Authors: Andrew Williams
Their eyes met but her gaze fell almost at once, and to cover her confusion he asked: ‘Does your aunt dance well?’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her dance.’ Her eyes flitted up to his again. ‘But she’s with friends – she’s visiting the Sisters at the Sacred Heart Covent.’ She began to giggle like a schoolgirl and soon he was shaking with laughter too, her head resting against his shoulder.
It was a handsome apartment, paid for by her father but furnished to her aunt’s taste with dark Victorian pieces, potted plants and bad portraits of Laura’s immediate family. They had been executed to burnish the McDonnell name, she said, oil on canvas to cover the stain of poverty and famine. The maid took their coats and brought Wolff a whisky. They sat opposite each other by the drawing-room fire, the spell broken for a time as Laura spoke of her aunt’s concerns and their routine at home. Her aunt was a prisoner of her upbringing, poorly educated, with no appetite for books and very religious. ‘The perfect chaperone for Father’s daughter,’ she quipped. ‘But she’s wise enough to recognise that at twenty-three I know my own mind. She won’t support votes for women but is happy to help raise money for Clan na Gael, and we’ve held meetings here in the apartment.’
He nodded and sipped his whisky.
‘Were you in Baltimore to see the Germans?’ she enquired suddenly. Her voice shook and he wondered if she was afraid of her thoughts and anxious not to let the conversation flag.
‘So you know there are Germans in Baltimore?’
She laughed – ‘A quarter of the city, I believe.’ She laughed a good deal; it was one of the things he loved about her, but this time it sounded brittle. ‘And Captain Hinsch is one of them,’ she said.
‘You know Hinsch?’
‘Sometimes he’s mentioned by members of the committee.’
‘Yes, I saw Hinsch. It wasn’t a very useful meeting.’
‘I’m glad. I think it’s too dangerous – after the Rintelen affair. No good will come of it.’
‘But you’re ready to break the law by chaining yourself to the railings of the White House.’
‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, her hands turning restlessly in her lap. For a few seconds neither of them spoke and she avoided his gaze, nipping the corner of her mouth uncertainly. ‘Would you like to dance?’ she asked at last.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Laura, of course. Shall I?’
‘No, the phonograph’s here.’ Rising quickly, she stepped over to a tall cabinet in the corner of the room.
‘Allow me.’
‘No, no, I can manage.’
‘Father says it’s a good one,’ she said, lifting the top. ‘A diamond disc – although I don’t know what that means.’ Her hands were shaking so much that it took quite a time to slip the record on the turntable: ‘Silly me.’ Then she turned the handle at the side of the cabinet and dropped the needle on the disc, wincing at the thump and crackle of protest. ‘Sorry.’
He had risen, and now he walked towards her. ‘A waltz, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not very good.’
‘Nor am I.’
He offered her his hand and she took it, her eyes fixed on his white tie. He stepped closer, placing his other hand at her waist: ‘one, two, three’ – and they were off, waltzing stiffly; one turn and two turns, and – three – and – four, and he could feel her relaxing and relief in the music – and growing elation in the warmth and their movement. They danced the length of the disc without speaking and when it was over he dropped his hands as he knew he should. She looked at him and smiled with more confidence. ‘You
are
good.’
‘So are you,’ he said.
‘Do you think you could manage . . .?’
‘Yes.’
So they danced again, closer, wearing away the hideous purple rug, dizzy with excitement, certain enough now to look each other in the eye; sweeping round in a cloud of perfume and to the rustle of her satin dress, the chandelier too bright but her hair lustrous in its light: drunk, cavalier, forgetful. This time when the music stopped he didn’t release her hand but bent to brush it with his lips.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She raised heavy-lidded eyes to his, a small frown at her brow: ‘You can kiss me, if you like’ – and he did.
When he finished, his forehead resting against hers, she smiled happily and whispered, ‘Don’t stop.’ And he bent to her again, holding her close, arm about her shoulders, her hair brushing his cheek, soft lips quivering with desire – with love.
In the corner of the room, the
tissh
,
tissh
spitting of the phonograph disc, like a limping timepiece.
‘I love you,’ he said when they broke apart.
‘Do you?’ she asked, her eyes glittering with a film of moisture.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad because I love you.’
