Sustenance (21 page)

“Early music,” Szent-Germain mused. “Medieval or Renaissance?”

“Some of both,” said Rogers. “Ancient music.” He gave a solitary laugh. “Historic might be a more appropriate term. There was music well before you restored me to life, most of which is lost.” He resisted the urge to sigh. “I wish I could hear some of the songs from Nero’s reign, including some of his own. He came up with a few good songs before he angered the Senate. The one he wrote for the Legions was a fine march.”

“
Wherever the—
no, that’s not right, it’s
As far as any eagle flies, the might of Rome will go/From out of steaming Africa to Hyperboric snow,”
Szent-Germain sang quietly. “Is that the one you mean, with the octave jumps in the refrain?”

“That one, and
Jupiter, the Biggest and Best
,” said Rogers, surprised at how these memories stirred him.

“Oh, yes. But you need a hydrolic organ and a crowd of fifty thousand voices singing to do it justice,” Szent-Germain said with a touch of nostalgia. He ran one hand through his hair. “Best to get this trimmed tomorrow—after I see the press-men.”

“Is there anything you’d like me to do before then?” Rogers inquired, his demeanor as inscrutable as a cat’s.

“If you would, have Duracoprir draw me a warm bath, and, if you would, set out my black suit I bought in Chicago, and a black roll-top pullover. Foreign but not obviously so; not easily remembered.”

“Certainly. Should I plan to shave you, as well?”

Szent-Germain rubbed his chin. “Probably. I don’t want to scratch her. I should have had the barber tend to it before I left Paris, but time was short.”

“I’ll ask for the razor, and the lather-mug.” Rogers let himself smile as he went to the door and motioned to the servant in the loggia to come up. When the young man arrived, Rogers said, “Tell Duracoprir to draw a bath for the Conte, and fetch the razor, mug, and shaving basin.”

The young servant nodded twice. “Now?”

“Within fifteen minutes; they’ll be wanted in the Conte’s bathroom,” said Rogers, then stepped back into the reception room. “You’ve selected your clothes, and your bath is arranged. Is there anything else?”

“Keep the fires lit until two hundred hours, if you would,” he said, “and banked for heat after that.”

Rogers pretended to be shocked. “Feeling cold? You?” He answered his own question. “Or it is for the staff?”

“The staff, of course.” He sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll need to go to the press. Ogniosso has been fairly insistent that we discuss the problems with the press-men. He, being their foreman, is determined to address the issues as soon as possible.”

“They want raises now that the war is over and Italy is rebuilding?” Rogers said, accepting the change of subject without annoyance.

“Among other things. They want greater participation in the decisions about what we publish. And want to have a board or committee oversee our publishing program.” Szent-Germain made a gesture of helplessness. “Most of them don’t understand the books we publish and those who do don’t know why we bother, so that is unlikely to work out to anyone’s satisfaction if some changes aren’t made. They need something they can call theirs, or we’re apt to lose them.”

“Have you anything in mind?” Rogers asked, knowing it was expected of him.

“I thought perhaps a secondary line of books, more popular, would please them, something they could point to at a bookshop and give as presents. Nothing too slick or obviously commercial, but attractive and stylish. Perhaps a series of illustrated travel books that could be updated regularly, or perhaps something for children. Or both.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to see.”

“Most of the press-men are Communists, aren’t they,” said Rogers. “Will that be a problem?”

“Why should it be? If the Americans object to books typeset and printed by Communists, we needn’t sell our books there. Those Americans who want them can order them from England.” He got up. “Any word from the Coven?”

“Are you expecting something?” Rogers asked.

“Not specifically, no,” said Szent-Germain. “When I left, McCall told me he wants to talk with me when I get back, and would not tell me why, or about what. He’s a very suspicious fellow: many journalists are.”

“So I have discovered,” said Rogers, adjusting the placement of a small occasional-table so that all four legs were on the carpet.

“You’ve borne up under the load very well.” Szent-Germain began to pace. “What is most difficult is finding a way to work around those absurd restrictions that are regarded as protection from Marx and Lenin. The Americans are driving away many of those whose abilities they need. It’s more destructive than protective—all based on innuendo and gossip, and backed up by manipulation of the facts and invention if there are no facts.” He stopped moving, willing himself to be calm. “Or so it appears to me, and from a distance.”

“You’re satisfied that the Coven isn’t a secret Communist cell, then?” Rogers asked in a sardonic tone.

“How could it be? They aren’t well-enough organized or philosophically united to be Communists.”

“Then you are more specific in your aggravation.”

Szent-Germain nodded. “I am.”

