The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “Yes. How did you know that? Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all. Mr. Wells has asked if you would assist him on some business he has here in Europe. He needs a personal secretary to accompany him to Italy and Germany, and he has requested that I approach you regarding this work.”

  Marc sat silently for a few seconds, searching for the words to respond. “I am not in the State Department. Why would he ask me? Shouldn’t he have someone more experienced?” Bullitt stared back at him. Marc’s stomach began to churn as he realized the manipulative nature of the interview.

  “I have only met Mr. Wells twice. I saw him once at a Harvard function, and then at his house for a Christmas party,” Marc said. “Why would he request me on this and whom is he meeting again?” Bullitt held Marc’s gaze. “This makes no sense. Did my father get involved with this in some way?”

  “Your father had no part, and I resisted the idea of even asking you, but all the same,” Bullitt paused, searching for words, “Marc, Mr. Wells requested you not because of what you can do, but because of who you are and represent.” Marc looked even more perplexed.

  “We have no horse in this race or bets at this table. The people who should be talking, the ones with the most to lose, cannot speak to one another.” Marc grew slightly more anxious as Bullitt continued. “In times like these,” he waxed in a theatrical tone, “people such as Mr. Wells are able to visit with all of the players in the casino, because we are perceived as neutral, with no bets to win or lose.” He started to smile at Marc. “He is hoping to stir these leaders toward seeking a peace agreement.”

  “What is so special about me that Mr. Wells would want me to be his personal secretary?” Marc asked, deciding to go straight to the core of the matter. “Mr. Bullitt, please explain to me how a dropout premedical student, now art student, would be so important to Mr. Wells.”

  The room fell silent for a moment, except for the bustle of the city traffic outside the window, below on the streets. The rain pattered against the window as the wind picked up.

  “For one, you were born in Paris,” Bullitt said with a smile. Marc’s face turned blank. “You come from a well-connected and important family in America.” His grin widened. “And in the highly delusional world of diplomacy, he believes your presence along his side will create a perception in the strangely deluded minds of those whom he is meeting, that the government here is interested in talks.” Bullitt’s smile spanned the entire room.

  “That is absurd,” Marc said curtly. He rolled his eyes in astonishment at the harebrained plot.

  “Absolutely absurd, Marc, and I could not agree with you more.” Bullitt tapped his leg with a nervous twitch and took a deep breath.

  “I am more shocked that he even knows who I am in the first place.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bullitt tilted his head to one side.

  “Speaking with Mr. Wells is like talking to a wall. He can look straight through you.”

  “I know what you mean. I would not blame you if you decide to pass on this adventure.”

  “Whom is he meeting? Will this trip be long?” Marc asked, resignation heavy in his voice. Bullitt paused, his eyes shifting from one wall to the other.

  “The trip will not be long. He is leaving in a week on the SS Rex. Friday they make the announcements of this trip,” he said, next picking up his pace of speech like a salesman closing a contract.

  “I am not sure whom he is meeting, but I am sure they are officials of his own level. The papers will make the trip into more, of course, which you know is what the public wants, but Mr. Wells is an undersecretary, so,” he paused briefly, “I imagine you will be meeting equally boorish bureaucrats. Italy and Germany are being gracious about his adventure, but they did not ask for his visit, so I would not get your hopes up for anything exciting to happen.” Then Bullitt’s face turned stoic again.

  “Do I need to keep this to myself?” Marc asked.

  “No, not at all. Well, that is not exactly true,” Bullitt paused. “Tell anyone you care to. In fact, I would encourage you to do so, because there is nothing secret of Mr. Wells’ trip but, please, do me a favor—when you tell your friends,” he grinned like a fox, “explain to them you are not supposed to.”

  Marc smirked. He had never seen the ambassador act so silly before and began to second-guess this entire adventure.

  “It is about perception, Marc. Perception is reality in our business.” Then he asked with disinterest, “Do you know any German?”

  “Some. I can follow a conversation, but I cannot speak it very well.”

