by Alan Furst
Kiki seemed surprised. ‘You know, I actually have seen her, that German witch, I was at her house for an afternoon card party.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes, trapped, you might say. She’d invited my crowd, girls who grew up together in the Seventh Arrondissement, went to the same school, la-la-la. I couldn’t say no.’ Stahl took out his Gauloises, offered one to Kiki, and lit both. ‘That’s just the way it is here. So we gossiped and laughed and tried to play bridge; I’m not very good at it, dreadful really. Anyhow, tell me about yourself.’
What about himself could he tell her? Surely not the truth, for, Gallic to the core, she had no desire to hear about personal problems and, beyond that, in the fogbound land of intrigue, he thought he’d rather not test her loyalties. ‘Oh, life goes on,’ he said, not without charm. ‘I’m spending time out in Joinville, rehearsing. It’s work, but it’s the work I do and I like doing it. Most days.’
Kiki nodded. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner, you were planning to eat, weren’t you?’
‘Actually I wasn’t. I got tired of being in my room, thought I’d come down here and have a drink. Hotels are a kind of curse of the movie business, even very nice hotels.’
‘It is a very nice hotel, isn’t it, the Claridge. Or so people say.’
‘You’ve never been there?’
‘No, my dear, I haven’t.’ As she said this, her eyes met his.
‘It’s very, oh, luxurious would be one way to describe it. And quiet, when the traffic dies down at night.’
‘And discreet, I’d imagine. Perfect discretion for all that money, which I imagine appeals to the guests.’
‘Yes, one feels one can do … almost anything, really.’
‘Anything at all, unknown to the prying eyes of the city,’ she said, as though quoting from a certain kind of novel. She picked a shred of tobacco off her tongue with her red fingernails, then said, ‘And do you find that – stimulating?’
‘You know I do, Kiki,’ he said, playing at sincerity, ‘now that you mention it. Once the door closes …’
‘One can only imagine,’ she said. ‘Like the little hotel we found, the night we had a drink at the Ritz.’
He smiled, acknowledging that he’d enjoyed it in the same way she had. ‘Yes, lovers on the run, fleeing to an anonymous room.’
‘But that’s not the Claridge.’
‘No, the fantasy there is quite different,’ he said.
She’d slipped her shoe off, and a soft foot now rested on top of his. ‘Oh yes? Well, I wouldn’t know,’ she said.
‘Because you haven’t been there.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ The foot made its way up his leg, then returned.
The waiter appeared at the table, two menus in hand.
‘We’re just having drinks,’ Stahl said. ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît.’
At the Claridge, she would, to her ‘surprise’, be seduced; a proper, a time-honoured, hotel fantasy. In all innocence, she accompanied him to his room, but, once there … And she did, somehow, contrive to suggest the demure maiden. ‘It’s so terribly warm in here,’ she said.
‘It’s the warm dress you have on,’ he said. ‘That’s why.’
‘But if I were to take it off …’ Quite worried, Kiki.
‘Oh you needn’t be concerned,’ he said. ‘Not with me.’
‘Well …,’ she said, uncertain, then took her dress off and draped it neatly over the back of a chair. ‘There. That’s better.’
And then, even half-stripped, in high heels and lacy bra and panties, she played the ingenue – explored the suite, room to room, discovering the flowers in a crystal vase, stroking the sleek wood of the escritoire, thrilled to be among such elegant things. Stahl followed her eagerly – she was a pretty woman, prettily made, champagne-cup breasts, derriere the classic inverted ace of hearts, swaying as she roamed about.
Eventually she wandered back to the bedroom, took off her shoes, and stood with feet together, head bowed, arms by her sides, at his mercy. Cautiously, he embraced her, but she was rigid, anxious, moved not an inch. By happenstance the mirror on the bedroom door was directly behind her, so he took the waistband of her panties between delicate fingers and turned down the back, the result especially provocative in the mirror. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what are you doing to me?’ He knelt before his victim and lowered her panties to her ankles, took them off, moved her legs apart, then, with his thumbs, more parting, and he touched her with his tongue. ‘Oh no,’ she said, not that. She kept her role in play, though it grew difficult, and in time he took her hand and led her to the bed and there ravished her. They both, Kiki and the virgin Kiki, did very much like being ravished, her girlish passion at last released. But by then she acted no longer, and let the guests in the rooms on either side of the suite know about it.
