Along the Infinite Sea (32 page)

“Stop, Johann. You're not old, you're not a fool, it's just—”

“Annabelle, please.”

I pushed him away. “Johann, I can't. I have to think.”

He picked up my hand and kissed it. “Listen to me. Listen to this one fact at least. I have told the Oberkommando in Berlin that I am resigning my post there and returning to Paris, in my old role if they will have me, and as a private citizen if they will not. I have withdrawn the children from their schools. This September, the boys will start at Charterhouse, my old school in England, and the girls will move here to Paris with us. She is so delighted, she would not stop talking on the train.”

“But your career. They will ruin you. They'll say you're disloyal.”

“I do not give a damn what they say.”

“Oh, Johann.”

He kissed my hand again. “If that is what you want, Annabelle. If I am not too late to win back your esteem.”

I stared at my hand inside his, at the size of Johann's fingers. I felt as if someone had attached a tube to my chest and drained away my vital fluids.

“I cannot live any longer like this,” said Johann. “I cannot live without my wife and my little son. I cannot go back to that. I will do whatever you want.”

Through the door came the sound of Frieda's laughter, and the scurry of Florian's feet on the sleek parquet floors that smelled of beeswax.

Johann said, “We need you, Annabelle.”

In my head, I said four Hail Marys, and when I finished the last one I knew he was telling the truth.

I slipped my hand from his. “I'm so hot and dusty, Johann. I need to take a bath.”

17.

The cars buzzed along the middle of the Place Vendôme and around its corners, but not one of them came to a stop along the eastern side. I checked my watch at four twenty-eight, and again at four twenty-nine, and very resolutely waited until four thirty-two before checking again. The sun burned the crown of my hat. My hands grew damp inside my white cotton gloves.

At four thirty-nine I crossed to the western side of the Place Vendôme and approached the front desk of the Hotel Ritz. I inquired whether Stefan Silverman had passed through the lobby, and the clerk, who must have recognized me, said that Monsieur Silverman had checked out of his room two hours ago.

Thank you, I said. Was there any message for me?

No, there was not.

If he returns, will you please give him this note?

(I handed the clerk a sealed envelope.)

Of course, Madame, said the clerk. Would there be any reply?

No, I said, I didn't need any reply, and I walked out of the Paris Ritz and returned to the apartment on the avenue Marceau.

18.

“Have you had a good walk?” Johann said, rising from his desk. The chair scraped painfully against the floor. His face was pale and vulnerable in the faint afternoon sunlight.

“Yes, thank you.” I hid my trembling hands in the folds of my skirt.

The clock ticked behind me on the mantel. Johann gazed at my hair, eyes puckered fearfully, lips parted as if he wanted to ask me a question.

He is so tall, I thought, so large and formidable. He commands an army. And he cannot ask me a question.

“I will go and see the cook about dinner,” I said, and I turned and left the room.

19.

After dinner, I played the cello with Frieda, and when I went to the nursery to put Florian to bed, I found him curled up on the floor with Johann, who was reading him a story.

“Time for bed,” I said.

My husband hoisted a sleepy Florian onto his massive knee. “There we are, son. Your mama commands us to go to bed, and we must always obey Mama.”

Johann carried him to his crib and laid him in the sheets. It's too
hot for blankets, I said, and Johann leaned down and kissed Florian's forehead. He brushed back the dark curls and said Papa's darling boy had grown, he was a little man now. Florian's eyelids sagged at the familiar timbre of Johann's voice.

I turned off the light.

20.

In the beginning, when I had returned to Paris after Christmas, I had kept to my own side of the bed and left Johann's side empty, the way the wives of some soldiers still laid a place at the table for the missing husband. After the disastrous April visit, however, I began to creep over the invisible line that separated his space and mine, inch by inch, until I lay sprawled every night in the center of the bed, like a defiant starfish.

Now it was July, and my husband had returned to our home and asked for my forgiveness. He had fallen to his knees and reminded me that I was, after all, his wife. He had brought his young daughter who needed a mother, his big arms in which my son fit so securely.

I slipped off my dressing gown and drew back the counterpane and raged at the white sheets.
It's a damned thing,
Nick Greenwald said, shaking his head. The bathroom door opened behind me.

“Annabelle,” said Johann.

