City of Spies (6 page)

Pagan spotted a column of smoke trailing up near the ceiling and wound her way between ball gowns, shelves of hats and rows of linen trousers toward it. “They've buried you alive, Madge. I'm here to save you.”

She rounded a trestle of frilly yellow skirts to find Madge Popandreau, wardrobe mistress for
Two to Tango
, seated at a huge black sewing machine. She had her eternal cigarette clutched between narrow, red-lipstick-smeared lips, her sharp black eyes following the line of white tulle as she threaded it under the bobbing needle. Madge had frizzy unnaturally black hair pulled back in a giant bun, square, deft hands and an eagle gaze that could spot the head of a pin on a sequin-covered dress.

“I'm just finishing up your petticoat for the big rumba number. Throw on that black suit for me in the meantime, will you, sweetie? Mind the pins.” She jerked her head toward a rack of clothes with tags that bore Pagan's name. “Rada!”

“Coming.” The voice was gloomy and Russian. A lanky young woman with a leonine mane of dark blond hair emerged between racks of fur coats. “Hello,” she said to Pagan in the same sad tone. “I will help you with the clothes.”

“You wearing a girdle, honey?” Madge asked, still sewing, and didn't wait for a reply. “If she's not, get her one, will you, Rada?”

Rada nodded and scanned Pagan's hips as she took off her trench coat. “No girdle today?”

“I'd rather jiggle like Jell-O,” said Pagan.

Rada nodded mournfully, as if Pagan had announced a sudden death, slid the tape measure from around her neck and whipped it around Pagan's hips. “A full-body one is required for this suit.” She shook her head. “It is very tight.”

“I don't need to breathe,” Pagan said as she slipped off her sneakers and unbuttoned her jeans. Near-nudity was the norm in wardrobe. Rada turned, and pulled a black sheath of elastane and straps off its hanger attached to the suit.

Pagan wiggled and wrestled her way into it, adjusting the bra straps, as Rada slipped the silky wool suit off its hanger. The pencil skirt was tight as hell at the waist—Rada hadn't been kidding—and it clenched tighter still as it slid down her hips.

“I know you're all about the A-line Dior these days, honey,” Madge said. “You like to be able to move, maybe have a snack, like a real-life person. But this director, Victor, he didn't want you looking human and told me to make it as close-fitting as possible. I said okay, since you don't have to dance in it.”

Victor sounded like a treat. Pagan hadn't met him yet, and was dreading it more each day. “I might need to walk,” she said, squeezing her feet into the four-inch black heels that went with the suit. “I don't think I could sit down in this.”

“We'll get you a slant board,” Rada said.

The dreaded slant board, a simple contraption that allowed actresses to recline on a wooden board that could be leaned back at an angle to take the weight off your feet.

“Those things make me feel like I'm about to be buried at sea,” she said.

“Before you die, this director wants to see every twitch of your derriere. It's a part of his ‘vision,'” Madge said tartly.

“Twitching, but not jiggling,” Pagan said, eyeing her clearly outlined rear end in the mirror. “So he likes 'em fake.”

“We are here to create illusion,” Rada said, her sorrowful voice lending the sentence an unexpected profundity. “Reality is of no importance.”

“Film's an illusion, honey,” Madge said tartly. “Might as well make it pretty.”

“It's not how we feel that's important,” said Pagan, reciting the old, sarcastic Hollywood line. Madge joined her in saying the next part of it: “It's how we look.”

Madge moved expertly from sewing tulle to repinning the black suit, pegging the skirt hem a shade narrower to emphasize the curve of Pagan's hips. She had to take mincing little steps in it. Good thing she hadn't had to run around in this boa constrictor the night the wall went up in East Berlin.

But then good girls didn't
do
things. They liked being hobbled in tight skirts and heels so they could have things done for them, and to them. But heaven forbid they climb scaffolding or crash through a barricade manned by armed members of East Germany's most feared soldiers.

Or damned well walk normally.

Not that she, Pagan, would ever do such things. Bless you, no. She was nothing but a silly teenage girl, and the most you could expect out of her was to make faces at a camera.

Before her adventure in Berlin she'd thought that way about herself, too, if she thought about herself at all. But then she'd ended up on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall the night it went up, with people she cared about in danger. Desperation had forced her to realize that people's condescending expectations could be used against them. She'd pretended to be exactly what the leaders of East Germany thought she was so she could escape and get Thomas and his family to safety.

Give most people exactly what they expected and they never bothered to look deeper.

She'd thought she could pretend to be the sort of girl who wore a suit she could barely move in, for the sake of this sad little movie. But it was challenging these days to act like a shallow little dimwit.

On screen, sure. But in real life? Now that she knew a bit better who she was, the facade was becoming difficult to maintain.

