by Leon Uris
“Nonsense.”
“Why don’t you go down to Montrichard?”
“I’m not up to Grandfather Devereaux this week. Go on, don’t keep your young man waiting.”
They touched cheeks. Nicole turned at the door. “Is he wonderful, or am I mad?”
“Yes, he’s wonderful, and he’ll give you a life of ...” She stopped before saying “loneliness and pain.”
“Don’t, Mamma. I’m so happy.”
Nicole looked out of the window down to the pavement and watched them drive off into a world they were now able to create just for themselves. They would be oblivious for a while of that other world that would gobble them up and shatter the bliss.
She began a nervous pacing accompanied by a cigarette and a bourbon. She stopped before the record player and read the album covers. Somehow, every damned bit of music these days reminded her of André.
She looked toward the phone. Call a girl friend and have lunch and gossip? Nicole had become bored with this waste in just a few weeks.
Dinner and theater? There were standing offers from the many friends they had in Paris. They. She was a third wheel now, and the invitations were predicated on friends feeling sorry for her. She would stand no more of that.
The walls of loneliness closed in on her.
A good book. Hell, there aren’t any good books anymore.
Loneliness was the plague. You drift to second-rate company and seat yourself with a known bore in order to evade being alone.
But you cannot escape that fear that comes when the lights must finally be turned off, or that emptiness when you awaken fitfully and the bed is empty.
The void is there all the time, even in a crowd.
She lit another cigarette and tried to thumb through a magazine. It went into the wastebasket.
The decision that Nicole had hoped to reach by the separation had not been reached. Things were more confused than ever. Once, when she and André were young, she had felt he could not live without her. Now, with each passing day, she knew that just the opposite was true. He would continue his work ... perhaps a bit sadder and wearier, but he would go on as a living, vital human being.
Nicole had reduced herself to a static, cigarette-smoking stone, totally consumed by her own problems and misery.
The sound of the phone had a blessed ring.
“Hello.”
“Nicole darling, this is Jacques.”
It was Granville, the oldest and closest friend of hers and André’s.
“I’m a bastard,” he said.
“Of course you are, darling. That’s nothing new.”
“No, no. You see, I knew it was a weekend and if you weren’t going to Montrichard you’d be booked up. I really hesitated to call.”
“As a matter of fact, I planned a quiet couple of days of records and catching up on some back reading.”
“You must do me a enormous favor. Do you remember Guy de Crécy?”
“Yes, we’ve met here and there. Ambassador to Egypt, isn’t he?”
“Right ... or he was until last week. We’ve recalled him to Paris. Poor devil only arrived yesterday and I’m shooting him out to the Far East on some special business in a few days. I’m throwing a little dinner party for him at my apartment. Intimate, you know, just five or six couples.”
“Isn’t he still married?”
“Widower. Lost his wife about a year ago.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Be a dear, Nicole. Please come.”
“Just for you, Jacques.”
“I love you, I love you. De Crécy will call for you around eight.”
Nicole hung up with a great sense of relief that the loneliness would be reprieved for an evening. Then strangely she felt herself pleasantly anxious at the idea of meeting Guy de Crécy again.
4
NICOLE WAS READY WELL in advance of Guy de Crécy’s arrival and kept him waiting for only a few judicious moments. She had made herself utterly radiant and was pleased that he was pleased at the sight of her.
He was a man of fifty, not in the least handsome, but with that kind of strong face often more desirable in a male. De Crécy carried himself with the suave assurance of a man at ease, seasoned by years of fencing on the diplomatic fields of honor.
Conversation on the way to Granville’s apartment was easy between them. He had a grown son and daughter. Life was quite lonely after his wife’s death. He was happy to get out of Egypt and damned mad to be hustled off to the Far East after only a few days. Oh, well, there would be a few months in Paris, later.
She did not talk of the separation with André. She had returned to Paris to get her daughter started at the Sorbonne, and catch up with things in France. Love Washington, she lied.
When André was in one of his pointed moods, he had told her more than once that a Guy de Crécy was the kind of man she should have married in the first place. He would never die from overwork, would always be on the correct side of the political fence, never allow himself to get cornered into making a crucial or unpopular decision, and he thrived on the round of parties and pomp of officialdom and adored all the outward signs of success.
Jacques Granville’s apartment was in the Meurice Hotel. As Deputy Aide to the Presidential Executive, who ran the offices of the President, Jacques Granville had risen from a lowly office during the war to one of the most influential positions in France.
The elegance of his Paris place in the Meurice testified to both his position and personal wealth. Paulette Granville, his fourth and youngest wife, greeted them in the foyer. And Jacques, a charming silver-haired fox, warmed the welcome with a Gallic outburst.
The sitting room was soon filled with gossip, larded with the special wit of diplomats and exquisite champagne. All of those present were men high in the La Croix entourage except Henri Jarré, one of NATO’s top economists.
The conversation quite naturally drifted into an anti-American dissertation.
