Kingdom of Shadows

by Alan Furst

  She sat back in the chair and said, “Well, I suppose we have to go back to work.”

  Morath agreed.

  “And then, you’ll take me for a drink.” She started to gather up her papers. “Right?”

  Morath stared, did she mean it? “With pleasure,” he said, retreating into formality. “At seven?”

  Her smile was, as always, rueful. “You don’t have to, Nicholas.” She was just teasing him.

  “I want to,” he said. “Fouquet, if you like.”

  “Well,” she said. “That would be nice. Or the place around the corner.”

  “Fouquet,” he announced. “Why not?”

  A comic shrug—don’t know why not. “Seven,” she said, a little startled at what she’d done.

  They hurried through the crowds, up the Champs Elysées, a few flakes of snow in the night air. She walked with big strides, shoulders hunched over, hands thrust in the pockets of what Morath thought was a very odd coat—three-quarter length, maroon wool with big buttons covered in brown fabric.

  Fouquet was packed and noisy, throbbing with life, they had to wait for a table. Mary Day rubbed her hands to get warm. Morath gave a waiter ten francs and he found them a table in the corner. “What would you like?” Morath said.

  She thought it over.

  “Garçon, champagne!”

  She grinned. “A vermouth, maybe. Martini rouge.”

  Morath ordered a gentiane, Mary Day changed her mind and decided to have the same thing. “I like it, I just never remember to ask for it.” She spent a long moment watching the people around them—Parisian theatre of the night—and from the look on her face took great pleasure in it. “I wrote something about this place, back when, a piece for the Paris Herald. Restaurants with private rooms—what really goes on?”

  “What does?”

  “Balzac. But not as much as you’d like to think. Little anniversary parties. Birthday. First Communion.”

  “You worked for the Herald?”

  “Freelance. Anything and everything, as long as they’d pay for it.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “Wine festival in Anjou! Turkish foreign minister feted at the Lumpingtons!”

  “Not so easy.”

  “Not hard. You need stamina, mostly.”

  “Somebody at the office said you wrote books.”

  She answered in the tough-guy voice from American gangster movies. “Oh, so you found out about that, did ya?”

  “Yes, you’re a novelist.”

  “Oh, sort of, maybe. Naughty books, but they pay the rent. I got tired of wine festivals in Anjou, believe it or not, and somebody introduced me to an English publisher—he’s got a little office up in the place Vendôme. The kindest man in the world. A Jew, I think, from Birmingham. He was in the textile business, came to France to fight in the war, discovered Paree, and just couldn’t bear to go home. So he started to publish books. Some of them famous, in a certain set, but most of them come in plain brown wrappers, if you know what I mean. A friend of mine calls them ‘books one reads with one hand.’ ”

  Morath laughed.

  “Not so bad, the best of them. There’s one called Tropic of Cancer.”

  “Actually, I think the woman I used to live with read it.”

  “Pretty salty.”

  “That was her.”

  “Then maybe she read Suzette. Or the sequel, Suzette Goes Boating.”

  “Are those yours?”

  “D. E. Cameron, is what the jacket says.”

  “What are they like?”

  “ ‘She slipped the straps from her white shoulders and let the shift fall to her waist. The handsome lieutenant . . .’ ”

  “Yes? What did he do?”

  Mary Day laughed and shook her hair back. “Not much. Mostly it’s about underwear.”

  The gentianes arrived, with a dish of salted almonds.

  *

  They had two more. And two more after that. She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers.

  An hour later, they’d had all of Fouquet they wanted and went off to find dinner. They tried Lucas Carton but it was complet and they didn’t have a reservation. Then they wandered along the rue Marbeuf, found a little place that smelled good, and ate soup and omelettes and Saint Marcellin.

  They gossiped about the office. “I have to travel, now and then,” Morath said, “but I like the time I spend in the office, I like what we do—the clients, what they’re trying to sell.”

