by Janice Law
I was introduced as an art student. Pyotr got a somewhat longer introduction in Russian, the politics of exiles being as complex as the rules of cricket. The man sat down. He had interesting eyes, and I had time to study them because I seemed of considerable interest to him. Oh, ho, Francis! Now I detected a second scenario. While initially I’d figured that Pyotr had wanted me to distract the thuggish Igor, now Igor seemed eager for me to amuse his cultivated friend, making Pyotr either nervous or jealous.
I leaned toward the former, for Lev’s hooded eyes gave him a thoughtful, almost sinister, air. He drank a vin rouge, and then Igor clapped his hands together with a great show of enthusiasm and suggested a walk. “In the so beautiful Parisian moonlight.”
Lev shrugged. There was a moment’s silence. Igor looked around the table. I saw Pyotr give the slightest shake of his head. Igor leaned over and put a hand on his neck in a way that was at once proprietary and threatening. Lev’s faintly slanted eyes slid toward me, and, in a moment of mischief, I gave him a wink. Not smart but he was a quite fascinating man.
“Bon,” said Igor and stood up. He took Pyotr’s arm; Lev took mine and we set out. I was not at all surprised when Igor set our course toward the big cemetery with its quiet, dark tree-lined streets. I expected a fumble in the bushes, something quick and exciting between the tombs with profit down the road for at least three of us. That’s how I read the tea leaves, but I was quite wrong.
Oh, Lev was interested all right, and I was beginning to find the situation attractive, when Igor stopped. He and Pyotr had been walking a little ahead. I saw him turn as if to call back to us, and in that instant Pyotr plunged into the cemetery, yelling, “Allez, Francis.”
I was too surprised to react instantly, and when I tried to follow, Lev seized my arm. He said something in Russian and tried to pull me in front of his body. I kicked back and broke free, falling onto my knees on the pavement as there was a bang and a whistle and another bang, deafeningly loud and very close. A scream cut through the reverberation, and I was aware of Lev falling backward.
Those were shots; that whistle, a bullet. Panicked, I scrambled away, crawling until I got to my feet at the curbing, then stumbled toward the shrubs and trees that surrounded the monuments and mausoleums. I lunged for the shadows, tripping over edging around the graves and roots of ancient shrubs, knocking over canisters of flowers and brittle memorial wreaths.
I ran until I could catch my breath. “Pyotr!” More a wheeze than a yell and no answer forthcoming. The moonlight was bright, the shadows inky; the street was out of sight. Gasping amid the grotesque shadows of the tombs, I wanted nothing more than streetlights and pavement and an inside seat at a café, things not to be risked until I was sure that Igor and the gunman were gone. At the memory of the whistling bullets, my heart jumped. How close I’d been to my final resting place.
Think, Francis! That was always Nan’s advice in a crisis. Along with Don’t panic, another helpful thought. I struggled to get my breathing back to normal then moved slowly and carefully among the monuments. My chances of outrunning anyone really fit were slim, and I hoped that whoever had fired the shots would be focused on his own escape. I reached one of the footpaths through the cemetery and, risking the moonlight, headed to where I hoped I would meet the boulevard.
Sounds of running feet sent me back among the tombs, and I crouched in the shadows of what proved to be a large sculptured bed, a monument, apparently to a happy marriage, for it was topped with two figures looking incongruously plump and cheerful. Someone passed down the walk, but I was not able to recognize the figure, and I didn’t dare call again to Pyotr. I waited a moment, stood up, and started along the grass. In the distance, I heard a police Klaxon. Coming this way?
Hearing the rising pitch and volume, I charged back into the shadows, only to stumble when a hand reached out of the darkness to grab my leg. I gave a shout and struggled frantically to keep my balance as old Irish ghosts swarmed up from a dozen nursery tales.
“Francis! C’est Pyotr!”
I collapsed wheezing onto the grass, and he asked if I was hurt. I shook my head, but it was several minutes before I could speak and several more before I could follow his lead on a circuitous route that took us safely out of the cemetery. By this time, we had heard several more police cars arriving, and when we reached the first streetlight, I saw how anxious Pyotr looked.
