They would look at one another, wide-eyed and pale despite the brightness of flames on their faces. Max couldn’t speak for the others, but the memory that grabbed his chest in ice-cold, bony claws was the image of that gallows tree, waiting. It was all too easy to picture how it would have looked with a man kicking his life away at the end of that rope until he was, at last, limp, still, a dead thing. The picture would invade Max’s mind and he would look at his father, seated cross-legged by the fire, not limp and dead, and at his mother, close beside her husband, her hand in his as they both looked into the flames, silent and remembering. Max did not like to remember how close they had come to that dangling thing, and he could understand something now about his parents that he hadn’t really understood before: They were true adventurers.
His parents had real courage. A spy, even someone spying for a well-intentioned ally, even a woman spy, was in constant risk of being caught, and executed. For whatever reason—and probably for several reasons, many of them contradictory, human beings being what they were—his parents often went out spying for King Teodor. Max had always admired their acting skills and enjoyed their theatrical personalities, but what he especially felt on those dark nights, when he couldn’t stop remembering, was pride. They were quite something, William and Mary Starling.
It was because of this second insight that when—as he always did—Max’s father broke the grim campfire silence of memory to once again retell the story of his trial, Max held his tongue. Why should he say anything to diminish the brave glamour of his father’s heroic moments on that stage? It was William Starling, after all, who had stood in danger of his life, truly mortal danger. They were all certain, although not one of them gave voice to the thought, that General Balcor would have executed his King. Balcor’s concern was Andesia, and its people, and the law; if he had not succeeded in unmasking Juan Carlos through the trial, he would have set another trap at another time, maybe even with another King.
Not that Balcor wasn’t as pleased as any one of them that things had gone well for the embassy. Max was sure the General would have been genuinely sorry to have to hang William Starling. Just not sorry enough to not do it.
“When they dragged me out of those cells,” William Starling would say, and everyone would draw in a little closer to the fire, relieved to have their own fearful memories brought out for an airing, because every airing caused them to grow a little more dim, a little less sharp. William Starling said, “I was blinded by the light—I staggered with the weight of chains, manacles…”
He was a good storyteller, Max’s father, and so the small changes in the adventure that appeared in each retelling went unchallenged, maybe even unnoticed. Ari grew more stiffly baronial, and Grammie more of a plump, feathery mother hen hovering near her daughter, as the tension mounted. Malpenso’s knife blade grew longer, sharper, came closer sometimes to William’s throat, sometimes to his heart. Juan Carlos turned into a blustering, ridiculous comic figure, Balcor became more and more powerful and mysterious, like Prospero or some evil alchemist, controlling the scene with an unearthly skill, until…
“I thank my lucky stars,” William Starling concluded, every night, “and they were surely shining bright. Yes, I thank my lucky stars for whichever of those poor farmers who had been born with good sense finally spoke up. And I thank my lucky stars for whichever of those miserable miners had the native understanding to say the same. And show Balcor a way out.” Then he would laugh, adding with a look around at all of them, “But I land on my feet, I always say that, don’t I, my dear little mother-in-law?”
All around them, insects hummed and occasionally some wild creature would shriek, whether in attack on its dinner or defense of its young, they couldn’t tell. Only Tomi would look at Max, as if wondering why he didn’t tell his father who the men in the crowd had been.
It wasn’t until Max stood alone with his father on the deck of the little mail packet carrying them across Lake Maracaibo that Max finally said, “Actually? Actually that was me. That sensible Andesian farmer.”
William Starling turned away from the sight of those little houses standing like long-legged herons on their pilings in the quiet water, and he raised doubting eyebrows.
“And the miner, too,” Max said.
The wind hummed in the sails, little waves splashed against the side of the boat. After a while, William Starling asked, “You speak Spanish?”
“Some. Enough,” Max admitted.
William Starling looked back at the houses, black squares silhouetted against a lowering sun. He turned to look at Max, and bowed, like a gambler honoring his opponent’s winning hand. He put his hands on Max’s shoulders and squeezed. Then he smiled. “There’s no need to tell your mother, is there?” he asked. “Your mother likes to believe in my lucky stars, it keeps her from worrying about things. Especially now, with this baby.”
Max could do that, and easily.
—
Max’s third insight came the afternoon of their second, and last, day in Caracas, in the writing room of the Hotel Magnifica. They had arrived in the soft light of an early-spring evening, and William Starling had instructed the carriage they had hired at the distant dock to take them to the Hotel Magnifica, where “They think we’re royalty, wait until you see the welcome we get.” After a hot bath, a good dinner, and a long night’s sleep on soft mattresses, they met in the morning, refreshed. First thing, they went to the central post office, to send telegrams announcing the success of the embassy to King Teodor (Ari), news of their safety to various people in Queensbridge (Ari and Mr. Bendiff, Colly and Tomi), and notification to various actors that the Starling Theater would soon reopen (William Starling). Waiting for them in the post office was a short stack of letters, most for Ari but one for Mr. Bendiff from his wife and, to his surprise, two for Max from Pia.
