BY THIS TIME tomorrow, Francis knew, his life, and the entire world, would be overwhelmed by his bloody deed. He didn’t want to kill anyone but that was the only fixed point in this whole mess: Someone had to die. If not the king, then himself and his brothers and Rosemary and God knows who else. In this moment, in the suite, with the drinks flowing and the fake countess and Martin and Rosemary taking in the view from the window, Francis was happy just to have Michael back. Hadn’t he prayed for exactly this? His life for Michael’s? God had listened to his plea and returned his brother to him—but, working in mysterious ways and all, He had left Michael’s life hanging in the balance. But tomorrow, the job would be done, his debt paid, his family safe. No one would understand why, but he would know, and that would have to be enough. As for tonight, he would keep everyone blissfully ignorant. If these were to be the last happy hours they spent together, he wasn’t going to be the one to call an end to the party.
Not for the first time, Francis wondered if he would leave the fairgrounds alive. The thought did not chill him. After all, that would be the easiest way to bring an end to everything. He had weighed the gun in his hand, had wondered how many bullets he would need for the king, and whether there would be any left for himself.
EVERY TIME THE door opened, Michael saw pieces of this past week falling into place. First it was Francis and the man with whom he’d left the museum. Then it was Martin and Rosemary, full of tears and smiles. He half expected to see the doctor and his chessboards or the blonde—Rosemary’s friend? her sister?—whom he’d last seen leaving the hotel in the wee hours of the morning. He was still accompanied by his most generous host, the photographer, who was packing her flat for a move to some unknown location—unknown to him, though not to her. Surely, she knew where she was going.
They had all raised their glasses and Michael’s head was rubbed and his arm squeezed and his back slapped and everyone smoked and laughed and his host, who was now his guest, seemed to be getting on very well with his family.
His family. It was as he’d said to Yeats: I am a family man and I want to be with my family. In Ireland, family had eventually meant only his father and then a constellation of mementos left by those who had departed. In place of his mother, he had one photograph and a mantel clock purchased during a trip his parents had taken to Paris long before he was born. From Martin, there were letters containing little more than the stilted well wishes of a man who had left the country when Michael was only seven. And from Francis, Michael had a different sort of letters, first reporting the high life in Dublin and then the view from his prison cell. The only fixed, living, breathing presence had been his father, and now his father was gone. Buried under the soil of Ballyrath for good, and Michael hadn’t even been there to see the box lowered into the ground; hadn’t thrown his handful of dirt and properly laid his father to rest.
Here in America, his family had reconstituted itself: he had Francis and Martin and Rosemary and the two girls. But for all the joys this reunion had brought, and would bring, he knew that he had left more than his senses behind in Ireland. He had left a piece of himself, and it would forever haunt the church where his father was buried, and where Eileen had said I do.
LILLY SHOULD HAVE spent more of her time in America with Americans, she decided, because these Americans—Francis and Martin and Rosemary and, of course, Michael—were absolutely charming. But then, they weren’t Americans, were they? Not Francis or Michael, who had only just arrived from Ireland. And Martin had spent almost ten years in America, but that wasn’t enough to make him into an American, was it? So Rosemary—she was an American. And Rosemary was charming.
They sat on the sofa, the two women, while the Dempsey brothers, who had moved on to Scotch and soda, drank and talked and looked out the window.
“And where is home?” Rosemary said.
“Prague.” Lilly said it matter-of-factly, following up the city’s name with a plume of smoke.
“Prague is dangerous since the occupation, isn’t it?” Rosemary no longer read four newspapers a day, but she did read one. She hadn’t given up completely on her old habits.
“Well, of course.” Lilly shrugged and raised one eyebrow, an expression that was either resigned or noncommittal—even she wasn’t sure. “But we hope for the best.”
Rosemary was about to formulate another question—Yes, but didn’t I just read—when she realized that Lilly was deflecting already and that additional questions would seem more like badgering than concern. That shrug, her hope for the best, made it clear she was bracing herself for a world Rosemary would never know.
Lilly was trying to keep the conversation light. In the past week, she hadn’t spoken the word Prague to anyone but Mr. Crabtree and Madame Eudoxia, but here was someone who seemed reasonably informed and more than reasonably compassionate. But what could she say to Rosemary? I’m a Jew and a maker of decadent art. My fiancé is a Jew and a communist. We make such a lovely couple. What could possibly go wrong?
Not for the first time, she noticed Martin gazing over at Rosemary. He watched her profile as she sipped champagne, a smile playing over his lips. “Don’t move when I tell you this, but your husband keeps looking at you. It’s very nice.”
“I think he’s shocked to see me out of the apartment, without any children, dressed up for once. He’s probably asking himself, Who is this woman? She reminds me of my wife.”
“It’s nice. He’s seeing you as you are.”
“That’s very kind,” Rosemary said.
“It’s true,” Lilly said. “The next time he does it, I’m going to take his picture, to prove it to you.”
“If he does it again.”
“Oh, he will.” Lilly raised the camera from her lap, cradling it near her shoulder. “How long have you been married?”
“It was four years in February.”
“And do you still look at him like that?”
“When I remember to.” Rosemary thought again of that kiss outside the chapel: the memory was being put to double duty this week. She and Martin needed more of those moments. “But if you’re asking me if I still love my husband, then the answer is yes.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I’m joking,” Rosemary said. “Not about loving Martin—but sometimes I try to have fun and it comes out wrong. My mother says I don’t know how to talk to people.”
“Your mother sounds…”
“Yes,” Rosemary said. “She sounds exactly like that.”
In one fluid movement, Lilly raised the camera and snapped a shot of Martin: the window behind him, gauzy with evening light, his hand cradling the glass, his eyes drawn again to Rosemary.
“What’s that about?” he said from across the room.