Mission to Paris: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  He read the note a second time – who was this? German nobility in Paris? Expatriate German nobility? Well, he thought, why not. Artists didn’t own the rights to expatriate life. And he liked the idea of le cocktail, as the French called such a gathering; with a dinner you were good and stuck, but you could leave a cocktail party. He knew that sooner or later he would have to find a social existence in Paris and here was a good place to begin. But, for no reason he could define, he thought he’d better call Mme Boulanger at Warner France. A young woman answered, then Zolly Louis picked up an extension phone. ‘How’s it being?’ Zolly said in English. ‘Everything okay?’

  Stahl assured him all was well. Had he ever heard of a certain Baroness von Reschke? ‘Of course!’ Zolly said. ‘She’s famous, she’s got one of the three important salons in Paris. You’re invited over there?’ He was. ‘You should go, Mister Stahl. You’ll meet the crème de la crème, chez the baroness – bankers, fashionable women, ambassadors. And then, the other two will invite you to their salons. They hate each other, these hostesses!’

  So that was decided, he would go. He hunted around in his closet to see where the maid had put the shoes he wanted to wear, found them, and set them out in the hall to be polished. As he closed the door he realized it was very quiet in the suite, and the evening stretched out ahead of him. He undressed, put on a bathrobe, and settled himself lengthwise on a sofa with his copy of Après la Guerre. But not for long. Just turning the cover and reading the stage directions for the first scene produced in him a sharp little pang of familiar anxiety that meant work.

  But he didn’t want to work – the fading light outside the window, the gathering dusk, had reached him. It was l’heure bleue – time to be meeting a lover, or looking for one. Well, he had nowhere to go. He put the script aside, went to the desk, found Hotel Claridge stationery, and began to write a letter to Betsy Belle in Hollywood.

  Betsy Belle (born Myra Harzie in Ottumwa, Iowa) was his official fiancée; fiancée being Hollywood code for lover, for the woman who accompanied you to parties, and a convenient euphemism for studio publicists and gossip columnists. She’d been discovered by a talent scout at an Iowa high school pageant, where she’d played the role of a corn, and when she’d arrived in Hollywood she’d quickly become a successful starlet. Blessed with a cupid’s-bow mouth that revealed two white teeth, a snub nose, and bright blonde hair that she wore like a teenager, Betsy had appeared in a number of movies, but had also grown older every year, until available parts were rare. Betsy also happened to be smart, and not at all the innocent she played on the screen. Of the cupid’s-bow shape of her upper lip she would say, ‘It makes me look like a fucking rabbit.’

  He and Betsy didn’t precisely live together, truer to say that she stayed with him at his house some of the time, then, wanting to be by herself, would retreat to her apartment. ‘In this town,’ she explained, ‘getting people to like you is what takes up most of your time, so it’s my luxury to hide from the world.’ What Betsy Belle really liked was muggles, marijuana, and on nights when they were together she’d put on one of her Django Reinhardt records – ‘I’se a Muggin’ ’ her favourite – and smoke away, first becoming very entertaining, then highly aroused, eventually heading for Stahl’s lap. This wasn’t now and then, this was always, and at first Stahl had thought it was something about him. But, on reflection, he realized it was her nature, her own internal catnip – desire simply wouldn’t leave her alone. The wolves of Hollywood wouldn’t leave her alone either, so being Stahl’s ‘fiancée’ was at least some protection. Certainly she didn’t expect fidelity in Paris, and Stahl knew she’d find herself somebody else soon enough. Still, despite all the practical sentiments, he really liked her and she was, no matter what else went on, a true friend.

  It was, by the third draft, a sweet letter. He loved Paris, he missed her. Not original but from the heart. And how many letters like this, he wondered, would be in that morning’s mail?