Henri Jarré, with a great shock of black hair, thick eyebrows, thin bony pale face, pursed his lips like the cynical intellectual he was and was most vocal and venomous. “I say damn the Americans. It’s not the diplomatic blunders or even their total lack of diplomacy. It’s the Americans holding the trigger of the atomic gun. I’ll be damned if I want these upstarts to call a move that can destroy France without France’s consent. Well, we can all be thankful President La Croix is in the Élysée Palace. By God, he gave them a jolt with his demand on the gold payment.”
Guy de Crécy was what one might call a total diplomat, without strong feelings on any subject. Other than Nicole Devereaux, who remained properly silent, the room was without a champion for the maligned Americans.
She drank her champagne, a few glasses too many, and quelled the temptation to throw out one of André’s assorted barbs just to see the stupid expressions that would envelop their faces. Jarré, in particular, needed some cutting up.
How strange it was that in this room she fully shared André’s views. It annoyed her. It annoyed her, too, that she had loathed Washington but could not find happiness in Paris or Montrichard.
Nicole was pleased by Guy de Crécy’s attention. While others around him raged, his gestures and mannerisms were refined and his voice smooth, his words carefully chosen and properly spoken.
Paulette Granville mercifully seated them together during the dinner, and the sympathy between them heightened. He showed he was aware of her with the slightest hint of a smile, a brushing touch, a lingering look.
Nicole wondered as she flushed, Is he playing the subtle art of seduction or am I reading him wrong? Is he merely being polite? What if I am mistaken and rejected? The word “rejected” stayed with her. Am I desirable enough for him? I’m not ... I’m too old....
“More wine?”
“Yes, please.”
No, damn it, she thought. Don’t be like an American woman and drink yourself into a justification! She covered her wine glass, changing her mind.
&n
bsp; In the car on the way home, Guy de Crécy took her hand in both of his in a most innocent manner and spoke of how nice the evening had been and how grateful he was to Granville for making his short stay pleasant.
In this game they were playing and in the way they played it, there was no such thing as a man taking the woman. Mauling before the door and empty words were for children. In the end it would have to be her choice. And the man who played the game well, as Guy de Crécy did, would have presented himself and his case, as he had, with great charm and now would have to await a sign from her.
Nicole, too, had played the game, to a point. She played it as long as no one became offended. Others had waited for the sign as Guy de Crécy waited now. She had never given it because Nicole never wanted or needed more than her husband.
The car pulled to a stop at 176 Rue de Rennes. The chauffeur came around to open the rear door.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she blurted as though she had no control of the words leaving her mouth.
He showed no trace of displeasure as he walked her to the lobby door. Nicole handed him the key, avoiding his eyes. He unlocked the door, shoved it open. She gave him her hand.
“Please forgive me,” she said.
“I quite understand, Madame Devereaux,” Guy de Crécy said. He kissed her hand and left.
Nicole closed her apartment door behind her and leaned against it breathing erratically. She took off her wrap slowly and let it fall over the back of a chair. The room was so horribly quiet. As she heard the motor drive off she damned herself.
Down the hall, into the bedroom ... the empty bed. She sat before the dressing mirror for a timeless period looking at herself as though through a veil, seeing a diffused stranger in the half-light. And tears fell down her cheeks until none were left.
5
JACQUES GRANVILLE ENTERED NICOLE’S apartment drenched from the driving rain. He had found no parking space closer than two blocks away.
“Poor dear,” Nicole said taking his coat. She hung it over the heater in the entry to dry.
Jacques rubbed his icy hands together, shook his head like a dripping dog, and made straight for the liquor cabinet in the living room.
“I’m glad Michele phoned so I could talk her out of driving back from Dieppe tonight.”
“Ahhhh,” Jacques said as the cognac hit the spot. “Well, I’m a bachelor. Paulette left for Normandy early this morning ... in a huff I’m afraid. Now that I’ve got you all to myself why don’t you let me take you out to dinner?”
“I have a better idea. Let’s not go out in the mess. I’ll cook something here.”
“Beautiful.” Jacques phoned his office to give his whereabouts, then unlaced his shoes. His socks were soaked.
“You’re half drowned,” Nicole said. “Trot on back to André’s room. Raid his closet and make yourself comfortable.”
When Jacques entered the kitchen, Nicole was aproned and flitting about in preparation to assault the oven. She approved of the baggy velour shirt, old trousers, and André’s slippers.
“Nothing serious with you and Paulette?”
“Frankly, we’re heading for the rocks.”
“Not again, Jacques.”
“It’s a talent with me,” he berated himself. He sat up to the kitchen table, poured a glass of wine. Nicole opened the refrigerator and studied.
“You can have a choice of ... ummm ... let’s see ... lamb, but that will take a while, or sweetbreads or, yes, I have some scallops.”
“Surprise me.” He picked up a magazine on the table whose cover was adorned by the lord and master, Pierre La Croix. After a quick thumb-through he set it aside. “How’d you get on with Guy de Crécy?”
“Oh, fine. Charming man. Shame about his wife. Pour me a little wine.”
He set her glass next to her at the sink where she peeled potatoes. She finished her chore, wiped her hands on her apron, brushed back some fallen strands of hair and saluted with her wineglass.
