Mission to Paris: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  Stahl squared his shoulders in Colonel Vadic’s military posture, walked to the wall, turned, stood for a moment, then walked back to the platform. ‘Looks good to me,’ Renate said. ‘I won’t keep you – I’m sure it’s been a long day.’

  ‘Well, you’re not keeping me, but I imagine you have work to do.’

  ‘First I’m going to have a cup of tea, would you like one?’

  ‘You can make tea?’

  ‘I have a hot plate. I can live for days in here if I have to.’

  ‘A cup of tea would be very welcome.’

  In the back of the workroom, she put a pot of water on a hot plate. ‘I didn’t mean to … shock you. I just bought that blouse and I wanted to try it on.’

  ‘What’s the verdict?’

  ‘It’s awful, I have to take it back. I don’t know what came over me in the store.’ They waited as the hot plate element began to glow orange. ‘How was your time in Germany?’ she said.

  ‘Worse than I expected. How did you hear about that?’

  ‘Somebody on the set mentioned that you’d gone – is it a secret?’

  ‘No. Warner Bros. wanted me to go, they saw it as a boost for the German market.’

  ‘Still, I was surprised … that you let them use you, use your reputation. And that you’d have anything to do with the Nazis.’

  ‘I held my nose, and did what I had to do.’

  ‘What’s it like there, now?’

  ‘Surreal. All these monsters strutting around as though they owned the world. And then, the night I was there they burned down the synagogues.’

  The water boiled, Renate took a spoonful of tea from a canister, then added water to a small, chipped teapot. ‘Now it must steep,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t think badly of me, do you? For going there?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ she said.

  ‘To me it does,’ Stahl said. She glanced at him, her faded-blue eyes found his, a momentary uncertainty in her expression, then she looked away. ‘I was wondering,’ Stahl said, the words deliberate, ‘if later on … Would you like to go somewhere? Get something to eat?’

  ‘Mm. I’d like to, but I don’t think I can. I have to go home, then I’m going to see friends. You remember Inga and Klaus? My émigré friends?’

  Stahl was blank, then did remember – they’d arrived on bicycles the night when it seemed Germany would go to war with Czechoslovakia. ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘An émigré evening,’ she said. ‘I don’t really look forward to it. Now let me pour you some tea. Do you take sugar? I don’t have milk.’

  They talked for a while, mostly about the movie, until Stahl felt it was time for him to go. He thanked Renate for refitting his costume, and for the tea. She walked him to the door, said goodbye and turned her face upwards, expecting the Parisian kiss on each cheek. Then Stahl, for a moment, touched her lips with his. As he drew back, he saw the same look in her eyes, now not so much wary as hurt. That Stahl, being who he was, would want her, an easy conquest to satisfy a casual desire.

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ he said. ‘We’ll have an evening out.’

  ‘Oh stop it,’ she said, with one of her particularly ironic smiles. ‘But it was nice to be asked.’

  He hoped she might stand there and watch him walk away but he heard the door click shut on his second step.

  It took more than an hour for the hotel operator to connect him with Wolf Lustig’s office. There was a storm somewhere between Paris and Berlin, the line crackled with static and the woman in Lustig’s office had to raise her voice, almost shouting in order to be heard. But shouting very courteously. Herr Lustig, she said, wished urgently to meet with him regarding an important UFA production. And soon Herr Lustig would be in Paris. However, his time there was extremely limited and busy. Would it be possible for Monsieur Stahl to meet Herr Lustig at a social function? They could talk there. And what social function was that? A cocktail party, given by the Rousillon champagne people, at the restaurant Pré Catelan in the Bois de Boulogne. Did he know it? He did. The party would be on the seventeenth, at five o’clock. Would his schedule permit him to attend? He thought it would. Oh, Herr Lustig will be so pleased.

  In the hotel suite, Stahl turned on the radio, and found swing-band music recorded in New York – Artie Shaw playing ‘Frenesi’ and ‘Begin the Beguine’. For a rejected lover, maybe the best thing on a lonely night: people wanted each other, then life got in the way but, if the songs told the truth, desire would not be denied. Not forever, anyhow. Stahl brooded as the music played; Renate Steiner had misunderstood him, he would have to try again, and they would be together. In Stahl’s imagination it happened this way, no, that way, no … Eventually he drifted off to sleep, and woke at four to find himself wearing a bathrobe and lying on the coverlet as rain fell on the city.

