Crossings

by Alex Landragin

  I spent the rest of the afternoon underground, mind whirring, shuttling between near-empty second-class carriages, making sure I wasn’t being followed, until I emerged at the Gare de l’Est around dusk. The sunset was a glorious affair that made a mockery of human intrigue. I knew of a sordid little workers’ hotel overlooking the canal where a German refugee might find a bed without having to show any identity papers. Other than two bored young prostitutes, it appeared to be empty. I climbed upstairs to the room I’d been given and collapsed on the thin mattress. The walls were damp and the plumbing gurgled and dripped, but at least I could hide here and plan my next move.

  My room was on the third floor, overlooking the canal. Unable to sleep, I sat on the windowsill, staring at the crescent moon, listening to the rumble of the distant artillery and watching the flashes of light over the eastern horizon. In the darkness of the blackout, the stars sparkled on the water’s surface as brightly as they shone up above. I smoked one cigarette after another, going over the day’s events as if I were watching a film. There was no doubt about it: I’d been mesmerised by a master hypnotist – but who was the hypnotist, Madeleine or Chanel?

  There were two things in particular that perplexed me: that sly, subtle smile that had appeared on Chanel’s face when I mentioned Madeleine, and the fact that she’d sent her man to Arthur’s apartment after the meeting. It took me half a pack of Salomés to figure out the puzzle, and when the answer finally came to me, I cursed myself. I’d made a grave tactical error. I ought never to have referred to Madeleine. Until I did, Chanel had not known what to say. It was only at the mention of Madeleine that Chanel had spoken. What would she have said had I not mentioned Madeleine – had I not given the game away? I would never know. But the fact that she had sent her man to find me after the meeting was itself a kind of clue. Of course, I’d pointed a gun at her, but had she been innocently aggrieved, she need only have called the police. The fact that she hadn’t suggested she had something to hide.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but love thrives on ephemera: hunches, gut feelings, obscure clues are all the fuel it needs. Whenever the fragile fabric of a lover’s fantasy is undone by reality, all it takes is the merest hint of hope and its threads start knitting together again. Combined with what I’d seen – the manuscript, the scale model of the sailing ship, what Massu had told me – the memory of that smile punctured the certainty of Chanel’s argument. It introduced the element of doubt. And that faint glimmer of doubt was all that was required for the screaming voice of shame in me to subside, and for that other voice, the voice that hoped, that loved Madeleine, that spoke to her even now that she was gone, to make itself heard again. My first mistake had been to lose hope – to look away from Madeleine’s eyes at the very moment when I could have settled the question once and for all: were her stories true or not? Smoking Salomés in the darkness, there was nothing I wanted more than to find her again, to look into her eyes and discover their secret.

  I woke from fitful sleep in a cloud of smoky light. The sky was smeared with an inexplicable orange fog and my nostrils stung with the smell of petrol. I checked out of the hotel and walked with my suitcase towards the Palais de Justice. Everyone on the streets was walking south carrying luggage. I’d done what Massu had asked, and even if I hadn’t learned anything of use to him, he owed me my notebook, at the very least, and perhaps I could still cajole a favour out of him.

  The guard at the gate called for the Brigade Spéciale, then nodded me inside. Another guard searched me and confiscated my derringer. I was escorted to Massu’s office and found him on the telephone, stroking his moustache while listening to the voice at the other end of the line. There was a pile of blankets on the floor in a corner where he must have slept, and my notebook was lying open on his desk. He gestured to me to take a seat. ‘Very well, mon général. Consider it done.’ He hung up and looked at me with a resigned expression. ‘The government has evaporated. Shops are being looted. The army is now in charge. And the Germans are only forty kilometres away. We expect their arrival any day now. Paris will be declared an open city.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there is no point defending it, it’s already lost,’ he said.

  ‘What is the orange fog?’ I asked.

