The Foreign Correspondent

“Yes, the formalities. In the grand hall of the Reich Chancellery. Strutting generals, starched shirts, and little Hitler, grinning like a wolf. The whole filthy business.”

Salamone looked glum. “We would have had a thing or two to say about that. In the paper.”

Weisz spread his hands; some things were lost, life went on. “Bad as it is, this pact, it’s hard to take them seriously, when you see who they are. You keep waiting for Groucho to show up.”

“Do you think the French will stand up to them, now that it’s official?”

“They might. But, the way I feel lately, they can all go to hell. What we have to do now is take care of ourselves, you and me, Arturo. Which means we have to find you another job. At a desk, this time.”

“I’ll find something. I’ll have to, they tell me I can’t go back to what I was doing.”

“Making check marks on a tally sheet?”

“Well, maybe I had to push a few boxes around.”

“Just a few,” Weisz said. “Now and then.”

“But, you know, Carlo, I’m not so sure it was that. I think it was everything else; what happened to me at the insurance company, what happened to the cafe, what happened to all of us.”

And it continues. But Weisz wasn’t going to tell the story of the new tenant to a friend in a hospital bed. Instead, he turned the conversation to emigre talk-politics, gossip, how life would get better. Then a nun appeared and told them that Madame Salamone was in the waiting room, since the patient could have only one visitor. As Weisz turned to go, he said, “Forget all that other business, Arturo, just think about getting better. We did a good job, with Liberazione, but now it’s in the past. And those people know it. So, they got what they wanted, and now it’s done with, over.”

31 May. At the Galeries Lafayette, a big spring sale. What a mob! They’d descended on the department store from every Arrondissement in Paris-bargains galore, buy it today, every price reduced. In the office at the back of the ground floor, an assistant manager, “the Dragon,” nicknamed for her fire-breathing temper, tried to cope with the onslaught. Poor little Mimi, from the millinery counter, had fainted. Now she was sitting in the reception area, white as a sheet, as a floorwalker fanned her with a magazine. Nearby, two children, both in tears, had lost their mothers. The toilet in the ladies’ WC on the second floor had overflowed, the plumber had been called, where was he? Lilliane, from cosmetics, had called in sick, and an old woman had tried to leave the store wearing three dresses. In her office, the Dragon closed her door, the tumult in the reception area was more than she could bear. So she would take a minute, sit quietly, by the telephone that would not stop ringing, and regain her composure. All sales ended, eventually. And everything that could possibly go wrong, had.

But not quite. What foolish soul was knocking on her door? The Dragon rose from her desk and wrenched the door open. To reveal a terrified secretary, old Madame Gros, her brow damp with perspiration. “Yes?” the Dragon said. “What now?”

“Pardon, madame, but the police are here. A man from the Surete Nationale.”

“Here?”

“Yes, madame. In the reception.”

“Why?”

“He’s here about Elena, in ladies’ hosiery.”

The Dragon shut her eyes, took yet one more deep breath. “Very well, one must respect the Surete Nationale. So go to the hosiery counter and bring Elena here.”

“But madame…”

“Now.”

“Yes, madame.”

She fled. The Dragon looked out into the reception area, a vision of hell. Now, which one was-over there? The man in the hat with a little green feather in the band? Nasty mustache, restless eyes, hands in pockets? Well, who knew what they looked like, she certainly didn’t. She walked over to him and said, “Monsieur l’inspecteur?”

“Yes. Are you the manager, madame?”

“An assistant manager. The manager is up on the top floor.”

“Oh, I see, then…”

“You’re here to see Elena Casale?”

“No, I don’t wish to see her. But to speak with you about her, she is the subject of an investigation.”

“Will this take long? I don’t mean to be rude, monsieur, but you can see what’s going on here today. And now I’ve sent for Elena, she’s on her way to the office. Shall I send her back?”

This news did not please the inspector. “Perhaps I should return, say, tomorrow?”

“It would be much better, tomorrow, for our discussion.”

The inspector tipped his hat, said goodby, and hurried off. Strange sort of man, the Dragon thought. And, even stranger, Elena the subject of an investigation. Something of an aristocrat, this Italian woman, with her sharp face, long, graying hair worn back in a clip, ironic smile-not a criminal type, not at all. What could she have done? But, who had time to wonder about such things, for here, at last, was the plumber.

Elena and Madame Gros forced their way down the center aisle. “Did he say what he wanted?” Elena asked.

“Only that he wished to speak with the manager. About you.”

“And he said he was from the Surete Nationale?”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

Elena was growing angrier by the minute. She remembered Weisz’s story about the interrogation of his girlfriend, who owned an art gallery, she remembered how Salamone had been defamed, and discharged from his job. Was it now her turn? Oh, this was infuriating. It had not been easy, as a woman in Italy, to take a degree in chemistry; finding work, even in industrial Milan, had not been any easier, having to give up her position and emigrate had been harder still, and working as a sales clerk in a department store hardest of all. But she was staunch, she did what had to be done, and now these fascist bastards were going to try and take even that meager prize away from her. What would she do for money? How would she live?

“There he is,” Madame Gros said. “Say, I think you’re in luck, he appears to be leaving.”

“That’s him? In the hat with the green feather?” They watched it, bobbing up and down as he tried to make his way through the mass of determined shoppers.

“Yes, just by the cosmetics counter.”

Elena’s mind worked quickly. “Madame Gros, would you please tell Yvette, at the hosiery counter, that I have to go away for an hour? Would you do this for me?”

Madame Gros agreed. After all, this was Elena, who always worked on Saturday, Elena, who never failed to come in on her day off when somebody was home with the grippe. How could you, the first time she’d ever asked for a favor, say no?

Keeping well behind him, Elena followed the man as he left the store. She was wearing a gray smock, like all the clerks at the Galeries. Her purse and coat were in a locker, but she’d learned, early on, to keep her wallet, with identification and money, in the pocket of her smock. The man in the hat with the green feather strolled along, not especially in a hurry. An inspector? He could be, but Weisz and Salamone thought otherwise. So, she would see for herself. Did he know what she looked like? Would he be able to identify her, as she followed him? That was surely a possibility, but if he were a real inspector, she was already in trouble, and walking down the same street-well, was that even a crime?

The man wound his way through the crowds at the store display windows, then entered the Chausseed’Antin Metro station and put a jeton in the turnstile. Hah, he paid! A real inspector would simply show his badge at the change window, no? Had she not seen such things in the movies? She thought she had. Hands in pockets, he stood idly on the platform, waiting for the Line Seven train, Direction La Courneuve. That would, she knew, take him out of the Ninth Arrondissement and into the Tenth. Where was the Surete office? At the Interior Ministry, over on rue des Saussaies-you couldn’t get there on this line. Still, he might be headed off to investigate some other poor creature. Hiding behind a pillar, Elena waited for the train, sometimes taking a small step forward to keep an eye on the green feather. Who was he? A confidential agent? An OVRA operative? Did he enjoy spending his days doing such miserable business? Or was it simply to earn a living?