  “It can take over your life.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  She tore a piece of bread in half and put some crumbly Saint Marcellin on it. “I don’t mean to pry, but you said ‘the woman I used to live with.’ Is she no more?”

  “She left, had to leave. Her father came all the way from Buenos Aires and took her away. He thought we’d be at war by now.”

  She ate the bread and cheese. “Do you miss her?”

  It took Morath a moment to answer. “Of course I do, we had a good time together.”

  “Sometimes that’s the most important thing.”

  Morath agreed.

  “I lost my friend a year ago. Maybe Courtmain told you.”

  “He didn’t, it’s mostly all business with us.”

  “It was very sad. We’d lived together for three years—we were never going to get married, it wasn’t like that. But we were in love, most of the time. He was a musician, a guitarist, from a town near Chartres. Classically trained, but he got to playing in the jazz clubs up in Montparnasse and fell in love with the life. Drank too much, smoked opium with his friends, never went to bed until the sun rose. Then, one night, they found him dead in the street.”

  “From opium?”

  She spread her hands, who knows?

  “I am sorry,” Morath said.

  Her eyes were shining, she wiped them with a napkin.

  *

  They were silent in the taxi, going back to her apartment. She lived on the rue Guisarde, a quiet street in the back of the Sixth Arrondissement. He came around to her side of the cab, opened the door, and helped her out. Standing in the doorway, she raised her face for the good-night bisou on the cheek but it became a little more than that, then a lot, and it went on for a long time. It was very tender, her lips dry and soft, her skin warm beneath his hand. He waited in the doorway until he saw her light go on, then he went off down the street, heart pounding.

  He was a long way from home but he wanted to walk. Too good to be true, he told himself. Because the light of day hit these things and they turned to dust. A folie, the French would say, an error of the heart.

  He’d been very low since he came back to Paris. The days in Bistrita the cell, the railroad station—it didn’t go away. He woke up at night and thought about it. So he’d sought refuge, distraction, at the Agence Courtmain. And then, an office romance. Everybody was a little in love with Mary Day, why not him?

  The streets were cold and dark, the wind hit him hard as he crossed the Pont Royal. On the boulevard, an empty taxi. Morath climbed in. Go back to her apartment? “The rue Richelieu,” he told the driver.

  But the next morning, in the light of day, she was wearing a pale gray dress with buttons up the front and a belt that tied, a dress that showed her in a certain way and, when their eyes met for the first time, he knew.

  So the letter waiting for him in his mailbox that night brought him down to earth in a hurry. Préfecture de Police, Quai du Marché Neuf, Paris 1ier. The Monsieur was printed, on the form letter, the Morath, Nicholas written in ink. Would he please present himself at la salle 24 of the préfecture on le 8 Decembre, between the hours of 9 et 12 du matin.

  Veuillez accepter, Monsieur, l’expression de nos sentiments distingués.

  This happened, from time to time. The summons to the préfecture—a fact of life for every foreigner, a cold front in the bureaucratic weather of the city. Morath hated going there; the worn linoleum and green walls, the gloomy air of the place, the faces o
f the summoned, each one with its own particular combination of boredom and terror.

  Room 24. That was not his usual room, good old 38, where resident foreigners with mild diplomatic connections were seen. What did that mean, he wondered, putting on his best blue suit.

  It meant a serious inspector with a hard, square face and military bearing. Very formal, very correct, and very dangerous. He asked for Morath’s papers, made notations on a form. Asked if there had been any changes in his situation: residence, employment, marital status. Asked if he had recently traveled to Roumania.

  Morath felt the thin ice. Yes, at the end of October.

  Exactly where, in Roumania.

  In the district of Cluj.

  And?

  That was all.

  And, please, for what purpose?

  For a social engagement.

  Not for, business.

  Non, monsieur l’inspecteur.

  Very well, would he be so good as to wait in the réception?

  Morath sat there, the lawyer part of his mind churning away. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Bastards.

