table, bare rose canes climbing up through the trellis. The frozen air made the sky black and the stars white and sharp. When she started to tremble, Morath stood behind her and wrapped her in his arms. “I love you, Nicholas,” she said.
INTERMARIUM
10 March 1939.
Crossing the Pont Royal on his way to lunch, late, unhurried, he stopped and leaned on the stone parapet. The river ran full and heavy, its color like shining slate, its surface roughed up by the March wind and the spring currents. In the western sky, white scud blew in from the channel ports.
He looked at his watch-Polanyi would be waiting for him-was there any way to avoid this? From here the Seine flowed north, to Rouen, to Normandy, to the sea.
No, lunch.
Thirty minutes later, the Brasserie Heininger. A white marble staircase climbed to a room of red plush banquettes, painted cupids, gold cords on the draperies. Waiters in muttonchop whiskers ran back and forth, carrying silver trays of pink langoustes. Morath was relieved. No more Prevert, “the beauty of sinister things,” the Count von Polanyi de Nemeszvar had apparently risen from the lower depths, tempted by sumptuous food and a wine list bound in leather.
Polanyi greeted him formally in Hungarian and stood to shake hands.
“I’m sorry to be late.”
A bottle of Echezeaux was open on the table, a waiter scurried over and poured Morath a glass. He took a sip and stared at the mirrored panel above the banquette. Polanyi followed his eyes.
“Don’t look now, but there’s a bullet hole in the mirror behind you,” Morath said.
“Yes. The infamous Table Fourteen, this place has a history.”
“Really?”
“Two years ago, I think. The headwaiter was assassinated while sitting on the toilet in the ladies’ bathroom.”
“Well he won’t do
“With a machine gun, it’s said. Something to do with Bulgarian politics.”
“Oh. And in his memory …”
“Yes. Also, the story goes, some kind of British spymistress used to hold court here.”
“At this very table.”
The waiter returned, Polanyi ordered mussels and a
“What’s ‘
“They cook the sauerkraut in champagne instead of beer.”
“You can taste the champagne? In sauerkraut?”
“An illusion. But one likes the idea of it.”
Morath ordered
“Have you heard what’s happened at the French air ministry?” Polanyi said.
“Now what.”
“Well first of all, they let a contract for building fighter planes to a furniture manufacturer.”
“Somebody’s brother-in-law.”
“Probably. And then, they decided to store their secret papers at a testing facility just outside Paris. Stored them in a disused wind tunnel. Only they forgot to tell the technicians, who turned the thing on and blew the papers all over the neighborhood.”
Morath shook his head; there was a time when it would have been funny. “They’ll have Adolf in the Elysee Palace, if they don’t watch out.”
“Not in our lifetime,” Polanyi said, finishing off his wine and refilling the glass. “We think Adolf is about to make a mistake.”
“Which is?”
“Poland. Lately he’s been screaming about Danzig-‘is German, has always been German, will always be German.’ His radio station tells Germans in the city to ‘keep a list of your enemies, soon the German army will help you to punish them.’ So what must happen now is a pact, between the Poles, the Roumanians, and us-the Yugoslavs can join if they like. The Intermarium, so-called, the lands between the seas, the Baltic and the Adriatic. Together, we’re strong. Poland has the largest land army in Europe, and we can deny Hitler Roumanian wheat and oil. If we can make him back down, call his bluff, that will be the end of him.”
Polanyi saw that Morath was skeptical. “I know, I know,” he said. “Ancient hatreds and territorial disputes and all the rest of it. But, if we don’t do something, we’ll all go the way of the Czechs.”
The lunch arrived, the waiter announcing each dish as he set it down.
“And what does Horthy think about all this?”
“Supports it. Perhaps you know the background of political events in February, perhaps you don’t. Officially, Imredy resigned and Count Teleki became the prime minister. In fact, Horthy was told that a Budapest newspaper was about to publish proof, obtained in Czechoslovakia, that Dr. Bela Imredy, the rabid anti-Semite, was Jewish. Had, at least, a Jewish great-grandfather. So Imredy didn’t jump, he was pushed. And, when he resigned, Horthy chose to replace him with Teleki, an internationally prominent geographer and a liberal. Which means Horthy supports at least some resistance to German objectives as the best means of keeping Hungary out of another war.”
“With Great Britain and France. And, sooner or later, America. We’ll surely win that one.”
“You forgot Russia,” Polanyi said. “How’s your chicken?”
“Very good.”
Polanyi took a moment, using a knife to pile a small mound of sauerkraut atop a bite of frankfurter on his fork, then added a dab of mustard. “You don’t mind the Poles, do you, Nicholas?”
“Not at all.”
“Lovely countryside. And the mountains, the Tatra, sublime. Especially this time of year.”
“So it’s said.”
“Nicholas!”
“Yes?”
“Can it be possible that you’ve never been there? To the majestic Tatra?”
A memorandum on his desk at the Agence Courtmain requested that he have a look at the file on Betravix, a nerve tonic made of beets. And there he found a postcard of a wild-eyed Zeus, beard blown sideways by a thundercloud above his head, about to ravish an extraordinarily pink and naked Hera he’d got hold of by the foot. On the back of the card, a drawing, in red crayon, of a heart pierced by an exclamation point.
He sat through a meeting with Courtmain, then, back in his office, found a second message, this one scrawled on a slip of paper:
He walked down the hall to her office, a glassed-in cubicle by a window. “I liked your card,” he said. “Is this the sort of thing that goes on when you take Betravix?”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” The late afternoon sun slanted in on her hair. “Did you get your telephone message?”
“I did. Who’s Ilya?”
“A friend, he said. He wants you to meet him.” She thumbed through a stack of notes on her desk. “For a drink. At the cafe on rue Maubeuge, across from the Gare du Nord. At six-fifteen.”
