“It’s not supposed to,” Keegan said. “I once knew a racehorse named John J. Four Eyes. Now that doesn’t make sense.”
Jenny looked hopelessly at Rudman ‘who waved off the remark with a grin. “I can’t begin to explain that one,” he said as they walked across the infield of Longchamp racetrack toward the gate. The jockey, a Parisian whose name was Jaimie Foulard, slid out of the saddle and landed in front of Keegan.
“C’est mag nf ique, c’est wonderful!” He said enthusiastically. “She can win, can’t she?” Keegan asked with some confidence.
“Qué ser a ,” he said with a shrug, then winked.
They walked back to the stables and watched Al Jack, who was wearing a white linen suit, wash the filly down and brush her out. He did so without getting a spot on the suit.
“You luck out on this l’il ma’mselle,” Al jack chuckled. “Yes suh, you reached in the jar an’ you come up with a gold marble.”
“You reached in the jar, Al jack,” said Keegan. “We’ll know how golden the l’il old marble is after the third race.”
Al jack looked up and smiled.
“Ma’mselle will give it all, Kee, you can deposit that in the bank. If she don’t win, it just isn’t in the cards. This lady puts her heart in the pot when she enters the gate.”
Jenny softly stroked the filly’s long nose. “Like velvet,” she said with a look of wonderment.
“Tell you what, Al Jack. If she wins today, she’s yours,” Keegan said.
“What you say, Mistah Kee!”
“She’s yours. I never saw anybody love a horse as much as you love that one.”
“No, no way, suh,” Al Jack, shaking his head. He wasn’t chuckling. “Why, hell, ami, I couldn’t pay her feed bill.”
“I’ll cover you for the season, you pay me back with your purses. You can winter her on the farm in Kentucky and I’ll take her first foal when she retires.”
Al jack broke down, laughing, tears bursting out of his eyes. “Why, I don’t rightly know what to say.”
Keegan smiled at him. “You’ve already said it, friend,” he said, patting the trainer on the shoulder. Al jack turned to the horse.
“Hear that, ma’mselle? You must win today. If you never won a race before or since, you got to go straight today. You hear what I say, lady?”
“That was one helluva thing to do, Kee,” Rudman said as they headed back toward the parking area.
“Yes,” Jenny said. “It was beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t own the horse if it wasn’t for him,” Keegan said, waving off their praise and opening the morning paper. “He picked her. He made her a winner. You got to be involved if you’re in the racing game and Al Jack lives for it. It’s just a hobby with me. Anyway, I wanted to share my luck.”
“What luck?” Jenny asked.
“Being here with you,” Keegan said with a broad grin, then he saw Rudman’s photograph in the paper. “Hey, you made page two with a photo,” Keegan said, showing them the story announcing Rudman’s appointment as Berlin bureau chief.
It was a perfectly adequate sketch, recounting the usual biographical data, most of which Keegan already knew. Rudman was from Middleton, Ohio. His father owned a clothing store and had for thirty years, his mother was a housewife. No brothers or sisters. He had a journalism degree from Columbia University and was in Europe on a graduation trip when America entered the war. Keegan learned two new things about Rudman from the article; he had written his first dispatch for the Herald Tribune on speculation, having hitched a ride into combat with the Rainbow Division of the U.S. Army and covering their first encounter with the Germans during the Aisne-Marne drive, coverage that was good enough to earn him a correspondent’s job at the age of twenty-three. He had also done some wrestling in college.
Keegan looked Rudman up and down. “You don’t look like a wrestler to me,” he said.
“Oh? And just what’s a wrestler supposed to look like?”
“You know, thick neck, a chest like Mae West, shoulders like an elephant, that kind of thing.”
Rudman nodded slowly. “Uh huh. With a dumb look on his face? You left that out.”
“Yeah, that too. I mean, you’re no skin and bones but you don’t look like any wrestler.”
“That’s a very prejudiced attitude,” Rudman said rather loftily.”
“What do you mean, prejudiced?”