They stood there, silent, content, her head against his cheek and his mind empty of anything more than his feelings for her. Then she said, ‘I’m so happy, Jan. So many good things have happened today;’ and he was suddenly afraid of something in her voice, the promise of a confidence. He kissed and stroked her hair but said nothing.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’ She was a little hurt, lifting her head from his shoulder to gaze up at his face. ‘I want to tell someone, you see—’
‘If it’s Clan
business, you shouldn’t,’ he interrupted, bending to silence her with a rough kiss – and for a time she let him.
‘But it’s important. I want you to . . . I only heard today – and you’re Sir Roger’s friend,’ she persisted. ‘It’s to be Easter, you see. It’s decided – and Roger will be there – with guns.’ She smiled, craning up to kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘Do you remember what you said the day we met? You spoke to the Clan, and you said it was time to prove we had the guts to do more than sing about dying for Ireland. Aren’t you pleased we’re going to at last?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘You don’t look pleased. Please be happy – this is what we’ve been hoping for – freedom at last.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he kissed her forehead, ‘it is wonderful news. I’m just anxious for Roger, that’s all. It won’t be easy, even if the people rise together against the British.’
‘I know, but it
is
something to celebrate, isn’t it?’
Something fine, he said, but a sad cold wave was washing through him. In an effort to suppress it he kissed her hair and her cheek and her neck, holding her very close, until with trembling breath and parted lips she turned her face, and he kissed her passionately, deeply, with all the love he felt for her.
Why? Why did you speak of it?
She was still trembling when they broke apart and he said in a broken whisper, ‘I must go
.
’
She squeezed him tighter, clinging to him as one who has known little, perhaps nothing, of men. Eyes firmly shut, stroking her hair, for a while he couldn’t speak as sad, cutting thoughts waltzed round his head to the
tissh, tissh, tissh
of the diamond disc phonograph.
Why did you tell me?
But to even ask was another lie. The blame was his alone. She trusted de Witt – she loved him.
‘I must go,’ he said with more determination. She spoke but it was barely a whisper, and her words were lost at his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .’ he said, pulling away to examine her face.
Her large eyes lifted shyly then dropped. ‘You don’t have to go. You can stay,’ she said.
‘Your aunt will be home, and . . .’ he understood and was afraid for her. ‘I . . . I think I should leave,’ he stammered.
‘Would you like to make love to me?’ She turned her face up with
I can, I will
eyes, and he felt a frisson of desire and at the same moment guilt that she was offering her love for the first time to a man like him.
Tissh, tissh, tissh,
the revolving phonograph, as if possessed by the spirit of her maiden aunt, and Laura looked down, disconcerted that he hadn’t spoken or kissed her. ‘You can, it’s all right – I love you,’ she whispered.
‘I love you, Laura,’ he said with quiet sincerity. ‘Please believe me – that’s why I’m going to leave.’ He bent to kiss her but she’d turned her face away, pulling from him, hurt and perhaps a little ashamed.
‘You’re very beautiful and I want you,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’ but he couldn’t think how to explain. ‘I love you,’ he said again, but this time it sounded like an excuse.
‘I’m glad. I love you too,’ she declared brusquely, her back turned as she lifted the needle from the disc.
And now she wanted him to leave at once. ‘I’m sorry. I do love you,’ he said again in the hall, his coat over his arm.
‘Why are you sorry? There’s no reason to be,’ she said, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.
‘Yes, there are many reasons why I should be sorry,’ he said bitterly; ‘but it doesn’t matter now . . . it’s gone, done . . .’
‘No. How can you say so?’ and she stepped forward, laying her hand upon his arm. ‘It’s just pride’ – and she lifted her eyes to his face and blushed. ‘What a hussy you must think me.’
‘You’re surprising, beautiful, clever and I want you very much – I love you,’ he repeated, drawing her close. ‘Please kiss me.’
Standing across the road from her apartment, gazing at her lighted windows, he could still taste that last kiss, smell and feel her pressed to him; and when for a moment he shut his eyes she was beckoning him back to be her lover. He stood in the empty street, the railings and the sidewalk were white with frost, his coat open, head bare, the cold pricking his face and hands. He was lonely, he hurt and he hated himself even more, though he knew he’d done the right thing for once; just too late.
