While England Sleeps

by David Leavitt

  But of course, there was every chance in the world that Edward wouldn’t make it back home, every chance that all my speculations were for nothing.

  And of course dawn, the fourth day, the day of Northrop’s scheduled return, found me at the gate to the barracks. Northrop, I was told, had been delayed.

  “Well, then, might I speak with someone else?”

  Doubts. Murmured consultations by walkie-talkie.

  Finally a decision was reached: two other comrades, both familiar with Edward’s case, would speak with me. If I might come this way . . .

  And I did, following a claque of brigadiers back to the same office in which I had earlier met with Northrop.

  They closed the door behind me. In the corner two figures stood in huddled conference, their faces shadowed. They were apparitions that, as I neared them, became more recognizably human: one dark, with alarming, almost spectral eyes and a drooping mustache; the other pale, plump, a youth who—

  I stopped in my tracks, winded by recognition, the breath literally knocked out of my chest.

  The two turned.

  “Brian,” the youth said. “What on earth . . .”

  And suddenly it was as if that fatal umbrella, lost in another life, had blown open, casting its vast shadow over all of us: a darkness so huge it could never be defeated.

  “Rupert Halliwell,” I murmured. For it was he.

  Not until years later would I learn what had happened: how Rupert, seemingly out of the blue, had one day woken up, put on his dressing gown, walked quietly downstairs and one by one smashed every precious teacup, every fluted crystal vase, every glass. Then he poured lye all over the Indian silk sofa. Then he went and said irrevocable things to his mother, and then he got in a taxi, rode to the London offices of the Communist Party, knocked on the door, and prostrated himself before the befuddled secretary who happened to answer: a piteous specimen of the corrupt bourgeoisie. “Reform me!” he cried. And they did.

  “You know each other?” asked the man with the drooping mustache. He was French, by his accent.

  Rupert looked away.

  “Yes,” I said. “We do.”

  The Frenchman smiled, so that the ends of his mustache curled upward. “England must be a very small country,” he said. “And may I introduce myself? I am Comrade Bonet.”

  “Brian Botsford,” I said, putting out a hand.

  “A pleasure,” Bonet said. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  The three of us sat. From his corner of the desk Rupert eyed me nervously.

  “And how may we help you, Mr. Botsford?”

  “I’ve come to inquire about my friend Mr. Phelan,” I began.

  “Ah, Phelan,” Bonet answered, smiling. “What a sad morning it was when he deserted.”

  “I understand his case has yet to be resolved, and I was wondering if I might say a few words on his behalf.”

  “Of course. Not that we have any say in the matter—”

  “Even so, if there is anything you could do . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  I steadied myself. “First of all, I don’t contest the fact that Mr. Phelan deserted. Nor do I contest that desertion is a serious crime. However, in this instance there are extenuating circumstances that need to be taken into account.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Phelan is a young man of limited education who had the fortune—or perhaps the misfortune—to come within my circle. His decision to travel to Spain might well be said to have resulted from his exposure to that circle. But he hadn’t fully thought through the consequences of his actions. As a result, when he arrived, he had second thoughts. For this reason, I would ask that you let him go home.”

  I stopped speaking. Bonet had laced his fingers into a temple over his mouth, while Rupert’s eyes remained fixed on the wall.

  “Mr. Botsford,” Bonet said finally, “forgive me if I sound stupid or unreasonable, but I believe I have missed your point. Are you suggesting Comrade Phelan is so impressionable—so, if you will, unformed—that he cannot be held accountable for his actions?”

  “No—not exactly. But he is young. And the fact is, if it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t be in this trouble now. He’d be at home, working for the London Transport.”

  “I understand. Nonetheless I fail to see why this should affect our treatment of him. Because he was under your influence, the pledge he made to the brigade—to the cause—is no less binding.”

  “It is I who should be going to prison. Not Edward.”

  “Mr. Botsford, you are not a brigadier. You made no pledge.”

  “No. No, I didn’t. And I agree with you, pledges to a cause cannot be taken lightly. But what if a boy takes that pledge rashly—without thinking it through? What if there were other factors involved? Things that were going on at home that had nothing to do with the war but that might have prompted him to do something on the spur of the moment, something he’d later regret?”

  “By other factors you mean, I presume, something such as, for instance, Comrade Phelan having a sweetheart who left him for another man.”

  “Well—yes.”

  “And did Comrade Phelan have a sweetheart?”

  I looked down. “No. No, he did not.”

  “Then what type of other factors are you suggesting, Mr. Botsford?”

  “I’m—I’m not sure. I’m just saying if there were—”

  “But apparently there were not.”

  Outside something crashed. A cat howled. Tortures proceeded.

  Bonet leaned forward and cracked his knuckles.

  “Mr. Botsford, what exactly is your relationship to Comrade Phelan?” he asked.

  Rupert, who had been silent up to this point, coughed loudly and recrossed his legs.

  “He is my friend,” I said, after a few seconds.

  “Your friend.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  A palpable silence. Rupert pushed his stubby fingers through his hair.

