Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “With good reason,” said Rogerio. “The Left and the Right have been itching for an excuse to fight, and on the first, they will have it.” He went to the windows to adjust the shutters so that no sliver of sunshine penetrated the room, though it was light enough for Saint-Germain to read.

  “In ten days,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Ten days,” Rogerio echoed. “You’re expecting trouble.”

  “Certainly,” said Saint-Germain. “The way the army is behaving, I should think that the populace would be disappointed if nothing happened. The intrusion the army has made into everything will be resented if there isn’t something to show for it, and fairly soon; the army will be held responsible if the unrest continues unresolved: without doubt Generals Mola and Franco will be held similarly accountable, as they should be.” He sighed. “It’s a pity that Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias has been designated a strategic business producing objects with tactical implications; the government doesn’t want to have it controlled by an owner living outside of España. They don’t much like it being owned by a foreigner who lives in España, either. They have intentions that include turning all the airplanes into fighting ones, the very thing I would like to avoid.”

  “If you sell Eclipse Aero, you could leave without hindrance, according to Colonel Senda,” Rogerio reminded him. “You wouldn’t have to see how they use your airplanes.”

  “So I could, and as things are going, I probably should; it is the prudent thing to do,” Saint-Germain agreed at his most genial. “Yet, I would like to save Eclipse Aero from becoming another instrument of war; I cannot think of what the Germans have done with the petroleum business I had in Munich, ten years ago, without becoming slightly ill. I would prefer not to see that happen here: so long as I can hold on to control of the company, it should be possible to keep some limits on what the army may do with the assembly plant and the airplanes. I may be fighting a rear-guard action, but I must make the attempt. It is a flaw in my character.” He managed a quick half-smile. “You needn’t remind me again how often I have had to answer for my intractability—I don’t like having my hand forced.” He held up his hand. “I know; I know—stubborn pride and obstinacy. Yes, you’re right: I should know better.”

  Rogerio made a gesture of capitulation. “You leave me nothing to say.”

  “Except that you are worried,” Saint-Germain added for him. “You are afraid I will mull too much and act too little.”

  “That, and I am concerned for your lethargy.” He regarded Saint-Germain levelly. “I sometimes feel you are daring the world to have done with you.”

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “I am not so far gone as that, although perhaps five years ago I might have been tempted…” His voice trailed off; when he spoke again, it was with renewed purpose. “Still, I am grateful for your reminder, little though I may show it, and I do heed what you say; in principle I agree with you.” Saint-Germain reached for another newspaper—this one German—and opened it slowly. “España is becoming dangerous, no doubt of that. Not that I like what I see from the rest of Europe.”

  “No; nor I,” said Rogerio, accepting this shift of emphasis without exasperation; he was relieved that Saint-Germain had perceived so much.

  “Russia is worse than Europe,” Saint-Germain went on. “China isn’t much better, what with the Japanese wanting to control the north.”

  “And the New World? Aren’t conditions somewhat better in the Americas?” Rogerio cleared his throat. “Mr. Tree could advise you where you might be most comfortable.” His mention of the American journalist was a deliberate nudge.

  “You mean among the gangsters in the North and the peon revolts in the South? And the economic troubles they’re having, North and South.” Saint-Germain folded a page back. “Even America might not be safe: no one can say that the European strife will not spread, even to the Americas, eventually.”

  Rogerio hesitated, familiar with Saint-Germain’s saturnine state of mind; he had seen it many times in their long years together. “Where would you like to go?”

  Saint-Germain uttered a single, sad chuckle. “I would prefer not to go anywhere, though that may not be an option any longer. I agree that we may have to go a long way to find a modicum of peace.” He waited a moment and added wryly, “At least we need not have a month at sea to get across the Atlantic.” He read a few lines, then added, “If the Great War is starting up again—and it may well be—it may be prudent to put the ocean between us and the fighting, gangsters and peons be damned.” His words were gentle and his eyes were sad.

  Rogerio managed not to reveal the relief that went through him. “Shall I make some discreet inquiries?”

