Mission to Paris: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  Meanwhile, Hedy Lamarr dines with her awful husband and his awful friends in a little restaurant. The shafts of light from the projector shifted as the images changed, the sound track crackled beneath the voices of the actors, and Kiki moved Stahl’s hand to the very centre of her damp panties, and then beneath. Making sure he stayed where he was, she changed hands, her left hand set on top of his, while her right hand crept under his raincoat, nudged his legs apart, and, slowly and with one or two hesitations as she struggled with the buttons, undid his fly. From Stahl, a kind of pleasurable sigh, very brief and completely spontaneous. Surprise. Nice surprise. And then, raising her panties with the back of her hand, she began to move his fingers.

  Again he looked at her. At first her face was without expression but then, slowly, her eyelids lowered and her lips parted as her fingers rode on top of his. Her other hand tightened where she held him, her chin lifted and her mouth opened, a little, a little more, and then completely as she exhaled and a soft, breathy ah escaped her.

  Now the hand that had gripped him hard relaxed, as Kiki rested the back of her head against the theatre seat. That grip, he realized, had not been meant for his pleasure – she’d simply held on to something that excited her while she watched whatever movie played behind her closed eyes. The jewel thief Pépé le Moko is led into a police trap – tempted by his passion for Hedy Lamarr, and for Paris, which he longs to see once more. The ship that will sail for France pulls away from the pier, Pépé runs from the police and is shot. As he lies dying in Slimane’s arms, the detective says, ‘We thought you were going to escape.’ Then, Pépé’s last words: ‘I have.’ Kiki took a handkerchief from the pocket of her raincoat and wiped her eyes.

  26 October. Jules Deschelles telephoned and told Stahl that it would be three weeks before Joinville had space available for them. He’d tried to argue but Paramount wouldn’t budge. So Stahl and the others would learn their lines, continue the read-throughs, then start to rehearse. Deschelles regretted the delay, but maybe all for the best as Jean Avila and his cameraman would be going off to Syria and the Lebanon to scout locations. In fact, Deschelles might join them. Of course, if those countries didn’t work out, they could always go to Morocco.

  An hour later, as Stahl was about to leave for Joinville, a call from Mme Boulanger at the Warner publicity office. After a few opening pleasantries she said, ‘I have an interview for you. It’s tomorrow – whenever you can be available.’

  ‘Who’s doing the interview?’

  ‘I doubt you know him. His name is Loubec, he writes sports and entertainment features for Le Matin.’

  Again, Le Matin. ‘I wonder if that’s a good idea,’ Stahl said, treading carefully. ‘What with all the politics.’

  ‘You’ll manage,’ Mme Boulanger said firmly. ‘It’s my job to get press coverage, Monsieur Stahl – you aren’t going to turn me down, are you?’

  ‘What’s he like, this Loubec?’

  From Mme Boulanger, a theatrical sigh that meant, Oh no, he’s being a prima donna. ‘I’ve run into him before, he’s rather workmanlike, gets the information, writes it down. Just another journalist, dear. I’ll hold your hand if you like.’

  Stahl hesitated, then said, ‘I guess I should do it. Where do we meet?’

  ‘In your hotel, he’s bringing a photographer.’

  ‘All right. I’ll likely be back from Joinville around five and I’ll see him at – six?’

  ‘I’ll let him know. If you don’t hear from me it’ll be at six. How’s everything else going? How’s Avant la Guerre?’

  ‘It’s Après la Guerre, and the omens aren’t so bad.’

  ‘Superstitious, love? Don’t dare to say it’s good? Oh you actors! You’re probably excited.’

  ‘Too soon, too soon for that. Thanks for getting me the interview, Madame Boulanger.’

  ‘You’re welcome, but the truth is, he came to me.’

