by Alan Furst
“Where’s home, then?”
“I’m Parisian by birth, Polish by heritage.”
“An emigre family.”
“Yes, I grew up speaking Polish at home, French everywhere else.”
“What do you do for the League?”
“Report on legal claims, mostly, a form of arbitration. When the League redrew the Silesian border in 1921, after the third uprising, tens of thousands of Poles and Germans were in a new country, and private citizens continued to submit claims to the League, seeking satisfaction they couldn’t get from local courts. It’s the same up in Danzig, declared by the League a Free City, but what you have is a German population governed by Poles. All this led to local disputes-land ownership, unfair administration, tax problems. We don’t have legal standing, but we try to arbitrate, and sometimes the local courts are responsive. Anyhow it’s a last resort, for Poles and Germans, even though Germany left the League when Hitler came to power. The League is, if nothing else, persistent: war doesn’t work, try the courts.”
“Try anything,” Mercier said.
That caught her attention, and she looked at him. “Not the usual sentiment,” she said, “from someone in uniform.”
“You’d be surprised,” Mercier said. “Once you’ve been in the middle of it …”
She turned away and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the arm of the backseat. “Well, now you’ll be in it again. Spain is just the beginning, it’ll spread from there.”
“Inevitable, you believe?”
“From the people I talk to, yes. Eaten up with grievance, especially the Germans. Getting even is what they think about.”
“You have a difficult job, Madame Szarbek.”
“Anna, please. And it’s mademoiselle, for a while anyhow. Is your job easier than mine?”
“No, not really.”
At the Europejski, they were led up a marble stairway to a private dining room, all wood-paneled walls and polished floor. Beneath crystal chandeliers, a long table was set for thirty; the sheen of the damask tablecloth, the heavy silver, and the gold-rimmed china glowed in the light of a dozen candelabra. They were greeted at the door by an officer of the Polish General Staff and his splendidly bejeweled wife. “We are so very pleased you could join us,” she said, her smile gracious and warm. The room hummed with conversation; officers in uniform, most of the other men in evening wear, most of the women in formal gowns. Anna, perhaps momentarily taken aback by all the glitter, took Mercier’s arm. He was instantly aware of the touch of her hand, resting lightly on his sleeve.
From some distant century, an ancient waiter in a swallowtail coat moved toward them, parchment face lit by a beatific smile, parchment hands holding a silver tray, which trembled slightly, bearing two glasses of champagne. Drinks in hand, they watched him shuffle back toward the kitchen. Anna started to say something, but another officer wife descended on them, leading a small fellow in a dark suit, one of the men from Renault. After the introductions, she swept away, in search of other strays.
“So, Monsieur Blanc,” Mercier said, “a worthwhile visit, so far?”
“Yes, I would say it is; we are making our case. The R-Thirty-five tank is a magnificent machine.”
“And what do you do for the Renault company?”
“I am one of the senior engineers-I concern myself mostly with treads.”
From Anna, an appreciative, encouraging nod. Treads!
“Yes, that’s me. And you, colonel?”
“I’m the military attache, at the embassy.”
“Ah, then you must support us-these Poles can be stubborn. Don’t you think, Madame Mercier?”
“Oh yes, indeed, terribly stubborn.”
“Tell me, Major Kulski,” Anna said, “do you favor the Renault machine?”
“Mmm, well …”
“Oh, perhaps you are unpersuaded.”
“Mm. And how do you come to be here tonight, Pana Szarbek?”
“I’m accompanying Colonel Mercier. He’s over there, by the pillar.”
“Then you must live in the city.”
“Yes, I do, major.”
“I wondered. You see, when I’m done with the army for the day, I’m something of an artist; that’s my real passion in life. So, allow me to say that you would make a superb model, for a life drawing. Truly, superb.”
Mercier shook hands with Colonel Vyborg and said, “How goes the visit?”
“Not too badly. This afternoon I had a talk with Habich’s assistant-you know Habich?”
“I’ve met him.”