  “No, not yet.” Saint-Germain shook his head. “I want to try to negotiate a reasonable solution to the present impasse; ideally, I’d like to keep Eclipse Aero if I can find a way to do it. It is not very likely that I can prevent all military applications of the airplanes, especially the Moghul, in spite of the design limitations, but if I make no push to stop it, most certainly the business will end up a wholly military operation, and that would be dreadful. You must pardon me for trying to swim upstream. I still have to try to do all that I can to prevent the worst from occurring.” He uttered a single chuckle: his antipathy to water made him a very poor swimmer and they both knew it. “Nevertheless, I will give you my Word: if I fail in my efforts, then I will make whatever arrangements are necessary to leave, however I have to.”

  “Do you suppose you’ll have to give up the aircraft business?” He knew this was the crux of the problem.

  “It may come to that, but I assume there must be some way I can save it—I hope it is not too late,” said Saint-Germain. “I have only two aliases to use here in España, and neither one will tolerate close scrutiny.” He shrugged disconsolately. “If I am wholly frank, I suppose I may have to part with the company completely, as little as I want to give it up. I believe that once the company is out of my hands the airplanes will be used for war. But it seems it may no longer be an option, given the state of the country, in which case, I would like to minimize the extent to which Eclipse Aero becomes dedicated to killing.” He turned the page of his German paper. “I will have to make up my mind what to do to protect the business.”

  Rogerio looked down at the floor. “It would be wise to decide soon, I think. I may be overcautious, but I cannot help but wonder if there will be any way for us to leave España, or Europe for that matter, if we wait much longer. I have no wish to dwell on the matter, but with violence escalating—”

  “I understand your concerns,” Saint-Germain said, “as I always do when you warn me.” His smile was swift but sincere.

  “Very well, I will have to be content with this for now, but if matters get worse, I will speak with you again,” said Rogerio, preparing to leave the study. “Is there anything you need me to do in the next hour or so?”

  “I don’t think so: why?” Saint-Germain responded.

  “I have a fresh shoat being held at the butcher’s shop on the Avenida Santa Cajetana. I was thinking I would call in there as soon as siesta is ended.” He saw Saint-Germain nod. “Thank you. I will not linger.”

  “With the army making a pest of itself, it is a good idea to provide them as little opportunity to impose as is possible. Be careful while you are on the street, for you know the army is to impose its will on everyone.” He tapped a card that lay on the table beside his chair. “Colonel Senda is still paying close attention to everything I do. But more than my predicament troubles me.” He took up another newspaper—this one from Milan—and opened it. “This arrogant popinjay Mussolini, for instance: he troubles me. The continuing persecutions in Russia trouble me. The unrest in China troubles me. The aftermath of the Great War troubles me. The fate of the Armenians troubles me. The difficulties in the Middle East trouble me. The confusion in Britain and her colonies troubles me. The vindictive complacency in France troubles me. We won’t even speak of the NSDAP.” His voice tightened
at the mention of the ruling party in Germany, whose followers had killed his ward in Munich a decade ago; he still mourned Laisha, her memory as tender as the half-healed wound it was.

  “The Nazis have many supporters outside of Germany,” Rogerio reminded him gently, using the nickname of the National Socialist German Workers Party that had already made itself infamous among certain groups.

  Saint-Germain contemplated the page in front of him. “They will come to grief over it,” he said at last, very softly.

  “That is my point,” said Rogerio as he opened the door. “May I get anything for you while I am out?”

  “I don’t think so,” Saint-Germain said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Will you see Doña Isabel?” Rogerio asked, his hand on the door-latch.

  “No, not tonight,” said Saint-Germain, a certain distance in his tone telling Rogerio far more than words about the current state of the affaire. “She has an engagement with her aunt at the Ballet Catalonia. They are planning to spend a few days together.”

