Kingdom of Shadows

They had two more. And two more after that. She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers.

An hour later, they’d had all of Fouquet they wanted and went off to find dinner. They tried Lucas Carton but it was complet and they didn’t have a reservation. Then they wandered along the rue Marbeuf, found a little place that smelled good, and ate soup and omelettes and Saint Marcellin.

They gossiped about the office. “I have to travel, now and then,” Morath said, “but I like the time I spend in the office, I like what we do-the clients, what they’re trying to sell.”

“It can take over your life.”

“That’s not so bad.”

She tore a piece of bread in half and put some crumbly Saint Marcellin on it. “I don’t mean to pry, but you said ‘the woman I used to live with.’ Is she no more?”

“She left, had to leave. Her father came all the way from Buenos Aires and took her away. He thought we’d be at war by now.”

She ate the bread and cheese. “Do you miss her?”

It took Morath a moment to answer. “Of course I do, we had a good time together.”

“Sometimes that’s the most important thing.”

Morath agreed.

“I lost my friend a year ago. Maybe Courtmain told you.”

“He didn’t, it’s mostly all business with us.”

“It was very sad. We’d lived together for three years-we were never going to get married, it wasn’t like that. But we were in love, most of the time. He was a musician, a guitarist, from a town near Chartres. Classically trained, but he got to playing in the jazz clubs up in Montparnasse and fell in love with the life. Drank too much, smoked opium with his friends, never went to bed until the sun rose. Then, one night, they found him dead in the street.”

“From opium?”

She spread her hands, who knows?

“I am sorry,” Morath said.

Her eyes were shining, she wiped them with a napkin.

They were silent in the taxi, going back to her apartment. She lived on the rue Guisarde, a quiet street in the back of the Sixth Arrondissement. He came around to her side of the cab, opened the door, and helped her out. Standing in the doorway, she raised her face for the good-night bisou on the cheek but it became a little more than that, then a lot, and it went on for a long time. It was very tender, her lips dry and soft, her skin warm beneath his hand. He waited in the doorway until he saw her light go on, then he went off down the street, heart pounding.

He was a long way from home but he wanted to walk. Too good to be true, he told himself. Because the light of day hit these things and they turned to dust. A folie, the French would say, an error of the heart.

He’d been very low since he came back to Paris. The days in Bistrita the cell, the railroad station-it didn’t go away. He woke up at night and thought about it. So he’d sought refuge, distraction, at the Agence Courtmain. And then, an office romance. Everybody was a little in love with Mary Day, why not him?

The streets were cold and dark, the wind hit him hard as he crossed the Pont Royal. On the boulevard, an empty taxi. Morath climbed in. Go back to her apartment? “The rue Richelieu,” he told the driver.

But the next morning, in the light of day, she was wearing a pale gray dress with buttons up the front and a belt that tied, a dress that showed her in a certain way and, when their eyes met for the first time, he knew.

So the letter waiting for him in his mailbox that night brought him down to earth in a hurry. Prefecture de Police, Quai du Marche Neuf, Paris 1^ier. The Monsieur was printed, on the form letter, the Morath, Nicholas written in ink. Would he please present himself at la salle 24 of the prefecture on le 8 Decembre, between the hours of 9 et 12 du matin.

Veuillez accepter, Monsieur, l’expression de nos sentiments distingues.

This happened, from time to time. The summons to the prefecture-a fact of life for every foreigner, a cold front in the bureaucratic weather of the city. Morath hated going there; the worn linoleum and green walls, the gloomy air of the place, the faces of the summoned, each one with its own particular combination of boredom and terror.

Room 24. That was not his usual room, good old 38, where resident foreigners with mild diplomatic connections were seen. What did that mean, he wondered, putting on his best blue suit.

It meant a serious inspector with a hard, square face and military bearing. Very formal, very correct, and very dangerous. He asked for Morath’s papers, made notations on a form. Asked if there had been any changes in his situation: residence, employment, marital status. Asked if he had recently traveled to Roumania.

Morath felt the thin ice. Yes, at the end of October.

Exactly where, in Roumania.

In the district of Cluj.

And?

That was all.

And, please, for what purpose?

For a social engagement.

Not for, business.

Non, monsieur l’inspecteur.

Very well, would he be so good as to wait in the reception?

Morath sat there, the lawyer part of his mind churning away. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Bastards.

Then the inspector, Morath’s papers in his hand. Thank you, monsieur, there will be no further questions. At this time. A long instant, then, “Vos papiers, monsieur.”

Polanyi looked like he hadn’t slept. Rolled his eyes when he heard the story. Lord, why me. They met that afternoon, in the office of an elegant shop on the rue de la Paix that sold men’s accessories. Polanyi spoke to the owner, exquisitely dressed and barbered, in Hungarian. “May we have the use of your office, Kovacs Uhr, for a little while?” The man nodded eagerly, wrung his hands, there was fear in his eyes. Morath didn’t like it.

“I don’t believe they will pursue this,” Polanyi said.

“Can they extradite me to Roumania?”

“They can, of course, but they won’t. A trial, the newspapers, that’s not what they want. Two things I would suggest to you: First of all, don’t worry about it; second of all, don’t go to Roumania.”

Morath stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray.

“Of course you are aware that relations between France and Roumania have always been important to both governments. French companies hold concessions in the Roumanian oil fields at Ploesti. So, you have to be careful.”

Polanyi paused for a moment, then said, “Now, as long as we’re here, I need to ask you a question. I have a letter from Hrubal, who wonders if I would find out from you what became of Vilmos, his chief groom, who never returned from escorting you to the Cluj railroad station.”

“Obviously they killed him.”

“Did they? Perhaps he simply ran away.”

“It’s possible. Does Hrubal know that his money vanished?”

“No. And he never will. I had to go to Voyschinkowsky who, without anything like a real explanation, agreed to make it good. So Prince Hrubal’s contribution to the national committee will be made in his name.”

Morath sighed. “Christ, it never ends,” he said.

“It’s the times we live in, Nicholas. Cold comfort, I know, but it’s been worse in the past. In any event, I don’t