Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(48)

“Oh lordy! De air-raid warnin’! Surely not here in Berlin!”

As the Broadcaster cowered in fear, the audience cheered with delight. The spotlight snapped off, the stage lights fell, and the chorus carried on their wailing, the note rising and falling in the dark. A silver moon rose over the backdrop, which had changed to a blacked-out London by night. The chorus steadied their wailing at its highest pitch and held it in a clear hum that sounded over the moonlit city. The note sounded long and sweet and rose into “I Vow to Thee, My Country.” Beside him, Hilda wept. Tom appeared to have something in his eye, and it seemed to Alistair that even Mary was pacified.

The curtain fell for the interval. The house lights came up. The Interlocutor came out from backstage and sat at a baby grand, front of house. He rolled up the sleeves of his tailcoat, propped up the piano lid, cocked his top hat back and began an incidental.

“Why don’t you go over and say hello?” said Tom.

“Oh stop it. I’m ashamed.”

“But what did you expect?” said Hilda.

“I didn’t realize the joke would be quite so much on them.”

The Interlocutor’s right hand rippled up and down the high notes and his left pressed out the big chords, perfectly steady and regular, a steam hammer cutting out shapes. As he played he cast his eyes over the tables, smiling at the audience, giving a wink here and mouthing a thank-you there, while his hands played automatically. His face was calm under the thick white mask of grease paint. He smiled at the table where the four of them sat, favoring them no more or less than the rest, and then his gaze moved on.

“Doesn’t he recognize you?” said Hilda.

“Can’t you see he is being discreet?” said Mary.

“We all look alike to them, is what it is.”

“Go on!” said Tom, squeezing Mary’s arm. “Go and say hello.”

Alistair saw Mary’s discomfort. He said, “I’ll bet you can’t be quite sure it’s him.”

Mary threw him a grateful look. “I’m not at all sure.”

Alistair said, “He might be the Queen of Sheba under all that paint.”

Mary nodded quickly. “I . . . um . . .”

“I move we get more wine,” Alistair said. “What does the panel think?”

“Oh, wine!” said Hilda, clapping her hands as if it were a clever new invention.

Alistair signaled and a bottle arrived almost before his arm was fully extended. He filled all four glasses, displacing whatever volume of awkwardness had accumulated. It was obvious that the entire war could be solved in this way. The trick would be to reach for a corkscrew instead, every time some brass hat ordered artillery.

The interval ended, the stage lights came up and the Interlocutor climbed up into the beam of a spotlight. He waited for the crowd to settle.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Though these times are dramatic, the greatest drama of our lives still plays in the theater of the heart, which is why our next number is a love song. But before we sing slow for you, let’s all take a moment to think of our true loves. It could be you’re lucky enough to be sitting next to them right now. Or maybe they’re far away, posted overseas. Maybe the two of you haven’t even met yet, and you’re holding the idea of each other.”

As he spoke, the sound of the air-raid sirens came again. This time it was not the choir singing it—the effect came from offstage, as the wireless effects had—and it seemed to come from all quarters at once.

“So our next song,” said the Interlocutor, “our slow number dedicated to those who could not be with us tonight, is a particular favorite of—”

The sirens swelled, cutting him off.

“Isn’t it clever?” whispered Hilda. “I wonder how they do it.”

But Alistair saw the Interlocutor’s expression. By the instinct his body had picked up in France, his hand swept the floor at his side and located his uniform cap. His foot reached under the table and drew his duffel bag toward him. As he took hold of it, he felt the hard shape of the jar of Tom’s blackberry jam. He had meant for them all to share it at lunch—perhaps with scones if the restaurant had been able to rustle some up—but now of course it would have to wait. That was this war all over: just when you got comfortable, they dropped the fire curtain.

He kissed Hilda on the forehead, told her she was adorable, and took a long, cold drink of the wine.

It was ugly when the house lights went up. The stage manager made an announcement no one could hear. People were making a racket asking what was going on, and soon the theater was a confusion of people heading for contrary exits—not in panic but without decorum, and not minding if they trod on a few feet. Everyone was in everyone else’s way. No one seemed to know if there was a shelter in the theater or whether they were supposed to try their luck in the public ones outside, and as a result the whole thing was snarled up and nervous.

“What should we do?” said Mary to Tom.

Tom looked to Alistair. “What do you think?”

Alistair thought it strange that they deferred to him. His uniform was hardly native to these gilded columns and these pink velvet seats. Civilians must surely outrank him in this theater. He laughed, then realized by their expressions how inappropriate it was. He held tight to the table. Now that he was standing, he understood that he was drunker than strictly necessary.