  “Excellent. You are just his secretary, nothing more, so, you are making notes, and don’t worry if they are wrong. It does not matter, and the less you speak, the better. Besides, no one will ask you any questions. The questions are Mr. Wells’ problem.”

  “Is there anything else, other than travel plans?” Marc asked. He could clearly see by Bullitt’s unusual expression that he believed the trip to be a hopeless adventure and resented that Mr. Wells had used his influence to obtain Marc’s company. At the same time, Marc rationalized that it would be easier to just cooperate than answer questions later back home.

  “Uh, no,” Bullitt smiled and finished with a strong tone of voice. “No. I am sure you will be bored, but do try to enjoy the trip all the same.”

  Chapter 8

  Marc could not pull off the same stupid game that Bullitt wanted him to with Marie. “It will not be long, and it is just office support,” he told her, leaving out the part of it being a secret.

  “He will fail. Nothing will come of this trip. I hope they are paying you well,” Marie said curtly.

  That Sunday, Marc casually let out the news of his trip over dinner with Nigel, David and Dora.

  “You are going where with …” Dora stopped dead in mid-sentence. She clasped her mouth, which had fallen open.

  “I told you they needed a peace,” Nigel added self-righteously.

  “Do you think they will be able to get the parties to talk?” David asked.

  “I have no idea. I am just going to take notes for him and look mouse like,” Marc said. “Oh, and I am not supposed to tell you, so be sure to let everyone know, please.”

  “You are French. They will see you as a symbol.” Dora then stopped again. Her eyes widened and her face paled. “I thought you were being a smartass when you said shipboard spy.”

  “Dora, you are blowing this completely out of the water. I know what you are thinking and it is not true,” Marc said, exasperated. “I am an American citizen, and Mr. Wells knows my family. He requested me because I went to Harvard with his son. It is nothing but an old boys’ game, and no one is going to see me as anything but an idiot with a notepad.”

  “Does the premier know about you going?” Dora whispered.

  “Why should he?”

  Later that same evening at the pub where the Anglos gathered, Marc shared the news with Allen, expecting a sensible reaction.

  “You know what this means?” Allen said over his pint.

  “Allen, it means nothing at all.” Marc now regretted agreeing to the trip, because everyone had read something more into it.

  “You are going to get a promotion. This is a test. They are grooming you for another position, Marc,” Allen said, smiling. He beamed with pride. “Someday, I will be able to say, ‘I knew him when.’”

  “You’re drunk,” Marc said.

  “Actually, I was just thinking of ordering another to celebrate.”

  Marc stood at the end of the gangway of the SS Rex. One by one, men and even one woman came off the ship, but time dragged. There was no solid stream of disembarking passengers. Instead, people left the ship as if they had somehow just stumbled upon the gangway as a way to escape. Down along the dock, a line of passengers with baggage waited to board.

  Mr. Wells came down the gangway, cane in hand. A few photographers moved in to take his photograph. The scene felt surreal to Marc due to
the contrast of how few passengers left the ship compared to the thousands of passengers waiting to board.

  “Do you have the banking records?” Mr. Wells asked Marc.

  “Yes, you just saw them. You want to see them again?” Marc asked.

  “Yes, and there should be a report in that briefcase about copper production and smelting,” Wells said with a dry tone.

  “Have you spoken with Arnold lately?” Marc asked after a few hours more of watching Sumner’s obsessive record review.

  “I am not sure who he is going to support. He has been talking a bit with James Farley and, of course, with Garner and myself, but I am sure they are in the race,” Sumner said, never looking up from his documents.

  “I was not aware that Arnold would play a role in the election. Is he running for office?” Marc asked.

  “Arnold, right. No, of course not. He is well and he gives his best,” Sumner said, finally looking up. Marc wondered if his decision to surrender to the request had been a serious mistake.

  “Whom are you meeting again?”

  “I am not sure. They haven’t told me.” Sumner shrugged his shoulders as he pored over his reports.

