Madeleine replied, “Ein Bisschen.”
Simon laughed.
Jack said, “Madeleine, this is Squadron Leader Crawford.”
“Jack, for Christ sake, I’m retired.” Then, looking down at her, he said, “Madeleine, please call me Simon.”
She hesitated, squinting up at him.
We should all age like Simon. Light blue eyes, shrewd behind the smile. The healthy smoker’s skin, fine lines in a light leather tan that can look good on a man in 1961. Touch of steel through his honey-brown hair, combed quickly but neatly back. In his early forties and unlikely to change till he hits sixty-five. Camel cigarette cooking between his fingers.
He smiled down at Madeleine and said, “All right then, how about ‘Uncle Simon’?”
“Uncle Simon,” she said. And both men chuckled.
“What are your plans for the future, Madeleine?”
She replied without hesitation, “I’m going to be either a comedian or a spy.”
Simon threw his head back and laughed. Jack beamed. “That’s the stuff, old buddy.”
Simon volunteered that he was a diplomat now.
“You’re kidding,” said Jack. “You’re the most undiplomatic sonofabi — gun I know.”
“That’s First Secretary Crawford to you, mate.”
“What the heck are you doing here?”
“As a matter of fact I’m on holiday. Meeting a friend.”
Say no more. Jack was not about to pry.
Simon was actually based in Berlin now, having just been posted from the British Embassy in Moscow.
“What’s Moscow like?”
“Cold.”
He was on temporary duty at Military Headquarters in Berlin, working on Allied records indexes — a vast collection of German dossiers, both military and civilian.
Jack said, “How’s your German?”
“Better than my Russian.” Next year he would be in Washington. “I’m brushing up on my American.”
Simon was the same. The self-mocking manner, affecting by turns Cockney and upper-class terms of endearment and scorn. He hadn’t married. Jack showed him a picture of Mimi and he said, “What’s a goddess like that doing with a poor slob like you?”
“Somebody up there likes me,” said Jack.
“Well, we knew that.”
The three of them went to a Biergarten. Madeleine had a sip from each man’s glass, and made them laugh with her white foam moustache. The waitress brought stein after stein for den Herren and pommes frites and limonade für das Mädchen. It was a glorious afternoon.
The following April, Simon called and asked for the “favour.” Jack listened carefully. He knew how to interpret the casual request. One of Simon’s suggestions. Could almost feel him in the instructor’s seat beside him….
Jack steps from the sidewalk onto the blacktop of the parade square and the heat hits him. He heads diagonally toward the PX and the phone booth. He would not be surprised if Simon was MI6. British Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 agents don’t advertise themselves; at one time not even their wives could know. Not a problem in Simon’s case.
Jack feels for dimes in his pocket and experiences a twinge of excitement. A scientist is coming from the Soviet Union. A defector. The man needs a safe place to live for six months or so before moving on. “Make him feel at home,” said Simon. “Poor bastard’s bound to be a little on edge, a little culture-shocked. Cook him up some of that wonderful slop, what’s that macaroni dish called?”
“Kraft Dinner.”
“That’s the one.”
Another scientist has come over to our side; that’s all Jack knows at this point. Simon was explicit in his way—“You might want to keep it to yourself”—the official term is need-to-know but Simon was never big on official terms. It might be fun to tell Mimi but she doesn’t need to know, and in any case, Jack is not in the habit of bringing his work home. Hal Woodley doesn’t need to know either. Simon pointed out that Jack will be acting as a private citizen, briefly playing host to the friend of a friend, strictly unofficial.
Back in 4 Wing, Jack and all other personnel had “war tasks” they would be called upon to perform in the event of an attack from the Eastern Sector. Jack’s war task assignment was Intelligence. It required a top secret security clearance and involved debriefing pilots returning from exercise missions and reporting the results to the station commander and Air Division HQ. He is not unfamiliar with need-to-know. It occurs to him now to wonder whether Simon could have known that.
He reaches into his pocket and counts out the dimes. A Soviet scientist. Simon has referred to him only as “our friend from the East.” Jack pictures a square-headed man with slicked black hair, thick black-rimmed glasses and a lab coat. What kind of science? Nuclear? “Rather an important chap,” said Simon. Our friend. Why is Canada getting him?
Jack is about to open the folding glass door of the phone booth when someone says, “Wing Commander McCarthy?” He turns. A fat man sticks out his hand.
“I’m Vic Boucher, sir.”
Jack shakes the hand. “Good to meet you, Vic.”
Squadron Leader Vic Boucher. Built like a medicine ball, every bit as solid and almost as bald. “Welcome back to the land of round doorknobs, sir.”
“And speed limits,” adds Jack.
A friend of his back in 4 Wing is an old buddy of Vic Boucher’s. They flew together in the war. Boucher was a tail gunner. Picture him now, squashed into the glass turret at the butt-end of a Lanc, and you want to grin. But he would have been trimmer then — the fear alone. A bomber crew’s average life expectancy was six weeks; the tail gunner’s, considerably shorter.
“I’ve been warned about you, Boucher.”
“I’ll bet you have,” says Vic. “It’s all lies. You coming to the mess, sir?” He straightens his tie. “Go ahead, make your call, I’ll wait.” His French accent sounds homey to Jack.
“Naw, macht nichts, let’s walk.” Jack pronounces it “mox nix,” meaning “makes no difference” or, in air force parlance, “I’m easy.” Like most veterans of German postings, he has mastered only a few choice survival phrases: danke schön, einmal Bier bitte and auf Wiedersehen.
“Righto,” says Vic.
“Oui, d’accord,” says Jack, and Vic laughs.
Jack likes the man immediately. One of his senior officers, in charge of training standards at the COS. And, most important, president of the mess committee. “I’m not going to let you rope me into any committees, Vic.”
Vic laughs again. “We got an opening for treasurer.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Jack invites him and his wife over for supper tomorrow night. Mimi will be happy to have someone to rattle away with in French. He walks with Vic, retracing his steps across the parade square. Simon will have to wait till after lunch. Pay phones may be secure but they are far from soundproof.
THE MAYFLOWER
Americans like what they have and want more of the same.
MADELEINE IS IN the driveway, leaning against the bumper of the Rambler, staring across the street at the messy purple house. Glinting at the foot of its front porch is something that was not there before. A wheelchair.
It is the only fully assembled rust-free object on the property, and it was suddenly there this morning when the McCarthys drove in from their motel. Abracadabra!
Madeleine is waiting for the moving van. She waited all morning and it looks as though she will have to wait all afternoon. She and Mike and Maman just ate lunch. Swanson TV dinners, minus the TV. Everything in its own little compartment like on an airplane. But lunch is over now, it’s hot and there’s nothing to do. Mike has gone off somewhere with another boy — no fair, he has a friend already. She looks down at her favourite plaid shorts with the fringed pocket, at her tanned legs, knees free of scabs because it has been so long since she had any fun. Her slip-on red runners bear the only signs of wear and tear. Her mother has tried to throw them out but they are just getting good, both big toes having worked their way through the canvas. The process can be hastened by dragging your toes as you coast downhill on your bike. But my bike is on the moving van and the moving van will never get here.