K Jeter - The Kingdom of Shadows

Perhaps there was no one up there at all. No one changing reels upon the projector – perhaps the films went on and on by themselves because they were true things, the screen a window into another world, brighter vivid than this one. The light from that world had rained gently upon her while she had slept in David’s arms, made her a part of it. For a moment, she thought that she could walk across the room, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpets, and stand against the screen, the beam of light wrapping itself around her body. In the glare of that small sun, streaming through the fingers of her outstretched hand, she might become a true, real thing herself, at home in the world that claimed her.

“Then I would…” She whispered aloud, the words moving inside her head as she gazed at the screen. Dann ich werde. “Then I would know…”

In that other world, a battle still raged. Soldiers swarmed across muddy fields, the terrible long mouths of cannons spat fire and smoke. Marte shrank back, the couch’s leather touching her rounded spine.

Other skin, living, touched her. David’s hand – she looked round at him and saw his half-lidded eyes and dreaming smile. She let him pull her close into the shelter from which she had risen. Falling, as she had let herself fall toward Joseph, and before him, the father of her baby.

She looked up into David’s face and saw that his gaze had strayed from her, even as his arms drew her closer against his bare chest. Reflected in the dark centers of his eyes were the sparks and motions of light.

The light drew her gaze as well. She looked over her shoulder, the side of her face pressed tight against his skin. Across the darkened room, in the dazzling world of the screen, a squadron of planes, cruel and beautiful things, thundered across the skies. In tight formation, wingtips almost touching, their riveted bodies as silver as the reflected light had made her own skin. They flew on, carrying metal and fire to distant parts of that other world.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see that anymore. But she knew that he kept his eyes open, went on watching, even as he held her tighter and more fiercely to himself.

Someone waited for her inside the house. Marte could see the lamp had been switched on, the big squat brass one on the table in the study. The glow filtered through the drawn curtains, spilling a dim radiance across the lawn and the path of flagstones curving to the front door. The lamp was David’s, one that he’d had sent over from the library of his own, much larger house; the room lined with books and dark wood could almost have swallowed this little cottage by itself. In the year and more since she had come to America, other bits and pieces of his had made their way here, to remind her constantly of him.

The front door was unlocked and slightly ajar. The studio car had dropped her off and driven away, leaving a silence in which she could hear again the evening crickets beneath the ranks of oleanders. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Hello?” She set her purse down on the entryway table. “Is there someone here?” She smelled a trace of tobacco, but not any of von Behren’s. Besides, she knew he was still holed up in David’s studio office, the two of them trying to salvage something out of a script that their leading man had called garbage and thrown down on the floor of the set in a white flurry of typed pages.

“ Fraulein Helle -” A voice that she recognized, but without a name attached to it, called from the study. A man’s voice, speaking English with an accent close to her own. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come and talk.”

He sat in the study’s big armchair, right next to the table with David’s lamp on it. As Marte stood in the room’s doorway, the man even looked a little like David, legs crossed, cigarette smoke curling from the cut-glass ashtray, a book from the long rows of shelves open on his lap. That was why David had sent the lamp over, so he would have a place to read, not just scripts but real books as well, when he spent the night with her. The lamp, one of a matched pair, made the corner of the study seem like his own home library.

This man smiled and gave a little nod to her, as though he were bowing at a reception without actually being on his feet. That was when she realized who he was, where she had seen him before. He was part of the staff at the German Consulate here in Los Angeles, a functionary high up enough to attend formal events in white tie and a sleekly tailored dinner jacket, with a lower ranking in the diplomatic corps following him around, taking down whispered comments and instructions in a small notebook. She still couldn’t remember his name or official title, but she recalled being introduced to him as she had stood next to David. It had been in the lobby of one of the palace theaters, all gilt and faux marble, that had been premiering the studio’s latest film. She had glanced up at David and seen the way his eyes had narrowed, even as he had grudgingly shaken the other man’s hand and muttered some inconsequential courtesy.

“I hope you’ll excuse this intrusion.” The consulate official tilted his head back, regarding her with half-lidded eyes. “And that in your absence I availed myself of your hospitality.” His gesture took in the room around him.

She remained standing in the doorway. “Did someone let you in here?”

The man shrugged. “There are always keys, and ways of acquiring them. Even in times such as these, we have helpful friends. Please.” He indicated the smaller armchair. “You should be comfortable in your own home, shouldn’t you? And we have much to talk about.”

She sat with her hands poised nervously on her knees. She watched her fingers smoothing out the soft fabric of her skirt’s hem. The man’s presence disturbed her, a combination of apprehension and memory. He gave off a scent – not one she could actually smell, but subtler – of ink and blood, of carelessly scrawled signatures at the bottom of police forms. Rumors whispered that the Consulate was rife with Gestapo keeping an eye on the Reich’s exiles, those who had been smart or lucky or well-connected enough to escape before they could be caught in the sharp gears of interrogation and prison. It wasn’t even a rumor, she knew it was the truth, they all knew it, from those who had landed on their feet and were being paid sweet amounts of Hollywood money as she was, to those living off handouts from their envied friends. A knot of them could be laughing or grumbling among themselves, bewailing fate or sheepishly apologizing for good fortune, and the shadow of this man, or one of the others just like him, would pass between them; they would look over their shoulders, and their voices would sink to whispers or silence.

The Consulate official bent his head down to peer into Marte’s averted face. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Fraulein Helle?” His solicitousness was an obscene joke; he could barely keep the thin-lipped smile from leaking through again. “I didn’t mean to alarm you in such a way. This unannounced visit. But I thought it best… for you. Some matters should be kept private. Personal matters.”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“But of course. Why should you?” He took the cigarette from the ashtray, inhaled and delicately returned it. “We are among the eaters of lotuses, are we not? Whatever happened, that one does not wish to remember, can be forgotten here; whatever didn’t happen, can be…” He searched for a word. “Falsified? Made up. All pretend.” A nod. “It is easy to see why everyone is so happy here. Elsewhere… in one’s homeland…” He shrugged. “Not so pleasant, perhaps. When a land is at war, the Volk – your people, Fraulein Helle – they must make harsh sacrifices.”