.
You draw no breath but I come into you.
Before you, behind you, I am the sea and the rock.
I AM THE SEA AND THE ROCK!

Juan Baudsta lifted his head, recognizing the song, and so did I. It was by the twenty-first-century composer Whelan, from
The Unquiet Dead
, his Celtic reinterpretation of de Falla’s
El amor brujo
. Juan Bautista flexed his clenched hands and improvised on the melody, and as the flow of guitar music began again, we all drew breath.

That night in bed, I tried to occupy my mind with how much better off I was than poor Kalugin, but all I could do was envy him and Nancy their good fortune. Whereas I was alone on the shore, like the girl in the song waiting for my lover to return from the other side . . . And now here he came, from the east, out of the sea. From the east? What coast was I on?