  ‘The army is setting the petrol reserves on fire as it retreats.’ He took my notebook in his hands, licking his index finger each time he turned the page. ‘Things are about to get very dangerous for you, monsieur.’

  ‘They took my gun,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have a licence for it. Technically, we could have you arrested.’ He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I’m a German – you could have me arrested for that too.’

  ‘True. But what would it achieve? Your compatriots will be here soon enough. Thankfully for you, the gun was empty. Given the circumstances, we can let that go.’

  ‘Will it be returned to me when I leave?’

  ‘Monsieur, please, be reasonable.’ He looked back at the notebook. ‘So this is what you write?’

  ‘They’re notes for a book I hope to publish some day.’

  ‘What is Shéhérazade?’

  I wasn’t sure if he was being serious. ‘She’s a character in the Arabian Nights.’

  Massu blinked. ‘I see. Why is her name written in your notebook?’ He held the notebook up for my scrutiny, opened to the last of the written pages. There, in handwriting other than mine, was scrawled the word Shéhérazade.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before. Perhaps you wrote it.’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’ He examined the word. ‘The Arabian Nights, you say.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a medieval story cycle, in which the heroine marries a murderous king and saves her own life by telling him tales.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Massu drummed his fingers on his chin.

  It could only be Madeleine who had written that word in my notebook before she vanished, but I had no idea why. I didn’t want to repeat the previous day’s mistake and mention her to Massu. I didn’t know what, if anything, he knew of her. The notes I’d written were incomplete. Her name didn’t appear in its pages. The conclusion to Madeleine’s tales – her own story, recounted to me the very day of her disappearance – was still unwritten. For now, it existed only in my head. After she’d gone, I hadn’t had the heart to so much as open the notebook, let alone write in it, which was why I hadn’t seen the clue she had left me.

  Massu was waiting for me to say something. Fortunately, life had taught me the value of a poker face in a crisis. ‘It must have been written by my neighbour Arthur, during our last poker party. He suggested it as the title of a book I’m writing.’

  ‘Looks like a woman’s handwriting to me.’

  ‘Arthur is Hungarian. Perhaps it’s a Hungarian’s handwriting.’

  ‘Where is this Arthur?’

  ‘I believe he’s currently in Bordeaux.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Massu. ‘Although that’s where you should be.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not too late to leave.’

  ‘The railway stations are crammed with crowds of people who agree with you.’

  ‘I thought we had a deal.’

  ‘Did you see Chanel?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘She doesn’t have it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The manuscript.’

  ‘Monsieur, I’m a detective, not a scholar. I’m not interested in a manuscript. I’m interested in solving a series of murders.’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m afraid I learned nothing of any use to you about all that.’

  Massu sighed. ‘Well, your incompetence as an informer is more than compensated for by what I read in your notebook.’ He slid it across the desk.

  ‘They’re just fairytales,’ I said, stuffing the notebook into my jacket pocket.

  ‘Oh, I doubt that. But tell me something. The story finishes during the last war. What has happened since? How
does the tale of the albatross end?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t figured out the ending.’

  ‘Well, if you do, please let me know. So that I can do what I can to protect whoever this Shéhérazade might be.’

  ‘She’s not real. She’s a chimera. What about protecting me? I’m real. And you promised me an exit visa.’

  ‘You haven’t been very helpful, I’m afraid. And anyway the rules of the game have changed. I can’t help you. I no longer have the authority. The army is in charge now.’ He raised that eyebrow again, and added a half-smile. ‘But I will have my secretary draw up a laissez-passer and a ticket on the night train to Marseille for you, leaving the Gare de Lyon at eight o’clock tonight.’ He picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and instructed someone to prepare the documents. At the end of the call, Massu stood and gestured to the door. ‘Marseille is your best bet. Ships are still sailing out.’

  ‘Not without an exit visa.’

