bicycle lay on its side, a sack had split, spilling onions. A few feet away, Leon was pointing his automatic at the van and pulling the trigger.
In the front seat of the van the Wehrmacht driver looked dazed. Szapera drew the revolver from his belt, pointed it at the driver, and shouted for him to open the door. The man didn’t move. Szapera pulled the trigger, nothing happened. He released the safety and fired again, this time the glass in front of the driver’s face turned to frost and Szapera couldn’t see anything. He suddenly remembered the hand grenade, realized he didn’t have it.
The escort car that had been trailing the armored van finally managed to wind its way through the stalled traffic and skidded to a stop about fifty feet away. A Wehrmacht sergeant rolled down the passenger window, rested a machine pistol on the door frame, aimed carefully, then fired a long burst. A bullet went through Kohn and hit Szapera in the lower back, knocking him on his face. From there, he saw Eva stagger out of the car, revolver in hand. A second burst, the gun flew away, Eva fell in the road.
Szapera started to crawl toward the van-he would kill the guard, start the motor, and ram the escort. Then he saw Leon, running at the escort car with the hand grenade. Szapera heard shots, Leon almost fell, but regained his balance. There was blood on his neck and he clapped his free hand over it as he ran, staying low, in a kind of comic crouch. The dirt in front of him sprayed up as the gun fired. He jerked backward once, then sprinted to the car and jumped through the open window. An instant later, a yellow flash, the doors buckled out and black smoke poured from both sides of the car. A Wehrmacht officer appeared, walking slowly, like a man hypnotized. Five, six steps. He stopped, sat down carefully in the road, and toppled over.
Szapera managed to get to his feet. His back was wet. He reached around, saw blood on his hand. He went to Eva, who was lying facedown, and carefully rolled her over. Her eyes were wide open and she was dead. He stared at her, could not look away.
The sound of approaching sirens startled him. He looked around for Kohn, but he had disappeared. He started running. A man in a suit jumped out of the back of the van and started chasing him. Szapera shot at him, he turned around and ran the other way.
Away from the road. He saw an alley, followed it to the end, and emerged on a village street. To his left, a sign: BOUCHERIE CHEVA-LINE, and a gold horse’s head. Szapera lurched into the shop. He was out of breath, chest heaving. The butcher ran out from behind the counter with a long, thin knife in his hand. He was a big man and bright red, Szapera could see that he was trembling. “What do you want?” He was shouting, clearly terrified. He had heard the crash and the gunfire, now the sirens were closing in.
“Help me,” Szapera said. He fell sideways against the counter, then slid to the floor.
The butcher cursed, threw the knife on the cutting block, wiped his hand on his spattered apron. He grabbed Szapera under the arms and dragged him toward the door.
A woman at the cashier desk cried out, “Put him in the back!”
“No,” the butcher yelled. “Not in the shop.”
“Then upstairs.”
“Ach,” the butcher said, infuriated. He took Szapera around the waist and heaved him onto his shoulder. Outside, a woman screamed, somebody ran past. They turned into a doorway, went up a staircase. The stairs seemed endless; four flights, five. The butcher wheezed as he tried to breathe, the rasping louder and louder as he climbed. At last they entered an attic-darkness, furniture, dust, and cobwebs. The butcher was gasping. He stopped, pressed a hand to his heart. “Salaud,” he growled. “You’ll kill me with this prank.”
He looked around, found an old armoire, set Szapera down inside it, then closed the doors. “Now be quiet,” he hissed. Szapera heard him leave, the whole room shook as he ran off. A door slammed. Then it was silent, and very dark. Szapera shut his eyes. He saw a spinning circle of golden dots, then nothing.
AUTUMN RAINS
What has become of the adventures of the heart? Killed by the dark adventures of existence.
Paris. 4 November.
At dawn, a few snowflakes drifted past the window of the Hotel Benoit. In the park across the street, piles of wet leaves had mounded up against the trunks of the chestnut trees. Casson stared out at the gray sky, no point in going to bed now. On the table by the bed a Remarque novel, a battered copy he’d bought at a bouqiniste’s stall by the river. He had been reading for most of the night-late summer in Paris, war on the way, a doomed love affair.
He got dressed, hating the clothes he put on every day. Life without money, he thought, shuddering at the cold, damp shirt against his skin. Out in the street it was busy, a sharp wind moving people along. He trotted down the Metro steps, waited on the platform, and worked his way into a crowded car. Silent, nobody talked, just the rumble echoing off the tiled walls.
He got off in a nondescript district in the 15th. Just outside the exit, an arrest in progress. The Gestapo at work, he suspected. The men in suits, standing to one side, were Germans. They watched as French policemen led a line of men and women out of an apartment house, a long chain encircled their waists and they wore handcuffs. The Gestapo men were silent; speculative, watchful. It wasn’t quite so easy as it used to be, being German in Paris.
He found the building and pressed the outside buzzer but the concierge didn’t come. He had to wait for somebody to leave, then held the door, went inside, walked up three flights, and rang a doorbell.
“Casson! My God, of all the world.”
“Hello, Charne,” he said. They shook hands, then embraced. Charne was fat as an old bear, with long white hair that hung down the sides of his face like wings, and, as always, a cigarette with an inch of ash between his yellowed fingers. “Come in, come in,” he said.
They sat in the kitchen, by a little coal-burning stove. Charne had worked for him on three pictures. He was one of the best makeup people in Paris, steady and sure. “Are you doing anything?” Casson asked.
Charne shrugged. “A little. Now and then. Just to stay alive, you know.”
“You look well.”
“You also. I don’t hear your name, lately, I thought, maybe…”
“I’m-well, I don’t walk past police stations.”
From Charne, a laugh that ended in a cough. “Who does?”
“Actually,” Casson said, “it’s a little worse than that.”
Charne nodded, he understood.
“I need, I need to be out in the city. I need a disguise.”
“Ah-ha, la barbe!” The beard. Charne made a face and winked, the comic conspirator.
Casson laughed. “I know, but it’s serious.”
“Forgive me, Casson, but the idea of you in a wig, well.” He smiled at the idea. “That’s not the way, believe me. From time to time I used to have, what would you say, a private client. Once, even, a bank robber. A Belgian, or so he said. And what I said to him I’ll say to you: it’s done with small touches, as many as you can manage.”
Casson nodded.
“Come to the window.”
Charne studied his face in the light, turned it sideways, then back. “All right, then,” he said. “Grow a mustache, just a plain one will do. No muttonchops, no goatee. Some hair under the nose, to the edges of your lips, and if it comes in gray, so much the better. You can add a touch of color if it doesn’t. Go to the pharmacie, they’ll have something you can use. Then, let your hair grow, change the part, put it over on the other side. Wear a dark shirt, with a dark tie-you’d be surprised what that does, it changes your place in life, and that changes the way you look.”
