Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

to the Virchow Clinic. There’d been an “air incident,” he said, leaving Cal to ponder during the short taxi ride to Wedding what that might mean.

She was lying in bed with her foot in a sling surrounded by noisy people dressed in white. A table with bottles and glasses suggested the air incident had not been too severe. “Joachim didn’t want to bother you, but I told him that since you didn’t come to see me in Santa Monica Hospital after my car wreck that this would be your penance.”

“I didn’t know you were in Santa Monica Hospital,” he shouted over the din.

The foot was sprained, not broken, but Joachim had insisted that she be admitted. He had one arm in a sling and the other wrapped in bandages, but at least was on his feet. The injuries had not prevented them from ordering a few bottles of Henkell Sekt and inviting other inmates to join in the party. No one seemed to be a doctor, but no one seemed to need a doctor. “The accident was entirely my fault,” said the young pilot, sheepishly, generously. “I’m afraid I interfered with her landing, and this is what we got. Fortunately, nothing serious—except of course my poor plane.” He asked someone to pour Cal a glass of wine. “Sir, your cousin is a pilot par excellence. She insisted on making the landing, herself. It’s just that, you know, a woman. I’d never seen that before. I’m afraid I lost my nerve.” Everyone laughed.

With Maggie limping but ambulatory, it was on to Dresden and Prague two days later. Something had clearly sparked between Maggie and the young Prussian, for she wrote him at every stop until Paris, when everything changed. Crisis in Europe was everywhere. As Americans, they were mere spectators at the show, but the actors all seemed determined to win their approval. It was as if Americans, distant and unaffected, were the only objective arbiters in this deadliest European drama.

Wherever they were, Maggie made a beeline for the airfield. Flying was almost unknown to European women, nothing like in America where Amelia Earhart had been racing with the men and inspiring a generation of female pilots before her crash the year before. Showing up at the flying clubs with her long dark hair falling down her smart red flying suit, flashing her pilot’s license and asking who would take her up and in what, Maggie made friends instantly. She was dying to race but had no plane. In England, she’d flown a Miles Falcon out of Penshurst, in Berlin the Fieseler and in Dresden a Klemm 32. In America, flying was still a sporting activity like yachting, but European men were fanatics. Even as their nations stumbled toward war, the clubs held cups and competitions. The pilots were mostly military and took fierce pride in their planes, certain they were superior and ready to prove it.

While in Munich, the crisis over Czechoslovakia came to a head. The Bavarian capital, bustling and beautiful in the September sunshine, was inundated with reporters and diplomats, and the cousins were fortunate to keep their reservation at a Goethestrasse pension, though it was reduced to a single room. Under a giant red and black swastika, Cal argued with a crisp, young Nazi, showing him the reservation for two rooms. Eyeing Maggie, the man seemed surprised Cal would need two rooms. Both Prague and Munich were under strict military control, and Maggie could not find a plane in either city.

And suddenly the threat was gone. Toasts were offered, pacts signed, the page turned and on to a new chapter. Reporters and diplomats decamped and statesmen flew home trumpeting peace in our time. Hitler had foxed them again. The cousins caught the train for Paris. Like Berlin, Paris was simultaneously in the grip of war fever and a sport-flying craze. Two days after arriving, Maggie met a French airman named Arnaud Ricot de Scitivaux in the bar of the Hotel Crillon and a day later was flying over the Channel in his Morane-Saulnier 341. The letters to Lt. Joachim von Falkenberg stopped.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I’ve booked the Normandie for Dec. 2,” Cal announced into the hotel phone. “Think you can make it?”

His room was just down the hall on the second floor of the Crillon, but he’d learned on this trip always to call first. It was not his first call, but the first time she’d answered.

“Oh, Cal, no.”

He knew what was happening and was helpless against it. Maggie was a person of spontaneity and inspiration; he one of planning and organization. They’d survived six months on the road by not interfering too much with each other. While he visited museums and read newspapers, she hung out at the airfields and flew planes. At night they occasionally met for dinner. If she’d been a spy she would return home with a full report on the performance of each country’s latest aircraft. In France she’d even managed a side trip to le Mans for a few tours around the track with Jean Bugatti in his new test car. She’d become as fanatical about racing as the Europeans.

“I’m dressed,” she said. “Why don’t you pop around and we’ll talk.”

“I’m on my way.”

Arnaud Ricot de Scitivaux, was exactly what his ancient name suggested: dashing, elegant, accomplished, and wealthy. He was also devilishly handsome. They’d met him in the Crillon bar when he’d sent a bottle of Veuve Clicquot around with his card as they were ready to dine. He was a captain in the French Air Force and had slipped the concierge a hundred francs to inquire about the young couple he’d seen in the dining room. Brother and sister, the concierge believed, staying in separate rooms. It was all Arnaud needed, but the concierge helpfully added that he believed the young lady was an aviatrix.

Cal walked down the hall, knocked and Maggie let him in.

Europe had changed her, sophisticated her. Months of touring lands living on the edge was putting