by Alan Furst
“Marin, may I join you?”
It was a man named Bruc. Casson wasn’t sure exactly what he did, but he worked nights and headed for the Metro wearing green rubber boots.
“Please,” Casson said.
Bruc took the empty chair, Casson filled his glass and offered him a packet of Gauloises Bleues, a luxury in that part of town. Bruc drew a cigarette from the pack with care, holding it in his mouth with thumb and forefinger while Casson struck a match and lit it for him. “Thank you very much, Marin,” he said formally.
The crowd surged around them. Two girls wearing the neighborhood dance-hall uniform-satin shirts, suspenders holding up wool trousers, and tweed workers’ caps-gave Casson a glance over the shoulder.
“My night off,” Bruc said. “I like to be where people are.”
“What’s your work?” Casson asked.
“I’m part of the crew on a pumper truck. Out in the old quarters on the edge of the city. We pump out the cesspools.”
“I thought it all went in the sewers.”
“No. Not out there it doesn’t. Some nights we do apartment houses, some nights the office buildings. They take a lot longer.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, a lot longer.”
Bruc took a sip of wine and a long drag on his Gauloise. A man had jumped up on a table and started to sing, people were clapping to keep time.
“Why does it take longer?” Casson said.
“Well, the cesspools are the same size, but the stuff in the office buildings is harder, really hell to pump out.”
Casson stared. A peculiarity of office life?
The owner worked his way through the crowd, a full chopine in his hand. He poured the last of the old flask into the two glasses. “You’ll take a little more?” he asked Casson.
“Yes,” Casson said. “Certainly we will.”
“Generous of you,” Bruc said.
“Monsieur Bruc,” Casson said. “How is it different?”
“The water, monsieur. In the apartment buildings they are forever cooking and cleaning and washing the laundry.”
Casson wandered out the back door to a courtyard, unbuttoned his fly, and stood over an open drain. Drinking all day, he thought. Well, so what? Above him, a fine starry night; with the city under a blackout the sky had returned. Autumn heaven-les Poissons up there somewhere, his birth sign. Somebody had once tried to show it to him, but all he could see were drifts of stars.
It was late. Up in Passy, his former life went on. Marie-Claire and Bruno, the Arnauds and the Pichards, would be chattering over after-dinner drinks. Good talk, witty and dry-life was irony. No doubt they would be talking about the affreux-dreadful-Germans. Not so affreux, of course, that one refused to get rich off them. Maybe they talked about the war, maybe not. Like any other inconvenience, it would go away when it was ready. In the meantime, x was broke, y was sleeping with z. Then, a glance at a watch, kisses all around, and home they’d go. Home, where they hung their clothes on quilted hangers in closets with mirrored doors. Home, to bed.
Casson fumbled at his fly, getting the buttons done. Jean-Claude, you are drunk. Well, yes, I am, it’s true. But I have a theory about that, if you’d like to hear it. I believe it may result from drinking a lot of wine. As observed by Doctor Vinkelmeister in his paper read before the Academie Nationale. Casson laughed out loud. Doctor Vinkelmeister.
Back in the Diable Vert it got louder and louder. Monsieur Bruc had wandered off somewhere. The man who had jumped on a table to sing a song was now crawling around on hands and knees and barking like a dog. People shouted at him, “Down, Fideaux! Roll over! Shake hands!”
Two men wearing sharp suits came to Casson’s table. Brothers, he thought. They had the same face. Thick shoulders, heavy throats, chins dark only hours after shaving. Casson could smell the hair oil. Pimps. From the south, he thought, the Midi. Come up to Paris to make their fortunes. “Won’t you offer us a drink?” This one was fatter than the other and wore an expensive black shirt.
Of course. With pleasure.
They were sniffing at him. And the drink wasn’t optional. The fat one took the flask and filled both their glasses to the rim. “See?” he said to his brother. “I told you he was a good guy.”
He was glad when they left. The dance-hall girls came back. The dark one with curly hair dropped into the empty chair and said, “What a crowd!”
