Tapestry of Spies

“What do you make of it, Mr. Florry?” she asked.

It was another in the constant barrage of questions she had for him. She was a young Englishwoman of his own age and the middle class, who had, if he understood correctly, come into some money, picked up a taint of fashionable leftist politics, and was now headed to Barcelona for adventuring. Though her questions were generally stupid, it pleased him to be asked them. She had so many!

Florry, also sitting on a deck chair, put down Tristram Shandy and said, “With this lot of amateurs one can never tell. I suppose I ought to go check.”

“If you can make yourself understood,” said the count, an aristocratic old man in a yellow panama hat and monocle. “These monkeys are hardly human.”

The count had a point: the crew of the old steamer consisted largely of semicivilized Arabs, wily, barefoot primitives in burnooses and filthy whites who scuttled about her rusty chambers and funnels like athletes and spoke in gibberish. The officers were only slightly better: two smarmy Turks who always needed a shave and spoke in impenetrable platitudes in answer to any query. Tell them their hair was on fire or some fellow had stuck a knife between their shoulder blades and they’d have answered the same: All is well, all is well, and praise to Allah.

“I suppose I shall have to ask the bloody steward,” Florry said. “At least he’s European.”

“Good heavens,” said the count, “if you consider that chap European, Mr. Florry, you have extremely low standards.” He made a face as if he’d just swallowed a lemon, and followed it with a quick wink.

“Keep the pirates off Miss Lilliford, will you, count?” Florry called, leaving them.

He set out in search of the steward, but of course the old fellow was not always that easy to find. He was a seedy but kindly chap officially charged with attending to their needs on this short voyage from Marseilles to Barcelona and, more important, charged with helping the cook. He was not the sort of man who took duty seriously, however; he spent his time affixed to a secret flask of peppermint schnapps, for he wore the odor of the liquor about him like a scarf.

Florry climbed down through the hatchway and made his way into the oily interior of the craft. Twice, he stopped to let jabbering Arabs by. They salaamed obsequiously, but he could see the mockery in their bright eyes. He pressed on, and the temperature rose and the atmosphere seemed to thicken with moisture; it was actually steamy.

He finally found the old man in the galley, where he sat hunched in his filthy uniform, slicing onions into a large pot and weeping copiously. As Florry approached he realized Gruenwald had really been on a toot this morning, for he smelled like a peppermint factory. He also gleamed with sweat, for the temperature in this room was even more grotesque than in the passageway. Florry mopped his face with a handkerchief, which came away transparent.

“I say, Mr. Gruenwald. The ship is no longer moving. Do you know why?”

“Hah?” replied old Gruenwald, scrunching up his face like a clown’s. “No can I quite hear.”

“We’ve stopped,” Florry shouted over the clamor of the engines. “In the water. No propeller. No move. Understand?”

“Stopped? Wir halten, ja?”

“Yes. It’s upsetting. Is anything wrong?”

“Ach. Nothing is. Is nothing. Nein, is nothing.”

Old Herr Gruenwald leaped out of the galley ? the Arab cook cursed him to Allah as he rose, but he paid no attention ? and pulled Florry out through a hatchway onto a rusty lower deck ? ah, fresh blast of salt air! ? where he settled into the lee of a rotting lifeboat and bade Florry collapse beside him.

“Hah. You some schnapps want, ja, Englischman?”

“No, I think not. Awfully nice of you though,” Florry said. Take a swig of that? Revolting!

“Ach. You should relax, no? Relax. Old Gruenwald, he take care.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his flask, swiftly unscrewed the lid, and took a swallow. His bony old Adam’s apple flexed like a fist as it worked. He handed the flask to Florry. “Go on. Is gut.”

Florry looked at the thing with great reluctance but in the end didn’t want to seem an utter prig, and so took a swift gulp. It was awful. He coughed gaspingly and handed it back.

“Good, nein?”

“Delicious,” Florry said.

“We stop because the Fascists sometime bomb docks in daylight. We stop here until five, ja. Then we go in in dark. So? Is okay?”

“Yes, I see.” Florry looked out across the flat, still water.

“Not so long to wait, eh, Herr Florry?”

“Not if safety’s the issue. I’d hate to think of what a bomb would do to this old tub.”

“Boom! No more tub, ja?” The old man laughed merrily, took another swig from his flask. “The Queen Mary, nein, eh, Herr Florry?” he said conspiratorially, gesturing down to the paint- flecked, rust-pitted deck.

“Nor, I trust, the Lusitania.”

The old man laughed.

“I had a brother killed in the Unterseeboots. Ja. 1917.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Ach. No matter. He vas bastard, anyhow. Hah!”

Florry nodded sweetly, seeming to pay attention, and then said, “Come on, now, old fellow. The true reason. Don’t let’s play games.”

Gruenwald professed indignation and shock at the accusation.

“Hah. Gruenwald tell truth. Ja, Ich?”

“Now, now, don’t get excited. Perhaps you are. On the other hand, I can’t imagine the owners of this wonderful oceangoing paradise would be too pleased to have it inspected terribly closely, would they? Unless my nose deceives me ? and I’ve got a very good nose ? I think I make out the undertang of tobacco amid the general welter of odors available below decks. Tobacco’s contraband, I believe, in Spain. That, I believe, is the reason for our delay. So that we can sneak in under cover of darkness. Damned interesting.” Florry gave the old man a sly look.

Gruenwald was gravely offended. “Herr Florry, you must zay nothing of zis! You keep your nose clean. Ja? You are at risk if you go about?”

“Don’t worry, old fellow. I personally don’t care what’s done with the stuff, just so it doesn’t inconvenience me unduly. All right?”

“Herr Florry, you be careful. Barcelona is very dangerous.”

“Why, there’s no fighting there anymore.”

“You listen gut, Herr Florry, I like Englisch peoples, even if they kill my brother in 1917. Hah! You be careful. The man who own zis boat, he is very powerful. He would not like young Englisch gentleman go around town talk about tobacco. Ja! Bad trouble for someone who do this. There are many ways to die in Barcelona.”

“Well, that’s a fair warning given, and I shall take it to heart. Thank you, Herr Gruenwald.”

“Ja, Gruenwald not zo zmart these days. I vas vunce real zmart. But in here, now, ist ? how you say?” ? he tapped his head and leaned close to Florry, his pepperminty breath flooding all over the Englishman ? “luftmensch. Ah?”

“Crazy, we would say.”

“Ja! Ja! Crazy, I got blown up by the Frenchies in the great war. In here metal ist. A big plate. Like as you would haben die zup ? eat your dinner off. Ja, metal in the head, ja!”

“Good heavens,” said Florry.

“In the war. The war was very bad.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How would you know, Herr Florry? You are too young for zuch things.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Florry.