  “I see,” said Rogerio, and hoped he did; he closed the study door and went into the principal sitting room, where he took up a canvas shopping bag and hung it over the scrolled door-latch in anticipation of his errand. He busied himself for the next half-hour with the mundane task of putting the room in order to receive any visitor who might call, and then, at the conclusion of siesta, took the shopping bag and went out to the butcher’s, where he paid for the newly slaughtered baby pig, put it into his bag, then returned, watched but unhassled, to the Hotel della Luna Nueva to find that Colonel Senda had called and was still with Saint-Germain.

  “Ah, Rogerio,” said Saint-Germain as Rogerio came into the sitting room. “As you see, Colonel Senda is here.”

  “I see that,” said Rogerio, and added with utmost politeness, “May I get you a drink, Colonel? We have an excellent Burgundy, and a tolerable Sangue di Christi nel Vesuvio. If you would like something stronger, a very good cognac as well as a single-malt scotch. There is also a little grappa left, if you would prefer a digestif.” He regarded the Colonel as if he were glad to see him, although he was inwardly alarmed by Senda’s presence so soon after his last visit.

  “Cognac, in a balloon snifter,” said the Colonel, snapping out the order as if Rogerio were a green recruit in need of training.

  “As soon as I put this in our kitchen,” he said, indicating his canvas bag. He left the sitting room and went about his work.

  “He’s been with you a long time,” said Colonel Senda. “Your servant.”

  “Yes; half my life,” said Saint-Germain accurately, not adding that he and Rogerio had met in Roma when Vespasianus was Caesar.

  “Such loyalty is rare,” said the Colonel with a languid wave of approval. “Not many of us find that in our lives.”

  “I know I am fortunate,” said Saint-Germain, wondering what Colonel Senda intended by his remarks.

  “It would be a shame to repay his devotion with hardship,” said the Colonel with a slow, malicious smile.

  His expression did not change, but Saint-Germain felt a surge of anger at this threat. “Why should he have to fear hardship, Colonel?”

  “You cannot be unaware of the increasing violence that daily desecrates our streets and countryside,” said Senda with a false display of sorrow. “A man such as your manservant, unused to our ways, and often abroad, who knows what might happen to him?”

  “In other words, your men would target him and any misfortune he suffered could be laid at the door of those whom you wished to blame.” Saint-Germain folded his arms. “Why not abandon your pretext of civility, Colonel? You have made it clear that you want something of me, and that you are prepared to exert any pressure you can to gain what you seek.”

  “You make it all seem so uncouth,” Colonel Senda complained. “I’d prefer to think of it as adapting to exigent circumstances.”

  “Of course you would,” said Saint-Germain with world-weary amusement.

  The Colonel heard the condemnation in Saint-Germain’s observation and he reacted sharply. “I have been patient with you, it may be I am too patient. I think you may consider yourself fortunate that I haven’t put you in prison—I have the authority to do so, you know.” He showed his teeth in a furious smile. “I don’t think you’d like being in prison. No more fine clothes, no more suites, no more manservant, no more autos, no more pretty mistresses, just a small cell, an army cot, and a bucket for slops.”

  Saint-Germain nodded. “Yes. I know what prison can be.” He had been in many of them in his four thousand years, and found one to be much like another; some were a bit more comfortable, some more uncomfortable, but in the end, all of them were containers for the unwanted.

  “You have been in prison, then?” The Colonel all but pounced on this.

  “In Russia, some years ago. Many European industrialists were.” It was his most recent incarceration. “My primary crime was being rich; my secondary one was having a title. Add to that my foreign origins, and my ties to banks and shipping, and my doom was sealed.” The corners of his mouth lifted for an instant. “For since I am an exile with no government to complain of my incarceration, there was no embarrassment for the Bolsheviks. I should imagine the same realization has crossed your mind, as well.”

  Colonel Senda did his best to look shocked. “I would not resort to anything so unpleasant unless you make it necessary.”

