The World at Night

by Alan Furst

  “Clearly, you are experienced.”

  Millau permitted himself a brief, tight smile of pleasure in his achievement. “Practice makes perfect,” he said. “We’ve been taking these networks apart since 1933, in Germany. Now in France, we’ve had one or two—we’ll have more. No offense meant, my friend, but the French, compared to the German communist cells, well, what can one say.”

  He would remember the evening as a certain moment, almost a freeze-frame; three men looking up at him from a table on the crowded terrasse of a restaurant, Fouquet as it happened, on a warm evening. All around them, a sea of faces, the world at night—desire and cunning, love and greed, the usual. A Brueghel of Paris in the second spring of the war.

  Casson had been driven back to the city by Singer, asked by Millau to join him “and some friends” for a drink. As he approached, the men at the table—Millau with his fine eyeglasses and cigar, and two pale bulky northern men, Herr X and Herr Y, looked up and smiled. Ah, here he is! Superbly faked smiles—how much we admire you.

  They chatted for a time, nothing all that important, a conversation among men of the world, no fools, long past idealism. Poor Europe, decadent and weak, very nearly gobbled up by the Bolshevik monster. But for them. Not said, but clearly understood.

  The champagne arrived, brought by a waiter who had served him many times in the past. “Good evening, Monsieur Casson.” Three menus in German, one in French.

  Herr X wore a small pin, a black-and-gold swastika, in his lapel. “One thing we wonder,” he said, leaning forward, speaking confidentially. “We were talking to Millau here before you arrived and you told him that there was a copilot on the flight. We hear it a little differently, that the Lysander brought in an agent. Can you see any reason why somebody would say that?”

  “No,” Casson said. “That’s not what happened.”

  Millau raised his glass. “Enough work!” he said.

  For a time it was true. Herr Y was from East Prussia, the Masurian lakes, where stag was still hunted from horseback every autumn. “And then, what a feast!” Herr X worked over in Strasbourg. “Some problems,” he said reflectively, “but it is at heart a reasonable part of the world.” Then, a fine idea: “I’ll tell you what, I’ll get in touch with you through Millau and you’ll come over there for a day or two. Be a change of pace from Paris, right?”

  It was after midnight when Casson got home. He tore his jacket off and threw it on the bed. He’d sweated through his shirt, it was wringing wet. He took it off, then went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. God. It was black under his eyes. A dark, clever, exhausted man.

  THE ESCAPE

  18 June, 1941.

  He met Mathieu at dusk, in the waiting room of the Gare d’Austerlitz. They walked in the Jardin des Plantes.

  “They know what happened,” Casson said. “That an agent was brought in.”

  Mathieu walked in silence for a moment. “Who is it?” he said at last.

  Eddie Juin? Lebec? Angier? “I don’t know.”

  “It will have to be shut down.” Mathieu was very angry.

  “Yes. Perhaps it’s only—you know, the French talk too much. Somebody told somebody, they told somebody else. Each time, ‘now, don’t tell anybody.’ Or, just maybe, it could have happened in London. People in offices, people who work at airfields.”

  “Yes, it could have,” Mathieu admitted. Too many people, too many possibilities. “At least we found out. They would have taken over the network and run it.”

  The gravel path was bordered by spring beds, tulip and daffodil, poet’s narcissus, the air heavy with manure and perfume.

  “They want me to go to Strasbourg,” Casson said.

  “Did they say why?”

  “No.”

  “Will you go?”

  “I have to think about it, probably I will.”

  They walked in silence for a minute or two, then Casson said, “Mathieu, how long does this go on?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “There’s a record being built—a wire recording they made in Vernouillet, I’ve been seen with them. What if the war ends?”

  “We’ll vouch for you.”

  They reached the end of the path, a wire fence. Beyond were rakes and shovels and wheelbarrows. Mathieu took his hat off, ran a thumb around the lining to secure it, then put it back on, pulling the brim down with thumb and forefinger. “Don’t do anything until the twenty-third, then we’ll talk again. That’s the night—all hell’s going to break loose and we’re using that to get our job done. Meanwhile, you should go on as usual.”

