by Alan Furst
He turned and faced the full-length mirror. ‘It looks just right,’ he said. In the mirror, he could see her over his shoulder. From a desk by the far wall, a telephone rang – the French signal, two short rings. Then again, and a third time, but Renate didn’t move. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. The phone continued to ring. It was as though the two of them were frozen in place. At last the ringing stopped and she sank down in a chair and held her hands over her face. Stahl turned around. From beneath her hands, in a voice fighting through tears, she said, ‘I’ll have to pull …’ She stopped, then went on, ‘I’ll have to pull the threads out, where the button was.’ Stahl waited patiently, a sympathetic man in a tattered uniform.
She dropped her hands and said, ‘Oh you must forgive me.’
His voice was low and gentle as he said, ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’
The kindness undid her. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her smock and wept silently, hiding her face behind the white square. When the telephone rang again, one sob escaped her. Stahl couldn’t bear it. He walked over to her and rested a light hand on her shoulder. Then was startled as she suddenly rose from the chair, threw her arms around him, and pressed her face against his chest. He held her carefully, desperate to say something, but what came to him, some version of please don’t cry, was worse than silence. At last the phone stopped ringing, she let him go and went and stood by her work table, turned away from him. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You needn’t say a word.’
‘It’s just that … I have trouble at home. Bad trouble. Trouble I can’t fix.’
‘That’s very hard for a woman.’
She nodded, then blew her nose, took a deep breath, and exhaled. ‘He calls me and says frightening things, he wants to …’
‘To what?’
‘I can’t say it out loud. He is going to … he doesn’t want to live any more.’
‘Your husband?’
‘We’re not married but yes, he is my husband.’
‘Renate,’ Stahl said softly, ‘I can go outside, you know, have a cigarette …’
From Renate, the suggestion of a nod, then, quietly, ‘I know.’ She paused, then said, ‘I really can’t bear it any longer. I just can’t.’
‘Would it help you to talk about it?’
A brief shrug, then once again, trying to calm herself, she took a breath and let it out. ‘An old story, I expect you know the whole thing. He was an important journalist in Berlin, but he is nothing here. He can’t write in French, not well enough he can’t. So he does a few pieces, diatribes, for the émigré magazines and gets a few francs, but it’s me who makes the money.’
Stahl was silent. He went behind the curtain, retrieved his pack of Gauloises, took one himself and offered her the pack. She drew one out, he lit both cigarettes. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You’re right. I have seen this before, but if he can somehow hang on, life will improve.’ And, yes, it sometimes did, but often it did not, and émigré suicides were all too common.
‘I tell him that. He says he has lost his manhood.’
Her face was taut with anguish, Stahl tried to say something, anything. ‘Oh, men can be like that, it’s …’
‘Fredric, I think I am done for the day.’
‘I understand, let me change and I’ll be gone in a minute.’
‘Please don’t be angry with me. He will call again, and it’s easier if I’m alone when I talk to him. It can go on … for a long time.’
Stahl changed quickly, struggling to unlace the heavy boots. The phone rang as he reached the door. He waved goodbye to Renate, who nodded gratefully and lifted the receiver.
2 November. In northern Europe, the fog of autumn had settled over the cities. When Stahl looked out of his window at dawn, the street lay under a white mist that shifted with the wind and there were halos on the streetlamps, automobiles were no more than dim headlights moving slowly past the hotel, while pedestrians appeared for a moment, then faded into shapes and vanished.
Later on, at the desk in the lobby of the Claridge, there was a letter from the Baroness von Reschke on her elegant notepaper. Yet another cocktail party was planned, her friends were hoping he could make a little time for them, and she was eager to see him again. ‘I had hoped we could be closer, my dear, could take tea together some afternoon, just the two of us, but I will settle for your enchanting presence at my party.’ She meant? Oh Christ, she’d made it very clear what she meant. Tête-à-tête, so to speak, literally head-to-head but people went on from there, didn’t they. South. That was where she wanted them to go. In front of a camera he would have reacted darkly, in the lobby he just made a face.