  27 October. Loubec was prompt. They called up from the desk and Stahl said he would be right down – the idea of being interviewed ‘in his suite at the Claridge’ somehow felt wrong to him. He wore slacks and a dark-blue sweater – after twenty minutes of trial and error with his wardrobe – and had ordered up a good stiff whisky and soda. He was tense about this interview, apprehensive, and the drink helped.

  They met at the desk and Stahl led the way to a table in the nearly deserted hotel bar. The photographer, bearded, bored, and rumpled, sat at the neighbouring table and fiddled with his camera. ‘Would you care to have something?’ Stahl said, looking from one to the other.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Loubec. The photographer shrugged – if Loubec wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Loubec, in his mid-thirties, was pale and fair-haired, with a smooth, expressionless face and glasses with clear plastic frames. He flipped up the cover of his notepad and riffled through the pages until he found what he wanted. ‘Thank you for agreeing to the interview, Monsieur Stahl. Do you mind if René takes a picture or two while we’re talking?’

  Stahl did mind. Unposed photographs, the subject caught unaware by the camera, could make you look like a madman or the village idiot. ‘One or two, but no more,’ he said. ‘And I’d prefer to do it when we’re done talking.’

  René couldn’t have cared less. ‘As you like,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ Loubec said, ‘can we start by going over the titles and dates of your movies? And the award nominations? I have them listed, but I just want to make sure I didn’t miss something.’

  This was done quickly enough – Loubec basically had it right, though Stahl wasn’t certain about some of the dates. ‘I won’t try to use it all,’ Loubec said, ‘just the highlights. Now, looking at your date of birth, it seems you were likely the right age for military service during the war, but that isn’t covered in your Warner bio. Did you serve in the army? Perhaps you were exempt?’ Loubec’s pencil hovered over the empty space on his notepad page.

  ‘I was at sea, on a neutral ship, when the war began. The ship was damaged by gunfire but we made it to Barcelona.’

  ‘And that was …?’

  ‘In 1916.’

  ‘With two years of war remaining.’

  ‘When I went to the Austrian legation, they gave me a job. As what’s called an “office boy.”’

  ‘What were they like? The other Austrians, I mean.’

  Where is this headed? ‘What were they like?’ Stahl said. ‘They were like people who worked in an office.’

  ‘So, “ordinary”, you’d say.’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, you’re of German origin and …’

  ‘I was born in Vienna, but I left when I was sixteen – I believe the bio says that.’

  ‘Sorry, I should’ve said Austrian. I’m afraid that many people here in France think it’s the same thing. My point is, you weren’t in the trenches shooting at French soldiers. And your experience of Austrians during the war wasn’t, militaristic, or anything like that.’

  Stahl shook his head, clearly ready to move to another subject.

  ‘Have you been, since you arrived in France, the subject of any anti-German, I should say anti-Austrian, hostility?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘There is some considerable anti-German sentiment here in France, Monsieur Stahl.’

  Stahl shrugged. ‘Not on movie sets, the subject doesn’t come up.’

  Loubec turned the page back to his questions. ‘You’ve arrived in France during a period of considerable turmoil, some people say that war is coming, did your American friends think you were brave, or maybe foolish, to come to France?’

  ‘No. They might have wondered, but nobody said anything.’

  ‘Do they believe that war is inevitable? Or do they hope that diplomacy can resolve political differences?’

  Stahl let his irritation show – Loubec had manoeuvred him into a political discussion he’d meant to avoid. As he leaned forward, a flashbulb popped as René took a photograph. Stahl rubbed his eyes and
stared at him. ‘Pardon,’ René said. ‘It’s dark in here.’

  ‘Should I read back the question?’ Loubec said.

  ‘No, naturally they hope there won’t be a war. They don’t want to see people killed, cities burned down. Do you?’

