The Star of Istanbul (13 page)

15

The city's white row houses, lit by gas light and torches, were stitched into the side of the abrupt-rising hills by cobbled streets. The fishing boat put in at the Cunard wharf and the forty or so of us hobbled onto land. We all ached terribly after the exertion of having saved our lives in the sea and then having huddled for some hours cramped on that tiny boat deck.

We found ourselves on a cut-stone wharf that was crowded with the swaddled dead. Selene, still wearing the boat captain's bright yellow slicker and sou'wester and smelling of mackerel, clung to me as we picked our way through, noticing the small bundles, which were the children, noticing the ones with faces framed in the open folds, noticing one bundle in particular: two faces bound in one blanket, jaundiced by the lamplight, mother and child, pressed together as if for a photographic portrait but having waited so long for the flash, they'd fallen into a deep sleep. Selene gasped and clung harder to me, and we angled our faces to each other, focused once again only on the two of us, until we entered the large open hall of the customshouse.

The place was dim, unprepared for night landings, and it was
crowded with living bodies—hundreds of us now—and some of us were bumping about near the door in the first confusion of arrival. The familiar tones and cadences of the voices of low-level officialdom were directing us, as if we'd just left a steamship and were going off to retrieve our luggage and queue up for the customs boys to search for the booze and the tobacco and the silver plate and the books and the sheet music. And, to be honest, the faintly patronizing, coolly efficient voices were reassuring now, turning the horror into the routine, as much as that was possible with the background of moaning and coughing and whispering and with the quaking and the trembling and with the travelers being damp and bareheaded and with many of them clad only in their wetly clinging underwear and some showing flesh, too much flesh. We looked at these exposed bodies only out of the corners of our eyes, even as dry, dark-uniformed bodies emerged in the dim light to throw blankets over the nakedness.

And Selene and I leaned into each other.

The official voices propelled us into roped-off lines, the wounded who needed immediate help being sent to triage at the far end of the hall, the rest of us guided to the long, alphabetically sectioned wall where our luggage would have been placed but which now led to tables where they gave us coffee and then passed us on to queue and wait for a Cunard official sitting behind a large ledger book. We all waited to approach the book one at a time, Selene waiting before me, clutching hard at my arm, keeping me close. I thought this was because she still needed to rely on me.

Then the man at the table was looking our way.

“Next,” he said.

Selene let go of my arm and turned her face to me and I was surprised at what was there: a hard mouth, pressed thin, but eyes gone wide and gentle, and her head tilted a little. She was about to reenter the world as Selene Bourgani. She'd twice already tried to end our connection to each other. Now it was as if all that we'd done together these past hours—searching the sinking ship for escape and then entering the sea and clinging to life there amidst the dead and dying and then rising together into safety and landing once more on the shore—as if all that was just one more night of lovemaking and this thing between us could not last.

She'd been clutching my arm, keeping me close, because she knew it was time for me to go.

Realizing all this, I also realized I'd missed an opportunity. I'd tried not to intrude upon the silence we kept with each other since we'd been lifted from the sea. Perhaps if I'd pressed her to speak of Brauer, to speak of what it was she was intending to do, she would have told me what it was my job to learn.

But it had never occurred to me. The silence had been inside me as well.

And now she said, “Thank you.”

And I knew she would break away from me.

All I could do was nod.

She turned and moved to the desk.

I could not hear, but the man in the Cunard uniform sitting behind the ledger spoke, and then Selene spoke, and the man jumped up and gave a little bow.

A film fan, no doubt.

She said more to him, and he bowed again. He would grant her a special favor. He motioned to the ledger.

She drew her forefinger down the right-hand, half-filled page. Then she did the same to the left-hand page. Then she turned to the previous two-page spread.

I knew the name she sought.

Halfway down on the right, her hand stopped. She lifted it away and she straightened up.

She nodded to the official, and he sat back down.

She signed her name.

They spoke a few words more.

I was right about her. When she was finished, she did not look back to me but moved off at once, searching the crowd.

I approached the desk, the ledger, the Selene Bourgani fan in the Cunard uniform.

And after I'd signed my name and nationality—my pen-stroke going suddenly heavy, assertive, from a complex surge of feeling at w
riting
United States of America
—after then taking an abrupt, retained, chest-lifted breath at being an American upon this day, I turned and she was gone.

Before I could take a step away, the Cunard man, craning his neck to confirm his upside-down reading, said, “Mr. Cobb is it?”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to wait behind my table? Someone has come to collect you.”

“Miss Bourgani was with me, as you saw.”

“Yes.”

“I was supposed to meet her . . . Did they assign her a place to sleep?”

“Most of the first-class passengers are going to the Queen's Hotel.”

“I'll be back in a few moments,” I said.

