Winds of War (89 page)

But the men were all standing. Victor Henry walked around the table for handshakes, and came last to Palmer Kirby. “Hello,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Sure has. Too long.”

Only Rhoda knew the scientist well enough to note that his smile was awkward and artificial. At this moment, which she had been dreading for a couple of weeks, Rhoda had a surprising sensation - pleasure and pride that two such men loved her. She felt no trace of guilt as her lover clasped hands with her husband of twenty-five years. Kirby was more than a head taller than Captain Henry, and in the columnar black and white of full dress he was a magnificent fellow. Yet Pug was impressive too: erect, short, thickset, his tired eyes in deep sockets very shrewd and alive, his whole bearing charged with energy – her own husband, just back from the White House. Rhoda felt lucky, beautiful, desired, pleasantly confused, and quite safe. It was actually one of the nicest moments in her life, and it went off like a dream. Pug took his seat and began eating shrimp cocktail.

“Say, it’s a bit late for this,” he remarked to Kirby, “but I sure want to thank you for driving Rhoda up from New York last summer to see Byron at sub school. That was a long way.”

Kirby spread his big hands. “Why, it was great to get a look at a submarine base. Your friend Captain Tully really gave us the ten-dollar tour.”

“Red Tully is 4.0,” Pug said. “I sort of suspect he nudged Byron through that school. However, I’ve asked no questions.”

It was exciting as a play for Rhoda, that the two men were actually talking straight off about that fateful trip. She said gaily, “Oh, Pug, you’re always selling poor Briny short. Red told us he was the champion of his class in the training tank. Caught on to the lung right away, and did his escape perfectly the first time cool as a fish. Why, when we were there they had him instructing in the tank.”

“That’s self-preservation, not work. Briny’s always been good at that.”

“That’s a talent, too,” said Pamela Tudsbury.

Pug looked at her with a trace of special warmth. “Well, Pamela, one can’t get far without it, that’s true. But it’s the talent of a turtle.”

“Honestly! Did you ever?” Rhoda said to Lord Burne-Wilke. “What a father.”

Mrs. Lacouture uttered a little shriek. The old steward was offering soup to Lord Burne-Wilke, and distracted by the Englishman’s medals, he was tilting the tray. The open soup tureen went slipping toward Rhoda, and her silver dress was seconds away from ruin. But as the tureen came sliding off the tray, Rhoda, who had a watchful eye for servants, plucked it out of the air, and with the quick controlled movements of a cat in trouble, set it on the table, not spilling a drop.

Pug called out over the gasps and laughter, “Well done.”

“Self-preservation runs in the family,” Rhoda said. Amid louder laughter, Alistair Tudsbury started a round of applause.

“By God! Never have I seen anything so neat,” exclaimed Senator Lacouture.

Everybody had a joke or a compliment for Rhoda. She became exhilarated. Rhoda loved to entertain. She had the ability to nail down details beforehand, and then breeze airily through the evening. Rhoda told stories of mishaps at dinner parties in Berlin, and began to reminisce with sharp satire about the Nazis. Forgotten was her former friendliness to the Germans; she was now the Bundles for Britain lady, partisan to the core. Palmer Kirby, getting over his stiffness in Pug’s presence, threw in his experiences at a Nuremberg Parteitag. Pug offered an account of the slide at Abendruh, making the women giggle. Then Lord Burne-Wilke gave jocular anecdotes about the arrogance of captured Luftwaffe pilots.

Senator Lacouture interrupted him. “Lord Burne-Wilke, were you people ever really in trouble last year?”

“Oh, rather.” The air commodore told of the dwindling of planes and pilots through July and August, of the week in September when the count of pilots fell below the survival minimum, of the desperate pessimism in the RAF all through October, with London burning, civilians dying in large numbers, no night fighters available, and the Luftwaffe still coming on and on, setting fire to residential districts and bombing and spreading the fires, trying to break the city’s spirit.

Lacouture probed with more questions, his pink face growing sober. The RAF, the air commodore said, was anticipating a new, larger onslaught in the spring and summer. The submarine sinkings, at their present rate, might ground the British planes for lack of fuel. An invasion would then be in the cards. “Mind you, we hope to weather all this,” he said, “but this time, Hitler may have the wherewithal. He’s expanded his armed forces massively. We haven’t been idle either. But unfortunately a lot of our stuff is ending up these days at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

Lacouture’s fingers were rolling little balls of bread. He looked straight at the air commodore. “Well,” he said, “nobody’s comparing the British and the Nazis as people, as civilizations. You people have been fine, and I’ll tell you, possibly we should be hearing a bit more of this stuff up on the hill.”