“More trouble for Professor Treat?” Rogers guessed. “She has told you something that worries her?”

“It appears so,” Szent-Germain said. “Just before I left Paris, she said that she’d had an unpleasant telephone call from her husband, but was not inclined to go into details. I surmised it wasn’t about her older boy, but it distressed her, which leads me to suspect that there is still trouble about her political alliances. She apologized for intruding, but wanted to ask my opinion on her situation, yet could not bring herself to say what it is, precisely, which concerns me more than knowing whatever it is that troubles her. She talked around it—what the suspicions about her are. I gather it was tied to the reason she left New Orleans in the first place. She did tell me that the HUAC is after more academics, but did not want to go into that.”

“And what did you do?” Rogers asked, fairly certain he knew the answer.

“I listened.”

Rogers nodded. “And then you came here.”

“This journey, as you warned me, could not be postponed. I have work to do here. I gave her my Word that I would contact her as soon as I return, which should be in four days, and gave her the address of Eisley Butterthorn & Hawsmede and told her to contact them if there was any need of their services, and I sent a note to Hawsmede instructing him to bill any services she requires to me. That should help her achieve a better legal stance. At present, it’s the most I can do without causing her embarrassment.” He made a gesture of frustration. “Now I should go and soak. If you’ll come to my rooms in an hour or so, I should be ready to put myself in order for the evening.” He smoothed the front of his jacket, and glanced at Rogers. “You are so discreet, I am thrice-fortunate to have your help in these dealings.”

Rogers ducked his head. “Do you want to have my report tomorrow before or after you talk with your press-men?”

“Before, I think. Between eight and nine hundred hours. I want to be prepared for what I might encounter.” He left without more ado, his full attention now turned to his plans for the advancing night. He entered his private apartments a little later, aware that someone had been watching him; he had caught sight of Angelo Ruscel, the under-steward, out of the tail of his eye as he went down the corridor. This constant spying was wearing on him, and he had to stop himself from turning on the under-steward and demanding to know why Ruscel should be watching him, and for whom. A moment later, he changed his mind, and continued on toward his private apartments: it would do Szent-Germain little good to reveal his awareness of Ruscel’s activities, and would demonstrate that he was looking for watchers. He had a brief memory of his last conversation with Sidney Reilly in what was no longer Saint Petersburg in Russia: the master-spy had been surprised to discover that Szent-Germain had known of Reilly’s interest in him. Ruscel was much clumsier in his snooping than Reilly and his associates had been, which was little comfort to Szent-Germain.

His private apartments had a sitting room, a bedroom, a dressing room, and a bathroom, each lacking the elaborate decoration that marked most of the palazzo. Most obvious was the total lack of mirrors in any of the three rooms. The walls were painted a subdued green-blue with valences and frames of doors and windows done in dull gold. There were Oriental carpets in the sitting room that echoed the colors on the wall. Two floor-lamps and the small chandelier overhead provided light. Szent-Germain made his way across the room, patting the Turkish saddle-chair as he went. He poked his head into the bathroom and was pleased to see steam rising from a full tub. There was a towel and a bathrobe laid out on the bench along the wall, and a bar of Pear’s soap on a washcloth next to the tub. He took the bathrobe and left the bathroom, going toward the polished rosewood door that led into his Spartan bedroom. Ten minutes later, he was undressed and soaking in the hot water, the bathrobe on the broad rim of the tub. There was more of his native earth under the bath, and that provided more comfort than the very warm water that lapped around him. He picked up the soap and washcloth and set to work ridding himself of the grime of travel.

As he had done for all his undead years, he avoided looking at the wide swath of scars that covered his torso from his ribs to his pubis, grim reminders of his execution by disemboweling. He recalled the horrified stare Rakhel had given when she had seen them, and how studiously she had avoided his company after that. Olivia had not been appalled when she had finally convinced him to show her what had been done to him, but she was distressed by the sight of them, and did not hesitate to tell him so. He could not blame anyone for being upset by them, but when the sight led to distraint, it doubled his loneliness. Despite his determination, he could not entirely shut out his disquieting speculations; his litany of anguish continued while he strove to shift his attention, but with little success. What would Hyacinthie have made of them, or Avasa Dani or Ranegonda? Madelaine had not seen them until after her death, and she had been riven with sympathy for so arduous an ending to a life. He tried to shut these memories from his mind, but they persisted in scraps and pieces, all of which left him in a somber mood as he rose from the water and wrapped himself in the towel, drying himself briskly before donning the bathrobe to wait for Rogers to come and shave him. Some five minutes later, Rogers arrived, during which time Szent-Germain managed to gather his thoughts and turn them in a more productive direction.