I stopped and asked, “What was that all about?”
He gave one of the Parisians’ all-purpose shrugs. “Politics. I truly did not know there would be shooting.”
I didn’t ask him exactly what he had expected. “Who were those people?”
He shrugged again. “Igor is a Bolshevik, and Lev is an old Menshevik. One betrayed the other somehow back in Moscow. Politics or money or murder. I thought if you were there that Igor would postpone his plans.”
For the moment, I thought it best to believe that, for after all Pyotr had given me warning.
“Have you a room?” he asked after we had gone a couple more blocks.
And when I said I did, he took my arm. “I can’t go home now,” he said.
Chapter Two
My room was on the fourth floor of a tattered building off Vaugirard. It was cheap and, except for the dirty lavatory and the nosy concierge, a bargain: A double bed, a table, a chair. A sink and bidet, even a window. There was a hook for my coat and my second jacket and a small bureau for my two clean shirts and my underwear. Though hardly the Hotel Adlon, the room had everything I needed for a few francs a day. With my five-pound sterling allowance, I could afford it quite nicely.
“Ah,” said Pyotr when we came in. “All the comforts.”
Was there an edge to his voice? Should I take warning? Too late now.
I went to the bureau for the bottle of cognac I kept for emergencies. Tonight surely qualified. I poured us each a drink. Pyotr knocked his back and helped himself to another, then sat down on the bed. “You are a true friend, Francis,” he said, looking so gloomy that I feared he might burst into tears. Russians are not of the stiff-upper-lip school.
“If you had not shouted,” I said.
He nodded. “You’d be dead. Shot.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “You must avoid Igor at all costs, Francis.”
“And you?”
“I must disappear for a while.” He made a face. “Who knows? Maybe the police have caught Igor. Maybe both were shot.”
“Maybe Lev survived?”
“That would be worse,” Pyotr said. “That would be very bad, indeed.” He held out his hand for the cognac and took another swig before kicking off his boots. He lay back on the bed and went to sleep almost instantly. I switched off the light and stood at the window, watching the moonlit street for Russian assassins and les flics. A few men wandered by, drunk from the sound of them; a couple of women clattered past in their high heels, a weary and discouraged sound. Otherwise, all quiet. It appeared that no one had followed us out of the tombs and bushes and that my room was as safe as anywhere. For the moment.
I glanced over at Pyotr, who was snoring gently. He felt safe enough and he ought to know. But as I took off my shoes and trousers and slid carefully into bed, I thought I would be happier when he found another bolt-hole.
The night was distinguished by dreams of moonlit sculptures, phantom police Klaxons, and sinister running men. My window had no curtain and, as usual, I woke up as soon as the sun came in. Not so Pyotr. Clearly, he could sleep anywhere and caught his forty winks whenever he could. I pulled on my trousers to visit the lavatory, an appalling “squatter” with an open drain. Why the cultural capital of Europe borrowed these from the Turks is an enduring mystery. They say language is the way to understand a culture, but you can learn a fair bit from the plumbing, too.
Back in my room, I washed my hands and face, put on my jacket, and went downstairs, leaving Pyotr asleep. The old concierge
was already up. “Bonjour, Madame,” I said, and before she could remark on my visitor, I added that my brother would be leaving in an hour or so.
“Bon, Monsieur,” she said, though her look was appropriately skeptical.
At the corner café, I ordered a roll and an espresso at the counter and checked the café’s copy of Le Figaro: nothing about a shooting in the Cimetière de Montparnasse. Perhaps the incident had been less lethal than Pyotr feared, a dustup not a tragedy. Perhaps Lev had been only slightly wounded. Perhaps he and Igor and anyone else involved had hightailed it before les flics arrived.
These were happy thoughts, and the day was looking up until I opened my wallet to pay the barman. My francs were all in order. But what about the second compartment where the bulk of my monthly allowance had rested only the evening before? Empty. I felt my stomach drop. A few pounds sterling meant the difference between relative comfort and poverty—even destitution.
