Page 83

Nothing more is said, and thank goodness the shop’s brass bell doesn’t ring again the entire morning.

Epilogue

Wednesday, 4 December 1991

London, England

While I wasn’t sure what to expect upon seeing Ursula again, I certainly didn’t anticipate such myriad emotions, such strong ones too—respect, disgust, admiration, interest, and even fear, warring with elation—all crashing about within me. What fun we had. What a danger she was and, quite possibly, still is.

I will myself to be calm as my customers, her fans, catch their first glimpse of her as she pushes through the wood-and-glass door. “The Undercover Bookshop,” painted in a golden arc on the glass, creates a halo above her mass of wiry white hair. My lips curl with the irony.

I scan the customers now shifting around my small shop to meet tonight’s guest author, internationally bestselling author, and I wonder how many know that her novel Sonya’s Report is more a thinly veiled autobiography than it is fiction. The story certainly shows the world that Ruth Werner possesses a remarkable imagination. Yet to those of us who know her, it reveals Ursula Kuczynski has led a remarkable life. Two men, mid-thirties at the oldest, standing at the back in dark suits and trench coats, catch my attention. They know who she really is, I think, and I wonder who they will be watching tonight: me or Ursula. Probably both.

As Ursula closes the door behind her and turns to greet me, I remind myself one last time of the details—just as I did all those years ago when first presenting my new identity in London—she and I have never met, we do not know each other, we are strangers. I have only spoken with her publicist, and Ruth is a guest in my shop, just like any other speaker over the past forty-one years. I repeat this litany of fiction to myself over and over, as I have done each day this past week. And when our eyes meet, I almost believe it.

The shop’s brass bell jangles on its blue string as the door clicks shut, and I’m transported to Hastings General Store, to the original bell and to the original blue string. My salute to the home I’d found, the home I left, and my hope for the home I prayed would come. Ursula notices the bell as well. Her eyes dart up, then dash back to mine, and her signature enigmatic smile curls just the edges of her lips as she dips her chin in shared memory.

The years vanish and we are standing in Great Rollright once more, and as at our final meeting, we are taking each other’s mettle, discerning if we are friend or foe. We stare for a prolonged moment, and I expect neither of us can fully answer that question—and never will.

I step forward, arms outstretched, and my smile stretches from ear to ear to welcome her. She mimics the gesture, and we hug with arms not quite resting upon shoulders and with air kisses, cheek to cheek, that sail past each other’s ears rather than land in even the briefest touch. It’s barely a moment of connection, but it’s enough for me to sense that the vibrancy, energy, and drive to play the game still pulse within her.

So we play.

“It is such an honor to meet you, Mrs. Werner. Welcome to The Undercover Bookshop.”

“Thank you.” She pulls her focus from me. Her gaze skims over the heads of patrons pressing close as she peruses my tiny bookshop. “This is charming. Just what I imagined. I was delighted when my publicist told me you accepted our request for a reading.”

“I was surprised, to be honest.” My voices balances at the edge of severe. “I didn’t think England was a country you’d visit on this tour.”

“There were some bumps, yes.”

I keep my lips pressed tight, fighting a small smile, as what she calls “bumps” were several MPs calling for her arrest if she dared to step one foot on British soil. Of course, the quiet word spoken amongst those in the know, me being on the far edge of that set, was that they were all told to pipe down. The government and MI5 did not need the embarrassment of the MPs setting curious reporters on the story and publicizing past failures.

“Mmm . . .” My eyes grow large. “I can’t imagine.”

She clearly catches my meaning but presses on with our fiction. “Yet I’ve received such a gracious reception. England is so welcoming, always has been.” She steps closer. “If I don’t retire, I may return again. I have an idea for a story about a young church secretary.”

Though I can tell she means to land a light jest, her idea drops like an unexploded grenade between us. Every drop of blood in my body races upwards, and I can feel the spikes such a flush leaves on my neck as clearly as Ursula, by her measured surprise, can see them too.

“She disappears, but is she murdered?” I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat.

Ursula blinks in shock—which shocks me—and opens her mouth to reply. But just as breath comes out, she closes her lips tight, recalling in the instant I do that we are not alone. A slow, meaningful look communicates “later,” and she turns to answer the questions scattering about her and to sign the books thrust towards her. I turn away as well, both to collect myself and to welcome a few last guests trying to push their way into the crowded shop.

As the clock strikes the hour, I weave through the crowd while they settle into their seats, and touch her elbow. Still unable to speak past the lump in my throat, I gesture to the massive mahogany counter behind her in silent invitation for her to begin. She crosses in front of me and steps up behind the counter. That one step raises her quite above the seated crowd, and like she always did, she presents a formidable picture.

Voices fall silent as she lifts a copy of her book and begins. Her accent is thick and German, as if she hadn’t lived here for almost a decade, as if she hadn’t once spoken such flawless English people guessed at her origins rather than assumed they knew. Now she articulates her words carefully, a few with heightened emphases and added German intonations. She also lightly trips and stumbles over easy words. The affectation is charming and disarming—as well she knows.

After the last guest leaves, I shut the bookshop’s heavy wood-and-glass door and turn both the sign outside the window to read Closed and the dead bolt to lock the door. I face my guest of honor.

“I expected your entourage to remain with you the whole evening.”

She smiles, again tight and mysterious, with a dash of mischief in her eyes. Old age, I’ll grant, has not stolen Ursula’s vitality.

“In my world a superior officer is always obeyed.” She steps towards me and gestures to one of the folding chairs. I nod, and we begin to fold and stack them against the wall together. Tomorrow the rental company will come pick them up, and life will return to normal. But tonight . . . there are questions to ask and answers to be gained.

“But, in truth”—Ursula breaks into my thoughts—“I told them I had books to sign and wouldn’t be ready for another half hour. I thought we might talk.”

“I hoped we’d have a chance to.” I straighten. “Where shall we begin?”