Stone's Throe, page 9
I could not recall meeting in two years two people whose very presence was as intense as the fire I had just come through, and yet now in two days I had met two such people. I wished dearly that Lawrence had not so swiftly absconded, for I might have liked to see the world shift and tilt on its axis, trying to accommodate the weight of those two meeting, but it was not to be. Instead, feeling as though my own world had taken on an unexpected shift and tilt, I was allowed through the crowd of reporters who now turned their attention to the new notorious star amongst them.
She was accompanied, I eventually saw, by a slight and swarthy man whose beard could be bettered by a teenage boy. He had a nervous look about him, and stroked one hand over the motorcycle's chassis as if reassuring it—or perhaps himself. Signor Panterello, I presumed; his evident tension ratcheted as I approached, then suddenly soothed away as Josephine flung a glad hand toward me and caroled, "Amelia! What a race! Amelia, we have to find a zeppelin before tomorrow so I can watch the entire thing from above. I've never seen anything like it, my darling! You were fearless! And the fire, Amelia! My God, how could you ever dare?" She drew me into her arms for a fierce and wonderful embrace. I was only distantly aware of the cameras clicking and clattering around us as she set me back again and turned, as if presenting a special and prized possession, to Signor Panterello.
"Monsieur, the winner of your race today, Amelia Stone. Amelia, Monsieur Antonio Panterello. Didn't I tell you that Amelia would win the day, Mister Panterello? Though I thought that fella there at the end—but Amelia had it in the bag all along! And he didn't even stop to say thanks, the yellow-bellied coward!"
Either Josephine did not know whom I had taken from the fire, or—I suspected—she preferred not to know, so that attention might be entirely upon herself. I had read Lawrence's biography and believed he might have been happiest left in Arabia to do great things without outside notice, so I did not try to dissuade her, only took Panterello's hand in a firm grip and was unsurprised that, though he looked like a wet fish, his handshake was solid and strong. "Signor. Yours is the most beautiful motorcycle I have ever seen."
Pleasure could not make him handsome, but it gave him some life. "Gratzie, madame. Your riding today was, how do they say, exemplary, and your speed in the flame's aftermath—Signor Lawrence owes you his life."
Curiosity piqued within me. "You knew it was he who rode?"
"Madame, motorcycle aficionados have come from all the world over to try their hand for my creation, and Signor Lawrence numbers himself amongst such lovers. I know many of the riders here personally, and more by sight. I had even expected you."
"Moi? Surely I am not well known—"
"La Stringfield de France, I believe they say, though it is known that you, like Signora Stringfield, travel everywhere."
"I had no idea you were famous, Amelia." Josephine, with a sparkling smile, tucked her arm in mine. "I've been talking with Mister Panterello while you raced. These accidents, Amelia—!"
"They are no accidents. Pools of kerosene do not simply appear before the Louvre—" Finally I looked to that grand museum, having not thought to worry that it might have seen damage. It had not; nor was it much in the way of a finishing line, for smoking oil still lingered in its foreground and masses of crowds littered the space racers were intended to come through. Now that I thought to listen, I could hear the remaining competitors as they approached, and wondered at their slowness, given the terrible length of time since Lawrence and I had first arrived.
A glance at the sky sent a shiver of surprise and confusion down my spine: it had, en vérité, been a scant five minutes since that wreck of a showdown had begun. And a wreck it had been: with a sudden jolt I remembered my Indian, to which I had given no thought since the moment my eyes had met Lawrence's. But it was nearby, righted by motorcycle lovers who inspected it and, when my gaze found their own, reassured me with nods and smiles. My shoulders sagged and I gathered my thoughts before speaking again. "Nor do ropes spring of their own volition at the ends of bridges," I continued. "Signor Panterello, there were desperate injuries yesterday, too. Who are your enemies? Why attack the race rather than you, assuming, as I must, that they want the prototype?"