Lord Burne-Wilke, with a humble little bow that made the party laugh, said, “I’m available.”

While the others had dessert, Victor Henry changed into his dress uniform. The guests were wrapping up to brave the snow when he rejoined them. He helped Pamela Tudsbury into her coat, scenting perfume that stirred his memory.

She said over her shoulder, “There’s news of Ted.”

For a moment Victor Henry didn’t understand. On the
Bremen
she had slipped across the joke about Hitler in just that swift quiet way. “Oh? Really? Good or bad?”

“Won’t you telephone me?”

“Yes.”

“Do. Please do. Do.”

The party separated into three cars, with Pug driving the British guests. He said to the air commodore, as they stopped on Massachusetts Avenue at a red light that made a cherry-colored halo in the falling snow, “You scored some points with Senator Lacouture.”

“Words over wine,” said the air commodore, shrugging.

* * *

“Well! Nobody’s seen Constitution Hall looking like this before,” Rhoda said, “or ever will again, maybe. It’s fantastic.”

Every seat was filled. All the men in the orchestra, and many up the long side slopes wore full dress suits or gold-crusted military uniforms. The women made a sea of uncovered skin, bright colors, and winking gems. Great American and British flags draped the stage. Rhoda had taken for herself two boxes nearest to the President’s. The Lacoutures with Janice, the air commodore, and Alistair Tudsbury were ensconced in the choicer one, and she and Pamela sat at the rail in the other, with Pug and Kirby behind them, and Madeline in the rear.

A commotion arose in the aisle behind them among police guards and latecomers. A murmur washed across the auditorium, and the Vice President and his wife stepped into the presidential box, into a blue-white spotlight. The audience stood and applauded. Henry Wallace responded with a self-conscious smile and a brief wave. He looked like an intelligent farmer, unhappily wearing full dress for some anniversary. The orchestra struck up “The Star Spangled Banner,” and then “God Save the King.” The British anthem, with the nearness of Pamela Tudsbury’s bare white shoulders, awakened the London days and nights in Victor Henry’s mind. As the audience settled in its seats and the violins began the slow introduction of a Haydn symphony, Pug’s thoughts wandered through the blitz, the bombing run over Berlin, the German capital showing yellow in the night under the flare of the exploding gas, Pamela flinging herself at him as he came into his apartment. The music broke into a dancing allegro and brought him back to the present. Pug studied the profile of his wife, sitting in her usual concertgoing pose - back straight, hands folded in lap, head tilted to suggest attentive pleasure. He thought how charming she could be and how splendidly she had carried off the dinner. A wisp of guilt touched him for the affection he felt for Pamela Tudsbury. Victor Henry was inexpert at self-excuse, having done too few things in his life of which he disapproved.

Rhoda herself couldn’t have been more at ease. The music of Haydn delighted her. She loved being highly visible in her new silver dress in a box so near the Vice President. She was pleased that the concert was a sellout. She looked forward to the supper-dance afterward. All this splendid fun was actually work in the noblest of causes, and her name stood high on the committee list. How could things be better? Only Palmer Kirby’s news that he was going to England troubled her a bit. She meant to ask him more questions about
that
.

No doubt Dr. Kirby had his thoughts, and Pamela hers. The two intruders on the long marriage, with the husband and wife, looked much like dozens of other foursomes in boxes along both sides of the cavernous hall: attractive people, elegantly clad, calmly listening to music. Kirby was sitting behind Rhoda, Pug in back of Pamela Tudsbury. A stranger might have guessed that the tall people were one pair, the short ones another, except that the smaller woman seemed young for the naval officer with the weathered face and heavy eyebrows.

During the intermission crush, Victor Henry and Dr. Kirby were left together by the ladies in an overheated lobby foul with smoke. Pug said, “How’s for a breath of air? Looks like the snow’s stopped.”

“You’re on.”

Chauffeurs were stamping by their limousines on the fresh snow. It was bitter cold. A few young music lovers from the rearmost seats, in sweaters and parkas, chatted with smoking breaths on the slushy steps of the hall.