  “Mr. Botsford, may I ask you something, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you consider yourself a Communist?”

  “Yes. Fundamentally.”

  “And Comrade Phelan?”

  “I couldn’t presume to say.”

  “Well. We are brothers, then. No? We agree that the Spanish republic must be defended against the Fascist threat. That must be our priority. My comrades demand obedience, but we are not barbarians—”

  “Then he won’t be shot.”

  “That is not for me to decide.”

  “Then who must I speak to? For God’s sake, who’s deciding this boy’s fate? Is he to have a trial? Is he—”

  “Mr. Botsford, please calm yourself. There’s no need for you to be so frightened. The firing squad is a remote—an extreme—possibility. More likely your friend will be sent to a prison camp, or back into battle—”

  “I could go to the press, you know. The British press. I could—”

  “Or he might be freed. In any case, contacting the British would do him little good. He no longer holds a British passport. He is a citizen of the brigade now.”

  “But he’s not well!” Then, in a softer voice: “He says he’s got a temperature. He says he’s having pains.”

  “We have a doctor here.”

  “I don’t want to make it worse for him. I hope my speaking to you like this won’t make it worse for him. I’m simply trying to help Edward. I hope you understand.”

  “If I might make an observation,” Bonet said.

  “Of course.”

  “You care too much. He is not worthy of it. He is a coward. Let him go.”

  And he smiled. And suddenly, in that smile, I saw something. He had penetrated to the truth of my relationship too skillfully. His huddling intimacy with Rupert, as I’d entered, made a new sense, as did his interrogative eyes, his “England must be a very small country.” England was not the only small country. You are one of us too, I
might have said to him—Nigel would have. Instead I met his smile with my own, I let my gaze travel down the length of his body, over his chest, groin, legs, to his shoes.

  “I cannot let go what will not let me go,” I said.

  Bonet gulped. For the first time that afternoon he appeared to be nonplussed.

  “Well, that is all then, I suppose,” he said, rising, putting out his hand. “Good day, Mr. Botsford.”

  “And can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “When something happens—when a decision is made—you will let me know. I’m staying at a pension in Altaguera. You can leave a message if I’m not in.”

  “I would be pleased.”

  He bowed.

  “Goodbye, then,” I said.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Botsford.”

  “Goodbye, Brian,” Rupert said very softly.

  I looked into his eyes, but they were blank.

  “Goodbye, Rupert.”

  A door swung open, revealing the claque of hovering guards.

  The doors to the church, though heavy as trees, gave gently, at the slightest pressure. I stepped inside. Candles, lit for the dead, glowed in niches, illuminating ancient frescoes, as well as a hideous diorama: a plaster Christ impaled on the Cross, while nearby Mary prayed and wept—Mary, her hair wiry and red, was in fact a porcelain doll with glass eyes. A scent of must and roses wafted from an open door. My footsteps, as I trod the aisle, reverberated, a muffled throb that filtered through the church the way the candlelight and the rose scent did, seeming to blanket and protect. There was no one else there except an immense elderly nun who sat on the balcony, snoring quietly, her head listing to one side.

  I knelt, as if to pray, on the stone floor. But I did not pray. Instead I thought of Rupert. How he got there—what strange twists of fortune had carried him from Cadogan Square to Altaguera—concerned me, at the moment, not a jot. Rather, his umbrella haunted me; that and the memory of those times I’d rejected—even humiliated—him. Might he still hold a grudge? I wondered. Might he use this opportunity to avenge himself—through Edward—on me?

  When my knees began to ache, I pulled myself up, leaned back against a hard bench. Above me the old nun snored on, so huge and immobile she seemed at that moment almost to have taken root.

  Light surged in as the doors to the church creaked open; a woman in black crossed herself and sank to her knees. And from her lips a flutter of Ave Marias took flight, gentle as birdsong, scattering into echo as they rose toward the vaulted ceiling.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning I was back at the barracks. This time I asked for Bonet instead of Northrop. Bonet was unavailable. So was Rupert. Nonetheless I was shown into the same office, to the same desk, where now one Comrade West held reign. He had ragged blond hair and bitten nails. American.

  “I spoke yesterday with your associate Comrade Bonet,” I said. “He promised he would let me know what judgment was reached regarding my friend Mr. Phelan, who is in the brig. But I haven’t heard from him. I was wondering if anything had transpired.”

  West scratched his head. “Phelan . . . oh yes, the deserter! I’m afraid the news isn’t good. They say he’s to be shot two days from now.”

  “Shot! But Bonet—”

  “It’s a serious matter, desertion. We can’t have the other men thinking they can just—”

  “He’s a boy!” I lunged out of my seat. “How can you shoot him? A boy?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my decision. I’m only telling you what I was told. You’ll have to speak to Northrop if you want to know more.”

  “Is Northrop back from Barcelona?”

  “Yes, but he’s not on the barracks. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “When will he be back?”

  “This afternoon, probably.”

  He pretended to file papers.

  As if on cue, two soldiers arrived to escort me—haul me—to the gate.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the brig—deadbolted, guarded on both sides.

