The Flight Portfolio

by Julie Orringer

  “That will be for us to determine,” the police chief said, and waved his colleagues forward. The sternest and narrowest of the men began in the dining room, pulling open the drawers of the sideboard and turning out stacks of white batiste napkins; another donned a pair of owlish glasses, sat down at the table, took out a sheaf of papers, and began drawing up an official documentation of the search. The third man—the one who looked familiar to Varian—lined up all the inhabitants, who would be escorted upstairs one by one while their rooms were searched. Serge was first, and the officer took his time, long enough for Varian to remember when he’d seen the man before: one night with Grant, perhaps three weeks ago, at a place called Le Holdup, one of the underground establishments that catered to men who favored men. The memory rushed back to him in all its detail: At the time, this dark-haired officer had seemed merely a fey boy out for a night with friends; he hadn’t danced well, had kissed indifferently, and had laughed when he’d heard Varian’s name, changing it at once to Vaurien, French shorthand for good-for-nothing: il ne vaut rien. He was memorable primarily for his unusual combination of soot and snow. Now Varian had to wonder if he’d been there in a hidden but official capacity, looking for a reason to close the place down. Lawbreaking had certainly been in lavish supply that night: there was opium, hashish, heroin; there were boys for hire, unnatural acts in plain view; the proprietor even owned a contraband civet. But could the man have been gathering evidence against Varian? Building the Préfecture’s case? Was Varian’s behavior at the club to be held as evidence against him? Would there be a shaming before his staff, and, once they got wind of it, before the ERC back home?

  The man returned with sheaves of writing that he declared suspicious, and a small blued-steel pistol, the one Serge kept on hand in case he found it necessary to end his own life. Serge was visibly distraught at the sight of the weapon in another man’s hand. He couldn’t be still, paced miserably, smoothed his thin hair, adjusted the fur collar of his dressing gown, and eyed the stack of suspect pages, of which he must have had no second copy. The search of Breton’s things turned out even worse: down came the officer again, carrying in one hand a suitcase of Jacqueline’s, and in the other, the heavy revolver from Breton’s days in the Medical Corps. Beneath his arm was a large rolled-up sheet of drawing paper. This he extracted first, unfurling it on the table to reveal a line drawing of a French rooster, underneath which Breton had scrawled, in red, Le terrible crétin de Pétain. The burly commissaire took the drawing in hand, raised it, rattled it in Breton’s face.

  “Sedition!” he cried. “Write that down, Officer Pelletier.”

  The owl-faced officer writing up the process glanced at the incriminating image and made a note. Varian knew there were worse drawings in the salon, remnants of an after-dinner game from the night before; Breton, thanks to his medical training, was expert at depicting the human form in compromised positions, and his renderings of certain heads of state would have been recognizable from a distance. Varian’s gut roiled and burned, and a cold fire surged from his tailbone to his scalp.

  Next the black-haired plainclothesman nodded to Varian himself, who climbed the stairs slowly, cataloguing in his mind the locations of all his most sensitive papers. As they ascended, the officer whistled in a way that sounded friendly. Unlike his superior, who clearly relished his role, this man seemed embarrassed by his position of authority. At the top of the stairs Varian turned and met his strange pale blue eyes, the eyes of an Arctic dog, and the man’s embarrassment turned a shade more specific: he recognized Varian now from that drug- and drink-washed night at Le Holdup.

  “It’s you,” Varian said, in low and intimate French. “I thought so.”

  “Merde. Don’t make me blush, Monsieur Vaurien. Let me do my job.”

  “Your boss can’t make a convincing case against us, no matter what. But I’d like to spend a minute in my room before it’s searched.”

  “I’d like to spend a minute in your room,” the man said, in a tone so low Varian had to lean close to hear. “But it’s impossible. I can’t let you in, for that reason or any other.”

  “I want to take care of a few things. Thirty seconds, that’s all I’d need.”

  The officer held Varian’s gaze for a moment. Then he took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a military-issue lighter, and pointedly turned the other way, resting his shoulder against the wall.