4 November. Fredric Stahl felt light and good that morning, a night of lovemaking an effective antidote to a sea of troubles. He’d come slowly awake at five, discovered a warm Kiki next to him, warmed her a little more, then fell back asleep. His interior go-to-work clock woke him promptly at 8.30, then, following coffee and croissants, he got a taxi, dropped Kiki off at her apartment, and continued out to Joinville. An exquisite autumn day, the sky its darkest blue, the North Sea clouds sharp-edged and white against it, the world would go on, life would get better.
Justine Piro was there when he arrived, as was Pasquin, who was his usual grumpy self but even he felt the sweetness of the day and said so. Jean Avila appeared a few minutes later, accompanied by his cameraman, and Renate Steiner, looking worried and harassed, stopped by, nodded to Stahl, and managed half a smile. She carried a thoroughly grimy straw boater with a crushed top and a torn brim, meant for Piro’s desert scenes. Piro tried the hat on, became Ilona, the fake Hungarian countess, and delivered the line, ‘I cannot go on like this for one minute more, gentlemen, I cannot, and I will not.’ She was wonderfully arrogant and imperious, but the battered hat made her hauteur look silly and everyone laughed. Then they waited for Gilles Brecker, the Alsatian with blond hair and steel-framed glasses, the movie’s lieutenant. At last, just when Avila had begun to look at his watch, Brecker came through the door.
Rather awkwardly, he came through the door, because his left arm was in a cast, carried by a sling. Nobody said a word, although Avila opened his mouth, then self-control won out and he remained silent. And they waited – politely, ‘Good morning, Gilles’ and such – until he took a breath and said, ‘Please don’t worry, it’s only six weeks.’
Six weeks. ‘You’ve broken your arm,’ Avila said evenly. He’d tried for a simple statement of fact, but the accusation in his voice, though faint, was audible.
‘My wrist,’ Brecker said.
‘Were you in an accident?’ said Piro, a truly good soul, her expression kind and caring. She still wore the hat.
‘Does it hurt?’ Stahl said. He felt sorry for Brecker, but there was something about the sudden bad luck that nagged at him.
‘I can work,’ Brecker said defensively. ‘It just takes getting used to.’
‘All right,’ Pasquin said, out of patience. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I was out last night, I’d had a quarrel with my friend and I was very hurt, very angry, so I went up to La Fourche.’ La Fourche, the fork, where the Avenue de Clichy joined the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, was infamous, a cluster of bars and bawdy nightclubs, a sexual bazaar where any and all tastes were easily accommodated. ‘It was after midnight in this little place on the rue Saint-Jean and everyone was drinking, really drinking, and some sort of fight started between two men who were standing at the bar. It was dark, people were shouting, pushing and shoving, and someone swung a chair. I don’t have any idea who he was trying to hit, but who he did hit was me. I hardly felt it, I thought I might have a bruise, and I got out of there, found a taxi, and headed home. But by the time I got there my arm was turning terrible colours so my friend took me down to the hospital on the Ile de la C
ité, the doctor said it was broken, put the cast on, and gave me some pills.’ Brecker stood there for a moment, clearly miserable, and said, ‘I’m sorry, everybody, but it just happened, it was an accident.’
Was it?
The question hit Stahl hard and frightened him – physical fear, in the stomach. Was this an attack on him? Had the Germans sent a message? We will destroy your movie. He didn’t know, maybe it was an accident, maybe he was seeing phantoms. But the suspicion was there and, he knew, it wasn’t going to go away.
Now I have to do something.
In his mind he spoke the phrase, a pledge to himself.