  They came to the gate, shook hands. “Be careful,” Mathieu said.

  Casson couldn’t sleep the night of the twenty-third. He went to an after-curfew bar and drank wine. The bar was in a cellar off an alley, it had a packed-earth floor and stone walls. A long time ago, some madman had managed to coax an upright piano down the narrow staircase—perhaps he’d taken it apart. Clearly it was never going anywhere again, and that gave somebody the idea for a nightclub. The piano’s sounding board was muffled with a blanket, and an old woman in a gown played love songs and sang in a whispery voice. The cigarette smoke was thick, the only light from a single candle. Casson paused at the bottom of the stairs, then a woman took him in her arms and danced with him.

  She smelled of cleaning bleach and brilliantine, had stiff hair that scratched against his cheek. They never spoke. She didn’t press herself into him as they danced, just brushed against him, touched him enough so he could feel everything about her. When the sirens started up, she froze. A man nearby called out in a hushed voice, “No, please. One must continue,” as though that were a rule of the house.

  The rumbling went on for a long time, sharply felt in the cellar because stone foundations built in the Middle Ages carried the vibrations of the bombs and the gunnery beneath the city. A plane went down that night on the rue St.-Honoré, a Lancaster bomber made a fiery cart-wheel along the street, sliced through a jeweler’s and a millinery shop, then came to rest in the workroom of a dress designer.

  Walking home after curfew, Casson stayed alert for patrols, kept to the walls of the buildings. The streets rang with sirens and ambulance bells, searchlights swept the sky, there was a second wave of bombers, then a third. The southern horizon flickered orange just as he slipped into the rue Chardin, and he felt the concussions in the marble stairs as he climbed to his apartment.

  Later the telephone rang. He’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, still dressed. “Yes?” he said, looking at his watch. It was twenty minutes past five.

  “Jean-Claude?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.” It was Marie-Claire, she was crying. He waited, finally she was able to speak. “Bernard Langlade is dead, Jean-Claude.”

  He went to the Langlades’ apartment at seven, the smell of burning was heavy in the air. At the newspaper stands, thick headlines: VILMA AND KAUNAS TAKEN, WEHRMACHT ADVANCES IN RUSSIA. Then, just below, PARIS BOMBED, REPAIRS TO FACTORIES ALREADY BEGUN.

  He was the last to arrive. Arnaud opened the door, Casson could see the Pichards, Véronique, a few friends and relatives talking in quiet voices. The Langlades’ two grown children were said to be en route to Paris but the bombing had caused havoc on the railroads and they weren’t expected until nightfall. When Casson entered the living room, Marie-Claire hugged him tight. Bruno was in the kitchen, he shook his head in sorrow. “This is a rotten thing, Jean-Claude,” he said. “Believe me, there will be something important done in his memory, a subscription. I’ll be calling you.”

  Yvette Langlade sat on the end of the couch. She was white, a handkerchief gripped tight in her fist, but very self-possessed. Casson pulled a chair up next to her and took her hand, “Jean-Claude,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad you could be here, Jean-Claude.”

  “What happened?”

  “He went out to Montrouge, to the factory.”

&nbs
p; “In the middle of the night?”

  “Something went wrong earlier in the evening—a door left open, or maybe an alarm went off. I’m not sure. A detective called, demanded that Bernard come out to Montrouge and make sure everything was secure. Because of the defense work, the police are very sensitive about things like that. So, he went—”

  She stopped for a moment, looked away. The friends who’d arrived first were busy, had claimed the small jobs for themselves: Marie-Claire and her sister making coffee, Françoise Pichard straightening up the living room, her husband answering the telephone.