The Cunard man stiffened; he was responsible for me waiting. Before he could protest, I said, “I won't be long,” and I moved off.

I watched for her yellow slicker to flash in the crowd, but my goal was the streetside doors. I did not see her among the bandages and slings and blankets—the half-naked bodies were disappearing into blankets—and now the doors were in sight and I saw the yellow there amidst a dark brace of Cunard ducks and I swung wide in my approach to them, ready to let her go.

I saw her from behind. She was speaking to a guy with a clipboard, and then she moved off through the doors.

I followed, brushing aside the Cunards' importunings. She'd pushed through already, and I stopped and looked through the glass. She turned her face to the far left and then swept her gaze slowly toward the harbor street, where the merchants on the far side—milliner and ironmonger, draper and men's clothier, sellers of fish and poultry and cakes—all were lit up inside, as the whole town had awakened to the rescue; and then her face kept moving right, across a square and to another long row of wider buildings—the Queen's Hotel included—and above them, up the hill, an arch-supported roadway climbing to a Gothic-spired cathedral. I thought that Selene's eyes would come to rest upon her hotel. But she did not pause, she scanned on, and then she abruptly stopped. Her face drew very slightly forward. She was checking her perception.

And from that direction a figure was moving now, coming out of the shadows, wrapped and hooded in a blanket. Selene straightened and waited, and the figure stopped before her, and she was speaking, and the blanket came down off the head. It was Walter Brauer.

16

That she was seeking Brauer did not surprise me. Whatever hesitation about him she'd had in response to the torpedoing of the
Lusitania
was overcome by her rescue. And whatever had been the allure of her rescuer, that was overcome by the renewal of her mission for the Germans, no matter what those transient reservations might have been. What did surprise me was that Brauer had figured out how to save his own skin. Perhaps luck had played a part. But I knew I'd better not underestimate his resourcefulness or his toughness, bookman-fancying King's College lecturer though he be.

Selene, in response to something Brauer said, lifted her chin a little to gesture over his right shoulder. He looked in that direction—at the Queen's Hotel—and I knew enough for tonight, given that someone was seeking me out. I needed to attend to that.

So I backed away from the door, turned, and made my way through the hall to the ledger table. As I approached and passed beside him, the Cunard man taking names gave me a relieved glance.

I stood behind him, as he'd asked, and almost at once a serious weariness shuddered through me. I bucked myself up and even did a long-habitual bucking-up gesture: I shot my cuffs. Except over the past few hours my cuffs had apparently decided to permanently shoot themselves. I considered my body down to my squishing brogues, surprised that I'd left them on. I'd gone into the water in a gentleman's blue serge suit and I now stood in a schoolboy's blue serge suit, my adolescent wrists and ankles protruding like cowlicks from cuffs and pant legs.

“Mister Cobb?” a man's voice said.

“Master Cobb,” I said, lifting one outgrown sleeve as I looked at the speaker. He had a round face and most everything about it was the color of wheat spike before a harvest, skin and hair and eyebrows that wheat-field yellow, and in the midst were unblinking pale eyes, their color hard to identify in the shadows of the customshall but they were pale, unflinching; he was a fleshy, wheaty man wearing a three-piece suit of his own money-crop color but a shade or two darker, baked for a while.

He flashed a willful little smile and he nodded at my right wrist. “We'll take care of that.”

He offered a doughy hand doing one of those I'll-hesitate-a-second-and-muscle-up-my-squeeze-to-equal-yours kind of shakes; I had the feeling I could squeeze harder than he could, though I also had an inkling this guy could surprise me. He said, in a flat plains accent common to a large number of
Post-Express
readers, “I'm James Metcalf. United States embassy in London.”

He paused now and lowered his voice a bit, turning it into a covert elbow nudge in the ribs. “We have a mutual friend in Washington.”

“The other James,” I said. James Polk Trask.

Metcalf doled out one more of those little smiles. “He's the one.”

Then the smile vanished at once and his manner changed abruptly to the studied gravity of an embassy Guy. “I'm glad to see you've made it.”

“I am too,” I said.

And Metcalf took charge, which was fine with me. So I found myself in the well of a two-wheel jaunting car pulled by a sixteen-hand mule, a bundle of new clothes beside me and two bespoke suits being done up overnight. We were bone-rattling our cobblestoned way up the hill behind the wharves, bound for the Admiralty House that sat above the city, where an Admiral Lewis Bayly ran the British Fleet in the North Atlantic and where I'd get some decent food and a bed but I shouldn't expect a drink.

“Sorry, old man,” Metcalf said. “The admiral's a teetotaler and so is everyone else, as long as they're under his roof.”

I grunted. I hadn't the time or focus or opportunity to think about a drink so far, but this struck me instantly as bad news.

