Paris Spring

by James Naughtie

  There were two students at Nanterre whom she had befriended with patience and who expected a call around three in the afternoon each day. For a month they’d been in the boiler room of the movement, and had found a taste for politics. Maria was encouraging them, and living their adventure. One had already visited the apartment.

  Usually when she rang they were at their post in the lobby of the student building to answer the phone, pressed together in a glass box against the wall, and if not she would call back at five. They had slipped into a routine without thinking. She took in all their news. The protests over visiting rights for women in men’s dormitories were already memories, comic in retrospect. They were now speaking of an assault on an entire system, its apparatchiks, their gates and locked doors, dreaming of an end to all the fusty rules. The regime. Day by day she listened to them, heard names that she noted down, cross-referencing as she went, and compared their stories – one was high on an anarchist’s adrenalin, the other a mournful innocent who’d only got involved because he wanted to sleep with his girlfriend – and asked them each day what they expected to happen next. Her wire service had been taking a student story regularly since the Nanterre eruption, and she’d write a few paragraphs later raising the prospect of a widening protest. That would come from her office. For now, in this secret place, there were other calls. It was a rule that she didn’t ring Washington from the apartment some distance away where her colleagues knew she lived. From there, she only called her wire service office in New York. Rue de Nevers was for other business.

  She made her arrangements. A writer from London who’d spent the previous six months in East Berlin and Warsaw, and had dipped into Prague in early March, had let her know he was on his way to Paris and she wanted to see him. Edward Abbott’s suppressed romanticism appealed to her, because she enjoyed watching it burst through, and on the long evenings they’d spent together he’d discovered that she was a natural listener like him. As a result, he had penetrated the defences she’d maintained through the years, and understood a good deal of her. How much, she couldn’t be sure.

  She left a message in the shabby hotel in Oberkampf that she knew Edward would use when he arrived, and rang her own office to say she’d be back within the hour. All quiet, they told her.

  Then, using the international operator, she called a friend in Washington. It took a few minutes for the line to come up and the operator to call back, but when the phone rang they plunged straight into gossip about the news, neither using the other’s name. And when Maria turned to the reason for the call she kept her tone steady, giving no indication that the mood had changed.

  ‘You asked about Quincy. She’s arrived.’

  ‘Good.’ His voice was distorted on the line.

  The call ended quickly, and Maria prepared to leave the apartment.

  First, after a few moments’ thought, she rang the Hotel Meurice.

  ‘Miss Quincy, please. An American guest.’

  There was no reply from the room, and Maria left no message.

  Wrapping a raincoat around herself, she locked the apartment and the blue door leading to the street, waiting for the old mechanism to crash into place. Rain was falling steadily now and the old woman had gone from the door to the neighbouring building. There was no one else to be seen in rue de Nevers, which was darkening fast. Water was starting to drip from the old street lanterns bolted higgledy-piggledy high up on the walls as Maria reached the archway that led to the riverside and which gave the little street its air of privacy. She crossed the quai to the Pont Neuf and in ten minutes she was in her office.

  It was a bureau of only three reporters, with reinforcements promised if the temperature rose in May. One of them was working, sitting at a teleprinter keyboard in a glass kiosk in the corner; the other was on NATO business in Brussels, where he spent much of his time. Maria checked the trails of paper from the wire service machines near her own wooden desk, unravelling the rolls that had accumulated on the floor, and found the latest edict from the university authorities. The gates might be closed to students within a few days. In a few minutes, she’d written four hundred words, which she took into the back room from where Jacques, who managed the bureau, would send them to New York. He thought a few paragraphs might survive. Then she was gone.

  Walking along rue de Rivoli, she found a stationery shop and spent a few minutes selecting a box of writing paper, taking care with colour and style. She asked if she might use a table near the counter to write a letter, and borrowed a heavy pen from the proprietor, a Frenchwoman of grand bearing with the air of someone in easy charge of her world, sweet-smelling and impenetrable. She arranged the table for Maria and bowed. ‘Madame.’

