The Foreign Correspondent

with Sparrow and Olivia and friend appealed to him as, at least, a change. Not another evening of gloomy politics with fellow emigres. He knew perfectly well that Sparrow’s girlfriend was only flirting, but flirting wasn’t so bad, and Sparrow was bright, and could be amusing. Don’t be such a hermit, he told himself. And if the friend thought he was good at what he did, well, why not? He heard few enough compliments, absent Delahanty’s backhanded ironies, a few kind words from a reader wouldn’t be the end of the world. So he put on his cleanest shirt and his best tie, his silk red-and-gray stripe, combed his hair with water, left his glasses on the desk, went downstairs at five-forty-five, and had the not inconsiderable pleasure of telling a taxi driver, “Le Ritz, s’il vous plait.”

No floral print tonight for Olivia, a cocktail dress for cocktails, her smart little breasts swelling just above the neckline, and a tight, stylish hat on her golden hair. She took a Players from a box in her evening bag and handed Weisz a gold lighter. “Thanks, Carlo.” Meanwhile, a splendid Sparrow in high London tailoring talked cleverly about nothing, but no guest, not yet. They chattered while they waited, in the dark wood-paneled bar with its drawing room furnishings-Sparrow and Olivia on a divan, Weisz in an upholstered chair by the draped French door that led to the terrace. Oh it felt very good to Weisz, all this, after abandoned monasteries and smoky meeting halls. Very good indeed, better and better as the Ritz 75 went down. Basically a French 75, gin and champagne, named after the French 75-mm cannon of the Great War, and later a staple at the bar of the Stork Club. Bertin, the famous barman of the Ritz, added lemon juice and sugar and, voila, the Ritz 75. Voila indeed. Weisz loved all humankind, and his wit knew no bounds-delighted smiles from Olivia, toothy har-hars from Sparrow.

Twenty minutes later, the friend. Weisz had expected a Sparrow friend to be cast from the same mold, but this was not the case. The friend’s aura said trade, loud and clear, as he looked around the room, spotted their table, and ambled toward them. He was older than Sparrow by at least a decade, fattish and benign, a pipe clenched in his teeth, a slipover sweater worn beneath the jacket of a comfortable suit. “Sorry to be late,” he said as he arrived. “Damnedest gall I’ve ever seen, that cabman, drove me all around Paris.”

“Edwin Brown, this is Carlo Weisz,” Sparrow said proudly as they rose to greet the friend.

Brown was clearly pleased to meet him, his pleasure indicated by an emphatic “Hmmm!” spoken around the stem of his pipe as they shook hands. After he’d settled in his chair, he said, “I think you are a hell of a fine writer, Mr. Weisz. Did Sparrow tell you?”

“He did, and you’re kind to say it.”

“I’m right, is what I am, you can forget ‘kind.’ I always look for your byline, when they let you have one.”

“Thank you,” Weisz said.

They had to order a third round of cocktails, now that Mr. Brown had arrived. And, in Weisz, the spring of life burbled ever more happily. Olivia had a rosy blush on her cheeks and was somewhere well east of tiddly, laughed easily, met Weisz’s eyes, now and again. Excited, he sensed, more by the elegance of Le Petit Bar, the evening, Paris, than whatever she might see in him. When she laughed, she tilted her head back, and the soft light caught her pearl necklace.

Conversation wandered to the afternoon conference, Sparrow’s Tory sneer not so very far from Weisz’s amiable liberalism, and for Olivia it all began and ended with beards. Mr. Brown was rather more opaque, his political views apparently held in secrecy, though he was emphatically a Churchill man. Even quoted Winston, addressing Chamberlain and his colleagues on the occasion of the cowardly cave-in at Munich. “‘You were given a choice between shame and war. You have chosen shame, and you shall have war,’” adding, “And I’m sure you agree with that, Mr. Weisz.”

“It certainly looks that way,” Weisz said. In the small silence that followed, he said, “Forgive a journalist’s question, Mr. Brown, but may one ask what sort of business you’re in?”

“Certainly you may, though, as they say, not for publication.” Here the pipe emitted a large puff of sweetish smoke, as though to underline the prohibition.

“You’re safe for tonight,” Weisz said. “Off the record.” His tone was playful, Brown couldn’t possibly think he was being interviewed.

“I own a small company that controls a few warehouses on the Istanbul waterfront,” he said. “Just plain old commerce, I fear, and I’m only there some of the time.” He produced a card and handed it to Weisz.

“And you can only hope that the Turks don’t sign on with Germany.”

“That’s it,” Brown said. “But I think they’ll stay neutral-they had all the war they wanted, by 1918.”

“So did we all,” Sparrow said. “Let’s not do that again, shall we?”

“Can’t stop it, once it starts,” Brown said. “Look at Spain.”

“I think we should’ve helped them,” Olivia said.

“I suppose we should’ve,” Brown said. “But we were thinking about 1914 ourselves, y’know.” To Weisz he said, “Haven’t you written something about Spain, Mr. Weisz?”

“Now and then, I have.”

Brown looked at him for a moment. “What did I read, was it recently? I was up in Birmingham, something in the paper there, the Catalonian campaign?”

“Perhaps you did. I filed down there a few weeks ago, end of December.”

Brown finished his drink. “Very nice, shall we try one more? Have you time, Geoffrey? On me, this round.”

Sparrow waved at the waiter.

“Oh Lord,” Olivia said. “And wine with dinner.”

“Got it,” Brown said. “About some Italian fellow, fighting the Mussolini Italians? Was that you?”

“Likely it was. They subscribe to Reuters, in Birmingham.”

“A colonel, he was. Colonel something.”

“Colonel Ferrara.” Tick.

“With a hat, of some sort.”

“You have quite a memory, Mr. Brown.”

“Well, sad to say I don’t, not really, but that stuck, somehow.”

“A brave man,” Weisz said. Then, to Sparrow and Olivia: “He fought with the International Brigades, and stayed on when they left.”

“Much good it will do him now,” Sparrow said.

“What will become of him?” Brown said. “When the Republicans surrender.”

Slowly, Weisz shook his head.

“It must be odd,” Brown said. “To interview people, to hear their story, and then, they’re gone. Do you ever keep track, Mr. Weisz?”

“That’s hard to do, with the way the world is now. People disappear, or think they might have to, tomorrow, next month…”

“Yes, I can see that. Still, he must’ve made an impression on you. He’s quite unusual, in his way, a military officer, fighting for another nation’s cause.”

“I think he saw it as one cause, Mr. Brown. Do you know the line from Rosselli? He and his brother founded an emigre organization in the twenties, and he was murdered in Paris in ‘37.”

“I know the Rosselli story, I don’t know the line.”

“‘Today in Spain, tomorrow in Italy.’”

“Which means?”

“The battle is for freedom in Europe; democracy versus fascism.”

“Not communism versus fascism?”

“Not for Rosselli.”

“But for Colonel Ferrara, perhaps?”

“No, no. Not for him either. He is an idealist.”

“That’s very romantic,” Olivia said. “Like a movie.”

“Indeed,” Brown said.

It was almost eight when Weisz left the hotel, passed up the line of taxis at the curb, and headed toward the river. Let the weather, cold and damp, clear his head, he’d find a taxi later. He often told himself this, then didn’t bother, choosing his streets for the pleasure of walking them. He circled place Vendome, its jewelers’ windows lying