Tempting Fate (51 page)

“You have nothing to say about it, my dear,” she cut in, motioning him to hold his tongue as Frau Bürste brought in a tureen of Leberknödelsuppe.

They spoke of pleasantries and trivialities over their seemingly interminable meal, and all the while Maximillian’s eyes bored into his sister with fury and contempt.

Text of a letter from Helmut Rauch to Wilhelm Ludwig Unzeitgemäss of the Bayerisch Kreditkörperschaft.

Rahm Hotel

Wotanstrasse, Nymphenburg

June 3, 1924

Herr Wilhelm Ludwig Unzeitgemäss

Bayerisch Kreditkörperschaft

9 Kriegskönigstrasse

München, Bayern

Herr Unzeitgemäss:

I have in hand your notice of my termination of employment at BKK. You state that this is not an easily-made decision, and that you fully appreciate all that I did for the BKK during the monetary crisis of last year. You further inform me that your reservations about my various political activities must be included in any and all comments given to other prospective employers I approach. In other words, Herr Unzeitgemäss, you are prohibiting me from finding work anywhere in this or any other city in Deutschland at the present time. You state that you believe that my political involvements, while nominally a matter of personal choice, in this case are potentially embarrassing to the BKK and its depositors.

Fine words for one who last year asked that those who stayed on at the BKK work for nothing until the mark was stabilized. You seem to have forgotten that I was one of six who agreed to this, and spent many hours of my own time attempting to salvage as much as was possible in that terrible time. I was not one of those who left the BKK instead of keeping at my work. It is my political philosophy which you now find so repugnant that prompted me to support you and the BKK through that time because I have a fervent faith in Deutschland and the future which we must act now to make ours. From what your unspeakably offensive letter says, you do not share my convictions. Yet you defend your colleague Harnisch for voicing his opinions, which I find disgusting.

The time will come, I warn you now, when those of you in high positions will be exposed for the swine you are, when your treason will be clear to the most innocent of our people, and at that time you will bitterly regret your action this day. You despise the NSDAP, and say that those who belong to it are lunatics and rabble. There are thousands of lunatics and rabble in this country, then, for the membership of the NSDAP is growing daily, and we will be the path to the future of our Vaterland. When this happens, you will suffer for what you do now. This is not an idle threat, Mein Herr Unzeitgemäss; it is a sacred vow.

Wholly sincerely,

Helmut Rauch

2

Paris was stifling: summer Held it in a hot, moist grip that reduced everyone in it to stillness at midday. Under the trees of the great boulevards those few hardy souls who cared to venture out would pause to stand and wipe their glistening faces, looking like melting wax sculptures.

On the quiet Rue Jelentaire most of the fashionable, small houses were quiet. Only Number 16, near the corner, showed some signs of activity inside. It was a narrow house, two stories tall with a trellis over the walkway to the door. Wisteria grew up and over the wooden posts that supported it, and in the spring the scent filled the air. Today all the plants were limp, and even the small fountain beside the entrance ran flaccidly into the lotus-shaped bowl that supported it.

“What ghastly weather,” Madelaine de Montalia remarked to Irina Ohchenov as she dropped down on the sofa in the living room. Most of the furniture, which was the best Louis XV and XVI, clashed oddly with the Art Nouveau decor of the building, but Madelaine did not seem to mind. She opened the neck of her blouse another two buttons and lifted her coffee-brown hair in her hands. “Why did I come back from Greece, if the weather is to continue this way?”

“Perhaps because you thought the politics would get hotter,” Irina said with sad laughter. “You’re wise to stay away.”

“Probably,” Madelaine agreed. “Saint-Germain would agree with you,” she added after a moment.

“Saint-Germain?” She considered. “Oh, you mean Count Franchot Ragoczy.”

“And Balletti and Weldon and all the others.” Madelaine chuckled. “I’m glad he sent you to me, although,” she went on after a moment in a more serious tone, “I have yet to think of what more to do with you.”

“Do with me? Are you planning to dismiss me?” In spite of herself, there was fear in her voice. She had finally achieved some little of what she wanted in her life, and now it was again in danger.