  ‘I’m sure you can arrange a crossing in Marseille.’ I studied Massu’s face, twinkling with irony behind that ridiculous little moustache. Here was a man who seemed to take amusement in the messiness of life – as close to a definition of happiness as I know. He walked me to the door and opened it for me.

  ‘Oh, one last thing,’ he added. ‘Shéhérazade is also the name of a nightclub near Pigalle.’ Before I could say anything else, he shook my hand. ‘Goodbye, monsieur, and bon voyage.’

  I heard him chuckle as the door clicked shut.

  {306}

  The Shéhérazade

  ‘WELCOME TO THE SHÉHÉRAZADE!’ boomed the old doorman from behind his silvery walrus moustache. He was the only sign of life on the otherwise darkened street. His Russian accent ricocheted off the paving stones and the walls of nearby buildings as he swung open the door to the nightclub. I stepped inside and down a flight of stairs into an Oriental fantasy world – part seraglio, part Aladdin’s cave – of arches, grottos and drapes. A pall of tobacco smoke lent the light of the Arabian lamps an exotic haze. A solitary couple swayed on the dancefloor while on stage a gypsy band played, fronted by a singer in a long sequinned dress who waved her arms about in an approximation of languor.

  ‘J’attendrai

  le jour et

  la nuit,

  J’attendrai toujours

  ton retour . . .’

  She was accompanied by two guitarists and a double bass player. I removed my hat, sat at the bar and ordered a calvados. This place had been fashionable once, I thought, looking around – in the heady years after the last war, the war to end all wars. When the calvados arrived I tipped the barman well and said, ‘I’m looking for Madeleine Blanc.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Sure you have. Oriental features, beautiful, in her forties. Any idea how I can get in touch with her?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Koahu.’

  The barman stuck his head behind a swinging door for a moment and then attended to another customer. I settled down to drinking my calvados and watching the band. The waiters, dressed in Cossack uniforms, buzzed from table to table, under the watchful eye of the Russian maître d’hôtel.

  ‘J’attendrai,

  car l’oiseau qui s’enfuit

  vient chercher l’oubli

  dans son nid . . .’

  While I waited, I sifted through the events of the day. After leaving the Palais de Justice, I’d walked down to the Quai de la Tournelle in search of Vennet’s stall. All the bouquinistes on this stretch of the river were closed. Having found Vennet’s stall, I inspected it from every angle. Like all the others, it was made of crate-wood and painted with forest green oil. It did not appear to have been forced open. I fondled the brass lock. I would need a hacksaw or, better still, a boltcutter, only where would I find one? By now, most shops and banks were closed. I made my way to the Métro with my suitcase. The carriages were emptier than ever. The effect was ghostly. I alighted at Pigalle, where the cafés and bars along the Boulevard de Clichy were shuttered. There were no tourists. I had little idea of where to find the nightclub, so I had to overcome my resistance to speaking with strangers. I approached two policemen who were plastering bills on a Morris column that usually advertised cabaret shows.

  PARIS HAS BEEN DECLARED AN OPEN CITY

  The military governor requests the population to abstain from all acts of hostility and expects it to maintain the calm and dignity necessitated by the circumstances.

  By order, General H. Dentz, military governor

  Mustering all my courage, I asked them where I might find the Cabaret Shéhérazade. They looked me up and down a moment – admittedly I must have been an odd sight, with my German accent and black suitcase, as if I were the vanguard of a different Wehrmacht from the one they were expecting. A day or two ago, I thought, they would have arrested me. But instead they pointed down the Rue Pigalle. A little while later – around noon, I guessed (the bells of the churches were not tolling) – I dropped my suitcase in front of a doorway and knocked. There was no response. According to a small sign by the entrance, the nightclub only opened at eight in the evening, which was exactly the time my train was due to leave. I sat on my suitcase, fished a Salomé from my pocket and lit it. It seemed I would have to choose between finding Madeleine again and leaving Paris for the relative safety of the south. I could almost hear Massu’s ironic chuckle. Had he put me in this position by design, as a sadistic practical joke or punishment for not being more helpful? I would never know. But between love and liberty, there was no doubt which I would choose. I made my way back to the hotel I’d stayed in the previous night and rented my room again. I spent the afternoon there, napping, smoking, re-reading my notes, until evening, when I struck out again to find the Shéhérazade.

