by Alan Furst
He’d stored up a hoard of ration coupons, even buying some on the black-market bourse that now functioned at a local cafe. So, for a half-hour, he could once again be the provident man-about-town. “The smoked salmon looks good, doesn’t it.” They decided on a galantine of vegetables. “A little more, please,” he said as the clerk rested her knife on the loaf and raised an eyebrow. For dessert, two beautiful oranges, chosen after long deliberation and a frank exchange between Citrine and the fruit man. Also, a very small, very expensive piece of chocolate.
There was a long line in front of the boulangerie. The smell of the fresh bread hung in the cold air, people stamped their feet to keep the circulation going. This line was always the slowest-portions had to be weighed, ration coupons cut out with a scissors-and sometimes a discussion started up. “Has anybody heard about North Africa?” Casson looked around to see who was speaking. A small, attractive woman wearing a coat with a Persian-lamb collar. “They say,” she continued, “an important city has been captured by the English.” She sounded hopeful-there’d been no good news for a long time. “Perhaps it’s just a rumor.”
It was not a rumor. Casson had heard the report on the French service of the BBC. The city was Tobruk, in Libya. Twenty-five thousand Italian troops taken prisoner, eighty-seven tanks captured by Australian and British soldiers. He started to answer, Citrine gave him a sharp tug on the arm and hissed in his ear, “Tais-toi!” Shut up.
Nobody on the line spoke, they waited, in their own worlds. On the way home to the rue Chardin, Citrine said, “You must be born yesterday. Don’t you know there are informers on the food lines? They get money for each radio the Germans find, they have only to persuade some fool to say he heard the news on the BBC. Jean-Claude, please, come down from the clouds.”
“I didn’t realize,” he said.
He had almost spoken, he had actually started to speak when Citrine stopped him. They would have searched the apartment. Looked in the closet.
“You must be careful,” she said gently.
On the rue Chardin, a gleaming black Mercedes was idling at the curb. The radio! No, he told himself. Then the door opened and out came the baroness, smothered in furs, who lived in the apartment below him. “Oh, monsieur, good evening,” she said, startled into courtesy.
The man who’d held the door for her, a German naval officer, stepped to her side and made a certain motion, a slight stiffening of the posture, a barely perceptible inclination of the head; a bow due the very tiniest of the petit bourgeois. He was pale and featureless, one of those aristocrats, Casson thought, so refined by ages of breeding they are invisible in front of a white wall. There was an awkward moment- introduction was both unavoidable and unthinkable. The baroness solved the problem with a small, meaningless sound, the officer with a second stiffening, then both rushed toward the Mercedes.
“What was that?” Citrine asked, once they were in the apartment.
“The baroness. She lives down below.”
“Well, well. She’s rather pretty. Do you-?”
“Are you crazy?”
They took off their coats. Citrine walked around the small living room, moved the drape aside and stared out over the rooftops. The Eiffel Tower was a dim shape in the darkness on the other side of the river. “It’s all the same,” she said. “Except for the lights.”
“Oh look,” he said. “A bottle of wine. Someone must have left it here.”
For the occasion, a pack of Gauloises. They smoked, drank wine, played the radio at its lowest volume. Citrine paged through the script, following the trail of SYLVIE as it wound from scene to scene. Casson watched her face carefully-this was Fischfang’s first real test. Altmann could be fooled, not Citrine. She scowled, sighed, flipped pages when she grew impatient. “How old is this Sylvie, do you think?”
“Young, but experienced. In the important moments, much older than her years. She wants very much to be frivolous-her life carried her past those times too quickly-but she can’t forget what she’s seen, and what she knows.”
Citrine concentrated on a certain passage, then closed the script, keeping the place with her index finger. She met Casson’s eyes, became another person. ” ‘My dreams? No, I don’t remember them. Oh, sometimes I’m running. But we all run away at night, don’t we.’ “
Casson opened his copy. “Where are you?”
“Page fifty-five, in the attic. With Paul, we’re …” She hunted for a moment. “We’re … we’ve opened a trunk full of old costumes.”
