by Sophie Davis
“Olivia,” Eisenhower called out as he stepped behind the podium at the front of the room where he stood to deliver his lectures. His gold and blue Hyeres FC mug was in the cup holder of the lectern, undoubtedly holding the historian’s ever-present jasmine tea.
A soft whirring sound caught my attention and I looked up just in time to see Eisenhower’s droid gliding towards us, revived by her wake word. Olivia’s presence was as constant as his tea.
Each time we crammed with Eisenhower, Olivia was dressed in clothes that reflected the time period we were studying. Today was no different. Her drop-waist, tunic-style dress was blue with white polka dots. The hem hung just below her pale stocking-clad knees, and several inches of sheer fabric hung down longer than the slip underneath. Though the dress was downright dowdy for our time, the effect was considered risqué in the twenties, particularly when compared to its fashion predecessors.
Long strands of pearls were looped around Olivia’s neck and one perfectly round pearl earring dangled from each of her ears. Her light brown hair was also styled for the period, in the finger waves the 1920s were known for. Brown Mary Janes with a small stacked heel completed her outfit.
“Good morning Miss Stassi. Good morning Mr. Koppelman. May I procure a beverage for you before Historian Eisenhower begins the day’s lecture?” Olivia asked. Her voice was cool and detached, touched with a faint French accent. Per usual, she then repeated the question in flawless French.
“Coffee, please,” I answered.
“Une café, s'il vous plait,” she corrected.
Knowing that she would refuse to continue her task until I did, I dutifully echoed the words. Olivia’s painted red lips curved slightly upwards into her version of a smile. Given his specialty, Eisenhower was also the one who conducted the French language courses. Naturally, his bot was programmed to aid our proficiency.
“Your pronunciation is coming along nicely, Stassi 2446-89.”
“Merci beaucoup,” I replied.
“And for you, Mr. Koppelman?” she asked, turning her entire body to face my partner.
“Ditto,” he said.
For a moment, the droid simply stared. I pictured gears turning inside of her head as she tried to puzzle out the translation for “ditto”. Of course there weren’t actually gears beneath Olivia’s synthetic skin, since she was a modern creation and not something from a steampunk novel, but it was a fun visual.
“Mr. Koppelman, the term you speak of has no literal translation. In American English, ‘ditto’ is used colloquially to agree with something another individual has just said or to convey that your wishes or feelings are in accordance with those of another individual. Is this to mean that you, too, wish to say: ‘Une café, s’il vous plait’?”
Gaige grinned. “Oui.”
Historian Eisenhower cleared his throat loudly and tapped the lectern with his laser pointer.
“Mr. Koppelman, I have asked you many times—please do not deliberately confuse her.” To the droid, he said, “Carry on, Olivia. Thank you.”
The humanoid’s electronic parts whirred faintly as she turned and nodded to her boss.
“As you wish, Historian.”
She briskly set off for the open door behind Eisenhower to fulfill her task. In the back were a kitchen, the historian’s personal study, and a room for a selection of clothing from the wardrobing department.
Not one to waste time, the historian set down his mug and set to business.
“I trust you both have studied the assignment dossier?” he began. Without waiting for a response, Eisenhower continued. “What can you tell me about your primary asset for this run?”
“Andre Rosenthal was a gifted and well-known writer from the twentieth century,” Gaige said, quoting verbatim the first line of the author’s bio.
“Yes, yes, what else?” Eisenhower made a hurry-it-along gesture with his hand.
“His works didn’t reach their height of popularity until after Rosenthal’s death in 1967,” I piped in. “In fact, only four of his novels were published while he was alive. The most critically acclaimed books—those that rendered him one of the era’s most influential writers—were actually found after he passed away, and purchased by Dabber and Baehr Publishing at the estate auction. With the consent of his niece, the house published the novels posthumously.”
Gaige scowled at me. “Suck up,” he muttered.