I closed my eyes.

21.

I waited while he fit a sheath awkwardly on himself. When he entered me, I held back the gasp in my throat and lay still beneath him. I will not feel this, I thought, but friction is friction and flesh is flesh,
and my body was young and starved of love. We rocked together silently for long minutes, until my reluctant heels found the backs of his legs.

What he did next astounded me. He rolled onto his back and brought me with him, so that I wobbled above his mountainous chest and sank down hard. He put his thick hands on my hips and ordered me in German to use him hard—I don't think he knew the words in English—and as I rose and obediently fell he said more German words, admiring my waist and breasts and my snug little
Muschi
, lifting his hips to meet mine, and I thought in despair, closing my eyes, I'm sorry, Stefan, I'm so sorry, I can't help it, I am going to come.

Then I lay flat on the damp white mountain of Johann's sternum and stared at the wall, while his hand traced the cavity of my spine. It is done, he said, we are man and wife again.

COCOA BEACH
•
1966

1.

Susan is creasing her very, very pretty forehead. “You're saying nobody's heard from her since last week?”

“Seems so,” says Florian. “Pepper's the last one to speak to her.”

Pepper spreads her hands. “She didn't say where she was going, I'm afraid, and I never had the chance to ask her.”

“Oh, dear.” Susan gazes up at Florian's face. “And she's been acting so oddly since—well.”

“Since Dad died.”

“She seemed all right to me,” says Pepper. “She spoke of him fondly, of course, but she wasn't exactly grief-stricken. On the other hand, she had just dropped three hundred large on an old car, so—”

Florian turns to her. “What did you say?”

“The car. The car I sold her.”

“Three hundred
thousand dollars
?”

Pepper looks back and forth between the two of them. They're sitting at the dining room table, Florian and Susan on one side and Pepper
on the other, a pitcher of lemonade and an exquisite Meissen plate between them, piled high with macaroons. The sun has just begun to tilt through the French doors, and it forms a halo over Susan's golden hair. “You didn't know?”

“What kind of car costs three hundred thousand dollars?” Susan says breathlessly. Her eyes are large and far too blue for Pepper's taste.

“A Mercedes. A 1936 Special Roadster. Only a few of them were ever built.”

Florian chokes. “A
what
Mercedes?”

“A very special Mercedes,” says Pepper. “In fact, the exact same one in which your mother fled Germany back in 1938. It turned up in my sister's shed on Cape Cod, and I spent the summer restoring it.”

Under Florian's astounded gaze, she reaches for the pitcher of lemonade and refills her glass. The lemon slices bump lazily against the spout. No one has touched the macaroons. Pepper lifts one up and sniffs it. “Almond?” she says.

“Coconut. Clara's secret recipe. Did you just say it was the same car she and Dad drove out of Germany? The exact one?”

Susan's eyes are like a pair of awed wet cornflowers. “And you restored it? All by yourself?”

“I had a little help,” Pepper says modestly.

“But how did it end up in a shed on the Cape?”

Pepper gestures with her cookie. “Now, that, you see, is the mystery. Maybe that's what your mother is trying to find out. My God, these are the macaroons they serve in heaven.”

Florian leans forward. “How do you know it's the same car?”

“Because she told me.”

“How did she know?”

“I think she'd recognize her own car, don't you? And trust me, this isn't the kind of car you'd mistake for another one. Every part is engineered and hand-fitted and caressed into place. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.”

Susan smiles at Florian's cheek. “It's so romantic, don't you think?”

Pepper and Florian turn to her in tandem. “Romantic?”

Jinx, Pepper thinks.

“Why, that she'd spend all that money to buy back the car that carried her and her husband to their new life.” She aims the cornflowers at Florian, flutter flutter. “It's beautiful, really.”

He bolts to his feet.

“I don't care if it's beautiful or not. My mother's driven off in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car without telling anyone where she's gone, and I'd like to find her before the coroner does!”

Susan's alarmed. “The coroner!”

“That's a little dramatic, don't you think?” says Pepper.

Florian brings his knuckles to rest on the table. “You want to see dramatic? This is my
mother
we're talking about!”

“That's true, the poor dear, but as the dead German said, what doesn't kill a girl makes her stronger. She's around somewhere, alive and kicking. Trust me.”