  Loubec’s face was so immobile, so opaque, that for a moment Stahl wondered if there was something wrong with him. ‘I don’t,’ Loubec said. ‘But, sad to say, there are politicians who are dedicated to preparation for war, massive rearmament, anti-German propaganda, because they have dismissed the idea that France and Germany can come to any rapprochement. But, perhaps, you agree with them.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Stahl said. ‘But I don’t spend time worrying about it, I spend my time preparing to make a moving picture.’ Stahl hadn’t raised his voice, but the emphasis was there. ‘It’s called Après la Guerre, produced by Jules Deschelles for Paramount Pictures.’ Stahl smiled, meaning he wasn’t angry, but …

  ‘Of course we’ll talk about the movie, but my readers are interested in your views, Monsieur Stahl, what sort of fellow you are – one’s life is more than one’s profession, no?’

  Stahl smiled again. ‘Maybe less than you think, Monsieur Loubec.’

  ‘Very well, then tell me this, are you concerned about the possibility that, if war breaks out, you might not be able to finish your film?’

  Stahl lit a cigarette, then looked at his watch. ‘I believe it will be finished,’ he said. And that’s that.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if countries never again went to war. As an artist, do you believe that?’

  ‘That it would be better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who doesn’t believe that?’

  Loubec shrugged. ‘Now, can you say something about Après la Guerre?’

  As Loubec’s pencil worked away – obediently, it seemed to Stahl – he repeated his memorized summary, hitting the points that made the movie sound dramatic and exciting. Loubec asked a tame question or two, then they left the hotel and René took a number of photographs. But Stahl never saw them.

  Le Matin reached the news-stands at 5.30 in the morning, Stahl had one back in his suite by 5.45. The front-page headline said that the insurance salesman from Toulon, who’d married four women, then poisoned them and taken their money, had been sentenced to death at the conclusion of his trial. In the grainy photograph, a fat little man with a moustache was being taken down the courthouse steps by two policemen. Above the right-hand column, a smaller headline: VON RIBBENTROP CALLS FOR GERMAN CONTROL OF DANZIG. The German foreign minister was photographed shaking hands with Josef Beck, his Polish counterpart. Of the two, von Ribbentrop had the larger smile.

  Stahl hunted through the paper and, towards the back, across from the racetrack results, a mid-column photograph caught his attention: a man with an intense and mildly disturbed expression on his face, a serious man, leaned forward, his mouth parted as he began to speak. A good photograph, really, nothing to do with being a movie star, simply a concerned, notably handsome individual. At the top of the column was a publicity still: Stahl holding a doctor’s bag as he stood in a doorway, with the caption Fredric Stahl as Dr Lawton in ‘A Fortunate Woman’. This photo was beneath the story’s headline:

  AMERICAN ACTOR FAVOURS DIPLOMACY

  In smaller print, a subhead:

  Hollywood Star Fredric Stahl

  Speaks Out for Rapprochement

  Stahl’s first try at a reaction was mild irritation because it doesn’t matter, but slowly, inevitably, anger began to build inside him. It wasn’t that he’d never been manipulated – not in his business it wasn’t – but there was a certain arrogance, almost bravado, in the way it had been done. And, worse, he had watched it happening to him but could do nothing about it. And this was what took a whetstone to the edge of his anger.

  The story was nothing but sweetness and light. Surely it made Philippe LaMotte and the Baroness von Reschke happy as they ate their morning croissants. As far as Stahl was concerned, the story went: anti-German feeling in France was muted, except in the case of certain politicians who were anxious to rearm, who were preparing to take the nation into war. ‘“Do they want to see people killed, cities burned down?” a puzzled Stahl asked this reporter.’ And, a few sentences later, ‘Who doesn’t believe that it would be better if countries never again went to war?’ The man who said this was clearly, as the first paragraph pointed out, a highly respected and accomplished American. So, went the innuendo, that’s what important Americans are thinking.

  Stahl had always admired good work and he admired it now. Loubec was a sneaky little bastard but he was good at his job. Did the story matter? In the greater scheme of things, maybe not all that much, just another drip from the leaky faucet. But, Stahl supposed, the people who’d done this knew that it was a slow but effective way to create a flood.

