“A fire in a storage shed owned by a steamship company.”
“And what will you do, precisely?”
“I will obtain the reports of the police and fire inspectors, will interview the client’s representative, visit the site of the event, then make a determination as to the extent of the damage, and write a report for the central office with my recommendations.”
“Where is that office?”
“22, rue de La Boetie. In the 8th Arrondissement.”
“And your supervisor?”
“Monsieur Labatier.”
“And your address?”
“I live at 8, rue Fortuny.”
As Casson talked, the official made notes with a scratchy pen he dipped in an inkwell. “Please step outside, monsieur,” he said.
Casson did as he was told. The official, in plain view, picked up the telephone on his desk, dialed the operator, requested a number, and waited for the connection. Casson could not hear the conversation, but he guessed that a call to another region probably meant Paris, and almost certainly the prefecture-who else did business on the telephone at that time of the morning? The call went through almost immediately, and the official began reading off information.
He glanced up at Casson, back to the paper, then again.
Behind Casson, in the empty station, a flight of birds took off, he could hear the beating of their wings.
“You will return, monsieur.”
He went back into the little room, closing the door behind him. The official picked up the telephone, and dialed two numbers. “Lieutenant, please station somebody outside my door.” Next, he reread what he’d written, underlining notes he’d taken during his interrogation of Casson and others made during the telephone call. When he was satisfied he had everything he needed, he looked up at Casson, checked the identity card one last time, then tossed it aside.
“Fake,” he said. “The documents don’t check out with the Paris registry.”
Casson looked puzzled. “How can that be?”
“You tell me.”
Casson shrugged, amused by his own confusion. “Well…” for a moment, no idea what to say. “I don’t know- the spelling of the name, maybe.”
“There’s a possibility you and I can work this out right here, and you can go wherever you’re going, but you have to tell me everything. If you do, I might, might, be able to help you.”
Casson shook his head. “A fault in the records? I don’t have any idea what it could be.”
The official stared at him. Casson waited.
Thirty seconds, an eternity of silence. The official slid the permits inside the folded identity card and pushed it back across the desk. Casson hesitated, unsure of himself, what was going on? Finally he took the card and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“You may go,” the official said, pure hatred in his eyes.
He rose and left the room.
There was, in fact, a soldier stationed by the door. Casson walked across the platform and stood staring at the empty track. Looking around, he saw that the ticket window was shuttered. A baggage porter trudged past, pushing a two-wheeled cart piled with trunks and suitcases.
“The next train for Marseilles?” Casson said.
The man stopped, lowered the cart, pressed his hand against the small of his back. “Marseilles?”
“Yes.”
“At noon, monsieur. If it’s on time.”
“Thank you,” Casson said. “Cold, this morning.”
“Yes. My wife says it will snow.”
The man thrust his weight against the baggage cart until it started moving. Casson sat on a bench and settled down to wait. Suddenly he was grateful for the whole pirate ship of characters his life had stirred up- lawyers, studio executives, actors’ agents. Forgive me, my friend, he thought, but I have been down that road too many times.
January in Marseilles. Gray cloud scudding in from the sea and a cold rain that dripped from the eucalyptus trees. In the Old Port, oil tankers and fishing boats rose on the swell. Casson took a trolley that swayed and clattered along the Corniche, then he climbed an endless staircase to a nest of winding streets where he found Le Pension Welcome. The old ladies who ran the place fussed over him-a wretched day, so cold, so triste. They took him to his room, damp as a dungeon with a view of the sea. Citrine, in these places, would say, “Ah, but cool in summer.” He took off his clothes, washed at the sink, rolled up in a blanket, was glad to be alive.
A day later, a message was delivered to the hotel. He took a taxi for a half-hour ride to the village of Cassis. They worked their way up a winding road into the hills above the town, to a villa called La Rosette-the driver had to get out and ask directions along the way.
Degrave met him at the door, wearing a blazer and flannels and looking very much the country squire. Madame Degrave was waiting for him in the hallway, calling to the maid to get him a kir vin blanc. Casson remembered what Helene had said about her- “mean as a snake,” according to Degrave’s girlfriend-but what a snake. Casson was impressed and she knew it. Golden hair turning coppery as she crossed forty, swept around her ears just above the pearl earrings. A thin, twitchy little nose, and the smile they taught in the rich girls’ academies. She gave him her hand when Degrave introduced them, dry and fragile and cooperative.
They’d had the villa for years, Degrave explained later, and when the Germans occupied the northern part of the country and the office moved to Vichy, they’d found it prudent to leave the house in the Chevreuse, just outside Paris, for the time being. When Vasilis had specified delivery in Marseilles-well, one should profit from coincidence.
Casson agreed. Only, washing his hands in the bathroom, staring into the mirror-mustache, glasses, all the rest of it-he hated playing the shabby little man. Because, for the moment, he was back in the 16th. Not really the same crowd, of course, but an outsider wouldn’t have known the difference.
A dinner party. Monsieur and Madame this, Monsieur and Madame the other. One was the local something, another a former diplomat, somebody else painted divinely. There was a macedoine of vegetables and mayonnaise to start, Bellet to drink-one bottle followed another. To clear his head, Casson excused himself and stepped outside. A small swimming pool, a hedge of evergreen shrubs dripping rain, and, beyond, the dark sea.
He wondered if she would show up. Not that he would do anything, Degrave was his friend. He was just curious. It wasn’t hard to figure out what went on with Degrave and his wife. He had sinned and was not forgiven. What sin? Simply, he had failed to rise. He was not Colonel Degrave and he never would be. Too aloof, too independent for his own good and, in his way, an idealist. His rich wife was disappointed, she made that clear, whenever she felt like it, and Degrave had a girlfriend to make him feel better.
He could see the dining room through the window. Madame, a silhouette in candlelight, got up to do something and glanced out the window. Casson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Down below somewhere, the sea broke on a rocky beach. He threw the cigarette away and went back inside.
As he sat down at the table, she smiled, omniscient and amused. The woman on his left leaned close to him. “So, Monsieur Marin, what are they talking about, up in Paris?”
Degrave filled his glass from the new bottle. “They’re cold,” Casson said, “and miserable, and tired of waiting for it all to go away.”
A plate appeared in front of him, a slice of veal roast and a square of meat jelly, two potatoes, and a mound of those pale little canned peas the French secretly adored.
From the former diplomat: “Yes? And de Gaulle? What will he do about it?”
“Oh, that man!”
“Pompous ass.”
“How does it go-‘He has the character of a stubborn pig-but at least he has character.’ ”
“Well, I agree with the first part.”
“Who said that?”
