Nobody among the rebels in Algiers could deny the soundness of that argument. Lanny said nothing personal about their hero, but he came away from the broadcast with the conviction that however courageous a soldier the General might be, he was a very poor statesman and no sort of diplomat. When the P.A. put into the hands of Denis de Bruyne the large bundle of medium-sized French banknotes which he had been accumulating for this purpose, he felt obliged to say: “This money is not mine, it is the United States government’s; and I have to put upon you the restriction that it is to be used to further the policy of that government, which is that we are not favoring any faction or group of the French, but are appealing to the whole French people to help us in ousting the Nazis, and setting you free to choose your own government in a democratic election.”
Denis replied: “That is all we have a right to ask.”
XIII
The flight to Casablanca took some five hours, part of it through bumpy air. Soon after the plane left the fertile Algerian plateau the landscape changed, and in place of wheatfields and vineyards on the terraced mountain slopes the country became lonely and in parts desert. Morocco was a country whose wild tribes had been conquered by the French and the Spanish only with the greatest difficulty. The rains were uncertain; when they fell the great land companies made money; and when they failed, the poor peasants starved or took to wandering as their forefathers did. Forests were few, and from the plane you could see herds of cattle, goats, and sheep, tended by solitary white-clad men. Great gullies had been cut in the land by stormy waters. Here and there were clusters of mud huts, and on the hilltops little cubical Moslem shrines with white domes.
In Casablanca, Lanny found a fine modern port, made by a break-water of which the French were proud. In its business district were office buildings of whitestone with many balconies, a concession to the climate; its native quarter was a place of vice and danger. The shops were known as souks, and most of them were the size of a booth, made of American oil cans cut and flattened. Whining beggars followed Lanny everywhere, calling for baksheesh, and he had to learn to say “Imshi!” which, he was told, means “’Tis naught!” It seemed to do the business.
Lanny had brought letters of introduction and quickly found out who had mosaics to show him. He was surprised to learn that the native grapevine worked even at a distance of a thousand miles; the people knew who he was and what he wanted. While waiting for the indispensable Hajek to arrive, he had a pleasant time inspecting various art treasures. “Infidels” were not permitted inside the mosques, but they could stand outside and admire the details of fine buildings, erected in a far-off age of glory. Mosaics were everywhere, and some could be bought. It was only a question of time to bargain.
Meanwhile, in the evenings, Lanny visited the homes of the haute bourgeoisie of “Casa,” as fashionable and as French as in Paris. They were pleased to be exclusive, but circumstances forced them to be curious about Americans, and they all wanted to ask questions of a son of Budd-Erling. Lanny found them somewhat more free-spoken than those of their class in Algiers. They were a thousand miles nearer to America, and perhaps the winds from the broad Atlantic had swept their heads clear. The wife of a wealthy exporter of wines and olive oil said to him at her dinner table, in the presence of several guests: “When are you Americans coming, and will you come with enough?” The guest smiled enigmatically and asked: “Do you want us to come?” The reply was: “We’ll be polite to you. Mais pas d’Anglais, s’il vous plaît!” No English!
He was still more surprised when he presented a letter that Denis had given him to a certain Lieutenant-General Émile-Marie Béthouart, who, Denis said, was a cousin of his mother’s family. Denis wrote: “Lanny Budd was a dear friend of my mother’s, and you may talk to him as you would to me.” The cautious officer arranged the conference in the home of a friend, and took the guest out to a summer house in the garden, where they could be safe from intruders. There the stiffly corseted officer unbent enough to ask the customary questions: “When?” and “Where?” and “How many?” Lanny had to make his usual reply: “The decision has not yet been taken, but it will be as soon as we can assemble the force.”
“This is the absolute essential,” declared Béthouart. “It must be enough. You must not fail, and you must not change your minds after you have started.”
“That I am authorized to promise,” replied the P.A. “I am told that one of your high officers has declared that if we come with one division he will fire on us, and if we come with twenty he will embrace us.”
“That was General Weygand, and it explains why he is no longer in command in North Africa. You understand that courage must be combined with discretion.”
“Oui, trés bien, mon Général. Let me inform you that I expect to fly to America in a few days, and what you say will be reported to President Roosevelt personally, and to no one else except under his orders.”
“Explain to your great President that the French armies here have not been demobilized as in Algiers; the Germans did not wish the task of controlling the Moors. I command a division, and if your forces land near Rabat they will find my forces lined up on the beaches, but withholding their fire. You must come ashore fast, because otherwise I may be court-martialed and shot. Our commander, General Noguès, does not agree with my point of view, and I doubt if he will let himself be persuaded.”
Lanny promised, and when the time came he did his best to keep that promise; but the General came within an inch of seeing himself proved a prophet—too late to do him any good!
