by Alan Furst
“Across from the school.”
“That’s it. You go to the five o’clock mass. Take a seat near the crypt of Sainte Geneviève, one seat in from the center aisle. Carry a raincoat over your left arm, a copy of Le Temps in your right hand. You will be approached. The man—he uses the name Mathieu—will be holding his hat in his left hand. He will ask you if he might have a look at your newspaper if you’re done reading it. You will tell him politely no, your wife hasn’t read it yet.” She paused a moment. “Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
She leaned over the table, coming closer to him. “For the best, Jean-Claude,” she said. Then, “Really, it’s time. Not just for you. For all of us.”
They said good-bye. He left first, walked to the Maubert-Mutualité Métro. There was a Gestapo control after 8:00 P.M. at the La Motte-Picquet correspondance, where he normally would have changed trains for his own station, so he got out two stops early and walked to a station on Line Six.
“Excuse me, may I see the paper if you’re done with it?”
He was quite ordinary, a plain suit over a green sweater, raincoat, hat—held in left hand, as promised. But there was something about him, the skin of his face rough and weathered a certain way, hair a deep reddish brown, mustache a little ragged—that made it immediately apparent that he was British. Thus something of a shock when he spoke. He opened his mouth and perfect native French came out. Later he would explain: mother from Limoges, father from Edinburgh, he’d grown up in the Dordogne, where his family owned a hotel.
They left the church, walked down the hill, crossed boulevard St.-Michel and entered the Luxembourg Gardens. Handed over a few sous to the old lady in black who guarded the park chairs, and sat on a terrace. It was crowded, couples holding hands, old men with newspapers, just below them boys launching sailboats in the fountain, keeping them on course with long sticks.
They were silent for a moment, Casson got a sense of the man sitting beside him. He was scared, but bolted down tight. He’d done what he’d done, signed up for clandestine service in time of war. Hadn’t understood what that meant until he got to Paris, saw the Germans in operation, at last realized how easy it was going to be to make the wrong mistake—only a matter of time. After that, he woke up scared in the morning and went to bed scared at night. But, he wasn’t going to let it finish him. Something else would, not that.
“Well,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what happened.”
Casson had taken the time to think it through and had the answer rehearsed. Simic. The money taken to Spain. The period of surveillance. Finally, the two contacts with Millau. Mathieu listened attentively, did not react until Casson repeated what he’d been told about Marie-Noëlle being in German custody.
“And you didn’t tell anybody,” Mathieu said.
“No.”
For a moment there was nothing to be said, only the sound of the park, the birds in late afternoon, the boys by the fountain shouting to one another.
“I’m sorry,” Casson said. “It didn’t occur to me to tell someone about it—I really don’t know anything about how this works.”
“Was that all—they had her in custody?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least we know now.”
“You’d met her?”
“No. I suspect she was with the other service, not mine. They’re the intelligence people, we’re operational. We blow things up. So, what we do isn’t exactly secret. Rather the opposite.”
“You’re in the army, then.”
“No, not really. I was a university teacher. Latin drama—Plautus and Terence, mostly. Seneca, sometimes. But I heard they were looking for people who spoke native French, and I was the right age—old enough to know when to run, young enough to run fast when the time came. So, I applied. And then, a stroke of luck, I got the job.”
Casson smiled. “When was that?”
“The autumn after the invasion here.”
“Eight months.”
“Yes, about that.”
“Not very long.”
Mathieu took off his hat, smoothed his hair back. “Well, they did have training, especially the technical part. But for the rest of it, they taught us the classic procedures but they also let us know, in so many words, that people who have done well at this sort of thing tend to make it up as they go along.”
Mathieu stared at something over Casson’s shoulder, Casson turned around to see what he was looking at. Down a long allée of lime trees, a pair of French policemen were conducting a snap search—a dark-haired couple handing over various passes and identity cards.
“Let’s take a little walk,” Mathieu said. They moved off casually, away from the search.