On the set of the boulevard farce, the recovery began. Avila was already talking about shooting around Brecker once production started, somebody wondered if the lieutenant might have had his wrist broken at the prison camp, or perhaps it could be explained as an injury received in battle before the legionnaires were captured. Somebody else thought that idea might work if a dirty cloth were used to hide the white cast. But Stahl didn’t really follow the discussion and didn’t take part in it. He would finish the day’s rehearsal, return to the hotel, and make a telephone call. In his mind, as the others went back and forth, he saw an image of the phone on his desk.
He called the American embassy and asked for Mme Brun, who quickly came on the line. Did he wish to speak to Mr Wilkinson? Thank you Mme Brun, but what he really needed was to meet personally with Mr Wilkinson. And it was urgent. ‘I see,’ Mme Brun said. ‘Can you stop by at six this evening? I’m sure he’ll have time for you.’
Stahl was there early, at 5.40, prepared to wait in the chair outside the office, but Wilkinson saw him immediately. Affable and welcoming, he said, ‘Hey, Mr Stahl, come on in. We’re fixing all sorts of problems today.’
Wilkinson’s office itself, as Stahl sat across from the diplomat, was comforting. Somehow the most commonplace things – the oil painting of Roosevelt on the wall, the squash racquet in the corner, the bulky presence of Wilkinson himself – inspired in Stahl a sense of American strength which, at that moment, felt very reassuring. Stahl lit a cigarette, Wilkinson, jacket off, tie pulled down, lit a cigar and made notes as they talked.
Stahl held nothing back, sensing it was crucial to tell Wilkinson the truth, in detail. Wilkinson was a good listener, didn’t interrupt, didn’t react, but the best thing about the way he listened to Stahl’s narrative was that he managed to give Stahl the impression that he’d heard all this before, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t as bad as Stahl feared. And there was more than a possibility that something could be done about it.
When Stahl wound down – Brecker’s wrist, the fight in the bar – Wilkinson waited for a moment, then said, ‘What do you want to do, Mr Stahl?’
‘I wish I had more ideas,’ Stahl said. ‘But the one that stays with me is to go to the police, maybe the Sûreté, the Deuxième Bureau.’ The counter-espionage service of the French military, which Stahl knew well from French novels of intrigue – Inspector Maigret, other heroes from other books, were often involved with the Sûreté. ‘Until I talked to André Sokoloff, and earlier to you, I didn’t appreciate the scale of this thing. I expect the secret services might be interested in what’s going on.’
‘Very reasonable, the very thing I would do if I weren’t sitting behind this desk.’ Wilkinson puffed at his cigar, making sure it didn’t go out. ‘But if you think it through, it may not be such a good idea. For example, the police, say a detective from the Eighth Arrondissement where your hotel is located. Somebody broke into your room, did he steal anything? Other than your peace of mind? That should come under some law but it doesn’t.’ Wilkinson smiled ruefully, Stahl nodded, rueful as well. ‘And of course you informed the manager at your hotel.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh?’ Wilkinson played the detective rather well, one eyebrow raised.
‘I knew what would happen: a lot of flapping of hands and apologies and “terrible!” this and “c’est insupportable!” that and on and on, then nothing is done. In fact, what could they do?’
‘And did you report the incident to the police?’
‘Not that either.’
‘So the next line is: ‘Monsieur, I don’t see how I can help you.’ And to break into somebody’s room is actually against the law. Will you tell the police you were forced to go to an irritating lunch at Maxim’s?’
Stahl didn’t bother to answer.
‘Misrepresented by a newspaper interview? What law did that break? The law of newspaper honesty?’ Wilkinson started to laugh, then said, ‘I’m not being cruel, Mr Stahl, but you have to realize these people are no fools, they’re not going to leave themselves vulnerable to the police.’
‘And the Sûreté? This is, after all, part of a conspiracy against the state.’
Wilkinson’s mood changed. He leaned back in his desk chair and clasped his hands behind his head, revealing damp circles on the underarms of his shirt. ‘Do you keep secrets, Mr Stahl? Is that something that matters to you? Because what I am going to tell you is confidential – it’s not a state secret or anything like that, but I’d rather people didn’t know we talked about it.’