Madge and Rada wrestled her out of the mummifying black suit and replaced it with the foofiest big-skirted ball gown Pagan had ever worn.

“I knew it,” she said, flicking the ruched trimming that wound around her torso. She was a fish caught in a very fancy net. “I know Daisy's a small-town girl, but...”

“The director wanted frills,” Madge said flatly. “So he gets frills.”

“And I get chills,” Pagan said, swaying the hooped skirt to and fro. “Fit's great, but I'm going to knock over every piece of furniture I walk past.”

“Can you waltz in it?” Madge asked, her lips moving around the cigarette lodged in her mouth.

“If Scarlett O'Hara can do it, so can I.” Pagan did a tentative one-two-three around the sewing machine. The skirt swung like a large white gauzy bell. “I could signal ships at sea with this thing.”

“Pearls,” ordered Madge.

Rada draped a multistrand pearl necklace with a large rhinestone clasp around Pagan's bare shoulders.

“It's like
Breakfast at Tiffany's
set in the Civil War,” Pagan said.

Madge snorted. “Exactly what Victor requested. I told him it was derivative, that we should set the style, not follow it. He said, ‘It's not that kind of movie.' Of course it isn't if you think of it that way! Ach.” She made a helpless gesture with both hands, exhaling smoke through her nose. “I'm going home tomorrow, and you'll get to deal with him. Rada will be here for the shoot.”

“The suit will tear,” Rada said gloomily. “The netting will rip. It is inevitable.”

“Is he that bad?” Pagan lowered her voice, even though they were the only ones in the large cluttered room. “Victor?”

“You haven't met him?” Madge lifted her painted eyebrows and paused to remove the burned nub of her cigarette from her mouth. “You won't like him.”

“Tony likes him,” Rada said, and raised a melancholy eyebrow that said it all.

Pagan's heart sank. Why couldn't things ever be easy? The thought of a man who was anything like Tony Perry in charge of an important movie in her career made her want to dive straight into a martini glass. But then a nice, sunny day sometimes did the same thing.

“There should be a word for men who prefer the company of other men—not to sleep with, mind,” Madge said, stubbing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray by the sewing machine. “But who cannot abide to speak to women unless it is to condescend or seduce.”

“I believe the word for men like that is
jerk
, Madge,” Pagan said.

Madge snorted and lit another smoke. “Sorry to be so blunt, honey. But you should be prepared.”

“I'm always ready for men like that,” said Pagan. “My whole dang life has prepared me.”

CHAPTER SIX

Avenida de Mayo, Buenos
Aires
January 10, 1962

AMAGUE

From amago, meaning threat. An embellishment done on one's own before taking a step.

“I hate this movie,” Pagan said.

She and Mercedes had changed into cotton frocks and were walking down the grand avenue to end all grand avenues in Buenos Aires. Pagan had returned from the wardrobe fittings in a baleful mood, and at Mercedes's request, Carlos had dropped them off in front of the Casa Rosada, or “Pink House,” where the presidents of Argentina lived and worked. The casa was indeed as pink as the desert hills outside Los Angeles, squatting like a sun-baked birthday cake at the eastern end of the plaza. This was where Eva Perón and many others had spoken to assembled crowds from the balcony. Now, beside the yellowing grass and weary jets of the water fountains, tourists wandered, and women in sensible shoes supervised tours of shuffling schoolchildren.

Mercedes kept consulting her guidebook, telling Pagan the history of each statue and plaque in an eager voice that was cute for the first fifteen minutes. After that Pagan tuned her out and tried to enjoy the sunshine until Mercedes finally asked how the wardrobe tests had gone. The whole story about her first rehearsal with Tony and what she learned about Victor the director at the fitting today came pouring out.

“I almost feel guilty about kicking that snake Tony that first day,” Pagan said. “I was so angry, but at least he's behaved since then. What is it?”

Mercedes had stopped by the ubiquitous statue of some guy on a horse in front of the Casa Rosada and was staring up at the huge baby-pink arch over the entrance. “There's a museum inside,” she said, and smiled at Pagan.

Oh, God, Mercedes and her eternal thirst for knowledge. It made Pagan feel positively stupid sometimes. She should go to more museums probably, to fill up all the empty places in her brain. But right now she was too restless and discontented to stand in front of display cases listening to M drone on about political movements and population growth.

“Maybe some other time, if that's okay.” Pagan took a few steps away from Casa Rosada, trying to pull Mercedes away from it. “I'm starving. Where's that café you wanted to go to?”

“Down the street that way.” Mercedes pointed toward a tall white, elongated, pyramid-type monument with a small Statue of Liberty on top. “We
could
eat soon, but I might not get a chance to come back here...”

“You can come back while I'm on set. Time to eat.” Pagan turned decisively and walked toward the pyramid thing.