“I’m going to have to ask London what they want to do with you,” Mathieu said. “It will take a few days—say, next Thursday. Now, in a minute I’m going to give you a telephone number. Memorize it. It’s a bookstore, over in the Marais. You call them up—use a public phone, of course—and ask them some question with an Italian flavor. Such as, do you have two copies of Dante’s Vita Nuova? Leave a number. If a call doesn’t come back in twenty minutes, walk away. You may be contacted at home, or at your office, or en route. If nothing happens, return to that phone at the same time the following day, also for twenty minutes. Then once again, on the third day.”
“And then, if there’s still no response?”
“Hmm, they say Lisbon is pleasant, this time of year.”
28 May, 1941. 4:20 P.M.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Do you have a tourist guide for Naples?”
“I’ll take a look. Can I call you back?”
“Yes. I’m at 41 11 56.”
“Very good. We’ll be in touch.”
“Good-bye.”
29 May, 1941. 4:38 P.M.
“Hello?”
“Did you call about a guidebook for Naples?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I have an answer for you. I spoke with my managing director, he wants you to go ahead with the project.”
“What?”
“Do what they ask.”
“Agree to what they want—is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get together and talk about it?”
“Later, perhaps. What we will want to know is what they ask you to do. That’s important. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I’m on their side.”
“That’s correct—but don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you going to be able to do this?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You will have to be very careful.”
“I understand.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
5 June. 2:20 P.M.
“Monsieur Casson?”
“Yes.”
“Franz Millau. Have you thought over our discussion?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“If there’s a way I can help—it’s best.”
“Will you be at your office for an hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“An envelope will be delivered. Monsieur Casson?”
“Yes?”
“I will ask you one time only. Did you mention, or allude to, the discussion we had, to anybody, in any way whatsoever? Think for a moment before you answer me.”
“The answer is no.”
“Can you tell me please, why is that?”
“Why. It might take a long time to explain. Briefly, I was raised in a family that understood that your first allegiance is to yourself.”
“Very well. Expect the envelope, and we’ll be in touch with you soon. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Herr Millau.”
“And good luck.”
“Yes, always that. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
9 June, 3:20 P.M.
On his way to the Gare de Lyon to catch the 4:33 to Chartres, he stopped at the café where he had his morning coffee. The proprietor went back to his office and returned with a postcard. Greetings from Lyons—View of the Fountain, place des Terreaux. “All is well, monsieur?”
“Yes. Thank you, Marcel. For keeping the card for me.”
“It’s my pleasure. Not easy, these times.
“No.”
“It’s not only you, monsieur.”
Casson met his glance and found honest sympathy: liaisons with lovers or with the underground, for Marcel what mattered were liaisons, and he could be counted on. Casson reached across the copper-covered bar and shook his hand. “Thank you again, my friend,” he said.
“De rien.” It’s nothing.
“I’m off to the train.”
“Bon voyage, monsieur.”
He read it on the train, sweaty and breathing hard from having jumped on the last coach as it was moving out of the station. A control on the Métro, a long line, French police inspectors peering at everyone’s identity cards as the minutes marched past and Casson clenched his teeth in rage.
The writing on the card was careful, like a student in lycée. It touched his heart to look at it.
My love, it’s 3:40 in the morning, and it feels and sounds the way it does late at night in these places. My chaos of a life is right here by my side—it likes to stay up late when I do, and it won’t go to bed. You would say not to care, so, maybe, I don’t. I write to say that spring is going by, that nothing changes in this city, and I wonder where you are. I am very alone without you—please try to come. I know you are trying, but please try. I do love you. X
He looked up to find green countryside, late afternoon in spring among the meadows and little aimless roads. Citrine. For just a moment he was nineteen again—to go to Lyons you took the Lyons train. Or you went to a town along the ZNO line and found somebody to take you across. Then you found your lover and together you ran to a place where they would never find you. No. That didn’t work. Life wasn’t like that. And it didn’t matter how much you wanted it to be.