  17 November. The Pré Catelan was a small white château. Located on a winding road in the vast Bois de Boulogne park at the western edge of the Sixteenth Arrondissement, it had been built in the 1700s, becoming a restaurant in 1906, and soon enough the place for elegant and luxurious celebrations. Stahl changed clothes at the studio and, with Jimmy Louis driving the silver Panhard, he managed to get there by six. The dining room had a high, domed ceiling, the walls featured marble columns and triple sconces, the windows looked past a grand terrace to the park’s bare trees. Above the dining-room entry, a banner ran from wall to wall: ROUSILLON BRUT MILLESIME. Apparently, the party celebrated the new brand of champagne being marketed by Rousillon Frères. At the door, a lovely young woman welcomed him and handed him a glass of champagne. Now what? He was at the edge of a huge, chattering mob of people, loud and getting louder, quite merry an hour into the event. Somewhere in there was Wolf Lustig.

  Then the Baroness von Reschke emerged, miraculously, from the crowd, her predator’s lupine smile shining brighter with every step. ‘Oh Monsieur Stahl, my dear Fredric, you’re here, it’s so good to see you!’ She was as he remembered her, in a cocktail dress of puffy emerald silk, blue vein at her temple, stylishly set straw hair. She took Stahl’s hand in both claws and said, ‘I’m giving a dinner on the weekend, all sorts of interesting people, may I hope you’ll join us?’ Stahl said he would be leaving town. Behind the baroness, awaiting his turn with Stahl, was Philippe LaMotte, who Stahl had met at the baroness’s cocktail party in September. LaMotte, he recalled, was an executive at Rousillon and a leader of the Comité Franco-Allemagne, the friendship society pledged to bring harmony to relations between France and Germany. The baroness fled, promising to be back in a moment, and LaMotte, in his exquisite suit, shook Stahl’s hand. ‘I wanted to welcome you personally,’ he said. ‘My favourite American actor. How is the world treating you, my friend?’

  As well as could be hoped for, he was much occupied with work.

  ‘Ah, but you managed to visit Berlin, everyone speaks of the impression you made there. A triumph, it’s said.’

  Stahl was not going to discuss Berlin, and asked LaMotte about the champagne business.

  ‘Our brand is ordered everywhere, it is a great success.’

  Stahl sipped the champagne, which was too fruity for his taste, and raised his eyebrows to show how good it was.

  LaMotte glowed. ‘Yes, yes, only the Epernay soil does this to the grape, hard, chalky soil, bad soil, the vines struggle to grow yet this is what they produce!’

  ‘One can see why it’s popular,’ Stahl said.

  ‘Still, we must advertise. Have you given any thought to what I mentioned the last time we met? To appear in our advertisements? You need only to hold a glass of champagne and look successful; the text might say something about having a glass of Rousillon champagne before you play a love scene.’

  Alas, Stahl did not at the moment have the time, and …

  Over LaMotte’s shoulder, the baroness again materialized, this time with – Stahl recognized him from his photographs – the eminent German producer Wolf Lustig. Now Stahl, most especially aft
er his recent experience of the Third Reich, had a determined loathing for the baroness and her fascist friends, but his reaction to Lustig was instant and visceral revulsion. His photographs did not do him justice. He smiled enthusiastically as they were introduced, the smile spread across thick, liver-coloured lips, and held his head in an unusual way, canted over towards his shoulder, which made him look like a licentious uncle bent on the seduction of an adorable niece – seamy didn’t describe him. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, Monsieur Stahl,’ he said. ‘You stand far above your colleagues in America.’

  ‘You are too kind.’

  Lustig seemed amused. Of course I’m being too kind, do you not understand the art of flattery?

  ‘I expect the UFA is doing quite well at the moment,’ Stahl said, trying to expedite the conversation to the point where he could run away.

  ‘We are, sir. We Germans are a movie-loving people – what better after a hard day’s work at the factory?’

  ‘True everywhere,’ Stahl said.