  25 September. When Stahl came out of the hotel, Zolly Louis’s nephew Jimmy, in grey chauffeur’s uniform and cap, leapt smartly from the driver’s seat, opened the door of the silver Panhard, and said, ‘Good evening, sir.’ Stahl gave him the Baroness von Reschke’s address, and the car swung out into a slow line of traffic. For the occasion, Stahl had worn his best suit: double-breasted in thin, midnight-blue wool with natural shoulders, a handsome fit, perfectly cut by the custom tailor Isidor Klein in downtown Los Angeles. Mr Klein did not advertise, his telephone number was passed from successful producer to powerful agent to prominent actor, and his services required time, several fittings, and a lot of money. To the suit, Stahl had added a custom-made shirt, a shade or two off white, and a dove-grey and Renaissance-red tie from Sulka.

  It didn’t take long enough to drive to the baroness’s house, so Stahl got a tour of the royal Seventh until 6.45, then Jimmy turned off the rue du Bac and into a street of private mansions built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. ‘You inherit these,’ Jimmy said as Stahl stared out the window. ‘Or they are very expensive.’ He pulled into a porte cochere, a man in a suit opened the door and asked for Stahl’s name. Parked beyond the entry were a few glossy black automobiles and two silver Panhard Dynamics, glowing softly in the light of the streetlamps.

  The cocktail party was in the drawing room, where splendid old paintings in elaborate gold frames – lords and ladies and cherubs and a few bare breasts – hung on the boiserie; walnut panelling that covered the walls. It was a stiff, formal room, with draperies of forest-green velvet, maroon taffeta upholstery, spindly chairs from royal times – chanting in chorus don’t dare sit on me – and a mirror-polished eighteenth-century parquet floor. Against one wall, a huge marble-topped hunting table with gilt legs, a place to toss your pheasants when you came in from the field, and flanking the sofas, end tables held silver objets, marble hounds, crystal lamps with butter-coloured silk shades, and heavy vases of white gladioli. If this room didn’t intimidate you, Stahl thought, nothing would.

  The party was in full swing – the sound of thirty conversations in a haze of cigarette smoke and perfume – and Stahl, standing at the ten-foot-high doors, had the impression that the guests went with the room: a few stunning women, some imposing, white-haired dowagers, a balding gent with a pipe – the pet intellectual? – a sculpted beard or two, even a couple of ceremonial sashes; an exotic species of royalty, perhaps the Margrave of Moldavia or something like that. And now, here came what must be the baroness, face lit with delight and a grand hostess smile. ‘Monsieur Stahl! We’re honoured. Oh thank you so much for coming.’ She was, Stahl thought as he took her claw, a very formidable woman: perhaps fifty, with stylishly set straw hair and a white face, skin drawn tight as a drum with the bone in the centre of her forehead faintly evident, a blue vein at one temple, and uncomfortably penetrating greenish eyes. For the early-evening party, she wore a powder-pink cocktail dress.

  ‘You’re staying at the Claridge?’ she said. ‘I just love that hotel, so much quieter than the Ritz.’

  A glass of champagne was put in his hand, a silver tray of caviar blini flew past. ‘They certainly make you comfortable,’ Stahl said. ‘But I’ll be there for, three months? Four?’

  ‘Months in a hotel …’ she said.

  ‘I’m thinking about an apartment.’

  At that she brightened. ‘Then you must let me help you, dear, I know people.’

  Stahl’s gracious nod meant that he appreciated the offer.

  ‘I have a friend who writes about film for the newspapers, according to him you’re Viennese, is that correct?’

  Over her shoulder, Stahl faced a vast painting, and found himself looking into the shining eyes of a King Charles spaniel on a courtesan’s lap. ‘Yes, I was born and raised in Vienna.’

  ‘I was there a month ago, it’s a very vibrant city nowadays, after some difficult years.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since I visited,’ Stahl said.

  ‘Do go, de
ar, when you have a chance, I think you’ll be pleased.’

  Very pleased, swastikas everywhere.

  The baroness sensed what his silence meant. ‘Well, Europe is changing, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘For the better, I’d say – perhaps it’s been destroyed for the last time. My most fervent hope, anyhow, and surely yours.’

  ‘It is.’

  The baroness’s lips curved upwards at the corners and her eyes narrowed, the smile of a huntress. ‘Then we must do what we can to make sure of that, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t think I can do very much,’ Stahl said. ‘I’m no politician.’