That first day, they returned to the hotel’s writing room, where tables and chairs awaited those guests who had business to take care of or social lives to keep up with or loving feelings to express. Ari, who wanted nothing more than privacy in which to read his letters from Gabrielle, withdrew to a desk in a corner as distant from the others as the room offered. Nobody wanted to interrupt him, but Max was a different story. Those who had no mail but were accustomed to stage center felt entitled to ask questions.
“What does this girl have to say for herself?” William Starling asked his son.
“What makes you so certain it’s a girl?” asked his wife.
“The boy doesn’t deny it. What more proof do we need?”
Mr. Bendiff diverted his attention with a question. “Mary? Aurora? Tell me what you think about this,” he said, holding out a page of his letter.
“Doesn’t my opinion count?” asked William Starling. “Why doesn’t my opinion count, Hamish?”
“It would,” Mr. Bendiff answered, “but I don’t think you’ll have one. You can always prove me wrong. I’m wondering: Would a woman buy pre-prepared apple chutney in a jar? My wife, who seems to have quite taken to running things—”
“Women are like that,” William Starling said, adding with a quick glance at his wife and mother-in-law, “and I for one admire and appreciate it.”
He allowed the two women time to respond to the inquiry, briefly, before he invited his wife to take a ramble around the city. “Now that we’re free to go where we wish, like ordinary people.”
“You could never be mistaken for ordinary,” his wife answered, accepting his hand and rising from her chair more gracefully now, without a thick pillow at her waist.
All the letterless people decided to go along, and see what was to be seen in Caracas, perhaps visit a museum, have lunch in a sidewalk café, and, most important, find a ship on which the party could travel home, as soon as possible.
“I only travel first-class now,” Max’s father announced. “Is there enough of my fortune left for that, Max?”
“Actually,” Max told him, “King Teodor insisted on paying for everything
.”
“Well, well,” William Starling said, and then, with a little nod, he said it again. “Well, well.” He turned to Mr. Bendiff. “Do you not find your children surprising creatures, Hamish?”
“I find your child surprising, if that’s what you mean,” Mr. Bendiff answered.
“Exactly,” said the actor, who then raised one arm dramatically to gather up his group and announce, “Let us begone! The world awaits!”
“Say rather that Caracas awaits,” his wife laughed. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Mum?” She held out a hand to Grammie, who gave an arm to Joachim. Colly mimicked the gesture, holding his arm out to Tomi, and the two boys exited the room laughing.
—
The next afternoon, back in the writing room, William Starling gave out the responses to the telegrams Ari and Mr. Bendiff had sent, as well as yet another letter for Ari. But one telegram had been returned as undeliverable. This was the one to Colly’s grandparents, and Colly was surprised but not unhappy to see from the message stamped on its flimsy yellow envelope that the people who had so reluctantly given him a home for the last eight years, who had hated him so well and treated him so heartlessly, had moved away from Queensbridge, leaving no forwarding address. It didn’t worry Colly. “I have a job, I can pay rent, they are as glad to be rid of me as I am to get away from them.” It was Grammie who worried, “You aren’t eighteen yet, so you’re not of the legal age to live alone,” and Mr. Bendiff who settled the question, at least temporarily: “We’ll think of something.”
There had been no telegram for William Starling and he bemoaned the lack. “So soon forgotten! What a fickle place the world is!”
His dramatics were ignored by everyone except Mary, who only smiled and shook her head.
“You are right, as always. I can win back the world,” William agreed, then, “How could I have forgotten?” he cried. “I have found a vessel! We sail tomorrow—tomorrow! Isn’t that a stroke of luck? La Freccia. She’s Italian, so the food will be splendid. We will all travel in first-class cabins, together, just as we have all been together in this adventure. You’ll see to it?” he asked Max, with the kind of careless gesture common to kings and queens and others who need never carry their own purses.
Luckily for his father, that question gave rise to Max’s third insight into his parental problem, by reminding him of who his father was. Max knew how to answer it. “I will secure the reservations,” he announced with a slight bow, the Queen’s Man acknowledging an order from his King. What William Starling needed, Max understood, what he had been deprived of for months and months, was a stage.
SCENE 2 THE RETURN OF MISTER MAX
If Max hadn’t read the Greek myths, he would have thought he was a really bad person, the way he was almost sorry he had masterminded his parents’ rescue, the way he kept secret from them his solutioneering and his successes, and especially how much he minded the way his father acted as if he, Max, were only some minor and not very important and pretty inept member of his, William Starling’s, theatrical company of a life. However, Max had read the Greek myths, so he knew it was normal to feel this way—and that might not have been a solution to his problem, but it certainly was a relief. Besides, Max didn’t kid himself, and he didn’t want to. You can’t be a successful Solutioneer if you refuse to see the whole complicated, contradictory picture, so Max couldn’t help but understand that, in a way and without meaning to, William and Mary Starling had given him the new normal life he wanted so badly to keep on living. Of course he was grateful to his parents. How could he not be?