  Then the inspector, Morath’s papers in his hand. Thank you, monsieur, there will be no further questions. At this time. A long instant, then, “Vos papiers, monsieur.”

  Polanyi looked like he hadn’t slept. Rolled his eyes when he heard the story. Lord, why me. They met that afternoon, in the office of an elegant shop on the rue de la Paix that sold men’s accessories. Polanyi spoke to the owner, exquisitely dressed and barbered, in Hungarian. “May we have the use of your office, Kovacs Uhr, for a little while?” The man nodded eagerly, wrung his hands, there was fear in his eyes. Morath didn’t like it.

  “I don’t believe they will pursue this,” Polanyi said.

  “Can they extradite me to Roumania?”

  “They can, of course, but they won’t. A trial, the newspapers, that’s not what they want. Two things I would suggest to you: First of all, don’t worry about it; second of all, don’t go to Roumania.”

  Morath stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Of course you are aware that relations between France and Roumania have always been important to both governments. French companies hold concessions in the Roumanian oil fields at Ploesti. So, you have to be careful.”

  Polanyi paused for a moment, then said, “Now, as long as we’re here, I need to ask you a question. I have a letter from Hrubal, who wonders if I would find out from you what became of Vilmos, his chief groom, who never returned from escorting you to the Cluj railroad station.”

  “Obviously they killed him.”

  “Did they? Perhaps he simply ran away.”

  “It’s possible. Does Hrubal know that his money vanished?”

  “No. And he never will. I had to go to Voyschinkowsky who, without anything like a real explanation, agreed to make it good. So Prince Hrubal’s contribution to the national committee will be made in his name.”

  Morath sighed. “Christ, it never ends,” he said.

  “It’s the times we live in, Nicholas. Cold comfort, I know, but it’s been worse in the past. In any event, I don’t want you losing sleep over any of this. As long as I’m here to protect you, you’re reasonably safe.”

  To follow the art dealer’s instructions, Morath had to go to the Café Madine that morning, but he went first of all to the office. Which he found silent and deserted—he was too early. Then, suddenly, a swirl of activity. Mary Day with an apprentice copywriter, Mary Day with Léon, the artist, Mary Day talking to Courtmain through his open door. In a white, angelic sweater, she glanced at him as he hurried past like a man who actually had something to do. Morath retreated to his office, looked at his watch, came out, went back in. Finally, she was alone at her desk, head in hands over five words typed on a sheet of yellow paper. “Mary,” he said.

  She looked up. “Hello,” she said. Where have you been?

  “I tried to call, last night, I couldn’t find your number.”

  “Oh that’s a long story,” she said. “The apartment is actually . . .” She looked around. People everywhere. “Damn, I’m out of pencils.”

  She rose brusquely and he followed her to the supply room, a large closet. He pulled the door closed behind them. “Here it is,” she said, writing it down.

  “I want to see you.”

  She handed him a slip of paper, then kissed him. He put his arms around her, held her for a moment, inhaled her perfume. “Tomorrow night?” she said.

  Morath calculated. “By ten, I think.”

  “There’s a café on the corner of the rue Guisarde.” She pressed her hand against the side of his face, then grabbed a handful of pencils. “Can’t get caught mugging in the supply room,” she said, laughing.

  He followed her swinging skirt down the hall until she disappeared into the bookkeeper’s office, looking back over her shoulder as she closed the door.

  At the Café Madine, Morath stood at the counter and had his usual coffee. Twenty minutes later—somebody, somewhere was watching, he decided—the woman showed up. She ignored Morath, sat at a table by the wall, read her copy of Le Temps.

  So then, Antwerp. He went to see Boris Balki at the nightclub.

  “Still at it?” Balki said, pouring two Polish vodkas.

  “I guess I am,” Morath said.