“Of course not. You may translate for me until you are old and gray, and I will be delighted. But is that all you want in your life, Irina? Don’t you miss what you had before? I know I do, and I have not lost a husband and children.” She turned on the sofa and opened one of the windows. “It makes no difference, but I wish to believe it does. If there were a breeze—”

“What have you lost?” Irina interrupted her, and then stared at Madelaine, shocked to have spoken to her in such a way.

“It’s rather complicated,” Madelaine said without any resentment. “Saint-Germain might be able to explain it to you better than I can.” She touched her brow where no moisture lingered, and sighed. “We ought to do some work today, oughtn’t we?”

“If you like,” Irina said quietly. “I did not mean to upset you, Madelaine. I should not have—”

“Don’t be silly, Irina,” Madelaine interrupted her with fond laughter. “You’re entitled to your questions. As I’m entitled not to answer them. In this case, it is only because I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You needn’t tell me anything,” Irina said at once in an effort to be rid of her own embarrassment.

“That’s not the point.” She closed her eyes, one hand to her brow. “I can’t express it. No matter.” With a sudden graceful movement she sat up. “Lolling about doesn’t finish projects, does it? I have those photographs of tablets I mentioned to you, and we should go over each of them. I’ve made rough translations, but there’s much that I can’t make any sense of, and I haven’t any idea how the tablets relate, or
if
they relate.”

Irina rose from where she had reclined on a small chaise. “We’ll see what we can piece together by the end of the day. One or two connections might make all the difference. It worked that way before,” She followed Madelaine out of the room toward the back of the house, where a sizable lumber room had been converted into Madelaine’s study.

“You know, I do like this house. I’m glad I bought it.” She had also lined the cellar floor with earth from Montalia; it made the place quite restful. “I will ask Sophie to stay on and look after the place next time I’m gone on a dig.”

“She’ll probably be more than willing.” Irina had noticed the admiration Sophie had for her employer on more than one occasion.

“I hope so. Where did I put those photographs?” This last was addressed to the air, and she began to pull open file drawers almost at random. “When I returned I was so exhausted, I put them away until I could catalog and file them properly, and you see what’s come of that.”

“Shall I help you?” Irina offered, going to the second file cabinet.

“No, no, just give me a little time…” She pulled out two more file folders, gave their contents a quick glance, and cast them aside. “It’s better this way, actually. Before, everything had to be sketched carefully, and all texts copied, and that led to chaos. Quite often it was impossible to tell if a mark was meant to be part of the inscription, or a crack in the tablet, or simply a place where the pencil slipped. Not that photographs are infallible, but they’re clearer, most of the time.” She had examined another seven file folders, each of which she dropped onto her desk. Finally she pulled one from the drawer, opened it, and held it up victoriously. “Here it is, Irina. I
knew
it was in this drawer. Now,” she said as she opened the folder. “There are thirty-six of these, as you can see. The writing is Greek, but a fairly early version of it. Some of these tablets look like lists, but I can’t be sure. There are numbers that make it seem more like a list than not, and I may be allowing myself to be persuaded.” She went to a long worktable and began to set the photographs out on it. “I want to see first if there is any overall pattern or development to the tablets, and then I want to review my notes on translation. I made most of my studies on the boat and then on the train, and both those modes of transportation, as you know, are distracting. Particularly boats,” she added with feeling.

Irina looked down at the photographs, studying them closely. At first this aspect of her work had not been more than superficially interesting to her, but now that she had spent some time with Madelaine, she was beginning to understand the young woman’s fascination with these relics of the ancient past. She picked up one of the photographs and stared at it. The Greek was indeed quite archaic, which added to the challenge. “I make out the word ‘bird’ here,” she remarked.