  ‘I’m so pleased you could be here,’ Lustig said. ‘I’ve been wanting to discuss a project, yes, a certain project. A film, naturally. With quite a grand budget – we spend money when we see a good thing.’

  And what good thing was this?

  ‘It’s a story from today’s papers, may I tell you what I have in mind?’

  Stahl nodded. His physical aversion to Lustig was growing stronger, it was like sitting next to the wrong person on the Métro and being unable to get away.

  ‘It’s called Harvest of Destiny, a romantic tragedy. The time is now, the place is the border between Poland and Germany, the eastern side of the Polish Corridor. The hero is a handsome young fellow called Franz, simple, honest, who works on the family farm – we see him gathering hay, feeding the cow, at home in the evening, reading by lamplight. One day, a wagon stops at the farm, the draught horse has pulled up lame. So far, so good?’

  ‘I think I follow it,’ Stahl said.

  ‘It’s a Polish farmer who’s driving the wagon, which is full of potatoes or whatever it is, and he is that day accompanied by his daughter, Wanda. Need I say his beautiful daughter? I think not.’ Lustig’s eyes twinkled and he placed a warm hand on Stahl’s arm. ‘So now we have Franz and Wanda falling in love. He walks across the fields at night to see his girl but he’s caught by Polish border guards, who give him a hard time. The plot moves along, Franz and Wanda come hand in hand out of the forest and we know what’s happened. And next we learn that he has proposed marriage and she has accepted him.

  ‘But all is not well. When Franz seeks permission from his father, he is warned: “Things have not always gone well between our two nations,” the father says. “This is sorrowful but it is a fact and we would do nothing but worry about the two of you.” Of course, we need a strong, sympathetic actor for the father …’ Lustig let the sentence hang, waiting for Stahl to react.

  ‘And that would be me?’ said Stahl, a hardened veteran of producers’ pitches.

  ‘It’s the perfect part for you,’ Lustig said. ‘Anyhow, the star-crossed lovers decide to run away together. We thought about having her pregnant, but the idea of a German fathering a child with a Polish woman is not acceptable. So they elope, and here they have adventures – swim a fast river, escape the brutish Poles who guard the border, whatever we can think up. In time they reach their destination, a city, which is, of course …’ He waited for Stahl to take the bait, then said, ‘Danzig.’

  At this point, Lustig winked. Danzig was a disputed city – in Polish territory but with a majority German population, and the name had lately been in the news. So it was a significant wink. It meant that Lustig presumed Stahl was on his side, was complicit, was sympathetic to the Nazi version of the Polish problem. Hitler’s phrase.

  Lustig, having made his point, said, ‘Franz and Wanda try to make a life in Danzig – he gets a job as a stevedore, but the Poles who work on the docks don’t like Germans, and he is attacked by a Polish gang and beaten up. He fights back – fiercely, he fights – but when they cannot subdue him with their fists, they stab him, and he dies. It is left for the father, for you, to spell out the film’s moral: that the European powers have stirred up conflict, and here is the tragedy that results when they won’t make things right.’ He paused and searched Stahl’s face, then said, ‘So? What do you think?’

  ‘Harvest of Destiny you said. And what is the destiny?’

  Lustig was surprised by the question. ‘The destiny is war between Germany and Poland, unless Europe prevails on the Poles to see the light and agree to the Reich’s demands.’

  To this, Stahl did not respond. He was at the party to see what Lustig wanted with him, not to start a fight, not to throw bad champagne in his face, though the thought did cross his mind. ‘Of course I appreciate your thinking of me for the role, Herr Lustig, but my contract with Warner Bros. would never allow me to take on a project for UFA.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, not all the foreign actors remain in Hollywood. Emil Jannings, who you’ll remember from The Blue Angel, has come back to Germany and is quite thoroughly happy and successful. And Maurice Chevalier, after some success in America, is now working in his native France. Have you ever considered something like this? A return to the homeland?’

  ‘I haven’t, Herr Lustig.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to think about it. Whatever you earn at Warner Bros. would be exceeded at UFA, you would be acting in your native language, and the choice of roles would be yours.’

  ‘Again, thank you, but I will likely remain in Hollywood.’