“The best armaments designer in Europe. Anyhow, his assistant believes that if we buy this worm of an R-Thirty-five, the engineers can do something to improve it.”
“That’s encouraging. Are they thinking about numbers?”
“No, not yet. We need to get our hands on one of them and Habich’s people will tear it to pieces, then we’ll see what can be done, and then we’ll talk about numbers.”
“So, you’re with the League of Nations.” The woman was in her seventies, Anna thought; her husband, with grand white cavalry mustaches, at least in his eighties. “Such a hopeful notion, my dear, really. A league, of nations! How far we’ve come, in this dreadful world. My husband here, the general, was the late-life son of a colonel in the Hussars. In 1852, that was. A great hero, my husband’s father, he fought in the Battle of Leipzig and was decorated for bravery-we still have the medal.”
“At Leipzig, really.”
“That’s right, my dear, with Napoleon.”
“At last,” Mercier said, appearing at Anna’s side. “It’s time for dinner. Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I had a little caviar.”
“You seem to have found people to talk to, I kept an eye on you.”
“All sorts of people. I met a major who asked me to pose for a life drawing.”
“The hound. And will you?”
“Oh certainly, wouldn’t miss it. I think I’ll need a feather boa. Or maybe not.”
From the table, a woman called out, “Colonel Mercier? You’re over here.”
“Thank you.” Mercier drew back a gilded chair and Anna seated herself, brushing her dress forward as she sat. “Here’s the menu,” he said.
Anna hunted around in her evening bag and came up with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “At last, I can see.”
The grand menu-both hands required-was printed in spidery italic, with gold cord and tassel down the middle, and simply named the courses to be served. As he watched her reading, it occurred to Mercier that Anna’s long, searching glances were precisely that-not personality, myopia. “There’s sole meuniere,” he said. “I’ve had that here, and it’s good. Then a roast. Abundant, the roast.”
“Abundant is the word,” she said. “Six courses.”
“That’s the Europejski. And you should at least taste the wines, the cellar is famous.”
From Anna, a wry smile. Champagne, three wines-imagine.
“Yes,” Mercier said, falling in with her mood, “all of it rich and elaborate. And be sure to leave room for the tangerine flan.”
On Mercier’s right, the placement card said Madame de Michaux: a formidable woman, with low-cut neckline and a circle of rubies at her heavy throat. Evidently, she’d also read his card. “Mercier de Boutillon,” she mused. “And your home, where is that?”
“Down in the Drome, about an hour from Montelimar.”
“I believe there’s an Albertine, Mercier de Boutillon, in Paris. Is that the same family?”
“My cousin. A friend of yours?”
“Well, we’ve met. My husband is on the Renault board of directors, also the opera. I believe that’s how I know her. A very engaging woman, a collector of certain antiquities-is that so?”
“It is. Objets, in onyx. Mostly cameos, I believe.”
“You must tell her we sat together, at a dinner in Warsaw. Amusing, no?”
“Certainly I will, the next time I’m in Paris.”
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br /> “Do you come often, colonel?”
After the duck pate, the consomme, and the sole, as plates were brought with great red slices of roasted beef, the rules of the formal dinner dictated a turn to the other partner. For Mercier, a welcome turn, Anna Szarbek seemed easy and comfortable after the determined Madame de Michaux-one of those upper-class women who, polite as could be, worked like a beaver at discovering one’s personal life. Anna reported that the man on her left, Julien Travas, the manager of the Pathe newsreel agency in Warsaw, had been extremely entertaining. Something of an adventurer, he’d traveled, as a young man, from Shanghai to Siam by foot and oxcart, and told a good story.
Mercier and Anna worked their way through the roast, then the macedoine of vegetables, left the quivering tangerine flan on their plates, drank the coffee, and tasted the cognac. Then it was time for the nightclub. The Adria was not far from the Europejski, but one had to arrive in one’s automobile. As they drove away from the hotel, Anna said, “Is this something you do often?”
“Now and then, it’s part of the job.”
“Good lord.”
“Sip the wine, taste the food, find everyone fascinating-a good motto for diplomacy.”