  Taking her time, Maria wrote a short note. She hesitated at the first few words, then found it flowing. Sealing the envelope, she smiled warmly as she handed back the pen and expressed her thanks as she opened the door, the bell jangling above as she closed it behind her.

  A few yards away, she entered the lobby of the Hotel Meurice and found the concierge, stiff-backed and solemnly turned out, but with dancing eyes that missed nothing.

  Maria spoke in English.

  ‘A letter for Miss Quincy. I’d like her to have it immediately. Thank you.’

  ‘Madame.’ He bowed and took the letter. Before she had gone, a boy had been handed the letter and was marching to the lift.

  Maria lowered her head as she pushed through the revolving door and felt the rain. Her apartment was only a few minutes away. Feeling happier than she had all day, she plunged into the dank afternoon.

  FOUR

  When Flemyng arrived in Freddy Craven’s office, the stage was set for him. The old man was in his chair, with his back to the wide window and that day’s Le Figaro across his knees, the morning light bestowing a faint halo, and Bolder had arranged himself beside a small square table at the other side of the room, a yellow pad beside him with a green fountain pen laid alongside. Sandy Bolder, loyal and plausible deputy, with a manner that he never allowed to slip. Flemyng knew how much grind and effort had gone into his rise, especially in landing the prize of a Paris posting that might let him accompany Craven to his resting place, and knew too that Bolder had a reputation on the street for worming into closed corners and then out again. A dancer. They shared fragments of their exploits in their daily dealings, and knew the outlines of their individual histories, but Bolder had carried to Paris the confidence of one who treasured a special line to London that would see him through. ‘We all need a little something of our own, don’t we?’ he’d said to Flemyng more than once since the start of the year. ‘It’s our pride.’

  He was short and trim, and always dressed by the rule. His shirts were white and his two office suits dark, one of them striped. At the weekends he was in brown. The only hint of rebellion was in a shock of auburn hair that he allowed to blossom so that it seemed to redden more, as if he were allowing his garden to flirt with the wild. It made his head seem too big for his spare body, but he had graceful feet and they gave him a physical ease and spring. Shabbiness was increasingly the norm in the embassy, he often said, and he tried to stay ahead. No one doubted that determination. He had, however, a lazy lower lip that dropped whenever he spoke, so that he gave the impression of operating at a tilt. He and Flemyng had exchanged quiet confidences often enough to know that they were bound by a few secrets that would keep them yanked together, wherever they might wander. When Flemyng’s irritation spilled over, Craven would say that there was a Bolder in everyone’s life – a companion who wasn’t always wanted, not vindictive by nature but always drawn to other people’s troubles like a moth to the flame. Therefore, usually unhelpful.

  Sandy had more than a decade on Flemyng, and his rank gave him unquestioned seniority and privileges of access, but everyone around the embassy knew a strange truth – that he behaved in Flemyng’s presence as if he were the younger of the two. Craven had long ago put that down as his most obvious weakness, a quest for reassur
ance that for Bolder would never end.

  Flemyng put a hand on Craven’s shoulder before sitting down, but the first words were Bolder’s.

  ‘A game, do we think?’

  ‘Can’t be sure,’ said Flemyng, settling himself. ‘I’ve just come from him, but I still don’t know.’

  Craven waved an arm. That argument could wait. ‘I want to hear it all, Will. Start on the metro.’

  Bolder was patting the yellow pad with his pen. Perky.

  Flemyng began. The atmosphere in the carriage, the signal to sit tight as far as Pigalle, the simple and apparently safe choreography in the café, then the promise of another meeting. The name – first or last he couldn’t tell – and the physical appearance of Kristof. He spent a few minutes on the thoughts he’d had before exchanging any words with the German, taking Craven and Bolder through his preparations: say nothing except that you’ll listen, assume there is a watcher in the café, mention no names. By the book. He took the pencil sketch from the inside pocket of his jacket and unfolded it.

  ‘There he is, Freddy. A reasonable likeness, I hope.’

