The Foreign Correspondent

by Alan Furst

  “She’ll have her chance to identify him,” Guerin said.

  Weisz knew the next one, as well. Once again, the photograph had been taken with the entry of 62, boulevard de Strasbourg in the frame. It was Zerba, the art historian from Siena. Fair hair, rather handsome, self-assured, not too troubled by the world. Weisz made sure. No, he wasn’t wrong. “This man’s name is Michele Zerba,” Weisz said. “He is a former professor of art history, at the University of Siena, who emigrated to Paris a few years ago. He is a member of the editorial committee of Liberazione.” Weisz pushed the photograph back across the table.

  Guerin was amused. “You should see your face,” he said.

  Weisz lit a cigarette and moved an ashtray toward him—a café ashtray, likely from the nearby Sûreté café.

  “And therefore,” Pompon said, his voice rich with victory, “a spy for the OVRA. How do you call it? A confidente?”

  “That’s the word.”

  “Never would have suspected…” Guerin said, as though he were Weisz.

  “No.”

  “Thus life.” Guerin shrugged. “He’s not the type, you think.”

  “Is there a type?”

  “If it were me, I’d say yes—one gets a feel for it, over time. But, in your experience, I would say no.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  Guerin thought it over. “If all he’s done is report on the committee, not much. The law he’s broken—don’t betray your friends—isn’t on the books. He did no more than try to help the government of his country. Maybe doing it in France isn’t technically legal, but you can’t tie that to the assassination of Madame LaCroix, unless someone talks. And, believe me, this crowd won’t. Probably, at the worst, we’ll send him back to Italy. Back to his friends, and they’ll give him a medal.”

  Pompon said, “Is it Zed, e, r, b, a?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Does Siena have two n’s? I can never remember.”

  “One,” Weisz said.

  There were three more photographs: a heavyset woman with blond braids, wound into “Gretchen plaits” on the sides of her head, and two men, one of them Slavic in appearance, the other older, with a drooping white mustache. Weis had never seen any of them. As Pompon slid the photographs back in their envelope, Weisz said, “What will you do with them?”

  “Watch them,” Guerin said. “Have a look through the office, at night. If we can catch them with documents, if they’re spying on France, they’ll go to prison. But new ones will be sent, in some new fake business, in some other arrondissement. The man who impersonated a Sûreté inspector will go to prison, for a year or two. Eventually.”

  “And Zerba? What do we do about him?”

  “Nothing!” Guerin said. “Don’t say a word. He comes to your meetings, he files his reports. Until we’re done with our investigation. And, Weisz, do me a favor, and please don’t shoot him, all-right?”

  “We won’t shoot him.”

  “Really?” Guerin said. “I would.”

  Later that day, he met Salamone at the gardens of the Palais Royal. It was a warm, cloudy afternoon, rain coming, and they were alone, walking the paths lined by low parterre and floral beds. To Weisz, Salamone looked old and worn-out. The collar of his shirt was too large for his neck, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and, as he walked, he pressed the point of his furled umbrella into the gravel path.

  Weisz told him that he’d been summoned, earlier that day, to the Sûreté. “They had taken photographs,” he said. “Secretly. Of the people connected to the Agence Photo-Mondiale. Some of them here and there in the city, others of people entering or leaving the building.”

  “Any that you could identify?”

  “Yes, one. It was Zerba.”

  Salamone stopped walking and turned to face Weisz, his expression a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “Are you certain of that?”

  “Yes. Sad to say.”

  Salamone ran a hand over his face, Weisz thought he was going to cry. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I knew.”

  Weisz didn’t believe it.

  “I knew but I didn’t know. When we started to meet with Elena, and nobody else, it was because I’d begun to be suspicious, that one of us was working for the OVRA. It happens, to all the émigré groups here.”

  “We can’t do anything,” Weisz said. “That’s what they said—we can’t let on that we know. Maybe they’ll send him back to Italy.”

  They returned to walking, Salamone punching his umbrella into the path. “He should be floating in the Seine.”