“Where? Oh, yes. And there’s something about sheep or wool, but I don’t quite know how to make sense of it.” Madelaine lifted one of the photographs. “There’s something on this one about young women and boys. I think they must have been slaves because it is said that they’re being traded or purchased. I can’t get over the feeling that these, instead of philosophical dialogues or mathematical comments, are merchants’ receipts.” She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. “Well, in future, the archeologists who dig up Paris may find as many guides to the city for tourists as great works of literature. And the merchants were as important to the development of Greece as her philosophers,”

“Shall I keep notes, or would you rather we organize this first?” Irina had not been paying a great deal of attention to what Madelaine was saying.

“Yes, please do. It’s a bit awkward at first, but it does make the task easier.” She lifted four of the photographs and handed them to Irina. “These all seem to be of a similar sort. What do you think?”

Irina took the photographs and perused them. “Yes, there is a strong similarity. I think I’ll see if there are others like them.” She went to the desk and picked up one of the notebooks lying on it. “May I use this one for notes?”

“Certainly,” Madelaine said without turning, and then glanced around. “Wait a moment. Is anything written in it?”

“I don’t … no, wait. There are some … gracious!” she exclaimed as she read one or two lines of the poetry at the back of the notebook. The hand was not one she recognized, and most of the poems were in English, but one or two were in French, and more than adequate to indicate the tenor of the collection. “A suitor?”

“Not precisely,” Madelaine said elusively. “We meet now and again.”

“And he writes these poems to you?” Irina had closed the notebook at once, but a few of the phrases she had glanced at remained fixed in her thoughts. The man, whoever he was, loved Madelaine with a physical passion that bordered on idolatry. Irina was both slightly scandalized and envious. She thought of the nights she had spent in Ragoczy’s embrace, amazed at the immediacy of her recollections.

“Yes. He writes them, and late at night, when we’re alone, he reads them to me.” She looked at Irina. “I don’t mean to distress you. I’ve assumed that you’re aware I am not a nun.”

“That did not cross my mind,” Irina said, not entirely truthfully.

“And my … tastes are diverse,” Madelaine added with a twinkling smile. “This young man … I don’t know what there is about him. It’s not his poetry, if that’s what you’re wondering. There’s more to it. Such deep currents do not always run between lovers, but when they do…” She broke off a little ruefully. “I shouldn’t be saying these things to you. It must be the heat that has loosened my tongue.”

Irina did not say anything for a moment, and then she put the notebook back on the desk before asking, “What about those, on that shelf?”

“They’re all new. Go ahead and use one. There are pencils in the top-right drawer of the desk.”

A few minutes later Irina had gathered her supplies and had set about the task of attempting to classify the sorts of tablets shown in the photographs. Madelaine stood on the other side of the table, a pen in her hand, scribbling recognizable phrases and copying the measurements of the individual tablets from her field notebook.

More than an hour had gone by in this way when there was the sound of a knocking at the front door. Madelaine looked up. “Who? What time is it?”

Irina blinked with her interrupted concentration. “Is there…”

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“There certainly is,” Madelaine said. “Were you expecting anyone? I don’t think I was.”

“Of course not. I would not arrange to meet my few associates here,” Irina said with dignity.

“Why not? I would not mind it. You are a superior worker and you always show fine results. I don’t mind if you reward yourself for this with a guest or two for afternoon coffee.” She had put her notebooks aside and begun to button her open blouse. “I hope whoever it is doesn’t leave just as I come to the door,” she said as she hurried out of the room.

The sound was more determined as Madelaine went down the hall. She ran her fingers through her tousled hair, which did not improve it a great deal. It occurred to her again, as it had occurred to her once or twice in the past, that she would do well to cut her long, heavy hair. She thought, as she reached for the doorknob, that she looked like one of those pre-Raphaelite women, with hair floating around their faces in a cloud.

The man was standing in shadow with light behind him, and Madelaine did not recognize him immediately. “Your pardon, Monsieur…?”

“Madelaine,” said a voice she knew, reproachfully.

“Colonel Timbres!” She pulled the door wide and beamed at him. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you.”

“Not Colonel any longer, my dear. I am Monsieur Timbres now.” Her enthusiasm now offset his first impression of their meeting. He stepped into the house and took her hand, carrying it to his lips. “I heard from one of my army associates that you were in Paris, and I could not resist the thought of seeing you again.”