Education and history were important and all, but...you know what? No. To hell with them. To hell with books and museums and, most of all, to hell with Devin Black. What was she doing here, ruining her career in a terrible film, putting up with handsy jackass costars and rendered immobile in ugly outfits for a guy who didn't bother to show up?

Through the heat of the day, a tantalizing mirage of a glass filled with ice, rum and lime swam into her view. She was more of a vodka-martini girl normally, but when the weather was warm, her thoughts turned to rum.

Mercedes caught up to her silently, a line between her brows, and they moved in silence through the plaza, keeping to the shade of the leafy green trees. The strain between them tightened like a guitar string being tuned too high.

The huge, open square narrowed to a broad, busy avenue lined with tall, European-style buildings and bustling with sharply dressed pedestrians. The warm summer air was filled with dust, and the scent of grilled meat wafted out of the restaurants and cafés as they passed.

Pagan's stomach growled. She really was hungry. And cranky.

A cranky, hungry alcoholic. That pretty much made her the worst person in the world.

“God, I want a drink,” she said. “I just... Holy hell, M. I'm ready to jump that street vendor for a beer.”

Mercedes's face cleared. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Pagan said. “I do think food will help, though. Just don't let me order a rum and Coke.”

“We'll eat soon,” Mercedes said. “It's not far. And don't feel guilty. About Tony.”

Dang, M was savvy, changing the subject from drinking to the crap underlying her need to drink. Pagan's shrink had told her that while she was out of town and unable to go to an AA meeting or contact her sponsor, she should to talk to her friend. She'd almost forgotten that advice.

“Tony thinks I'll put out because that's what everybody thinks about a girl who isn't pure,” Pagan said, head down staring at the sidewalk moving slowly under her feet. “No one's ever going to want to date me properly if they know my history. I'm ruined.”

“Pure?” Mercedes looked her over from her brown oxfords to her pink flowered sundress to the ribbon holding her ponytail. “It's strange that I hadn't noticed you were ‘ruined.'”

“Mama would be ashamed of me if she knew,” Pagan said, her voice small.

“Your mother—the Nazi sympathizer?”

Pagan swiveled her head to stare at her.

Mercedes shook her head, not backing down. “Your mother had plenty to be ashamed of herself. You remember the Nazis—people who thought those with blood that didn't fit their definition of
pure
should be wiped out.”

Mercedes had an irritating way of making sense that clashed with Pagan's self-pity.

“Okay, so much for
pure
,” Pagan said. “And maybe Mama's opinion would be questionable. But everyone thinks girls who don't wait for marriage are dirty.”

“Well,
everyone
can get bent,” Mercedes said.

She talked tough, but she had to know as well as Pagan that the mixed messages were everywhere. Society loved it when you were sexy, like Marilyn Monroe, but they thought you were morally bankrupt if you fooled around, like Marilyn Monroe. So you had to keep the fooling around very quiet.

They walked in silence for a few moments. “Do you think Devin knows?” Pagan asked. “About me and Nicky?”

“Ah,” Mercedes said in a tone that said,
So that's what this is about
. “What does it matter? He said no monkey business during this trip.”

“He knows everything else. Why wouldn't he know that?” Pagan's heart was made of lead. “Maybe that's really why he said no monkey business.”

“You think Devin's the same kind of guy as Tango Tony?”

A small laugh escaped Pagan in spite of herself. “Yeah, no. They're nothing alike.”

“Your past is nobody's business but yours,” Mercedes said.

“What about your past?” Pagan glanced over at her friend. “Is that none of my business?”

Mercedes wrinkled her nose, suddenly a little shy. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever...?” Pagan didn't know how to say it. She and Mercedes had shared their worst deeds and fears during their months as roommates in reform school. But M had never talked about a boyfriend, or dating, or any kind of romantic interest. “Did you ever get really serious with a boy?”

Mercedes took her time, the way she did, pondering the question, as Pagan's heart beat hard and fast, hoping she hadn't offended her. “I thought about it,” Mercedes said, her eyes screwed up tight, like she was wincing. “I had a few chances. Cute boys, too.”

“But you had more self-control than I did.” Pagan tried not to feel disappointed that she was the only one with a stained reputation. “Figures. You weren't a drunk.”

“No, I just didn't want to.” She looked over at Pagan as if she'd said something dirty or wrong.

Pagan bumped her shoulder into her friend's. “Very funny.”

“No, it's true. So...” She swallowed hard and seemed to force herself to keep talking. “I went to a bar where women go to meet women. To see if that's what I wanted.”

Pagan stopped in her tracks. Mercedes glanced back, but she kept walking. Her cheeks were pink. Was she actually blushing? Pagan hustled to catch up. “Was it?”

Mercedes shook her head, staring down at her feet as she walked. “Nope. Girls are nice and pretty and all, but I didn't feel a thing.”