“Very good, Stassi.” Eisenhower narrowed his muddy brown eyes at my partner. “Now, Mr. Koppelman, maybe you could explain why the target manuscript, Blue’s Canyon, was never found among his possessions?”
“Yes, sir. Blue’s Canyon was thought to be his magnum opus, but the manuscript was never found. Some believe that the existence of Blue’s Canyon was nothing more than a rumor propagated by Rosenthal himself,” Gaige began, emphasizing the novel’s working title to show he was paying attention.
Our teacher smiled and nodded, sipping his tea. That was high praise coming from Eisenhower.
“Editing notes that were found in Rosenthal’s home hinted that he did in fact complete the book,” Gaige continued, spurred on by the approval. “But the location has remained a mystery since the writer’s death.”
As Gaige explained Rosenthal’s famous paranoia and his relationships with other notable authors of the day, Olivia whirled back into the room. A serving tray was perched atop one robotic hand, holding two china mugs, a French press, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. She placed one cup and saucer in front of me, poured the coffee, and then offered me the creamer and sugar. As I dumped enough of both condiments into my cup to all but obliterate the bold, rich flavors of the beans, she poured Gaige’s coffee.
“Merci,” Gaige and I said in unison.
Eisenhower didn’t allow our translation chips in his classroom, so when Olivia responded in rapid French, it went in one ear and out the other.
“Thank you, Olivia, that will be all for now,” the historian told her in English.
The droid retreated through the open doorway to wait until she was summoned again.
“Stassi,” Eisenhower began, his tone a warning of the Socratic method portion of our lecture coming my way. “Why do we believe the complete manuscript may be found in Paris in the year 1925?”
“In a Parisian newspaper’s interview of Rosenthal in March of 1925, he was quoted as saying: ‘This is a time of extravagance and excess. The art, music, literature and fashion are all exceptional. Here in Paris, society is celebrating. To not document my days spent among those who have shaped and influenced the culture of this age would be a great disservice, not to mention a blatant snub. The manuscript is in its final stages and I am proud of it thus far. In fact, Blue’s Canyon is my finest work to date.’
“Finally,” I concluded, returning my gaze to the historian, “We believe we can find a version of the complete manuscript then because the editing notes found in his home span from 1921 to 1925.”
“It is so refreshing to see how seriously you both are taking this assignment,” Eisenhower said with a genuine smile.
And on it went.
After we’d talked ourselves hoarse, Eisenhower dimmed the overhead lights and flipped several switches. Behind him, the enormous digital screen came to life. A headshot of Rosenthal that was taken in 1925 emerged, the same one on the first screen of the dossier for this mission. He was twenty-five at the time.
Eisenhower clicked the handheld controller several times, and the daunting cast of characters appeared, arranged in a circle around Rosenthal. Red lines connected his picture with those of the century’s most influential minds: Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, Alice Toklas, Sylvia Beach, Adrienne Monnier, Carmen D’Angelo, Ernest Hemingway and his wife Hadley. And those were just the primaries.
With a click of Eisenhower’s finger, a second, larger circle of photos ringed the first. Blue dotted lines darted out from it like broken spokes of a wheel. These connected Rosenthal to indivi
duals who orbited the inner sphere of influence, but only played a minor role in his life. Green lines made connections between the entire cast of supporting characters.
Directing his finger beam at each in turn, Eisenhower began the lecture portion of our prep session. While he filled in the gaps that our brief dossier had left behind, Gaige and I furiously tapped notes into our tablets like good little pupils.
A helpful bit of information that was absent from our original mission specifics was the name of an alchemist whose main duty it was to socialize with noteworthy people of the time.
“Ines Callandries.” Eisenhower indicated a severe looking woman in the outer ring on the digi-board. “She is known to Rosenthal and will be able to make introductions. However,” he held up a finger, warning us not to become too excited by this news, “Ms. Callandries is little more than a background fixture in these individual’s lives. Do not expect her to do your job for you. She is available to facilitate your integration into society, nothing more.”
