by Xavier Mayne
She rose uncertainly to her feet, and for the first time Bryce noticed how frail she was. What came out of her mouth was pure piss and vinegar, but standing she looked to be ninety pounds of ancient brittleness. Bryce rounded the table and put out his elbow. Mags regarded it poisonously.
“Do you think, you insolent puke,” she growled, “that I am incapable of making my own way?”
He took her arm and wrapped his around it. “Far from it, you bitter old coot,” he replied in the sycophantic tone one would use with a hated elderly relative who, though terminal, still possessed the strength to change her will. “I think you could tumble your way to a broken hip all by yourself. But let’s spare Nestor the spectacle, shall we? He’s a bit delicate.”
She winked at him and fell into step, and they made their way to the elevator, up one deck, and to the bar at the aft of the ship. There, under a steady rain of bourbon, she told them her tale.
“I grew up in the time between the Great Wars,” she began. “England had been blasted out of its innocence—trench warfare will do that to you—and what was scandalous a generation ago suddenly seemed rather quaint. Oscar Wilde had done two years at hard labor for poking some urchins at the turn of the century, and now our boys in uniform were coming back from France, where they’d passed the time between German artillery salvos by having at the other boys in uniform. It’s one thing to jail a dandy for his dalliances, but to tell men who’ve seen death and destruction that they shouldn’t be allowed to fuck each other if it pleases them… well.” She tossed back a shot of bourbon, looked for the next. It came immediately.
“By the time it was clear Hitler wasn’t going to be content with just Austria and Poland and Czechoslovakia and the rest but wanted to yank the sword from the stone and make England kneel, I was old enough to go to war. And I did. My two brothers and I enlisted as soon as the call came, and off we went. They were killed in the opening weeks of the war, before I ever got to see them again.” Mags’s voice graveled away to a hoarse whisper, as if the edges of sadness had been blunted but not worn smooth. “Those two were the only people in my life who had accepted me for what I was, and Hitler took them from me.” Her eyes glittered with tears that she refused to let fall. “Well,” she said, once the veil of sadness had lifted, “we know how that worked out for him. I flew hundreds of sorties over France, over Belgium, over the Vaterland itself. And every bomb I dropped I prayed would find one of the soldiers who had killed my brothers.
“We sons of Britain returned victorious, again. But what we found at home was a society that had turned American. Puritans ruled the day, and even the meager freedom we had enjoyed between the wars was stamped out in favor of a new, manlier England. I had looked death in the eye every day to defend this country and was welcomed home with renewed sodomy laws and moral outrage over whom I chose to love. Well, as the kids say today, fuck that.”
Bryce and Nestor tittered with delight.
“The last straw came on the first anniversary of the peace. There was a parade, of course, to allow those who didn’t fight to wave their flags and sing along to ‘God Save the King’ and imagine they had had a hand in turning Hitler back. I marched, because I had not yet learned what my country had become. After the parade we retired to the local to have a drink with those of my mates who had returned home with their faculties intact, and in the back of the pub I was reunited, quite by chance, with the love of my life. He wasn’t the love of my life yet, of course. We’d known each other only briefly during the war, actually just a few weekends in Paris during which we exchanged a great many things but not names. That’s how it was then, between soldiers. We didn’t indulge in the muck of sappy romance, calling out each other’s names as we pounded away. But in those weekends, I saw enough of him, in his unguarded moments, to know he was special. As we said good-bye on our last weekend, I resolved that the next time we saw each other, I would tell him how I truly felt, and we’d find a way to be together, even if it meant we had to run away. The next week his plane went down over Dresden. Until that moment in the pub, I didn’t know if he was alive or dead.”
“Oh, how romantic!” Bryce gushed. “The drama of wartime assignations. When all’s quiet on the front, the action is in the rear.”
Mags chuckled. “You have a way with words, pigeon. Now, where was I? Right. The pub, after the parade. Well, we wasted no time getting reacquainted.”
“Right there among all of the other soldiers?” Bryce was aghast, but intrigued.
“One thing you should know about men who have faced death together. They care only about living to see another day with the ones they love. In that room, among those men, with ‘Rule, Britannia’ echoing in our ears, it mattered not a whit when I kissed the man I thought I’d lost forever. Some of them may have looked away, but not one of them raised a voice to keep us from being happily reunited. No, it was what happened after, on our way home, that changed everything.”
Mags picked up her next bourbon and held it to the light, swirling it a bit as if catching the right angle might show her the past. Then she slugged it down and waved for the next.
“We left the pub, he and me, and as it was just past closing time, we were arm in arm, mostly to keep each other upright but also because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. All we wanted was to get to my bachelor room off Piccadilly and pick up where we’d left off. We didn’t hear them approach from behind.”
Both Bryce and Nestor gasped at this sudden ominous turn.
