Much too soon from my point of view. The Fighters for Freedom want us to go to war tomorrow to help England and France and I’d rather wait, while you, being Irish, want England to sink beneath the waves.”
Tim laughed. “I don’t know what I think. But certainly not that.”
“This film of yours—the one now—isn’t taking sides?” Blaise betrayed an uncharacteristic anxiety.
“How can I? Each of you says what he thinks and …”
“The rest is up to your
Hometown
.”
“I don’t think,” said Tim, poignantly aware of how thoroughly he had failed to accomplish his self-appointed mission to recreate his country through lights and shadows on a million screens, “that the Hometowners are ever consulted when it comes to death and taxes.”
“Isn’t that what
we’re
here for?”
“Maybe what you’re here for.”
Blaise changed the subject. “She’s here, you know. In the town.”
“Who’s here?”
“Your wife.”
“I never married, remember? You mean your half sister.”
Blaise reddened. “Yes. Caroline arrived two days ago, from France. She asked about you. First thing, actually.”
Tim felt nothing but vague pleasure at the thought of seeing again not so much a onetime mate as a longtime unvaryingly constant, if seldom present, friend. He had not seen Caroline since she had turned over to him her share of the Sanford-Farrell Studio—by then worth nothing—and gone back to France at a time when she was almost alone in predicting that there would be, yet again, a great war; she had also made the point that as she had spent the first German-French war on a movie set, pretending to be a gallant nurse in search of her son in no-man’s-land, she meant, this time, to be home at Saint-Cloud-le-Duc, where, she said delightedly, “the real front is bound to be. I have progressed.”
Blaise took a card from his waistcoat pocket. “Here’s her special number. Don’t lose it. Because if you do, I don’t know how to get hold of another one.”
“Why? Where is she staying?”
“At the White House. Where else? With the Roosevelts, of course.”
2
Caroline looked at her latest face and found it good … enough. Since she had long since killed off her movie star self, the need to worry about her appearance was minimal. Although she had, through sheer will, absolutely forgotten her age—sixty? No. Fifty—she managed to maintain herself so that she could pass for younger, though younger than exactly what was no longer a useful concept or benchmark. The jawline was still as firm as it was in
Huns from Hell
. She was ageless, she decided, turning away from the dressing-room table and dusty mirror … everything in Eleanor Roosevelt’s White House was dusty, including the Queen’s room, so named for the present British queen, who had slept there the previous June. Eleanor Roosevelt had insistedthat Caroline stay with the family. “As long as you like. You cheer up Franklin, and of course I love having you here just down the hall.” Then Eleanor promptly disappeared down a West Virginia coal mine, leaving President Roosevelt to cheer up Caroline, who had come to Washington to transact business with Blaise, never an easy matter.
The Queen’s room occupied the northeast corner of the second floor. In honor of its recent royal occupant, some prints of Queen Victoria were haphazardly hung on the walls. Caroline recognized Eleanor’s absentminded touch. The clock on the mantel was ten minutes slow. Caroline wondered if this was deliberate. The British royal family kept their clocks ahead of time, ten minutes fast, to create anxiety about punctuality. Fortunately, to counteract the misleading White House clocks, a bell always rang to announce the President’s arrival in a particular room. He had been, for some minutes now, in the oval study down the hall from the Queen’s room. This meant that it was seven-fifteen p.m. The sacred cocktail hour when the President would putter about with
Tim laughed. “I don’t know what I think. But certainly not that.”
“This film of yours—the one now—isn’t taking sides?” Blaise betrayed an uncharacteristic anxiety.
“How can I? Each of you says what he thinks and …”
“The rest is up to your
Hometown
.”
“I don’t think,” said Tim, poignantly aware of how thoroughly he had failed to accomplish his self-appointed mission to recreate his country through lights and shadows on a million screens, “that the Hometowners are ever consulted when it comes to death and taxes.”
“Isn’t that what
we’re
here for?”
“Maybe what you’re here for.”
Blaise changed the subject. “She’s here, you know. In the town.”
“Who’s here?”
“Your wife.”
“I never married, remember? You mean your half sister.”
Blaise reddened. “Yes. Caroline arrived two days ago, from France. She asked about you. First thing, actually.”
Tim felt nothing but vague pleasure at the thought of seeing again not so much a onetime mate as a longtime unvaryingly constant, if seldom present, friend. He had not seen Caroline since she had turned over to him her share of the Sanford-Farrell Studio—by then worth nothing—and gone back to France at a time when she was almost alone in predicting that there would be, yet again, a great war; she had also made the point that as she had spent the first German-French war on a movie set, pretending to be a gallant nurse in search of her son in no-man’s-land, she meant, this time, to be home at Saint-Cloud-le-Duc, where, she said delightedly, “the real front is bound to be. I have progressed.”
Blaise took a card from his waistcoat pocket. “Here’s her special number. Don’t lose it. Because if you do, I don’t know how to get hold of another one.”
“Why? Where is she staying?”
“At the White House. Where else? With the Roosevelts, of course.”
2
Caroline looked at her latest face and found it good … enough. Since she had long since killed off her movie star self, the need to worry about her appearance was minimal. Although she had, through sheer will, absolutely forgotten her age—sixty? No. Fifty—she managed to maintain herself so that she could pass for younger, though younger than exactly what was no longer a useful concept or benchmark. The jawline was still as firm as it was in
Huns from Hell
. She was ageless, she decided, turning away from the dressing-room table and dusty mirror … everything in Eleanor Roosevelt’s White House was dusty, including the Queen’s room, so named for the present British queen, who had slept there the previous June. Eleanor Roosevelt had insistedthat Caroline stay with the family. “As long as you like. You cheer up Franklin, and of course I love having you here just down the hall.” Then Eleanor promptly disappeared down a West Virginia coal mine, leaving President Roosevelt to cheer up Caroline, who had come to Washington to transact business with Blaise, never an easy matter.
The Queen’s room occupied the northeast corner of the second floor. In honor of its recent royal occupant, some prints of Queen Victoria were haphazardly hung on the walls. Caroline recognized Eleanor’s absentminded touch. The clock on the mantel was ten minutes slow. Caroline wondered if this was deliberate. The British royal family kept their clocks ahead of time, ten minutes fast, to create anxiety about punctuality. Fortunately, to counteract the misleading White House clocks, a bell always rang to announce the President’s arrival in a particular room. He had been, for some minutes now, in the oval study down the hall from the Queen’s room. This meant that it was seven-fifteen p.m. The sacred cocktail hour when the President would putter about with
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