“But then...” Pagan didn't know where to go from here. “You probably haven't found the right person.”

“Maybe.” Mercedes frowned. She actually looked worried. “So far no one's tempted me. All I want to do is read the next issue of
Fantastic Four
and study astrophysics.”

“So—you don't want to get married? Have children?” Pagan was trying to wrap her head around this.

“It just never occurred to me. Do you?” Mercedes asked.

“Of course!” Pagan said automatically, then thought more. “But I'm not sure why.”

“Everybody says that's what makes women happy,” Mercedes said. Her voice was unusually uncertain for her. “So if I don't want it, what does that make me?”

Pagan frowned. “You're still a girl! You're still a woman. What else would you be?”

Mercedes said nothing, staring fixedly off into the distance. A couple of young men lounging in a doorway pursed their lips and made kissing noises at them as they walked past. Pagan resisted the urge to throw them a rude gesture.

“Well, nobody's going to want to marry me, so we can be spinster old ladies together,” she said.

Mercedes thought that over as they passed a shop filled with colorful glass bottles, and another selling shiny leather goods.

Mercedes glanced over her shoulder, then back at Pagan, her expression softening. “As long as I do the cooking.”

Pagan laughed. “Deal.”

Mercedes squinted at her thoughtfully. “Except, you like kids.”

Kids.
Ava.
Her little sister, dead for more than a year now.

How Pagan missed pressing her cheek against that soft head of blond hair, missed making crazy faces to turn that that serious, frowning expression into a laugh. Pagan's and Ava's fingers had warred over the piano keys in furious duets. Their voices had meshed and clashed as they read
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
out loud in tandem. They were so different yet so close.

What would Ava be like now if she had survived the accident Pagan had caused? What would Ava say about Pagan's quest to find the mysterious Dr. Someone who had visited them so many years ago?

“I wouldn't mind having kids if they were like Ava,” Pagan said. It was getting easier to say her sister's name, but still it made her throat close, her fists clench.

“You'd be a fun mom,” Mercedes said.

“I'm still figuring out how to go a day without drinking,” Pagan said. “One thing at a time, please. Mostly I wish I didn't have to go back to the movie shoot tomorrow. I used to think the tango was wonderful, but now...”

“Maybe you haven't found the right partner,” Mercedes said tartly. She glanced over her shoulder again and a frown had creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows. Her almond eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder again. But she kept walking.

“What?” Pagan said.

“Don't look. But the same man that's behind us now was behind us before, in front of the Casa Rosada.”

It took all of Pagan's self-control not to look over her shoulder. Her stomach tightened, but inwardly she told herself to remain calm. “He's probably a tourist, like us. You said this is a popular street.”

Mercedes shook her head. “He's not acting like a tourist. The café's a block up on the other side. Let's cross here.”

Pagan didn't want to question M's instincts. In reform school, she could look at someone once and know if they were an actual threat or bluffing. But the real world was more complicated, and Mercedes wasn't running with a gang now.

They crossed to the southern side of the street, and Pagan took a casual glance back the way they'd come. Two men talked and smoked as they walked together, a young woman pushed a stroller and a bent old woman all in black crossed the street behind them.

Mercedes scanned the same people as they reached the other side. “He's not there now. He was wearing a gray suit and hat. He must've seen that I noticed him.”

They reached the dark-wood-and-glass doors of the Café Tortoni with its flamboyant art nouveau sign above in red.

Pagan opened the door as Mercedes said sharply, “There he is again.”

“The man in gray?” Pagan stepped back out and looked down the street, but saw no man in gray.

“Gone again,” Mercedes said. “I took my eyes off him for one second, and poof!”

“Maybe he thinks you're cute,” Pagan said, and hauled open the heavy door again.

M gave her the side eye and walked in. Past the curtained-covered glass door, the Café Tortoni became a glorious high-ceilinged fin de siècle restaurant, its glittering chandeliers shrouded in cigarette smoke. Greek columns with curlicues on top held up a ceiling with a stained-glass skylight in the center. The murmuring voices of the patrons bounced off the glowing wood walls covered with Cubist paintings and autographed photos of patrons. Pagan recognized the shock of white hair belonging to Albert Einstein in one of them. The warm smell of steak make her stomach grumble.

“My guidebook called it one of the ten most beautiful café's in the world,” Mercedes said.

It was indeed
trés elegant
. They could have been in the chicest café in Paris. A waiter in a white shirt and black pants ushered them over to a table under the gold-and-black stained-glass skylight. The chairs were red leather and dark wood, the table plain but polished. They ordered iced tea and a cheese plate to share to start, followed by steaks and French fries, please and thank you and as soon as possible would be nice.

The drinks and hors d'oeuvres arrived, and Pagan began devouring the slices of apple and brie. Mercedes sipped her tea and glanced around uneasily.