“1 see you’ve been to Africa and Spain,” Willoughby said, “Very enterprising. Is it true you’re to take over the Times bureau in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Hitler is simply full of himself right now,” Willoughby said dourly. “He’s full of his success. In a few months he will realize he must conform to a more moral world viewpoint. I think the man thirsts for recognition and acceptance. I’ve met him, y’know. Did one of the first English interviews with him.”
“And we expect to interview Mister Roosevelt this fall when we’re in the States,” Lady Penelope said.
“Well, you know what they say,” Willoughby remarked. “In America, you elect someone to office and then sit back and wait for him to fulfill all the lies he told to get elected. In Europe, we elect a man and Sit back and wait for him to make mistakes.”
“I’m really sick of politics, it’s all anyone talks about,” said Jenny. “This is Paris, not Berlin. Why don’t we change the subject. Francis has a big race coming up today.”
“Right,” Keegan agreed. “Anyone care to discuss horses?” Lady Penelope glared at him with a look of pure contempt. “I’ve heard your interests run to the mundane,” she said.
Jenny bristled. “That is ill-mannered and untrue,” she said suddenly. “And I should think someone with your privileges would know better than to speak that way”
The British woman recoiled in surprise. Jenny had surprised even herself with the outburst and her cheeks flushed.
“There’s nothing mundane about a good thoroughbred,” Keegan said with a crooked grin, trying to overlook the exchange. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” He turned to Lady Penelope. “What do they call you, Penny?”
“You may call me Lady Penelope,” she snapped back and, wheeling around, she walked away.
Willoughby shrugged. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” he said apologetically. “Her sense of humor hasn’t been just right since her husband’s death.”
“Perhaps I was being a bit too familiar,” Keegan answered. “Extend my apologies.”
“Of course. By the by, Keegan, should I bet on your horse?”
“I’m going to,” Keegan said as the stuffy Britisher left.
“That’s telling the spoiled brat,” Rudman chuckled.
“I am sorry,” Jenny said. “It just burst out.”
“You sure let the wind out of her sails,” Keegan said and laughed. “She looked like she’d been whacked with a paddle.”
“1 say we have brunch at Maxim’s on me and get back for post time,” Rudman said.
“We have to pass,” Keegan said, wrapping his arm around Jenny’s waist. “We have previous plans.”
“Oh?” Jenny said. “And can’t Bert join us?”
“Nope,” Keegan said, leading her toward the Packard. “We’ll see you in two hours at the post party.”
Rudman watched them walk across the parking area and get in the back of his car. He had never seen Keegan so excited and happy. It was the opening of the Longchamp racing season, a major social event in Paris, and they had been generous, sharing their days with him so he felt no slight when they decided to slip away for a couple of hours before the races started.
Rudman was so absorbed in his good feelings for Keegan and Jenny, he didn’t see von Meister cross the parking lot toward him.
“Herr Rudman,” the Nazi said. “It is nice to see you.”
Rudman glared at him. “That uniform seems out of place here,” he said brusquely.
“You will get used to it.”
Rudman started to walk around the tall Nazi but von Meister stood in his path.
“By the way,” he said. “You have an employee in your office, a photographer named Marvin Klein.”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps The New York Times did not receive Reichminister Goebbels’s order. You cannot hire Jews to work in Germany anymore.”
“We didn’t hire him in Germany. He’s an American.” “Well The German smiled. “Don’t concern yourself.” As Rudman started to walk away, von Meister said, “Your
friend, the one who owns the racehorse, what is his name?” “Keegan.”
“Ah yes, Keegan. I believe his girlfriend—or is it his wife?— no girlfriend, I imagine . . . I believe she is German.”
“So?”
“Just curious. lam always interested in German girls.” The German chuckled. “So. . . tell him I hope his horse wins. I bet on him.”
“Poor old Bert,” Jenny said as they got in the car. “We must find him a woman so he can share our happiness.”
“Old Bert’ll do all right. His mistress is his job. If he gets too lonely, he’ll go get his trenchcoat and he’ll have to beat them off with a bat.”
“Stop that. You give him such trouble.”
“I’m showing my affection. It’s the only way men can show affection for each other without getting arrested.”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Sometimes you make me laugh and I am not even sure wily.” She snuggled against him. “I am so happy, Kee.” For a month now they had been living in a dream world. The subject of Hitler and politics was rarely mentioned.
“Someday we’ll look back on these days and realize how special they are,” Keegan said tenderly.
“Promise?”
“Absolutely. Falling in love is a magic time.”
“Are we falling in love, Francis?”
“A fait accompli for me, my love,” Keegan said softly. “I fell in love with you that night at Conrad’s, the first time I laid eyes on you.”
“What a lovely thought.”
“You are a lovely thought,” he said.
“Oh Francis, it has been so wonderful it makes me nervous. I am so happy.”
He laughed. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Nicer than ‘I love you’?” she said, taking his arm in hers and squeezing against him.
He looked down at her with surprise. “You’ve never said ‘I love you,’” he said. “Not to me.”
“I just did.”
“Very obliquely.”
“Then I will say it directly,” she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “I love you. Je t ‘aime. Ich liebe dich. “ She reached up and barely touched his lips with her fingertips. “I do love you so, Francis. When we are together, my chest hurts but it is a good hurt. When we are apart, it is painful.”
She cupped his face between her hands and barely touched his lips with hers. They brushed their lips together, their tongues flirting with each other, as the chauffeur drove them away to a park he had selected near the Seine on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, where the track was located.
They spread a blanket and he wound up the Victrola and put on “Any Old Time” by Lady Day and she leaned back and sang along softly.
“I learned that song listening to Billie Holiday on the radio,” she said. “Have you ever seen her?”
“Once. A friend of mine, John Hammond, insisted I go up to Monroe’s, that’s a Harlem nightclub, to hear this new singer who turned out to be Lady Day. She was—I don’t know how to describe her—heartbreaking and heavenly at the same time. I remember we stayed there until dawn. She could smile and tear your heart out. You’ve got the same quality, Jen.”
He sat up suddenly. “Jesus, what’s the matter with me!” he said. “John Hammond is a good friend of mine.”