“
Somewhere
is a damned big word, Schuyler. Considering we don't even know where to start looking.”

“Cape Cod?”

“She did
not
drive to Cape Cod. Not in November.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, all right? She can't stand the cold. She lives for sunshine.”

“You see? We've narrowed it down already. Somewhere sunny in November, check.”

“She had to have told you something. She had to have left
some
kind of clue.”

“Well, she didn't. I'll show you the note. I've seen telegrams more verbose.”

“Did she take a lot of luggage?”

“I'm afraid I didn't count, since I wasn't even there when she left. Any more questions?”

Florian sinks back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair.
His eyes are puckered with worry, poor thing. What kind of mother is Annabelle Dommerich, to inspire such illogical concern for her welfare? Because motherhood doesn't always end so well for the Schuylers. Motherhood usually goes splash headfirst into a vodka tonic, with lime. He says grimly, “We'll just have to start calling hotels, I guess.”

“That will take ages.”

“I know.” He swears softly. “Anyone got any better ideas?”

Pepper taps her chin and examines another macaroon. Her fourth, if she allows it entrance, but then she's never tasted macaroons like melted coconuts, and what if she never has the chance again? Florian picks up his glass and stares keenly through the trickles at a refracted courtyard full of lemon trees. Behind him, the brass carriage clock on the mantel lets out a pair of delicate chimes.

Susan clears her very pretty throat. “I'm sorry, this is going to sound really dumb. But have you thought of searching her study?”

Florian is shocked.
Shocked.
“You mean ransack her private papers?”

“I'm sorry. I know. Dumb idea.”

Pepper sets down the macaroon and reaches for her crutches.

“Jesus Christ, Susikins. I'm starting to like you after all.”

2.

Susan bends flexibly to the rug, flashing a dangerous length of golden thigh. “What's Mrs. Dommerich's Grammy doing on the floor?”

“Breaking my foot.”

Susan picks up the statuette and arranges it on the shelf with reverent hands, while Florian eases himself into Annabelle's desk chair and sets eight fingers along the edge of the polished wood, ever so gingerly. He frowns and lifts up a piece of paper. “What's this?”

“Nothing.” Pepper snatches it away. “I already told you, I was writing a letter.”

“On my mother's stationery?”

“Oh, please. It's not personalized.”

“So you
were
writing home, after all. Commendable.”

“You're not supposed to read people's personal correspondence.”

“I beg your pardon.” He offers a smile that comes off like a scowl. “Isn't that exactly what we're doing now?”

Susan turns from the shelf, sets her hands on her dainty hips, and beams. “Don't you just love this room? If I had a study of my own, I'd want it to look
just like this
.”

“Imagine that,” murmurs Pepper. She settles herself on the edge of the desk, an inch or two away from Florian's leftmost pinkie finger, and admires the plentiful curve of his shoulder. He looks a little too large for the chair, a little out of place in the room, which is distinctly feminine without being an inch pink. Something about the creaminess of the paintwork and the attractive arrangement of the furniture. Or maybe it's the cheerful yellow paisley armchair in the corner, an article no man would ever allow in his private study. “I was just thinking,” she says softly.

“And?” Florian is lifting up the blotter a fraction, opening up the drawers a crack, wearing an expression that suggests he's changing diapers instead.

“About that morning. Afternoon, really. I slept in a wee bit. I had breakfast in the dining room, and Annabelle was there, and there wasn't any talk about going away. In fact, I distinctly recall her suggesting we go into town later and shop.”

“Shop?” Florian's head pops up, like Sherlock sniffing a clue. “Shop for what?”

“It doesn't matter what. Clothes for me, clothes for the baby. Who cares. My point is that no earlier than half past noon on the date of her so-called disappearance, she was planning on hanging around. And then she left. So what caused her to leave?”

“A telephone call?” suggests Susan.

Florian snaps his fingers. “Or the mail.”

“She did say she was going to catch up on the post while I went for a walk.”

Florian looks down at the tidy desk. “No mail here.”

Pepper shimmies off the desk and hops to the door. “Clara!” she calls out, into the pristine hallway, and a moment later the housekeeper arrives at a canter.

“What is it, Miss Schuyler? You need your pills? You need more macaroons?”