  ‘But you never know, dear, do you, about these things. Sometimes an opportunity presents itself, and then …’

  Stahl had gone as far as he wanted with this and said, ‘And do you enjoy living in Paris?’

  ‘Enjoy? I’m passionate for it, completely passionate.’

  ‘I am as well.’

  ‘Then how lucky we are! I bought this house five years ago, though I worried that as a German I might not be welcome here. Fortunately, that’s not the case – Parisians, bless their souls, take you as you are, they care more about style, about character, than they do about nationality. So, I thought, perhaps we can live together, and there’s hope for poor old Europe after all. And, you know, there are some very well-regarded people, very accomplished people, in Paris who’ve discovered Berlin, the new Berlin, at last recovered after the war, after the financial crisis. They go for a weekend and when they return they say, “To hell with 1914, we had the warmest welcome in that city.” I must tell you the mood there is extraordinary; confident, forward-looking. Say what you will about Herr Hitler, perhaps not one’s favourite politician – yes, yes, I know, he’s the most awful little man, but the results! Prosperity, dignity restored, that you must see for yourself!’

  The baroness took his arm and led him further into the room, which was so crowded that they brushed against shoulders and backs. ‘What a crush,’ the baroness said. Then, leaning closer to him, she said, ‘Everyone wants to meet you, you know, they’re just pretending to ignore you. Good manners and all that. Now, who shall you meet?’

  ‘I leave it to your ladyship.’

  ‘Oh pfui, Monsieur Fredric Stahl, you must call me Maria.’ They pressed further into the room, then the baroness said, ‘Now here’s a fine fellow.’ The fine fellow, tall, lean, and slightly stooped, turned towards the baroness, who said, ‘Hello there, Philippe, look who’s here!’

  The fine fellow wore an elegant grey suit, his thick grey hair perfectly in place, his smile irresistible. ‘Could you be Fredric Stahl? The movie star?’ As he said this, his eyes, his face, radiated an almost palpable warmth.

  ‘Monsieur Fredric Stahl,’ the baroness said, a rich pride in her voice, ‘allow me to present Monsieur Philippe LaMotte.’

  LaMotte’s handshake was powerful. ‘Enchanté,’ he said. ‘I am your greatest fan.’

  ‘Martine!’ the baroness called out, spying a special friend. ‘I leave you in good hands,’ she said to Stahl. ‘We’ll talk again, may I depend on it?’ There was a gentle, and momentary, tightening of her hand on his arm, then she was off.

  ‘I can’t quite believe I’m standing here with you,’ LaMotte said. ‘For me, you’ll always be in that garden, rain pouring down on you, watching the woman you love embracing, what was he? Race-car driver, snake-in-the-grass …’

  ‘In Summer Storm.’

  ‘Yes, the raindrops falling into your drink. But I am especially fond of A Fortunate Woman. You’re a doctor in Manhattan and this woman comes to your office and she …’

  ‘Actually, the part was originally written for Barbara Stanwyck.’ Stahl knew from experience that LaMotte was going to recount the story of the film, and offering a bit of Hollywood gossip could politely break the flow.

  ‘Really? Barbara Stanwyck? That would have been wonderful. She’s the best actress in Hollywood, at least for me.’

  ‘Surely one of them,’ Stahl said. Time to deflect, he thought, and said, ‘What sorts of things do you do in Paris, Monsieur LaMotte?’

  ‘Just another businessman,’ LaMotte said apologetically. ‘I’m the managing director of the Rousillon company, in Epernay.’ He raised his glass so that the light caught the bubbles and said, ‘Rousillon Brut Millésime – we’re drinking our champagne.’ And, his tone slightly amused, added, ‘And if you haven’t heard our slogan, it’s “Champagne, the only drink you can hear.”’ He held the glass to his ear and listened theatrically.

  Stahl imitated the gesture, but he’d had the glass long enough that the characteristic fizzing sound was no longer audible.

  ‘A fresh glass, perhaps,’ LaMotte said. He looked around, but the servant with a tray of glasses was on the other side of the room.

  ‘He’ll get here,’ Stahl said. ‘It’s very good champagne.’