Also: a telegram from Buzzy Mehlman, his agent, who had seen a translation of the Le Matin article. Stahl was astonished at the speed of the response, and counted the intervening days on his fingers. Had Mme Boulanger sent the story by cable? Spare no expense. This made Stahl uncomfortable – could it really be all that important? And the text of Buzzy’s message didn’t make him feel any easier:
Great article in Le Matin stop Good coverage of film and Stahl successes stop Political opinion puzzling we think that unnecessary stop No reaction from Warner Bros but one story like this plenty stop Hope you’re healthy and loving Paree you can always telephone if you like stop
Signed: Buzz
Mme Boulanger, true to her word, had scheduled a lunch for him that afternoon with André Sokoloff, the lead journalist at the newspaper Paris-Soir. Jean Avila would be spending the day with his production designer and art director in another building at Joinville, where sets were being built for the movie, so Stahl had the day off. The lunch was at 1.00 p.m. at a brasserie just off the Place Bastille. Stahl, tired of being driven around, took the Métro.
Mme Boulanger had made sure the brasserie people knew who he was, thus the propriétaire himself, one Papa Heininger – all straight-backed dignity and old-fashioned courtesy – greeted Stahl and showed him to ‘our most requested table’. Table 14, according to a heavy silver stand, which may have been their most requested table, but it had a hole in the vast mirror above the banquette. Otherwise, Stahl thought, the brasserie was the perfection of its type: hurrying waiters with old-fashioned whiskers, abundant gold leaf and red plush, and the very air itself, a heady blend of perfume, tobacco smoke, and grilled sausage. At least one room in heaven, Stahl thought, would smell like this.
André Sokoloff arrived a moment later, moving at the fast pace of the man who is perpetually late; a cigarette between his lips, a buckled leather briefcase beneath his arm. He was, Stahl thought, the essential Parisian, the essential Parisian journalist. After they’d shaken hands, Sokoloff sat opposite Stahl and said, ‘You know this place? The famous Brasserie Heininger?’
‘Famous for what?’ Stahl said, suspecting that a joke lay ahead.
‘It’s a restaurant with a story,’ Sokoloff said. ‘See that hole in the mirror? A year ago, in June I think, they had a Bulgarian headwaiter here, called Omaraeff, much too involved in émigré politics, who got himself shot in the ladies’ WC. He was hiding in a stall and pulled his pants down, which, since it was the ladies’ WC, was a mistake. “A fatal mistake”, as we say. Meanwhile, another member of the gang kept the dinner crowd entertained by running a tommy gun around the dining room – remember I said Bulgarian émigré politics, which tend to be dramatic. Well, there went all the mirrors, except for the one behind you, which had only a single bullet hole and was left as Omaraeff’s memorial. Now that wouldn’t matter, in this city, if the choucroute wasn’t top-notch, but it is. You like choucroute garnie, sauerkraut and sausage?’
‘“Like” really isn’t the word. It’s well beyond that.’
‘Good. It always includes a sublime frankfurter and a pork chop. And to drink, I expect Warner Bros. would buy us champagne, but beer is what you want with choucroute.’
‘Dark beer,’ Stahl said. ‘And plenty of it.’
‘I can see we’ll get along just fine,’ Sokoloff said, and half turned to look for a waiter, who rushed over to the table. Sokoloff was about Stahl’s age, good-looking in a craggy way, with a face careworn beyond his years, tousled brown hair, the dark complexion of the Latin French, and a certain set of the mouth: eager to laugh if it got the chance. As the waiter trotted off, Sokoloff said, ‘When the beer comes, we should drink to the estimable Mme Boulanger, she’s one of the good souls in this rats’ nest – I mean Parisian journalism.’
‘With pleasure,’ Stahl said. ‘She’s been a friend. And I begin to think I need to have as many of those as I possibly can.’
‘That’s always true,’ Sokoloff said. ‘Now we could follow one of our unwritten laws – no talk about politics or work during a meal. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll break one more rule today and we’ll do it anyhow. So then, tell me what’s going on.’
‘These people – only Le Matin so far but I get the feeling there’s more coming – are, how to say, after me.’
Sokoloff grinned. ‘After you? Only in your honour am I not sitting facing the door.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Not yet, but give it time.’