XIV
Lanny got word of art treasures in Marrakech, and decided to throw a scare into the negotiators in “Casa.” (Everybody demanded a fortune from an American millionaire, and they didn’t give way normally.) So Lanny hired a venerable car equipped to run on charcoal, and with a little trailer to carry the fuel for a round trip of three or four hundred miles. The route lay toward the south, through wheatfields alternating with barren stretches, with aloes such as stood by the gates of Bienvenu and giant cactus such as he had seen in the California deserts. The little Mohammedan shrines called marabouts were everywhere.
All this scenery was dominated by the Atlas Mountains to the south-east—taller than the Alps, and covered with perpetual snow. As it melted, streams cut great chasms through the land, and the life of the ancient civilizations through the centuries had depended upon catching this water at high levels and spreading it over the land or bringing it to the cities. Aqueducts were everywhere, built out of the stones of the earlier ones. Those in Marrakech were low and appeared like swift-moving brooks. Approaching the city you passed over a bridge a thousand feet long, with twenty-seven graceful stone arches built by the Almohades, rulers of this country some eight hundred years previously.
Marrakech is a vast city, an oasis of palm trees, spread out so that it seems bigger than it is. It has immense estates with high walls, and the owners were living in comfort untroubled by war. It has a mosque and minaret, the Koutoubiya, built of rose-colored stone, and when Lanny stood and watched it at the hour of prayer he marveled at the power of the human spirit, for these beautiful things had come out of the soul of a humble and untutored camel driver of the seventh century. There is plenty of fault to be found with the Koran as a guide to conduct in the modern world, but no one could doubt that it had been superior to the forms of idol worship it replaced.
Lanny had a letter to a Moorish dignitary who lived not many miles from this ancient city. He owned an oasis and had groves of oranges, and palm trees loaded with great clusters of dates; there were herds of camels, goats, and sheep, and at the same time many appurtenances of civilization, including a radio set and a motor truck of Detroit manufacture. The master of this household, who spoke a little French and understood still more, showed the guest about his estate. Near one of the sheep pens Lanny noticed an ancient drinking fountain, and behind it a large plaque with one of the most beautiful mosaics he had yet come upon. He expressed his admiratio
n and asked tactfully if it might be purchased and taken to show Americans what Moorish taste at its best could be. He was told to wait until the morrow, and the matter would be discussed.
XV
He was to spend the evening in this household, and it proved to be interesting. He did not meet any of the women, but he guessed that they were listening behind portieres. He met about a dozen men, tall, dark, and handsome, dressed in ceremonial white for a distinguished guest. There were two lads, grandsons of the master, slender youths who reminded Lanny of himself in the days when he had danced all over the lawns of Bienvenu and the beaches of Juan. There was a banquet, the like of which the world traveler had never seen; ten courses, and he had to eat them all from a low table, sitting with his heels tucked under his thighs: chicken broth with rice; lamb roasted whole on a spit—you tore off chunks with the thumb and two fingers, and it was hot; pigeon pie, sweetened; chicken roasted, with a custard gravy; rice fritters in oil; pigeon stuffed with sweetened vermicelli; koos-koos, made of grains chopped up with mutton or chicken and highly seasoned; olives baked in a bowl and covered with poached eggs; caramel custard; and last of all oranges. Before and after each course Negro slaves, wearing large silver earrings, brought you a basin, soap, and towel to wash your hands. Each course was washed down with scented mint or jasmine tea.
Later in the evening Negro slaves played the flageolet, the flute, and the drum, the melody in thirds and sixths; then a troop of graceful youths showed the dancing they had learned in a school maintained by the Giaour, the native governor of this district. Lanny told them about the “eurythmics” he had learned as a boy at the Dalcroze School in Germany, and it turned into quite a lecture on the dance arts of the West. It was impossible for these men to imagine themselves dancing with a lady in their arms, but they knew that it was a custom, to them much more barbarous than eating with your fingers.
Far into the night these Moorish gentlemen conversed with their cultivated guest. They told him that the sooner the Americans came to French Morocco the better it would please the Mohammedan population. They were so pleased with his compliments and interest in their culture that in the morning the master of the family insisted upon presenting him with the mosaic. Lanny protested, and ceased only when he saw that he was committing a discourtesy. The host would have his workmen chisel out the tiles and they would be packed with care and delivered by that wonderful Detroit truck. Lanny took photographs of the fountain, and of the one-story red stone mansion with all the men of the family standing in front of it. He promised to come again and to send some Detaze sketches of North Africa in remembrance of his visit.
He drove back to “Casa” in the rattly tin Lizzie. From there he sent a cablegram to his father: “Am ready to return.” It had been agreed that Robbie was to notify Baker, who would see to providing transportation from wherever in the world a P.A. might show up. Lanny made arrangements for the packing and shipping of the various art treasures; he paid off his faithful translator and guide; and two days after the filing of his cablegram he received notice that a place had been reserved for him on a plane flying from Tangier to Lisbon. The Army had charge of everything now, and whenever the President’s confidential man asked for something he got it quickly. A passenger was just a different kind of package—but one that had to have food and drink on the way, and a bed to sleep in, and magazines, a checkerboard, writing paper, anything he might fancy, including an aluminum can if he got airsick, and a “Mae West” and rubber boat if he had to land in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean!