  “Are you prepared to do that, Arturo?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “If this ever ends, and the fascists go away, we’ll deal with him then, in Italy. Anyhow, we should celebrate, because this means that Liberazione comes back to life. In a week, a month, the Sûreté will have done their work and these people won’t bother us anymore, not these people.”

  “Others, perhaps.”

  “It’s likely. They won’t give up. But we won’t either, and now our print runs will be larger, and the distribution wider. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it, but this is a victory.”

  “Bought by British money, and subject to their so-called help.”

  Weisz nodded. “Inevitable. We are stateless people, Arturo, and that’s what happens.” For a time, they walked in silence, then Weisz said, “And they’ve asked me to go to Italy, to organize the expansion.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “I did. You can’t go, so it will have to be me, and I’ll need whatever you have—names, addresses.”

  “What I have is a few people in Genoa, people I knew when I lived there, two or three shipping agents—we were in the same business—a telephone number for Matteo, in the printing department of Il Secolo, some contacts in Rome, and Milan, who survived the giellisti arrests a few years ago. But, all in all, not much—you know how it works; friends, and friends of friends.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll just have to do the best I can. And the British have their own resources.”

  “Do you trust them, Carlo?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And yet you’ll do this, this very dangerous thing.”

  “I will.”

  “The confidenti are everywhere, Carlo. Everywhere.”

  “Clearly they are.”

  “In your heart, do you believe you will return?”

  “I’ll try. But, if I don’t, then I don’t.”

  Salamone started to answer, then didn’t. As always, his face showed everything he felt—it was the saddest thing there was, to lose a friend. After a moment, with a sigh in his voice, he said, “So, when do you leave?”

  “They won’t tell me when, or how, but I’ll need your information as soon as possible. At the hotel. Today, if you can manage it.”

  They walked on, as far as the arcade that bordered the garden, then turned onto another path. For a time, they didn’t speak, the silence broken only by the local sparrows and the sound of footsteps on gravel. Salamone seemed lost in his thoughts, but finally, he could only shake his head very slowly and mutter, more to himself and the world than to Weisz, “Ahh, fuck this.”

  “Yes,” Weisz said. “And that will do for an epitaph.”

  They shook hands and said goodby, and Salamone wished him luck, then went off toward the Métro. Weisz watched him until he disappeared beneath the arch that led out to the street. He might not, he thought, see Salamone again. He stayed at the garden for a time, walking on the paths, hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. When a few drops of rain pattered down, he thought here it comes, and stepped into the covered arcade, in front of a milliner’s shop window, dozens of madly eccentric creations climbing the hat trees—peacock feathers and red spangles, satin bows, gold medallions. The clouds rolled and shifted above the garden, but there was no more rain. And he was, as he often was,
surprised at how much he loved this city.

  17 June, 10:40 A.M.

  A final meeting with Mr. Brown, in some bar down a lost alley in the Marais. “The time draws near,” Brown said, “so we’ll need some passport photos—drop ’em off at the Bristol tomorrow.” Then he read off a list of names, numbers, and addresses, which Weisz wrote down on a pad. When he was done, he said, “You’ll commit all this to memory, of course. And destroy your notes.”

  Weisz said he would.

  “Nothing personal goes with you, and if you have clothing that was bought in Italy, wear it. Otherwise, cut the French labels off.”

  Weisz agreed.

  “What matters is that they see you, down there, you will be onstage every minute. Because it will mean a great deal, to the people who have to do the work, and put themselves in harm’s way, that you were brave enough to return. Right under old Mussolini’s nose—all that sort of thing. Any questions?”

  “Have you heard anything more, about my friend in Berlin?”

  This was not the sort of question Brown had in mind, and he showed it. “Don’t worry about that, it’s being taken care of, just concentrate on what you have to do now.”

  “I will.”

  “It’s important, concentration. If you are not aware, every minute, of where you are, and who you’re with, something could go wrong. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  20 June, Hotel Dauphine.

  At dawn, a knock on the door. Weisz called out, “One minute,” and put on a pair of undershorts. When he opened the door, S. Kolb was grinning at him. Kolb tipped his hat and said, “Fine morning. A perfect day to travel.” How the hell did he get up here?

