The World at Night

Bridge.”

Citrine’s eyes filled with soft passion, she leaned forward on the couch, her voice a whisper. “Ba, ba-ba. Ba- ba-ba?”

Casson extended the wine bottle, holding it over Citrine’s glass. “Ba ba?”

“Don’t,” she said, laughing.

He smiled at her, poured the wine. Happiness rolled over him, he felt suddenly warm. Perhaps, he thought, paradise goes by in an instant. When you’re not looking.

“I’m almost asleep,” she said.

Or was it? Warmth rolled over him, he felt suddenly happy. He went to the radiator and put a hand on it. “A miracle,” he said. The apartment hadn’t been like this for months. From somewhere, coal, apparently abundant coal, had appeared, and Madame Fitou had decided, against all precedent, to use a great deal of it. This was, he realized, a rather complicated miracle.

“Suddenly,” he said, “there’s heat.”

Citrine spread her hands, meaning obvious conclusion. “Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“A beautiful baroness, a dashing German officer, coal is delivered.”

It felt good in the apartment, they were in no hurry to leave. The Occupation authority, grateful for a compliant population, had given Paris a Christmas present: extension of curfew to 3:00 A.M. Casson and Citrine talked-Hotel Dorado, life and times, the way of the world. They’d never disagreed about big things, it had gone wrong between them somewhere else. They liked eccentricity, they liked kindness, coincidence, people who lost themselves in the study of planets or bugs. They liked people with big hearts. They wanted to hear that in the end it all turned out for the best.

Just after midnight she wandered into the kitchen, dabbed her finger in some galantine gelatin left on a plate and licked it off. A moment later Casson came in to see what she was doing, found her standing by the pipe that ran, mysteriously, through the corners of all the kitchens in the building. She was listening to something, hand pressed over her mouth, like a schoolgirl, to keep from giggling.

“What-?” he said.

She touched a finger to her lips, then pointed to the pipe. He listened, heard faint sounds from below. It made no sense at first.

“Your baroness?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Is getting a red bottom.”

Sharp reports-slow and deliberate, demure little cries. There was only one thing in the world that sounded like that.

“Tiens,” Casson said, amazed. “And in the kitchen.”

Citrine listened for a time. “Well,” she said, “I predict you’ll have a warm winter.”

Later he walked her to the Metro-she wouldn’t let him take her back to the hotel. “Good night,” he said.

She kissed him on the lips, very quickly and lightly, it was over before he realized it was happening. “Jean- Claude,” she said. “I had a good time tonight. Thank you.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

She nodded, waved at him, turned and went down the stairs of the Metro. She’s gone, he thought.

A CITIZEN OF THE EVENING

Night train to Madrid.

The air was ice, the heavens swept with winter stars, white and still in a black sky. Jean Casson had done what he’d done, there was no going back. The train pulled slowly from the Gare de Lyon, clattered through the railyards south of the city, then out into the night.

A first-class compartment; burgundy velveteen drapes, gleaming brass doorknobs. Casson pressed his forehead against the cold window and stared out into the dark countryside. Looking out train windows was good for lovers. Citrine, Citrine. They’d made love in a train once; lying on their sides in a narrow berth, looking out at the back-yards of some town, sheets hanging on wash lines, cats on windowsills, smoke from chimneys on tile roofs. It was a long autumn that year and nobody thought about war.

Staring out train windows good for lovers, not so bad for secret agents. We are all adrift in the world, we do what we have to do. Casson turned out the lamps so he could see better. Outside, the Beauce. Old, deep France-France profonde, it was said. A flat plain where they grew wheat and barley, sometimes a forest where long ago they’d hunted bear with Beauceron dogs. A knock at the door, his heart hammered. “Monsieur?” Only a steward in a white jacket, peering at a list.

“Monsieur Dubreuil?”

“No, Casson.”

“Monsieur Casson, yes. Would you wish the first or second seating?”

“Second.”

“Very good, sir.”

He closed the door, the rattle of the train subsided. A man with eyes shadowed by the brim of a fedora came down the corridor, glanced into Casson’s compartment. Calm down, Casson told himself. But he couldn’t. The tanned, smiling Colonel Guske kept forcing himself to the front of Casson’s attention. He wasn’t a smart lawyer-Simic had been right there, Casson thought-but he was the sort of man who got things done. Worked hard, full of vigor and stupefying optimism about life. Must get that spinnaker rigged! Must keep the racquet straight on my backhand! Must get to the bottom of that Casson business!

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. Forced himself to take comfort from the dark countryside beyond the window. The French had fought and marched across these plains for centuries. They’d fought the Moslems in the south, the Germans in the east, the British in the west. The Dutch in the north? He didn’t know. But they must have, some time or other. The War of the Spanish Succession? The Thirty Years’ War? Napoleon?

Calm down. Or they’d find him dead of fear, staring wide-eyed at the scenery. Then it would be their turn to worry about the three hundred thousand pesetas. Of course, he thought, they wouldn’t worry very long. Or, perhaps, it would just stay where it was-God only knew what would be lost forever in this war. The train slowed, and stopped. Outside, nothing special, a frozen field.

Compartment doors opening and closing, the sound of a slow train rumbling past. Something to do, anyhow. He got up and joined the other passengers, standing at the windows in the corridor. A freight train, flat cars loaded with tanks and artillery pieces under canvas tarpaulins, gun barrels pointing at the sky. He counted thirty, forty, fifty, then stopped, the train seemed to go on forever. His heart fell-what could he, what could any of them do against these people? Lately it was fashionable in Paris to avert one’s eyes when seated across from Germans in the Metro. Yes, he thought, that would do it-the French won’t look at us, we’re going home.

His fellow passengers felt it too. Not the German aviators at the end of the car, probably not their French girlfriends, drunk and giggling. But the man who looked like a butcher in a Sunday suit, and Madame Butcher, they had the same expression on their faces as he did: faintly introspective, not very interested, vague. Strange, he thought, how people choose the same mask. Tall man, head of an ostrich, spectacles. A professor of Greek? A young man and his older friend-theatre people, Casson would have bet on it. The woman who stood next to him was an aristocrat of some sort. Late forties, red-and-brown tweed suit for traveling, cost a fortune years ago, maintained by maids ever since.

She felt his eyes, turned to look at him. Dry, weatherbeaten face, pale hair cut short and plain, eight strokes of a brush would put it in place. Skin never touched by makeup. Faded green eyes with laugh wrinkles at the corners her only feature. But more than sufficient. She met his glance; gave a single shake of the head, mouth tight for an instant. How sad this is, she meant. And I don’t know that we can ever do anything about it.