  “That is what the Bolsheviks said, too,” Saint-Germain approved. “They were certain that they could achieve their goals by depriving me of property, wealth, and at last, food and warmth. They put me in a monk’s cell outside of Krasnoye Selo and did their utmost to forget about me. They very nearly succeeded.” He inclined his head. “But as you can see, I am still here.” He recalled his escape as he fled westward on a stolen horse, and knew he would not have such an opportunity in España.

  “But here is España, not Russia,” said Colonel Senda.

  “No; not Russia,” Saint-Germain agreed.

  Whatever Colonel Senda had been about to say, it was silenced as Rogerio came back into the room carrying a tray on which stood a very large balloon snifter of fine Austrian crystal, with a pool of cognac in the bottom. “I trust this is to your satisfaction.”

  The Colonel took the snifter, gave the contents a swirl, and sniffed deeply at the vapors that rose from the wild-honey—colored liquid. “Very good. Not the best I have had, but very good.” He took a generous swig of the cognac, then sighed with satisfaction. “How much of this do you have?”

  Saint-Germain glanced at Rogerio. “A case or two. There is more in Córdoba.”

  “A case or two,” the Colonel mused. “Quite an investment for a house where you do not live for years on end.”

  “The servants who maintain it cost a great deal more than the cognac,” said Saint-Germain, a sardonic light in his dark eyes.

  “Tell me,” said Colonel Senda, “do you think you can influence me with good drink? On such an important matter?” He nodded his dismissal to Rogerio; he stared at the servant as if he wanted to annoy him. “You needn’t listen at the door.”

  Rogerio paid no attention to this studied insult, but stepped back from Senda’s chair. “Will there be anything else?” he asked Saint-Germain.

  “Not just now, thank you, Rogerio” was his reply. “Perhaps you could look in on us in half-an-hour or so? If I need you before then, I’ll ring.”

  “Very good, Comte,” he said, and withdrew.

  “He’s very old school, isn’t he?” Colonel Senda said as he took another generous sip of the cognac; he paid no attention to the sudden eruption of gunfire in the street below.

  “I suppose so. But then,” Saint-Germain explained, “so am I.”

  Colonel Senda laughed immoderately. “Oh, how apt,” he said as his mirth ceased. “You are that, no doubt.” A second volley of shots caught his attention, but he said nothing more.

  “And, in my old-school way, I am not yet read
y to be coerced into surrendering all control of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias to you, no matter how much it would please you to have me do it. My corporation is not in violation of any Spanish laws, and I have maintained the company along the recommended governmental lines.” Saint-Germain stood up slowly. “You know my conditions for releasing control of the firm to the army, or any other group.”

  “You’ve spelled them out: adaptation for surveillance only, no weapons to be added to the airplanes, or alterations in design that would accommodate the use of weapons,” said Colonel Senda as he swallowed a third mouthful of the cognac. “I am sorry to inform you that I cannot agree to any such limitations as you would impose on the army: my superiors will not allow it. Surely you must know they will not accept any such conditions.”

  “Will they not,” said Saint-Germain, walking to the window and opening the louvers of the shutters enough to permit him to look out. He could see a few frightened pedestrians emerging from doorways along the Avenida Fantasma clutching their belongings as they cautiously resumed their progress down the street; there were no autos in sight other than the dozen in the Hotel’s car park, and most of the windows facing the street were still firmly shuttered. “It is a lovely afternoon,” he said, more to himself than the Colonel.

  “No, they will not,” said Colonel Senda, belligerently sticking to the previous topic. “You must know it is ridiculous to impose such limitations on the army. Let me reiterate our position: constraints imposed by industry are dangerous just now, and cannot be tolerated. We are on the brink of war in España: why do we want airplanes, but to use them for fighting?”

  “Why, indeed,” said Saint-Germain, and was just turning away from the window when the crack of a rifle sounded as the wooden louvers shattered and a bullet ploughed deep into Saint-Germain’s right shoulder. He staggered, dropped to his knees, then fell onto his side; the pain had not hit him yet, only the impact of the wound, as heavy as a blow with a stone. It was an effort to breathe, as if the air itself had become weighty.