The Eldorado Network (33 page)

She sucked in a deep breath and looked up. The youth had chestnut-brown eyes and a neck like a stick of celery. He was very happy to have delivered the telegram. Now he polished the tray with the sleeve of his hotel-uniform jacket.

'Thanks for nothing, buster,' she said.

'For nada, senora.'

'I said it first.'

She left the thing pasted onto the tiles and swam slowly away. The wrong man had sent the wrong telegram. For months she had been trying to trace Harry so that she could straighten out their future, begin the divorce, start to free herself, Now he was on his way back to her and she didn't want to see him. He wouldn't want to face reality". Harry wasn't much good at being serious. He always evaded bad news, unless it was the other kind of news, newspaper-news. Harry would light up and sparkle at the first hint of an international disaster but he wouldn't face a serious talk with his wife.

Julie floated in the middle of the pool, arms and legs outstretched in a star-shape. She wondered where he had been when he sent the telegram. Also when. Yesterday, perhaps? Did 'tomorrow' mean today? A couple of strokes took her to the side, but the ink had bled until all its meaning was lost in a soft, fading blur. The telegram tore when she tried to peel it off. Barber Beano, she thought; what the hell was that supposed to mean? Trust a newspaperman to confuse you. They can do almost anything with words except make them sit up and talk.

She was in her room, wondering whether lunch was worth the effort of going somewhere, when the phone rang.

'Langham at the American Embassy, Mrs Conroy.' A New Yorker's voice, calm, confident, vastly reassuring. 'My apologies for this late notice, but the ambassador hopes very much that you'll be able to attend our reception this afternoon. It's in honour of Senator Barber. Four o'clock.'

'Senator Barber? What's that dinosaur doing here?'

'A fact-finding tour. He's chairman of a Senate Committee which--'

'Forget it. That guy makes my skin crawl.'

'The senator has a very individual political style, to be sure, Mrs Conroy.' The warmth and strength of Langham's voice impressed her. It was as firm and friendly as the clasp of old leather.

Barber Beano, she thought. 'I guess Harry's going to be there,' she said.

'You are right, Mrs Conroy.'

'Has he arrived?'

'Not yet. He's expected soon. Is there any message, in case I see him first?'

'Yes, tell him . . . No, never mind, I'll tell him myself.'

She had something very specific to tell Harry: her money hadn't arrived. Normally, the New York agency for which he worked sent her a cheque every month. This month, no cheque. That angered her. Harry was going to get hell over that.

An angry monologue went on in her head all the way to the embassy. All Americans weren't jokers, so how come she'd picked this comedian? Why couldn't she have married a guy like Langham, a man you could at least talk to without a lot of wisecracks? Langham's voice had reminded her of all that was good and strong about America; none of this fluty, European gabbling; he said what he meant and what he said was sturdy and yet sympathetic too. All of a sudden she felt a great yearning, not so much for Americans as for Americanism: things like real icecream and big cars, and singing commercials on radio, and freight trains as long as you could see, and kids so freckled they looked as if they'd been stencilled. At that moment Julie wanted to be back in America so utterly that she had to pause and take a deep breath before she could go up the Embassy steps.

A U.S. Marine sergeant was checking the arrivals. He directed her across the lobby to a small, fidgety man who seemed to be all potbelly and no chin.

'I'm Mrs Conroy,' she told him.

He smiled in a way that left the corners of his mouth wet. "Welcome,' he said. 'I'm George Langham.' She gave him a sharp stare. 'Something's wrong?' he asked.

'No. It's just ..." She felt more than cheated: betrayed. You looked different over the phone,' she said.

'Yes? I was probably wearing my glasses.' He put them on. Now he looked even more like a frog. Her prince had turned into a frog. Fairy tales really do come true.

They went into the reception. Neither Senator Barber nor Harry had arrived yet, the frog said, but there was a large and hardworking bar. The frog got her a martini and introduced her to a tall, goodlooking Frenchman, who turned out to be a representative of the Vichy Government, doing some kind of liaison work with the Spanish Ministry of War. 'I attend every reception at the American Embassy,' he told her. 'It is the sole place where one is given decent gin nowadays.'

'I thought all Frenchmen drank wine.'

He let his mouth droop. 'Since 1940, for me, wine is not enough.'

'Were you in the fighting?'