Panterello's smile was thin. "Because without me, the machine is useless. They must assure they win the race and my services along with it. There is a reason, Signora Stone, that I have made this difficult to win. As for my enemies—"
Before he could say more, the Italian rider, with Bessie Stringfield hot on his tail, appeared on the stretch to roar across the finish line in third and fourth places. The Italian swung off his bike almost before it had stopped and began pushing his way through the crowd toward us. Face ashen with alarm at their arrival, Panterello seized my arm and whispered, "I beg of you, Signora Stone, only take me to safety and I shall explain all."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Amelia." My mother spoke with muted surprise, concern and curiosity all in the single word, though her smile and, perhaps to untrained ears, her voice offered nothing but pleasant delight as she opened her door to my extraordinary little band of companions.
My own smile was genuinely happy, though I too had certain concerns, foremost among them for her health. She was slimmer than she had been last we visited, her skin seeming to stretch more thinly over her magnificent bone structure than ever before. She was dressed beautifully; she always was in the height of fashion, and even a plain housedress looked elegant on her long frame.
I stepped into her apartment, embraced her and kissed her cheeks, then invited my companions in behind me. Though no other eyes would be so well trained as to see it, I knew spots of color appeared on my mother's dark cheeks as Josephine Baker stepped over her threshold. "Maman, mes amis, Josephine and Antonio. Mes amis, ma mère, Estelle Stone."
Signor Panterello had not the ease or charm that one might hope upon making introductions, but Josephine more than made up for it by clasping Maman's hands and drawing them upward until they rested over Josephine's own heart. "Madame Stone, enchantée de faire votre connaissance. I've wanted to meet you from the moment Amelia burst into my life. Merci for taking us in during our hour of need."
Maman's eyes strayed to mine and I saw the barest hint of laughter there, though she was nothing but grace and sweetness as she smiled at Josephine. "Any friend of Amelia's, Madame Baker. I'm overwhelmed to have you in my humble home."
"Nonsense," Josephine proclaimed. "There's nothing humble about a house built with love." She released Maman's hands and gave herself permission to examine the premises, while Panterello lingered uncomfortably near the door until Maman offered him a place to sit. Even then, he looked askance at me, but I gestured for him to do so.
"We have been half the afternoon getting here secretively, signor. The motorcycle is well hidden in the garage below, and my friend Professor Khan will see that it goes into even better hiding. Please, let me get you some tea and then you must share your story, for I admit to untoward curiosity."
"No!" Panterello twitched so violently I paused on my way to the kitchen to peer at him in consternation. "No, it's bad enough to have it out of my sight in the garage, signora. I can't allow someone else to take it away. My patents—"
"Are safe in Khan's hands," I assured him. "He has the ethical core of a saint; no matter how curious he might be, he will not examine your machine until I've won it for him fairly." I was not actually sure this was true, but I spoke with conviction.
Conviction that did nothing to assure Panterello, it seemed. He twitched to his feet again, miserable with discomfort. "No. I must insist, no. In fact, I'd better go down to it. I don't like leaving it alone."
"Might there be a discreet way to bring it into the apartment?" my mother wondered with gentle curiosity, to all of our surprise.
"It is a five hundred pound machine," Panterello said with stiff offense. "I don't believe so, madame."
"I could cause a distraction," Josephine offered with rather more enthusiasm at the prospect than I might have hoped, and refused to be quelled when I gave her a despairing glare.
"The purpose of bringing you to Maman's apartment, Josephine, is that no one will know where you are. Ridding ourselves of the reporters at the Louvre was ordeal enough. Displaying yourself on the street now will do us no good at all. No one will make off with the machine, signor; no one knows that it is here. Now, please, your story, while I make the tea."
Even Josephine sat down then, not, I thought, because she was happy to cede the limelight, but because she sought in Panterello's tale an emotional connection she could later use to her best advantage on stage. Given that his sniveling and weak persona was wholly at odds with her own boldness and strength, for her to achieve his likeness in a performance would be skill indeed. I could not say which of them I was more interested in as his tale began.
