Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “As the Fascists and Nazis did before them,” Szent-Germain said.

  “In some parts of the world more so than others. We can certainly agree on that. It is another development for us to discuss.” There was an eagerness to his agreement that was subtly wrong.

  “And the US is paying them back tit … for tat,” Szent-Germain observed with a wry smile that was at odds with his dismayed eyes.

  “Nothing so capricious, I assure you.” He looked around the library, all signs of disapproval gone from his countenance. “An enviable collection, Grof, if you don’t mind my saying so,” he exclaimed, glancing over the line of spines along the west wall. “You have some treasures here.”

  “Not at all; I am pleased with it myself,” Szent-Germain told him, starting toward the door. “My chef is laying out a small meal in the morning room, if you would like something to eat, or drink.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Bereston, following half-a-step behind Szent-Germain. “You don’t have to.”

  “But I do; as a sign of good fellowship,” Szent-Germain said, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “A light meal, a glass of wine to mark this meeting—”

  Bereston scowled, then smiled. “As to drink, I don’t touch alcohol when I am working.”

  “If you’d rather not have wine, so be it,” he said, as if he himself planned such a libation. “Coffee or tea or hot chocolate are available if you would prefer—” Szent-Germain saw Bereston nod. “Coffee or—”

  “Coffee will do, thanks. No need to make a fuss,” he said, an underlying testiness to his words.

  “Breakfast is hardly a fuss.”

  Bereston’s reticence vanished as if by the flip of a switch; he offered another of his open smiles. “Now that’s most generous of you, Grof. I’d be most grateful. I admit I’m peckish. It’s nice of you to think of it.”

  “One way or another, everyone must eat, Mister Bereston,” said Szent-Germain, the ironic note in his voice unrecognized by Bereston.

  “True enough, Grof. Thanks. I’ll take you up on it.” He walked a short way in silence, then stopped, looking at a painting hanging near the entrance to the withdrawing room. “Very handsome,” he approved. “Renaissance, isn’t it?”

  “The Semele? Yes, it is. It has been in my family for roughly five centuries.” He recalled the dreadful day when Alessandro di Mariano dei Filipepi had burned his own paintings in the full view of all Fiorenzani; San Germanno, as he was known then, had pleaded with the painter not to do this, but Botticelli—his commonly used nick-name—had refused to listen, so San Germanno had stolen it from among the stack of his friend’s work, and kept it in Venezia, out of sight, for two hundred years, and even now hung it inconspicuously.

  “So you collect art as well as books?” Bereston’s sudden frown lasted a short while, then faded away.

  “Musical instruments, some furniture, ceramics, small sculptures, old scientific supplies, you know how it is when you’ve been through difficulties,” he said, opening the door to the morning room and motioning to Bereston to enter.

  The chamber faced northeast. It contained a rosewood table with room for six, eight chairs, a small sideboard, a hanging lantern as well as three floor-lamps; four tall windows opened on the Campo San Luca, revealing the Romanesque church that gave the campo its name, the narrow bridge at the end of the campo that arched over an old, narrow canal to a broad walkway along the edge of the canal and the rear wall of the Ca’ Tedeschi Viaggiator’, and the roof of the small Crusaders’ chapel, Santissimi Evangelisti, now empty and rumored to be for sale. The campo was almost constantly in shadow, and was so now, even with a faint trace of sunlight angling in the morning-room windows; two hours ago the room had been full of misty Venezian light; just at present, the reflection of the waters of the canal on the walls of the chapel looked like charcoal sketches.

  “Very handsome; you’re a real connoisseur, aren’t you, Grof? How did you manage to get through the war without losing it all? Or is that something you’d rather not talk about?” Bereston prompted as he took a quick turn around the room. “Classical and Baroque, or I miss my guess.”

  “For the most part,” Szent-Germain told him, going to pull the velvet draperies across the windows to keep the distraction of the storm from becoming more disruptive. “In half an hour, the worst of the storm should be over. We may even have a little sunlight.”

  “If there is any more sun today, this squall will keep the sky dark for hours, once it gets down to business. It’s just warming up,” said Bereston with an uneasy glance at the windows. He went to the newly lit fire and studied the mantel and frame of the fireplace. “Another antique?”

  “It was already in place when I bought the palazzo, so I assume it must be,” said Szent-Germain as he drew out a chair for Bereston that faced a place-setting of fine porcelain china and grand French silverware; he went around the table and drew out the opposite chair for himself. “If you will, have a seat at the table, Mister Bereston. Arrigo should bring a breakfast for you soon.”

  Doing his utmost to conceal his impatience, Bereston sat down at the table and nodded his approval. “I gather many of your forefathers have gone in for collecting?”

  Szent-Germain smiled. “It’s in the blood,” he said, and turned to ask Arrigo to come in. “In buon’ punto, Arrigo.”

  The chef carried a tray with two covered dishes upon it, and a pot of coffee. He placed the smaller of the two dishes directly in front of Bereston, the larger across the top of his place-setting as if constructing a barricade for the food. Lastly, he tugged the artfully rolled napkin from the water-glass, gave it an expert shake, and dropped it into Bereston’s lap. He bowed respectfully to Szent-Germain’s guest before doing the same to the Grof.