  “Come in,” Weisz said, rubbing his eyes.

  Kolb stood a briefcase on the bed, undid the buckles, and flipped the top open. Then he peered inside and said, “What have we here? A whole new person! Why, who could he be? Here’s his passport, an Italian passport. By the way, one should try to remember one’s name. Quite awkward, at border stations, not to know one’s name. Liable to provoke suspicion, though, I have to say, it’s been survived. Oh, and look here, papers. All sorts, even a”—Kolb held the document away from him, the typical gesture of the farsighted—“a libretto di lavoro, a work permit. And where does our person work? He is an officer of the Istituto per la Ricostruzione Industriale, the IRI. Now, what in God’s name does that do? It interviews bankers, it buys stock, it moves government money into private industry, an agency central to fascist economic planning. But, more important, it employs our newly born gentleman as a lordly bureaucrat, of unknown, ergo frightening, power. Not a policeman in Italia that won’t go pale in the presence of such dizzying status, and our gent will fly through street controls at a speed causing flames to leap from his behind. Now, not only does our boy have papers, they’re all properly stamped, and aged. Folded and refolded. Weisz, I have to tell you I’ve spent time thinking about that job. I mean, they never tell you who does that, folding and refolding, but somebody must. What else? Oh look, money! And lots of it, thousands and thousands of lire, our gentleman is rich, loaded. Anything more in here? Mmm, I guess that does it. No, wait, one more item, I almost missed it. A first-class ticket to Marseilles! For today! At ten-thirty! Now it happens to be a one-way ticket, but don’t let that make you nervous. I mean, our man wouldn’t want a French railway ticket in his pocket—you never know, you reach for your handkerchief and, whoops! So, when you return to Marseilles, you’ll just buy a ticket for Paris, and then, we’ll celebrate a job well done. Any comments? Questions? Curses?”

  “No questions.” Weisz smoothed his hair back and went looking for his glasses. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  From Kolb, a melancholy smile. “Many times. Many, many times.”

  “I appreciate the light touch.”

  Kolb made a certain face: might as well.

  22 June, Porto Vecchio, Genoa.

  The Greek freighter Hydraios, flying the Panamanian flag, docked at the port of Genoa just before midnight. Sailing in ballast from Marseilles, due to take on cargo of flax, wine, and marble, the ship carried one extra crew member. As the crew hurried down the gangplank, laughing and joking, Weisz was in the middle of the crowd, next to the second engineer, who’d retrieved him from the dock in Marseilles. Most of the crew was Greek, but some of them knew a few words of Italian, and one called out to the sleepy passport officer at the doorway of a cargo shed. “Hey! Nunzio! Hai cuccato?” Getting laid?

  Nunzio made a certain gesture, in the area of his crotch, which constituted an affirmative answer. “Tutti avanti!” he sang out, waving them along, stamping each passport without so much as looking at the owner. The second engineer could have been born anywhere, but he spoke merchant seaman’s English, enough to say, “We take care of Nunzio. So we don’t have no trouble in the port.”

  For a time, Weisz just stood there, alone on the wharf, as the crew disappeared up a flight of stone steps. When they’d gone, it was very quiet, only a buzzing dock light, a cloud of moths fluttering in its metal hood, and the lapping of the sea against the quay. The night air was warm, a familiar warmth, soft on the skin, and fragrant with the scents of decay—damp stone and drains, mud flats at low tide.

  Weisz had never been here before, but he was home.

  He’d thought himself alone, except for a few wandering cats, but, he saw now, he wasn’t. There was a Fiat parked in front of a shuttered storefront, and a young woman in the passenger seat was watching him. When he met her eyes, she gave him a nod of recognition. Then the car drove off, slowly, bumping over the cobbled quay. A moment later, the church bells began to ring, some near, some far away. It was midnight, and Weisz set off to find the via Corvino.

