The World at Night

Arrondissement he found Fischfang, as always at the center of incredibly complicated domestic arrangements. There were children, there were wives, there were apartments-mistresses, comrades, fugitives. Fischfang was never in one place for very long. Late one afternoon he sat with Casson in a tiny kitchen where a young woman was boiling diapers in a kettle. The coal stove smoked, mildew blackened the walls.

Casson explained that he was back in business, that he was looking for a project, and how the rules had changed.

Fischfang nodded. “Not too much reality-is that it?”

“Yes. That’s how it has to be.”

Fischfang stared out the window, the sky gray with winter coming. “Then what you might be able to do,” he said, “is a Summer Night movie. You know what I mean-the perfect night of summer in the full moon. A certain group of people have gathered in a castle, a country house, a liner on the high seas. A night of love, the night of love. Just once, dreams come true. By the end, one couple has parted, but we see that, ah, Paul has always loved Marie, no matter how life has tried to drive them apart. The crickets chirp, the moon rises, the music of the night is sublime. Hurry-life will soon be over, time is short, we have only this night, we must live out our loveliest dream, and it’s only a few hours until dawn.”

He wound down. They were both silent. At last Fischfang cleared his throat, lit a cigarette. “Something like that,” he said. “It might work.”

On the way back to his office, Casson saw a girl, maybe sixteen or so, wearing a school uniform, arms wrapped around her books. It was dusk. She looked directly into his eyes, an intimate look, as they moved toward each other on the crowded boulevard. “Monsieur,” she said. Her voice was urgent, emotional.

He stopped. Yes? What? The usual Jean-Claude, the usual half-smile, whatever you want, I’m here. She thrust a folded paper into his hand, then was off down the street, disappearing into the shadows. He stepped into a doorway, unfolded the paper. It was a broadsheet, a one-page newspaper. Resistance, it was called. WE MUST FIGHT BACK, the headline said.

On 17 December, Jean Casson signed with Continental.

HOTEL DORADO

9 December, 1940.

Jean Casson sat at his desk at four in the afternoon. He wore an overcoat, a muffler, and gloves. Outside, a winter dusk- thick, gray sky, the lines of the rooftops softened and faded. Looking out his window he could see a corner where the rue Marbeuf met the boulevard. People in dark coats on the stone-colored pavement, like a black-and-white movie. Once upon a time they’d loved this hour in Paris; gold light spilling out on the cobbled streets, people laughing at nothing, whatever you meant to do in the gathering dark, you’d be doing it soon enough. On these boulevards night had never followed day-in between was evening, which began at the first fading of the light and went on as long as it could be made to last. Sometimes until dawn, he thought.

He went back to his book, Neptune’s Daughter, turning the pages awkwardly with his glove, making notes in soft pencil. Work, work. The telephone rang, it was Marie- Claire, organizing a dinner. They were trying hard, his little group of friends, he was proud of them. Rolling the holiday boulder up a long and difficult slope-but at least working together. Christmas in France was not the ritual it was in England, but the New Year reveillon was important, and you were supposed to eat fine things and feel hopeful.

They talked for a time, the same conversation they’d had for years- they must, he thought, somehow or other like having it. And it ended as it always did, with another telephone call planned-a Marie-Claire crisis could not, by definition, be resolved with a single telephone call.

Neptune’s Daughter. Veronica and Perry drinking sidecars in Capri and watching the sun set. “Where do you suppose we’ll be on this day next year?” Veronica asks. “Will we be happy?” The telephone rang again. Marie-Claire, Casson thought, a forgotten detail. “Yes?” he said.

“Hello? Is this Jean Casson?” An English voice, accenting the first syllable of Casson. A voice he knew.

“Yes. Who is this, please?”

“James Templeton.”

The investment banker from London. “It, it’s good to hear from you.” Casson’s English worked at its own pace.

“How are you getting on, over there?” Templeton asked.

“Not so bad, thank you. The best that we can, you know, with the war …”

“Yes, well, we haven’t forgotten you.”

Casson’s thoughts were flying past. Why was this man calling him? Could it be that some incredibly complicated arrangement was going to allow British banks to invest in French films? There was a rumor that England and Germany continued to trade, despite the war, using middlemen in neutral nations. Or, maybe, a treaty had been signed, and this was a protocol sprung suddenly to life. Maybe, he thought, his heart quickening, the fucking war is over! “Thank you,” he managed to say. “What, uh …”

“Tell me, do you happen to see much of Erno Simic? The Agna Film man?”

“What? I’m sorry, you said?”

“Simic. Has distribution arrangements in Hungary, I believe. Do you see him, ever?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I have seen him.”

“He can be extremely helpful, you know.”

“Yes?”

“Definitely. Certain business we’re doing now, he is somebody we are going to depend on. And since you’re a friend of ours in Paris, we thought you might be willing to lend a hand.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry. To help, I mean.”

“Oh. Yes, I see. All right. I’ll do what I can.”

“Good. We are grateful. And we’ll be in touch. Good-bye, Casson.”

“Good-bye.”

He knew. And he didn’t know. He could decide, at that point, that he didn’t know. He fretted, waiting until six to walk over to Langlade’s office. “Jean-Claude!” Langlade said. “Come and have a little something.” From a bottom drawer he produced an old wine bottle refilled with calvados. “We went to see the Rouen side of the family on Sunday,” Langlade explained. “So you’ll share in the bounty.”

Casson relaxed, sat back in his chair, the calvados was like soothing fire as it went down.

“This is hard-won, I hope you appreciate it,” Langlade continued. “It took an afternoon of sitting on a couch and listening to a clock tick.”

“Better than what you get in a store,” Casson said.

Langlade refilled the glass. “My good news,” he said, “is that suddenly we’re busy. Some factory in Berlin ordered these tiny little lightbulbs, custom-made, grosses of them. God only knows what they’re for, but, frankly, who cares?” He gave Casson a certain look-it meant he’d been closer to disaster than he’d been willing to let on. “And you, Jean-Claude? Everything all right?”

“A very strange thing, Bernard. Somebody just telephoned me from London.”

“What?”

“A call, from a banker in London.”

Langlade thought hard for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, Jean-Claude. That’s not possible.”

“It happened. Just now.”

“They’ve cut the lines. There isn’t any way that somebody could call you from London.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Who did you say?”

“An English banker.”