The World at Night

He acknowledged the look, then by mutual agreement they turned back toward the windows. Tanks on flat cars crept past, canvas stiffened by white frost, at that speed the rhythm of the wheels on the rails a measured drumbeat. Then it was over, a single red lantern on the last car fading away into the distance. Casson and his neighbor exchanged a second look-life goes on-and returned to their compartments.

The train got under way slowly, dark hills on the horizon just visible by starlight. The woman reminded him of someone, after a moment he remembered. A brief fling, years ago, one of his wife’s equestrienne pals-whipcord breeches and riding crops. A long time since he’d thought of her. Bold and funny, full of prerogatives, afraid of neither man nor beast, rich as Croesus, cold as ice, victor in a thousand love affairs. She had a white body shaped by twenty years of bobbing up and down in a saddle, hard and angular, and in bed she was all business, no sentimental nonsense allowed. She did, on the other hand, have delicious, fruit-flavored breath, particularly noticeable when she had him make love to her in the missionary position.

He’d wondered about her-connections with diplomats, months spent abroad, nights in exotic clubs one heard about from friends- wondered if she wasn’t, perhaps, involved with the secret services. Just as he’d wondered what sort of hobbies she pursued with the riding crop. But he never asked, and she never offered. Her life belonged only to her; no matter if she spied, whipped, made millions, she didn’t talk about it.

Now, stupidly, he felt better-just being near a woman. But it was true. He dozed, woke up at Auxerre station. The blackout made the station ghostly, the waiting passengers shapes in the darkness. The doors opened, just enough time for people to get on the train, then closed. The locomotive vented white steam that hung still in the freezing air. He waited for the coach to jerk forward as the engine got under way.

Instead: the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open and a voice called out “Kontrol.” Casson sat up so suddenly it hurt his back. In the corridor, German voices, shouting instructions. What? This couldn’t happen. Once the train leaves Paris, nobody bothers you, the Germans can’t be everywhere. In panic, he twisted to look out on the platform: pacing shadows, silhouettes of slung rifles just visible in the darkness. The darkness. He tested the window, no give. Of course, windows in a railway coach, you had to be strong. Strong enough. A door slammed in the passageway, another opened. Jump out the window, crawl under the train. Across the track. Running full speed. Out into the street. Auxerre. Who did he know? Where did they live? Someone, there was always someone, someone would always help you. The door to his compartment opened. “Kontrol.”

He stood up.

Something in German, a wave of the hand. Sit down. He sat. There were two of them, SS officers, leather coats open to black uniforms with lightning insignia, steel-handled Lugers in high-riding leather holsters. They hadn’t been in the train very long-he could feel the cold air on them.

“Papieren.”

A gloved hand extended. Casson fumbled for his identification in the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers had gone numb. The passport, the Ausweis, the envelope. He took them out. No, not the envelope. Clumsy, maladroit. His arm had no feeling in it, the hand thick and slow. Take back the envelope. He swallowed, there was something caught in the center of his chest.

“Was ist los?”

No, not this, this doesn’t concern you. He placed passport and travel permit on the glove, started to put the envelope back in his pocket. His hand wouldn’t work at all. He folded the envelope in half and stuffed it in, spreading his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. Sorry to be so stupid, sorry to be trouble, sorry sir, regret, excuse.

Didn’t work.

Something interesting here. The officer now looked closely at him for the first time. Not very old, Casson thought, in his thirties, perhaps. A fleshy face-fat later on-small eyes, cunning. This job was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. Not in a shop. Not in a garage. Casson looked down. The man hooked a gloved index finger under his chin and raised his head to where he could see Casson’s eyes. What are you? What are you to me? Just one more pale Frenchman? Or a fatal error?

Lazily, the German inclined his head toward the luggage rack. “Valise,” he said softly.

Casson’s hands were shaking so badly he had a hard time getting his suitcase down from the luggage rack. The Germans waited, the heavy-faced one taking a second look at his papers and making a casual remark to his colleague. Casson recognized only one word-Guske. As in, It’s Guske who signed the travel permit, the dossier must be handled in his office. The response was brief, neutral- and something more. Respectful? As in, Well, sometimes you come across these things.

The officer turned on the lamps in the compartment. Whatever was caught in Casson’s chest now swelled, and made it hard to breathe. He fumbled with the lock, finally laying the suitcase open on the seat. It looked harmless enough; two shirts, side by side, one of them fresh from the blanchisserie, the other worn, then folded for packing. There was a nice leather case that held razor and shaving soap. Socks, shorts. The copy of Bel Ami that he’d meant to read on the train.

The heavy-faced officer picked up the book. Held it by the spine and shook it, a slip of paper used as a bookmark fell out and drifted to the floor. Next he felt the front and back covers, riffled the pages, worked a finger down between the spine and the binding and ripped it off, holding it up to the light, checking one side, then the other, then tossing it and the book onto the seat. He reached over, lifted one corner of a shirt, saw nothing very interesting beneath it-a newspaper, perhaps-and dropped it back into place.

They handed Casson back his identity papers and left. He heard them-opening the next door in the passageway, shouting orders- as though they were men in a dream. Very slowly, he slid the papers back into the inside pocket of his jacket. Next to the envelope. His fingers rested on the envelope for a moment. What they would have done to me.

In the dining car, the second seating, 10:30. The only light, flickering candles on the white tablecloths. The woman in the tweed suit was shown to his table. “Monsieur, I hope you don’t mind.” No, not at all, he was glad for the company. The waiter brought a bottle of wine, cold vegetable salad with an oily mayonnaise, nameless fish in railroad sauce-to Casson it barely mattered.

“I am called Marie-Noelle,” she said. “Meeting on a train, you see, we don’t have to wait ten years for first names.”

He smiled, introduced himself. He would be happy to call her Marie-Noelle, but he did wonder what the rest might be.

She sighed-it always came to this. There was, she confessed, “a thoroughly disreputable person sometimes addressed as Lady Marensohn,” but it wasn’t really her. The title was by marriage-a husband who had died long ago, something in the small nobility of Sweden, a diplomat of minor status. “Terribly concerned with jute,” she said grimly. “Morning and night.” She herself had been born into a family called de Vlaq, from the Dutch-Belgian border, “even smaller nobility, if that’s possible,” and grown up on family estates in Luxembourg-“they called it wine, but, you know, really …”

She smoked passionately-Gitane followed Gitane, lit with strong fingers stained yellow by nicotine-and laughed constantly, a laugh that usually ended in a cough. “To hell with everything,” she said, “that’s what it says on my family crest. Citizen of the evening, resident of Paris since time began, and the only nobility I acknowledge is in good works for friends.”

A German officer covered with medals moved down the aisle between tables, his girlfriend followed along behind, vividly rouged and lipsticked, wearing a tight cap of glossy black feathers. When they’d gone by, Marie- Noelle made a face.

“Don’t care for them?” Casson said.

“Not much.”

“But you can leave, can’t you?”

She shrugged. “Yes. Maybe I will, but, where to go?” “Sweden?”

“Brr.”