“To you all wrestlers are the same.. They all have thick necks, their chests are popping through their shirts and they have a collective IQ of four. That’s a prejudice. Not an important one but a prejudice just the same.”
“You’re a real trick,” said Keegan. “I don’t know anybody else who could turn a discussion of wrestling into a lecture on bigotry.”
“Also they left out that I play a mean ukulele.”
“Thanks for warning us.”
“Well, anyway, it’s great, Bert,” Keegan said. “Think about it, here we are at the big social event of the Paris season. It’s almost mandatory to show up if you have any social standing at all and here we are with a famous person.”
“Right,” Rudman said, half embarrassed. He tapped Jenny’s arm. “Now that gent over there in the double-breasted tweed suit and the thick mustache studying the form? He’s famous. That’s H. G. Wells, a very important writer.”
“I know who H. G. Wells is, silly. We do read in Germany, you know. Look at those two SS in their uniforms. That makes me sick.”
Two German SS officers in their formal black uniforms were stalking the crowd, dope sheets in hand. They stopped to talk to a well-dressed couple.
“That tall one?” Rudman said bitterly. “That’s Reinhard von Meister. Believe it or not, he’s a bloody Rhodes scholar.”
He nodded toward the taller of the two, a captain, who was lean to the point of being emaciated, with intimidating, vulture-like features and blue eyes so pale they were almost cobalt, all of which seemed appropriate with the uniform.
“He’s the military attaché to the German ambassador here. Actually he’s nothing but a damn Spion and everybody knows it.”
“Who’s the old fud with the young ‘wife talking to him?” Keegan asked, nodding toward a couple on the far side of the paddock.
“She’s not his wife, she’s his daughter. That’s Colin Willoughby, Sir Colin Willoughby, used to ‘write a society gossip column for the Manchester Guardian called ‘Will o’ the Wisp.’”
Sir Colin Willoughby was a somewhat stuffy Britisher, trim, handsome in a dull sort of way, his mustache trimmed and waxed, his fingers manicured. He held himself painfully erect, his posture military, his attitude full of arched-eyebrow superiority. He was elegantly dressed in the blue double-breasted suit and red tie that seemed to be the uniform of proper Englishmen that spring and his silver hair was trimmed perfectly.
His daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor the widow, was equally as stunning. Her posture painfully correct, her features classic from the perfect, straight nose and pale-blue eyes to petulant mouth, she was almost a gendered reflection of her father. Like him, she had a cool, tailored, untouchable air that detracted from her natural beauty. Only her red hair, which was longer than the fashion and tied in the back with a bright, red bow, was a concession to femininity.
“So that’s old ‘Will o’ the Wisp,’ “ Keegan said. “I’ve been reading his trash for years.”
“He’s given up trash. He’s become a political soothsayer. ‘Will o’ the Wisp’ is now ‘The Willow Report.’ Old Willoughby’s been through it. His wife died two years ago and the daughter’s husband was killed last year.”
“I remember that,” said Keegan. “He got killed at the Cleveland air races.”
“Right. Tony Traynor, he was an ace in the war, knocked down twelve or thirteen kites. She’s Willoughby’s assistant now, goes everywhere with him.”
“And he’s covering politics at Longchamp race track?”
Rudman shrugged. “Maybe they’re on holiday like me.”
“Maybe she’s your type,” Keegan said. “Why don’t you give her a fling.”
“Not that one. She’s all iceberg,” said Bert.
“Well, you know what they say, only the tip shows,” Keegan said with a wink. “Eighty percent is under the surface.”
“Believe me, this one is ice to the core,” Rudman said.
“The ultimate English snob. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Let’s see if he acknowledges my appointment.”
Rudman led Keegan through the crowd toward them.
“Bonjour, Sir Colin, good to see you again,” he said.
“Well, Rudman, good to see you. Been a while,” Willoughby said with a condescending smile.
“These are my friends, Jennifer Gould and Francis Keegan,” Rudman said. “Sir Colin Willoughby and his daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor.”