Also, he had to admit how much fun it was to see his father back in action. La Freccia, the whole entire long, multilevel ocean liner, became a stage for William Starling, and Mary Starling, too, although not everybody realized this. Her acting was more subtle, quieter and less eye-catching, but no less skillful. Max had always enjoyed watching his parents act, and on La Freccia they had many roles to play, changing from one to another with ease. In the evenings, at the Captain’s table during dinner, and afterward as the band played and couples moved around the floor, they were royalty in exile. At the breakfast table, when the nine returning citizens of Queensbridge sat together, William and Mary Starling were adventurers returning from a successful excursion. In the hours between breakfast and lunch, they walked the decks, either hand in hand or with her delicate fingers resting on his manly arm, a couple on a romantic ocean voyage, perhaps even honeymooners. And in the afternoons, the Starling Theatrical Company took possession of the ship’s library. After all, they had everything they needed for three-person performances. “Why waste our talents?” asked William Starling. “Why waste valuable time? We’ll give them Shakespeare!”
Max was expected to take part in these performances, and he enjoyed himself while he was at it. Those afternoons, all three worked together, performing comic scenes and duels, love scenes and heroic declamations, and even the Aesop’s fables they had offered in the Queensbridge schools so long ago and so far away. “It is good to have our son back with us, isn’t it,” his father remarked, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder. They both smiled at Max.
“Very,” she said.
Max knew they meant it, really meant it, even though the next words he heard come out of his father’s mouth were “Every play needs its minor characters.”
Which irritated Max.
“And think!” his father went on. “Just think of it! Soon we will have another!”
Which made him really cross.
Only Tomi wondered aloud why Max didn’t tell his parents what he’d been up to, during their short reign over Andesia. “I don’t get it, Eyes, why the secrecy? It’s not as if it wasn’t something to boast about, everything you did and the way you got the King to send Ari with an embassy, and everything in Apapa, too. Won’t they be proud of you? But you usually know what you’re doing,” Tomi admitted, then pointed out, “Although usually you explain.”
But Max didn’t want to explain the problem he was working on. He wanted to solve it. If he couldn’t think of something, he was going to go back to being plain old Max Starling, son of the famous theatrical couple and still a boy, and also, he suspected, their babysitter and chief bottle washer, and he wouldn’t put it past them to ask him to launder diapers, too. Grammie, he knew, had done all those things for them when Max was a baby, then a toddler, and then a little boy. Grammie would still be there, just across the vegetable garden, but this baby was going to be in the same house as Max, probably in the same room. Max would be their most convenient choice. By the time his parents and his brother-or-sister got through with him, there wouldn’t be much of anything left of Max, and less than nothing of Mister Max, Solutioneer.
As the first days at sea went slowly by, Max worried away at the solution. He had already taken a first step by announcing that he would share a stateroom with Tomi and Colly rather than his parents. These arrangements had been made before they boarded the ship, leaving the three boys free to spend the mornings exploring the ship, talking to strangers, playing catch and shuffleboard and cards, and eating as much as they could as often as they could, which since the ship served seven meals a day to its first-class passengers was satisfyingly often.
Because William and Mary ate dinners at the Captain’s table, Max was also free all evening, except for the odd moment when he was summoned to verify one of his father’s political points—“When I was King in Andesia,” William Starling liked to begin—or when his mother wanted him to describe for one of the fashionable women at the table some aspect of life in Queensbridge—“Tell them about R Zilla’s hats, Max.” Mostly, however, and he did understand this, they summoned him to complete their family. They wanted to have Max standing beside their table, with them—“I don’t know if you’ve met our boy, Max”—to reassure themselves that he was really nearby.
Still, his parents were planning their living arrangements without asking Max if he had any ideas of his own about them, and without asking Grammi
e if she minded helping raise another child. It was Grammie who put the first spoke in their wheel, and also—although this was not her intention—offered Max a way to maintain the independence he had been forced into, and had learned to live with, and now wanted badly to keep.
The morning after La Freccia left the Bermudas, where the ship had refueled and restocked, Joachim had an announcement to make. His chair scraped loudly on the polished wood floor as he pushed it back, to stand up and declare, “I have something to say.” He looked around at all of them. “Here’s what it is,” he said.
At nearby tables, people fell silent, faces turned to watch. Joachim dropped back into his seat. “You’d think a person could make a simple announcement in privacy,” he grumbled.
“Just get on with it,” Grammie advised, but not impatiently. Not at all impatiently, in fact. In fact, rather as if something was amusing her.
“All right,” he agreed. “You’re right, I know.” He looked up, looked around again at all the waiting faces until his gaze settled on Max, to whom he spoke. “We’re getting married. Today. At noon. The Captain’s doing it. I’ll be returning to Queensbridge a married man,” he announced to Max, “and I’m lucky she accepted me. Your grandmother, I mean,” he said. “Not—”
Max nodded—he knew not who. But still…He turned to stare at his grandmother.
William Starling asked his wife, “Did you know?” and she promised him, “I’d have told you.”
“What good news,” said Mr. Bendiff. “Congratulations are definitely in order.”
Ari echoed this while Tomi and Colly applauded.