  “Grazie,” Szent-Germain said to the chef as he left the room.

  “Well, what have we here?” Bereston asked, lifting the lid on the smaller bowl and inhaling the aroma that rose with the released steam.

  “Unless I miss my guess, you have two eggs coddled and served in fish-broth,” said Szent-Germain. “And there is probably fruit compote on chopped smoked ham in polenta in the second dish.”

  “Um,” said Bereston, not at all sure how to proceed.

  “You’ll want to eat the eggs first, before they become hard—that is, unless you like hard-coddled eggs?”

  Bereston removed the lid and stared at the two eggs floating in amber-colored liquid. “The ideas you Europeans have about breakfast.”

  Szent-Germain leaned back in his chair. “If you would rather have oatmeal and bacon-and-eggs with toast and coffee, Arrigo will make it for you.”

  “Not necessary, Grof.” Warily, Bereston took the soup-spoon provided for this dish and pushed one of the eggs to the bottom of the bowl to cut it open. “Smells good.” He tried a spoonful, looked a bit surprised, and had more. “This is really quite tasty,” he said. “The bacon-and-eggs can wait this time.” He grinned and went back to the eggs-in-broth. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “I’ve broken my fast already,” said Szent-Germain, who had spent most of the previous night with the widow of an engineer in an apartment that overlooked San Gregorio. “Buon appetito.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I don’t wait for you,” said Bereston, giving attention to his food.

  Szent-Germain watched him for a short while, and when Bereston had finished his poached eggs, he said, “I believe you want to enlist me in your work because of my branches in America. As I am sure you know, I have branches of Eclipse Press in your country: three of them, in Boston, in St. Louis, and in San Francisco. Eventually I would like to have one in New Orleans. I have a branch in Toronto, as well.”

  “Yes, I have that information.” His chuckle had an angry note in it, although he went on as if he wanted only to seek Szent-Germain’s endorsement of his work. “I must admit I wasn’t sure you’d be direct with me. I’ve dealt with Europeans who refused to disclose or confirm any of what I know of them, but y
ou are forthright; I appreciate your candor about your presses. It saves us all kinds of awkwardness.” Bereston put the bowl aside and reached for the larger dish, setting the lid on its back with care. “And that you have branches in many other cities, both in Europe and the Orient. Another one of your grandfathers’ projects, I imagine. Your ancestors seem most fortunate in their investing.”

  “Most provident,” Szent-Germain murmured, thinking of the many times this had not been the case. He gazed toward the window. “We had to close our press in what they now call Leningrad some years before the last war began.”

  “I have a memo about that. It must have been a difficult loss.” He picked up his fork, tested the firmness of the polenta, then took a first small bite. “Was this fried?”

  “Baked,” Szent-Germain told him. “The ham, herbs, and polenta are mixed while the polenta is still soft, then put in a ceramic baking dish and finished in the oven at medium-low heat, and the compote added when the dish is taken out of the oven. There is a peppermill on the sideboard, if you—”

  Bereston looked startled. “You know a lot about cooking. There’s no end to your information.”

  “It helps to be familiar with the workings of one’s household, Mister Bereston.” Szent-Germain regarded his guest with polite curiosity.

  “Golly, I should think so,” Bereston concurred. “You’re not here a lot of the time, are you? You need to have a very trustworthy staff.”

  “It’s advantageous, then, that I have one,” Szent-Germain said.

  “Been with you long?” Bereston asked this innocently enough, but there was something in his eyes that reminded Szent-Germain of Rogers’ warning: something was off about William C. Bereston, something illusive, but unmistakable. The man was dangerous.

  “Some of them have served my blood for generations,” said Szent-Germain with perfect honesty.

  “That European thing again.” Bereston tried his coffee, added cream, tasted it again, and smiled. “Not that I mean any disrespect.”

  “You’re right: it is that European thing, as you call it. Such arrangements take generations to put in place.”

  “Ever regretted trusting your servants?”

  Thinking back over more than two millennia, Szent-Germain said, “Not often, and not recently.”

  Whatever it was that Bereston was fishing for, he apparently had the answer now; he took some of the polenta onto his fork. “With a breakfast like this, I can skip lunch.”

  Szent-Germain once again waited while Bereston ate; only when he laid down his fork and napkin did Szent-Germain ask, “What is it that you want to discuss, specifically? Since you have called here without arranging to visit, I think it must need urgent attention. You said something about copyrights?”