  Mme Boulanger waited until a decent eighty-thirty before she called. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what did you think?’

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I realized what was going on but I couldn’t stop it. Will it matter?’

  ‘To your career? No, not much, not at all. I have to translate the story for Warner publicity in Hollywood, but I doubt they’ll do more than take a quick glance to make sure you haven’t said anything dreadful.’ She paused a moment, then said, ‘Also, a copy goes to somebody named Walter Perry, I expect he’s important but I don’t know who he is.’

  ‘An éminence grise, Jack Warner’s personal stand-in.’

  ‘Well, so they care about you, you’re a valuable asset.’

  ‘Were you disturbed by it, Madame Boulanger?’

  ‘Oh, maybe a little. Those aren’t my political views – it’s the Le Matin line. Did you mean what you said?’

  ‘Not the way it came out.’

  ‘Ahh, journalists,’ she said. ‘But, aside from the fact that you stuck your nose into French politics, it’s not that damaging. For one thing, an American reader would think you simply care about peace and don’t hate Germans. They have no idea what goes on here. None. And, speaking of that, I think you’d do well to meet a friend of mine. His name is André Sokoloff, of Russian extraction but completely French, completely Parisian says it better.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The senior correspondent for Paris-Soir, which is sort of the New York Times of France. Have lunch with him, he’ll tell you some things you ought to know.’

  ‘Things I ought to know?’

  ‘They’re after you, Monsieur Stahl. I surely didn’t mean to help them but I did, so this is my way of helping you protect yourself.’

  ‘There’s more to come, you mean.’

  ‘That I can promise you. As the English detectives say in the mystery novels, “the game is on”.’

  Stahl ordered coffee and croissants, had his breakfast at the window, and watched the brown leaves go swirling down the rue François 1er. He felt better, Mme Boulanger had made him feel better, that was her job. When a client was the subject of bad press, she helped them get through it. He couldn’t say exactly how she managed to do that, but the tone of her voice had a lot to do with it – an unstated but clear message: this is not the end of the world.

  Done with breakfast, he caught a whiff of his underarms – he’d had a difficult morning – and realized he’d better shower before he went out to Joinville. So he was naked when the phone rang. Stahl was no psychic, he couldn’t foresee future events – sometimes a very fortunate thing – but he knew who this was and he was right.

  ‘Franz, good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you, is it too early?’

  He didn’t slam the phone down – he wanted to, but he didn’t. He knew, since his meeting with Wilkinson, that he was talking to the enemy. So then, what did the enemy have to say? Something Wilkinson could use? Maybe it didn’t matter but, in case it did, he wasn’t going to sacrifice it for the simple pleasure of slamming down a phone. ‘Hello, Moppi,’ he said, some resignation in his voice.

  ‘I was wonderi
ng if you’d seen today’s Le Matin.’ Moppi was not at all his usual blustering self, he was, for him, quiet, subdued, delicately sympathetic.

  ‘Yes, I saw it.’

  ‘I must admit I was surprised … at what you said.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes, it really didn’t sound like you. Nothing wrong with the – sentiments, of course not, you just don’t seem like somebody who would talk about politics in a foreign newspaper. But maybe I’m wrong.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. The quotes weren’t inaccurate but they were presented in a way that made me into something I’m not.’

  ‘Ach!’ said Moppi in Austrian despair. ‘These journalists have no decency.’

  ‘Well, next time I’ll know better.’

  ‘Maybe you should be glad it wasn’t worse, if you understand me.’

  ‘Worse? How?’

  ‘Oh, for example, you were briefly in jail. Imagine what a French newspaper could make of that!’

  How did … ‘I was caught in a street march. I was never charged with anything.’

  ‘Of course not! You’re important, a star. But still, they could have suggested anything, some terrible accusation. And then, even the fact that you were discreetly set free, without publicity, could be used against you. Big movie star, look how the powerful are treated differently from you and me. L’Humanité, the communist party newspaper, would give it prominent space.’