BOOK THREE
A Mad World, My Masters
7
Love Is Love Forevermore
I
Lanny budd, three times a husband, had learned a lot about women. One of these things was that the chosen one is never to be taken for granted. The three simple words, “I love you,”, which have been spoken so many millions of times since the human race began, have never once been found monotonous—save only in sad instances where the sentiment is not shared. When a woman has given herself to a man, and especially when she is carrying his child, she wants to know that this enterprise is to be co-operative, and that she has made no mistake in a commitment which, once made, is hard to withdraw from.
Lanny wished his chosen one to be in no slightest doubt on this subject. Therefore, when he was in her presence, he spoke the magical words on every occasion, together with the smiles and gestures which accompany and confirm them. When duty took him away from her, he never failed to write her once a week, using the time which other people took to attend church. This letter had to be written with one eye on the censor, a suspicious anonymous person who kept watch for unusual expressions, names, numbers, anything which might be code. Fortunately the censor had no objection to “man and woman stuff”; you were free to say “I love you,” but beware of repeating it too often, for that might be code, and if you made some “x” marks you would surely damn your letter to the furnace fires, even though you might add the explanation: “These are kisses.”
All this Lanny had explained in advance. He would never express any political opinion or refer to any military event; he would never say where he was or whom he had met, unless it was some commonplace name, like Emily or Sophie. He would say “I have bought a fine painting,” but never “I have bought a fine Meissonier,” for the censor might think that was the name of an airplane or a tank. He would sign his own name and address the letter to “Miss Laurel Creston,” because she was keeping her maiden name as a writer, and also because sweethearts might be more intriguing to European censors than wives. He would add something of a complimentary nature for the severe functionary’s benefit: “The French are kind to me; they never lose their interest in art”; or, “You would be surprised to know how many of the people here, in spite of all their troubles, labor to preserve the flame of their culture.”
Now, when the plane deposited him at the Washington airport, the traveler delayed only long enough to get Baker on the telephone and ask for his appointment; then he put in a call to New York, and when he heard Laurel’s voice he said: “Darling, here I am, safe and well.”
“Oh, Lanny!” she cried. “Such a relief! I have been holding my breath.”
“Be careful,” he cautioned, with a smile in his voice; “you are breathing for two.”
“Where are you?”
“In Washington. I have to make a report, and then I’ll take the first plane. I’m not sure how long it will be, but I’ll keep in touch with you. I am well, and have some interesting adventures to tell you. Incidentally, I love you.”
“Truly?” It was an invitation to repeat, and he no longer had to worry about the censor.
“Truly, truly, with understanding.”
“Understanding of what?” came the greedy query.
“Of the treasure you are, and of my need of such treasure.”
II
It had been possible for a P.A. to be taken quietly into the “summer White House” because the reporters stayed in Poughkeepsie and were furnished with a list of the day’s guests—from which Lanny’s name had been omitted. But it would have been another matter for him to come openly into the real White House, where reporters swarmed all day and most of the night, watching for stories as hawks watch for field mice and baby chickens. He followed his well-established procedure of walking to an appointed street corner at night and stepping into Baker’s car when it stopped. A few minutes later he was in that familiar bedroom on the second floor of the President’s home, with the big mahogany bed, the chintz curtains drawn back for the night breeze, and the prints of old sailing ships on the walls.
In that bed, half lying and half sitting, with pillows propped behind him, was the large bundle of intelligence, kindness, and fun which was a gift of Providence to the people of the United States—a gift much better than they deserved, for they would never have chosen him if they had known in advance what he was going to do. Or so, at any rate, the worshipful Lanny thought. He had come
to center all his hopes for social justice and world order on “That Man in the White House.”
Here the man was, clad in a blue-and-white-striped pajama coat, and with a sheet over his crippled legs, as it was a hot night in June. He was a big man with a big head, and with powerful shoulders and arms which he had developed by swimming, and by the necessary labor of lifting himself into whatever positions he took. Always he greeted his visitors with a hearty smile, and none more so than his Number 103, for he knew that he was going to hear a good story, and he was prepared to enjoy every word of it. “Welcome to our city!” was his call. “Our hot and muggy city! Take off your coat and turn the fan on you. Would you like some iced tea, or something with a stick in it?”
“No, thanks,” Lanny said. “Anybody who has come from Algiers will not mind Washington.” He wanted to get down to business and not take the great man’s time. Always there was what he took for a warning—a stack of documents and correspondence on the reading table, and some on the bed where this cruelly burdened man worked until far into the night. “You received my reports, Governor?”
“All in numbered order, received and contents noted. Thanks, as always, old man. Your data have been invaluable.”