Tapestry of Spies

terrible hate.

“You’ve made me a clever boy, Sylvia. You’ve taught me some very interesting lessons about the future. And I don’t think you’ll stop me writing what I know. The funny thing is, darling, I still love you.”

He smiled, then stood up and walked away, wondering if it would ever stop hurting.

* * *

Florry went back to England and presented Julian’s mother with the ring. The old lady was still beautiful and she lived in a glorious town house all hung with pictures of the Raines men down through the ages, but the thing did not seem to mean much to her. She simply put it on the table and did not look at it again. She did not appear to have been crying much, but then weeks had passed since the news.

“Did my son die well, Mr. Florry?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Florry.

“I thought he might have. It’s a gift the Raines men all seem to have,” she said. “They are perfect rotters in life, but they die well. It was true of his father. Would you care for some tea?”

“No ma’am. I’d best be going.”

“Do you know, they’re saying awful things about my son. That he was a traitor. Have you heard these stories?”

“Yes, I’ve heard the stories. They’re untrue. No man knows that better than I.”

“Good. Well, if you know that, it’s a start, one supposes. Are you sure you won’t stay?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Florry.”

“Good-bye, Lady Cecilia.”

And then she added, “Tell the truth, won’t you?”

“I shall try,” he said.

“You do know what the truth is, don’t you, Mr. Florry?”

“I think I do, yes,” Florry said.

“Incidentally, they sent me something from Spain. It was some poetry that Julian was working on before he died. I can’t think why. I always hated Julian’s poetry, and this last I can’t begin to understand. I believe the work was called ‘Pons.’ I’d like you to have it.”

“Well, I really?”

“Please, Mr. Florry. I insist. You gave me the silly ring, now let me give you his last verse, all right?”

Florry waited patiently until the old lady returned, and took the foolscap. Yes, come to think of it, he’d seen Julian scribbling away in their little bunker in the trenches.

He thanked her, took it, and left.

Only later, in his little bed-sitting room, did he look at it.

To the trenches outside Huesca,
We came as comrades but stayed as lovers.
Our fingers froze, our rifles jammed,
And when we died, were doubly damned,
for History had passed to others.
It had no lesson, or only one:
that the test was ours and had begun.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephen Hunter is the author of nine novels, including the national bestsellers Black Light, Dirty White Boys, Point of Impact, with over three million copies in print, and his latest Time to Hunt. He is also the chief film critic for The Washington Post and the author of a collection of criticism, Violent Screen. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.