by John Jakes
“How remarkable,” she said in a soft, almost grave voice. “You are different, dear Paulo. I have never met a person like you.”
“Now you have. Any place with a door and a window, a light and a bed, is home enough for me. The important part’s the bed.”
He didn’t want her to see the lie, or the pain, as they undressed and met warmly in each other’s arms.
Luisa was ardent; tender and amusing by turns. But she kept track of time. She was gone by 10 P.M., slipping his money into the bodice of her yellow dress and giving him a deep and sweet farewell kiss. “I like you, Paulo. You’re a fine and gentle lover. Be safe in Cuba, and go home safely afterward.”
The door closed with a soft click. He flopped on the bed with his hands under his head, his eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to look at the pathetic collection of junk. That’s all it was, cheap junk, gathered in a stupid attempt to fool himself into thinking he had belongings, and therefore belonged somewhere. He didn’t. His long search for a home was Idiotie. Idiocy. Unintentionally, Luisa had forced him to confront the truth he’d tried to hide for a long time. Unintentionally, he’d confessed to her.
This is my home. This or another place like it. There is nothing else.
He fell asleep, a quick slumber of forgetfulness. Half an hour later he was jolted awake by noises in the hall. Doors slamming. People running. The ratcheting sound of the elevator cage shutting. My God, was there a fire?
He jumped from bed, pulled on his drawers, yanked the door open. All along the hall, soldiers and civilians were scurrying with grips and canvas field bags. Crane bolted from his room several doors down, suitcase in one hand, books in the other.
“Stephen! What is it?”
“Orders to sail. Posted a few minutes ago. Admiral Sampson has shelled the Santiago works into silence, and Washington’s signaled Shafter to Cuba. Better pack and get downstairs or you’ll be all night paying your bill.”
He hurried to the main stairway. Paul threw his shirt and pants on and rushed next door to Jimmy’s room. He knocked and called out. No answer.
He tried the knob. The door opened. He switched on the lights. The room was hot, the window closed, the bed still made.
Cursing, Paul ran to pack.
Crane was right, it was hell getting out of the hotel. In addition to standing in the cashier’s long line, he had to find a porter, strike a bargain, give the man four dollars, and Shadow’s address. The porter promised to box and ship all the souvenirs in Paul’s room. He’d packed only the paper flag and the stereopticon card. He half suspected the souvenirs would be dumped in some trash bin.
What did it matter? Luisa had dragged the truth into the light. There would be many other rooms, many other places to collect souvenirs—and dozens of dots of dark red enamel to be painted on the wooden globe Mary was keeping for him. That was his life now. The life of a gypsy who had no home, and never would have one.
98
Ilsa
ILSA’S DAYS AND NIGHTS were filled with worry.
She worried about Pauli, who had surprised her with a souvenir postcard a few weeks ago. The card had been mailed from some hamlet in Georgia. It showed a grove of peach trees. What in heaven’s name was Pauli doing in Georgia?
She worried about her son. The silence of weeks had become the silence of months; many months. It would soon be a year since the last token arrived; the little crate with the orange candies, placed carefully with the geode in front of the mirror of her chiffonnier.
She prayed she’d hear from Joe Junior again soon. Although she never would have breathed it to Fritzi or Carl, or loved them one whit less, there was a truth all mothers knew. There was a mystic specialness about the firstborn. She prayed that one day, she would embrace her firstborn again.
Most of all she worried about Joe. She missed his physical presence; they’d never been separated for such a long time. She desperately feared for his safety. The fighting would begin soon, the papers said. When the Americans invaded Cuba, Joe’s nature wouldn’t allow him to hang back to protect himself. He’d ride or march in the front rank, leading his men. It was a source of pride for her, but a source of dread, too.
Even if Joe escaped physical harm, she feared the distractions of war, especially an excitement she could no longer provide. A certain calm settled over the best of marriages late in life, all her female friends said so. She and Joe had discussed it once, in bed, and he’d rebelled against the very possibility. Had used strong words to characterize the kind of middle-aged existence he didn’t want. Geistlos; dull. Langweilig; boring. Soon after the discussion he began to write letters to Carl Schurz and others, offering his services to the military.
