agent of ours managed to snap these photographs this morning when the file was being shuffled through the Soviet embassy.”
“The Soviet—?” Will was confused.
“Yes,” said Brandon. “Seems like the Reds have got their eyes and ears working here in your shop as well.”
Will let it sink in. He could not believe it. He had been both beaten and betrayed. Why had he assumed that Oliver was working on his side? The arch, upper-class accent had no doubt misled him; it would never have occurred to him that someone as clearly aristocratic and moneyed as Oliver would support the Communists. Not much about that man made any sense, but still it seemed like there had to be another explanation.
Will quickly ran through his options, for at the moment the idea of coming clean with the truth seemed very unwise. He was apparently guilty of handing over private documents to a Soviet agent. It probably would not matter that he had been blackmailed into it. After all, a great number of history’s spies had undoubtedly begun as the unfortunate victims of set-ups and extortion, but the faultless roots of their errors did not matter much to the firing squad. Will realized he should have gone to Brandon immediately, he could plainly see that, in the same way that he could also see, painfully, that it was absolutely too late now. It didn’t matter, either, that the files were, for the most part, strategically useless documents; the enemy was the enemy, and he had, somewhat inadvertently, but certainly not inadvertently enough, provided the enemy with information. He needed time, and he needed to find Oliver. There had to be an explanation. “Of course, I want to help in any way I can. What are your next steps?”
“Well, right now I honestly don’t have time to work on this. I’ve got some bigger things going on. But the agency is concerned about it, so I’d like to hand the case over to Mitchell and White here to sort out. If you could get them copies of your agency’s personnel files, they’ll sniff out where your possible leaks might be,” said Brandon. “Of course, we can’t arrest anyone ourselves, and bringing the French authorities into it probably wouldn’t be smart. But once the suspects are identified, we can take the appropriate action.”
“I see,” said Will, nodding along. “Okay, no problem, I’ll talk to personnel and have copies of the files for your guys the day after tomorrow. Wednesday afternoon at the latest. But I really don’t think you’re gonna find anyone of interest here. It is only an advertising agency, after all, it’s not exactly thick with espionage.”
Brandon grinned and got up. “Well, it’s thick enough. The file came out of this office. That’s all we know now. We’ll figure out the rest. Thanks for your cooperation.” He started to leave, and then stopped. “Oh, what was it you wanted to discuss?”
Will smiled and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, it can wait. Don’t forget this.” He slid the Bayer file across the desk.
“Right.” Brandon said, picking it up. “Thanks again. We’ll be in touch.” He headed out, followed by his two silent colleagues, whose names Will had already forgotten.
Sitting there, Will’s mind went back to Guizot, his wife, and the story of the painting. He felt like he was the horse’s ass sticking out from the wall. But it did not feel terribly surreal, it felt all too real.
III
The ugly old woman had replaced Madame Vertan. She was quite different from the cold and efficient Madame Vertan, who had never said a word but only stared at the patients as she worked with a look of stoic judgment. This new woman never stopped talking, mostly to herself, as she changed bedpans, laid out linens and towels, and sloshed the mop bucket about. At first Noelle wondered if she was another one of the hospital’s patients, because she seemed a bit loopy, raw and rude, even slightly frightening. But by the second day of having her around, Noelle realized the old woman was utterly harmless, even entertaining.
“Bah, all this piss smells like poison,” the old woman said, dumping the bedpan’s contents into a bucket. “It’s the pills they stuff you with and the lousy food. It’s a wonder you’re not stone dead with the swill they make you choke down.” Another time, as she was mopping the hall, she said, “What a bird knows, she flies south with. What a pig knows, dies in his sty. Ha ha.” Later that afternoon, the old woman, down on her knees with the scrub brush, seemed almost lost in a reverie, going back and forth in muttering conversation with herself: “The prince’s winter chalet? Remember? No, where? Prussia, you fool. Yes, yes, he fed us peacock with pickled radishes and sherry wine, there was stuffed goose and marrow, pigs’ cheeks and oysters and abalone. Ha, that was a meal…”
Noelle could not believe that a woman scrubbing urine stains off the floor could have ever dined with a prince, and the food she was describing sounded disgusting. “Who eats a peacock?” she asked out loud, unable to contain her curiosity.
The old woman stopped her work to look up at the girl. “I’ll barter a question for a question: Who ate the first egg that dropped out of a chicken’s ass?” She paused for a moment, waiting for Noelle to answer. When the girl said nothing, the old woman blurted out the rest. “A hungry person, that’s who.” Then she went back to her scrubbing, still talking to Noelle. “But it’s not always the fancy food that tastes delicious. My sisters and I camped for six seasons on a Yamna farmer’s land. He would scoop eel out of the river for us and fry it with truffles he’d foraged and fresh sweet butter from his cows. Delicious. He was a dense and stupid oaf, but he was strong and big and he always smelled like horseshit. Oh yes”—the old woman paused again in her scrubbing—“nothing is as good as the smell of horseshit. You know, the streets are swept clean now, and all the horses are gone, so there is nothing in the air but the soot of your burning engines.” She went back to her scrubbing. “That’s why I like to sleep in a barn, to be close to real smells. Horseshit and horse farts. Those are the smells of life.”
That made Noelle giggle. A little smile crossed the old woman’s lips. Then she returned to her work and did not speak again.
IV
Witches’ Song Three