“For the carnival, at Lent.”
“Oh.” She turned to the wall, crossed her arms. ” ‘My dreams.’ ” She shook her head. ” ‘No. I don’t remember them.’ ” I don’t want to remember them. And somehow she bent the word dreams back toward its other meaning. She relaxed, dropped out of character. “Too much?”
“I wish Louis were here. He’d like it that way.”
“You?”
“Maybe.”
“You want to direct this, don’t you.”
“I always want to, Citrine. But I know not to.”
8:30. A second bottle of wine. Scarlatti from the BBC. The room smelled like smoke, wine, and perfume. “Did you know,” she said, “I made a movie in Finland?”
“In Finnish?”
“No. They dubbed it later. I just went ba-ba-ba with whatever feeling they told me to have and the other actors spoke Finnish.”
“That doesn’t work,” Casson said. “We did a German version that way, for The Devil’s Bridge.”
Citrine’s eyes filled with soft passion, she leaned forward on the couch, her voice a whisper. “Ba, ba-ba. Ba-ba-ba?”
Casson extended the wine bottle, holding it over Citrine’s glass. “Ba ba?”
“Don’t,” she said, laughing.
He smiled at her, poured the wine. Happiness rolled over him, he felt suddenly warm. Perhaps, he thought, paradise goes by in an instant. When you’re not looking.
“I’m almost asleep,” she said.
Or was it? Warmth rolled over him, he felt suddenly happy. He went to the radiator and put a hand on it. “A miracle,” he said. The apartment hadn’t been like this for months. From somewhere, coal, apparently abundant coal, had appeared, and Madame Fitou had decided, against all precedent, to use a great deal of it. This was, he realized, a rather complicated miracle.
“Suddenly,” he said, “there’s heat.”
Citrine spread her hands, meaning obvious conclusion. “Don’t you see?”
“No.”
“A beautiful baroness, a dashing German officer, coal is delivered.”
It felt good in the apartment, they were in no hurry to leave. The Occupation authority, grateful for a compliant population, had given Paris a Christmas present: extension of curfew to 3:00 A.M. Casson and Citrine talked-Hotel Dorado, life and times, the way of the world. They’d never disagreed about big things, it had gone wrong between them somewhere else. They liked eccentricity, they liked kindness, coincidence, people who lost themselves in the study of planets or bugs. They liked people with big hearts. They wanted to hear that in the end it all turned out for the best.
Just after midnight she wandered into the kitchen, dabbed her finger in some galantine gelatin left on a plate and licked it off. A moment later Casson came in to see what she was doing, found her standing by the pipe that ran, mysteriously, through the corners of all the kitchens in the building. She was listening to something, hand pressed over her mouth, like a schoolgirl, to keep from giggling.
“What-?” he said.
She touched a finger to her lips, then pointed to the pipe. He listened, heard faint sounds from below. It made no sense at first.
“Your baroness?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“Is getting a red bottom.”
Sharp reports-slow and deliberate, demure little cries. There was only one thing in the world that sounded like that.
“Tiens,” Casson said, amazed. “And in the kitchen.”
Later he walked her to the Metro-she wouldn’t let him take her back to the hotel. “Good night,” he said.
She kissed him on the lips, very quickly and lightly, it was over before he realized it was happening. “Jean-Claude,” she said. “I had a good time tonight. Thank you.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
She nodded, waved at him, turned and went down the stairs of the Metro. She’s gone, he thought.
A CITIZEN OF THE EVENING
Night train to Madrid.
The air was ice, the heavens swept with winter stars, white and still in a black sky. Jean Casson had done what he’d done, there was no going back. The train pulled slowly from the Gare de Lyon, clattered through the railyards south of the city, then out into the night.
A first-class compartment; burgundy velveteen drapes, gleaming brass doorknobs. Casson pressed his forehead against the cold window and stared out into the dark countryside. Looking out train windows was good for lovers. Citrine, Citrine. They’d made love in a train once; lying on their sides in a narrow berth, looking out at the back-yards of some town, sheets hanging on wash lines, cats on windowsills, smoke from chimneys on tile roofs. It was a long autumn that year and nobody thought about war.