'Yes and no. I commanded a regiment, but the Germans were too quick for us. They advanced at great speed and went between my regiment and the next formation. We pursued them but we could never catch them. Meanwhile the Luftwaffe damaged us every day. When the Armistice came my regiment had travelled nearly eight hundred kilometres without firing a single shot, except at enemy airplanes.' He sniffed his drink and widened his eyes in appreciation. 'One cannot fight an enemy one cannot catch. The German army is extremely fast.'

It was a neat summary. Julie had the feeling he had delivered it many times before. They stood and looked at the crowd for a while. 'How do you get along with the Germans now?' she asked.

'Reasonably well.'

'No goosestepping jackboots?'

'They leave us alone in Vichy. Up in the north of France it is different because England is so close, but once that situation comes to an end I think most of the German army will go home. Perhaps next year.'

Julie began to feel annoyed. This Frenchman was so enormously detached and objective, it was like talking to an insurance assessor. 'What makes you so sure the British will give in?' she asked. .

'Because they are very good historians and they know from past experience that they must have a powerful ally if they are to defeat Germany. There is only one possibility: Russia. But Germany will beat Russia. Then Hitler will turn back and confront Britain with the first truly united Europe since Charlemagne.'

'Churchill said they'll never surrender.'

'Ah! That fatal word, "never". The first rule of politics is: "Never say never".'

Julie was fed up with this professional survivor, but she was reluctant to leave him unmarked. 'Listen, what about your Napoleon?' she demanded. 'He ended up on his ass in the snow. So much for history.'

'Napoleon had no tanks, no trucks, no trains, no air force, no radio.' The Frenchman counted them off on his fingers and ended with his thumb raised. 'Yet he reached Moscow. This German army overran France when the French army was by far the strongest in Europe. Much stronger than the Russian army is now. Do you see that man with the red hair?'

'You mean the guy talking to the crewcut in tweeds?'

'Yes. Swiss military attache. The other man is with your embassy. According to that Swiss, it will take Germany a maximum of eight weeks, and a minimum«of four, to bring Russia to her knees. The American estimates nine weeks and five.'

'What do you think?'

'Six weeks maximum.'

'Shit,' Julie said gloomily.

'Hitler will reap the wheat which Stalin has sowed,' the Frenchman said smoothly. 'England will accept the inevitable, and life will return to normal once more. May I get

you another drink?'

'You can go to hell.'

She walked away and left him unperturbed, sniffing his pa, and she got another drink by herself. The frog came over, looking depressed.

'Barber's plane's got engine trouble. He's still in the Azores.'

'And Harry?'

He shrugged. 'No news, I'm afraid.'

Excuse me,'Julie said. 'I think I see a friend.'

She took her drink to the ladies' room and slumped in a chair. After a while she eased her shoes off. The wallpaper carried a repeating pattern of fat red roses. Everywhere she looked, roses. They climbed until they hit the ceiling and they dived until they hit the floor. Then they rebounded and climbed for the ceiling again. It was like being divebombed by florists. 'Roses stink,' she said.

A toilet flushed, a cubicle opened, and a dumpy, middle-aged woman came out, smoothing her dress. 'You talking about the wallpaper?' she said. 'My husband chose it.' She began washing her hands.

'Then he stinks too.'

'That's what I keep telling him. "Harry, you stink," I tell him. He never listens. Too busy choosing wallpaper, I guess.'

'My husband's name is Harry, too.'

'Yeah? Does he stink?'

'Oh, he's out in front. Harry stank for America in the Olympics.'

The other woman took a Scotch-and-water from a shelf. 'Sounds like he trains real hard,' she said.

'He would've won,'Julie said, 'only it was held in Berlin, and the krauts can out-stink the whole damn world when they try.'

'Yeah. I feel sorry for those poor bastards in Russia. We were in Warsaw when it got bombed, and friends of ours were in Rotterdam.'

'I saw what they did to Rotterdam. And to London.' They traded war stories for a couple of minutes. 'You know, everybody out there seems to think Hitler's going to smash Russia without even breaking sweat,' Julie said. 'The only thing they're arguing about is whether he'll be in Moscow by Tuesday or Friday.'

'Right. I say to Harry: "When is someone going to stand up to the sonofabitch?" and Harry just smiles like daddy-knows-best and feeds me some dumb line about giving Hitler enough rope so he'll hang himself.'

'That's crap,' Julie said. 'If we give him any more rope he'll hang everyone he doesn't like the look of.'