  “He had to do what they told him,” Yvette said. “So he changed his clothes and went back out to Montrouge. Then, then they called. This morning. And they told me, that he was gone.” She waited a moment, looked away. “They asked a lot of questions.” She shook her head, unable to believe what had happened. “Did Bernard store explosives in the factory, they wanted to know. I didn’t know what to say.” She took a deep breath, pressed her lips together, squeezed Casson’s hand. “It’s madness,” she said. “A man like Bernard. To die in a war.”

  Véronique brought him a cup of coffee—real coffee, courtesy of Bruno—and they exchanged a private look. He didn’t know exactly what part she played in the British operation, but she could have known that sabotage was planned under cover of an air raid. Now, he thought, her look suggested that she did know. He read sympathy in her eyes, and sorrow. But, also, determination. “Careful with this,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “It’s very hot.” She turned to Yvette. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to bring you some.”

  “No, dear. Please, I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m going to go and get it. And Charles Arnaud has just gone out for fresh bread.”

  After a moment of resistance, Yvette nodded, accepting, giving in to the inevitable. Véronique went off to get the coffee.

  My fault, Casson thought. His heart ached for a lost friend. Not that he would survive him very long. They would meet in heaven, Langlade would explain what was what, the best way to deal with it all. Casson wiped his eyes. Merde, he thought. They’ll kill us all, with their stupid fucking wars.

  24 June, 9:10 A.M.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I’m looking for a copy of the Decameron, by Boccaccio.”

  “Any particular edition?”

  “No. Whatever you have.”

  “I’ll take a look, I’m sure we have something.”

  “I’m at 43 09 19.”

  He was in a café on the boulevard St.-Germain, noisy and crowded and anonymous. The phone rang a moment later.

  “Yes?” It was Mathieu on the line.

  “I’ve decided to go to Strasbourg. Right away, because I need to be in Lyons on the first of July.”

  “Please understand, about Strasbourg, that we really don’t know what’s going on there.”

  “Perhaps I can find out.”

  “It will help us, if you can.”

  “I’ll call Millau this morning, let him know I’m ready to go.”

  “All right.” There was a pause, a moment’s hesitation. “You have to walk very lightly, just now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  All day he felt numb and lifeless. He went to the office, though it seemed to him now a dead place, abandoned, without purpose. He looked in the bottom drawer of his desk, found the notebook with the last version of Hotel Dorado and began to read around in it. A few days earlier he’d tried to locate Fischfang, but now he really had disappeared. Perhaps gone underground, or fled to Portugal. Maybe arrested, or dead. Perhaps, Casson thought, he would never know what happened.

  He began to clean up his files—this actually made him feel better, so he made some meaningless telephone calls to settle meaningless problems. Soon it was time for lunch; he went to the bank for cash, then returned and took Mireille to the Alsatian brasserie on the corner, slipping black-market ration stamps to the waiter, ordering the grandest choucroute on the menu. Bernard, he thought, you used to eat this with me even though you hated it. Warm sauerkraut, garlic sausage, it made him feel better, and he silently apologized to Langlade because it did.

  He flirted with Mireille all through lunch. How it used to be when they were young. Going out dancing in the open pavilions in the early days of spring, falling in love, secret affairs, stolen hours. The bones in the backs of her hands sharply evident, Mireille worked vigorously with knife and fork, delicately removing the rind from a thick slice of bacon as she talked about growing up in a provincial city. “Of course in those days,” she said, “men didn’t leave their wives.”

  It was still light when he got home. Trudged up the stairs, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. Standing at the threshold, he smelled cigarette smoke and froze. It is now, he thought. Inside, a board creaked, somebody moving toward the door.

  “Well, come in.” Citrine.

  He put his hand on his heart. “My God, you scared me.” He closed the door, put his arms around her, and hung on tight, inhaling her deeply, like a dog making sure of somebody from a long time ago. Gauloises and a long train ride on her breath, along with the licorice drop she’d eaten to hide it, very good soap, her skin that always smelled as though she’d been in the sun, some kind of clove and vanilla perfume she’d discovered—the cheaper the better, the way Citrine saw it.

  “It’s all right I came?” she said. She could feel his head nod yes. “I thought, oh, he’s alone long enough. I’ll just go up there and throw the schoolgirls out—probably he’s tired of them by now.”

