barely remembers him. I used to try to remind him about Mother and Father — tell him stories of Father's strength and bravery.
But he wouldn't listen. He isn't even curious. That's what he really needs — a father.'
'And you're doing your best to find him one?'
She didn't answer.
'Do you really think he loves you?' Younger went on. 'Heinrich, I mean.'
'Hans.'
'Heinrich hasn't written you a single letter in two years. That doesn't sound like love to me.'
'It doesn't matter whether he's written me.'
'You mean you love him regardless? You don't. I'm sorry, but you don't. If you loved him, you'd be thinking of one thing only: how he'll react when he sees you. You'd be in a panic to know whether he still cares for you. You'd be looking in mirrors. You also wouldn't concede that he hasn't written you. You'd tell yourself that he wrote to the hospital in Paris, but that you never received the letters. Instead you say it doesn't matter.'
She didn't answer.
'Is he that handsome?' asked Younger. 'Or did you give yourself to him, and now you think you have to marry him on that account?'
Colette looked away: 'Don't talk about him anymore. Please.'
'What do you owe him? You nursed the man when he was sick, but you act like he was the one who saved you. As if you owed him your life.'
'You can't understand what I owe him,' she said. She looked at him: 'Do you want me to say I love you more than him? That I'll give him up for you? I won't. I'm sorry. You shouldn't love me. You should just — leave me alone.' She got up and went to her cabin and didn't return.
On the last night of their voyage, as he contemplated the unfathomable force drawing Colette to her soldier from thousands of miles away, Younger tried to decide which was the greater illusion — the false motion of the stars, which seemed over the course of a night slowly to cross the sky, or the false motionlessness of the earth, which was in reality soaring around the sun at unthinkable speed.
How could it be that a young man whom Colette had known for only a few months exerted such power over her, or that this French girl exerted such power over him — Younger — against his will, against his reason, against his judgment? He seemed to be in orbit around her, circling her, closing on her, then falling away, always with some final, unbridgeable distance between them. Does the earth find its orbit a cause of unending torment?
The Amityville Sanitarium on Long Island was spotless and white and healthful, but Edwin Fischer, its newest resident, did not seem content. Gone was the gregarious good cheer so conspicuous when he was taken into custody in New York City a month earlier.
'How are they treating you, Fischer?' asked Littlemore, taking a seat in the visiting room.
'The Popes have always been against me,' replied Fischer. 'Are you Roman Catholic, Officer?'
'Catholic? My wife is.'
'None of the Popes has ever been a true Catholic. They pretend, of course, but it's always been a lie. They are using their powers against me. Why did you come here?'
'Funny — I'm asking myself that same question right now.'
'Shall I tell you the reason the Popes wish to keep me confined?'
'Because you're crazy?'
'They don't believe I'm an agent of the United States Secret Service.'
'You're not.'
'Why do you say that?' Fischer looked genuinely hurt. 'I resent that very much. Are you a Secret Serviceman?'
'No.'
'Are you the Secretary of the Treasury?'
'Why?' asked Littlemore.
'If you were, you'd be in charge of the Secret Service.'
'I don't think so.'
'You don't think you're the Secretary of the Treasury?' replied Fischer. 'Most people are sure, one way or the other.'
'I happen to work for the Secretary of the Treasury, and I don't think he's in charge of the Secret Service.'
'Then he's an impostor. I know why you're here.'
'Is that right?'
'You're here to get me out of this place.'
'No, I'm not.'
'Yes, you are. And to ask me when I first received my premonition of the Wall Street bombing.'
Littlemore sat up.
'I'm correct?' asked Fischer.
'Son of a gun. How'd you know that?'
'Were you at the train station when the police brought me from Canada, Captain?'
'No. So when was it — your first premonition?'
'I love train stations. Whenever I go to a new city, I wander around the station for hours. It makes me feel at home. Grand Central Terminal is like a second home to me.'
'Great. When was your first premonition?'
'You'll do something about the Popes?'
'I'll do what I can.'
'The end of July, I think. I know it was before the East-West matches. It was right after I decided not to go to Washington. You must know I'm an adviser to Mr Wilson?'
'That would be President Wilson, I'm guessing.'
'In 1916, I advised Mr Wilson that if he didn't stop the war, many would die. That's how I got to be a Secret Service agent. He wished to meet with me, but his aides wouldn't permit it. Doubtless he regrets that decision profoundly today.'
'Sure he does. So who do you think was behind the bombing, Fischer? Who did it?'
'Anarchists, of course. Bolsheviks.'
'Are you positive?'
'Absolutely.'
'How do you know?'
'I read it in the papers.'
A nurse interrupted them, to take Mr Fischer back to his room.
Their train slipped with a satisfied shriek into Vienna's Westbahnhof on a mid-October evening. The Austrian trains, once the pride of an empire, were shells of their former selves. They ran on half rations of coal — the other half having been sold off by corrupt officials and needy conductors. Chandeliers and decorated paneling had been ripped away, evidently by thieves.
A single cab was waiting outside the station under a bright half- moon — an elegant two-horse carriage. Although Younger sat next to Colette, she kept her distance, facing away from him and looking out at Vienna. Luc sat across from them, one suitcase under his legs and another beside him. It was a lovely, old-world night. In the distance, over the roofs of handsome buildings, the electric lights of the Riesenrad the giant Ferris wheel of the Prater, Vienna's famous amusement park — described a high slow arc in the air. The wind carried strains of a faraway waltz and merry laughter.
'Vienna is gay,' said Colette — wistfully, Younger thought.
Colette had spoken in French. The coachman answered in the same language: 'Yes, we are gay, Mademoiselle. It is our nature. Even during the war we were gay. And unlike the last time you were here, we are no longer eating our dogs.'
The driver presented his card to them. He was the very same nobleman — Oktavian Ferdinand Graf Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau — who had taken them to their hotel on their first stay in Vienna. But on his card, the words Graf and von, indications of his illustrious birth, had been crossed out.
