The Spies of Warsaw

away-when the bombs began to fall on our own trenches. Then, after he shouted, the bombing stopped. Not soon enough, sir, some of the comrades were killed, but it did stop. Of course, he shouldn’t have been out of the tank, for the Moors shot him.” Verchak stopped for a moment, as though he could see the tank commander. “It was a terrible war, sir,” he said.

Verchak’s wife returned to the room soon thereafter, a signal, Mercier thought, that her husband could not continue much longer. When Mercier rose to leave, he slid a thousand zloty into a piece of folded paper from his notepad and put it under the Christmas tree. The Verchaks looked at each other-should they accept such a gift? — and Pana Verchak started to speak. But Mercier told her it was an old French tradition, in this season, that entering a home with a Christmas tree, a gift must be left beneath it. “I have to follow my traditions,” he said, and, as he’d well known, they would not argue with that.

11 December.

Ominous weather, as night fell, the air ice cold and completely still. At eight-thirty, Mercier strolled over to the old greenhouse on Hortensya street, a facility long disused, that had once served the parks and gardens of the city. It was, Mercier thought, typical of Madame Dupin to adopt some artist in the city where she worked; she was forever doing things, involving herself in an endless series of projects and pastimes. Shublin was at the door of the greenhouse, Madame Dupin at his side. He was young, with a roughneck’s good looks, and very intense. What other pleasure, beyond the satisfaction of patronage, he might have provided for Madame Dupin was open to question-as, in fact, was her erotic life, a subject of some speculation in the diplomatic community. That night she was effusive and excited, taking Mercier’s hand in both of hers and near joyful that he’d actually shown up. Clearly, she’d feared he wouldn’t.

Shublin and his friends had gone to great lengths to turn the old greenhouse into an artist’s studio. The artist’s props-skulls, statuettes of deformed people and imaginary beasts, easels bearing newspaper decoupages, a dressmaker’s mannikin on a wire cage-had been imported for the evening, and his largest canvas hung from an iron beam on ropes, flanked by a pair of skeletons, their names on cardboard squares tied beneath their chins. Mercier immediately liked the painting, as well as the others propped against the cloudy old glass walls: fire. Fire in its every aspect-orange flames roaring into azure skies, black smoke pouring from a brilliant yellow flash, fire, and more fire.

Mercier, his costume for a bohemian soiree a bulky sweater and corduroy trousers beneath a long overcoat, with a black wool scarf looped insouciantly-he hoped-about his neck, was introduced here and there. For a time, he spoke with a professor of art history and brought up the subject of Polish war paintings, for him a particular treasure he’d discovered in Warsaw-huge battlefield scenes laden with cavalry and cannon, exquisitely detailed and compelling. But the professor didn’t much care for them, and, discovering that Mercier was French, went on and on about Matisse. Mercier spoke also with Shublin’s girlfriend, who was very up-to-date on European politics-perhaps the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about. But she was smart and amusing, and Mercier discovered he was, as promised, actually having a good time. The wine and vodka were plentiful, and platters of hors d’oeuvres had been brought in from a good restaurant, generously provided by Madame Dupin. With secret embassy funds? Lord, he hoped not.

It was nine-fifteen when Anna Szarbek appeared. The same Anna Szarbek; dark-blond hair, swept across her forehead and pinned in back, deep green eyes, wary and restless, the slight downward curve of her nose and heavy lips suggesting sensuality. Suggesting it to him, certainly. His heart rose to look at her, he wanted to rush her through the night in a taxi, off to his bedroom, there to relieve her of coat, boots, sweater, skirt, and all the rest, there to see what he’d barely touched the night they danced together. And then … Well, his imagination was in perfect order, and therein her desire, in their first moment together, was the equal of his, and his desire was making him almost dizzy. But not so much that he didn’t search the room for Maxim, who was nowhere to be seen, and Mercier, elated beyond reason, felt a great smile appear on his face. His search of the room did reveal Madame Dupin, turned partly away from a conversing group, a sharp, inquisitive eye directly on him. Was this why she’d wanted him here? Was she matchmaking? Could that be true? Back and forth he went.

Trapped, meanwhile, by the most boring man on earth-“But, you understand, the laws of the city expressly forbid them to build a wall there! Myself I find it almost impossible to believe”-Mercier kept saying “Mm,” and “Mm,” his eyes wandering rudely over the man’s shoulder. Anna was easy to spot-her sweater was a deep red, with a design in tiny pearls below a raised collar-as she navigated through the crowded greenhouse. Stopped to have a look at the skeletons, peered nearsightedly at the cardboard nameplates, responded with a wry smile, and moved on.

“We could go to court, serve them right, having to hire some expensive lawyer….”

“Mm. Mm.”

Now she saw him. She had been looking for him. His heart leapt. “Forgive me, I think I’ll have another glass of wine.”

“You don’t have a glass of wine.”

“Then I’ll go and get one.”

Mercier worked his way toward her, and they exchanged conspiratorial smiles-oh what a crowd-at the difficulty of his progress. At last they stood together and shook hands, her skin cold from the night outside. “Very nice to see you again,” he said.

“I think I saw you at the foreign office cocktail party,” she said. Her voice was slightly husky-he’d forgotten that, as well as the faint accent.

“You did. I saw you too, but I couldn’t get over to say hello.”

“You seemed busy,” she said.

“An official reception. I had to be there. But this is much nicer.”

“A Marie Dupin affair, they’re always good parties. Poor Maxim had to interview a politician, so I almost didn’t come, but, I thought, why not? And I’d promised.”

“Something to drink?”

“Yes, good, I can use it. The cold tonight is awful, even for Warsaw.”

They made their way to the bar in the far corner. “Two vodkas, please,” Mercier said. Then, to Anna, “Is that all right with you? Insulation against the weather.”

“Yes, thanks. I knew it would be freezing in here, I mean, it’s glass.”

“They have kerosene heaters.”

Anna wasn’t impressed. “Poor plants.”

“Not anymore. What do you think of the paintings?”

“A little frightening-they’re not cozy fires.”

“War fires, you think?”

“Violent, anyhow. At least they don’t show what’s burning. Houses, or ships.”

“Maybe you’re meant to imagine them.”

She nodded, yes, could be, searched in her bag, found a cigarette and a lighter, and handed the lighter to Mercier. He lit her cigarette and said, “I’ll go find you an ashtray, if you like.”

“Let’s go together, I don’t know a soul in here.”

As they began to move toward the hors d’oeuvres table, a heavy gust of wind hit the greenhouse, then the sound of hail, loud against the glass roof. It stopped almost immediately. “I don’t know anybody either,” Mercier said. “You’re supposed to introduce yourself around, at these affairs.”

“Not me. You have to be the bright and cheerful sort to do that. I’m not. Are you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I depend on introductions, then I can socialize. Otherwise-”

“It’s the dreadful corner. And the hopeful smile.”

They circled around the professor, now with an older woman wearing a cloche hat and still raving on about Matisse. Then Madame Dupin materialized in front of them. “Hello you two, I see you found each other.”

“We did,” Anna said. “You’ve got a good crowd.”

“Marc is pleased, anyhow I think he is; he doesn’t talk, I was afraid of the weather, but, as you see …”