  Varian went into his room. Thirty seconds: time enough to dig up two recent border maps, a sheaf of hidden bills, and a stack of false passports. He couldn’t bear to throw anything more into the fire. Instead he tossed the bundle on top of the wardrobe, where it was hidden by a carved embellishment.

  The officer opened the door. “All right?” he asked.

  “Splendid,” Varian said, and followed him down the stairs.

  Below, the scene had gone from bad to worse. All over the table were the contents of Jacqueline’s wardrobe: lace-edged underthings, nightclothes, a box of préservatifs, pulp novels, silk blouses; the lining of her suitcases had been torn out, the hinges pried apart. But no one remained at the table to observe the wreck. Instead, all the inhabitants of the villa stood pressed against the windows, looking out into the yard, where one plainclothesman was running down Danny Bénédite, and another tackling the broad-shouldered Jean Gemähling onto the driveway gravel. They must have come home for lunch, innocent of the proceedings at the villa. The officers wrestled them into the house and searched their rooms. More papers were hauled down to the large dining table, more facts recorded in the procès-verbaux. Madame Nouguet offered wartime coffee and hard biscuits, which she passed around apologetically, murmuring—with a pointed glance at the commissaire—that she hadn’t yet had a chance to go to the market.

  “Don’t look at me that way, madame!” the commissaire said. “I’m not responsible for feeding these people. My job is to get them to the station.”

  Madame Nouguet drew herself up into a formidable shape, squaring her shoulders at the commissaire. “Monsieur, surely you don’t intend to transport all these families down to the Evêché.”

  “Yes, I intend exactly that.”

  “Now, sir,” Varian said. “Let’s be reasonable. Mothers and children must stay. And Madame Nouguet is of no interest to you. Let her go to the market.”

  “I have my orders,” said the commissaire. “Madame Bénédite, for example, is your employee. I’m sure she’s privy to all your schemes. And Madame Breton is the wife of a notorious communist.” But he’d begun to look less and less at ease. Aube Breton had put her slim arms around her mother’s neck and began to weep piteously. Varian chanced a look at the blue-eyed officer, his ally.

  The man cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said, addressing the commissaire. “We can’t take these mothers from their children.”

  The commissaire huffed. “Lax justice is no justice,” he said, by way of having the last word. But he waved Madame Nouguet in the direction of the door, and dismissed Jacqueline with Aube. Theo Bénédite received no such mercy. She exchanged a long look with her husband as she put little Peterkin into the care of the housemaid. They had been refugees long enough to know that any parting might be final.

  “All right, then,” the commissaire said. “Get the detainees into the wagon.”

  The plainclothesmen gathered all the portable evidence, lined up Breton and Serge and Theo and Danny and Mary Jayne and Killer and Lena and the others, and led them out to the van. Varian was still wearing the Moroccan slippers Grant had bought for him at the bazaar; over his shoulders, his patterned dressing gown. The owlish officer gave him a look of undisguised distaste as he pushed Varian into the van behind Lena. All of Air Bel sat together in the echoing dark, in an enclosure that felt like the inside of a coal hod.

  “Two arrests in one day,” Lena said, shaking her head. “Franchement, c’est un peu excessif.”

  “Incroya
ble!” Breton said. “But we shall make the most of it.”

  “I place my trust in you, Monsieur Breton,” Lena said, and then the van lurched forward, and they were off.

  * * *

  ________

  At the Evêché, the police van pulled into a stone-paved courtyard and stopped before a massive wooden portal, as if the passengers had arrived for an audience with His Excellency the Bishop. The van doors clanged open, and the plainclothesmen led them off into a long, low hay-smelling structure that must have once been the bishop’s stables. Up a narrow flight of stairs was a room that had been converted into a police classroom. Desks stretched in rows from one end to the other, and hundreds of detainees crowded the floor, speaking every language. On the blackboard at the front, someone had written “Le Maréchal sent l’Emmental.” A dense cloud of cigarette smoke hung at chest level. Someone played an accordion, and someone else was selling newspapers from a canvas bag. It was clear that this was part of the general roundup, the pre-Pétain whisking away of all undesirable elements.