Pug said, “Anything very new on uranium?”

The scientist looked at him with head aslant. “What’s uranium?”

“Are you that far along?” Pug grinned.

Kirby slowly shook his head making a discouraged mouth.

“Are the Germans going to beat us to it?”

The answer was a shrug.

“As you know, I’m in War Plans,” Victor Henry said curtly. “I’m pushing you on this because we ought to have the dope, and we can’t get it. If this other thing is really in the works, maybe we’re just playing tic-tac-toe in our shop.”

Kirby stuffed his pipe and lit it. “You’re not playing tic-tac-toe. It’s not that close. Not on our side.”

“Could we be doing more about it?”

“One hell of a lot more. I’m going to England on this. They’re apparently far ahead of us.”

“They’ve been ahead on other things,” Pug said. “That’s something nobody mentions in this brainless Lend-Lease dogfight. We have to be goddamned glad we’ve got British scientists on our side, and we better break our necks to keep them there.”

“I tend to agree. But we’re ahead of them in many things too.” Kirby puffed his pipe, squinting at Pug. “Are you happy to be home?”

“Happy?” Pug scooped up snow and packed a snowball. The crunching snow in his warm hands always gave him an agreeable flash of childhood. “I’m too busy to think about it. Yes, I guess I’m happy.” He pegged the snowball over the cars into the empty street. “Rhoda was sick of Berlin, and being there by myself was certainly grim.”

“She’s a superb hostess, Rhoda,” said Kirby. “I’ve never attended better dinner parties than hers. That was something, the way she rescued that tureen.” The pipe in his teeth, Kirby uttered a harsh laugh. “Really something.”

“Among her other talents,” said Pug, “Rhoda’s always been a born juggler.”

Kirby wrinkled his whole face. “It’s pretty sharp out here at that, eh? Let’s go back.”

At the top of the stairs they encountered Madeline hurrying out, her white fox coat wrapped close around her long dress, a red shawl on her hair tied under her chin.

“Where are you off to?” her father said.

“I told Mom I wouldn’t be able to stay through. Mr. Cleveland’s back from Quantico. I have to see him.”

“Will you come to the dance afterward?”

Madeline sneezed. “I’m not sure, Dad.”

“Take care of that cold. You look fierce.”

The two men went inside. Madeline clung to the rail, hastening down the slippery steps.

* * *

A waiter with a sandwich and a double martini on a tray was knocking at the door of Hugh Cleveland’s suite when Madeline got there. The rich familiar voice sounded peevish. “It’s open, it’s open, come on in.”

Her employer, wearing an unbecoming purple silk robe, sat with his stocking feet up on an imitation antique desk, talking into a telephone and making pencil notes on a racing form. “What about Hialeah?” he was saying. “Got anything good there for tomorrow?” He waved at her, putting his hand for a moment over the mouthpiece. “Hey Matty! I thought you weren’t going to make it. Sign that. Give him a buck.”

The waiter, a small dull-eyed youngster, hovered in the room staring with a vacuous grin as Cleveland talked to the bookmaker. “Mr. Cleveland, I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of yours,” he blurted when Cleveland hung up. “I really think you’re terrific. So does my whole family. We never miss the amateur hour.”

“Thanks,” Cleveland rumbled with a heavy-lidded look, fingering his sandy hair. “Want anything, Matty?”

“A drink, thanks. I’ve got a cold.”

“Bring her another double,” said Cleveland, with a sudden charming smile at the waiter. “And get me three Havana cigars. Monte Cristos, if there are any. See how fast you can do it.”

“Yes,
sir
, Mr. Cleveland.”

“How was Quantico?” Madeline threw her coat on a chair and sat down, blowing her nose.

“The stage’ll work fine. The commandant’s all excited. He thinks it’s a wonderful recruiting stunt.” Yawning, Cleveland lit a cigar and explained the arrangements for the broadcast that he had made with the commandant. “He showed me all over the camp. I saw a real combat exercise. Jesus, those marines shoot live ammunition over each other’s heads! I’ll be deaf for a week,” he said, rubbing his ears. “I guess they won’t put you through that.”

“Me? Am I going there?”

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“Screen the performers, get the personal stuff on them, and all that. They’ve already got an amateur thing going there, it turns out. They call it the Happy Hour.”

Madeline said, “The Happy Hour’s an old custom all through the service.”