The World at Night

who lived in a rented room and spied on Jean Casson. So, he thought, is it you-in your tuxedo? Or you, a clerk on the way home? Or you, the lovers embracing on the bridge. He hurried along, head down, through the rainy streets, through the fog that pooled at the base of the park railings. He trotted down the Metro stairs, left at the other end of the platform, reversed direction, doubled back, at last sensed he was unobserved and headed toward the river.

Chez Clement-the little sign gold on green, faded pastel and flaked by time and weather. At the end of a tiny street where nobody went, steamed glass window, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dinnerware faintly heard. Inside the door, the smell of potatoes fried in butter every night since 1890. Clement came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Face scarlet, mustache immense, apron tied at one shoulder. “Monsieur Casson.” It was like being hugged by a wine-drenched onion. How infernally clever, Clement told him, to stop by this evening, all day long they’d been working, at the stove, in the pots, what luck they’d had, one never saw this any more, perhaps the last-

No, alas, not tonight, he couldn’t. Casson inclined his head toward the cloakroom and said delicately, “Le telephone?”

Not a telephone, the telephone. The one Clement made available to his most cherished customers. Clement smiled, of course. The heart had reasons of its own, they had to be honored, sometimes not at home.

He reached the hotel in Lyons. Madame was out.

Was there a message?

No.

12 April. 11:20 A.M.

The rain continued, soft cloudy days, nobody minded. Casson walked down the Champs-Elysees, turned right on avenue Marceau, a few minutes later leaned on the parapet of the Pont d’Alma, looking down into the Seine. A blonde woman walked by; lovely, wearing a yellow raincoat. On the banks, rain beaded along the branches of the chestnut trees and dripped onto the cobblestones. The river had risen to spring tide, lead-colored water curling around the piers of the bridges, crosscurrents black on gray, shoals catching the light, rain dappling the surface, going to Normandy, then to sea. Just a boat, he thought. How hard would it be? Magic, a child’s dream. Carried away to safety on a secret barge.

Casson looked at his watch, lit a cigarette, leaned his weight on the parapet. He could see, at one end of the bridge, a newspaper kiosk- an important day, the headlines thick and black. German planes had set Belgrade on fire, armored columns had entered Zagreb, Skopje had been taken, soon the rest of Macedonia, and the Panzerkorps was driving hard on Salonika.

He crossed to the Left Bank, entered the post office on the avenue Bosquet. It was crowded, people in damp coats standing on line, smoking and grinding out their cigarettes on the wet tile floor. He waited for a long time, finally reached the counter, gave the clerk a telephone number, went to the cabine and waited for the short ring.

“Hotel du Parc.” The voice sounded very far away. “Hello? Are you there?”

Casson gave the name.

“Stay on the line.” The sound of the receiver being set down on a wooden countertop.

He waited. In the next cabine a woman was shouting at some relative somewhere in France. Where was the money, they were supposed to send it, it should have come days ago, no she didn’t want to hear about the problem.

The clerk picked the receiver up. “She’s coming now.” Then: “Hello?”

“Hello.”

A pause. “It’s you.”

“Yes.”

“I had to leave.”

“Yes, I know. How is Lyons?”

“Not so bad. I’m in a play.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A small part.”

“What sort of play?”

“A little comedy. Nothing much.”

“You sound good.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

The line hummed softly.

“Citrine, I wrote you a letter.”

“Where is it?”

“It went to the other hotel, but it came back. The woman there told me where you were.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s a love letter.”

“Ah.”

“No, really.”

“I wonder if I might read it, then.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll send it along-I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“The mail isn’t very good, these days.”

“No, that’s true.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you were to bring it.”

“Yes. You’re right. Citrine?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“When can you come here?”

“As soon as I can.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll let you know when.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I have to say good-bye.”

“Yes. Until then.”

“Until then.”

16 April, 1941.

Now the trees had little leaves and clouds of soft air rolled down the boulevards at dusk and people swore they could smell the fields in the countryside north of the city. Casson bought a train ticket, and made an appointment at the rue des Saussaies to get an Ausweis to leave the occupied zone and cross over to the area controlled by Vichy.

A warm day, the girls were out. Nothing better than Frenchwomen, he thought. Even with rationing, they insisted on spring-new scarves, cut from last year’s whatever, a little hat, made from a piece of felt somebody had left in a closet, something, at least something, to say that love was your reward for agreeing to live another day and walk around in the world.

On the top floor of the old Interior Ministry building, even SS-OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER Guske knew it was spring. He came around the desk to shake hands, as tanned and well-oiled as ever, every one of his forty hairs in its proper place, a big leathery smile. Then, with a sigh, he got down to business. Made himself comfortable in his chair and studied the dossier before him, a sort of now where were we feeling in the air. “Ah yes,” he said. “You went last to Spain to see about locations for a film. So, how did it go for you?”

“Very well. One or two villages were, I can say, perfect. Extremely Spanish. The church and the tile roofs, and the little whitewashed houses.”

“Indeed! You’re making me want to go.”