  “Invraisemblable,” Breton said. “It’s a zoo.”

  Mary Jayne took a seat on one of the desks, extracting a cigarette from the pocket of her white silk robe, then a filigreed flask. “Better get the party started,” she said. “It looks like we’ll be here a while.”

  “Mais non, chérie,” Killer said, straightening his Legionnaire’s beret. Varian admired the presence of mind that had prompted him to take hold of it on their way out of Air Bel; he cut a convincing figure. “I will use my influence. They cannot detain a member of the military without cause. And I will take you with me, of course.”

  “Member of the military,” Mary Jayne said, and rolled her eyes. “All right, Raymond. See what you can do.”

  Killer strode off to find the person in charge, and, to Varian’s surprise, returned five minutes later to say that their own commissaire was presiding over this whole operation, holding court in an office adjacent to the long hall. He had returned Killer’s service pistol and had told him he should leave before the others were moved. This mercy did not extend to Mary Jayne, who was required to stay with the rest of the Air Bellians.

  “Moved?” Mary Jayne said. “To where? I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I don’t believe I’ve even got another cigarette.”

  The commissaire had not specified, Killer said.

  “So what will you do now, darling?”

  “I shall wait here until I know where you are to be taken.” He crossed his arms and assumed a position beside Mary Jayne, as if to stand guard over her person.

  “Actually, I’d rather have a sandwich,” Mary Jayne said.

  “Immédiatement.” Killer corralled the newspaper seller, who seemed to know him intimately, and persuaded him to take money in exchange for a promise that he would return with sandwiches. The man disappeared down the stairs, and returned half an hour later with their tartines and change. They all ate wordlessly, awaiting news or release.

  Hours passed before Varian was called before the commissaire. The man sat behind a too-small desk piled with quantities of things, including Breton’s Pétain drawing and Jacqueline’s pink lace underthings. The commissaire directed Varian to a tiny chair and ordered him to sign a new procès-verbal listing all the items found at the villa.

  “Your own papers, Monsieur Fry, are entirely in order,” the commissaire said. “And nothing was discovered in your room to arouse our suspicion. But further questioning may be necessary. We will conduct another search of Air Bel this evening.”

  “Is that really necessary, Monsieur?” He hated to think of Zilberman terrorized again, crouching in the low-ceilinged dugout that housed the villa’s supply of onions and potatoes; of Madame Nouguet, who had gotten far more than she’d bargained for when Varian and his friends had moved in; and particularly of the children, one of them without his parents, having to witness another terrifying visit from the authorities.

  “My duty is to ensure the Maréchal’s safety,” the commissaire said.

  “I promise you there’s nothing at the villa to endanger the Maréchal.”

  “If only a man’s word were sufficient evidence, Monsieur Fry!”

  “At least you’ve got to let Madame Bénédite go home. Her son needs her.”

  The commissaire lit a cigarette, inserted it under the brush of his mustache, then expanded the great vault of his chest with an inhalation. “You are an insistent man, Mr. Fry. You seem not to recognize that you might endanger your friends by annoying me.”

  “Monsieur, I appeal to what I recognize as your innate rationality and kindness.”

  The man exhaled slowly. “Monsieur Fry,” he said. “Our audience is finished. Please rejoin your friends and await further orders.” He swept a hand toward the door.

  Varian left, nursing the distinct impression that they’d all be staying the night. The Maréchal would hit town in ten hours, according to the papers, and still the vans were coming in. But Theo’s audience with the commissaire directly followed his own, and she emerged with the news that she was to be released. She had also extracted the information that the rest of them were to be moved within the hour. She promised to get word of their situation to Harry Bingham at once. Then, in her formal way, she shook hands with everyone, her husband included, and put on her hat.

  “Let me walk you out, Theo,” Varian said. “I’d like a word.”

  “Of course,” Theo said. She put a hand on his arm, and together they walked toward the stairway, where a guard waited.

