The Flight Portfolio

by Julie Orringer

  “Harry, what on earth?”

  “I’ve been cut loose,” Bingham said. “I’m to leave for Lisbon in the morning. Posted temporarily as a consular agent. Demoted. No reason given.”

  Varian sat down slowly in one of the chairs before the desk. “No reason?” he said. “Don’t they have to tell you why?”

  “They don’t have to do anything. Not one thing.” And it was true, or had been true during Bingham’s time in Marseille: the consulate, charged with protecting the borders of the United States from afar, hadn’t felt bound to admit refugees in peril, particularly not the Jews or former communists among them. Bingham had fought for them anyway, had fought relentlessly for everyone Varian had sent his way, and now he was paying the price.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Varian said. “This is my fault.”

  “Nonsense! I made my own bed. I knew I’d have to lie in it eventually.”

  “But what will you do in Lisbon? They won’t take to you any more kindly there. Avra Warren’s got the whole staff scared out of their wits, threatening to fire anyone who issues a visa to a Jew.”

  “Likely that’s why they’re sending me,” Bingham said, flashing a sideways grin. “To re-educate me. Or something along those lines.”

  “How long do you think you’ll last?”

  “Ten bucks says I’ll be fired before the end of summer.”

  “Surely they can’t cut you loose entirely. You’re too good at your job.”

  “Yes, well, there is my stellar record of visa-granting. But I’m afraid it’s all in the service of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, et cetera.” He stuffed a few more papers into the box on his desk. “I’ll ask for a commission in South America, maybe. I’ve had enough of this continent. I certainly don’t envy you, staying here in Marseille—things are going to get a lot tougher, and not just with Vichy. The guy who’s replacing me, Edwin Blount, is a humdinger. Can’t stand refugees. Patently hates Jews.”

  “Wonderful. Got any advice?”

  “Only that you hurry up. Get as many out as you can, before they toss you out of the country. Don’t give it up for a second. Every day you’re here, you’re saving lives.”

  “Not every day,” Varian said.

  Bingham sighed, looking up from his packing box. “Still thinking about Zilberman? I haven’t stopped looking, I want you to know.”

  “Any news?”

  “None.”

  “I just can’t bear the thought, Harry, that he was working for months in our greenhouse at Air Bel, with ships leaving every day, and I was so precious about the whole thing, about when he could leave, and under what circumstances—”

  “And what were you supposed to do? If you’d sent him out too soon and he got caught, you’d be in the same fix. You acted on what you knew. You did the best you could.”

  “God, Harry, if I could just have him back,” he said. He was on the verge of tears now; he didn’t know if he was talking about Zilberman anymore, or if he meant Grant. If only he could confide in Bingham, if only they’d been something more than colleagues. He’d never given Bingham the least intimation of what existed between himself and Grant, nor that he, Varian, was anything other than the man he appeared to be; he could never take him into his confidence now. But Bingham was leaving tomorrow; he might never see him again. Not quite knowing what he meant to say, he found himself asking Harry Bingham if he could consult him on a personal matter, something that had been on his mind.

  “Of course,” Bingham said. “Anything.”

  “Let’s say,” Varian said, an intolerable heat rising to his face, “let’s say you had an intimate—business relationship, with an old friend. Let’s say you were deeply involved in each other’s affairs, in a business that entailed a high degree of personal risk. Let’s say someone else—someone you considered a trustworthy source—intimated to you that your partner had been silently cheating you for months, at no risk to himself but at great cost to you. How would you proceed? What would you do?”

  Bingham pushed his box aside and sat down at the desk, his eyebrows drawing into a deep V. In the gentlest of tones, almost in a whisper, he asked, “Is this obliqueness really necessary? Can’t you just say what the matter is?”

  “No, Harry, I can’t. I just want to know what you’d do.”

