by Alan Furst
“And so?”
“We find a way to threaten him.”
“Physically?”
From Polanyi, a brief but informative silence.
“I would hate to have a client drawn into an act that would compromise him, legally. It’s my job to protect you, from yourself if necessary, Count Polanyi.”
“You’re right, Ferrar, I won’t do anything. Still, a properly conceived threat will prey on the mind. This isn’t theory—at the darker end of the diplomacy business it’s done all the time.”
“Let’s not do that yet, Count …”
They were riding along a lane bordered by Lombardy poplars, which opened to admit an intersecting path and there a woman had dismounted and held her horse by the reins. What had stopped Ferrar in mid-sentence was the woman’s golden hair and, as Ferrar stared, he realized who he was looking at. “Maria Cristina?” he said, bringing his horse to a halt.
“Cristián!” she said. “I thought, what a beautiful day, I shall go to the Bois, and here you are!” Her riding habit was fancy and new, the look on her face anxious.
Ferrar said, “Marquesa Maria Cristina, may I present the Count Janos Polanyi.” Maria Cristina acknowledged the introduction with a gracious nod.
“Enchanté,” Polanyi said, bowing in the saddle.
Ferrar turned to Maria Cristina and said, “Would you care to ride along with us?”
“Oh I wish I could,” she said. “But I am expected for luncheon.” She raised a foot, slipped it into the stirrup and, as Ferrar held his breath, successfully mounted her horse. “A bientôt,” she called out. “I hope to see you soon, Cristián,” and rode off with a flip of the reins. Which the horse understood to mean speed up. Maria Cristina jerked backward, then got her horse under control, turned halfway around and saluted them with her riding crop.
When she was out of sight, Ferrar and Polanyi went trotting off down the bridle path. Polanyi said, “A friend of yours? A … good friend?”
“Yes, she is.”
“And she is a marquesa? A Spanish marquesa?”
“She was married to a Spanish marques, she is of French and Italian descent.”
“For a Spanish marquesa, Ferrar, she doesn’t ride very well. Was she waiting for you?”
“I believe she meant it to seem a coincidence.”
“Did she. Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, she is in serious pursuit of you, my friend. I hope you will invite me to the wedding.”
“Early for that, Count.”
Polanyi cleared his throat, a version of the comic-book harumpf, and said, “Forgive me, Ferrar, if I say damned strange.”
“I don’t mind, you aren’t wrong. I suspect that my being with a friend surprised her.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to disrupt a seduction, but I suppose love will find a way.” After a moment, he said, “Ever done it on a horse?”
“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“A bad idea. The horse bolted and I wound up on the ground with my pants down and damn near broke my pelvis. Of course, Hungarians believe they can do anything on a horse.”
“What happened to the woman?”
“She hung on, went galloping away over the fields, bare bum bouncing in the moonlight.”
The best part of the incident in the Bois de Boulogne was that Polanyi forgot his nephew and went on to tell Ferrar saucy stories about his youth. Thus, reprieve. For the time being, anyhow. But Ferrar was now troubled, what the hell was Maria Cristina doing? She had been so stately, so poised, until the night at the Windsor. And how had she known where, precisely where and when he would be on that Saturday morning? What do I really know about her? he asked himself. He still wanted her, very much wanted her, the evening at the hotel might have been a failure but it had whetted his appetite; he could still see her, almost undressed, and remembered every detail. And he intended to try at least once more. So went the weekend, and Ferrar was glad to return to work on Monday.
Where he put suspicion aside until the late afternoon.
And found himself in the office of the law firm’s notary. Every international law firm in Paris had to have a notary, to sign and apply an official seal on legal documents and, since the notary had to be a French citizen, it also fell to him to do research into French public records. The notary at Coudert was a man in his sixties and, wounded in the Great War, walked with a cane. He had a small office, where the shelves were crowded with dossiers holding the documented history of the law firm’s clients.
“I am interested in the dossier on”—Ferrar consulted his notes—“the Marquesa Maria Cristina de Valois de Bourbon y Braganza.”
The notary found the dossier, untied the ribbon, and opened it up. “What would you like to know, Monsieur Ferrar?”
“Do I have the title right?”
“Yes. Born in Angers, the eight March of 1896, thus forty-two years of age.”
“And married?”
“To a marques with that title, her maiden name Palestrin.”
“Were you able to discover anything about the marques’s financial circumstances?”
“Very little. He did hold title to estates in Spain, but conducted much of his business in cash.”
So the story about the theft of loaned money could well be true. Ferrar thanked the notary and left the office with elevated spirits. There, you see? he chastised himself. Nothing quite like distrust to burden the romantic heart. Now relieved, Ferrar thought hard about what strategy might bring Marquesa Maria Cristina to remove her satin undergarment, and then into … bed? On the couch? On the soft rug before the fireplace? On the sweet grass of a meadow?
Where?