So Ilsa had another fear connected with the war; an ill-defined but potent fear of younger rivals. The newspaper dispatches spoke of Cuban women, handsome and refined, living in exile in Tampa. At night Ilsa peered into an oval mirror in her bedroom and saw dozens of new, unattractive lines.
As soon as Joe had arrived in Florida, he’d telegraphed to let her know. His next communication was a five-line letter on the stationery of the Tampa Bay Hotel. It had come ten days ago. Since then, nothing. What—or who—was distracting him?
A final, extra layer of anxiety was added by Ilsa’s growing distrust of the war itself. She had never said it to Joe explicitly, but she wasn’t a jingo, and she deplored those who were.
Support for the war continued to be strongest in the Midwest and the West. In the East, more heavily populated by Democrats and free thinkers, resistance was formidable. The war was being denounced as commercial imperialism concealed by patriotic slogans and windy pronouncements about American ideals. Ilsa read that the distinguished president of Harvard, Charles Eliot Norton, and others were planning a June meeting at a place in Boston called Faneuil Hall, to organize some kind of anti-imperialist league. Not to oppose the war outright, but to keep it a war of liberation rather than a war to grab new territory and thereby create new markets for American business.
Important persons were speaking out in support of such a league. Ex-President Cleveland, the philosopher William James, labor leader Samuel Gompers. Andrew Carnegie, who had earned all the money he needed for ten lifetimes and was now an apostle of peace, joined the movement.
Her dear friend Miss Addams continued to withhold her name, and her allegiance, for the reason she’d explained before. “The organizers have pleaded with me by mail and by telegraph but I simply can’t do it. I must have community support. I must keep these doors open.”
There were millions who saw nothing wrong with a war to gain territory and expand American influence. One was a young Indiana lawyer, Mr. Beveridge, reputed to be an orator as powerful as Bryan. Beveridge had started criss-crossing the country with his message of American duty and destiny, and he was rising like a bright evening star on the national horizon. Long excerpts from his speeches ran in the Chicago papers: The trade of the world must and shall be ours … American law, American order, American civilization will plant themselves on those shores hitherto backward, bloody and benighted.
“What rot,” Miss Addams said one gloomy, rainy afternoon at Hull House. “That young man is making a career of wrapping himself in the flag.”
“He surely is,” Ilsa agreed. “But it isn’t hurting him. Mr. Beveridge’s speeches have won him great favor with the Indiana legislature. He’s likely to be chosen to go to the Senate.”
“No matter, it’s rot. How dare he suggest we take on the care of new colored populations? We can’t successfully help or deal with our own—and we’ve had more than thirty years to try.”
“Do you think Mr. Beveridge really believes what he’s saying?”
“Why not? Men who delude others begin by deluding themselves.”
That night, while a summer storm raged outside, Ilsa sat at her desk and wrote a draft on her household account for one hundred dollars. She put it in an envelope addressed to Hull House, along with a note asking Jane Addams to see tha
t it got to the right people in Boston, anonymously.
Then she dropped to her knees beside her bed. While the rain hammered the silent, lonely house, she clasped her hands and bowed her head.
She prayed to God to bring Joe back to her, whole in body and still loyal in heart. She prayed to be cleansed of the guilt she felt because of her loathing for the war. Rebellion might satisfy a militant “new woman,” but it couldn’t soothe a guilty Hausfrau. It was the old conflict; she’d been raised to be dutiful and retiring, not outspoken. Could she ever tell Joe about the donation?
Her room was black as the rainy night enfolding the house. She clasped her hands so tightly they hurt, talking to someone else now.
Joe, I don’t know whether it’s right or wrong, this war. Could it be both? Do we ever know such things?
I am sure of one thing only. I will die if something happens to you. You can be a jingo all your life if you’ll just come home to me.
99
Dutch
PAUL REACHED PORT TAMPA with the crated equipment at midmorning. Three gray iron vessels were tied up; others were waiting in the channel. Army siege guns on each pier guarded the approach. Switch engines were shunting livestock and coal cars through the yards to the pier spurs. Soldiers poured off the cars, their clothes flecked with coal dust or cow dung. Carrying white blanket rolls and out-moded Springfield rifles, they formed up in the heat to await their ships.
