Sustenance (32 page)

“I’ll pass your praise on to Lord Weldon, whenever he gets back from India.” Charis had risen from her carved pear-wood Oriental chair, and went to the newcomers. “I think there’re chairs enough. If not, Wash, would you bring one in from the dining room?”

“I’ll slide over, that’ll give room for one of you,” Mary Anne offered from her place on one of two gondola sofas at either end of the gorgeous Chinese carpet of muted lavender woven in a pattern of chrysanthemums edged in silver. Other Oriental chairs, some deeply carved, some far more simple, were set about the living room, most with occasional tables next to them. A large brass-topped coffee-table dominated the center of the room, standing on six mahogany legs, shining in the light cast by the elaborate chandelier depending from the center of the ceiling.

“You could have let us know you’d be late.” Julia Bjornson scowled at the Praegers. “We’ll have to start from the top,” she complained.

“I’ll be glad of that,” Bethune said at once, to quell the bristling around the room. “I’m still trying to compile my information, you know, keep everything up-to-date. I’m just finishing setting up my pages.” He was in his usual elegant clothes, a clip-board with a number of yellow sheets of lined paper on his knee, an expensive pen poised over them. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up with all of you.”

“What about Miranda?” Washington Young asked as he carried in a chair from the Empire dining suite. “Will she be here? It’s Tuesday—nothing much happens on Tuesday.”

“No, she won’t,” said Charis.

“Don’t tell me she has a date?” Julia Bjornson asked with a slight, derogatory laugh.

“No, she’s got a job,” said Charis, settling the Praegers on either side of Mary Anne. “She’s had an offer from the Turks, of all people.”

There was an astonished silence; finally McCall said, “The Turks. As in Turkey.”

“Yes,” Charis told them all.

“That was sudden, wasn’t it?” Julia Bjornson asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Charis. “She left as soon as she had a confirmation of the offer. She’s probably reached Istanbul by now.” She paused, expecting questions; when none came, she went on. “One of their archeological digs back at the eastern end of the country have turned up some clay tablets in a fairly good-sized city that may be astronomical charts—at least, that’s what the antiquities people there think, but they need an astronomer to confirm this. They want her to come and work it out for them. If the tablets are star charts, it will help date the site. Miranda said it was too good an offer to turn down, even if she weren’t floundering for work. They’ve provided a three-year study grant, an office, and a small staff. It came out of the blue. No pun intended,” she added, flushing a little.

“Astronomical archeology,” mused McCall.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Pomeroy advised.

“Still, not bad,” McCall approved for the rest of them.

“And Steve? Does anyone know where he is?” asked Axel.

“He’s gone to Switzerland for a short holiday; he called me on Saturday, just before he left,” said Bethune. “One of his former colleagues is going to be in Zurich for a week, and Steve wanted to see him. He’ll be back on Friday.”

Washington Young came from the dining room, an elegant chair in his hands, one of an Empire suite of dining table, sideboard, china cabinet, and ten chairs, all done in chestnut wood. “Where do you want this put?”

“Over there?” said Charis, waving her hand in the direction of the fireplace. “Any place the light is good. Next to the bronze floor-lamp. Thanks.”

Young did as he was asked, nodded to McCall, who occupied the chair next to it, and went back to his round-backed Oriental chair, sat down, and took out his hand-rolled cigarettes—unlike the ones at his apartment, these were filled with tobacco. He lit up and reached for his secretary’s notebook, where he kept his notes for
The Grimoire.

Axel Bjornson glanced over at Winston Pomeroy, and nodded toward the grandmother clock that occupied the corner between the dining-room door and the tall windows, at present covered by draperies of light-bronze velvet. “Isn’t it about time?”

“Where are the Frosts and the Kings? I know Happy is out of town, but the Frosts and the Kings are in town, aren’t they? Don’t they need this up-dating?” Mary Anne asked. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”

“I’ve already spoken with them,” Bethune said, “as part of a legal matter I’m handling for both couples; I realized I hadn’t enough information to manage the negotiation properly. That was true for all of you: I need to know more. I just thought it would be faster and more … useful to have a general meeting. There’s nothing I want to know that requires confidentiality, and I thought it might clear the air for … some of us.” He looked around and nodded once.

