different worlds, and it made anything beyond a liaison impossible. Yet that innocence, that carefree giving, had taken him prisoner. So many times they were together for the last time! What could he have done differently? What? And, the longer it went on, the harder it was to let go of it. Did Serebin see that? Did he understand?
The homme de confiance unburdened his heart, the scotch whiskey sank low in the bottle. Could it be stronger than vodka? Across the table, Jean Marc’s face grew blurred and soft, and Serebin found himself slightly dizzy, leaning hard on the table. Jean Marc drank right along with him, but maybe he was used to it. And if Serebin got a little drunk, so what? I am being murdered, he thought.
What?
Where had that come from? Madness, no? See what a life of secrecy does to you!
He stood up, gestured toward the door at the back of the cafe. A visit to the petit coin, the little room.
Once there, he caught himself looking around for a window. His head swam-what was he going to do? Climb out into the alley? Run off into the night?
When he came back out, Jean Marc wasn’t at the table. Serebin couldn’t believe he’d simply left. At the bar, maybe. No. At, for whatever reason, another table? No. Only the two Arab men, now playing dominoes. Nothing unusual about them-heavy and dark, in the slightly mismatched coats and trousers they all wore. Serebin stared a moment too long-one of them glanced up at him, then looked away.
“Did my friend leave?” he asked the proprietor.
“He said he was late,” the man told him. “To tell you he was sorry, but he had to be off.”
“Oh.”
“It’s all paid for.”
Well, no point in staying there by himself. Serebin said good night to the proprietor, then went out the door. Now where? He remembered the trouble he’d had finding the place-a maze of unfamiliar streets, this one went off at an angle, that one cut across the other. He should have paid attention, on the way, but he hadn’t. The Metro was this way? He wasn’t sure. As he walked to the corner-maybe the name of the street would jog his memory-he heard a door close, somewhere behind him. When he turned around, he saw the two men standing in front of the cafe, talking. Just two friends, out for the evening.
He started walking. In Paris, you always found a boulevard, sooner or later. Follow the boulevard and you would eventually come to a Metro station. Or, he thought, ask somebody. But there was no one to ask. It was probably very busy here during the day-the men who worked at the abattoirs, the local people. But not now. Everybody had gone home.
The rue Mourette. All right, we’ll take that.
The two men came along behind him. Headed for the Metro? Well, ask them. No. But they were walking a little faster than he was, not so much, just a little. So, give them time, let them catch up, and then he could ask them if they knew where the Metro was.
He’d seen knives, once or twice. One time in particular, in Madrid, during the civil war, he could never quite forget. It had been very sudden, when it happened, or he would have looked away. But, once you saw what you saw it was too late. The idea bothered him. Too easy to imagine, to imagine what went on, just at the moment, what it would feel like.
He could hear them, back there. Their steps. That’s how quiet it was. Run.
Couldn’t quite get himself to do that. Almost, but it seemed crazy, to take off down the street. Still, he could hear them. One of them talking, low and guttural. The other one laughed. At him? Because he’d speeded up? He came to a corner, now it was the rue Guzac. Ugly name. A bad street to die on. He looked up at the windows, but they were dark. Behind him, the conversation was louder.
He crossed the street, head down, hands in pockets, and headed back where he’d come from. Toward the cafe. Easy enough to see it, earlier in the evening. Even with blackout curtains over the windows, light showed around the edges. Where was it? Had he taken another street? No, there it was, but it was dark now. Closed. Somewhere behind him, the two men crossed the street and were now walking in the same direction he was.
The man in Madrid had screamed, he had really screamed, loud. But then it was cut off sharp, because of what happened next. Serebin took his hands out of his pockets, could feel his heart hammering inside him. Why was this going to happen to him? Jean Marc. He walked faster, but it didn’t matter.
He turned a corner and started to run, then he saw a woman standing in the shadow of a doorway. Broad flat face, with lipstick and rouge, and stiff, curly hair. She wore a leather coat, had a bag on a shoulder strap. When their eyes met, she tilted her head slightly to one side, a question.
“Bonsoir,” he said.
“All alone, tonight?”
“Yes. Can we go somewhere?”
“It’s fifty francs,” she said. “Why are you breathing like that? Aren’t sick, are you?”
“No.”
“Those your pals?”
The two men waited. Felt like standing in the street and talking to each other, nothing wrong with that.
“No, it’s just me.”
“Salops,” she said. She didn’t like the type.
“Your man around?”
“Across the street. Why?”
“Let’s go see him.”
“Why? He won’t like it.”
“Oh, he’ll like it all right. Costs money, for me to get what I want.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe another girl. Maybe somebody watches it.”
“Oh.”
“All right?”
“Sure. Whatever you want, it’s only money.”
“Three hundred francs, how does that sound?”
The woman gave a sharp whistle and her pimp stepped from a doorway. About eighteen, with a cap slanted over one eye and a smart little face.
That did it, the two men started to walk away. They were very casual, just out for an evening stroll. One of them looked back over his shoulder and grinned at Serebin. We’ll see you some other time. Could they simply have intended to rob him?
The pimp was paid the three hundred francs, and all he had to watch was Serebin, disappearing down the stairway of a Metro station.
By post:
Zollweig Maschinenfabrik AG Grundelstrasse 51 Regensburg Deutsches Reich
28 February, 1941
Domnul Emil Gulian Enterprise Marasz-Gulian Strada Galati 10 Bucuresti Roumania
Dear Sir:
We are pleased to accept your offer of Reichsmarks 40,000 for two Model XIV Rheinmetall turbine steam boilers. You may have complete confidence that these have been regularly inspected and maintained to a high order and we trust you will find them in perfect working condition.
On receipt of your draft in the above-named amount, we will ship, according to your instruction, by river barge, no later than 14 March, with arrival at the port of Belgrade expected by 17 March. All export permissions and licenses will be obtained by our office.
We wish you success in your new venture and, should you have further inquiries, please address them to me personally.
Most respectfully yours, Albert Krempf Managing Director Zollweig Maschinenfabrik AG
A Vidocq/Lille steam turbine was available in Bratislava, manufactured in 1931, rated at 10,000 kilowatts of power delivered, 33 feet in length, 13 feet wide, 11 feet high, weighing 237,000 pounds. The Czech manager of the foundry guaranteed performance, documentation, and shipping. And well he should, Polanyi thought, at the price they were paying. Polanyi wondered how they would go about replacing it, with the war using up production capacity at an astonishing rate, but that wasn’t his problem. Maybe it was a backup system, maybe this, maybe