Jacques became rather grim. “I wanted to see you because I’m worried about André.”
“So am I,” Nicole said.
“Nicole. I’m going to confide in you and tell you some things I shouldn’t be speaking about, but I trust you implicitly.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve been married to an intelligence man for a long, long time.”
“You know, of course, André has been in Cuba.”
“Sometimes he tells me where he is going. Other times he doesn’t. In this case it wasn’t hard to figure out.”
“Against a lot of opposition he took it upon himself to do a job primarily for the Americans,” Jacques said. “His report has arrived at SDECE. We conclude he found evidence of Soviet offensive missiles.”
“That’s frightening.”
“An understatement. If it’s true, the Americans are going to have to act and act soon. God knows what it can lead to. But André’s part. He is a French official. By his action he may have put France into a precarious position, involving us against our will.”
“That’s our André,” she said with a crisp tone of irony. “I’m certain he was wise enough to figure out the consequences in advance.”
“Even if his case is strong enough to justify it, he’s in the same tub of hot water he’s been in for five years in this continuous waltz with the Americans. NATO is unpopular and his views are unpopular. You know Admiral Brune. Brune is the prime mover of the Secret Service and he’s out and out to get André. I know my title as Aide to the Presidential Executive sounds impressive as hell but I’m just La Croix’s errandboy. I’ve managed to stop a lot of reports downgrading André from reaching La Croix.”
“As his oldest and dearest friend,” Nicole said, “then you know his damn martyred dedication.”
“Nicole. There’s also a report on his health I’ve been able to break and this little finger of mine can’t hold back the flood.”
“How can you get him out of Washington ... feet first?” she said bitterly.
“André has friends throughout the whole spectrum of the government. His reputation is almost like that of a holy man. I’ve talked around. We can get him out of this, honorably.”
“I’d give anything,” Nicole whispered.
“There’s an Ambassadorship opening soon. It’s his if he’ll take it.”
“Where?” she asked shakily.
“A bit far away but it’s quite decent. And mainly, it’s peaceful. New Zealand.”
Nicole turned her back and held her face in her hands, then quickly controlled herself before she came to tears.
“You must help me convince him,” Jacques said.
“I don’t even know if I have a husband. We’re in serious trouble.”
“André will come back to you,” Jacques said firmly.
“He may be involved with another woman.”
“I know my man,” Jacques said, “he’s no Granville. He’ll come back.”
Nicole calmed herself and returned to preparing the meal. Jacques refilled his wineglass and stared long and hard at her.
“I’m glad it’s raining,” he said. “And I’m glad Michele won’t be back tonight and I’m glad Paulette is in Normandy. I’ve never been anything but a bastard all my life and I won’t change this minute. Nicole, I want to take you to bed.”
She accepted it calmly, then smiled and tweaked his nose. “After three young beautiful wives, what do you want with an old girl like me? I know you’re just doing it to comfort my sorrow and I’m flattered you asked.”
“Now, damnit, Nicole. I’ve had a thing for you for a long time. I’ve behaved for twenty years, but under the present mutual circumstances I don’t think we have to moralize the situation.”
“Jacques ... I believe you’re serious.”
“I want to make love to you, Nicole. You can turn me down, but don’t take me lightly.”
The man before her was far too handsome, far too smooth. He was a beautiful rake and she was sure that her
name would be forgotten among his lost legion of mistresses. She put her arm about his neck and kissed him.
Sooner or later the piper would be paid. But for now she handled it all with discretion ... in the French way.
6
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER HIS return from Cuba, André had fully indoctrinated himself on the Kuznetov interrogation and was ready to sit in attendance in what was obviously to be the crucial moment of revelation.
Boris Kuznetov asked to see him alone before the session began and was wheeled into a private office. He shooed the nurse out.
“Well,” André greeted him, “you look much better than the last time I saw you.”
“I wish I could return the compliment,” the Russian answered. “It appears that you’ve had a difficult journey.”
“You might say that.”
“The concept of a next life beyond this one is a delightful hoax, but if there is one, I’m certain we’ll both choose a different line of work.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Please.”
“You’ve read the interrogation to date?”
“Yes.”
The lighthearted manner that Kuznetov had developed during the weeks of questioning suddenly faded, and he was again the same fear-filled man as in the days following the defection.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he said, with a sudden lurch of desperation. “I’ll come right out and ask you. Will the Americans keep their bargain with me?”
“Do you have any reason to suspect they won’t?”
“No, nothing concrete. But, on the other hand, I haven’t told them much of value yet.”
“I personally have never known Michael Nordstrom to go back on his word.”
“I’m convinced of Nordstrom’s good intentions,” Kuznetov answered, “but he doesn’t have the final word. Suppose there is a policy change, or suppose a superior backs off. Whom do I turn to if Nordstrom suddenly can’t deliver? What if they decide to get rid of me?”
“You know damn well they don’t play that way. Look, Kuznetov ... Boris ... your apprehension is natural, but you made a deal and you’ll just have to go through with it and trust them.”