‘Well, I’ll let you know if a Bulgarian émigré comes through the door with a tommy gun.’
‘Do that, and we’ll continue our conversation under the table – which might be the best place to talk about the savage Le Matin. But I should start by telling you about Paris-Soir, where I work. We are the most respected – or hated, depends who you talk to – news organization in Paris, we also publish magazines, Marie Claire and Paris Match, and we own the station known as Radio 37. Saint-Exupéry has written for us, so has Cocteau, and Blaise Cendrars. But the most important thing about Paris-Soir is that we don’t take bribes – not in any form. We have a wealthy publisher who is as much of an idealist as any publisher can be. We also occupy the democratic centre; with the communist L’Humanité far to our left, and Le Matin and others well to our right. When Henry Luce said in Time magazine that French newspapers sold their editorial policies to the highest bidder, he was sued for libel by Le Matin, Le Journal, and Le Temps – three newspapers of the right who sold their editorial policies to the highest bidder.’
With a tray balanced on the splayed fingers of one hand, the waiter arrived. Resting the tray on a service rack, he set a platter on the table and said, nearly sang, ‘Choucroute garnie!’ then added a crock of hot mustard and two glasses of dark Alsatian beer.
Stahl raised his glass and said, ‘Salut, Mme Boulanger.’
Sokoloff imitated Stahl’s gesture and said, ‘Mme Boulanger.’ Then he drank and said, ‘Mm. Anyhow, the newspapers here are divided like the country, where cordial animosity has become something much more dangerous. This smouldered away for years, then came the Popular Front of 1936 – socialists, democrats, and communists – with Léon Blum, who is Jewish, as prime minister. The parties of the right were enraged; a fascist gang dragged Blum from his car, beat him badly, almost killed him. And if anyone wondered why, they wrote on the walls MIEUX HITLER QUE BLUM, better Hitler than Blum. Yes, mean-spirited, yes, caustic, but, in the end, far worse. In fact, they meant it.’
‘Meant it? Meant what? That Adolf Hitler should govern France? I’m sorry but I find that hard to believe.’
‘So do I. Or, rather, so did I. What the right has in mind is that Hitler would dominate France – with treaties by preference but with tanks if necessary. Democracy – which to the right is another way of saying “socialism”, if not outright Bolshevism – to be destroyed, and replaced by a Bonapartist authoritarian government which will finish with the labour unions and the intellectuals once and for all.’
Stahl had assembled a forkful of sauerkraut, speared a bite of frankfurter, spread some mustard on it, and raised the fork halfway to his mouth. There it stayed. He raised his head and met Sokoloff’s eyes. ‘That is …’ He hesitated, then said, ‘That’s treason.’
‘Not yet.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Stahl said. ‘Am I just being naive?’
‘You’re a well-meaning European who’s been away from Europe for eight years, during which time political life has changed. What hasn’t changed is the power of money – it was the big banks, the insurance companies, and the heavy industries that brought down the Popular Front. They are secretive about what they do, they crave anonymity. But there is also the magnate, the gros légume – the big vegetable – the warrior of the right. We have more than our share of those, it seems.’
‘And they are?’
‘For example Pierre Taittinger, of the house of champagne, who formed his very own fascist gang, the Jeunesses Patriotes, the young patriots, and introduced the symbolic blue beret as part of his, and their, uniform. For example François Coty, who famously said, “perfume is a woman’s love affair with herself”, and hid crates of weapons in his château at Louveciennes, on the outskirts of Paris, for his fascist gang, Solidarité Française. For example Jean Hennessy of the cognac firm, and the Michelin brothers, the tyre people, thought to be responsible for a terrorist bombing on the rue de Presbourg. These are people who work to bring down the government by force, and replace it with one more to their liking. Some of them have their own newspapers, some support, and arm, their own private militias, but all of them have one thing in common.’
‘Which is?’
‘They are French.’
‘But I’m told there is also German money, a lot of it, buying influence in the French government, and used to support propaganda, political warfare, that is meant to destroy the French will to fight.’
‘What you say is true, and now you have treason.’