“Et alors,” her friend said, hands on hips, playfully indignant. “Kind of you to take the chair.”
“Don’t mention it. I could tell you wanted me to have it.”
“Well.” She looked around, then shrugged and settled herself delicately on Casson’s lap. “With your permission, monsieur.”
“More than welcome.”
“There, you see?” she said to her friend. “Some people still know how to be polite.” Then, formally, to Casson: “How are you called, monsieur?”
“Marin,” He said. “Jean Marin.”
“I am-Julie.”
As with all English names taken into French, it sounded exotic, the j soft, the accent rolling to the second syllable: Ju-lee. She caressed the name as she said it, clearly relishing the identity it suggested. Who are you really, he thought. Juliette, at best. More likely: Hortense. From some wretched little village somewhere. Ran off to Paris, leaving Albert the butcher’s son heartbroken.
He could see why. She was one of those lethal girls, with the small face and the big ass, white skin, angelic pout. The hair pinned up under her cap was a strange shade of red, God only knew what had been done to it in various hotel sinks. She wriggled around to get comfortable, then settled in-a warm vee against his thigh- gave him a playful nip on the earlobe and made a brat face. Bit you!
The friend looked grim and shook her head in mock despair-oh that Julie. She rooted around in her purse, found a small mirror, and went to work repairing the kiss curl on her forehead, wetting her index finger on her tongue and poking at the hair until it was plastered against her skin. For no particular reason that Casson could see, this operation was accompanied by a fierce scowl.
Julie hummed to herself, took Casson’s glass and finished his wine. He pulled her against him and gave her a kiss. “Mm,” she said, against his mouth. He could smell her lipstick, waxy and sweet. Big, heavy kisses, she moved her head from side to side, arms tight around his neck. He was fifteen again. She drew back and said “Tiens,” hanging on to her cap so it wouldn’t blow away in the big storm they were brewing up.
Casson laughed, then fished a handful of francs from his shirt pocket. “Another chopine, I think.”
“Let me,” she said, taking the money from his hand. He watched her as she moved through the crowd, richly curved in her thin wool trousers.
The din grew, and grew again-in the Diable Vert it was time to sing. A group in one corner began the Marseillaise, a crowd of men across the room tried the one about the Breton housewife, her underdrawers eaten by a bull. The man who was a dog stuck his head out from beneath a table and bit somebody on the ankle. A tray of glasses smashed, a woman shrieked with laughter, a man shouted at a friend that only he could see.
In the middle of it, Casson brooded. Where, where? He’d seen a tiny storeroom off the corridor that led to the courtyard, that was one possibility. Ju-lee, bent over a plank table, pants around her ankles. Primitive, but not such a bad idea. Or, maybe, actually on the table. No, that was to invite comedy. In his room? Easily the best solution, but La Patronne would be guarding the hotel door. So, was there another way? Yes. Pay. This was double occupancy, not the end of the world. Ah, he thought, the old Casson, the 16th Arrondissement Casson.
What if she asked for money? No, it wasn’t like that. Or, at least, not quite like that. She returned with the wine, sat down again on his lap, and ruffled his hair. At some point she had put on more perfume. Casson refilled their glasses, Julie raised hers in a toast. “Mud in their eyes,” she said in English.
Like a rocket on Bastille Day,
the Friday-night mood. It climbed to the top of the sky, slowed, froze a long instant at the apogee, then burst, a thousand stars floating back to earth. For a time, the crowd in the Diable Vert felt good. Oh, maybe the last few years hadn’t gone so well but it wasn’t really their fault. Now everything was going to be different, they could see it, around the next bend in life. Justice at last, their rightful place, finally some money. Then the moment passed. They remembered who they were and they knew what was going to happen to them-the same things that happened to everybody they’d ever known. So, fuck this life they handed me. A little more wine, anyhow, you couldn’t go too far wrong with that.
Casson felt it coming. Arguments, tears, fights, somebody sick in the middle of it. He pulled the girl against him, clung to her. A moment of surprise, then she put her arms around him and held him tight. Her back was damp beneath the satin shirt. “Maybe it’s time for us to go,” he said.
