Mail in hand, I walked into Fengshan’s office. He was on the phone, speaking English, looking distressed. It seemed that he was trying to get ahold of Mr. Wiley, the American consul general, but was deterred.
When Fengshan finally put down the phone, he collapsed in his seat, rubbing his forehead. “I’m at my wit’s end. I have a few urgent matters in desperate need of consultation with the consul general, but he’s been in a meeting all morning and is not available to answer my calls.”
I put the mail near the cigar humidor on his desk—so enormous, the box, it was large enough to hold ten volumes of Dickinson and heavy, a challenge for me to lift with two hands. Masterfully handcrafted, made of Spanish cedar with fine grain patterns, it was one of many gifts Fengshan had received—he might be a diplomat from a country with little influence, but he was beloved by many professionals in Vienna.
“Does Mr. Wiley know I was arrested by the Nazis?”
He looked at me. “I hope not. Your arrest is an embarrassment. For the sake of the consulate’s image, it needs to stay private.”
“Well . . . You’re right . . . Maybe it’s best he won’t know . . .” I had met the consul general twice and had talked to his wife at a party. I had been eager to make friends with her, but she wasn’t American, as it turned out, but a Polish woman who spoke a few languages, at least ten years older than me and an established sculptor. We had nothing in common, and it was a disaster. I rambled on about the solitary life in the city, and she stared at me like I was a child and told me to get a hobby.
“If only I could find an excuse to reach Mr. Wiley. A good excuse to pique his interest. What’s the matter, Grace?”
“Nothing . . . Never mind.” Fengshan rarely discussed politics or asked for my opinion, and that was fine with me.
“Grace, what is it?”
“Well, I was thinking, my love, I’m an American citizen, so if you tell Mr. Wiley of my arrest, he might be concerned.”
His face lit up. “Grace, that is an excellent excuse indeed. Mr. Wiley needs to know about your arrest. He has a responsibility to protect you.”
Fengshan dialed the American consulate’s phone number again, identified himself, and asked to speak to the secretary of Mr. Wiley. Then he explained that I had been detained at the Headquarters last night and asked to speak personally to the consul general. For a long moment, he held the phone and listened; when he hung up, he smiled broadly. “Grace. I have an appointment with Mr. Wiley. He cares about your safety and would like to meet me.”
“That’s good news.”
“Excellent news indeed.”
“When will you meet him?”
“Tomorrow. You came in the nick of time and gave me an excellent suggestion, Grace. I had been calling the American consulate for hours in vain.” He was in a good mood.
I threaded my arms around his neck. “Well, I have something to ask you. The Viennese girl . . . Lola . . . I promised I wouldn’t hire her as a tutor. It’s just . . . It was late at night, and she was alone. She might have lost her way or gotten arrested again. Anything could happen to her. I want to know if she’s safe. Would you object if I call her?”
“The Viennese girl?” He looked at his watch, picked up his leather briefcase from the shelf, and reached for his bowler hat from the coatrack near the door.
“Just a phone call to make sure she’s safe. Where are you going?” I took his hat from his hand and put it on my head, and then I pulled the hat down to cover my face. Playing with his things, putting on his tie or his pajamas—my spontaneity and girlish impulsiveness, as he said—had amused him when we were in Chicago, and he would laugh, but not in Istanbul or here in Vienna.
“I have an event.” The corners of his lips tilted upward, fortunately—no frowns or fuss.
I gave the hat back to him. “I thought your meeting with Mr. Wiley was tomorrow.”
“I’m going to an event in a German club.”
“Right. Well, you must go.”
He put his hat on, hesitating. “Do you really need to call the Viennese girl?”
“She was beaten, my love. And alone at night. Aren’t you worried as well?”
“Fine. Just a phone call. I need to go.”
“What time is your event?”
“In an hour.”
“So you have plenty of time. When will you have time for me? I got up and you were gone. Won’t you stay in bed with me in the mornings?”
“Grace.”
I whispered in his ear, “Well, do whatever you need to do; I’m not going anywhere. You know where to find me.”
I called Lola the moment after Fengshan left. Her voice, when it came through, was as fine as the music the orchestra ensemble played in the ballrooms, and yes, she had arrived home safely. “And would you like to have some coffee?” she asked.
No one had invited me for coffee, or tea. Not in Chicago, or China, or Istanbul.
“Oh yes,” I said.
She suggested that we meet at Café Caché near the Stadtpark, as though understanding perfectly well my limits—Café Caché was the only coffeehouse I knew. See you tomorrow, Grace.
I put down the receiver, smiling. I had not forgotten Fengshan’s disapproval, his warning of the danger in the city, and the humiliation of my arrest. But we would meet in a coffeehouse; it would be safe.
CHAPTER 7
FENGSHAN
The crowd at the club was smaller than he expected—a pitiful group of five, two women with gray hair and three elderly Viennese men in brown coats and fur muffs that appeared incompatible with the warm weather, a sorry sight compared to the rapt audience of two hundred at the National Assembly Hall, where he had lectured last year. There were no familiar faces of bespectacled university professors, or well-dressed businessmen keen to learn the ancient Chinese Four Great Inventions, or his friend Mr. Rosenburg. This almost never happened.
For a good forty minutes, in his fluent German, Fengshan excoriated the Japanese for their invasion of China and for violating the laws of the League of Nations. He also revealed the Japanese ambition of conquering the world that he’d found in a secret memo from Tanaka Giichi to Emperor Hirohito, their savage destruction of his homeland, and the devastating losses of human lives. China would defend herself, he vowed. But frustratingly, his lecture was met with silence and bewilderment. When he opened for questions, the few people in the audience asked irrelevant, ignorant questions: Did all women in China have bound feet? Did women in China wear pants like men? The latter was uttered with some disdain, since it was customary for Austrian women to don skirts.
Vienna today was not the Vienna of last year.
A man came to his lectern at the end of the lecture, clad in a black uniform and the cap with Totenkopf. Captain Heine appeared to be the doppelg?nger of the SS man, Eichmann, at first glance. Both were tall, sophisticated, exuding severity with their uniforms, though with one distinction: Eichmann’s eyes were cold gray, and Captain Heine’s were strikingly blue. It was likely paranoia, but the captain’s intense interest in him, after Grace’s arrest, could not be completely a whim.
“You’re a commendable orator, Herr Consul General. Your speech has, once again, enlightened us.” Captain Heine raised a glass of cognac in his hand—the captain always knew where to find cognac.