Grant looked exhausted, even disheveled, insofar as that was possible given the general luxuriousness and correctness of his clothes. He stood before Varian for a long moment as if confused; he seemed unsure whether he was meant to take the chair across from him or not, or what he was supposed do with his suitcase. Varian realized he was waiting to be greeted, and got to his feet. But what was he to do? Crush Grant against him there at La Fémina? Shake his hand as though they had last met the day before? He laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder, and Grant, to his relief, returned the gesture; apparently it had been the right one. Then Grant sank into his seat like a sail cut from the mast.
“A drink, monsieur?” Youssef A. asked. “Honey wine?”
“No wine,” Grant said. “Water.”
“At once,” said Youssef A., and disappeared.
“Don’t you want a drink?” Varian said, resisting the compulsion to touch Grant again.
Grant ran a hand across his reddened eyes, a boy’s gesture. “You’ll have to pardon me, Tom. I’m not likely to be good company tonight. I’ve been traveling for the past twenty-four hours. I should have gone home to bed.”
But he hadn’t gone home to bed. He’d come here to meet Varian. “So the border’s still permeable in this direction, at least to an American with visa and passport,” Varian said. “And bribe money, perhaps.”
“Yes, rather too much bribe money. And a rather—a rather brutal search of my person, I guess you’d call it. I don’t know what they thought I might be smuggling into the country, but whatever it was, it must have been awfully important.”
“God, Skiff. Are you all right?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but—are you sure you want to stay?”
“Now that I’m here, I’ll stay.”
“We can go anywhere you want. This room’s a little loud.”
“That’s an advantage, isn’t it? A cover. Couldn’t we use a cover?”
Varian’s heart clamored in his chest. “Yes. But you’ll still have to keep your voice down if you’ve got anything delicate to say.”
“Isn’t it all delicate? Your situation in particular. I must admit I’m a little surprised to see you here. I wasn’t sure I’d find you in France at all. I’ve heard consular officials slandering you all across the Iberian Peninsula. Apparently you’ve got some enemies in the State Department. And now Feuchtwanger’s blown your cover.”
“Oh, yes. But to hell with all that, Skiff—how are you?”
“Fine,” he said, then touched his side and winced. “A little bruised, maybe. A little out of spirits. I just sent my colleague across the ocean, you know.”
“You don’t have to call him your colleague,” Varian said.
Grant gave a pained laugh. “All right. Sorry.” He touched another rib, winced again, resettled himself in his chair. “I’m rather frustrated, actually. No one I spoke to in Portugal or Spain offered any help whatsoever. Not even the Unitarians. They say they can’t touch a case like Tobias’s, not with Nazi intelligence after him. Everyone’s protecting their own positions.”
“Yes, often blindly. As if they’ve forgotten their real job here.”
“I don’t know what to do now. Time is pressing.”
“We’ll get a plan together, Skiff. We’ll start first thing in the morning. But let’s leave it alone for tonight. You’re exhausted. You need to eat and sleep.”
Youssef A. delivered the drinks, and Varian ordered dinner for them both. Grant rubbed his face with one long-fingered hand as if trying to erase himself. “God,” he said. “I can’t put two words together.”
“Please, Skiff. You know you don’t have to make conversation. Just sit a minute and have a smoke. I’ll go talk to our maître d’. See if he’s got any news.”
“All right,” Grant said. “Thanks.”
Varian rose from the table and took a single step toward Youssef A.’s station near the door; the maître d’, his attention trained on the room, saw him at once. A few moments later they were both standing at the polished cloakroom counter in relative privacy. Rows of hats lined the shelves behind them, but only a few light coats hung from the wooden hangers; though the air outdoors was brisk from the mistral, true winter was still months away.
Varian took from his breast pocket a slip of paper on which he’d scrawled Tobias’s name and the barest details of his situation, and pushed it across the counter. Youssef A. glanced at the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. As he did, two Vichy officers entered, trailing a miasma of cheap schnapps. They were deep in conversation about who had or hadn’t said a certain thing about a certain woman; they seemed not to notice where they were. Youssef A. asked if they wanted their hats, and one of them raised a lazy hand to his forehead in a mockery of a salute. Then they rounded the corner and plunged once again into the dining room.
“Sales Boches,” Youssef A. whispered, then glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand. “Katznelson,” he said. “Tobias. You’re not the first to ask if I know where this man might be found. But I did not trust the other.”
“Why not?” Varian said.
Youssef A. smoothed the dome of his forehead with one slender hand. “Over time,” he said, “I have learned to read a man’s face.”
“When did this guy first come in?”
“Maybe three weeks ago. Four.”
“And you told him…?”
“I said I do not know this Katznelson, just as I tell you now.”
“Youssef,” Varian said. “Tell me. How would I recognize this man?”
Curiously, the question made Youssef A. flush a deep red. “I can say nothing more.”