  Bingham tapped his fingers together, seeming to choose his words. “I suppose I’d bring it to my business partner,” he said. “I’d say, Look, here’s what I heard. What do you make of it? Is this guy pulling my leg? Or should I be worried you’re not being honest with me?”

  “But what if your business partner—what if he says, If you don’t trust me, you can go to hell?”

  Bingham tilted his head at Varian. “If you really don’t trust him, if you really think he might be capable of doing you wrong, why are you in business with him in the first place?”

  Varian sat still a long moment. “Right,” he said, finally. “You’re right, Harry.” Then he got to his feet; it was time to go. “Look,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Nonsense,” Bingham said. He came around the desk and took Varian by the shoulders, as if he meant to shake some sense into him. “My friend,” he said, looking into Varian’s eyes. “Soldier on, all right?”

  “I will, Harry. And good luck in Lisbon.”

  Bingham nodded. And then they said their goodbyes, and Varian walked down the curving driveway of the consulate, feeling desolate, thinking his day could hardly get worse. But as he rode the tram back toward the center of town, a growing feeling of apprehension gathered in his gut, tightening his diaphragm. And as soon as he reached the boulevard Garibaldi office, Gussie met him at the door, his narrow face drawn in fear.

  “Danny’s been arrested,” he said.

  “What?”

  Gussie glanced over his shoulder at Lucie Heymann, who was arguing fiercely with someone on the phone, and Jean Gemähling, who stood beside her, taking the receiver now and then to insert his own commentary. “Tell you in your office,” he said.

  They went into Varian’s office, where Gussie closed the door and turned the fan to its highest setting to foil anyone who might be listening. Then he collapsed into a chair, his long narrow hands over his face, and began to sob outright.

  “Gussie,” Varian said. “Come now. Tell me what happened.”

  “We were supposed to meet Kourillo,” Gussie said, half-choking. “Danny asked—he asked me to come along because the coins were so heavy, you know. I was carrying half in a bag, Danny the other half in the—in the box, the one you buried at Air Bel. He said we’d meet Kourillo in his hotel room. But when we get to the hotel, Kourillo’s standing out front on the steps, you know, and—and looking all around like he’s scared of something. He starts making this motion with his hand, shoo, shoo. Danny grabs the bag of coins from me and says run! So I ran, Monsieur Fry—like an idiot, like a coward! I went into an alley and hid. Danny went the other way, toward the Canebière, and—I didn’t see what happened. But I guess they grabbed him. I heard shouting. And then I heard the sirens.”

  “Good God,” Varian said, putting his hands through his hair. “Good God. We have to go down and get him right away. Where have they got him? The Evêché?”

  “Not the Evêché. Chave Prison.”

  “Chave Prison? That stinking hole?”

  “Madame Bénédite just called. She said she’s found a lawyer for him. The lawyer’s there now, at Chave.”

  “All right. He can get him out on bail, at least.”

  “But he thinks Danny could get five years.”

  “Five years?”

  “And he says—oh, he says you aren’t safe either, Monsieur Fry. He says you could be ejected from France at once. What shall we do? What can I do?”

  “Where’s Theo now, Gussie? At the prison too?”

 
“She called from there, but she’s coming here now.”

  “Good. We’ll soon find out all the facts. We’ll take care of this, don’t worry. No one’s throwing anyone out just yet. And don’t go thinking any of this is your fault.”

  “All right, sir,” Gussie said, his eyes still wet. “I shouldn’t have given him that bag of coins, though. I should have stood by him. Chave Prison is an evil place. I hate to imagine Monsieur Bénédite there all on his own.”

  “No more of that. Why don’t you take the day off, go home to your hotel?”

  “I want to work! I have to. It’s the best thing I can do.”

  “All right,” Varian said. “I don’t suppose I can stop you.”

  And then Theo herself came through the door of his office, her face streaked with tears, a crumpled handkerchief in her hand. Her eyes met Varian’s with a look so baleful he had to turn away.

