The First of July(35)

On the Saturday morning, he had asked the hotel to send a telegram to his lawyers and Isabelle. It was a fine day, and he persuaded Marina to take an early walk along the river. Things had, understandably, changed. There was nothing he could identify specifically: Marina conversed, was sympathetic, looked beautiful, and was a dutiful companion, a wife any man might envy. But he was not sure that she was any more than that. He could not measure the gap that had opened up between them; it might be merely a crack, or an unbreachable abyss. What had been comfortable silences now seemed pregnant with what was unsaid.

Nearby, a church bell started to chime and then, a few seconds later, two more, slightly farther away. Harry looked at his watch—it must be later than he thought, but it was not time for the marking of the hour. As some larger and more sonorous bells began to toll continuously, he guessed it must be some religious festival. Groups of men and women were gathering outside small shops and near boats. He and Marina were crossing over a bridge when a young workman came running around the corner and cannoned into Marina. She stumbled, put out a hand, and crashed into the side of the stonework. Harry, thinking she’d had her bag stolen, caught the young man and held him back against the side of the bridge. He quickly realized his mistake as the boy, wide-eyed, put up both his hands in entreaty.

“Pardon, m’sieur, madame, pardon… .”

And then, as if to excuse his haste and carelessness, he said in French, “We have mobilized. France has ordered a general mobilization. It is to be war. With the Germans.” And he looked somehow excited and fearful. The bells, Harry thought. The damn bells.

He let the boy go, who backed off a little, still apologizing, then ran off toward a group of laborers working on the bridge footings, shouting to them. They all stopped work, and one yelled “Vive la France! Aux armes, mes frères!”

Harry turned to Marina. “They’re at war,” he said. “Or will be within days.” It felt unreal and over-dramatic, as if they were spectators at some show that was not at all the one they had expected to see. Then, more practically, he said: “For every reason, we need to go to England as soon as possible.”

Back at the hotel, the elegant foyer, with its thick carpets and heavy flower arrangements, its burnished columns and quietly competent concierge, had turned into a circus of competing voices. Every other British and American guest also wanted to leave immediately. All that time, the bells tolled.

“Is there any answer to my cable?”

The clerk just shrugged.

“It’s not the troubles,” Harry said. “My father has just died. Please, I need to return very urgently.”

“I have a cab waiting,” said an English voice. A well-dressed man was standing next to him, looking calm but determined. “Wilding,” he said, and held out his hand. “It was taking us to the Gare du Nord, but I’ve heard it’s impossible to catch a train and the driver has agreed to take us all the way to the coast for the boat. He comes from the Pas de Calais and is eager to return home. I’m traveling with my wife and daughter, but we can take you with us if you wish. With only a small amount of luggage, I’m afraid.” He turned to Marina and smiled. “No doubt the hotel will store extra trunks until things have quieted down.”

The journey had been cramped and uncomfortable, but their companions’ conversation had helped pass the time. They, too, hoped for an onward ship to America. Wilding was evidently a very successful businessman with engineering factories across the continent. The family was returning from a holiday on the Swiss lakes. At the docks, a British officer boarded the train with two French gendarmes. They had an incomplete list of passengers and were checking them off by examining papers.

“They want to see if there are any Germans,” their new friend said with a shrug. “They won’t be welcome in England now.” After a brief pause and with a forced naturalness, he added: “I am myself half German, but fortunately not the half that provides my surname. Indeed, my sister was, until her death, married to a very English parson and my nephew is an organ scholar at Gloucester Cathedral.” He gave them one of his open smiles. “You can’t have better credentials than that, I feel. Nevertheless, I should feel happier to be in America for the duration of whatever is to come, and fortunately I have tickets for our onward voyage.” He looked at Marina. “For my wife’s sake, most of all. And my boys. Both at Harrow. No good having a father who has a connection with the enemy.”

“The Germans aren’t our enemy,” Harry said. “Our King’s grandfather was German. The Kaiser is his cousin.” But he knew he was being disingenuous.