By lunchtime, Historian Eisenhower seemed satisfied that we had a solid foundation where the people of the time were concerned. He called Olivia’s name and she immediately came to life.
“I believe today’s will be a working lunch, Olivia,” Eisenhower told her. “Would you please be so kind as to serve the meal you prepared?”
“Oui, monsieur,” she replied dutifully and disappeared into the kitchen area.
When she returned, Olivia carried trays with mini ham and Brie baguettes, roasted beet and goat cheese salads served atop endive wedges, and cups of strawberries in heavy whipping cream for dessert. While we dined on the decadent foods common in Paris during our target time, Historian Eisenhower pushed onward.
The screen in the front of the room switched from a collage of faces to a collage of places. Rosenthal’s picture was still in the middle, but the surrounding images were of locations, accompanied by addresses: Stein’s salon at 27 rue de Fleurus, Shakespeare and Company on rue de l’Odeon, and various cafés in Montparnasse. The latter were the haunts that Rosenthal and his set were known to visit for drinks and lively discussions on everything from their crafts to social issues of the day. The historian cited the significance of each place in turn, highlighting when we’d be most likely to find the asset there.
“Can you tell us where Rosenthal will be on Thursday evening?” Gaige asked. “Do we have a schedule for him that day? I see Friday and other sporadic dates in our spec sheets, but is there anything on the 26th of March? I think we should attempt contact as soon as possible, are you cool with that, Stass?”
He was asking because we normally spent a day acclimating to the period and new location. Since we’d been to Paris before, we didn’t need the full twenty-four hour adjustment period.
“That sounds good to me,” I replied with a shrug. “We should aim for Thursday night.”
Eisenhower closed his eyes, attempting to recall the information from memory. Apparently it wasn’t coming to him, because his eyes popped open with a look of annoyance.
“Bob!” he shouted.
A round object zoomed through the air from the doorway at the front of the room.
“How many I be of assistance, sir?” Bob-the-drone asked in a mechanical voice. As he spoke, the lights on one side of his round body came to life and the words appeared in text on his display screen.
“Please fetch me a book that gives us information on Andre Rosenthal’s whereabouts on March 26, 1925,” Eisenhower commanded.
“Yes, sir. I shall return momentarily.”
The drone’s internal database held the location of every book in the library, among other things. He was programmed to respond to voice commands such as the one Eisenhower had just given him.
Bob whizzed to the back of the classroom, then hovered in place while the bookshelf door slid open. Three minutes later, Bob returned with the diary of Rosenthal’s part-time love interest, Carmen D’Angelo, clutched in his metal graspers. After delivering the book to the lectern, the graspers retracted and Bob hovered to one side while awaiting further instruction.
The historian flipped to the table of contents, slid an index finger down the column of words until he found what he was looking for and turned to the appropriate page. After reading for a minute, Eisenhower snapped the book closed and held it up in the air for the drone to take.
“Bob, return this to the shelf, please,” he commanded.
“Yes, sir,” the drone replied, disappearing to do the historian’s bidding.
“The answer to your question is quite fortuitous,” Eisenhower said to us. “The Great Gatsby was published in early March 1925. Fitzgerald returned to Paris shortly before you will be arriving to celebrate the release with his friends and colleagues. It just so happens that Gertrude Stein is hosting a party in his honor on March 26th. It is themed and will be held at an American-style speakeasy as a nod to the book’s setting. From what I gather, the event is not a private one, so you will not need an invitation.”
“I do love a good book release party,” Gaige said with a grin.
“I’m so glad,” the historian replied drolly. “Hopefully you will enjoy reading the novel between now and then just as much.”
“Maybe we should stick with Friday,” my partner grumbled.
With a look that silenced Gaige, the historian continued on with the lecture. I made a note on my task list to download Gatsby.
After two more hours of tapping away on the beam keyboard, my feet were asleep and my fingertips ached. Thankfully, Eisenhower paused to summon the drone for a second time—I needed the reprieve. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my legs and watched as he commanded his electronic minions.