  Lustig shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, naturally. Perhaps events in the future will make the possibility … more appealing.’ He waited, Stahl just stood there. ‘Very well, I’m off to the buffet table. I will be in Paris for another day, meetings and more meetings, then I’ll be going to Poland to scout locations for Harvest. That looks to be an interesting visit, have you ever been in Poland?’

  ‘I haven’t, Herr Lustig.’

  ‘Come along, if you like, everything first class,’ he said. ‘Though what that means to the Poles I can’t be sure.’ He laughed at that, a snicker, and said, ‘Who knows, a look at what goes on over there might change your mind.’ Then he said goodbye, his soft hand found Stahl’s and held it, and he was away.

  Stahl breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards the door, only to find Kiki de Saint-Ange standing at his side. ‘Remember me?’ she said.

  ‘Kiki, hello! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you. No, not really, I was invited, and it was such a boring afternoon …’

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you.’

  That was true. Kiki looked her best – a black Chanel suit, chiffon blouse, a knotted rope of pearls, and tight black gloves. Her chestnut hair was cut short, with a swathe brushed across her forehead. She held a cigarette by her ear, her other hand cupping her elbow, and her eyes met his as she flirted with him. ‘I think you’re avoiding me, you know, you are very silent lately.’

  ‘Not on purpose,’ he said. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘Or maybe you think I’ve exhausted my, my, umm, repertoire. Well, don’t. I am the most adventurous girl.’

  ‘You are, and I know it.’

  ‘So where are you going after this?’

  Stahl was severely tempted. Kiki held nothing back – unlike others he could name who held everything back. And he found himself wondering just what sort of wickedness she had in mind. Oh, what the hell, why not. As she took a puff on her cigarette and blew smoke from her nostrils, her eyes stayed fixed on his. With, now, pure enquiry.

  ‘I have to meet my producer,’ he said, and immediately regretted it. Why had he done this? He thought he knew – there was someone else he really wanted – but he’d surprised himself. Not like me, he thought.

  ‘I see,’ she said, an edge of anger in her voice. ‘Your producer. Well, don’t leave it too long, good things don
’t last forever.’ She reached up and stroked his cheek with two gloved fingers.

  ‘I will telephone you, Kiki,’ he said. He kissed her lightly, left and right, inhaling the perfume in her hair.

  19 November. The Paris Herald was brought to Stahl’s room every morning with his coffee and croissants. He had, like many Americans living in Paris, become addicted to it. The lead stories were, as usual since Stahl’s arrival, about political manoeuvres in European capitals. There was news of social goings-on, of sports – mostly football now – and the stock market. On the inside of the back page, a brief article caught Stahl’s attention. A certain Professor James Franklin, on sabbatical from the University of Illinois, and his wife, Dorothea, had left Paris on a trip to Berlin and there vanished. It had been three weeks since they were last seen. German police were investigating.

  Stahl read the article twice, then again. Was this an instance of random violence? Had they encountered criminals? It was known in Paris that some Americans had been confronted in German cities by Brown Shirts and, refusing to return the Nazi salute, had been badly beaten up. Some had died. These events were rarely reported, but they were known to occur. Or was there a reason for their disappearance – had they been caught doing something clandestine? Stahl was to see J. J. Wilkinson late that afternoon and he considered raising the subject, then decided he shouldn’t. It would amount, implicitly, to an accusation: did you have something to do with this?

  Stahl had his breakfast, then left the Herald on the tray for the room waiter to take away. Dressed for work at Joinville, on his way to the door, he read the article once again.

  5.20 p.m. The Paris branch of the National City Bank, on the Champs-Elysées, had closed at five but Stahl, following directions, rang a bell by the door and was admitted, then escorted through the immense bronze doors to the vault and led to a private room reserved for safe-deposit box holders. Here Wilkinson awaited him.

  After a very productive day on the movie set, Stahl was in a good mood – successful work almost always had this effect on him – and his narrative of the meeting with Wolf Lustig was lightened, here and there, by a touch of comedy. Traditionally, stories about god-awful movie producers were good for a laugh. But Wilkinson didn’t find it so funny. He made Stahl go back over details – ‘Are you sure he said that?’ and so on, as though the report he would write was an especially important one. ‘You’ve done well,’ Wilkinson said, when Stahl wound down.