“Did you learn something at the Embassy?” Axel asked, trying not to sound too interested. “Is that what you’re asking about?”

“Are we being surveilled?” Young, who had been listening with his head down, now raised it enough to stick out his chin.

“Is the Grof going to be here?” McCall interjected his question with a predatory smirk.

“I would like it if he were,” said Bethune quickly, glancing at McCall, and making no attempt to conceal his annoyance.

“Possibly later,” said Charis. “This doesn’t impact him directly, but possibly indirectly. Eclipse Press has an interest in several of us, and it’s printing books we couldn’t place with a publisher back home. If there’s going to be trouble, he’ll want to know.”

“Or he may just want to spy,” said McCall.

“McCall, please,” said Bethune.

“If he comes later, he won’t be in on our discussion, which is all to the good,” said Pomeroy.

“Why?” Charis asked.

“In case McCall’s right, and the Grof’s watching us for some purpose other than publishing,” said Pomeroy, looking away from her. “Not that I want to think of him that way, but we need to be circumspect.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said Young.

“Please.” Bethune held up his hands. “Let’s get to this; we can argue when we’re done. For now, we need to confront all manner of private issues.”

“Shouldn’t we do it in private consultation with you?” Axel regarded Bethune sternly. “Doesn’t our speaking with everyone present end attorney-client confidentiality?”

“Since you are all in the same group, and are acting in concert, the Coven itself is my client, and confidentiality remains in effect,” Bethune explained. “Think of the group as a specialized union, and I am your counsel of record.”

“All the more reason for the Grof to stay away,” said Axel. “He isn’t one of us, and his presence could obviate our privacy. Do you think we can maintain our complaints and actions without exposing ourselves?”

“Do you mean that Szent-Germain could be called to testify about what he might witness tonight?” Bethune asked. “We may have to include him in the Coven.”

“But he’s not an American,” Jesse Praeger pointed out. “Wouldn’t that change the status of the Coven?”

“Perhaps, if that’s what troubles you, you may prefer to do this all by private appointment, but that could become divisive, and that wouldn’t serve any of us at all well,” Bethune told him. “If you don’t feel comfortable answering my questions, just say so and we’ll set up an appointment.”

Jesse Praeger looked over at Bethune. “Does this have anything to do with your visit to the Embassy last week? Or is it a coincidence? Are you working both sides of the street?” His posture was relaxed but his face was confrontational.

“The Embassy?” Julia echoed, her face distressed; she was fishing her crocheting from her large purse. “What is this nonsense about the Embassy?”

Bethune wondered if Praeger intended to rattle him; he expected more outrage from Julia. “As a matter of fact, it does. We’re getting some increasing pressure from the intelligence boys, and it’s not going to let up any time soon. We need to be prepared for more surveillance and invasions of privacy. We already know that our overseas phone calls are being tapped—well, that’s likely to increase. Since this interest could have importance to you, I thought it would be best if I could talk to all of you at once.”

Again the group went silent. Finally Pomeroy spoke up. “Can you tell us about it? Why did you go to the Embassy? Or is it all secret?”

“Some of it is secret, yes, and some of it is confidential. But there are a number of things we can and should discuss. I’ll be glad to explain as we go along. And I will explain anything you want to know as much as I can. But before I do, there are some things I need to know for my end of the legal system; I need to represent each of you according to your best interests as you see them, which means I need to clear up a few matters,” he said with his usual aplomb. “I’ll be able to handle things more efficaciously if I have a couple of answers. Since I was discussing the Frosts’ and the Kings’ case at the Embassy, I got the answers from the Kings and the Frosts when I reported to them after the meeting. Moira Frost suggested it might be a good idea to have this information from all of us. Boris King and Moira Frost are hoping to demonstrate that their dismissals were without basis, and therefore they should be restored to their positions and provided recompense for the time they have had to live here. Some of you may want to initiate similar actions if King and Frost succeed. In any case, I’ll speak to Happy and Steve when they get back, but for now, we can deal with it here, while we’re all together.” He took a moment to smooth the ends of his tie back inside his jacket, then went on. “I know how long you’ve all been here, so for those of you who have been away from the US for more than twelve months, I have to find out a few things.”