“A pleasure,” Keegan said, shaking Willoughby’s hand. Lady Traynor regarded Keegan with aloof contempt, as she might regard a train porter or restaurant waitress. At another time, Keegan might have been attracted by her aura of inaccessibility but now it annoyed him, as did Sir Colin. As in Bert Rudman’s case, events had altered Willoughby’s career, elevating him from a kind of society gossip to a political observer. But whereas Rudman dealt with the reality of Hitler, Willoughby pontificated, his rampant editorializing devoid of even a semblance of objectivity.
“1 see you’ve been to Africa and Spain,” Willoughby said, “Very enterprising. Is it true you’re to take over the Times bureau in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Hitler is simply full of himself right now,” Willoughby said dourly. “He’s full of his success. In a few months he will realize he must conform to a more moral world viewpoint. I think the man thirsts for recognition and acceptance. I’ve met him, y’know. Did one of the first English interviews with him.”
“And we expect to interview Mister Roosevelt this fall when we’re in the States,” Lady Penelope said.
“Well, you know what they say,” Willoughby remarked. “In America, you elect someone to office and then sit back and wait for him to fulfill all the lies he told to get elected. In Europe, we elect a man and Sit back and wait for him to make mistakes.”
“I’m really sick of politics, it’s all anyone talks about,” said Jenny. “This is Paris, not Berlin. Why don’t we change the subject. Francis has a big race coming up today.”
“Right,” Keegan agreed. “Anyone care to discuss horses?” Lady Penelope glared at him with a look of pure contempt. “I’ve heard your interests run to the mundane,” she said.
Jenny bristled. “That is ill-mannered and untrue,” she said suddenly. “And I should think someone with your privileges would know better than to speak that way”
The British woman recoiled in surprise. Jenny had surprised even herself with the outburst and her cheeks flushed.
“There’s nothing mundane about a good thoroughbred,” Keegan said with a crooked grin, trying to overlook the exchange. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” He turned to Lady Penelope. “What do they call you, Penny?”
“You may call me Lady Penelope,” she snapped back and, wheeling around, she walked away.
Willoughby shrugged. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” he said apologetically. “Her sense of humor hasn’t been just right since her husband’s death.”
“Perhaps I was being a bit too familiar,” Keegan answered. “Extend my apologies.”
“Of course. By the by, Keegan, should I bet on your horse?”
“I’m going to,” Keegan said as the stuffy Britisher left.
“That’s telling the spoiled brat,” Rudman chuckled.
“I am sorry,” Jenny said. “It just burst out.”
“You sure let the wind out of her sails,” Keegan said and laughed. “She looked like she’d been whacked with a paddle.”
“1 say we have brunch at Maxim’s on me and get back for post time,” Rudman said.
“We have to pass,” Keegan said, wrapping his arm around Jenny’s waist. “We have previous plans.”
“Oh?” Jenny said. “And can’t Bert join us?”
“Nope,” Keegan said, leading her toward the Packard. “We’ll see you in two hours at the post party.”
Rudman watched them walk across the parking area and get in the back of his car. He had never seen Keegan so excited and happy. It was the opening of the Longchamp racing season, a major social event in Paris, and they had been generous, sharing their days with him so he felt no slight when they decided to slip away for a couple of hours before the races started.
Rudman was so absorbed in his good feelings for Keegan and Jenny, he didn’t see von Meister cross the parking lot toward him.
“Herr Rudman,” the Nazi said. “It is nice to see you.”
Rudman glared at him. “That uniform seems out of place here,” he said brusquely.
“You will get used to it.”
Rudman started to walk around the tall Nazi but von Meister stood in his path.
“By the way,” he said. “You have an employee in your office, a photographer named Marvin Klein.”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps The New York Times did not receive Reichminister Goebbels’s order. You cannot hire Jews to work in Germany anymore.”