  “What are you going to do now?” she said. “My husband, my child’s father, is in Chave Prison.”

  Varian swallowed, fortifying himself to look at her. “Does the lawyer really think he’ll get five years?”

  “He’s to be charged on four counts,” she said, taking her little notebook from her skirt pocket with a trembling hand, flipping through its lined pages. “Possession illégale d’or,” she read. “Transportant l’or illégalement. Intention de permuter l’or illégalement. And, finally, intention présumée de le détourner à sa propre utilisation.”

  “We’ll make inquiries,” Varian said. “I’ll get on the phone to the embassy at once. And I want to speak to this lawyer. Where did he come from?”

  “Mary Jayne. He’s someone her family knows. Guillaume Navarre. His English is quite good. Apparently he read philosophy at Oxford before he got his French law degree.”

  “Mary Jayne! You’ve heard from her?”

  “Yes. She’s back in town.”

  “Well, where is she? Where has she been all this time?”

  “That’s beside the point, Varian.”

  “I want to speak to this lawyer, whoever he is. Where can he be found?”

  “I asked him to come round after he finished at Chave. I was hoping we might have Danny out on parole, but Monsieur Navarre has already disabused me of that hope.”

  “Oh, Theo,” Varian said.

  “How is it,” Theo said, her voice low and tightly controlled, “that you saw fit to ask my husband to carry eighty thousand francs’ worth of gold coins?” He could see the effort it cost her to remain calm; he almost wished that she would rage at him outright. “He’s taking all the blame for this. All. And he’s doing it to protect you. He told the gendarmes the gold was a gift from Max Ernst, before he left—that he’d tried to give it to the committee, but that you’d refused, because you knew it was illegal to trade in gold. But he said that he, Danny, went to Ernst and said he’d take it himself, and give the money to the committee.”

  “Don’t you think I’d gladly be there in his place?” Varian said. “I’ll go down there at once and confess.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Theo said. “Danny made a decision on behalf of the Centre Américain. He believes you can’t be spared. He chose to take this on himself. If you go down there and contradict him, you’ll be throwing that sacrifice into his face. They’ll arrest you, and if you get out, you’ll be ejected from the country.”

  “Gussie says I might be thrown out anyway.”

  “Yes. That’s what Navarre told us. And perhaps it wouldn’t be too soon.” Then she turned away and left him alone in the office, and there was nothing he could do but sit at the desk, his head in his hands, and wait for the lawyer to arrive.

  * * *

  ________

  Guillaume Navarre was a neat narrow-shouldered man, a Parisian who’d been forced south in the pagaille; he wore a Savile Row suit, a somber tie, and an expression of woeful forbearance. He sat down before Varian’s desk, unloaded a leather-clad notebook from his briefcase, and spoke for more than an hour about the legal implications of what had occurred and what might be done, a series of scenarios that largely relied upon Varian’s being able to convince the United States Consulate to come to Danny’s aid. When Varian called the consulate to speak to Bingham, the doleful young secretary told him that he’d just gone for good. And when he called Harry’s villa, no one answered. He called again and again until finally the valet answered, informing him, with some annoyance, that Madame and Monsieur could not be disturbed, and that he would be forced to disconnect the phone if Varian tried to call again.

  “A man’s life is at stake!” Varian shouted.

  “I have explicit orders,” the valet said.

  “Well, contravene them, you idiot!”

  He’d gone too far. The line went dead. “Goddamn it,” Varian said. “I’ll have to go there in person.”

  “There’s no use doing that today,” Navarre said. “Anyone of influence at the prison will have gone home by now.”

  “But Bingham’s leaving tomorrow! And the guy who’s replacing him will never help us, I promise you.”

  “Monsieur Bingham, as I understand it, has already been stripped of his position. There’s nothing he’ll be able to do for us in any case. You’ll simply have to wait the weekend.”

