Tapestry of Spies

The old man took another swig on his flask and then another. His eyes seemed dead.

* * *

“Mr. Florry, where on earth have you been?” she asked, as he at last returned.

“I am sorry,” he said.

She lounged on a chaise in the pale sun. Count Witte, his jacket off and folded, a pair of circular sunglasses perched comically across his face, lay beside her. He was reading a book in Polish.

Florry quickly explained. “And so we sit,” he concluded. “I suppose if you choose a vessel that asks you no questions, then you must not ask questions of it.”

“A good principle, Mr. Florry,” called Count Witte. “It’s as true of political parties as well. And also” ? he added with another wink ? “of women.”

“Count Witte, you are such an old charmer,” said Sylvia.

“Miss Lilliford, you make me wish I were a young charmer.”

“Well,” said Sylvia, “at least it will give me a chance to get all this read by landfall.” She meant her pile of magazines. “At least then I shall have some understanding of things.”

“It is exactly when one thinks one understands a revolution,” said the count, “that the revolution changes into something that cannot be understood.”

“I certainly understand the basic principles,” boasted Florry. “They are threefold. It there’s shooting you duck and if there’s yelling you listen and if there’s singing you pretend you know the words.”

“Exactly,” said the count. “Mr. Florry, we shall make an international correspondent of you yet.”

The girl laughed. Florry pretended not to notice, as he’d been pretending not to notice since he came aboard three days earlier and discovered her on the deck. She was as slender as a blade, with a neck like a cocktail-glass stem. She had a mass of tawny, curled hair. She was about his own age, with gray green eyes. He did not think her terribly attractive, but nevertheless found himself taking great pleasure in the sound of her laughter or the sense of her attention when he talked politics with the sardonic old Witte.

“Oh, Mr. Florry,” she had said, boldly speaking first, “you know so much.”

Florry knew it not to be true, but found himself smiling again.

By five, the Akim had begun to move again, and shortly before nightfall, the passengers could see the long, thin line of the Spanish coastline.

“Look, Mr. Florry,” Sylvia called from the rail. “There it is. At last.”

Florry went to her.

“Hmm, just looks like the other side of the Thames to me. One supposes one should feel some sense of a great adventure beginning. I’d rather spend a night in a bed that doesn’t rock quite as much as this one.”

She laughed. “You’re such a cynic” ? and she gave him a slightly oblique look from her oddly powerful eyes ? “except that you aren’t.”

“I tend to put my own comforts first, I suppose. Before politics and before history. And before long, I hope.”

She laughed again, which pleased him. Then she said, “I don’t feel the adventure, either, to tell the truth. What I feel is a sense of confusion. This war is a terrible mess. Only this fellow Julian Raines, the poet, can seem to make any sense of it. Did you read his piece on Barcelona?”

The name struck him uneasily.

“Brilliant fellow,” he said uncomfortably, hoping to be done with the subject.

“His explanations are the clearest,” she said with what seemed to be a kind of admiration. “What an extraordinary place it must be. On the occasion of the army rebellion, the armed workers beat them down. Then they refused to turn the guns over to the government and established a revolutionary society and are preparing for the next step. Which would be the establishment of a true classless society.”

“God, what a nauseating prospect,” said the count. “No, my dear, you’ll see. The tension will mount between the Russian Communists and the libertarian, anti-Stalinist Anarchists and Socialists, and there’ll be an explosion.”

“In which case,” Florry said, “we all obey Florry’s First Rule of Revolution, which is: when the bombs go bang, find a deep hole.”

They both laughed.

“You make it sound like a war, Mr. Florry. You have been reading your Julian Raines, too. He’s very pessimistic about the Popular Front. He feels that?”

“Yes, I know, Sylvia. I have read all of Julian’s pieces. He’s awfully good, I admit it.”

“It’s a surprise, actually. I loathe his poetry. I loathe ‘Achilles, Fool,’ the poem about his poor father on the wire. My father also died in the Great War, and I don’t see it as a game at all.”

“Julian inspires passions,” said Florry, looking out across the sea at the dark jut of land, profoundly aware that he himself did not.

“Oh, do you know him, Mr. Florry?” She squealed with delight, vivid animation coming into her eyes. Florry stared at the life on her face, hating it.

“We were at school together,” he said. “Rather close, at one time, actually.”

“He must be the most brilliant writer of his generation,” she said. “Oh, could you possibly introduce me. He could teach me so much.”

“Yes, I suppose. One never knows, of course, how these things will work out, but I suppose I might be able to. He’ll be quite busy, of course. As will I.”

“Oh, of course. As will I.” She laughed. “To imagine, learning from both Robert Florry and Julian Raines. What an unusually lucky chance. The correspondent from The Spectator and from Signature.” She laughed again. “I feel so lucky.”

Florry looked at her. There was something about her slim neck that attracted him enormously. I’m the lucky one, he thought and watched her go back to her cabin.

Florry stood at the railing, nursing his vague feeling of unease, and was there still several minutes later when Count Witte approached.

“Mr. Florry, I must say I envy you. That’s a lovely young woman.”

“Yes, she’s quite special, I agree.”

“I envy you her feelings for you.”

“Well, it’s not gone to that. She seems to be drawn to adventure. She’s evidently got some money for travel. She says she wants to be a writer.”

“Whatever it is, I must say I can think of better spots to take a beautiful young woman than a volatile city like Barcelona. Perhaps she is the sort who feels most alive in danger. Still, I’d be careful if I were you.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

With that comment, the old count went to his cabin.

Florry turned back to the sea. It was almost dark now; the sun had left a vivid smear where it had disappeared into the ocean; the Spanish coast looked much closer now. Florry knew he ought to go to his cabin and pack.

But he looked at it one more time. Spain. Red Spain, in the year 1937.

What the devil, he thought, am I doing here?

Then he went back to his cabin to pack for the arrival.

* * *

Florry gathered his tweed jacket about him, wishing he had a scarf. He could feel the ludicrous revolver hanging in the ludicrous holster under his arm. He lit a cigarette. The night was cool and calm, full of moon which reflected off the sea in a gleam that was incandescent, fluttering, almost mesmerizing. It was absurdly beautiful, almost as bright as day. Before him, he could see the land mass, looming larger. He could see the light of the harbor and make out in the light what appeared to be the hulk of a low mountain off on one side, Monjuich it would be called. There was another mountain, one behind the city, called Tibidabo, but he could not see it.

He leaned forward on the railing, wondering how in the world he’d handle it with Julian.

Julian, old man.

Robert, good God, it’s been bloody ages.