The Foreign Correspondent

because this means that Liberazione comes back to life. In a week, a month, the Surete will have done their work and these people won’t bother us anymore, not these people.”

“Others, perhaps.”

“It’s likely. They won’t give up. But we won’t either, and now our print runs will be larger, and the distribution wider. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it, but this is a victory.”

“Bought by British money, and subject to their so-called help.”

Weisz nodded. “Inevitable. We are stateless people, Arturo, and that’s what happens.” For a time, they walked in silence, then Weisz said, “And they’ve asked me to go to Italy, to organize the expansion.”

“When was this?”

“A few days ago.”

“And you said yes.”

“I did. You can’t go, so it will have to be me, and I’ll need whatever you have-names, addresses.”

“What I have is a few people in Genoa, people I knew when I lived there, two or three shipping agents-we were in the same business-a telephone number for Matteo, in the printing department of Il Secolo, some contacts in Rome, and Milan, who survived the giellisti arrests a few years ago. But, all in all, not much-you know how it works; friends, and friends of friends.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll just have to do the best I can. And the British have their own resources.”

“Do you trust them, Carlo?”

“Not at all.”

“And yet you’ll do this, this very dangerous thing.”

“I will.”

“The confidenti are everywhere, Carlo. Everywhere.”

“Clearly they are.”

“In your heart, do you believe you will return?”

“I’ll try. But, if I don’t, then I don’t.”

Salamone started to answer, then didn’t. As always, his face showed everything he felt-it was the saddest thing there was, to lose a friend. After a moment, with a sigh in his voice, he said, “So, when do you leave?”

“They won’t tell me when, or how, but I’ll need your information as soon as possible. At the hotel. Today, if you can manage it.”

They walked on, as far as the arcade that bordered the garden, then turned onto another path. For a time, they didn’t speak, the silence broken only by the local sparrows and the sound of footsteps on gravel. Salamone seemed lost in his thoughts, but finally, he could only shake his head very slowly and mutter, more to himself and the world than to Weisz, “Ahh, fuck this.”

“Yes,” Weisz said. “And that will do for an epitaph.”

They shook hands and said goodby, and Salamone wished him luck, then went off toward the Metro. Weisz watched him until he disappeared beneath the arch that led out to the street. He might not, he thought, see Salamone again. He stayed at the garden for a time, walking on the paths, hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. When a few drops of rain pattered down, he thought here it comes, and stepped into the covered arcade, in front of a milliner’s shop window, dozens of madly eccentric creations climbing the hat trees-peacock feathers and red spangles, satin bows, gold medallions. The clouds rolled and shifted above the garden, but there was no more rain. And he was, as he often was, surprised at how much he loved this city.

17 June, 10:40 A.M.

A final meeting with Mr. Brown, in some bar down a lost alley in the Marais. “The time draws near,” Brown said, “so we’ll need some passport photos-drop ‘em off at the Bristol tomorrow.” Then he read off a list of names, numbers, and addresses, which Weisz wrote down on a pad. When he was done, he said, “You’ll commit all this to memory, of course. And destroy your notes.”

Weisz said he would.

“Nothing personal goes with you, and if you have clothing that was bought in Italy, wear it. Otherwise, cut the French labels off.”

Weisz agreed.

“What matters is that they see you, down there, you will be onstage every minute. Because it will mean a great deal, to the people who have to do the work, and put themselves in harm’s way, that you were brave enough to return. Right under old Mussolini’s nose-all that sort of thing. Any questions?”

“Have you heard anything more, about my friend in Berlin?”

This was not the sort of question Brown had in mind, and he showed it. “Don’t worry about that, it’s being taken care of, just concentrate on what you have to do now.”

“I will.”

“It’s important, concentration. If you are not aware, every minute, of where you are, and who you’re with, something could go wrong. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

20 June, Hotel Dauphine.

At dawn, a knock on the door. Weisz called out, “One minute,” and put on a pair of undershorts. When he opened the door, S. Kolb was grinning at him. Kolb tipped his hat and said, “Fine morning. A perfect day to travel.” How the hell did he get up here?

“Come in,” Weisz said, rubbing his eyes.

Kolb stood a briefcase on the bed, undid the buckles, and flipped the top open. Then he peered inside and said, “What have we here? A whole new person! Why, who could he be? Here’s his passport, an Italian passport. By the way, one should try to remember one’s name. Quite awkward, at border stations, not to know one’s name. Liable to provoke suspicion, though, I have to say, it’s been survived. Oh, and look here, papers. All sorts, even a”-Kolb held the document away from him, the typical gesture of the farsighted-“a libretto di lavoro, a work permit. And where does our person work? He is an officer of the Istituto per la Ricostruzione Industriale, the IRI. Now, what in God’s name does that do? It interviews bankers, it buys stock, it moves government money into private industry, an agency central to fascist economic planning. But, more important, it employs our newly born gentleman as a lordly bureaucrat, of unknown, ergo frightening, power. Not a policeman in Italia that won’t go pale in the presence of such dizzying status, and our gent will fly through street controls at a speed causing flames to leap from his behind. Now, not only does our boy have papers, they’re all properly stamped, and aged. Folded and refolded. Weisz, I have to tell you I’ve spent time thinking about that job. I mean, they never tell you who does that, folding and refolding, but somebody must. What else? Oh look, money! And lots of it, thousands and thousands of lire, our gentleman is rich, loaded. Anything more in here? Mmm, I guess that does it. No, wait, one more item, I almost missed it. A first-class ticket to Marseilles! For today! At ten-thirty! Now it happens to be a one-way ticket, but don’t let that make you nervous. I mean, our man wouldn’t want a French railway ticket in his pocket-you never know, you reach for your handkerchief and, whoops! So, when you return to Marseilles, you’ll just buy a ticket for Paris, and then, we’ll celebrate a job well done. Any comments? Questions? Curses?”

“No questions.” Weisz smoothed his hair back and went looking for his glasses. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

From Kolb, a melancholy smile. “Many times. Many, many times.”

“I appreciate the light touch.”

Kolb made a certain face: might as well.

22 June, Porto Vecchio, Genoa.

The Greek freighter Hydraios, flying the Panamanian flag, docked at the port of Genoa just before midnight. Sailing in ballast from Marseilles, due to take on cargo of flax, wine, and marble, the ship carried one extra crew member. As the crew hurried down the gangplank, laughing and joking, Weisz was in the middle of the crowd, next to the second engineer, who’d retrieved him from the dock in Marseilles. Most of the crew was Greek, but some of them knew a few words of Italian, and one called out to the sleepy passport officer at the doorway of a cargo shed. “Hey! Nunzio! Hai cuccato?” Getting laid?

Nunzio made a certain gesture, in the area of his crotch, which constituted an affirmative answer.