Staring out train windows good for lovers, not so bad for secret agents. We are all adrift in the world, we do what we have to do. Casson turned out the lamps so he could see better. Outside, the Beauce. Old, deep France-France profonde, it was said. A flat plain where they grew wheat and barley, sometimes a forest where long ago they’d hunted bear with Beauceron dogs. A knock at the door, his heart hammered. “Monsieur?” Only a steward in a white jacket, peering at a list.
“Monsieur Dubreuil?”
“No, Casson.”
“Monsieur Casson, yes. Would you wish the first or second seating?”
“Second.”
“Very good, sir.”
He closed the door, the rattle of the train subsided. A man with eyes shadowed by the brim of a fedora came down the corridor, glanced into Casson’s compartment. Calm down, Casson told himself. But he couldn’t. The tanned, smiling Colonel Guske kept forcing himself to the front of Casson’s attention. He wasn’t a smart lawyer-Simic had been right there, Casson thought-but he was the sort of man who got things done. Worked hard, full of vigor and stupefying optimism about life. Must get that spinnaker rigged! Must keep the racquet straight on my backhand! Must get to the bottom of that Casson business!
He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. Forced himself to take comfort from the dark countryside beyond the window. The French had fought and marched across these plains for centuries. They’d fought the Moslems in the south, the Germans in the east, the British in the west. The Dutch in the north? He didn’t know. But they must have, some time or other. The War of the Spanish Succession? The Thirty Years’ War? Napoleon?
Calm down. Or they’d find him dead of fear, staring wide-eyed at the scenery. Then it would be their turn to worry about the three hundred thousand pesetas. Of course, he thought, they wouldn’t worry very long. Or, perhaps, it would just stay where it was-God only knew what would be lost forever in this war. The train slowed, and stopped. Outside, nothing special, a frozen field.
Compartment doors opening and closing, the sound of a slow train rumbling past. Something to do, anyhow. He got up and joined the other passengers, standing at the windows in the corridor. A freight train, flat cars loaded with tanks and artillery pieces under canvas tarpaulins, gun barrels pointing at the sky. He counted thirty, forty, fifty, then stopped, the train seemed to go on forever. His heart fell-what could he, what could any of them do against these people? Lately it was fashionable in Paris to avert one’s eyes when seated across from Germans in the Metro. Yes, he thought, that would do it-the French won’t look at us, we’re going home.
His fellow passengers felt it too. Not the German aviators at the end of the car, probably not their French girlfriends, drunk and giggling. But the man who looked like a butcher in a Sunday suit, and Madame Butcher, they had the same expression on their faces as he did: faintly introspective, not very interested, vague. Strange, he thought, how people choose the same mask. Tall man, head of an ostrich, spectacles. A professor of Greek? A young man and his older friend-theatre people, Casson would have bet on it. The woman who stood next to him was an aristocrat of some sort. Late forties, red-and-brown tweed suit for traveling, cost a fortune years ago, maintained by maids ever since.
She felt his eyes, turned to look at him. Dry, weatherbeaten face, pale hair cut short and plain, eight strokes of a brush would put it in place. Skin never touched by makeup. Faded green eyes with laugh wrinkles at the corners her only feature. But more than sufficient. She met his glance; gave a single shake of the head, mouth tight for an instant. How sad this is, she meant. And I don’t know that we can ever do anything about it.
He acknowledged the look, then by mutual agreement they turned back toward the windows. Tanks on flat cars crept past, canvas stiffened by white frost, at that speed the rhythm of the wheels on the rails a measured drumbeat. Then it was over, a single red lantern on the last car fading away into the distance. Casson and his neighbor exchanged a second look-life goes on-and returned to their compartments.