  “Well, yes.” He took a deep breath and began, “As you saw from my card—I assume your man gave it to you—I’m with the Department of State, doing some initial spadework on forming a more comprehensive international copyright convention, one that can apply parity to all countries signatory to it, and enforceable throughout those countries signing the convention. There are countries in the world which have endured real damage to all of their financial institutions because of the war, all of which organizations need to be rebuilt, along with the industries that will support the economic goals of the countries; one of the tasks assigned to the Department of State is to encourage the publishing and film businesses in countries where such institutions have been greatly damaged. Those who are not inclined to join with us can anticipate difficulties getting their publications into American markets. We will work to restore print and film as quickly as possible, and you, with your business still largely intact, can provide us the support that should lend us the prestige that many countries feel we lack. We have, for example, excused the Japanese from observing copyright restrictions with American publications until such time as their publishing industry is once again fully functional.”

  “How do your allies see this gesture?” Szent-Germain asked as if he lacked interest in the answer, and were unaware of the threat Bereston’s explanations contained.

  “Well, we have hopes that you might be able to explain our position to your associates in Europe. There is some dissatisfaction, as you might expect. The Czechs, for example, want to put education before any other considerations, and are pushing for full access to textbooks.”

  “You’re supposing that I am held in high regard among my fellow-publishers, and that my opinion would make a difference,” said Szent-Germain.

  “As to that, we know you are; even those who envy you speak well of you.” He paused to empty the last of his coffee into his cup. “This gives us an opportunity to regularize problems that are the result of various conditions for and lengths of copyrights. It could simplify the publishing business in a large part of the world.” He sighed and drank the last of his creamy coffee.

  “I think that would be useful for all of us,” said Szent-Germain in a carefully neutral voice.

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say.” Leaning forward and planting his elbows on either side of his empty plate, he launched into what sounded like a rehearsed speech. “We—the Allies who won the war—have a responsibility to do what we can to get the world back on its feet; it’s part of the price of victory. Publishing and motion pictures are an important part of that push to restoration. It also encourages the exchange of expression and ideas, which in turn can bring about opportunities for intercultural goodwill through communications and art. We believe that publishing and motion pictures can play a crucial role in this project.”

  “They can,” Szent-Germain said without inflection.

  Bereston looked nonplussed. “How can you doubt it?”

  “I only wonder how other governments will view your efforts.” He held up his hand and went on without permitting Bereston to interject anything. “Many may think that your intentions are more political than cultural, and reject your project out of hand for that reason.”

  “The same could be true of those who participate in our attempts.” There was an obstinate set to his jaw and his eyes narrowed.

  “That brings us to the heart of the matter: do you plan to accept propaganda as part of arts and letters, or are you planning to impose conditions on these contrivances? And how are you to identify what is literature and what is propaganda? That will need to be defined to all parties’ satisfaction if you are truly concerned about that. Not all countries have your admirable First Amendment to protect unpopular opinion, and without such a check on the degree to which a government can control the information accessible to its citizens, the more likely it is that information will become propaganda, and stifle innovation in thought. It has happened many times before and it is likely to happen again.” He nodded once. “You know, I admire your Constitution, which I made a point of studying while I was visiting your country shortly before the war.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Bereston, making a quick recovery from his surprise. “What do you think of our notion, a man in your position, titled and all?”

  “I am also an exile, Mister Bereston; my title is merely a courtesy now. It is useful in getting good seats at the opera and prompt attention at the bank.” This was not quite accurate but near enough to the truth to make his answer acceptable. “I think your Constitution is a laudable document, and I hope many of its principles are embraced by other countries, but I also know that not all countries seek that manner of order among their own peoples,” said Szent-Germain. “Writers and publishers need the protection your First Amendment provides, but it must apply to all to have any lasting impact, wouldn’t you say?”

  “We like to think so, though we are careful about what we decide to publish. With all the turmoil in the world, we have a responsibility not to add to it,” said Bereston, his demeanor more tense, his eyes hard upon his host. “But it takes time to prepare to offer such protections.”

  Now Szent-Germain was being very watchful, although little changed in his
outward manner. “How could that be? What preparation is there needed?”

  Bereston gave a small cough. “There are subjects that, even with freedom of speech, need to be approached with utmost caution, especially in times like these, when, as you say, much propaganda is presented to the public in the guise of art. You must be aware, Grof, that the irresponsible distribution of social theories and financial schemes can only bring about dissension and unrest; this is a ticklish time in our dealings with Europe, and we must proceed with care. We’re aware of that. Such material as might contribute to social turmoil must be handled circumspectly, some tracts and analyses delayed, and a few rejected for the good of the people. For everyone’s benefit.”

  “I don’t see that,” said Szent-Germain, still speaking affably. “Nothing in the language of the First Amendment suggests that such standards can be imposed on original thought and its distribution. Such restrictions obviate all the guarantees of the Constitution.” He reached out and picked up a small brass bell which he rang.

  “It’s not in the specific language, but it is implied by other provisions in the Constitution, and it is the policy of the United States to adhere to decisions that support the public good rather than encouraging—”

  “—irresponsibility, yes, I heard you.” He looked up as Rogers came into the room. “Be good enough to bring our guest another pot of coffee, if you would.”

  “With cream?” Rogers inquired.

  “Yes.” He turned back to Bereston. “I’m sorry you aren’t interested in something stronger, but I surmise that the purpose of your visit makes it unwise to risk the slightest clouding of your intellect.”