She shook her head. “I guess that’s one way to save the world.”
“Yes, one way,” he said. “After the fish.”
There were tables reserved for them at the Adria, and more place cards, which led to a lighthearted interval of confusion and commentary in the dark, smoky nightclub. Mercier found that Colonel Vyborg had had them seated at his own table, with the director of Renault’s armaments division and a major in the purchasing section of the Polish General Staff, an owlish, balding fellow, and their wives.
After they were settled, Vyborg ordered champagne, three bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and, as the waiter opened the first, a blue spotlight pierced the darkness to reveal, on the small platform that served as a stage, Marko the Magician-so said a card on an easel-in top hat and tails, his face stark white with makeup. And his assistant, a girl in a very brief spangled costume, who opened her mouth, from which Marko began to extract, with immaculate white gloves, a series of red balls. Another, then another, each one producing horrified glances at the audience as she discovered yet one more red ball inside her. The major’s wife, on Mercier’s left, began to giggle, and Mercier guessed she’d more than sampled the dinner wines. The wife of the Renault director whispered, “Next time, darling, don’t eat so many balls.”
“How was your dinner?” Vyborg asked Anna.
“Very good.”
“And the wine?”
“That too, very good.”
Leaning across his wife, the Renault director said to the major, “What did you think of our presentation, in Paris? You were with the purchasing delegation, as I recall.”
“Yes, I was,” said the major. “A strong field trial, I thought. Of course, the ground was dry.”
“Yes, one’s always at the mercy of the weather.”
“As are we,” the major said. “Our infamous roads, you know.”
“It’s very difficult for us,” the major’s wife said. “In this country, we stay home in the bad seasons.”
“That’s changing, is it not?” the director said.
“True,” Vyborg said. “We’re paving some of the roads, but it’s a long process.”
“Better roads in Germany,” the director said, a tease in his voice.
“So I’m told,” the major said. “We hope we don’t have to find that out for ourselves.”
“It’s something they’ve been making bets on,” Vyborg said, “our young tank captains and lieutenants. How many hours to Berlin.”
“To be encouraged, I guess, that sort of spirit,” said the major. “But much better if everyone stays on their side of the frontier.”
“Quite a number of people think the Germans might not,” the director said. “What then?”
On stage, Marko had finished with the red balls, but then, to his surprise, he discovered that his assistant had swallowed a canary, greedy girl. This produced a scattering of applause from the audience and a chirp from the canary. Marko, with a flourish, then wheeled a coffinlike box into the spotlight. The assistant’s eyes widened: oh no, not this.
“I believe she’s to be sawn in half,” Mercier said.
“She does seem pretty frightened,” Anna said. “Acting, I hope.”
Vyborg’s wife laughed. “A new assistant for every performance.”
The director’s wife said, “I’ve heard they do that with birds, sacrifice one for each trick.”
“No, really?” Mercier said.
“It’s true, I’ve heard the same thing,” the major’s wife said.
“As I was saying”-the director’s voice was quiet but firm-“what then? You’ll need all the armoured forces you can deploy.”
“Of course you’re right, monsieur,” the major said, “but our resources are limited. Germany’s industry recovered from the war faster than ours, and they outnumber us in tanks by thirty to one.”
Mercier recalled Jourdain’s meeting at the embassy. “Twenty-five to one,” he’d said, unless Mercier’s memory was failing him, but he didn’t think it was.
“We know Poland isn’t a rich country,” the director said, “but that’s what banks are for.”
The major’s assent was a grim nod. Rather gently he said, “They do expect to be paid back.”
“Of course. But I’ll tell you something, they won’t be so finicky about it if German divisions come across your border.”
“They’ll regret it if they do,” Vyborg’s wife said. “They may overwhelm us, at first, but in time they’ll be sorry. And, while we’re working on that here, they’ll have the French army coming across their other border.”
“That could,” the director said, “take a few weeks, you know. In all fairness. Apologies to Colonel Mercier.”