  ‘Thank you, but to tell you the truth, I find my other work more absorbing.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I’m one of the directors of the Comité Franco-Allemagne. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Forgive me, but I don’t.’

  ‘You’d know if you were living in Paris,’ LaMotte said. ‘It was started in 1930, by a German called Otto Abetz, a simple drawing teacher in the public schools of Karlsruhe whose father had been killed in the war. The basic idea was that German and French veterans of the war would work together to keep it from happening again. And it’s been something of a success, because veterans, men who’ve actually done the fighting, are highly respected in both countries.’

  ‘That sounds like a very worthwhile undertaking,’ Stahl said. ‘The baroness was talking about something similar.’

  ‘Rapprochement,’ LaMotte said. ‘Do they have the word in English?’

  ‘You don’t often hear it, but it’s used. To mean the re-establishment of harmony, of good relations. The baroness was describing her own experience, here in Paris.’

  ‘She’s a great supporter. She’s terribly rich, you know, and very generous. This is the sort of organization that’s only effective if it has money to spend. We were, from the beginning, often in the news, in the papers and on the radio, and even in Time magazine. We sponsor visits, back and forth, meetings in Paris and Berlin, we hold the occasional press conference, and we’re always available to react as political events unfold – we’re trying to deal with problems in Czechoslovakia right now, but it’s not easy.’

  ‘What’s your approach?’

  ‘Anything but war. That’s always our approach. And the public in Europe has been very sympathetic – in Paris, Berlin, London, everywhere. We’ve worked hard for that. About four years ago, for instance, I suggested we build an organization for young people – they must learn early how terrible war is. The idea was, French youth and German youth would together create a bridge of understanding, to work together for rapprochement, for mutual respect and reconciliation. We have summer camps – free summer camps – and a magazine, Notre Temps, our times, that’s widely read and reports on all our activities.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Stahl said.

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you. But we have our enemies, particularly from certain political factions who do nothing but press for French rearmament.’ LaMotte shook his head, more than a little anger in his expression. ‘And who will bankrupt the nation to do it. Spending millions of francs on warplanes and cannon while the needy go unfed. When the states of Europe try to intimidate their neighbours with new guns and ships, the next step is war, as we learned in 1914 to our great sorrow.’

  ‘Then you are, perhaps, a pacifist?’

  LaMotte shrugged. ‘I’m just an honourable businessman who loves his country. But these people will have us at war if they get their way. Bellicistes we call them, warmongers. Back in 1936, when we had the so-called Popular Front, a communist front, they wanted to arm the Republicans fighting in Spain. Well, we put all the pressure we could on the government, and F
rance remained neutral, but the government still sent four hundred aeroplanes to the Spaniards, secretly. There were investigations in the senate, and the numbers kept changing, but law meant nothing to them and the country saw that.’

  Stahl wondered how to answer this, and said, ‘Well, our newspapers …’

  Just then a very appealing woman appeared at LaMotte’s side. She wore a tight cloche hat with chestnut hair swept across her forehead, her eyes were heavily made up and looked enormous, and she wore a tied rope of pearls above a low neckline. Looking at Stahl she said, ‘Oh Philippe, are you going to keep our guest all to yourself? I trust you’re not talking politics.’ She grinned wickedly at Stahl.

  ‘Me?’ LaMotte said. ‘Politics? How could you think such a thing?’ He laughed and said, ‘Kiki de Saint-Ange, may I present Monsieur Fredric Stahl.’

  She dropped a cool hand into Stahl’s and said, ‘Formidable, to think someone like you would turn up here.’

  LaMotte said, ‘It was a wonderful surprise to meet you in person, Monsieur Stahl, and I hope to see you again sometime, if your schedule permits.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Stahl said.

  ‘What a courteous fellow you are,’ Kiki said. ‘Philippe can be amusing, but you’ve landed among the most boring, stuffy old mummies in France. These are the aristos who got away in 1789!’

  ‘Oh? Well, you’re here.’

  ‘I am standing in for my parents, Monsieur Stahl, so I have to be here, but not for long.’