'You should tell Harry that.'

'Okay, I will,' Julie announced. 'Lead me to him.' She put on her shoes.

Okay.

By now the reception was more crowded and much louder. They found her husband in the middle, a blue-

ted, bun-faced man with hornrim glasses and a permanent smile. He was talking with two people: a man in U.S.

naval uniform, and a middle-aged woman in a light oat meal tweed suit.

Can it, Harry,' his wife interrupted. 'You're boring the pants off these folk and besides, my friend here has a

He tightened his smile. 'If it's about Senator Barber, I'm -aid he's been unavoidably delayed.' The hell with Senator Barber and his delays,' Julie said, I want to know what's holding up the rest of the U.S.A. when is America going to wake up and start fighting?' Well, the State Department keeps the entire European Cation under constant review,' he replied with every appearance of sincerity, 'and, given any significant shift of circumstances, the President will be advised accordingly without the slightest delay.' That's a bullshit answer,' Julie snapped. It's not even that,' the middle-aged woman said. 'It's no answer at all.'

'With respect--' Harry began.

Oh, forget respect,' she said. 'I write for Life magazine,' she told Julie, 'and the people who read my stuff don't want fight another war. They're just out of the Depression, they want to make some money, buy a new car, pay for their

teeth to be fixed. So there's your answer.' Well . . . it's just not good enough,' Julie said. 'Sweety, we give the Hitler war as much play as the traffic will bear,' said the woman from Life. 'You can't talk to folk who don't want to listen.'

Julie stabbed the air with her finger. 'But how in God's name--'

'I think we should keep this thing in some kind of overall Military perspective,' the naval officer broke in. 'First off, strategic response is very limited. We can hardly send a battleship to bombard Berlin.' Harry chuckled warmly Julie glared. 'Secondly,' the officer said, 'this latest development vis-a-vis Russia is not necessarily entirely to our disadvantage. The Soviets have been meddling all over the world lately.'

'So you think the best solution is to let Hitler wipe them out?' Julie asked. The officer shrugged. 'You callous bastard,' she said.

Nobody in the group spoke for a few seconds. They stood in stiff discomfort, while the abortive reception chattered and swigged all around them. Harry broke the silence with his easy, practised chuckle. 'These are mighty complex issues, folks,' he said. 'I don't think we should blame ourselves for not reaching total accord in the space of a few minutes. Furthermore, I'm sure that better men than us have got a pretty damn good grip on affairs. So ... can I freshen up anyone's drink?'

Julie walked away and found a marble pillar at the end of the bar to lean against. She felt angry and defeated. After a while the frog saw her and hurried over. 'I was afraid you'd gone, Mrs Conroy. We've just had a message from your husband. Unfortunately he's not coming to Madrid. When his office heard about Senator Barber's delay they sent him to Vienna instead.'

'Whoopee,' she said bleakly.

'Is there any kind of message you'd like me to send?'

'No. Yes. You could ask the barman to make me a double martini.'

She was working her way through the drink when the woman from Life came over. 'I just discovered you're Harry Conroy's wife,' she said.

Julie nodded. 'It's an honorary position.'

'I met him on a plane, about a month ago . . . Listen, I didn't mean to be so hardnosed with you just now, but you've got to remember we don't create the goddam news, we just cover it.'

'Sure, sure. It just makes me burn to think that Britain . . . Oh, I don't know.'

The woman from Life took a handful of peanuts and began eating them one at a time. 'Maybe it's none of my business, honey, but you seem to be fighting everybody all on your own, too.'

Julie gave that a lot of thought. She took a drink and looked over the rim. The other woman was on the wrong side of forty. Her face looked as if it had seen a lot of human wreckage. And maybe some salvage too.

Okay, since it's so obvious,' Julie said. 'This has been an especially bad day, and maybe I've had too much sauce, and Christ knows I didn't actually want to meet my Harry, but still..." Her hand suddenly trembled; she put the glass down.

Toss me a clean napkin,' the woman called to a barman, raising her open hand. She caught it, shook it open, gave it to Julie. 'Ladies' handkerchiefs are no dumb use to anyone,' She said. Julie used both hands to press the crisp white linen against her face. She pressed hard. It was as if all her self-control were disintegrating. She kept pressing, and braced her body against the pillar. Eventually the threat passed. She folded the napkin and sniffed hard. 'Jesus,' she whispered. 'Where the hell did that come from?'