27 MAY, 1938. IT WASN’T EASY FOR FERRAR, TAKING THE LITTLE train up to Louveciennes. He didn’t look forward to what he had to do there, and the spring day was a hard lesson in what would be lost. The region of the Seine, west of Paris, was the ancient preserve of the aristocracy—Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Versailles—and who could blame them, there was no lovelier countryside. And the season made it worse—long allées of plane trees shaded the winding roads, so that the carriages of the nobility did not overheat in the summer sun. Ferrar had brought along the morning newspaper but he never opened it, his eyes following the vista unfolding slowly out the train window.
At the house, the usual excitement; everybody had something they just had to tell him and the patient Ferrar listened with unfeigned interest and, when appropriate, sympathy. Ferrar had a big, warm heart, people were drawn to him, the family no less so. When the welcome calmed down, he took Abuela outside, where they could speak privately; much of the effort to make the news less painful and lead the family to accept the inevitable would fall on her.
A gnarled old tree stood at the border of the property and, long ago, someone had built a circular wooden bench around it. There they settled. “This will not be easy, Abuela, but it must be done,” Ferrar said.
“Is there trouble, dear one? Your mother hoped you were visiting with news of the marquesa.”
“Trouble is coming, Abuela, it may not arrive for a time but, if it does, you will have to leave here.”
“You mean the war, don’t you.”
He had never seen his abuela cry, and he didn’t now; nonetheless, he could see sorrow darken her eyes. “The war, yes,” Ferrar said. “If it comes to France it will come to Paris, and I could not bear to see my family hurt.”
She looked away, took control of herself, then said, “Again.”
“I fear so. While I was in New York for meetings I rented a grand apartment. For the moment, only you need to know about this—we will read the newspapers, and we will decide when it is time to leave. We’d best decide early, Abuela, so I can make arrangements for travel. The trains will be crowded, the roads impassable.”
“And will we never return here? I know you hear complaints, from everyone, about this or that little problem, but we have come to love it here, Cristián.”
“I know, it is the same for me.
I would like to think that the war will be over in a few months, and that France and the other allies will win, and we can return. I will keep this house while you’re in New York.”
“New York. What is it like?”
“It is a city for commerce, lively, with lots of different kinds of people.”
From Abuela, a sigh of acceptance. “I don’t want to leave, with all my heart I don’t, but we won’t survive a war, we are too peaceful for war.”
“For now, dear, not a word.”
She nodded. “I will wait until you tell me the time has come, and then I will do my best to soften the blow.”
They walked together slowly, back to the old house, where midday dinner was in preparation.
As the first week in June arrived, Ferrar worked on legal matters and, also, when he looked up from the dreary papers, on matters of the heart. He looked up often. The decision, when it came, was sensible. Tradition—that would be his ally in the chase: he would call Maria Cristina and propose a weekend at a small, fancy hotel in the country. By the sea. This meant a lovers’ retreat, a shared room, but, if what went on in shared rooms was not what she wanted to do, she could gracefully decline; be busy, or have a cold. At five in the afternoon he telephoned her at the Windsor and, after preliminary chatter, said, “I have a suggestion. I know a very nice little hotel up in Varengeville-sur-Mer, on the Normandy coast. Would you like to go for the weekend?”
“Oh, Cristián, what a good idea!”
“The hotel is called the Auberge Normande, it’s quiet, and looks out on the sea.”
“When shall we go?”
“This Friday evening, if you are free.”
“I am.”
Now he would have to wait, but anticipation was likely good for them both—on his part sharpened by certain plans he did not share with her, which he turned over in his mind, then over again. The only drawback was that he would have to drive, and he did not drive happily. He had taken driving lessons, and he knew he could manage, and she would read the map—still, he worried. Ideally, he would have borrowed de Lyon’s Morgan sports car but he didn’t dare, so settled for the rental of a small Renault as arranged by a travel bureau. Friday evening, having taken its own sweet time, finally did arrive and Ferrar, in corduroys and sport coat for the country, reached the Windsor a half hour early and, to a chorus of horns bleating at his sorry efforts, parked.
Carrying a small valise, she came downstairs, he led her to the car, opened the door, and, once she was seated, was rewarded with a wicked smile. Up on the coast, the Deauville area was so popular with Parisians going away for le week-end that it was known by the smart set as the Twenty-First Arrondissement, but Ferrar was headed well east of there and so had clear roads for the drive north—about ninety miles or, for Ferrar the snail, just under three hours. A warm, intimate time in the front seat; Maria Cristina looked ravishing, her light summer dress eager to be taken off, the Normandy fields at their lush best in June.
She did go on about her friend Benita, not that he minded. He liked hearing about the schoolgirl Benita. “What times we had,” Maria Cristina said as they approached Rouen. “Naughty pranks, you know, Benita could be a real imp when her mood was right. And when she was sad she would climb into bed with me and I would hold her until she felt better.” Innocent as dew, Maria Cristina, as she told her stories.
“I will try to help her,” Ferrar said.
“If you can, Cristián, then she could travel up to Paris and we will all spend an evening together.”
“I promise to do what I can.”
“Oh look, that poor man has a flat tire! Should we stop and help him?”
“I don’t know much about automobiles, I’m afraid.”
“Then forward. I’m sure someone else will stop.”
“And we should reach the hotel in time for dinner.”