“No. I mean yes!
Yes, please
, to more macaroons. But can you also tell me where you stash Mrs. Dommerich's mail, when she's away?”

3.

For the record, Pepper's not the slightest bit concerned about the health and safety of Mrs. Annabelle Dommerich. The woman is no shrinking cornflower. Besides, if the Nazis couldn't thwart her, nobody could, right? But Pepper has inherited—along with her tip-tilted dark blue eyes and her penchant for choosing the wrong man—the Schuyler nose for dirt, and her talented proboscis began twitching madly right about the moment handsome Florian uttered the magic words.

Ever
since Dad died.

Now, what could
that
possibly signify, except that Annabelle's hiding something under her ladylike fingertips? Something like . . . let Pepper ponder for a moment . . .
dirt
.

Not that it's any of her business. But when did Pepper ever mind her own business? Your own business is so unfruitful, so tedious, so lacking in neat solutions and satisfactory conclusions. But the beeswax of others! It gives you a charge, doesn't it, a burst of not-too-commendable energy to plow right past your own tribulations and frolic about in the muck of someone else's. For a change.

“The trouble with your mother,” Pepper says, head bent over an open manila folder, “among other things, is that she's so damned
organized. Really, who pays the bills and files everything away just hours after getting home from abroad?”

“She hates loose ends.” Florian doesn't look up. He's sitting in the desk chair, flipping through a file folder that rests on his lap, looking as if he'd rather poke through a garbage can.

“Or she's hiding something.”

Susan says, a bit throaty, “This feels so naughty, looking through her papers.”

“Oh, admit it, you're enjoying the thrill. Not that there's anything thrilling to discover, unless you're turned on to know she paid five dollars a week to have the flowers watered.” Pepper tosses the folder aside and bends back over the file drawer. “Dommerich. You're awfully quiet over there. Tell me more about this genealogy research of hers.”

“I don't know. She was pretty vague.”

“You don't say.”

“She would clip things from newspapers and magazines. There was someone she had in Washington, looking up records and archives.”

“Do you happen to know his name?”

“Nope.”

Pepper flips past the files, which are organized alphabetically, until she comes to a tab marked in thick black letters:
HARRIS
.

“Was it Harris?” she asks. “The man in Washington?”

“No idea.”

She pulls the file free and flips it open. A fan of typewritten letters spreads out before her, some attached to newspaper clippings with small silver paper clips.
Dear Mrs. Dommerich
, one began, dated March of 1965,
The possible lead in San Diego appears not to be significant after all. (Please see the attached report for details.) I have now begun research into the candidate in Oklahoma
[there is an angry blue margin note:
Not Oklahoma! Coast!!
]
and will shortly provide an update . . .

Genealogy, my aunt Julie, thinks Pepper.

There is a ceiling fan overhead, twirling the air in lazy circles. The draft ruffles the thin corners of the letters—cheap typing paper, the
kind they used in small and ramshackle offices—and in the lull of conversation, Pepper considers whether to hold this remarkable paper aloft right now, to wave it triumphantly underneath the steady stroke of the ceiling fan, or whether to keep it in its place, inside the folder marked
HARRIS
, for the private eye tracking somebody down for Mrs. Annabelle Dommerich. Somebody she must have known well, or at least well enough to be quite certain he (or she!) would never put down roots in the nation's heartland, far from the sea.

Of course, there are other letters. Pepper skims. They have all been arranged in chronological order, oldest to youngest, beginning in January of last year (now, when, exactly, did Mr. Dommerich ascend to the great tobacco shop in the sky?) and ending—Pepper licks her thumb and shuffles to the back of the folder, hoping and praying, because she could use a little excitement here—

November 6, 1966.

4.

“I'm going with you,” says Susan. Her bottom lip is fixed stubbornly beneath the upper.

Florian puts his hand on her arm. “Sue, you're much better off down here. I'll telephone and let you know how it goes.”

“But I can help!”

She gazes upward, and Pepper thinks, My God, you're better at this than I am, aren't you? The three of them are standing rather intimately in Florian's bedroom, neatly made, while Florian packs his toothbrush back into his overnight bag. He's already dressed for the ride, in a comfortable cotton shirt and dungarees, beaten-up loafers fitted snugly to his feet. Outside, the afternoon light is yellowing with age.