  Craven looked down at it, then smiled. ‘They always said you had your mother’s talent, buried in there.’

  Bolder threw a questioning frown at the old man, and rose to come across the room and see the sketch. ‘New boy to me,’ he said, ‘but of course that may not mean very much.’ He advanced to the window and stretched out his arms, legs apart. He seemed to be limbering up.

  ‘The conversation,’ Craven said.

  Flemyng spoke for two or three minutes only. He expressed mystification. Kristof had appeared to want to make the contact and open a door. No more. ‘I was surprised. But isn’t that how it often begins?’

  Craven was pressing, already. ‘Come on, boy. What was the hook?’

  Flemyng was a picture of calm. ‘There wasn’t one, Freddy.’

  The atmosphere didn’t change, despite Flemyng’s declaration. He stroked the cleft on his right cheek with a finger, a habit they all recognized, and then with his other hand he rubbed a shoulder as if it was threatening to slip out of joint. His dark eyes were still, and they betrayed no sign of unease.

  Craven said, ‘There must have been. It hardly matters if it’s their operation, which we’ve got to assume it is, or a gamble on his part to make contact, which I doubt. It would be suicide. Either way, he couldn’t leave without enticing you. I know you, Will. You acknowledge gifts. What did he throw you?’

  ‘A morsel?’ Flemyng said.

  ‘Something to chew on.’

  ‘And digest,’ said Bolder, who had moved to a chair next to Craven and turned his face from the window back to his writing pad. Flemyng’s expression didn’t change as the old man spoke. ‘Look, Will, this Kristof – let’s get to know that name – didn’t put on this performance for fun, did he? Wandering the streets with you. Maybe he wasn’t very good… but a clue, surely?’

  He was speaking gently, a determined persuader who didn’t want to appear too demanding.

  Taking the offer of an opening, and showing no sign of relief, Flemyng said that they might be underestimating Kristof. ‘I think he is good, although my experience doesn’t match yours, Sandy.’ Bolder nodded at the compliment. ‘He didn’t miss a step, and there was none of the crudeness we usually see. He was smooth in his way, and his English is top drawer.’

  ‘All that, and he gave you nothing?’ said Craven, pulling at his neck.

  ‘Only the promise of another contact,’ Flemyng replied.

  Craven wouldn’t let go. ‘Why didn’t that surprise you?’

  ‘I’ve been trained not to be, I suppose.’

  Bolder had moved his chair to be at a right angle to Craven, and now had his legs crossed and his hands behind his head. He was slim and symmetrical, so that his thatch of hair seemed to be the only part of him allowed to be free. ‘Speaking for myself, I’m astonished all the time. I’m never unsurprised. Well, hardly ever.’

  My secrets are better than yours, he might as well have said.

  ‘I did hear something along the chancery corridor,’ Bolder said. ‘From Pierce Bridger himself.’ He paused, and Craven’s gaze switched quickly to Flemyng. Aware he was being watched, Flemyng overreacted and gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘Pierce. What does he know?’

  Bolder said, ‘Well, he knows how to pick up whispers on the circuit, the parties and so forth. Who’s up, who’s down, the comings and goings. Without our special contacts, of course. But still he hears things.’

  ‘Out with it, Sandy,’ said Craven. ‘Don’t tread water.’ He was still watching Flemyng.

  ‘Well,’ said Bolder, ‘he asked me if we’d noticed an influx from the east of late. Worker bees for the Russian hive. Word is the trains coming this way are crowded. So it fits, you see.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Craven. ‘Bridger might be fishing for gossip, that’s all.’

  But Bolder had made his point, and it had changed the atmosphere. Craven’s own voice had hardened a little. ‘Come on. This is odd, Will. Bloody odd. Not a hint whether your man was buying or selling?’

  Flemyng had recovered, and smiled. Disarming their anxieties, he wondered aloud if he should apologize for having failed to pick up a signal, or maybe for casting a dud fly. Could they help him explain it? Freddy, after all, had been his first guide in Berlin and Vienna where he’d learned the alluring mechanics of his trade, and he’d always understood that promising encounters came in different shapes and sizes. He’d been taught never to rush, in the manner of those in whose footsteps he followed. ‘That’s all I can say,’ he said. ‘I thought it best that he should set the pace, at least for now. That was the way of it.’