"I am from Arcore." Panterello announced this as though he expected it to resonate, and for me, it did: Arcore was the town whence Giuseppe Gilera came, he who had first built Italian motorcycles for racing and whose patents had grown into one of Italy's most famous motorcycle brands. Satisfied with my nod of acknowledgment, Panterello continued directly, speaking only to me; Maman and Josephine might have been window dressing, or storefront mannequins, for all his interest in them. "You understand my interest in building—and improving upon!—motorcycles stems from childhood, then. I worked directly with Gilera for a time."
"I would think he would be loathe to let you go, from the prototype below."
Panterello's mouth turned downward. "You would think, but he proved a jealous master, signora. He wanted to take claim for my advancements, while offering to share neither credit nor cash."
As in any starkly competitive field, this was not surprising, if, as always, disappointing. I nodded and he carried on. "So I stole my own designs and left. He claims they're his, because I developed them while working for him, but I worked on his designs at the factory, signora. The machine below I designed entirely on my own, developing the metals, the compact engine, the new look. No one can prove otherwise."
"Is it Gilera who is after you, then? Trying to retrieve his—that is to say, the designs he perceives as his?" I had no intention of discussing the particulars of legality, for I did not much care if the hours had been Gilera's or Panterello's own: the radical design departure was sufficient, in my uninformed opinion, to make the project entirely Panterello's own, regardless of whose time it had been designed on.
"If only. It's possible he and I could settle it like reasonable men." Panterello's tone suggested otherwise, but once more, that was not my battle to fight. I spread my hands in expectation, asking for elucidation, and my mother rose to serve tea as Panterello went on. "Mussolini is my problem."
He might have struck a bell, the silence that reverberated after his words was so loud and ringing. Not one of us—not myself, jaw agape, not my mother, frozen with tea in midstream, not Josephine, who had never yet been without words—could speak after that astounding confession. Panterello was not, to my mind's most wild imaginings, a man whose problems could be laid at the Italian dictator's feet.
Finally the tea spilled over onto the plate. Maman jolted, righting the kettle, and this ordinary action brought life back to all of us. "The prototype," I said finally, foolishly, as Maman poured us all tea and offered small cakes she had baked herself. I tasted one; it was light and delicious and reminded me, inevitably, of the hard lumps I had baked as a child. Despite the topic at hand, Maman and I shared a small smile before I returned to the conversation with Panterello. "He wants it. If its speed, its lightness, its strength are not exaggerated—"
Panterello, offended, snapped, "They aren't."
"—then your motorcycles would be an invaluable resource to his ambitions." It made sense after all, once the ice of astonishment had fallen away from me. "Have you—have you fled Italy, then, signor?"
"Fled and am in search of funding from a source that will not then steal my patents and sell them to the highest bidder. Hence the reason for this race, signora: the buy-in is considerable, never mind the hopes I have for appropriate sponsorship. But Mussolini is reluctant to let the patents go." Panterello was still thin and weak, but he at least had the courage of his convictions; that, I had to admire him for. "Ten riders yesterday crossed the finish line in good enough time to earn a century of points or more, putting them in the lead after the first day. It is possible to gain ground on the second and third days, but easier, of course, if the previous days' riders are...indisposed. I suspect a man in the top fifteen of having done harm to Mister Khan's first rider, for example, in hopes of improving his own place today. As he did."
"And that rider was...?" I had my suspicions, but would not voice them myself; this was not my tale to tell.
"Bernardo Viccini. The Italian who was so very nearly strung up in today's race."
A certain worry suddenly took root in my gut. "Signor. I must ask. Are you responsible for the accidents today?"
Shame flooded his thin face. "The rope, I will confess to. The flames, no. You must believe me, signora, I wished only to slow him should he take the lead. I would never resort to burning a man, even for the safety of my patents. And had you not been there today, if I had been in any way responsible for that man's death, even by simply sponsoring this race—!"