  “But that means Danny’s stuck in Chave Prison for three days, at the least!” He knew how swiftly imprisonment at Chave could turn into internment in a camp. The Sûreté Nationale knew what Varian’s organization was, and what role Danny played; there would be no clemency for him. They’d hang the full weight of the law on him, there was no question. And when that happened, Danny would lose all hope of leaving France. He could never rejoin his boy in the States, could never follow his wife there when she went, as she would have to do, to be with their little son.

  He couldn’t stand it. He didn’t know how he could stand what he already had to. He got up from his chair and went to the window, looking down into the pigeon-clotted street. “I want to go to him,” he said. “I want to see him at once.”

  “They won’t allow any more visitors today,” Navarre said.

  “Goddamn it! What are we supposed to do?”

  “What we must so often do in cases like this. Wait and see, Monsieur Fry. Wait and see.”

  35

  In the Garden

  At the villa he found his own room empty; from the window he could see Grant at the foot of the garden in a metal lawn chair, a book open on his lap. If you don’t trust him, Bingham had asked, why are you in business with him in the first place? Because I’m blindly and stupidly in love, he’d been unable to say. Because our lives are knit up irrevocably. But what was that? Sentimental nonsense from their college days? Drivel extrapolated from classical texts? If Grant had lied, Varian needed to know. He went downstairs and out through the kitchen door, letting it slam and jingle behind him. It must have been past six o’clock; the sun cast its rays at an aggressive slant, throwing the valley into violet shadow and setting the ridges aflame. Grant himself seemed to radiate light, his skin golden inside the crisp white envelope of his shirt. He was wearing the same canvas pants he’d worn when the two of them had taken their sail on the Vieux Port; they must have been two sizes too large now.

  Varian went down into the garden, skirted the fountain, and pulled up a chair beside Grant’s. He couldn’t speak about what had happened that afternoon. If he introduced the subject of Harry Bingham, or of Danny, he would lose the nerve to say what he’d come to say.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” Grant said, laying his book down, sliding his bare foot alongside Varian’s. It seemed an act of supplication, a plea to break down whatever it was that stood between them. “You ought to take your shoes off. The grass is nice and cool.”

  “You ought to put yours on. You’ll catch a chill.”

  “I’m enjoying myself. It’s been too long. J
oin me, won’t you?”

  “Look, Grant,” Varian said. “I have to ask you a question.”

  Grant seemed to catch his tone. As he turned to Varian, a change came over his features: apprehension, sharpened attention. “What is it, Tommie?”

  “The night before Zilberman was deported. When I spoke to him at the Evêché—he told me something I’ve been thinking about all this time. I want to ask you about it. I hope you’ll hear me out.”

  Grant’s eyebrows came together, and he tilted his beloved and familiar face at Varian, his orbital bones sharpened by illness, his eyes etched at their corners with fine rays, his mouth superseded by its deep soft philtrum.

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “We talked about the Sinaïa,” Varian said. “Zilberman must have been speaking with some bitterness, which I can understand. But what he said was this. He said he’d never understood about Tobias Katznelson.”

  “Understood what?”

  “Why we were making so much fuss over an ordinary kid.”

  Grant frowned. “Tobias is anything but ordinary. Zilberman knew that. He knew him in Berlin.”

  “Yes, that’s just it,” Varian said slowly. “He knew him. He said he was quite ordinary. Not a genius at all. There was a genius, but it wasn’t Tobias. It was his friend, a boy called Abel Heligman, a kind of mathematical and scientific wizard, impossibly precocious, a disciple of Planck’s.”

  Grant’s eyebrows tightened. “He must have gotten it wrong. The genius was Tobias. You and I both know that.”

  “Not according to Zilberman.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “I don’t know, Grant,” Varian said. “What am I saying?”

  Grant turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting, can you possibly be suggesting, that I lied to you? That I lied about Tobias? That I knowingly counseled you to put some idiot on the Sinaïa in Zilberman’s place?”