“I have to know who this person is. I need to know who’s looking for Tobias. It’s important. You could even say it’s a matter of life and death.”
Youssef A. pulled at his shirt cuff and glanced back toward the hanging coats. Then he leaned closer, his eyes on Varian’s. “Mr. Fry, you must not be offended by what I say.”
Varian’s senses pulled to a sharper attention. “What do you mean?”
“You already know this man,” Youssef A. said.
“I do?”
“Yes. He is sitting at the table with you.”
Varian stood for a long moment, holding the maître d’s gaze. Youssef A. didn’t waver or flinch. Finally Varian began to laugh; he couldn’t help himself. “That’s Mr. Grant,” he said. “Elliott Grant. He’s a friend of Katznelson’s father. He’s the one I’m trying to help.”
“I see.” Youssef A. smiled, but his tone remained wary. “I must tell you, Monsieur Fry, your friend comports himself like a man who is keeping a secret.”
Marseille was lousy with mistrust, Varian knew; no one in that town could imagine a motive for anyone else besides blatant self-interest. And most of the time, the suspicion was correct. “You’re quite right,” he said. “Mr. Grant has many secrets. But I hope I know them all by now. I’ve known him a long time.”
“Yes. You know him better than I do, of course.”
“Is Mr. Grant the only one who’s ever mentioned Tobias’s name to you? You’ve never heard of him from anyone else?”
“Not once.”
“Well, do keep an eye out, will you? And if you hear of him, let me know immediately. You know where to find me.”
“Of course, sir.” For a moment Youssef A. looked as if he meant to say something more. But then he closed their conversation with a half-bow, and Varian returned to the table in the high-ceilinged dining room, shaking his head.
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Everything all right?”
“You tell me. Our maître d’ thinks you’re a spy or something.”
“A spy! I must not have tipped him enough last time I came in.”
“He thinks you look suspicious.”
“He’d be a fool not to,” Grant said. “Look at me. I’m a wreck.”
Varian took off his glasses, polished them with his napkin, put them on again. “Are you a spy? How am I to know?”
“If I were a spy, Tommie, you’d be the first I’d tell.” He seemed ready to succumb to exhaustion; he pushed his plate forward and laid his head on his folded arms.
“Do you know what I think?” Varian said. “I think everyone in this town’s gone a little crazy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I think I need to get out of here for a while.” A thought had begun to take shape in his mind, seemingly beyond his control. “Did you know there’s a Roman arena and amphitheater in Arles, about an hour’s train ride from here? I’ve been meaning to make a day trip of it. An overnight, even. A guy could get there on a bike if he wanted to. And now I’ve got a couple of potential clients stuck there under house arrest. I need to go down and see them.”
“A bicycle trip to Arles? That sounds suspiciously like play.”
“The consulate could use a break from me. Even the messenger boy has had it up to here. You should have seen how he looked at me when I threw Fullerton’s last summons out the window.”
“You can’t hide from the consulate, Tom.”
“I know. But maybe I can fall lower on their list of peeves.”
A waiter arrived with steaming dishes, and for a moment they had to turn their attention toward dinner. The couscous was as it always was at La Fémina: flawless, stuffed with chicken and citron and dates and cinnamon. It was, Varian thought, the only way to answer the hunger that came upon a man as he walked through the market streets south of La Canebière, past the great barrel-sized sacks of spices that threw clouds of red or burnt-umber scent into the air. A silence settled between them for a moment, and into that space came the thought that had appeared in Varian’s mind.
“If I were to go to Arles this weekend,” he said, his pulse pounding in his temples, “what would you think of coming with me?”
Grant averted his eyes. “I’ve got a rather pressing job to do here in France,” he said. “It’s unkind of you to tempt me with a distraction.”
“It would hardly count as a distraction. Tobias might be anywhere. We can make inquiries while we’re there.” Varian had forgotten his perpetual pledge to project impassivity when it came to Grant; the relief of seeing him again was so powerful that he was helpless against it.
Grant looked up at Varian from the bottom of his exhaustion. “Tom,” he said. “Do you really think it’s a good idea?”
“They’re trying to kick me out of France. What if they succeed?”
They both knew what he meant: Their time was fleeting. They might never have another chance. France had already fallen; Marseille couldn’t be far behind. Even if Varian managed to stay, even if he managed to avert the consular wrath, they might be separated anytime. Reason had fled the continent months before; it seemed to have fled the entire globe. America sat transfixed as France dangled its naval fleet from its finger like a diamond necklace. What would follow? Nothing that had precedent, nothing that could be named. Grant gave a nod of acquiescence, just a shadow of a gesture, and suddenly there was an agreement between them: they were going.