But Metcalf removed a flask from his inside coat pocket and handed it across to me. There was a pretty good whiskey inside and I took a couple of bolts of it as he watched in silence. That was enough of the whiskey for tonight. In spite of the past eight or ten hours, I wasn't interested in getting drunk and I handed the flask back to him.

“Thanks,” I said.

He offered me a cigarette. A Capstan Navy Cut in a flat tin.

I took one and he did too and he lit them for us and I blew the smoke out to sea, which lay below me now, sucked up into this harbor, all sparkly calm from the harbor lights and acting like it never could hurt a soul.

“They call this Spy Hill,” Metcalf said.

“Imagine that,” I said.

“From back when it meant just a place to watch the ships.”

“I bet it's become that again.”

“Back when you didn't count and classify the warships and telegraph Berlin.”

Metcalf was clearly the guy I was supposed to report to. I looked toward the driver sitting above us.

“Later,” Metcalf said.

“I figured,” I said.

And then we were at Admiralty House, which was a massive, boxy, neoclassic Adam-style building built into a sharp upslope, with three stories at the back and a fourth, half-underground basement story that showed its windowed facade only at the front. Inside, the place was as sparse and grim as the admiral himself, whose junior officer years were crusted on his face and who gave me a curt smile with his handshake, the kind of smile that would, in other circumstances, seem dismissive but between men sharing a war passed for comradely.

And then at last—after a too-brief period of be-stupored happiness lying in a great porcelain tub of hot water and after donning my new cotton pajama suit and silk dressing gown and after a lamb chop in the Admiralty kitchen and a pot of strong coffee—at last, shortly before midnight on the day the
Lusitania
was sunk by a German U-boat in the North Atlantic, I sat high on the widow's walk of the Admiralty House smoking British cigarettes with James Metcalf of the U.S. embassy.

The admiral had departed from our company soon after the handshake, but in the few parting words he'd referred to Metcalf as “Gentleman Jim.” So as Metcalf and I took our first drag of our second cigarette together, Queenstown now simply stacks and hedgerows of rooftops and a scattering of harbor-front lights below us, I said, “‘Gentleman Jim,' is it? From the boxer?” Meaning the former heavyweight champion Gentleman Jim Corbett.

“Do you have a taste for irony, Mr. Cobb?”

“Kit. From the playwright,” I said.

“Kit,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “I like a good irony.”

“Yes, from the boxer, thanks to the ambassador and his fondness for the prizefights. But I am among the least violent of men.”

“A gentleman,” I said.

“An irony within an irony,” he said.

We concentrated on smoking for a little while. Or I did, at least. The tobacco was smoothing a few of the day's jagged edges in my head. I took a deep drag and let it go with a long exhalation, and I did that once more. Metcalf simply watched me as he let his own cigarette smolder between fore and middle fingers, suspended near his face with his elbow on the arm of his chair.

Like a real gentleman.

After the second long pull on my Captsan, I said, “So what are we authorized to say to each other?”

“Whatever you would say to your stateside James.”

I nodded, but for now I quietly took another drag on the cigarette.

“At this point,” Metcalf said, “it might merely be moot, but were you able to learn anything about our man Walter Brauer?”

“The most recent thing I learned is that it's not moot,” I said.

Metcalf straightened a bit in his chair. He seemed suddenly to become aware of his cigarette. He flicked the long ash and took a drag. “So he's alive?”

“He is.”

“What were the earlier things?”

“His business is with Miss Selene Bourgani.”

This brought Metcalf forward in his chair. “The film actress?”

“That's right.”

“Are you sure?”

I told him the events on the ship. Many of them. I told him about finding out the connection between Bourgani and Brauer after suspecting an American bookseller. I told him about
Nuttall
and the coded message and the planned delivery of something—likely the actress—to the address on St. Martin's Lane on Monday night. I told him about Brauer's personal interest in the seller of books, the necessary secrecy of it being a potential point of leverage with the man.

I told Metcalf nothing of my own personal interest in Selene. Or of hers in me. Like I was a real gentleman. I also kept the anony­mous German film director to myself for now; it was too vague anyway, and I didn't want to have to explain how I came to know about him.

I told my story and then I said, “She's in the Queen's Hotel.”

“And Brauer?”

“I don't know where he's staying. But from the look of them on the ship, if we know where she is, we'll soon find him.”

Metcalf rose from his chair. “I'll wire our man in Washington for instructions.”

“And Bourgani?”

“We'll see what our instructions are. But in the meantime I've got a local here who can keep an eye on her.”

I stood up as well. “I need a couple of things right away. For my public self. The war correspondent.”

“Of course,” Metcalf said. “You've happened upon a story, it seems.”

“It happened upon me,” I said.