  He walked her down the hall and back into the living room. They sat close together on the couch. “How did you get in?”

  “Your concierge. She will not stand in the way of true love. Especially when it’s movie actresses. Also, she knew me from before. Also, I bribed her.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  He kissed her, just a little. She was wearing a tight brown sweater, chocolate, with her yellow scarf tied to one side. A pair of very expensive nylon stockings caught the early evening light.

  “I don’t care if you’re mad,” she said.

  “I’m not mad.”

  She studied him a moment. “Tired,” she said. “What is it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t even look in the mirror.”

  “A long time by the sea, I think.”

  “Yes.”

  “Under the palm trees.”

  “Yes. With you.”

  She lay on her side on the couch and he did the same—there was just room. “Do you want to make love right away?” she said.

  “No. I want to lie here. Later, we can.”

  The evening came, birds sang on the roof across the street, the sky darkening to the deep Parisian blue. She took the stockings off and put them carefully aside. He could just see her in the living-room dusk as she put one foot at a time on a chair and rolled each stocking down.

  She headed back to the couch, he held up his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Why stop?”

  “What?”

  He smiled.

  “You can’t mean—” Her “puzzled” look was very good; heavy lips apart, head canted a little to one side. “Well,” she said. She understood now, but was it the right thing? She reached around behind her for the button on the waistband of her skirt. “This?”

  “Yes.”

  The telephone rang. It startled him—nobody called at night. It rang again.

  “They’ll go away,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, but he sat upright on the couch. Answer the phone. On the third ring he stood up.

  She didn’t like it.

  “I have to,” he said.

  He walked into his bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Casson!”

  Mathieu screamed. “Get out! Get out!” The connection was broken.

  “Citrine.”

  She ran into the bedroom.
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  “We have to leave.”

  She disappeared into the living room, swept up coat, valise, handbag. Stockings in hand, she forced her feet into her shoes. Casson went to the balcony, opened the doors, looked out. Two black Citroëns were just turning into the rue Chardin. He slammed the doors, ran back into the living room. “Right now,” he said.

  They ran out the door, then down the stairs, sliding on the marble steps. Citrine slipped, cried out, almost fell as they flew around the mid-floor landing, but Casson managed to pull her upright. What were they doing? They had no chance, none at all, of beating the Citroëns to the street door. They reached the fourth floor, he pulled Citrine after him, down to the end of the hallway, a pair of massive doors. There was a buzzer in a little brass plate, but Casson swung his arm back and pounded his fist against the wood. Eight, nine, ten times. The door was thrown open, the baroness stood there, wide-eyed with fright, hand pressed between her breasts. “Monsieur!” she said.

  Casson was out of breath. “Please,” he said. “Will you hide her?”

  The baroness stared at him, then at Citrine. Slowly, the surprise and shock on her face turned to indignation. “Yes,” she said, her elegant voice cold with anger. “Yes, of course. How could you think I would not?” She took Citrine by the hand and gently drew her into the apartment.

  As the door swung closed, Citrine stepped toward him, their eyes met. She had time to say “Jean-Claude?” That was all.

  Casson did try, tried as hard as he could. Raced down four flights of stairs, footsteps echoing off the walls. When he reached the street, the men in raincoats were just climbing out of their cars. They shouted as he started to run, were on him almost immediately. The first one grabbed the back of his shirt, which ripped as he fought to pull free. He punched the man in the forehead and hurt his hand. Then somebody leaped on top of him and, with a yell of triumph, barred a thick forearm across his throat. Casson started to choke. Then, a cautionary bark in harsh German, and the arm relaxed. The man who seemed to be in charge was apparently irritated by public brawling. A word from him, they let Casson go. He stood there, rubbing his throat, trying to swallow. The man in charge never took his hands out of the pockets of his belted raincoat. A sudden kick swept Casson’s feet from under him and he fell on his back in the street. From there, he could see people looking out their windows.