“It was a lead pipe, I found out later,” Mags said, staring into her newly arrived bourbon. “It didn’t even make a noise when it hit my skull. I remember falling forward as if off a cliff, and then all was blackness. When I awoke, I was lying on the pavement, most of my teeth scattered around me, a pool of blood congealing on my face. He lay next to me, and for what seemed like eternity, I waited to see his chest rise. There was no sense getting up and facing life if he wasn’t going to be a part of it. Finally he took in a halting, wheezing breath, and I knew he was going to be okay. If he survived Nazi captivity, he could certainly overcome a cowardly assault on the street. And so could I. I hauled myself to my hands and knees and found it can be devilish hard to draw breath when one’s ribs have punctured both lungs. I called for help, but none came, not until a newsboy delivering the first edition of the day’s papers happened by and screamed bloody murder—we must have looked quite a sight. Finally an ambulance came, and only then the police, but no one was at all interested in trying to find out who did this to us. They felt we deserved it, I could see it in their eyes.”
She fell silent, staring at her bourbon.
“Oh, Mags,” Bryce whimpered, eyes full of tears. “What did you do?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “We did what we had to.” She swirled her bourbon, took a sip. “He and I committed ourselves that night, in the hospital, to each other. And we committed ourselves to doing whatever we must to carve out a place for our life together. We could either flee our homes and find a foreign shore that would allow us to be together—as if such a place existed in the forties—or find a way to be accepted. And so, as soon as we were released from hospital, we moved away to a village in the far north, and from the day we arrived there we were Harold and Mags, longtime sweethearts who had been married in Paris as soon as the war ended. And everyone accepted us, just like that. Which was astonishing, as I was rubbish at wearing a dress, at least at first. But people see what they expect to see, and they saw us as man and wife. We became part of village life, opened a little shop, had the occasional tea on Sunday in the vicarage. Every few weeks we’d take the train down to London, where no one knew us anymore, and find a few boys to knock about with. As the years went on, our trips to the city became fewer and fewer, and we found—to our great surprise—that we quite enjoyed being settled into village life. By the time it was safe to ‘come out of the closet,’ mine was full of dresses, and I couldn’t work myself up for making a fuss. I came to enjoy the biweek
ly meetings of the garden club almost as much as picking up a sailor for a sweaty, dangerous weekend.”
Bryce gasped.
“Almost as much, you ninny,” Mags scolded. “I’ll have you know I could still take on any seaman that might cross my path, well into my eighth decade.”
“Good for you, dear,” Bryce replied, relieved to hear that the desire to wrestle sailors never truly fades.
“We had a great many wonderful years, Harold and I. He passed on three years ago this weekend. Now, don’t start up the waterworks again, you lily-livered fops,” Mags warned. “We had over sixty years of wedded bliss, and it was his time. I’ve gone to Paris every year, to the places we first met, to remember him. And to have some time alone, which I guarantee myself by being as prickly as possible so no one dares to approach me unless he’s bearing bourbon. Unfortunately, on this trip fate spoiled my plans and deposited these two empty-headed natterers at my table.”
“Thank you, dear,” Bryce replied warmly. “We’ve enjoyed it as much as you have.”
“Now, it’s nearly midnight, and I’m a frail old lady. But you are still in the blush of youth, and I daresay those two waiters haven’t taken their eyes off of you all night.”
Bryce turned to see a couple of black-aproned busboys looking their way. They immediately blushed at being noticed but did not look away. Bryce swung back to Mags. “You know, you may be right.”
“I can see a hungry sailor at a hundred paces.”
“But as fetching as those morsels are, we would be remiss if we didn’t see you safely to your cabin first. Your poor old heart’s pumping more bourbon than blood at this point.”
“My dear Bryce….” Mags replied, her voice soft and low.
He leaned close to hear.
“Fuck. Off.” She snarled theatrically and once again the battle-ax of her laugh chopped the air. “I’ve gotten by for nearly a century without your help, and I promise you I will somehow be able to find my way to bed. You must, however, swear on your honor that you will meet me for breakfast and give me every detail.”
“My honor!” Bryce hooted. “You are a minx.”
“It will be our pleasure to break the fast with you,” Nestor murmured suavely, taking Mags’s hand and kissing it.
“My goodness,” Mags cried with a laugh. “Who knew this old broad could still get a boner so quickly.”
Nestor beamed.
“Now off with you before I change my mind and drag this one down to my cabin.” Mags lifted Nestor’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly.
“Come, darling,” Bryce said, rising. “Let us do to those boys all the things that Mags will enjoy hearing about over crumpets come morning.” He looked at her with a smile. “Any special requests?”
Mags smiled mysteriously, then beckoned Nestor to lean down. She whispered something into his ear. Nestor’s eyes bulged wide, but he swallowed hard and nodded to the old woman.
As they walked toward the still-smiling busboys, Bryce whispered, “What did she say?”
Nestor shrugged. “The words, they are too… much. I show you,” he replied with a sly smile.
Bryce giggled. “See that you do.”
Evening, at sea
DONNELLY SAT at his table, the one by the window, counting the seconds as the hands of his watch ticked toward 8:00 p.m. The long hand and the second hand had just rendezvoused at the twelve when the maître d’ appeared with Imre beside him.
“Your guest, Mister Donnelly,” the tuxedoed man said with a bow.
“Thank you,” Donnelly replied, which sounded ridiculous, as if he’d been brought an appetizer.
Imre sat in the chair the maître d’ pulled out for him.
