The Winds of War

cuteness of theirs about pure graphite disturbs me. Graphite comes into the picture at a late stage. If Hitler gets uranium bombs first, Pug, and if they happen to work, that could prove disagreeable.”

A doorbell rang.

“I guess that’s your daughter,” Kirby said. “Let’s go down to dinner.”

* * *

Madeline arrived in a black tailored suit with a flaring jacket and a tight sheath skirt, dark hair swept up on her head. It was hard to think of her as only twenty. Possible she was putting on the young career woman a bit, but she did have to leave the table in the Empire Room twice, when the headwaiter came said with a bow that CBS was on the telephone. Victor Henry liked her confident, demure manner and her taciturnity. With alert eyes darting from face to face, she listened to the talk about Germany and about the wedding plans, and said almost nothing.

In the studio building, at the reception desk, a stiff, uniformed youngster awaited them. “Miss Henry’s party? This way, please.” He took them to a barren low-ceilinged green room where Hugh Cleveland and his staff sat around a table. Briskly cordial, Cleveland invited them to stay in the room till the show started. He was looking at the cards, memorizing spontaneous jokes he would make later, and discussing them with his gagman. After a while he snapped a rubber band around the cards and slipped them in his pocket. “Well, five minutes to go,” he said, turning to the visitors. “I hear this fellow Churchill gave a pretty good speech. Did you catch it?”

“Every word,” Rhoda said. “It was shattering. That speech will go down in history.”

“Quite a speech,” Pug said.

Madeline said, “Darn, and I was so busy I missed it.”

The show’s producer, who looked forty-five and dressed like a college boy, put a manicured hand to the back of his head. “It was fair. It needed cutting and punching up. Too much tutti-frutti. There was one good line about blood and sweat.”

“There was? How would that go with the butcher who plays the zither?” Cleveland said to the joke writer at his elbow, a melancholy young Jew who needed a haircut. “Could we throw in something about blood and sweat?”

The joke writer sadly shook his head. “Bad taste.”

“Don’t be silly, Herbie. Try to think of something. Captain Henry, how’s the war going? Will the Gamelin Plan stop the Krauts?”

“I don’t know what the Gamelin Plan is.”

Madeline put her guests in privileged seats on the stage of the studio, near the table where Cleveland interviewed the amateurs before a huge cardboard display extolling Morning Smile pink laxative salts. She posted herself in the glassed control booth. A large audience, which to Victor Henry seemed composed entirely of imbeciles, applauded the stumbling amateurs and roared at Cleveland’s jokes.

Cleveland ran the program with smooth foxy charm; Pug realized now that Madeline had latched herself to a comer. But the show disgusted him. One amateur identified himself as a line repairman. Cleveland remarked, “Well, haw haw, guess they could use you in France right about now.”

“France, Mr. Cleveland?”

“Sure. On that Maginot Line.”

He winked at the audience; they guffawed and clapped.

“Does this amuse you?” Pug said across Rhoda, in a low tone to Palmer Kirby.

“I never listen to the radio,” said the engineer. “It’s interesting. Like a visit to a madhouse.”

“That Cleveland’s cute, though.” Rhoda said.

Madeline came to them after the show, as the audience swarmed on stage around Hugh Cleveland seeking his autograph. “Damn, two of our best bits got cut off the air by news bulletins. They’re so high-handed, those news people!”

“What’s happening?” Victor Henry asked.

“Oh, it’s the war, naturally. Just more of the same. The Germans have overrun some new town, and the French are collapsing, and so on. Nothing very unexpected. Hugh will have a fit when he hears they cut the butcher with the zither.”

“Miss Henry?” A uniformed page approached her.

“Yes?”

“Urgent long-distance call, miss, in Mr. Cleveland’s office, for Miss Lacouture. From Puerto Rico.”

* * *

On the flying bridge of the fishing boat Blue Bird, rocking gently along at four knots in the Gulf Stream, Byron and Natalie lay in each other’s arms in the sun. Below, the jowly sunburned skipper yawned at the wheel over a can of beer, and the ship-to-shore telephone dimly crackled and gabbled. From long poles fixed in sockets at the empty fighting chairs, lines trailed in the water. Sunburned, all but naked in swimming suits, the lovers had forgotten the fish, the lines, and the skipper. They had forgotten death and they had forgotten war. They lay at center of a circle of dark blue calm water and light blue clear sky. It seemed the sun shone on them alone.

The deck echoed with loud rapping from below, four quick knocks like a Morse code V. “Hey, Mr. Henry! You awake?”

“Sure, what is it?” Byron called hoarsely, raising himself on an elbow.

They’re calling us from the beach. Your father wants you to come on in.”

“My father? Wrong boat. He’s in Washington.”

“Wait one — Hello, hello, Blue Bird calling Bill Thomas—” They heard the squawking of the ship-to-shore again. “Hey, Mr. Henry. Your father — is he a naval officer, a captain?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, the office has your girl’s mother on the telephone. Your father’s at her house and the message is to get back there pronto.”

Natalie sat up, her eyes wide and startled. Byron called, “Okay, let’s head back.”

“What on earth?” Natalie exclaimed.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

The boat, scoring a green-white circle on the dark sea, picked up speed and started to pitch. The wind tumbled Natalie’s long free black hair. She pulled a mirror from a straw basket. “My God, look at me. Look at that mouth. I look gnawed. As though the rats had been at me!” She put the back of her hand to her lips. “Well, no use trying to patch up this Gorgon’s head till we come in. What can your father want, Briny?”

“Why are you so alarmed? Probably he’s here with my mother, and she wants a look at you. I can’t blame her, the way I shot down here. If so, I’m going to tell them, Natalie.”

Her face turned anxious. She took his hand. “Angel, there’s some Jewish law about not getting married too soon after a parent dies. Possibly for as long as a year, and — good heavens! Don’t make such a face! I’m not going to observe that. But I can’t distress my mother at this point. I need some time to figure this out.”

“I don’t want you violating your religion, Natalie, but lord, that’s a blow.”

“Sweetie, I wasn’t planning on marrying you until about an hour ago.” She shook her head and ruefully laughed. “I feel weird. Almost disembodied. Too much sun, or maybe I’m just drunk on kisses. And now your father suddenly showing up! Isn’t it all like a fever dream?”

He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close as the boat pitched and rocked more. “Not to me. It’s damned real, and the realest thing of all is that we’re getting married. Reality just seems to be starting.”

“Yes, no doubt. I certainly don’t look forward to writing to Leslie — Jehosephat, that scowl again! You put it on and off like a Hallowe’en mask, it’s unnerving — Briny, he came down to see me right after Papa died. He was remarkably helpful and kind. A new Slote, just a bit too late. He’s been writing to his university friends to find me a teaching job. I wish I knew what your father wanted! Don’t tell him about us, Byron. Not till I’ve talked to my mother.”

“You’d better talk to her right away, then. My father has a way of getting at the facts.”

“Oh! Oh!” She put both hands to her hair. “I’m so happy, and so confused, and so upset! I’m dizzy. I feel sixteen, which I’m not, God knows! Better for you if I were.”

When the Blue Bird drew closer in, Byron got the binoculars and scanned the ragged row of skyscraper hotels along the beach. “I thought so. There he is, waiting on the pier.”