“They always know, Jean Marc, but it’s part of life here. It’s what all those sad little cafe songs are about.”
“You are in love, then.”
“Oh that word. Perhaps, or perhaps not. She is my consolation, however, always that, and doesn’t she ever know it.
“I expect it does.”
“Have you a friend? “
“Yes. Or I should say ‘perhaps.’ “
“She’s good to you?”
“Good for me.”
Szara laughed.
“Beautiful too, I’d wager.”
“You would win, eventually, but it’s not the sort of dazzle that catches the eye right away. There’s just something about her.”
They reached the car; the smell of overheated upholstery rushed out when Seneschal opened the door. “Come have a beer,” he said. “There’s plenty of time for your vanishing act.”
“Thank you,” Szara said.
Seneschal turned the ignition, the Renault came reluctantly to life as he fiddled expertly with the choke. “This whore drinks petrol,” he said sourly, racing the engine.
They wandered through the twisting streets of Puteaux, crossed the Seine on the pont de Suresnes-the tied- up barges had pots of flowers and laundry drying on lines-then the Bois de Boulogne appeared on their left, a few couples out strolling, men with jackets over their arms, an organ grinder. Seneschal stopped by an ice cream seller. “What kind?”
“Chocolate.”
“A double?”
“Of course. Here’s a few francs.”
“Keep it.”
“I insist.”
Seneschal waved the money away and bought the cones. When he got back in the car he drove slowly through the Bois, steering with one hand. “Watch, now I really will ruin the shirt.”
Szara’s double cone was a masterpiece-he ate the ice cream and looked at the girls in their summer dresses.
But what he’d seen that afternoon did not leave him. His mind was flying around like a moth in a lamp. He didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, didn’t know what it meant or what, if anything, to do about it. He’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to see, that much he did know. Maybe it meant nothing-intelligence services talked to each other when it was in the interest of both to do so, and Paris was a good, neutral place to do it.
“If you’ve the time, we’ll find ourselves a brasserie,” Seneschal said.
“Good idea. Is there a place you go?” Szara wanted the company.
Seneschal looked at him oddly. Szara realized his error, they couldn’t go to a place where Seneschal was known. “We’ll just pick one that looks good,” he said. “In this city you can’t go too far wrong.”
They’d drifted into the fifteenth arrondissement, headed east on the boulevard Lefebvre. “We’re in the right place out here,” Seneschal said. “They have great big ones where the whole family shows up-kids, dogs. A night like this”-the Renault idled roughly at a red light; a fat man in suspenders was picking through books at a stall-“the terraces will be …” A black Panhard rolled to a gentle stop on Seneschal’s side of the car.
Seen from a window in the old lady’s apartment, he’d been a colorless man in a suit. Now, looking through the Panhard’s passenger window, he was much realer than that. He was young, not yet thirty, and very bright and crisp. His hair was combed just so, swept up into a stiff pompadour above his white forehead. “Please,” he said in measured French, “may we speak a moment?” He smiled.
Seneschal turned to him for help, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“Please? Yes?” said the man.
The driver was older, his face a silhouette in the lights of the boulevard shops. “Don’t be so fucking polite,” he grumbled in German. He turned and looked at Seneschal. It was the face of a German worker, blunt and stolid, with hair shaved above the ears. He was smoking a cigar, the tip reddened as he inhaled.
The light went green. A horn beeped behind them. “Drive away,” Szara said. Seneschal popped the clutch and the car stalled. Swearing under his breath, he twisted the ignition key and fumbled with the choke. The driver of the Panhard laughed, his partner continued to smile.
The engine caught and the Renault roared away from the light. Seneschal cut into an angled street, took a narrow cobbled alley between high walls at full speed-the car bouncing and shimmying- tried to turn sharply back into the boulevard traffic, but the light had changed again and he had nowhere to go. The Panhard rolled up beside them. “Whew,” said the smiling man. “What a bumping!”
“Look,” the driver said in French, holding his cigar between thumb and forefinger, “don’t make us chase you around all night …”
Traffic started to move and Seneschal forced his way between two cars. The Panhard tried to follow, but the driver of a little Fiat cut them off with a spiteful glare.
“Tell me what to do,” Seneschal said.
Szara tried to think of something, as though he knew. “Stay with the traffic,” he said. Seneschal nodded vigorously, he would follow Szara’s plan meticulously. He settled the Renault into traffic, which now began to thin out noticeably as they approached the eastern border of the city. At the next light, Szara leaned over in order to look in the rearview mirror. The Panhard was two cars back in the adjoining lane. The passenger saw what he was doing, stuck his arm out the window and waved. When the light changed, Seneschal stamped the gas pedal against the floorboards, swerved around the car in front, changed lanes, turned off the headlights, and shot across the oncoming traffic into a side street.
Szara twisted around, but the Panhard was not to be seen. Seneschal began to make lefts and rights, tearing through the darkness of deserted side streets while Szara watched for the Panhard. “Any idea where we are?” he said.
“The thirteenth.”
A shabby neighborhood, unlit; peeling wooden shutters protected the shopfronts. Up ahead, a broad boulevard appeared and Seneschal pulled over and left the car idling as they both lit cigarettes. Szara’s hands were trembling. “The passenger was at the safe house,” Seneschal said. “You have his photograph. But the other one, with the cigar, where did he come from? “
“I never saw him.”
“Nazis,” Seneschal said. “Did you
“Yes.”
“What did they want?”
“To talk, they said.”
“Oh yes! I believe it!” He exhaled angrily and shook his head. “Shit.”
“Their time will come,” Szara said.
“Did you hear him? That cunt? ‘Please, may we speak a moment.’ ” Seneschal made the man sound effeminate and mincing.
“That was a good idea, cutting across.”
Seneschal shrugged. “I just did it.” He flicked his cigarette out the window and eased the Renault into first gear, turning the headlights back on. He swung left onto the deserted boulevard. “A bad neighborhood,” he said. “Nobody comes here at night.”
They drove for five minutes, Szara spotted a Metro station on the corner. “Expect a contact by telephone. After that, our meetings will be as usual.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Seneschal said, voice mean and edgy. The brush with the Germans had frightened him. Now