  He was back in the groove.

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Craven, ‘but he’s going about things in a strange way. Be prepared. If he’s not offering himself to us, then there is only one way to look at this. A threat.’

  Bolder was running his hands through his hair and shaking the thatch. ‘We may be talking about nasty stuff here. Pressure, with Mother Russia winding the wheel.’ A pause. ‘Blackmail? You never know.’

  Craven was agitated enough to get up, and he stepped forward to put an arm on Flemyng’s shoulder. Their eyes met. ‘You’re white as the driven snow, my boy, so I know we’ve got no worries of that kind. But watch your step. No new contacts in the next few days. Keep a watch for anything peculiar.’

  ‘Especially if it’s wearing a short skirt,’ said Bolder, and clapped his hands together.

  Craven waved it away. ‘Will has taste in that direction, Sandy,’ he said. ‘Taste’, putting him down. He took his seat again.

  Then he added, ‘Sorry’, because Flemyng’s recent romance – Freddy’s own word – had been the talk of the embassy, even among those who weren’t envious. Especially when it collapsed. Flemyng had spent four months in the arms of an English pianist who’d settled in Paris to be near her famous teacher, and thanks to her he had waltzed elegantly into the city’s artistic life. He’d been persuaded into languid weekends in her apartment in the 16th where they lost whole days together. Isabel teased him for the embassy routines that confined him, but she laughed, too, at the way the musicians of the city were conformists of their own kind, seemingly drawn to each other by magnetic forces they didn’t understand, hanging together to remind themselves they weren’t alone. A conductor and his harem of visitors lived across the street, there was a diva on the top floor around the corner, looking down from her tiny balcony at the diners swinging into Madame Prunier’s in the early evening, and another singer across the street who was watching her in turn to measure her decline. A man through the wall from Isabel’s own kitchen practised the bassoon at all hours. She understood that although the intensity of her life often invited panic, companions in the tumult offered the hope of safety.

  They clung to each other’s notes.

  In that apartment, where long tapestries softened the sound in the sitting room and
the paintings offered paths of escape for him at the end of long days and nights, Flemyng would read while she played Liszt and Ravel and most of all Scriabin, the Russian whose feeling for mysticism and release she wanted to discover for herself but feared she couldn’t. And then he would read aloud, while she curled up for him.

  They were days of intensity from the start, Flemyng having experienced a coup de foudre at the creaky, moth-eaten Théâtre du Châtelet of all places, where he’d gone with an embassy party to see the traditional pre-Christmas Offenbach. Cheery nonsense, said Bolder as he handed out the invitations – La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, otherwise known as a Frogs’ Panto, he said – and Flemyng, after a harmless evening of laughter, found her at the party that followed in the ambassador’s residence, where the back room of the cellars was raided as a seasonal treat. He didn’t leave her side all night, and with a perfect understanding of what had occurred, Bolder bestowed an honorary dukedom on him, and the title of duchesse on her, at their station meeting on the third floor the next morning.

  Flemyng didn’t care.

  Isabel had captured him, and for many weeks he was by her side. She set the pattern and he followed happily. Even when she spent nights at his apartment across the Seine, usually twice in a week, Flemyng lost the natural authority that marked him out in the office, and became second in command when he left the embassy. They laughed a good deal, ate well at Allard and nonchalantly in the crowd at Les Deux Magots on the Left Bank, deliberately avoiding the formal embassy circuit and almost never arguing. Sometimes in the early hours they’d decamp to La Poule au Pot in the shadow of the market pavilions of Les Halles, and Isabel would breathe deep in the rough, rich odour of the glistening soups and hearty wines that were succour for the men from the stalls, butchers and cheesemongers who crowded round in the hours before dawn at the dark start of their day. She loved noise as well as peace.