“They are awfully formal here,” Donnelly said apologetically.
“What else would one expect?” Imre replied, glancing around the strenuously tasteful room. “This is where the very wealthy come to spend their great-grandchildren’s inheritance. And then there’s Gabriel.” He looked across the table with an amused expression.
In the golden light of the restaurant, Imre’s smile glowed, his eyes sparkled. Donnelly, working a case, hadn’t expected to see him this way. He wasn’t sure he liked how it made him feel and sought refuge in looking down at the tablecloth, warmth in his cheeks. Diplomats, he reminded himself, trade on charm as much as linguistic or political acumen. And Imre was nothing if not charming.
“I don’t exactly fit in here?” he asked with an ironic roll of his eyes.
“Quite the opposite, actually. You’re very much at home in a room full of beautiful things.”
Even an undercover operative as accomplished as Donnelly could not have willed his cheeks to pink up as brilliantly as they did under the onslaught of Imre’s flattery. He hoped Imre would interpret his downward glance as graceful humility rather than the shame it was. Luckily, the waiter arrived at that moment to save him.
“Good evening, Mister Donnelly, Mr. Romanov,” he said in a low, velvet voice. “Shall I bring you your customary?” He glanced at Donnelly expectantly.
“Yes, please,” Donnelly replied, already feeling the cold gin and tonic in his hand. He would appreciate something to hold on to.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same, thank you.”
The waiter nodded and glided away.
“You don’t even want to know what it is before you order it?” Donnelly asked.
Imre shook his head. “If you like it, that’s good enough for me.”
“But what if you’re allergic to gin?”
“One simply cannot be in the employ of the British government and not drink gin.”
Donnelly seized this opening, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table—which he predicted would convey reckless interest to someone accustomed to dining with ambassadors. “What’s it like, working for the embassy? Have you met the Queen?”
Imre smiled. “It’s mostly a lot of paperwork, and yes.”
“Wow. That must have been amazing.”
“The paperwork?”
“No,” Donnelly said, playfully slapping across the table at Imre’s arm. It was something he would have done to Brandt to stop him teasing. That it was not Ethan across the table should have made Donnelly sad, but instead it made him even more determined to be successful in this investigation. “The Queen. What’s she like?”
“She’s like the nation’s stern grandmother. You know she loves you, but you get the sense she’s always thinking you might have done just a bit better.”
“I never knew my grandmothers,” Donnelly said, a genuine sadness creeping into his voice. “The women in my father’s family all seem to have died young, generation after generation, and my mother’s mother never wanted much to do with us after my brother….” He stopped, having said more than he intended. Luckily their drinks arrived before he had to try to talk his way out of that very personal cul de sac.
“God save the Queen,” Donnelly said, holding his gin and tonic aloft.
“I’ll be sure to mention you were thinking of her,” Imre said as he touched the rim of his glass to Donnelly’s. He sipped, then set his drink down and folded his hands on the table. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Donnelly replied as he plotted his next move to elicit information about the missing pouch. But he didn’t get a chance.
“Your brother, then,” Imre said lightly. “Bit of a black sheep, is he?”
Shit. Donnelly tried to conjure up a fictional brother who, for the purposes of this conversation, had a bad habit of stealing the occasional car or getting into fistfights. But then he realized he was profiling a video game character, and saw immediately that he wouldn’t be able to keep it up. So instead, unexpectedly, he told the truth.
“He wasn’t a black sheep to people who knew him. The people who matter.” He took a deep breath and a healthy swallow of his drink and forged ahead. “He was a soldier and a scholar and the best man I knew growing up. He was ki
lled in Afghanistan by an IED, after a couple of tours in which he saved many more people than he hurt. He was my hero. But he was gay, and that’s all my mother and her batshit conservative family cared about. From the time he came out to them, all he got was hellfire and damnation.”
He looked up at Imre, whose image had started to blur. Donnelly wiped his eyes. “So I think I will adopt your Elizabeth II as my new grandmother and be much better off for it.”
He blinked hard and only then realized that Imre’s eyebrows were peaked in sympathy.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, barely above the sophisticated din of the dining room. “What an awful thing to have happen.” He reached out his hand and put it on Donnelly’s. “I am so sorry.”
This was the part of investigative subterfuge Donnelly hated most. In order to be convincing, he tended to hew as closely as possible to the truth; it kept him from having to make everything up out of whole cloth and reduced the chance that he would be caught out in an inconsistency. But having told Imre something real—and emotionally raw—he allowed him the opportunity to offer real sympathy. The goal had been for Donnelly to prompt him to talk about his grandfather, but now that they had shared this moment of real connection, he wasn’t sure he could get that opportunity back. He had to try.
“I think I’d have preferred the benign neglect you enjoyed from your grandfather over passive-aggressive birthday cards with a cake on the front and a message of eternal damnation on the inside.”
“I’d have loved to get something from his own hand, even if it just told me to fuck off,” Imre said, then slugged back his drink. The waiter arrived immediately, and Imre gratefully nodded at the unspoken offer of another. “He’s never once sent me a personal note of any kind.”
“Then why—if you don’t mind me asking—did he get in touch with you at all?”