  I was back at the barracks gate at three.

  This time I asked for West. He was unavailable. Bonet? No. Northrop? No. Rupert? Yes.

  I had no idea what I was going to say. All that was certain was this: if a life was to be taken, it would not be Edward’s. Perhaps mine. Perhaps someone else’s. But not Edward’s.

  Once again I was shown into the same office. Behind the desk Rupert writhed, his legs twined one round the other like pipe cleaners.

  As soon as the door had closed, however, he rose from his chair and crouched next to me.

  “Brian, what on earth are you doing here?” he whispered.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Not so loud, please! I think what I’m doing is obvious. But you—”

  “I’m trying to save a friend,” I said. “A boy. And probably you’ve never forgiven me, Rupert, for everything that happened—the umbrella and Lady Abernathy—and if that’s the case, I can’t blame you, but still, you must help me, for there’s no choice. A life is at stake. You must help me.”

  Rupert looked perplexed. “But I don’t understand! What’s Phelan got to do with you? Or how—”

  “He’s my friend. You understand? I love him. Or he loves me. Or rather, we lived together. And the point is, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. If he dies his blood will be on my hands, and so you must help me, Rupert, no matter how you feel about what I did, you must—”

  “I’m not the same as when you knew me before, Brian. I’m a Communist now.”

  “I see that.”

  “And in other ways I’m—not the same.” Suddenly his face brightened. “For instance, I’m engaged to be married. A nurse in the ambulance corps.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got—”

  Rupert’s lower lip quavered.

  I saw.

  From under heavy lids timid eyes glanced up.

  I leaned back from him.

  Well, why not? I thought. Why not blackmail, if through blackmail I might save Edward?

  Like Bonet, I cracked my knuckles.

  “Comrade Bonet is quite handsome,” I said loudly. “Don’t you think?”

  “Brian!”

  The door opened again. Northrop walked in.

  Immediately Rupert leapt from his crouch, saluted.

  “Comrade Halliwell.”

  “Comrade Northrop.”

  “Ah, Botsford. Somehow I’m not surprised to be seeing you again.”

  Northrop took the chair Rupert had vacated.

  Where he stood against the wall, Rupert wrung his hands.

  “That’ll be all, then. I’ll handle this from here.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  “Goodbye, Rupert.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Throwing me a last tortured glance, Rupert left.

  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Botsford,” Northrop said. “Really, I did everything I could to keep it from coming to this. But in the end it was out of my hands.”

  “Everyone says that. A boy is to die, and everyone says it’s out of his hands.”

  “Boys die every day. This is war.”

  “They’re not killed by their countrymen.”

  “As I said, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Is it my responsibility to convince you?”

  I stood up. “I shall notify the press,” I said. “I shall notify the press in England that an English boy is to be killed by his peers. And I shall name you as his killer.”

  Northrop coughed.

  “And are you aware of what repercussions that sort of . . . outburst might have?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I’m not talking about the war anymore, Botsford. I’m not even talking about what happens to Phelan. I’m talking about you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Don’t think journalists are pushovers. They’ll nos
e around, and what do you think they’ll find? That you and Phelan lived together, that you shared a bed-sitter with a double bed. That’s very odd, they’ll think, a university-educated fellow like you sharing a bed-sitter with a ticket collector from the underground! I wonder if Mr. Botsford might be a buggerer—”

  “Shut up!”

  “I wonder if he might have been buggering that boy—”

  “Enough, Northrop!”

  “And soon enough your family knows, his family knows. What about your writing career then? What’s your old nanny going to think if you get arrested? Not very nice for her to read in the paper that her beloved little boy is—”

  I lunged at him. We wrestled, frantic, silent, the way we had when, as boys, we needed some prelude to grabbing at each other’s cocks. I could smell his hair tonic, smell the tobacco on his breath.

  Then he was on top of me, with a single thrust he was hoisting me into the air, hurling me against the opposite wall.

  My skull smacked the plaster. I dropped to the floor.

  “Jesus, man, are you mad?” Northrop was shouting. “Are you completely barmy? Well, fuck it, then! Call your newspapers, wire the fucking BBC. I’ve had it up to here with both of you! The whole lot of you!”

  He sat down again, scratched at his skull.

  “You bastard,” I said.

  “I do what I must do. There’s a war going on, in case you don’t remember.”

  “But you brought him here! Jesus, you even gave him his fucking precious copy of The Communist Manifesto. He worshiped you!”

  Northrop clawed at his own hair. “Don’t you see? He doesn’t matter! None of us matters!”

  I looked at him. He appeared, suddenly, to be on the verge of tears.

  For a few moments we just sat there.

  I pulled myself up from the ground.

  “I shall wire the press,” I said. “They’re sure to be more interested in what you’re doing than in what I’ve done. And I’m not frightened by your threats, nor do I accept your—your ludicrous logic. You may be willing to sacrifice Edward, but I’m not.”

  “You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

  “I care about Edward.”

  Northrop looked away. “Oh, do your damnedest! Now get out. I’m sick to death of the sight of you.”