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
“Just across the square,” he said. “The hotel where I stay.”
Again she nodded.
Cold outside, but the air felt good after the bistro. She took his arm as they walked. Clichy was busy and raucous, the Paris night rolling along toward the dawn. A fat man with a wildly rouged woman came down the street. He tipped his hat to Casson-good evening, mon vieux. Here we are with our girls and what fine fellows we are. Casson gave him a nod and a smile. Then, panic. Did the man actually know him? Old somebody he’d once met at the somethings’ house?
Julie squeezed his arm. “Look at the moon,” she said. Half a white disc just north of the river. From a dance hall on the other side of the square, le swing jazz, a trumpet, a saxophone, a spill of yellow light from the open door, then darkness. Behind them, a man laughed.
“The lovebirds.”
“Coucou.”
Casson turned his head halfway, the two men from the bar, about ten feet behind them.
“Just ignore them,” Julie said.
“Gonzesse.” Cunt.
Half a block. They walked quickly despite themselves. Then a turn into the side street and the Hotel Victoria. The men came up close, the one in the black shirt put a hand on Casson’s elbow. “I think we better have a talk,” he said, voice low and charged.
Casson pulled away. “Leave us alone,” he said.
It was the other one who hit him first, threw Julie out of his way and punched him in the side of the head. Julie screamed, Casson found himself on one knee. Was it even possible he’d been hit that hard? One side of his face had gone dead. Black-Shirt kicked him- meant to kick him in the head but hit his shoulder, spun him halfway around, and he fell on his back. Julie started to scream again but Black-Shirt said, “Shut up or we’ll cut your face,” and she was silent.
Casson tried to stand up, got to his knees but that was the best he could do. He felt hands going through his pockets; Black-Shirt was excited, breathing hard, Casson could smell sweat-something like sweat, but much worse-and hair oil. When the man was done he stood up, then kicked Casson in the ribs. Casson heard himself cry out. He fell forward, tried to roll up to protect himself, saw the two men walking away, back toward place Clichy.
Julie knelt by his side, touched his face, her hand was trembling. She took a tiny handkerchief from her purse and held it against his mouth. There were blood drops on the pavement.
“No police.” He tried to say it but it came out a mumble.
“Your mouth is hurt,” she said.
Somehow he got up. Very shaky, but on his feet. He had to get off the street. She took his arm, helped him walk. In the lobby of the hotel, a night clerk was behind the counter.
“I’m taking him to his room,” Julie said.
The clerk hesitated a moment, then said, “The patronne comes in at eight-just be out before then.”
They started up the stairs. Casson said, “My key.”
“I have it,” she said. “And your papers. They only wanted money.”
He held the little handkerchief against his mouth so he didn’t bleed on his shirt. She took his arm, helped him up each step.
It took a long time to climb to the sixth floor. She got most of his clothes off, he fell onto the bed, faded out. He woke later, she was sitting on the bed in the dark room. He reached out, rested a hand on her knee. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. But she had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You couldn’t help it.” She paused a moment. “Somebody like you..”
They were quiet for a time. “They should be shot,” she said.
“You know them?”
“They are always in that place. You see them next week, they’ll smile at you. Up here, nobody goes to the police, that only makes it worse.”
He turned toward her. His side throbbed, his face was numb. She smoothed his hair back. “Go to sleep,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
He didn’t want to sleep but he couldn’t stop it. For a few seconds he came back awake, felt how warm she was, sitting on the bed. Sometimes jagged and plummeting, sometimes about Citrine. Just before making love, when together they took her clothes off. She had once said that when a woman goes with a man, and for the first time he sees her with nothing on, that it is the best at that moment that it will ever be. Later he tried to turn in his sleep and a sharp pain under his arm woke him up. He reached out, felt nothing, opened his eyes. The first gray light of dawn was in the room and the girl was gone.
An hour later, the knock on the door.
“Police, open up.”