The sun low in the sky, long shadows in a village street, a young woman in a scarf helping an old woman down the steps of a church, Café de la Poste, an ancient cemetery—stone walls and cypress trees, then the town ended and the fields began again.
As it turned out, he could have let the express to Chartres leave without him. A long delay, waiting for the 6:28 local that would eventually find its way to Alençon. He used the time to buy paper and an envelope at a stationer’s shop across from the terminal, then wrote, sitting on a bench on the platform as the sun went down behind the spires of the cathedral.
He loved her, he was coming, life in Paris was complicated, he had to extricate himself.
He stopped there, thought for a time, then wrote that if there had to be a line drawn it would be a month from then, no more. Say, July 1. A voice inside him told him not to write that but he didn’t listen to it. He couldn’t just go on and on about soon. She needed more than that, he did the best he could.
The train was two hours late, only three passengers got off at Alençon; a mother and her little boy, and Casson, feeling very much the dark-haired Parisian, lighting a cigarette as he descended to the platform, cupping his hands to shield the match flare from the evening wind.
“You must be Bourdon.” He’d been leaning against a baggage cart, watching to see who got off the train. He was barely thirty, Casson thought. Leather coat, longish—artfully combed hair, the expectantly handsome face of an office lothario.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Eddie Juin.”
They walked into a maze of little lanes, three feet wide, wash hanging out above their heads. Turned left, right, right, left, down a stairway, through a tunnel, then up a long street of stairs to a garage. It was dark inside, fumes of gasoline and oil heavy in the air, cut by the sharp smell of scorched metal. “I wonder if you could let me have a look at your identity card,” Juin said.
“Not a problem.”
Casson handed over the Bourdon card, Juin clicked on a flashlight and had a look. “A salesman?”
“Yes.”
“What is it you sell, if I can ask?”
“Scientific equipment—to laboratories. Test tubes, flasks, Bunsen burners, all that sort of thing.”
“How do you do, with that?”
“Not too badly. It’s up, it’s down—you know how it is.”
Juin handed the card back, went to a stained and battered desk with a telephone on it, dialed a number. “Seems all right,” he said. “We’re leaving now.”
He hung up, opened a drawer, took out several flashlights, put them in a canvas sack and handed it to Casson.
“Is this your place?” Casson asked.
“Mine? No. Belongs to a friend’s father—he lets us use it.” He ran the beam of the flashlight over the steel tracks above the pit used to work under cars, then a stack of old tires, then showed Casson what he meant him to see. “Better button up your jacket,” he said, voice very proud.
It was beautiful. A big motorcycle, front and rear fenders stripped, the paint worn away to a color that was no color at all. “What year?” Casson said.
“1925. It’s English—a Norton ‘Indian.’ ”
Juin climbed on, jiggled the fuel feed on the right handlebar, then rose in the air and drove his weight down hard on the kick starter. The engine grumbled once and died. Juin rose again. Nothing on the second try, or the third. It went on, Juin undaunted. At last, a sputtering roar, a volley of small-arms fire and a cloud of smoke from the trembling exhaust pipe. Casson hauled up the metal shutter, then closed it again after Juin was out, and climbed on the flat seat meant for the passenger. “Don’t try to lean on the curves,” Juin shouted over the engine noise.
They flew through the streets, bouncing over the cobbles, bumping down a stairway, the explosive engine thundering off the ancient walls, announcing to every Frenchman and German in the lower Normandy region that that idiot Eddie Juin was out for a ride.
They sped over a bridge that spanned the Sarthe, then they were out in the countryside, Casson imagining that he could actually smell the fragrant night air through the reek of burned oil that traveled with the machine. They left the Route Nationale for a route departmentale, then turned onto a packed dirt road that didn’t have a number but probably had a local name, then to a cowpath, five miles an hour over rocks and roots, across a long hillside on a strip of beaten-down weed and scrub, over the hill to a valley spread out in the moonlight. Juin cut the engine and they rolled silently for a long time, coming to a stop at last on the edge of a flat grassy field.