  “You have no idea? You came all the way to Rome without any plans?” Marc pressed again.

  “These meetings are often very loose and dependent upon the needs of the moment. I am sure everything will go to some plan,” Sumner said, without cracking any character or smile. Marc now knew, without any doubt, he had made a serious mistake agreeing to this trip. He knew some Italian, yet Sumner had never once asked him regarding his language skills.

  Monday morning, February 26, he accompanied Mr. Wells to his first meeting. Down a long, enormous hallway, a horribly obese, gray-haired man struggled to walk down and greet them. Mr. Wells shook his hand, and then they followed him back to an equally cavernous office. Marc found the contrast between Mr. Wells—tall, slim, well-dressed, with a cane—to the overweight man who should have a cane, remarkably strange. After sitting down and taking out his notepad, Marc realized this man whom he failed to recognize, actually was, in fact, Mussolini in the flesh.

  Mussolini insisted upon speaking English, while Mr. Wells responded in Italian. Sumner’s voice, void of all emotion, gave Marc a headache. He prayed they would reverse their choice of languages so that Italian could remain a romantic language to Marc. Mussolini spoke English at a relaxed pace, appearing as if it were his native language.

  “Again, who are you meeting in Germany?” Marc repeated to Sumner on the train as they left Rome en route to Germany.

  “Oh, I am not sure. They did not give me a solid agenda,” Sumner said as he studied his notes. Marc heard the same avoidance in his voice he’d heard on the train to Rome.

  “Whom would you hope to meet with?”

  “What do you mean? I am just the undersecretary, Marc, but sometimes people read more into it than that. The Germans are different. These meetings will be lower level,” he said, looking up and then out the window.

  “I would like to prepare myself, Mr. Wells. I agreed to accompany you, however, not to be just led around in the dark.”

  Just then, as the train pulled into the Munich station, Sumner’s attention never left the windows. He grew even quieter, withdrawn, corpselike, as he studied the flags and people.

  “Is there something you see?” Marc finally asked.

  “Yes, just not sure what to call it,” Sumner answered back. The tone caught Marc off guard because it hit him as sincere, unlike the typical avoidance he’d heard before.

  Marc was shocked by Ribbentrop’s behavior during their meeting. Mussolini acted thoughtful, and spoke softly at times. Marc poured himself into taking notes for Sumner Wells, as the German official ranted and raved. Mr. Wells continued in the same lifeless, monotone voice, except this time in German.

  After a two-hour-long diatribe, Marc’s ear was tuned to the German language, spurred on by a hint of fear. Afterwards in the hotel, over dinner, Sumner explained to Marc that Ribbentrop had lived in America, worked in the United States for a while, and spent a lot of time around Montréal before the First World War. Marc’s nerves were still wrecked from what seemed like an endless machine gun barrage of German words.

  “He can speak English as well as you or I, but he spoke only German to make a point,” Wells explained, “and he is the one who refused to let anyone have a copy of the notes from Munich. That is why I requested that I bring a secretary. I told Ribbentrop that I could not take notes and carry on a conversation in German at the same time,” he said. Marc pondered if Ribbentrop’s rant was an attempt to draw out some emotion from Sumner. He then realized that Sumner knew all along he’d be meeting Ribbentrop.

  “I see. Whom are you meeting tomorrow?” Marc asked coolly.

  “I have no idea. This may be it. We might be back on a train to Belgium. But if there are more meetings, he will inform me in the morning,” Sumner said as he took a glass of wine.

  “This diplomacy business is a lot like prostitution. You just show up and turn on the light,” Marc said, looking directly at Sumner as he drank his wine.

  “Marc, you might have a future,” Sumner said. He smiled and raised his glass for a toast.

  Marc and Sumner found the powdered wigs odd at the Reich chancellery. Marc swallowed hard and fidgeted in his chair, waiting with Sumner Wells in the hallway. “Whom are we meeting again?” he pressed.