  “Listen,” Varian said. “I must ask you a favor.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “I want you to tell Mr. Grant where we are. He may be able to help.”

  Theo’s dovelike eyes focused on his own. “Where can I find him?”

  “At his colleague’s house in La Pomme. Les Cyprès.”

  “Is there anything in particular I should say?”

  “No. I just want him to know what’s become of us.”

  “All right,” she said, and, searching his eyes again with her own, assured him that she would do everything in her power to help. Then she presented her papers to the guard and was ushered down the stairs. From the window Varian could see her crossing the pavement, her back erect, the vent of her skirt making its metronomic tick against her leg.

  * * *

  ________

  It was after midnight before a team of policemen arrived to herd the detainees down the stairs again and load them into armored vans. This time there was no room to sit; Varian stood with his chin pressed against Breton’s shoulder blade, his elbow against Mary Jayne’s bosom. Everyone nearly fell to the floor each time the van stopped short, which it seemed to do at every corner. When the doors opened again, the detainees saw they had reached the port on the west side of town. Before them, in a dark berth, stood a massive black passenger ship, its three white funnels soaring skyward.

  “What nonsense is this?” Breton demanded. “Are we to be deported by sea?”

  Killer would not follow further. He kissed Mary Jayne at the gangway and presented his papers to one of the guards, who expressed his shocked dismay that a Legionnaire had been subjected to captivity. The rest of the Air Bel group slipped into the stream of detainees flowing upward toward the black ship.

  “I hope we won’t be doomed to wander for forty years,” Mary Jayne said, indicating the name painted in white block letters on the side of the ship: Sinaïa.

  Varian stared, then laughed.

  “What could possibly be funny?” Mary Jayne said.

  “This is the Sinaïa,” he said. “The boat I sailed on when I crossed the pond in ’28.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” The same boat that had carried him to Italy, Greece, and Turkey the summer between his sophomore and junior years, when he’d undertaken his M
editerranean tour in a state of dazed grief. Now, as they reached the deck—the same deck he’d paced at night for hours during that voyage, under the insomniac stars—they were divided by sex: the men would have bunks in the hold, the women third-class cabins. No one knew when they were to set sail; the detectives offered no information. The detainees were split into groups of twelve and sent to their respective sleeping quarters. The men had thin woolen blankets to spread over burlap bags filled with hay; they lay down under the open hatches and looked up at a sky seeded with stars. The fog had blown over, the wind gone still. The boat rocked and rocked against its moorings. There was not much talk. Breton tied his foulard over his eyes to block out the harbor lights. Jean extracted a tiny harmonica from his jacket pocket and played a French ballad, whose lyrics Danny mumbled. Varian lay on his burlap bag and stared up through the metal grid of the hatch gratings, feeling the deep strangeness of his circumstances. He could do nothing for the moment but lie still under his inadequate blanket; he could save no one, could write no letter on anyone’s behalf; no one could line up to see him, no one could demand a single thing. Into the void came everything his mind had recorded—all without his being aware of its doing so—about this ship, the journey, the particular contours of his grief.

  * * *

  ________

  He had come back from Maine in a state of near-collapse, one he knew he had to hide from Eileen. In Blue Hill, before Grant’s vanishing, he’d had an intimation of what might be possible between himself and Eileen; for the first time he’d envisioned a life with a person who was neither an outright impossibility (Grant) nor a mere abstraction (winsome, witty wife). He imagined a life in a city, vaguely literary, sexually liberated; he envisioned Christmas at Eileen’s parents’ house, the chestnuts roasting, the antique stockings hung by the fire, someone’s children fighting charmingly over the pieces of a gingerbread house. He saw himself arriving at the Harvard Club in New York, being congratulated upon the success of his new magazine, of which Eileen would be assistant editor; he saw himself offering Eileen a diamond in an egg-blue box. A shamelessly bourgeois vision, and an intoxicating one. Even after Grant’s departure, some instinct stage-whispered that he must protect it. He must not, therefore, reveal to Eileen that Grant’s disappearance was for him not merely a mystery but a life-crushing disaster.