“Don’t lose sight of these boxes. I’ll pay you another ten dollars once we stow them aboard,” Paul said to the burly black drayman he’d stolen from another customer at the hotel by offering him thirty dollars—ten more than he asked.
“Which ship’s yours?”
“All the civilians are supposed to travel on the headquarters ship, Segurança. It’ll be too crowded, I want to go some other way.” That was because a substantial part of the crowd would consist of generals, of which his uncle would certainly be one.
He had to search for Jimmy. For all he knew, his partner might have gone back to Chicago without telling him. He plunged into the mob on the pier. Wagons, artillery caissons, horses, bands, civilians shouting and waving from the windows of four Plant Line sightseeing cars—it was an incredible tangle. In the midst of it, his collar open and his jowls dripping sweat, General Shafter sat at a desk made of orange crates, alternately screaming orders and profanity at his aides.
Paul’s way was barred by a regimental band playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” He wriggled and slid between the musicians. “Excuse me, let me through, must come through.” As he fought his way, he stepped in a horse turd.
He hopped on one leg, shaking the dirty shoe in the air. He lost his balance and lurched against a man in jackboots and a spotless uniform of white duck. Before he could apologize, the man snarled, “Kindly be more careful, mein Herr. You spoiled my picture.” He’d been taking a snapshot of one of the docked transports.
Paul recognized him, of course. “I am extremely sorry, Lieutenant—”
“Captain. Captain von Rike. Military attaché from the embassy of His Majesty, Emperor Wilhelm the Second.” He adjusted his black fatigue cap with the red-dotted roundel in front. “And you, sir?”
A moment’s hesitation. “Dutch Crown.”
“Crown. There is a general named Crown on the staff of General Wheeler.”
“Is that so? No relation.”
“You are a civilian correspondent?”
“Something like that. If I damaged your camera, I’ll pay for the repair.”
The politeness surprised and mollified von Rike. Obviously he had no memory of their previous encounter in Berlin. He was a little more cordial when he said, “That won’t be necessary, I ruined only one picture. You are German?”
“Yes. My family’s Swabian.”
“I am Prussian.” As if no one could tell. “I am always happy to see a countryman, from whatever region. If this verdammt expedition doesn’t sink into the sea from sheer disorganization, perhaps we’ll have occasion to visit further. Chat about the fatherland. Great things are on the horizon for the German empire. Guten Tag, mein junger Freund.” Von Rike clicked his heels and strode off. He walked like a man who owned the earth.
Five minutes later Paul found Jimmy.
It was accidental; he was passing a crude yellow pine building, one of several forming what people called Last Chance Street. Soldiers and civilians stood in a line that snaked to the door of the building. Jimmy came out a side door, snugging his derby on his head.
“There you are!” Paul cried, dashing up to him.
“Where else would I be? If you want a drink or a girl before we sail, better get in line.”
“No time, we have to find a ship. Come on.”
They started off, Jimmy grumbling as usual. “Screwing Honey had damn well better be worth it, I—hey, hold up. I’m hungry.” He stopped where three black women had set up large umbrellas and were frying chicken pieces on small clay stoves. Jimmy bought a drumstick. The woman wrapped it in a twist of brown paper. “Much obliged, Mammy. You want any, Dutch?”
“No thank you.”
“God, you’re a sore ass this morning.”
“I worked all night getting our gear down here. Where the devil were you?”
“Enjoying myself. You ought to try it some time. You krauts are too fucking stiff-necked.”
Paul walked away. He didn’t need this. This heat, this noise, this dirt, this bedlam of snare drums and fifes, and cymbals and trumpets, ships’ whistles and bells, hallooing civilians waving hankies and little flags from the sightseeing cars, heavily burdened stevedores cursing and grunting as they staggered through the sand to gangplanks of the docked ships. He didn’t need the tension, the worry. And he especially didn’t need the companionship of an untrustworthy oaf who had very probably added robbery to his accomplishments in Florida.
The bow of a dilapidated freighter loomed. She was at least four hundred feet long. Paul stood in her shadow, staring up at her painted name. Yucatan.
“Crown? Dutch Crown? Over here.”