“You needn’t,” Mercier said. “It took us time to organize ourselves in 1914, and it will again.” No, we’re not coming, we’re going to sit on the Maginot Line.
“I suspect Hitler knows that,” the director said.
Marko’s assistant had now climbed into the coffin, bare feet protruding from one end, head from the other. With a lethal-looking saw in hand, Marko bent over the box and, on the side away from the audience, began to cut. The blade was obviously set between two metal bands that circled the coffin, but the progress of the saw was loud and realistic. Suddenly, the girl squeaked with real terror. Had the trick gone wrong? From the audience, a chorus of gasps. The director’s wife raised her hand to her mouth and said, “Good heavens!”
The magician returned to work, sawing away, while the assistant raised her head and peered over the edge of the coffin. Finally, Marko raised the saw, turned to the audience and then, the grand finale, separated the box. The audience applauded, and the magician wheeled the two halves of his assistant offstage.
“False feet,” Vyborg said.
“Or a second assistant, curled up in the other half,” Anna said.
“And you’ll notice,” said the director’s wife, triumphantly, “not a speck of sawdust.”
The magician was followed by a chanteuse, who sang romantic songs, then three bearded acrobats in saggy tights who turned somersaults through a fiery hoop. Each time they landed they shouted “Hup!” and the Adria’s floor shook. Then a trio-saxophone, drums, and guitar-appeared and began to play dance music. Vyborg stood and offered a hand to his wife, the director and the major followed his example. Mercier was the last to stand. “Shall we?” he said to Anna, his voice tentative, it wasn’t really obligatory.
If I must. “I think we should.”
A slow foxtrot. Mercier, stiff and mechanical, had never advanced much beyond lessons taken as a ten-year-old, girls and boys in white gloves. Anna was not much better, but they managed, going round and round in their private square to the slow beat. Mercier, his arm circled lightly about her, found her back firm, t
hen soft above the hips. And the way she moved, lithe and supple beneath the thin silk of her dress, more than interesting-his arm wanting, almost by itself, to tighten around her waist. As she danced, she smiled up at him, her perfume intense. Was the smile complicit? Knowing? Inviting? He wanted it to be, and smiled back at her. Finally she said, returning to polite conversation, “That man from Renault is something of a bully.”
“Titles and prerogatives aside, he’s a merchant. Selling his wares.”
“Still …” Anna said. The bridge of the song was slow. Anna’s hand, slightly damp, tightened on his. “You’d think he’d be more, oh, subtle about it.”
“Yes, but the major held his own,” Mercier said. As they turned, a woman behind Anna took a dramatic step backward, bumping against her and forcing her forward, so that she and Mercier were pressed together. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m not very good at this.” After a moment, she moved away.
“Nor am I,” he said.
She looked up at him; she did have lovely eyes, he thought, green eyes. “Oh well,” she said, laughing, “something I never expected, this evening.”
“Not so bad?” Mercier smiled hopefully.
“No,” she said. “Not so bad.”
The song ended, they returned to the table.
Driving back after midnight, Anna had another cigarette, and this time Mercier joined her. They were silent, having talked themselves out during the evening, simply sat and watched the streets go by, a few lights on in the darkened city. As the Buick rolled up to the street door, she said, “You needn’t see me upstairs.”
“You’re sure?” he said, reaching for the door handle. He assumed that fiance Maxim would be up and waiting.
“I am. Thank you, colonel. An evening to remember.”
“It’s for me to thank you, Mademoiselle Szarbek.” And me to remember.
Marek opened the door. Anna left the car, then turned and waved goodby. When she was safely inside, they drove away.
23 October.
In Glogau, a wet morning, a cold front had arrived with the dawn and strands of white mist rose from the river. In the center of the city, not far from the railroad bridge, a toy shop occupied the street floor of the brick building at 35 Heimerstrasse, its windows crowded with trains and dolls and soldiers. A local institution, the toy shop, it had stood there for years, closing only briefly, when the Jewish owner abruptly left the city, then reopening in a day or two, the glass in the windows replaced by the new owner, and the shop again selling toys as it always had.