When and where had they vanished? I guessed that sometime in the night those pound notes had migrated from my wallet to Pyotr’s pocket. I ran from the café to the flat. The door stood ajar, and Pyotr was gone along with my best jacket and one of my good shirts. I stuck my head out the window, but the street was empty. He must have headed out soon after I left.
I checked the inventory. He’d spared my decent shoes and all my underwear. Also the drawing equipment. Nice of him but not good enough. I was almost shaking with anger to think that if he had just returned my wave, I’d have had an evening on the town and his political troubles would be none of my concern.
But as Nan says, No use crying over spilled milk. After a few minutes of fuming, I remembered that his parents supposedly lived out toward the Vaugirard slaughterhouses. I’d probably find him in that dismal and impoverished district, and if I couldn’t run him to ground there, surely I’d catch up with him at Le Select or the Dôme. I envisioned an angry scene and didn’t rule out a punch-up until I spotted the note.
Je suis désolé, it began. French does make “I’m sorry” sound more intense if not more sincere. He wrote that he was running for his life and in such dire straits he hoped that stealing from a friend might be excused. I doubted his premise although I could see the conclusion followed. Soyez prudent! He’d underlined that three times—be careful—and he added as postscript that neither of us had been meant to survive.
I doubted that bit of melodrama. Anyone who picks your pocket is automatically suspect, and Pyotr always came with a certain emotional excess. Playacting, I’d often thought, to go with his gangster air and apache wardrobe. But despite the clear and cheerful morning light, I couldn’t quite dismiss the idea, either.
Those had been real shots last night; Lev’s cry of pain, genuine; and I had felt real menace from both Igor and Lev even before the attack at the cemetery. Yes, indeed, and the reason for my presence. Without a sinister edge, Igor would have been merely one of the great unwashed, and Lev, a seedy chap down on his luck. Be careful, I told myself, is good advice.
I read the message again, this time noticing Pyotr’s beautiful handwriting and correct grammar. Somewhere along the line, he’d had more education than he pretended, and that made me wonder what else he’d concealed. Maybe he’d lied about his ignorance of Russian politics and about Lev and Igor. Possibly they weren’t even Reds at all but members of some White Russian faction well known to him. There were many such exiles in Paris, and I’d assumed from the first that Pyotr’s people were old czarists or some non-Bolshevik revolutionaries.
A political morass for certain, but I was loath to lose the allowance that kept me independent. My first thought was to search for Pyotr immediately, and my second was to hope for his return. I was still dithering when the church bell rang for eight thirty, and I had to postpone my decision: Armand expected the apprentice to be in on the dot.
When I arrived at the studio, le maître was all business, dressed up very swank with a high collar and spotless cuffs and a good deal of jewelry. His hair had been quite transformed by pomade, and his cane with its polished silver head was at the ready: He had a lunch meeting with an important client. With the exception of the finishing touches on my irises, all was in readiness. He sat me down to add highlights on the final variation, golds, yellows, creams, and chartreuse with a few strengthening touches of sienna, while he packed the rest of the proposed designs in two big portfolios.
I half hoped I’d be taken along to carry these; I could enjoy a fine meal at a fancy restaurant. Armand dismissed my hints with a wave. He had, naturellement, hired a cab to take the work. “But you may have the rest of the day off,” he said. Then he had me check the back of his jacket and trousers and make sure that all was flawless. “Bonne,” I said. “Et bonne chance.”
He sniffed. “Armand does not need luck, just intelligent clients.” With this, he signaled for me to bring the work and swept downstairs to the waiting cab. I loaded the portfolios, Armand got in beside them, and there I was, free for the day just before noon. Clearly, I was fated to begin my search for Pyotr and my missing pounds.