Stahl returned to his lunch and his beer, but Sokoloff’s last comment didn’t go away. In the brasserie, the lunchtime symphony rose in volume – the clatter of silverware and china, spirited chatter, laughter, exclamations of ‘Mais oui!’ and ‘C’est terrible!’ Did they know? If they knew, did they care? The French looked away from evil, it drained the pleasure from life. Perhaps, they thought, it will just go away. In his very soul, Stahl wanted them to be right.
Sokoloff, sensing Stahl’s change of mood, looked guilty. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘let’s have another beer. Yes?’
Stahl said, ‘What the hell, why not.’ Then, after a moment, ‘What is it with the Germans? They didn’t used to be like this.’
Sokoloff shrugged. ‘They lost a war and it made them furious, now they want to destroy us. Hitler has, at times, a certain twinkle in his eye, you know? What a sly fox am I – something like that. He means he conquered two nations, Austria and Czechoslovakia, without firing a shot, and France is next. He said in Mein Kampf that France should be isolated, then destroyed. Have you looked at a map lately? We’re surrounded by fascist dictatorships: Italy, Portugal, soon enough Spain, and Germany itself. Switzerland, Belgium, the Netherlands; all neutral. Others, like Hungary, bullied into alliance with the Nazis. We no longer have friends, the world is becoming, for us, a very cold place.’
‘Well, I’m your friend,’ Stahl said, as though that meant anything.
‘I know you are, and you’re an American, which makes you a very welcome friend.’
‘So then, what can I do? What should I do? Nothing?’
Sokoloff thought it over, then, with a rather wistful smile, said, ‘I don’t think I have an answer. I will tell you, as a friend, to be careful. They, and I mean the French and the Germans, will attack their enemies – especially in the press. All they’ve done so far is use you, bad enough, but it can be much worse.’ He paused, then said, ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Roger Salengro?’
‘No.’
‘He was Blum’s Minister of the Interior – that means he directed all the security forces, all counter-espionage. Salengro wasn’t going to stand for their nonsense, so they attacked him. A particularly nasty little magazine, called Gringoire, wrote that Salengro, who fought bravely in the last war until he was captured,
allowed himself to be taken prisoner on purpose, to save his life, an act of cowardice. This was a lie, but Gringoire kept repeating it until, one day, when Salengro went to the ministry, the soldiers guarding the entrance refused to salute him. They had come to believe the lie. Salengro’s heart was broken, and he went home and killed himself.’
‘That’s vile,’ Stahl said.
‘It is. But better for you to know about it.’
Stahl nodded, the story reaching him as he stared out at the crowded room. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should just go back to America.’
‘Give up? Ruin your career? You won’t do that.’
‘No, probably I won’t. I can’t.’
‘You’re not the type. The people in Hollywood cast you as they do for a reason, Monsieur Stahl, they build on what is already there.’
‘Perhaps, some day, I will do an interview with you, Monsieur Sokoloff.’
‘Maybe some day, but not yet. As we used to say in the trenches, keep your head down.’
Stahl placed his knife and fork on the plate, then lit a cigarette.
Trying to ease the gloom he’d felt after talking to Sokoloff, he decided to walk for a while, taking the narrow, sunless streets of the Marais, the ancient Jewish quarter, in the general direction of the hotel. For a long time, nothing had changed here; tenement walls leaned over crooked lanes, the markets had kosher chickens hung on steel hooks, men wearing yarmulkes spoke Yiddish together – but stopped speaking until he’d passed by – and the women, heads covered with shawls or scarves, did not meet his eyes. It was, he thought, as though he were in some shtetl in Poland.
Still, by the time he left the district he was at least hopeful. He felt he could deal with his problems and do in Paris what he’d come here to do. Which wasn’t politics. He had faced down Moppi and his dreadful friends, and, in André Sokoloff, he had a new ally, without doubt a good man in a fight. Slowly, he regained himself – this wasn’t the first trouble in his life and it surely wouldn’t be the last, but he’d dealt with it before and he would now. A taxi cruised slowly by his side, inviting him to ride, Stahl raised a hand, the taxi stopped. And, on the way to the Claridge, just looking out at the streets made him feel better.