‘I don’t tell secrets,’ Stahl said. ‘I don’t really know why I don’t, it’s just part of my character. Gossip is in the bloodstream of Hollywood, but I don’t take part in it, in fact I really don’t like it.’
Wilkinson pursed his lips, then nodded to himself, choosing to believe what Stahl had said. ‘I think I may have told you earlier that the French know all about German conspiracies, but they do nothing. Here’s an example, and it involves your friend Sokoloff, who is somebody who can be believed. Two years ago, in 1936, a German spy came to the offices of Paris-Soir, in fact to Sokoloff, and brought with him a stolen dossier. He was done with working for the German services and this was an act of – revenge? Idealism? Who knows. Now I never saw the dossier but I know, generally, what was in there. Names, dates, transactions, everything one would need for a determined counter-attack against Nazi political warfare. If that dossier had been made public, some very big heads would have rolled in this country. It would have changed things, shown Germany’s real intention towards her neighbour. Conquest.’
‘And? I can’t imagine Sokoloff did nothing.’
‘No, he did what he should have done, though not what every journalist would do – the spy chose prudently when he went to Sokoloff. The dossier, and a record of what the spy said, were passed to French military intelligence. And then nothing happened. This decision to do nothing may have a lot to do with the present state of French politics – some people can be accused, but others, higher up, can’t be. They’re too powerful. But that’s a theory, my theory, and there could be all sorts of other explanations.’
‘And the spy? What happened to him?’
‘Vanished. As spies do. There was some talk that he went to London.’
‘So, you’re saying I shouldn’t approach the Sûreté.’
‘No, Mr Stahl, that may be something you should do, but not now. And, if you do, you should know that they might not respond. Better for you, at the moment, to think about the future, what comes next.’
‘I wish I knew,’ Stahl said. ‘I’m going to have a drink after I leave here, but, beyond that …’
‘You’re going to work, you’re going to make a movie. Now, speaking of the movie, I have to say that the possibility of an intentional attack on this man, Becker?’ – he glanced at his notes – ‘Brecker, in order to put pressure on you, is extremely unlikely. For someone to use a chair to break somebody’s wrist in the midst of a brawl in a dark room, to be able to do this on purpose, is nearly impossible. If the chair had hit Brecker in the shoulder you would never even have heard about it. Not that they wouldn’t try to damage the movie, they would, they would do just about anything you can imagine and some things you can’t.’
Now Stahl felt better, realizing that Wilkinson probably had it right. ‘I mentioned the festival of mountain
cinema. If I don’t go, what would they do?’
‘You can find that out by not going.’ Wilkinson paused, then said, ‘There’s no question of your going, is there?’
Stahl spoke slowly, saying, ‘There wasn’t, at first, the very idea of helping them was … sickening.’
‘If you went it would certainly become known, here and in Hollywood. It might well damage your career, isn’t that so?’
‘The director, Avila, wouldn’t like it, maybe the producer as well, he’s hard to read. On the other hand, if I said that Warner Bros. asked me to go, they might not hold it against me.’
‘Well, yes, but what about Hollywood?’
Stahl didn’t answer immediately. Finally he said, ‘They might not notice, it would happen far away, in Europe, and, if they did notice, they very well might not care. The studio executives may dislike the behaviour of the Nazi government but they still do business in Germany, all they can, it’s a big part of the foreign market. The German exhibitors will only show certain films – they’ll take nothing with politics, they like musicals, they like dancing peasants, buxom maidens, singing pirates – but those sell plenty. Germans love to go to the movies, it’s encouraged, Hitler and Goebbels and Goering are big movie fans. Hitler has a passion for being seen in public with actresses, for being photographed with them, while Goebbels takes them to bed, and Goering’s wife Emmy was an actress. All of which adds up to this: if I appear at a festival in Berlin it could be seen as publicity, nothing more.’
‘But you hate the idea of going, don’t you?’
‘I hate the idea of doing what these people want me to do. And then, what will they want next?’
‘That’s worth considering – it wouldn’t end there.’ They sat in silence for a moment, then Wilkinson said, ‘Are you tempted to go, Mr Stahl? Even if the attack on Brecker was an accident, you saw what might happen.’