“I apologize for my state of mind,” he told Rogers while Rogers stropped the razor.

Rogers tested the blade and set it aside as he took the brush and mug. “Not necessary. You always become a bit saturnine when you go long periods without taking sustenance,” he said, knowing that Szent-Germain had gone more than six weeks without finding nourishment.

“I thank you for your understanding, old friend,” Szent-Germain said before Rogers slathered his jaw, upper lip, and cheeks with soapsuds.

“Don’t spend the evening chiding yourself for your nature; you taught me that after you restored me to life; consider it a lesson for yourself,” Rogers said as he set to work with the razor.

Szent-Germain chuckled as the shaving began. By the time Rogers finished with him, it was past twenty hundred hours, and Szent-Germain set about dressing, vaguely aware of the sound of Rogers’ radio-concert from Padova. He took a little time to listen, aware that one of the pieces was being played much too fast and that the braisel was not in the right rhythm. As he tugged his roll-top pullover on, he checked it carefully with his fingers, making sure the roll-top was properly flat on his neck, and that the garment was smoothed on his chest and back. He adjusted the cuffs, pleased that he could see what he was doing on the arms; even after more than thirty centuries of coping with his lack of reflection, he still found it awkward to deal with his limited vision. When he was fully dressed, he chose his shoes—a pair made for him in Firenze of black deerskin leather, with thick soles—liking the flexibility of the pair, and how quietly he could walk in them. As he tightened the laces, he realized that his native earth in the soles had been very recently replaced; the surge of energy this provided him also lessened the gloom that had threatened to engulf him earlier. He found that he was anticipating the coming night with pleasure. “Good riddance,” he murmured to himself, and let himself out of his sitting room into the corridor. A minute later he descended to the loggia; he was feeling ready for his night-time venture.

“I have your overcoat,” Rogers said as he came out of the vestibule to the side of the loggia. “Do you want a hat, as well?”

Szent-Germain gave this a brief moment of thought. “I suppose it would be wise. Most everyone out tonight will probably be wearing one.” He was offered a knit watch-cap, which, after a brief hesitation, he took. “I’m going to go to Eclipse Trading Company before I seek out Evangelista’s hotel. I have my keys.”

“You’d better take mine,” Rogers said, taking a crowded ring with a great many keys depending from it out of his trouser-pocket and removing the one with the blue dot on its bow. “You’ll need it—they’ve changed the locks.”

“Of course they have,” said Szent-Germain, his voice world-weary. He took the key and slipped it into his coat-pocket. “Not a good sign.”

“No, but we can discuss what you find in the morning.” Rogers went to open the door that fronted on Campo San Luca. “When do you expect to return?”

“Before five hundred hours. The city becomes active soon after that hour, and I will want to be here before someone discovers I’m out.” From the edge of the loggia facing San Luca, he looked around the campo, taking note of the few people about, nodded, and slipped out; he heard Rogers close the door behind him. It was a brisk ten-minute walk to Eclipse Trading, and included crossing the Rialto Bridge. He passed the rivi where Basilio Cuor had tried to kill him, all those years ago, and went along the flank of the Gambero di Mare, a fishermen’s tavern where there was a rowdy night under way. Finally he took a turn down a narrow alley, and at its end were the offices and warehouse of the Eclipse Trading Company. He approached the door, bringing the key out of his pocket, and opened the door. His excellent night vision did not need the lights on to see as well as most persons would do on a cloudy day. He saw the furniture had been rearranged, and there was a new safe in the far corner of the front room. It was a new acquisition, for when Szent-Germain had visited the office on his last short stay in Venezia, there had been no safe. A line of filing cabinets stood against the west wall, at right angles to the safe. If only there were someone like John Henry Broadribb to assist him now, as Broadribb had done eighty years ago. He approached the filing cabinets and noticed they were locked. Much as Szent-Germain was tempted to break them, he realized that would give away his presence in the morning, and he had no wish to do that. He went to inspect the two desks that faced the front door, hoping to find a scrap of paper he could examine. With an impatient, whispered oath, he left the front office for the one to the rear, where the factor and his secretary worked, but this turned out to be as frustrating as the front office had been; the secretary’s desk was distinguished by a typewriter and a box of twenty-pound bond paper. He tried the drawers on the factor’s desk, and to his surprise, the center one opened, revealing a vast number of paper clips, a stapler and a box of staples, a stack of envelopes—one of which he removed—and two expensive fountain-pens along with an inkwell.