Maman's curious gaze flickered to mine, but I shook my head ever so slightly; there would be time for that story later, when I could share undistracted the extraordinary presence I'd encountered, for such a narration required full and rapt attention. I looked back upon Panterello with more censure than before, though. "Even if he escaped unscathed, Bessie Stringfield was as caught by your trap as the Italian, and her loss would have been as great."
My mother's eyes widened again at that name, but Panterello looked as though he meant to argue. I quelled him with a glare, and only after a judicious sip of tea did he dare to speak again. "Signora Stone, I'll do anything to keep my machines out of Mussolini's hands. You must help me, signora. You must win tomorrow's race, for all of us."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Panterello's plea lingered as I took my seat in the opera house a few hours later. I had every intention of fulfilling it, but Josephine came first—Josephine and le Monstre. At least the race was tomorrow, a daylight event; it could not, by its very nature, interfere with the activities at the opera house.
If the opera house had been filled the night before, it was beyond capacity now; that much was clear from my box seat. The story of the previous night's Nazi incursion had spread like wildfire, and not a soul in Paris wished to miss the riveting follow-up performance—or whatever deviations from the script might manifest.
I cared for it not at all. Had I my druthers, Josephine would be safely ensconced far away from dangers offered by Nazis and green-eyed monsters both. I was not, though, to have my way; even if Josephine had not been the consummate professional, determined that the show must go on, she was also the surest way I had of drawing le Monstre out. It would be nearly two weeks before Queen of the Nile's run ended, and I did not expect to see him before the final performance, but neither could I allow Josephine to go unattended each night as she risked herself on the stage. To my reckoning, she would carry the crowds to new heights with each show, working them toward a frenzy that would culminate on closing night. The only way to intensify the experience any more would be to have the same audience night after night. Of course, the less fortunate would find themselves without tickets, should a wealthy patron wish to see the performance again and again. Perhaps Josephine would be casting her spell on the same people every night.
I did not watch the patrons; instead I studied the ceilings, the floors, the very seats themselves. In my youth, le Monstre had made use of his pig-iron chairs to extract emotion, but he could surely not have so crude a plan in place for the opera house. Neither, though, did I think he could pluck emotion out of thin air; certainly some kind of conduit must be necessary, and I had only to find it. With an absent désolée to my fellow box-mates, I crouched and examined the undersides of the seats there and investigated the arms. Nothing seemed untoward—nothing save me, crawling about on the floor in my jodhpurs and leather jacket, because I had no intention of facing a second night of histrionics in an evening gown—and I returned to my seat with a frown. My greatest talents lay in fisticuffs and gunplay, not investigative work. I would return here tomorrow in daylight with Khan and together we would take the opera house apart, if necessary, to discover le Monstre's secrets.
Until then, I allowed myself to become entranced by the show. I imagined, knowing the source of Baker's tremendous presence—and knowing that the crown she wore tonight was a replica made by Khan's deft hands—that her second performance as Cleopatra would not take me in the same way the first had.
I was wrong, naturellement, so wrong as to make me weep. Perhaps knowing that she did not wear the true crown brought out the greatest of her talent and presence, but I thought not: Hatshepsut's crown only gilded Josephine's lily. Long before the curtain fell for the interval, I—and I dared say everyone else in the theatre—would have done anything she asked, and it was with a tremendous sigh that I finally tore my eyes from the stage as the lights came up.
Had a spotlight swung to illuminate the box across from me, I could not have seen it more clearly. Someone—two someones!—had slipped into that box after the performance had begun, and I had noticed them no more than anyone else. But now I saw them, a man and a woman, sitting together with expressions as rapt as mine.
She was the Nazi commander with whom I had wrestled the night before: petite, dark haired, wearing a gown of changeable green silk that shimmered and caught with every breath. A white stole wrapped her shoulders, softening her considerably from the warrior of the night before, but there could be no doubt of it.