The train got under way slowly, dark hills on the horizon just visible by starlight. The woman reminded him of someone, after a moment he remembered. A brief fling, years ago, one of his wife’s equestrienne pals-whipcord breeches and riding crops. A long time since he’d thought of her. Bold and funny, full of prerogatives, afraid of neither man nor beast, rich as Croesus, cold as ice, victor in a thousand love affairs. She had a white body shaped by twenty years of bobbing up and down in a saddle, hard and angular, and in bed she was all business, no sentimental nonsense allowed. She did, on the other hand, have delicious, fruit-flavored breath, particularly noticeable when she had him make love to her in the missionary position.
He’d wondered about her-connections with diplomats, months spent abroad, nights in exotic clubs one heard about from friends- wondered if she wasn’t, perhaps, involved with the secret services. Just as he’d wondered what sort of hobbies she pursued with the riding crop. But he never asked, and she never offered. Her life belonged only to her; no matter if she spied, whipped, made millions, she didn’t talk about it.
Now, stupidly, he felt better-just being near a woman. But it was true. He dozed, woke up at Auxerre station. The blackout made the station ghostly, the waiting passengers shapes in the darkness. The doors opened, just enough time for people to get on the train, then closed. The locomotive vented white steam that hung still in the freezing air. He waited for the coach to jerk forward as the engine got under way.
Instead: the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open and a voice called out “Kontrol.” Casson sat up so suddenly it hurt his back. In the corridor, German voices, shouting instructions. What? This couldn’t happen. Once the train leaves Paris, nobody bothers you, the Germans can’t be everywhere. In panic, he twisted to look out on the platform: pacing shadows, silhouettes of slung rifles just visible in the darkness. The darkness. He tested the window, no give. Of course, windows in a railway coach, you had to be strong. Strong enough. A door slammed in the passageway, another opened. Jump out the window, crawl under the train. Across the track. Running full speed. Out into the street. Auxerre. Who did he know? Where did they live? Someone, there was always someone, someone would always help you. The door to his compartment opened. “Kontrol.”
He stood up.
Something in German, a wave of the hand. Sit down. He sat. There were two of them, SS officers, leather coats open to black uniforms with lightning insignia, steel-handled Lugers in high-riding leather holsters. They hadn’t been in the train very long-he could feel the cold air on them.
“Papieren.”
A gloved hand extended. Casson fumb
led for his identification in the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers had gone numb. The passport, the Ausweis, the envelope. He took them out. No, not the envelope. Clumsy, maladroit. His arm had no feeling in it, the hand thick and slow. Take back the envelope. He swallowed, there was something caught in the center of his chest.
“Was ist los?”
No, not this, this doesn’t concern you. He placed passport and travel permit on the glove, started to put the envelope back in his pocket. His hand wouldn’t work at all. He folded the envelope in half and stuffed it in, spreading his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. Sorry to be so stupid, sorry to be trouble, sorry sir, regret, excuse.
Didn’t work.
Something interesting here. The officer now looked closely at him for the first time. Not very old, Casson thought, in his thirties, perhaps. A fleshy face-fat later on-small eyes, cunning. This job was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. Not in a shop. Not in a garage. Casson looked down. The man hooked a gloved index finger under his chin and raised his head to where he could see Casson’s eyes. What are you? What are you to me? Just one more pale Frenchman? Or a fatal error?
Lazily, the German inclined his head toward the luggage rack. “Valise,” he said softly.
Casson’s hands were shaking so badly he had a hard time getting his suitcase down from the luggage rack. The Germans waited, the heavy-faced one taking a second look at his papers and making a casual remark to his colleague. Casson recognized only one word-Guske. As in, It’s Guske who signed the travel permit, the dossier must be handled in his office. The response was brief, neutral-and something more. Respectful? As in, Well, sometimes you come across these things.
The officer turned on the lamps in the compartment. Whatever was caught in Casson’s chest now swelled, and made it hard to breathe. He fumbled with the lock, finally laying the suitcase open on the seat. It looked harmless enough; two shirts, side by side, one of them fresh from the blanchisserie, the other worn, then folded for packing. There was a nice leather case that held razor and shaving soap. Socks, shorts. The copy of Bel Ami that he’d meant to read on the train.