  ‘Le temps passe et court

  en battant tristement

  dans mon coeur si lourd.

  Et pourtant, j’attendrai

  ton retour.’

  At the song’s conclusion, the patrons took a moment from their drinking, smoking, gossiping and giggling to applaud half-heartedly. The singer bowed her head in acknowledgement. A waitress approached her and whispered something in her ear. They both looked in my direction. The band followed the singer off stage, behind a red velvet curtain, and a few minutes later the singer re-emerged. She came to sit beside me at the bar. ‘Two more of those,’ she said to the barman, pointing at my empty glass. She turned to me. ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘No. I mean, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you come from your apartment?’

  ‘I haven’t been to my apartment since yesterday. I’m staying in a hotel by the canal.’

  ‘Are you signed in under your own name?’

  ‘Of course not. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Good. All the same, I can’t take you to Madeleine tonight, it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I’m sure the police have better things to think about.’

  ‘Perhaps. But then there’s also Chanel’s people.’

  ‘How is she? Where is she?’

  ‘She’s been waiting. She expected you sooner.’

  ‘Why did she go?’

  ‘You should ask her that. In my opinion it was because you didn’t believe her.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘She was counting on that.’ The singer paused and gazed into her drink. ‘I, on the other hand, was hoping for the contrary. You will forgive a little jealousy on my part – we are rivals, you see. She didn’t tell you that, did she?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, evidently Madeleine is not as trustworthy a storyteller as you might have imagined. And, believe me, I have been a far more faithful servant to her than you. But you . . .’ A bitter expression stole across her heavily made-up face. ‘You are Koahu. You will always hold a special place in her heart.’ She threw the rest of the calvados down her throat. ‘Never mind. There are more important matters to consider than
our own sordid little romances. Did you see Chanel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It all checked out.’

  ‘Did you do what Madeleine asked?’

  ‘What with? I had no bullets.’

  The singer cursed under her breath. ‘Do you have the manuscript, at least?’

  ‘No. But I know where it is. All I need is a boltcutter.’

  She took a long breath. ‘Very well, I’ll organise to have someone take you to her. But not tonight. Tomorrow morning at ten. At Saint-Eustache, the church behind Les Halles. An old widow will be praying in the front pew. Kneel down in the pew directly behind her. When she leaves, follow her. From a distance. She’ll take you to Madeleine. And you’ll get your boltcutter. Whatever you do, don’t go back to your apartment. You can’t be too cautious. Chanel has enormous power, and anyone left in Paris right now is suspect, even these old White Russians here tonight.’ She glanced around the room at the nightclub patrons, who were drinking and smoking as if invasion were a banality. ‘They’ll be volunteers in the Germans’ welcoming committee. They’ve seen a lot worse than this. They’re all hoping Hitler will invade Russia next and return their family estates to them.’ She looked back at me with an expression of crushing sadness. ‘Tomorrow morning, when you go to Saint-Eustache, make sure you’re not being followed.’ She stood. ‘Madeleine won’t leave with you, you know, if that’s what you’re hoping. She must stay here. In a strange way even she doesn’t understand, she must stay close to Chanel.’ She shot me a glance that struck like a dagger. ‘She loves you, but she doesn’t need you. Not anymore.’ She turned. ‘Drinks are on me,’ she said to the barman, and without saying goodbye, she strode back to the stage, hips swaying, just as the other musicians emerged from behind the red velvet curtain and took up their instruments. She curled her hands around the microphone and began to sing. No one seemed to notice, let alone care. I finished my drink and left.