by Alan Furst
“Will you go away in August?”
“We’d all like that, wouldn’t we?” he said to the dogs, who knew when people were talking about them and looked up to see what was going on. “But I’m afraid not—damn this fucking war, it won’t start, yet it won’t go away. Anyhow, spies are busy when there’s a war coming, so I have to be here, talking to people, sending cables, bah. Where will you go?”
“I’ll be right here, our clients are having all sorts of problems, so no August vacation for me.”
“That’s a kind of sin in this part of the world, Parisians don’t believe in much but being out of town in August is sacred. By the way, whatever happened to your lady-on-horseback?”
“I’m not seeing her anymore.”
“The best choice, I think, though she was something to look at.”
“That she was.”
“I wanted to see you because we’ve come to a decision about our legal problem.”
“Which is?”
“To do nothing. And we will let nephew know about it. The holding company will stay as it is, the bank in Budapest is open for business. Stalemate. Of course if the board can’t function, it can’t vote to pay its shareholders, so no money for us, no money for him. He may grow tired of that, in time. It’s the fight he enjoys.”
“You’ll deny him the pleasure of being hated.”
“Why are some people like that? Who knows, I don’t. Anyhow the fascists are taking over in Hungary, he’s one of them, so when the war starts he’ll have to join up. Then we’ll see who likes a fight.”
“And the dogs?”
“They’ll stay with me, and my niece. She was having difficulties in Budapest, political difficulties, so I found her a place in my neighborhood. And what happened next is that we became a family, a family of five. Very domestic, the dogs; meals on time, a last walk at night, they arrange your life.”
Ferrar smiled. “I envy you, Count Polanyi.”
“One of these days we’ll breed the bitch, would you like a puppy?”
“I would, but I’m away too much of the time.”
“Hmm, yes, you’re probably right. Still, let me know if you change your mind.”
On a hot night in late August, Paris was deserted. Ferrar and de Lyon found an outdoor table at the brasserie near the Oficina Técnica. They took off their jackets and hung them on the backs of their chairs, loosened their ties and rolled up their sleeves. When the waiter appeared they ordered Pernod, poured some of the yellow liquid into their glasses, then added water, which turned the drinks a cloudy white. De Lyon was reflective, staring out at the empty street.
“Are you busy?” Ferrar asked.
“We’re closing down the office, any arms-purchasing will now be done by the embassy. And they won’t be doing much.”
“No? The fighting goes on.”
“The Republic is out of money, and the war is lost,” de Lyon said. “So I guess I’m out of a job.”
“Not for long, Max. By September, Hitler will march into Czechoslovakia and Europe will be at war. Someone will want you.”
“Likely they will. Actually I have a chance to buy Le Cygne, and maybe I’ll do that but, whatever happens, I want to stay in Paris and help in the fight, if I can. What about you?”
“My firm will find ways to be active on the anti-fascist side, and I’m too old for combat infantry. When it starts I’ll move my family to New York, France will be in the thick of it and I expect we’ll be bombed. Even so, I will stay in Paris.”
“Another Pernod?”
“Yes, thanks. What about your friends?”
“You mean Stavros, Nestor, and the rest?” He smiled, thinking about them. “Gangsters don’t do badly in war; a lot of money about, black market everywhere, police busy chasing spies. Anyhow, they will survive, I think, it’s really all they’ve ever done and they’re good at it.”
They stayed at the table for some time, drinking Pernod. A cooling breeze sprang up as the long dusk gave way to darkness and they smoked cigarettes and talked until, after midnight, the waiter came to their table and told them that the brasserie was shutting down for the night.
In September, Ferrar had to go to New York for meetings at the Coudert office. On his first night at the Gotham, he tried to read a magazine but he kept looking up, thinking about what he meant to do the following day. He had been brooding about Eileen Moore for weeks, especially so since the end of the affair with the marquesa. Yes, he missed being with Eileen but there was no point in that. Now he wanted to know what had become of her.
Eileen Moore made characters of the people in her life; would tell Ferrar stories about them, and it was as if he knew them. For example, Miss Feingold, Eileen’s boss, who supervised the book reshelving workers at the New York Public Library. Poor Miss Feingold. She had, in late middle age, tender nerves, and was prone to hysteria over small things. Thin as a rail with caved-in shoulders, angry at the world—how could such ferocious energy be packed into that small frame? Taxi drivers, waiters, her workers; all wondered about that, and tried to avoid setting her off.
Late the following morning, Ferrar was at a meeting, and when it came time to take a break, he left the conference room, found a telephone, and called the library. Was Miss Feingold available? They would go and see, please stay on the line. Ten minutes went by, then the phone was picked up and a shrill voice said, “Yes? Who is this?”
“Miss Feingold, my name is Cristián Ferrar, I was a friend of Eileen Moore …”
“Are you the lawyer?”
“I am.”
“Are you the lawyer who helped her with the divorce?”
“I didn’t. I would have been happy to help her but I am in Paris most of the time. I was told she was married and was having a child.”
“Eileen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no child that I know about. She did have a passionate fling and, foolish girl, went and got married, then had a terrible time getting out of it. New York State is difficult about divorce, and she hadn’t the money to go to Reno.”
“How is she doing?”
As Miss Feingold started to answer, a secretary looked into the office where Ferrar was using the phone and said, “Mr. Ferrar, they’re going to need you in the conference room.”
He thanked Miss Feingold, and returned to work.
Ferrar left work at five-thirty. He couldn’t be sure, but from his conversation with Miss Feingold, it sounded as though Eileen Moore was still working at the library. So he took a taxi up to Forty-Second Street, climbed the stairs to the entryway, and sat on the top step. What, he wondered, had she done? Lied about the pregnancy? She might have, not wanting him to know that she was crazy for a new man. Rather like, he thought, his mad passion for the marquesa.
A warm, September evening, the library was busy; a flood of people going up and down the stairs. All kinds of people—teenagers, college students, artists, old men and women, and those strange eccentric types who’d spent years doing research on some subject, likely esoteric, that preoccupied their lives. All sorts they were: people who went to libraries.
He kept his eyes on the crowd. Did she come to work at six? That was his recollection. Six o’clock came and went. And yes, there she was, auburn hair, redhead’s complexion, mind a thousand miles away as she took the stairs in a hurry, late, having to explain to Miss Feingold. But then, she happened to glance up, and stopped dead, mouth open in surprise, staring at Ferrar. They stared at each other for a time, and, as they did, the loveliest look came over her face, a kind of warm light. Not so very different than the look on his face. Really, much the same.
BY ALAN FURST
Night Soldiers
Dark Star
The Polish Officer
The World at Night
Red Gold
Kingdom of Shadows
Blood of Victory Dark Voyage
The Foreign Correspondent
The Spies of Warsaw
Spies of the
Balkans
Mission to Paris
Midnight in Europe
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALAN FURST is widely recognized as the master of the historical spy novel. Now translated into eighteen languages, he is the author of Night Soldiers, Dark Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark Voyage, The Foreign Correspondent, The Spies of Warsaw, Spies of the Balkans, Mission to Paris, and Midnight in Europe. Born in New York, he lived for many years in Paris, and now lives on Long Island.
www.alanfurst.net
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