  The vicoli, the Genoese called the quarter behind the wharf, “the alleys.” All of them ancient—the merchant adventurers had been sailing out of here since the thirteenth century—narrow, and steep. They climbed up the hill, became lanes, bordered by high walls hung with ivy, turned into bridges, then to streets made of steps, with, now and then, a small statue of a saint in a hollow niche, so the lost could pray for guidance. And Carlo Weisz was good and lost. At one point, thoroughly discouraged, he simply sat down on a doorstep and lit a Nazionale—thanks to Kolb, who’d tossed a few packets of the Italian cigarettes into his valise as he was packing. Leaning back against the door, he looked up: below a starless heaven, an apartment building leaned out over the street, windows open on a June night, and, from one of them, came a steady rhythm of long, mournful snores. When he finished the cigarette and rose to his feet, he slung his jacket over his shoulder and returned to the search. He would keep at it until dawn, he decided, then he would give up and go back to France, a footnote in the history of espionage.

  Trudging up an alley, sweating in the warm night air, he heard approaching footsteps as someone rounded a corner ahead of him. Two policemen. There was nowhere to hide, so he told himself to remember that his name was now Carlo Marino, while his fingers involuntarily made sure of the passport in his back pocket.

  “Good evening,” one of them said. “You lost?”

  Weisz admitted he was.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The via Corvino.”

  “Ah, that’s difficult. But go back down this alley, then turn left, uphill, cross the bridge, then left again. Follow the curve, don’t give up, you will be on Corvino, you must look for the sign, raised letters carved into the stone on the corner of the building.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Prego.”

  Just then, as the policeman started to go, something flickered in his attention—Weisz saw it in his eyes. Who are you? He hesitated, then touched the bill of his cap, the courtesy salute, and, followed by his partner, walked off down the alley.

  Following his directions—much better than the ones he’d memorized, or thought he had—Weisz found the street, and the apartment house. And the big key was, as promised, on a ledge above the entry. Then he
climbed, his footsteps echoing in the darkness, three flights of marble stairs, and, above the third door on the right, found the key to the apartment. He got it to work, entered, and waited. Deep silence. He flicked his cigarette lighter, saw a lamp on the table in the foyer, and turned it on. The lamp had an old-fashioned shade, satin, with long tassels, and so it was everywhere in the apartment—bulbous furniture covered in faded velvet, cream-colored draperies yellowed with age, painted-over cracks in the walls. Who lived here? Who had lived here? Brown had described the apartment as “empty,” but it was more than that. There was, in the dead air of the place, an uncomfortable stillness, an absence. In a tall bookcase, three spaces. So, they’d taken these books with them. And pale squares, on the walls, had once been home to paintings. Sold? These people, were they fuorusciti—the ones who’d fled? To France? Brazil? America? Or to prison? Or the graveyard?

  Now he was thirsty. On a wall in the kitchen, an ancient telephone. He lifted the receiver but heard only silence. He took a cup from a cabinet crammed with the good china and turned on the water tap. Nothing. He waited then went to turn it off, but heard a distant hiss, then a rattle, and then, a few seconds later, a thin stream of rusty water splashed into the sink. He filled the cup, let a few particles float to the bottom, and took a sip. The water tasted like metal, but he drank it anyhow. Carrying the cup, he went to the back of the apartment, to the largest bedroom, where a chenille spread had been carefully pulled over a feather mattress. He took off his clothes, crawled under the spread, and, exhausted by tension, by journey, by return from exile, fell dead asleep.

  In the morning, he went out to find a telephone. The sun worked its way into the alleys, caged canaries were set on windowsills, radios played, and in the small piazzas, people were as he remembered them—the shadow that lay over Berlin had not fallen here. Not yet. There were, perhaps, a few more posters plastered on the walls, mocking the French and the British. On one of them, a bloated John Bull and a haughty Marianne rode together in a chariot, with wheels that crushed the poor people of Italy. And when he paused to look in the window of a bookstore, he found himself staring at the disconcerting fascist calendar, revised by Mussolini to begin with his ascension to power in 1922, so giving the date as 23 Giugno, Anno XVII. But then, the bookstore owner had chosen to display this nonsense in the window, next to Mussolini’s autobiography, and that said something, to Weisz, about the persistence of the national character. He recalled Mr. Lane, the night of the meeting in Passy, amused and perplexed, in his upper-class way, by the idea that there could be fascism in Italy.