  “Someone. I have not been told. They just gave me this appointment and nothing else was said,” Sumner said, a slight quiver in his voice. Marc continued to ponder his remark about prostitution the night before and what an unusually successful career Mr. Wells has had, given his dry personality.

  The door opened to the office and a medium-height man with slick, dark hair walked out and shook both Sumner’s and Marc’s hands. He then eagerly invited them in to take a seat in his massive office. Marc at first believed he would wait in the hall, but the man insisted that he join the meeting and take notes. He was warm and friendly, which was a complete turn from Ribbentrop. He spoke evenly and without any dramatic ranting and raving of the previous meeting a few days prior with Ribbentrop. His voice had a rhythmic cadence at times, and Marc felt uncomfortable that he found himself attracted to this voice when compared to Sumner’s monotonous German shuffle.

  Hitler then turned directly to Marc and asked in German, “Do you believe the people of France and Germany can know peace?”

  Marc glanced at Sumner Wells, confused by the question.

  “Marc is my secretary. He has no diplomatic post with France,” Mr. Wells answered.

  “I know that, but he was born in France, and is French, and I am asking him as a Frenchman: does he believe France and Germany can know peace?” Marc’s stomach fell and he suddenly realized Dora was right.

  “Marc, I believe he wants to know how you feel personally,” Sumner said.

  “Yes, exactly correct.” Hitler then turned to a tablet of paper. “It says here you were born at the American Hospital in Paris, on June 14, 1919. I know you are an American, but you are also French.” Marc’s mind turned blank. “Do you believe the French and German people can know peace?”

  Dora came to his mind, when he danced with her back on the Normandie, and then he said, “I believe it is always a hope, like the sun rising.”

  His answer pleased Hitler. “When you return to Paris, I hope you share that hope with whomever you meet in the government,” and then he continued on for another forty-five minutes, confessing that he never wanted this war that had been thrust upon him. He never again asked Marc a direct question, and Marc resumed his note-taking duties.

  Once outside the Reich chancellery, Mr. Wells spoke. “You did very well in there. I am sorry that you may have felt you were put on the spot.” However, the complete lack of any emotion gave Marc serious doubts about Mr. Well’s sincerity. Marc resolved in himself to not share this meeting with anyone when he returned to Paris. The meeting with Rudolf Hess seemed a
nticlimactic after Hitler. However, the meeting with Goering, Marc found disconcerting.

  Goering’s entire appearance countered everything in Marc’s mind of the stereotypical Nazi. His hands looked like the claws of a swollen badger that had raided a pirate’s treasure trove of elaborate jewelry. On one hand he wore an emerald that was at least an inch wide. His uniform was white, unlike any other official uniform Marc had seen while in Berlin. Marc took notice of the artwork that he had placed on the walls of his badger den. Goering stopped mid-sentence with Mr. Wells and walked towards Marc.

  “Marc, it is amazing, but I must confess to you that I don’t believe it is an original,” Goering said to him in the hallway.

  “How can you tell?”

  “It is too clean and neat. Over in America you may not know this but, in Europe, art students would study by copying originals. Often, their work exceeded that of the artist.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Do you think there is anything you can do about the situation?” Mr. Wells said, attempting to recapture Goering’s attention.

  “There is nothing that can be done. Our air power is superior to all of Europe combined. They are lunatics you know.”

  “They are just attempting to defend themselves from what they perceive as an aggressor.”

  “I was not referring to the French or British. Marc, there are several artists living in Paris you should take note of and, if you can, try to collect. Have you met Picasso yet? I know his work is degenerate, but it is superbly degenerate and that must be admired. I would smuggle some, but you must understand my circumstances.”

  Chapter 9

  The train approached the border of Belgium and, after customs, it continued on toward France. Marc felt a wave of relaxation come over him as the train left Germany. Sumner Wells barely spoke on the train to Paris. He did not pore over notes or obsess over details. Marc’s mind gradually reflected upon the trip.

  “It is strange,” Marc said, staring out the window.