The World at Night

A last look in the mirror; he ran his fingers through his hair, splashed water on his face, that was the best he could do. Glancing at his watch he hurried out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

Outside, the sun was just fighting its way out of the clouds. Omen? An exquisite Horch 853 swept to the curb, Altmann waved from behind the wheel. Casson wasn’t impressed by cars, but still … Silvery-green coachmaker’s body, graceful lines, spare tire-silvery-green metal center-snugged into the curve of the running board just forward of the driver’s door. Casson slid into the leather seat, they shook hands, said hello.

They sped up the rue Marbeuf, then out onto the Champs-Elysees. The Horch had twelve cylinders, five forward gears, and the voice of a sports car, muttering with suspended power every time the clutch was depressed. “We’ll go eat somewhere in the country,” Altmann said. “Some days I just can’t stand the city, even Paris.”

Out through Neuilly in light traffic; a few military vehicles, a few bicycles, the occasional horse and cart. Next came Courbevoie; empty, winding streets. Then left, following the Seine: Malmaison, Bougival, Louveciennes. The little restaurants facing the water had been for painters and dancers, once upon a time, but the money had always followed the kings, west from Paris and along the river, and eventually the cooks followed the money-the lobsters came and the artists went.

“So,” Altmann said, “are you doing anything special?”

“Not much. You’re still with Continental?”

“Oh yes. Just the same as always. Everything changes, you know, except that it all stays the same.”

Casson laughed. Altmann took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shook it adeptly so that several popped up, and held it across the seat. Casson took one, Altmann lit it, then his own, with a polished lighter.

“We’re bigger now,” Altmann continued. “There’s that difference. A good deal bigger, in fact.” A town fell away and they were in the countryside. Corot, Pissarro, they’d all painted up here. Autumn valleys, soft light, white clouds that rolled down from Normandy and lit up the sky. The most beautiful place on earth, perhaps. It struck Casson in the heart, as it always did, and he opened the window to get the glass out of his way. The car drifted to a stop as Altmann prepared to turn. There were yellow leaves on the road, little swirls of them when the wind blew, Casson could hear them scratching along over the rumble of the engine.

They turned right, came back out on the river and headed west. Altmann drew on his cigarette, the exhaled smoke punctuated his words as he talked.

“I hope you’re not waiting for me to discuss politics, Casson, because frankly it’s all gotten beyond me.” There was a man carrying a basket on a wooden footbridge that crossed the river. He turned to look at the glorious car, shifting the weight of the basket on his shoulder. “The things I’ve seen,” Altmann continued, “in Germany and France, the last five years, I really don’t know what to say about it.” He paused, then said, “It didn’t even occur to me that my phone call might offend you-but it does now, and if you like I’ll turn around and take you back to Paris. It’s just that I came back from Berlin and thanked God that Paris was as it always was, that nothing was burned or blown up, that I was going to be able to live here, on some kind of terms anyhow, and to make films. The truth is, you and I are lucky-we can simply get out of the world’s way while it destroys itself, we don’t have to be crushed by it. Or, maybe, I should turn around. It’s up to you, I’ll understand one way or the other.”

“It’s too nice a day to go back to the city,” Casson said.

“There’s bad blood between our countries, it’s no good, but it doesn’t have to be between us, does it?”

“No, no, not at all.”

Altmann nodded, relieved. On the left a cluster of houses, almost a village. Just on the other side, where the fields began, a restaurant, Le Relais. “Why not?” Altmann said. The tires crunched over the gravel by the entry as the Horch rolled to a stop.

Inside it was quiet and it smelled good. A few local people were having lunch, they glanced up as Casson and Altmann came in, then looked away. The patron seated them in the bay by the front window, looking out over the flowers in the windowbox. Casson studied the handwritten menu, but there wasn’t much choice-basically the plat they’d cooked that day and a few substitutes, like an omelet that the kitchen could produce if you just had to have something else. So they ordered what there was- Altmann had a fistful of ration coupons-a platter of warm langouste, crayfish, not long out of the river, followed by an andouille, the Norman sausage the butchers made from the very bottom of the tub of leftovers, cooked in cider vinegar. All of it so good, in an off-hand way, that it made Casson lightheaded. For wine, what Le Relais offered was the color of raspberry jam, dry as a bone and sharp as a tack, in liter bottles without label or cork; and when the first was gone a second appeared. All this accompanied by small talk- business was never discussed with food-until the coffee arrived. Then Altmann said “Let me lay the situation out for you as it stands today.”

“Good,” Casson said, taking yet another of Altmann’s cigarettes.

“The major difference is, they’re going to set up a committee called a Filmprufstelle, Film Control Board, that will answer to Goebbels’s people in the Propagandastaffel up in the Hotel Majestic. Now UFA-CONTINENTAL is going to have to deal with them, I would not try to tell you otherwise, and they are who they are, enough said. On the other hand, they have to deal with Continental, and it’s not at all clear who’s the bigger dog in this yard. Our capitalization has increased to ten million reichsmarks-two hundred million francs. With the cost of making a film in France averaging out to about three and a half million francs, you can see what’s going to happen. Certainly there will be quite a lot of waltzing-powdered boobs in ball gowns and all the rest of it, there’s always that, but they can’t have ten million reichsmarks’ worth even if that’s what they think they want. We’ve acquired thirty-nine movie theatres, and we have the laboratories and the processing-once you get to that stage there must be more than Old Vienna, and that’s going to come from independent producers and directors. Do you see?”

Casson nodded. He saw. The thirty-nine theatres came in large part from the confiscation of property belonging to Siritsky and Haik, Jewish film exhibitors.

“So when I say,” Altmann continued, “that the Nazis have to deal with Continental, I mean it. It’s felt in Berlin that if French culture is destroyed then we’ve failed to resolve the difficulties between us. This is not Poland, this is one of the greatest cultures the world has ever produced-Hitler himself dares not claim otherwise.” He drank a sip of coffee, then another.

“Now look,” he said, voice lower. “We’re not sure ourselves exactly what they’re going to let us do. Obviously a celebration of the French victory in 1918 won’t work at the Control Board, but a hymn to Teutonic motherhood won’t work at Continental. Between those extremes, if you and I are going to work together, is where we’ll work.”

“I won’t make Nazi propaganda,” Casson said.

“Don’t. See if I care.” Altmann shrugged. “Casson, you couldn’t if you wanted to, all right? Only a certain breed of swine can do that- German swine or French swine. Perhaps you know that a German film, The Jew Suss, has broken box-office records for the year in Lyons, Toulouse, and, of course, Vichy.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. But, thank God, Paris isn’t Lyons or Toulouse.”

“No.”

“Well?”

“It’s a lot to think about,” Casson said.

“You know Leveque?”

“Of course. The Emissary.”

“Raoul Mies?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve both signed to do projects-no details, but we’re working on it.”

Casson looked out the window. The Seine was high in its banks, as it always was in autumn, and gray. It was going to rain, the weeds on the river bank bent over in the wind. Life goes on, he thought. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“Good,” Altmann said. “An honest answer.” He leaned closer to Casson. “I have to get up every morning and go to an office, like everybody else. And I don’t want to work with every greasy little pimp who wants to be in movies. I want my day to be as good as it can-but I’m flesh and blood, Casson, just like you, and I’ll do what I have to do. Just like you.”

Casson nodded. Now they’d both been honest. Altmann started to pour the last of the wine, then put the