It seemed very quiet, just a few crickets, once the engine was off. Casson climbed off the motorcycle, half frozen, blowing on his hands. “Where are we?” he asked.
Eddie Juin smiled. “Nowhere,” he said triumphantly. “Absolutely nowhere.”
1:30 A.M. Three-quarter moon. They sat by the motorcycle, smoking, waiting, watching the edge of the woods at the other end of the field.
“Alençon doesn’t seem so bad,” Casson said.
“No, not too bad, and I’m an expert. I grew up in at least six different places, one of those families that never stopped moving. Saves money, my dad said—some bills would never quite catch up with us— and, he’d say, it’s an education for life!” Juin laughed as he remembered. “It’s Lebec who’s from Alençon, and his uncle, who’s called Tonton Jules. Then there’s Angier, and that’s it. Tonton Jules farms over in Mortagne, the rest of us met up in Paris.”
“At the office.”
“Yes, that’s it. We all worked for the Merchant Marine Ministry, first in Paris, then over on the coast, in Lorient. We didn’t have it too bad—snuck out early on Friday afternoons, chased the girls, caught our share. But when the Germans came they tossed us out, of course, because they put their submarine pens in over there, for the
blockade on the English. So that left us, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis from the fourth floor, with time on our hands. Well, what better than to find a way to fuck life up for the schleuh? Return the favor, right? And as for Tonton Jules, they captured him on the Marne in 1915, sent him to Germany in a cattle car. Apparently he didn’t care for it.”
He paused for a moment and they both listened for engines but it was very quiet. “So,” he said, “how is it in Paris these days?”
“You miss it?”
“Who wouldn’t.”
“People are fed up,” Casson said. “Hungry, tired, can’t get tobacco, there’s no coffee. In the beginning they thought they could live with it. Then they thought they could ignore it. Now they want it to go away.”
“Wait a minute.” Juin stood up. Casson heard the faint throb of a machine in the distance. Juin reached inside his coat and took out a snub-nosed automatic.
A farm tractor towing a haywagon materialized at the end of the field, Casson and Eddie Juin went to meet it. Tonton Jules swayed in the driver’s seat. He was a fat man with one arm, and he was drunk. His nephew Lebec was dark and clever, could have been Eddie Juin’s brother. Angier had an appealing rat face, Casson guessed he would go anywhere, do anything. Easy to imagine him as a kid jumping off railway trestles on a dare. “Salut, Eddie,” he said. “Are we on time?”
Juin just laughed.
They heard the plane at 3:12 A.M., headed south of east. They each took a flashlight and stood in a line with Juin to one side to make the letter L. This showed wind direction when, as the plane came closer, they turned on the lights. Juin then blinked the Morse letter J—a recognition signal for that night only, which meant we’re not a bunch of Germans trying to get you to land in this field. The plane did not respond, flew straight ahead, vanished. Then, a minute later, they heard him coming back. Juin tried again, and this time the pilot confirmed the signal, using the airplane’s landing lights to flash back a Morse countersign.
The plane touched down at the other end of the field, then taxied toward them, bouncing over the uneven ground. No savoir-faire now, they ran to meet it, Tonton Jules wheezing as he tried to keep up. It wasn’t much to look at, a single propeller, fixed landing wheels in oversized hubs, biplane wings above and below the pilot’s compartment. On the fuselage, next to a freshly painted RAF roundel, was a black flash mark and a peppering of tiny holes. With difficulty the pilot forced back the Perspex window panel, then tore the leather flying cap from his head. He allowed himself a single deep breath, then called out over the noise of the engine. “Can somebody help? Ahh, peut-être, can you—aidez-mah?”