“Bob, please fetch Sybil, Charice, Jesma, Claud, Brian, and Jonathon. Olivia, please prepare them for the wardrobing portion of today’s session.”
The names Eisenhower had listed were other droids. Apparently, the whole gang was coming by for a visit.
“We have one more area to cover,” Eisenhower continued, speaking again to Gaige and me. “Then we shall take a brief dinner break before the exam. While we wait, let’s go over your plan for integration.”
His gaze fell on me, and I took that as my cue.
“Yes, sir. Since we are advancing the timeline, we will make an appearance at Fitzgerald’s release party on Thursday night. Hopefully, this will get them all used to our presence in the background. I think we should wait and analyze the situation before we decide whether or not to make the initial contact with Rosenthal that night. Since others in his circle are more open to meeting outsiders, it might be best to become acquainted with those individuals first,” I explained, adjusting in my chair to a more comfortable position. “I think we have a better shot at gaining Rosenthal’s trust if we don’t direct our attention at him, initially.”
“From there, we will secure an invite to one of the parties that Stein holds every Saturday,” Gaige chimed in. “If it happens organically at the book party, great. If not, we can always have one procured through the customs station. Either way, we will approach Rosenthal directly at Stein’s. The goal is to casually befriend him. Depending on which of us he seems more taken with, the other will continue with infiltrating his circle. The more we’re seen out and about with these people, the more Rosenthal will let his guard down. If all goes according to plan, we will eventually learn the location information we need from both the writer and his friends over time. Then wham, bam, copy it, ma’am.”
Eisenhower took several uncomfortable moments to weigh our proposal. If he vetoed the strategy, we’d be screwed. I honestly couldn’t think of another way to broach this run. Time and patience were going to be key.
“Not bad,” the historian finally said. “Be prepared, though, Stassi—Gaige is more likely to be accepted by the writing crowd. There’s a lot of machismo there, particularly from Hemingway.”
With Eisenhower’s help, we refined our plan and developed our cover story. We were going to be siblings fro
m Baltimore with too much time and too much money—just another pair of socialites fascinated with the cultural crowd. The artists back then were always looking for benefactors, so it stood to reason a couple of young shipping heirs would be welcomed among them.
“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait,” Olivia said, peeking her head out from the back room. “Nous sommes pets si vous l’etes.”
“Gaige, Stassi, is there anything else we need to go over” Eisenhower asked. Gaige and I both shook our heads, and the historian looked back to Olivia. “We are ready, as well.”
The lights dimmed even further, and quiet jazz music began playing through unseen speakers. A large spotlight appeared, following Olivia as she glided the length of the room. She’d swapped her polka-dot dress for a pink one with two rows of buttons down the front and a lace collar. A black bell-shaped hat with a white flower covered her finger waves.
“This style is called a cloche,” Eisenhower informed us, using his laser finger beam to indicate the hat. While she continued walking, he explained the role milliners played in twentieth century fashion.
Apparently, I’d have an entire wardrobe of headwear.
Olivia turned at the end of the room, sashayed back the way she’d come. Jonathon came next, decked out in a dapper suit. Playing emcee, Eisenhower described the droid’s vest, pants, shoes, and tie, pointing out small details that were specific to the 1920s.
Gaige leaned over and whispered in my ear excitedly, “Are we seriously watching a droid fashion show? This is awesome.”
While we normally covered the clothes of the time period during these classes, a demonstration like this one had never before been included. The highly amusing spectacle was better than listening to Eisenhower drone on about pictures of clothing, so I wasn’t complaining.
Next came Jesma in a blue velvet cape with a poufy collar that Eisenhower told us was typically worn to premiere cultural events, such as the opera. On her return trip down the makeshift catwalk, Jesma swept the cape back behind her shoulders to reveal an asymmetrical dress with one full sleeve and one bare shoulder. The satiny material was gathered above one hip, a large flower holding it in place, and fringe hung from the sleeve and bottom layer of the dress.