There was a taxicab at the end of the street but he wanted to walk, striding out in his best shoes, slipping, almost falling, too angry to care. By the time he reached the Albemarle Hotel it was midnight.
Wiseman answered his door in slippers and a silk dressing gown, its pocket sagging with the weight of a revolver. Raising an eyebrow, he enquired with his customary composure, ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow? You did take care, didn’t you? They keep a pretty close eye on me here.’
Wolff hadn’t taken the trouble he should have.
‘Another drink?’ Wiseman asked, gazing pointedly at his tie and tails. ‘Whisky, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
Wiseman brandished the decanter. ‘You don’t mind if I . . .’ and poured himself a glass. ‘Sit down.’
‘No.’ Wolff took a deep breath. ‘There’s something you should know.’
‘You’re a bit out of sorts, I can see that. Are you in some sort of difficulty?’
‘I haven’t murdered anyone else, if that’s what you mean,’ he gave a bitter little laugh, ‘yet.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Wiseman replied quietly. ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’ and he indicated the couch opposite with his glass.
Wolff shook his head impatiently. He was standing with his back to the door, tapping his hat against his leg. ‘There’s going to be a rebellion in Ireland – at Easter.’ He spoke hurriedly and mechanically like someone repeating instructions. ‘Not sure of the precise date – perhaps Easter Sunday – don’t know – there will be German guns – don’t know when they’ll be landed – Casement will be part of it – not sure how much of a part – there are difficulties between him and the Clan and the leaders in Dublin. How good is my source? Good.’ He took another deep breath. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’
Wiseman had listened with the faintly superior air of a university don coaxing a temperamental undergraduate with nods and smiles. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘They aren’t trying to smoke you out?’
‘They – whom do you mean?’ he snapped.
‘The Irish, the Clan, or the Germans – perhaps they fed her this information to test her, or you, or both of you.’
‘You know then?’
Wiseman acknowledged it with a slight nod.
‘No, it’s true,’ he said, wearily. He’d said what he had to say and he didn’t honestly care whether anyone believed him.
‘I see,’ Wiseman drawled, leaning forward, elbow on his knee and chin on his knuckles like Rodin’s
Thinker
. ‘Do you think you can learn more?’
‘No, and please don’t ask me to try.’
‘It must have been a difficult evening for you,’ Wiseman observed politely.
‘It was fine,’ he lied.
‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘I’m sure. Look, there’s no reason for me to stay in New York, is there?’
‘Do you want to go to Baltimore?’
‘I don’t know – yes – somewhere.’
Wiseman considered this for a moment, sipping his whisky. ‘Perhaps Baltimore is best.’ Then, in his soapiest voice, ‘You’ve done well, old boy. I don’t have to tell you how important this might be. I know you’re tired – go home. Rest.’
Wolff left him to encipher his signal to London. Task complete, Wiseman may have gone back to his bed and was perhaps still sleeping the sleep of the righteous when, at daybreak, Wolff caught his train to Baltimore.
F
ROM THE SINGLE
grimy window of Thwaites’ hotel room it was just possible to see the tips of the cranes on the south side of the harbour.
‘Better not to be too close, I hope you agree,’ he said, sweeping newspapers and an edition of Tacitus’
Histories
from his bed. He had signed in as
Schmidt
and was dressed in a sack suit like a travelling salesman. His runners were staying at a flophouse on the south side, in spitting distance of Hinsch’s ship, the
Neckar
.
‘That Masek’s a taskmaster.’ The bed springs groaned as Thwaites perched at its edge. ‘His people hate the Germans, you know, which is all the better for us. Why don’t you settle in, then we can go over there.’
Wolff was on the same corridor. The room was damp and smelt of stale smoke and the window wouldn’t close. He inspected himself in the spotted mirror above the basin. His eyes were red rimmed so he bathed them in cold water. Then he changed into an old pea coat and boots. They left the hotel separately and took separate cabs to Locust Point. Masek met them in a dark little basement bar a few streets from the Norddeutscher Lloyd dock. The owner was also a Czech, he informed them, and for the right price could be trusted to hate Prussians too. Their host brought strong black tea and they sipped it and listened to Masek’s report of comings and goings to the ship.