“We didn’t hire him in Germany. He’s an American.” “Well The German smiled. “Don’t concern yourself.” As Rudman started to walk away, von Meister said, “Your
friend, the one who owns the racehorse, what is his name?” “Keegan.”
“Ah yes, Keegan. I believe his girlfriend—or is it his wife?— no girlfriend, I imagine . . . I believe she is German.”
“So?”
“Just curious. lam always interested in German girls.” The German chuckled. “So. . . tell him I hope his horse wins. I bet on him.”
“Poor old Bert,” Jenny said as they got in the car. “We must find him a woman so he can share our happiness.”
“Old Bert’ll do all right. His mistress is his job. If he gets too lonely, he’ll go get his trenchcoat and he’ll have to beat them off with a bat.”
“Stop that. You give him such trouble.”
“I’m showing my affection. It’s the only way men can show affection for each other without getting arrested.”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Sometimes you make me laugh and I am not even sure wily.” She snuggled against him. “I am so happy, Kee.” For a month now they had been living in a dream world. The subject of Hitler and politics was rarely mentioned.
“Someday we’ll look back on these days and realize how special they are,” Keegan said tenderly.
“Promise?”
“Absolutely. Falling in love is a magic time.”
“Are we falling in love, Francis?”
“A fait accompli for me, my love,” Keegan said softly. “I fell in love with you that night at Conrad’s, the first time I laid eyes on you.”
“What a lovely thought.”
“You are a lovely thought,” he said.
“Oh Francis, it has been so wonderful it makes me nervous. I am so happy.”
He laughed. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Nicer than ‘I love you’?” she said, taking his arm in hers and squeezing against him.
He looked down at her with surprise. “You’ve never said ‘I love you,’” he said. “Not to me.”
“I just did.”
“Very obliquely.”
“Then I will say it directly,” she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “I love you. Je t ‘aime. Ich liebe dich. “ She reached up and barely touched his lips with her fingertips. “I do love you so, Francis. When we are together, my chest hurts but it is a good hurt. When we are apart, it is painful.”
She cupped his face between her hands and barely touched his lips with hers. They brushed their lips together, their tongues flirting with each other, as the chauffeur drove them away to
a park he had selected near the Seine on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, where the track was located.
They spread a blanket and he wound up the Victrola and put on “Any Old Time” by Lady Day and she leaned back and sang along softly.
“I learned that song listening to Billie Holiday on the radio,” she said. “Have you ever seen her?”
“Once. A friend of mine, John Hammond, insisted I go up to Monroe’s, that’s a Harlem nightclub, to hear this new singer who turned out to be Lady Day. She was—I don’t know how to describe her—heartbreaking and heavenly at the same time. I remember we stayed there until dawn. She could smile and tear your heart out. You’ve got the same quality, Jen.”
He sat up suddenly. “Jesus, what’s the matter with me!” he said. “John Hammond is a good friend of mine.”
“Who is John Hammond?”
“He’s a top producer for Columbia Records, one of the biggest. He’s put some of the jazz greats on the map. Listen, I’m sure he would flip out if he heard you sing. We’ll call him from the hotel tonight. You can audition for him over the phone.”
“You are crazy . .
“Crazy serious. I promise you, one song and he’ll offer you a contract.”
“No, no. I couldn’t. . - not over the phone. Long-distance like that.”
“Jenny, stranger things have happened. America’s a funny place.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I guess I do,” he said. “ I think maybe I’ll have to go home for a while. I’ve been gone a very long time.” Then a moment later: “You’ll love New York.”
She sat up suddenly. “What?”
“I said you’ll love New York. We’ll go there on our honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon?”
“Marry me, Jen. I adore you. I will devote my life to making you safe and happy.”
She seemed troubled and did not respond immediately. “I want to marry you, Kee. And I thank you for asking me. I don’t know...”
“Jenny, in one night you’ll hear every great jazz artist alive. We’ll do the Apollo and the 1-larlem Opera House, the Savoy, Cotton Club
“I don’t think I’m ready to give up on Germany.”
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