They came to a village where their road wandered here and there through the local streets, Maria Cristina looked desperately for signs, Ferrar tried not to hit anything, and eventually they reached the village’s main square for the second time. A local garagiste finally put them right. “Nobody goes that way, you’ll get nothing but lost. Now, here’s what you do.” Directions, complicated directions, followed, but in time they left the village, though not on the road they’d been using. Then, after driving in what they were sure was the wrong direction, their road suddenly reappeared.
“Ah, here it is!” she said. “The D155, where has it been?”
At last, Varengeville and then, at the end of a graveled driveway, L’Auberge Normande; a three-story house, half-timbered, the boards warped by time, the plaster freshly whitewashed. As Ferrar drove up to the door, the sound of breaking waves could be heard above the crunch of tires on gravel, and voile curtains stirred at the open windows. Inside the hotel, a hushed silence and the smell of furniture polish. Ferrar registered at the desk, a young man in an apron took their bags upstairs. Their room was at the top of the house, in fact two rooms, a small parlor and a bedroom, with everywhere the same blue-and-cream fabric—lords and ladies in a pastoral scene.
When they were alone, Maria Cristina embraced him and said, “It’s lovely, just lovely.” Downstairs for dinner, they had an apéritif in a room with plants and wicker chairs. There were, of course, other guests, but they walked quietly and spoke in low voices, if they spoke at all, like courteous ghosts. The dinner was probably good but Ferrar never noticed; soup, trout boned at the table, a salad, and the requisite Norman Camembert. Followed by a walk on the beach in lingering daylight.
Then, back upstairs.
They sat in the parlor, smoked cigarettes, and talked about nothing in particular, idle conversation, no sensitive subjects. When it got to be ten-thirty, she said, “I would love a bath.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of hot water,” he said. And off she went. To return after forty-five minutes wearing emerald-green, silk pajamas. “I thought it might be chilly up here by the ocean. Do you like these?”
“I do like them.”
“Perhaps I should have chosen something more, provocative.”
“You are beautiful. In pajamas or otherwise.”
“Kind of you, monsieur,” she said, making light of the compliment. “May a lady sit on your lap?”
“She is welcome, of course, but perhaps not right away. Why don’t you curl up in bed and I’ll stay here for a while?”
She hesitated, more uncertain than alarmed, said, “Very well,” kissed him on the forehead, and went off to the bedroom. Through the open door he could see her climb into the bed, then turn off the lamp on the nightstand. Lying on her back made her look expectant, so she turned on her side, slipped an arm beneath the pillow, and closed her eyes.
In truth, pausing at the edge was something Ferrar quite liked. He stood, had a last look at the white combers rolling up the beach, then closed the curtains and turned off the light. In darkness, Ferrar returned to his chair and waited. In the bedroom, Maria Cristina opened her eyes, saw that Ferrar remained in his chair, then turned on her other side and drew her knees up. They’d had an abundance of wine with dinner and Ferrar now worried that Maria Cristina might actually fall asleep, so he rose and stripped down to his shorts.
In the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, counted to twenty, then lowered the quilt. Maria Cristina started to roll onto her back but he put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Silk is pretty to look at but it feels even better.”
“To me also.”
“May I rub your back, madame?”
“Well … all right.”
He began to stroke her, using the backs of his fingers, sometimes the nails, sometimes not. A responsive lover, he listened carefully to her breathing, thus she led him to those places where she liked to be touched: her shoulders, her calves, the backs and insides of her thighs, her hips. Now and then he toyed with her, taking her waistband in his fingers, but went no further. In time, he stopped teasing her and, slowly, slid the pants of her pajamas d
own to her ankles, and took them off. And if the silk felt good, bare skin felt even better, and she breathed a soft oh every time she exhaled. When he slipped his hand under the vee of her legs she raised her hips, then lowered them, pressing herself against his upturned palm. This felt very good indeed so she did it again and again, the rhythm gradually becoming faster. With his other hand he encouraged her, until she shuddered and lay still.
With effort, she turned on her back, then reached up and tugged at his shorts, which meant take these off. He did so, unbuttoned her pajama top, then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. A long kiss, first this way, then that way, as he took her nipple in his fingertips, a kiss that ended only when he entered her. He had wanted the lovemaking to go on at length but it didn’t—he was overexcited. And the way her hands felt on his back, urging him on, didn’t help. He lit a cigarette and shared it with her as they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the waves on the beach.
He had known, since the chance meeting in the Bois de Boulogne, that he had to find out what was really going on. “I was wondering …,” he said, but she cut him off.
“Don’t, Cristián, not now.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me explain anything, please don’t. Tomorrow maybe, but for now we are having a lovers’ weekend.”
“All right. It’s just that … all these questions …”
She was silent, shook her head and pressed her lips together.
So, a lovers’ weekend. The sea was too cold for swimming but they waded together, or sloshed through ankle-deep water and held hands on long walks. She was restless at night, tossed and turned, had bad dreams, and mumbled in her sleep. He never asked his question, but then he didn’t need to. He knew. Knew what she was doing but didn’t do very well. They had the grand lunch on Sunday, the classic veal with cream and mushrooms, then drove back to Paris.