“I’ve been here eleven months,” said Mary Anne. “Do you want me to stick around?”

“That’s close enough for government work,” said Bethune with heavy sarcasm. “Sure. We’ll include you.”

“I’ll go make coffee while you get your answers,” Charis said, standing and starting toward the dining room and the kitchen beyond. “I’ve got a few things to eat as well; I’ll set them up for you. You don’t need me here: I haven’t been here long enough to participate.”

“Thank you,” said Julia as if she had been about to collapse of thirst, a sure sign she was nervous about the meeting.

“I’ll have everything in place in twenty minutes,” Charis promised, and went into the dining room, closing the door after her.

Bethune looked at the Bjornsons in their Victorian trifoil chair next to the fireplace; the third seat around the main column unoccupied except for Axel’s hat and Julia’s shawl. “Why don’t I start with you?”

Julia was ready to argue, but before she could, Axel said, “Fine,” and lit his pipe. “Ask away.”

Bethune nodded, becoming more business-like as he straightened up and prepared to write on his pad of paper. “Okay. Let’s refine this a little more. Please take time to think about your answer so I can have a sense of perspective about your position.” He looked around the room, taking stock of everyone. “Here goes: if your case could be resolved to your advantage within the next year, would you return to your home in the US?” He had labored to pare the question down to something concise but without bathos. Now he would find out if he had succeeded; he nodded to the Bjornsons, anticipating a well-reasoned response from Axel. “Why don’t we start with you?”

Axel started to speak, but was interrupted by Julia. “Of
course
we’d go home!” Julia exclaimed, dropping her crocheting; it lay like a small octopus at the foot of the trifoil chair. “Wouldn’t we,” she added when Axel remained silent. Gradually her face crumpled as she realized that her husband did not share her longing for home.

Axel drew on his pipe. “I’d want to, I suppose, yes, if the case were truly resolved advantageously, and I had my job back without conditions or limitations, but given the tenor of the times, I doubt such a thing could occur in a year. I’m beginning to think that we’ll need a decade to work all this out. There are too many politicians making political hay out of Red-baiting; that’s not going to stop any time soon. So long as Joseph McCarthy is in the Senate, Communists will be an issue—longer, if Hoover keeps on at the FBI. He’s blowing the whole question out of proportion, but it keeps his name before the public, and gives him a strong negotiating position with Congress. It’s helping his agency, this Communists-in-the-pantry stance, of course, but it’s also silencing a lot of leftist opinions.” He hesitated, then went on, “I sometimes wonder if there aren’t financial influences at work here, making the whole matter of Communism a device of the financial industry, in order to gain control of the commercial interests of the US. By discrediting socialism and Communism, they create an environment that makes it possible for capitalism to establish itself as the only acceptable choice for the country.”

This was the kind of discussion the Coven had regularly, and most of the members were glad to be on familiar ground. “He’s got a point,” said Young. “If you hanker to be rich, you’re going to want to keep a lot of folks poor.”

“I’d have to say I think you’re right, Wash, little as any of us would like that kind of exploitation. We need to think about how many compromises we might have to make for the chance to return to our former positions, if the hold of the major business interests becomes greater than it is now. The trouble is, a lot of politicians would jump in with both feet, given so much graft as that could create. It wouldn’t be good for the country, but I don’t know that there is much that can be done about it. The Republicans are doing all they can to buffalo Truman, and who knows if he’s up to the fight. I think that the big money institutions want the unions reined in permanently, and the government is more willing to put business interests ahead of social ones,” said Jesse Praeger, getting into lecture mode, and was about to go on, but Axel interrupted him.

“Maybe in five years, if Congress stops grandstanding about Communists, it might be possible to rebuild public confidence in unions, and progress, and liberals!”—he made a dismissive gesture punctuated with a snap of his fingers—“but as things are now, I’d reckon it will be a decade before we can safely go back, and maybe not even then.” He turned toward his indignant spouse. “That’s what it appears to be, Jul,” he said to her.