My revolver, he thought. Drawing it from beneath his pillow, firing through the door, pounding down the stairs. In the lobby, the patronne, eyes wide with horror. “No! Please! Have mercy!” Shots ring out in the Hotel Victoria.
“I’m coming,” he called out, struggling to stand up. There was no revolver. When he got the door open he saw it was the same flic from the day before. So, he thought, it had been his photograph after all-he had been betrayed. By the patronne? Somebody else? He didn’t know.
“Is your name Marin? Jean Louis?”
“Yes.”
“You’re wanted for questioning.”
Not arrested, not handcuffed. He thought about making a run for it, but he was too banged up-the flic had to wait for him as he worked at getting dressed.
“Let’s go, eh?”
“I’m trying.”
“Have you been fighting, Marin?”
He touched the swollen side of his face and winced. “I was robbed. They beat me up.”
“Report the crime?”
“No.”
Probably that’s a crime too, he thought. He managed to get into his jacket, looked around the room one last time. Not so bad. Now that he’d never see it again he started to like it.
In the lobby, the patronne glanced up from the register she kept on the counter, then looked down, finding an entry, holding her place with a steel finger. “Monsieur l’agent?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Is this one coming back?”
“Couldn’t say.”
The patronne’s finger, stuck on Room 28, began to tap. Her eyes were shining with fury.
Small-a very small victory, he thought. But likely the only one of the day. Outside, a battered Renault police car. A detective sitting in the passenger seat was reading a dossier as Casson got in the back.
“You’re Marin?”
Casson nodded. Closed his eyes for a moment. He was, more than anything, tired, in every way you could be. Tired of his life, of clumsy deception, of the world he had to live in. Shoot me and get it over with.
The old engine whined, turned over, and finally caught, missing and backfiring on the low-grade gasoline the Germans gave the police. The flic said, “To the prefecture?”
The detective turned, rested his arm on the top of the seat, and looked him over. He was an old man, heavy, with a head of thick, white hair and deep lines carved in his face. He had
a big nose with a dent near the bridge and very pale blue eyes, wore an ancient black suit beneath his overcoat, a loose wool muffler, and a weather-beaten hat with the brim snapped down in front.
“No. The rue Rondelet.”
Casson looked out the window as the car drove off. In May of 1940, recalled to military service, assigned to a Section Cinematographique, he’d seen the streets of eastern Paris through the windshield of a truck. Different than the back of a taxi, he’d thought then. Now, the same streets, from the window of a police car.
Blood will tell. It was a deep Gallic conviction, especially among women over forty. Casson’s father had been a rogue, and his mother had been employed full-time as the wife of a rogue: long-suffering, humiliated by unpaid butchers, terrified of the phone. But, often enough, his father’s shield. Casson pere had more than once been spared by creditors who could not bear to hurt “his poor wife.” Wealth had always been just around the corner; shares in Venezuelan lead mines, a scheme to import herring from Peru, a powder that kept lettuce from spoiling, tonics, treasure maps, mechanical pens. And, late in life, one honorable and very productive venture-a wool brokerage-which he’d been done out of by men he called “licensed thieves who work in paneled offices.”
The rue Rondelet was a little street in a factory district with a small poste de police. Not the kind of place Parisian detectives usually worked. “Go back to the prefecture,” the detective told his driver. “If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be in later.” The flic touched the visor of his cap with two fingers and drove off. Inside the station, a desk sergeant wearing a knitted green sweater under his uniform jacket greeted the detective like an old friend.
Upstairs, a small office used for interrogation-two chairs, a desk scarred with cigarette burns, tall windows opaque with dirt, a floor of narrow boards. The station backed up to a schoolyard, it was recess, and Casson could hear the kids, playing tag and yelling. The detective leaned on his elbows and read the dossier, now and then shaking his head.
“Casson, Casson,” he said at last, with a sigh in his voice. Casson flinched despite himself. The detective seemed not to notice. He turned the pages slowly, sometimes puzzling over the cramped handwriting. Suddenly he looked up and said, “You’re not going to insist on this Marin business, are you?”