  “Well, I should say thank you.” Balki raised his glass in a silent toast and drank the vodka. “My friend Rashkow’s out of prison. They brought him his clothes in the middle of the night, took him to the back gate, gave him a good kick in the ass, and told him not to come back.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Poor little Rashkow,” Balki said.

  “I need to go up to Antwerp,” Morath said. “I’m hoping you’ll come with me.”

  “Antwerp.”

  “We’ll need a car.”

  *

  At dawn, Morath stamped his feet to keep warm and curled into his overcoat, waiting in a white fog by the entry to the Palais Royal Métro station. A splendid car, Morath thought. It came, very slowly, up the rue Saint-Honoré, a 201 Peugeot, ten years old, painted deep forest-green and glowing with polish and affection.

  They drove north, following lines of trucks, into Saint-Denis. Morath directed Balki through a maze of winding streets to a park behind a church where, working hard at the reluctant latches, they took out the backseat. “Please, Morath,” Balki said. “Don’t hurt anything. This is somebody’s life, this car.” He wore a stiff brown suit, white shirt, no tie, and a peaked cap—a bartender on his day off.

  Morath opened his valise and stuffed thick packets of pengo under the wire coils in the seat. Balki was grim, shook his head as he saw all the money.

  Route 2, headed north and east of Paris, went through Soissons and Laon, with signs for Cambrai and Amiens, the flat, weedy plain where they’d always fought the Germans. In the villages, smoke rose from the chimneys, women opened their shutters, glanced up at the sky, and put the pillows and blankets out to air. There were kids going to school, their dogs trotting along beside them, shop assistants raising the metal shutters of their shops, milkmen setting bottles on the doorsteps.

  Just beyond the French town of Bettignies, the Belgian police at the border post were busy smoking and leaning against their shed and couldn’t be bothered looking at the Peugeot as it drove past.

  “Half done,” Balki said, relief in his voice.

  “No, that’s it,” Morath said as the shed disappeared in the mirror. “Once we get to Antwerp, we’re tourists. Probably I should’ve just taken the train.”

  Balki shrugged. “Well, you never know.”

  They turned off the road, drove out into the farmland, and put the money back in the valise.

  It was slow going through Brussels, they stopped for eels and frites in a bar on the outskirts, then drove along the Schelde River into Antwerp. They could hear a foghorn in the distance as a freighter worked its way out into the harbor. The diamond district was on Van Eycklei Street,
in a luxurious neighborhood by a triangular park. “I’ll walk from here,” Morath said. Balki pulled over, wincing as a tire scraped against the curb.

  “Shabet? Two stalls down,” they told him. He’d found the diamond exchange on Pelikaanstraat—long tables of diamond brokers, with the cutters’ offices on the floor above. The Shabet he found was in his thirties, balding and worried. “I think you’d better see my uncle,” he said. Morath waited by the table while a phone call was made, and ten minutes later the uncle showed up. “We’ll go to my office,” he said.

  Which was back on Van Eycklei, on the second floor of an imposing gray stone building, and rather splendid: Persian carpets, a vast mahogany breakfront crowded with old books, an ornate desk with a green baize inset.

  The elder Shabet settled himself at the desk. “So then, how can we help you?”

  “An acquaintance in Paris gave me your name.”

  “Paris. Oh, are you Monsieur André?”

  “It’s the name I asked him to use.”

  Shabet looked him over. He was in his sixties, Morath thought, with fine features and silver hair, a white silk yarmulke on the back of his head. A comfortable man, wealthy, and confident in what he knew about the world. “The times we live in,” he said, forgiving Morath a small deception. “Your friend in Paris sent someone up to see me. Your interest is, I believe, investment.”

  “More or less. The money is in Hungarian pengo, about two million.”

  “You don’t interest yourself in shape or quality, that you leave to us. Simply a question of conversion.”

  “To diamonds.”

  Shabet folded his hands on the desk, his thumbs pressed together. “The stones are available, of course.” He knew it wasn’t that simple.

  “And once we own them, we would like them sold.”