Colonel Roosevelt jumped from the lower end of the gangplank. If he hadn’t been quick, the stevedores would have run over him. Tenacious as ants, they labored up the steep incline with naked backs bent under a barrel or crate.
Roosevelt’s khakis were sweated through. Heat misted his eyeglasses. There was black dirt in the creases of his forehead and throat. “You look a bit lost,” he said to Paul. “Any way I can be of assistance?”
“I need two places on a ship.”
“Correspondents are assigned to the headquarters ship.”
He thought quickly. “I’ve photographed all the officers. I want to get pictures of ordinary soldiers, not generals, while we’re at sea.”
“Regular soldiers. Hah. Good idea. Very democratic. There are two of you?”
“And our equipment.”
“Bring it aboard.”
“You have room?”
“No, we’ll be tight as sardines in a can. But two more won’t make much difference. Did you ever see such a damned mess as this pier? General Shafter is an imbecile. Criminally negligent in my opinion. Some regiments are assigned to three ships, some don’t have any. The rail cars for our regiment never arrived, so we jumped on some coal cars. This ship was in the harbor when we arrived. I went out and claimed her and brought her in and we’ve held her against all boarders. The commandants of the 2d Infantry and the 71st New York both insisted the ship was theirs. They ranked me but I blocked the gangplank and politely disagreed. They were furious. Said they’d bring me up on charges. Hah! Let them! They’ll have to wait till the war’s over. Fetch your gear, Mr. Crown. Fetch your partner. The armada will sail on the first favorable tide. We’re going to war, my boy.”
With great glee, he thumped Paul on the back.
“To war!”
Paul found Jimmy again, and the drayman. The three wrestled their crated equipment aboard Yucatan. “Sure won’t be any God damn pleasure tri
p,” Jimmy said, fanning himself with his new derby.
For once Paul agreed with him. Heat devils shimmered in the air. Yucatan’s gray metal deck fairly sizzled, radiating the heat like a griddle ready for a chef. From an open hatch came the neighing of officers’ horses and the powerful smell of droppings. On the pier, General Shafter was lunging about, his uniform blouse cast aside, his great drooping belly sweating through his undershirt as he hectored and pushed stevedores bodily to hurry them.
Twenty minutes before Yucatan was scheduled to warp away from the pier to allow another transport to come in, Paul found he was out of cigars. He worked his way down the gangplank and ran to Last Chance Street. There he bought a small box of cheroots at three times the normal price. As he started back to the transport, someone hailed him. Michael Radcliffe, immaculate in his white suit. Instead of the heavy walking stick, he carried an ebony cane with a filigreed gold crutch handle. He seemed oblivious, impervious, to the disorder and dirt of Port Tampa.
“Got your ship, have you?” he asked Paul.
“Yes, right there.”
“Not going with the rest of us press fellows on Segurança?”
“I want some shipboard footage of the Rough Riders. Their vessel is the Yucatan.”
“I’m sure Colonel Roosevelt will be delighted to have the publicity.” Michael strolled along with him, swinging his cane. “I’ve been brooding about your situation. Your various disappointments in this country. Have you had any further thoughts on the subject?”
“None. Too busy.”
“Well, I have one. Consider another venue. London. Despite clever propaganda to the contrary, not all the geniuses reside in America. A few days ago I suddenly recalled a gentleman who’s becoming quite well known in Britain. He too is a Paul. Robert W. Paul of Hatton Garden. He was some sort of engineer or instrument maker before he became fascinated with the very gadget that’s captured you. Robert Paul invented a projector called the Theatrograph. He produces and exhibits pictures like those you’re making for this bloke in Chicago. Like your chap, he employs a camera operator. Perhaps he’ll need another, he’s doing well and expanding rapidly. Furthermore, he has competitors who are doing the same thing. Even Lord Yorke, my esteemed father-in-law, has expressed interest in the moving pictures. And let me assure you, he does not waste time speculating about profitless ventures. With your experience, I’m certain a place could be found for you. I’ll gladly assist you with contacts. You would be doing work that you like, and you could live anywhere. Your original homeland, if that’s what you fancy. Why not? One place is as good as another. I know, I’ve seen most of them. I think at heart you’re a wanderer, like me. I must have sensed that on the day we met. Christ knows it wasn’t your artistic talent that impressed me.”