The World at Night

Marie-Noelle nodded. “Yes, probably you did. It was my job, on the train, to find out who you were. As far as I can tell, you were drawn in, used. The people I work for, on the other hand …”

She paused a moment, she wanted to be accurate. “The people I work for,” she said. “You have to understand, Britain is living on the edge of a cliff-and these people were never very nice people in the first place. Now the issue is survival, national survival. So they are, even more-difficult. Cold. Not interested in motive-words don’t matter, what matters is what’s done. So, perhaps, they feel it isn’t over between you and them. Because if you sat down and joined, knowingly, with Simic, what, frankly would be different in your explanation? You’d say exactly what you’ve said.”

Casson thought about it for a time, to see how that wasn’t actually the case, but it was. “What can I do?” he said.

“Go back home, Monsieur Casson. Live your life. Hope for British success in 1941, and German failure. If that happens, there is every possibility that, for you, life will simply go back to being what it always was.”

NEW FRIENDS

Friday night, 6 March, we’re having a cocktail americain, 5 to 8. Please come, Jean-Claude, it’ s been forever since we”ve seen you.

Casson stood in Marie-Claire’s living room, talking to Charles Arnaud, the lawyer. Everyone in the room was standing-one didn’t sit down at a cocktail Americain. Casson sipped at his drink. “A cuba libre, they called it. It has rum in it.”

Arnaud rapped a knuckle twice against his temple and made a knocking noise with his tongue. It meant strong drink, and a headache in the morning. Casson offered a sour smile in agreement. “Always the latest thing, with Bruno,” he said.

“Have I seen you since I came back from Belgrade?” Arnaud said.

“No. How was it?”

Arnaud grinned. He had the face, and the white teeth, of a matinee idol, and when he smiled he looked like a crocodile in a cartoon. “Bizarre,” he said. “A visit for a week, a month of stories. At least. I went down there for a client, to buy a boatload of sponges, impounded in Dubrovnik harbor under a Yugoslav tax lien. Actually, at that point, I’d become a part owner.” Arnaud was even less a conventional lawyer than Langlade-had for years been retained by shipping companies, but had a knack for becoming a principal, briefly, in crisis situations where a lot of money moved very quickly.

“I always stay at the Srbski Kralj. You know it?“ Arnard said.

“I don’t.”

“King of Serbia, it means. Best hotel in town, wonderful food, if you can eat red peppers, and they’ll send girls up all night. The bartender is a pimp, also a marriage broker-something interesting there if you think about it. Anyhow, what I have to do down there is clear, I have to hand over a certain number of dinar, about half the bill, directly to the tax collector, then they’ll let the ship go, the sponges belong to us, and we know some people who buy sponges. Takes all kinds, right? So, I’m waiting around in the bar one night-these things take the most incredible amount of time to arrange-and I start talking to this fellow. You have to put this in a movie, Jean-Claude-he’s, mmm, enormous, heaven only knows what he weighs, shaved head, mustache like a Turkish wrestler. A munitions dealer, won’t say exactly where he’s from, only that he’s a citizen of Canada, in legal terms, and would love to go there some day.”

Casson smiled, things happened to Arnaud.

“But, what really struck me about this man was, he was wearing an extraordinary suit. Some kind of Balkan homespun material, a shimmering green, the color of a lime. Vast, even on him, a tent. On his feet? Bright yellow shoes-also enormous. He could barely walk. ‘Pity me,’ he says, ‘looking like I do. An hour ago I met with Prince Paul, the leader of Yugoslavia, on the most urgent matters.’

“And then he explains. A day earlier he’d been in Istanbul, closing a deal for Oerlikons, Swedish antiaircraft cannon, with the Turkish navy. Now he’s done with that, and he has to get to Belgrade, but the choice of airlines isn’t very appetizing, so he books a compartment on the Orient Express, Istanbul to Belgrade, should arrive just in time for his meeting. That night he goes to the dining car, sits across the table from a Hungarian actress-she says. A stunner, flaming red hair, eyes like fire. They drink, they talk, she invites him to come to her compartment. So, about ten o’clock our merchant, wearing red pajamas and bathrobe, goes to the next sleeping car and knocks on the lady’s door. Well, he says, it’s even better than advertised, and they make a night of it. He gets up at six the next morning, kisses her hand, and heads back to his room. Opens the door at the end of the car, and what do you think he sees?”

“I don’t know. His, ah, his wife’s mother.”

“Oh no. He sees track. The train had been divided into two sections at the Turkish border, and now his wallet, his money, his passport, and his suitcase are heading for Germany-where he does not want them to go-and he’s off to see Prince Paul in red pajamas. Well, the next stop is in Bulgaria, Sofia, and he gets off. In the station he manages to borrow a coin, and telephones his Bulgarian representative. ‘Buy me a suit!’ he says. ‘The biggest suit in Sofia! And get down to the railroad station in a hurry!’ Also a shirt, and a pair of shoes. Pretty soon the agent shows up and there’s the boss, all three hundred pounds of him, sitting on a bench, surrounded by a crowd of curious Bulgarians. The fellow puts on the suit, drives to the Canadian legation, demands they call the next station, have the baggage taken off the train before it reaches Germany, and have it put on the next train to Belgrade.

“And they did it.”

“He said they did. But he had his meeting in the big suit.”

“The Balkans,” Casson said. “Somehow it’s always-did you ever meet the man who ate the Sunday paper?”

“Savovic! Yes. He ate also a Latin grammar, and a fez.” Veronique, Marie-Claire’s sister who bought costume jewelry for the Galeries Lafayette, came over with a German officer on her arm. “You two are having a good time,” she said. “I would like to present Oberleutnant Hempel.”

“Enchante,” Hempel said.

“Oberleutnant Hempel is in transport.”

Hempel laughed. He seemed a good-natured man, quite heavy, with thick glasses. “My friend Bruno and me, we are in the automobile business.” His French was ghastly and slow, a comma after every word. “Every kind of automobile, we got garages full of them, out in Levallois.”

Casson smiled politely. Was he going to be offered an opportunity to buy his own car back from Bruno and the Germans? Bruno already had the apartment and the wife-not that Casson begrudged him the latter-but having the car as well seemed excessive.

Arnaud never stopped smiling. One had a few friends, but mostly people were meant to be used, one way or another, and if you weren’t born knowing that you had better learn it somewhere along the way. He nodded encouragement as Hempel spoke, yes, that’s right, even said a few words in return, the Horch, the Audi, Bavarian Motor Works. Now he had a lifelong friend. “Ja! Ja!” the officer said. He was sweating with gratitude. Veronique chose that moment to escape, smiling and backing away. Arnaud caught Casson’s eye-glanced up at the ceiling. Quel cul.

Casson drank some more of the cuba libre. He’d be taking off his clothes and dancing on the table in no time at all. Ole! This was his third concoction and it was getting him good and drunk, perhaps that was acceptable at a real American cocktail party, but not in Passy. Still, maybe it didn’t matter. Hempel laughed at something Arnaud said. Casson looked closer. Had he actually understood the joke? No-a German stage laugh. Very hearty. And this idiot had his car.

A hand took his elbow in a hard grip. “Come with me,” Marie-Claire hissed in his ear. He smiled and shrugged as he was towed away. They wound their way through the chattering crowd in the smoky living room, around the corner, into the bedroom-a kidding tiens! from Casson, Marie-Claire whispering “I have to talk to you.” She hauled him into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind them. He peered around drunkenly. This had once been his, he’d shaved here every morning.