13
Arles
Along with bread, jam, meat, sugar, coffee, smokes, petrol, and nearly everything else, bicycles had gone scarce in wartime Marseille. Some had been requisitioned for scrap and made into guns. Others had been sent to the front to be converted to military use. Of those that remained, most had been pressed into service as bécane-taxis or delivery vehicles. There were, however, two bicycles Varian knew of: a black Gitane that belonged to the building’s concierge, mother of Clotilde, the berry-eating nymph at the gate; and a green Motobécane, property of Gussie Rosenberg. He hated to ask Gussie for his bike; there could be no way for the boy to say no. Gussie himself might have liked a weekend ride in the countryside. But Varian found himself willing to press his unfair advantage, and Gussie assented graciously, asking only that Varian refill the tires.
The mother of the raspberry-eater was more difficult to woo. She was a skeptic in general, even more so where Varian was concerned. Even before the arrival of the Centre Américain de Secours, her role as building overseer had her busier than she liked; now the constant stream of refugees made an unpleasant change. To visiting friends, Madame Balansard complained loudly that her daughter, Clotilde, was being exposed to all manner of human filth: Jews, scribblers, Poles, communists. She was the last person Varian would have wanted to ask for a favor. But the following day he saw her returning from the market, the black Gitane heavy with bulging saddlebags, and he mustered his courage and found the words.
She sat astride the bicycle, her skirts tucked around her legs into a kind of Turkish pantaloon. On her head she wore an aviator’s cap, from the bottom of which dark curls skewed. She took off her sunglasses and squinted at him. “My bicycle?” she said, in the tone she might have used if Varian had asked to borrow her daughter.
“Just for the weekend. For a trip to the countryside.”
“Indeed! And where, exactly, do you propose to go?”
“To Arles,” Varian said.
“To Arles! You are mad, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Monsieur Fry. Do you know that Arles is ninety kilometers from here? You propose to take my bicycle on a ride of one hundred eighty kilometers total?” She shook her head. “You may do what you like, but I cannot lend my bicycle.” She took off the aviator’s cap and ran a swift hand through her hair. Her husband, Varian had heard, had been a flier, and had gone down in the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“Suppose we go halfway by train,” Varian said. In fact, he hadn’t paused to consider that Arles was ninety kilometers away. From the States, where he had first contemplated making the trip to see the Roman ruins, it seemed hardly a breath from Marseille.
“You propose to take my bike on the train?”
“I would guard it with my life.”
“Absolutely not. Things get stolen from trains. And then there’s the ride. What if you get a flat? Do you know how hard it is to get a replacement tire?”
“Madame Balansard,” he said, raising his hands, as if to invoke the gods. “I serve the cause of liberty. Do it for France!”
“I know your kind of liberty,” Madame Balansard said, her upper lip curling. Varian could see what she’d bequeathed, genetically speaking, to Clotilde; they had a spirit his father would have called hell-beckoning. But then her smile turned businesslike, calculating. “Perhaps, Monsieur Fry, you’d pay a price for the use of my bike.”
“What kind of price?”
“Clotilde is always hungry. The ration coupons don’t go far enough. And winter is coming.” She leaned close. “My daughter needs food, and a new coat. A good long one. And boots, waterproof boots. I see who comes and goes from this building, Monsieur Fry. I have no doubt that the black market flows through these gates.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Madame. Our business is all aboveboard.”
“I cannot lend this bicycle to anyone who asks. It was Felix’s, you know.” The downed flier. She held one elbow in her palm and considered the stones of the courtyard.
“What if I were to promise to ride no more than fifty kilometers in total?”
“Forty. And you must return the bicycle in perfect condition. And provide what I’ve asked.”
Varian agreed. They shook on the deal. “You have my gratitude,” he said.
Madame Balansard unloaded the groceries from the saddlebags and left him standing in the courtyard, holding the upraised handlebars. He parked the bicycle next to Gussie’s, feeling as if he’d executed a double theft. But there they were, the bikes: a means and an excuse for an escape.
* * *
________
If all went well—if he wa
sn’t thrown out of France before the weekend—they would take the train Saturday morning from Marseille. They would ride it to Miramas, then disembark to pedal the Route de la Crau across the sprawling alluvial steppe they’d seen from the train to Cerbère. In a single afternoon he assembled the necessary supplies: food, a patch kit, a foot pump, extra tubes for the bikes. It took some doing, but this was Marseille: everything could be had for a price. Hirschman assured him that once they reached Arles, they’d find a comfortable hotel at the main square. He named the place—Hôtel du Forum—and said he knew the proprietor, who would see they had everything they needed. Varian might have preferred to hide somewhere out of the way, but this wasn’t a college excursion, after all; it was a business trip, and he was still at the helm of the CAS. If the office needed him, he had to be found.
Grant met him at the doors of 60 rue Grignan the next morning, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, a pair of thin leather gloves in his hand. He wore knit wool cycling pants and a striped jersey; the gloves were perforated to let in the wind. Where he had come by a full set of cycling clothes, Varian could not begin to guess. Grant caught him looking and smiled.
The Flight Portfolio Page 16