But first, a stop at a café for a little pick-me-up—another of Armand’s insinuating expressions—and more important, for a look at the later editions of the papers. Reports of a ghastly murder in the cimetière and my expedition would be called off. If not, Onward, Francis. I checked not one but two papers and hastily skimmed a third—was I taking Pyotr’s warnings too much to heart? I reminded myself that the smartest thing he could have done was to put the wind up me and so avoid pursuit. With this in mind, I set out.
The area hit my nose on the outskirts: a nasty, primal smell. Not the smell familiar to country people of the long dead fox, rabbit, or dog carcass discovered by the roadside, but the mingled odors of terrified sudden death. I suspected that the morning slaughter was finished, for there were no animals being driven through the streets, no cattle trucks moving, no screams of fear or pain. Just the odor. I could see why Pyotr preferred a precarious life on the streets of Montparnasse.
I carried a sketchpad and a box of pencils that I’d borrowed from Armand’s. This was one of the many things the apprentice was forbidden to do, but a painter’s smock and sketchbook served as carte blanche in much of the city. I’d already decided that my boss had employed Pyotr as a model and that I’d been sent to fetch him. I thought that mon français was up to the task, and, at every tabac and café I passed, I inquired for Pyotr Golubov.
The name didn’t produce the slightest recognition until I arrived at a shabby little tabac within sound of the rumble and whistle of the railroads. The owner was dark and stooped. He shook his head, which had hairline well past the tide mark, then asked “Russe?”
When I nodded, he pointed down the street. “Le café Trois Étoiles. Plusieurs de Russe.”
I thanked him and walked on. Aside from the distant sound of trains, the district was quiet and the streets empty except for a few women carrying groceries or laundry; some horse carts with vegetables, scrap, or old furniture; and a workman with a ladder, accompanied by a boy with a big can of paste and a roll of paper. No doubt the apprentice for a bill poster. I gave him a nod.
A few minutes later, I spotted Trois Étoiles, a one-story stone building with shutters reaching the sidewalk and something askew about the door and window frames. A couple of chairs and tables sat on the dusty strip adjoining the sidewalk, and several aggressive trees crowded the facade and sprawled across the roof.
The interior was low and so dim after the bright afternoon light that I did not at first notice that several tables were occupied. I ordered a roll and a vin blanc from the barman, tall with jet hair, sharp features, and a quizzical expression. Would he know a Pyotr Golubov?
I got a blank look in return.
I said that Golubov had been hired as a model but had missed a session.
This produced a shrug.
I said I believed he lived in the area.
; “Yes, lots of Russians,” said the barman, whose French was strongly accented. He looked over the room and said something to the customers in Russian then shook his head. “No one knows a Pyotr Golubov,” he said. He turned away to wipe the bar and got so busy among his bottles and glasses that I was sure he was lying.
I left the café with nothing but suspicions and a hole in my wallet. Still, I was clearly in the right area, and the worn buildings, dusty café, and gnarled trees could be considered picturesque. I decided to linger in the little square that overlooked the front door of the Trois Étoiles. While urban vignettes were hardly my interest, it presented just the sort of local color that attracted commercially minded painters. I sat down on a bench and opened up the sketchpad.
A few lines for the buildings. A smudge of shading for the trees. Armand would turn this into a toile pattern and add some lively figures. Perhaps a girl with an old-fashioned laundry basket or a sprightlier version of the sad horses and carts. I find all that boring. I have trouble with perspective, and despite some sessions at figure drawing, I find human anatomy a great challenge—but interesting. Bodies and emotions, that’s the thing, both on canvas and in life. Particularly strong emotions.
Maybe that was why I had gone for that ill-advised walk with the Russians. Maybe that was why I was watching the door of the café. Within minutes, three heavy-shouldered men came out. They stood talking amid the tables until a fourth emerged. He wore a cloth cap like Igor, and I had a moment’s alarm before I realized that this man looked smaller and thinner. He said something to the others and walked off toward the rail lines. His companions remained talking, a discussion that involved big gestures and raised voices. I was relieved that they were so engrossed that they did not notice me before they left down the narrow street that ran beside the café.