She yawned again, rolled over on her stomach, closed her eyes.
From the ballroom, far below them, Serebin could hear the orchestra playing a waltz.
14 January. It was just after eleven when they walked through the lobby, on their way back to work. From the corner of his eye Serebin saw an assistant manager, forefinger held stiff in the air, coming toward him, trying to get his attention. He was a tiny man, unsmiling and formal, who wore a gray cravat with a pearl pin and a boutonniere in his lapel, a pink tea rose that morning. “Monsieur Marchais? A moment, please, monsieur, if I may?”
The request had a certain pitch to it, an undertone of discretion, which meant, in the mysterious alchemy of hotel protocol, that what he had to say was for Serebin’s ears alone. Madame Marchais, the dutiful French wife, continued on her way to the door, while the assistant manager leaned close to Serebin, his voice infinitely confidential.
“Monsieur, your, ah, friend-she did not leave her name,” he paused for a delicate clearing of the throat, “telephoned last night. Rather late. She did sound terribly, distressed, if you’ll forgive me, and asked that you call her as soon as you can. She left a telephone number for you.”
The man pressed a slip of paper in Serebin’s hand. “It seemed quite urgent, monsieur.” Your slut is pregnant, now show some gratitude.
Which Serebin, magnanimously, did.
Well, would that there had been a slut, he thought later, and the problem the little problem.
They hurried to the Lipscani house and Serebin called the number. A woman answered-a cultured voice, but very frightened. “I am a friend of the colonel,” she said. “Of the family, you understand?”
He said, “Yes.” Then mouthed the name Maniu to Marie-Galante.
“They’ve left the country.”
“Why?”
“They had to. He was betrayed. Something about people he used to work with.”
“Did he say what happened?”
“A little. He approached the wrong person.”
“And?”
“They were almost arrested. But they got away, with the clothes on their backs.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“Over the border. I am to tell you that he regrets what happened, that he is sorry. Also, that he wants an old friend to know. You understand this?”
“Yes.”
“He said, ‘A visa for England.’”
“We will do what we can, but we’ll have to know where he is.”
She thought about it. “This is all I can do,” she said.
“Of course. I understand.”
Her voice wavered. “I would do more, I would do anything, everything, but I cannot. I must not. Other people could suffer.”
“You have to do what’s right.”
“I can explain…”
“No, don’t. Better that you don’t.”
“All right, it’s finished.”
“It never happened.”
“Then, good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
“I wish you success. I don’t know anything, but I wish you success.”
“Thank you,” Serebin said.
He hung up, then repeated the conversation for Marie-Galante.
“ Merde, ” she said. “At least they got away.”
“How would he get a visa?”
“We tell Polanyi, he tells the people he’s working with in London. The British legations are informed, and they-Lisbon, Madrid-wait for him to show up. That is, if the British are willing to take him.”
“Is it possible they won’t?”
“Yes, sad to say.”
“How could that be?”
“Can be, often is. Nature of the world,” she said. “That world.”
They returned to the Athenee Palace at four. Troucelle called from the lobby. He happened to be passing by. He wondered how they were doing. Serebin said they’d be down in a few minutes.
Marie-Galante sat in a chair, put her face in her hands.
“Are you all right?”
“Tired,” she said. She looked up at him. “Well, there it goes. What is it, fourteen days? Maybe that’s good, I don’t know. These things always come apart. If they’re built slowly, carefully, they can last a long time. If not, the roof falls in.”
“Escape through the kitchen?”
She shook her head. “Laurel and Hardy. No, we’ll find out what he wants. Let it just be money.”
“Will we be arrested?”
“Always a possibility, but not like this, this is a probe. I think we’ll have coffee. Very civilized. Don’t make it easy for him, but let him know we’re prepared to listen to a proposition.”
“We don’t have that much, do we?”
That didn’t worry her. “Cable to Istanbul.”
“What do we offer?”
“A year’s money, maybe. Not a lifetime-that makes us too important. In American dollars, say, five thousand. Twenty-five thousand Swiss francs.”
Downstairs, a table in the green salon. Turkish coffee in little cups without handles, cream cakes, toast with butter, Moldavian roll. Outside, beyond the mirrored walls, twilight on a winter afternoon.
Troucelle sprang to his feet when he saw them coming. Under pressure, he was a caricature of himself-too bright, too clever, his smile radiant. “Allow me to present Domnul Petrescu,” he said. The name Petrescu was the Roumanian version of Smith or Jones, the man who stood beside him somebody he would never have known. Pencil mustache, bad teeth, olive green loden jacket.
“So pleased to meet the friends of Jean Paul,” he said. Serebin thought he saw at least one more of them, sitting in a wing chair in the far corner, reading a newspaper.
“Domnul Petrescu is a devotee of the peasant crafts,” Troucelle said. He already regretted what he’d done, Serebin thought. There was a bead of sweat at his hairline, he wiped it away with his thumb.
“It’s your interest?” Petrescu said.
“Our business,” Marie-Galante said.
Petrescu looked at her a certain way. With anticipation. If things went right…Reluctantly, he turned his attention to Serebin. “You are born in France?” Then, an afterthought, “Monsieur?”
“In Russia.”
Marie-Galante put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee, stirred it around, then took a sip.
“Where was that?”
“St. Petersburg. I left as a child.”
“So, you’re a Russian.”
“In Paris a long time,” Serebin said.
“Marchais is a Russian name?”
“Markov, domnul. My father changed it.”
“Your father.”
“A grand old gentleman,” Marie-Galante said. “A poet,” she added, admiration in her voice.
“Of course, once he came to France he had to work in a factory,” Serebin said. “At a lathe.”
“And you, domnul?” Marie-Galante said.
