was a stiff, formal room, with draperies of forest-green velvet, maroon taffeta upholstery, spindly chairs from royal times — chanting in chorus don’t dare sit on me — and a mirror-polished eighteenth-century parquet floor. Against one wall, a huge marble-topped hunting table with gilt legs, a place to toss your pheasants when you came in from the field, and flanking the sofas, end tables held silver objets, marble hounds, crystal lamps with butter-coloured silk shades, and heavy vases of white gladioli. If this room didn’t intimidate you, Stahl thought, nothing would.
The party was in full swing — the sound of thirty conversations in a haze of cigarette smoke and perfume — and Stahl, standing at the ten-foot-high doors, had the impression that the guests went with the room: a few stunning women, some imposing, white-haired dowagers, a balding gent with a pipe — the pet intellectual? — a sculpted beard or two, even a couple of ceremonial sashes; an exotic species of royalty, perhaps the Margrave of Moldavia or something like that. And now, here came what must be the baroness, face lit with delight and a grand hostess smile. ‘Monsieur Stahl! We’re honoured. Oh thank you so much for coming.’ She was, Stahl thought as he took her claw, a very formidable woman: perhaps fifty, with stylishly set straw hair and a white face, skin drawn tight as a drum with the bone in the centre of her forehead faintly evident, a blue vein at one temple, and uncomfortably penetrating greenish eyes. For the early-evening party, she wore a powder-pink cocktail dress.
‘You’re staying at the Claridge?’ she said. ‘I just love that hotel, so much quieter than the Ritz.’
A glass of champagne was put in his hand, a silver tray of caviar blini flew past. ‘They certainly make you comfortable,’ Stahl said. ‘But I’ll be there for, three months? Four?’
‘Months in a hotel…’ she said.
‘I’m thinking about an apartment.’
At that she brightened. ‘Then you must let me help you, dear, I know people.’
Stahl’s gracious nod meant that he appreciated the offer.
‘I have a friend who writes about film for the newspapers, according to him you’re Viennese, is that correct?’
Over her shoulder, Stahl faced a vast painting, and found himself looking into the shining eyes of a King Charles spaniel on a courtesan’s lap. ‘Yes, I was born and raised in Vienna.’
‘I was there a month ago, it’s a very vibrant city nowadays, after some difficult years.’
‘It’s been a long time since I visited,’ Stahl said.
‘Do go, dear, when you have a chance, I think you’ll be pleased.’
Very pleased, swastikas everywhere.
The baroness sensed what his silence meant. ‘Well, Europe is changing, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘For the better, I’d say — perhaps it’s been destroyed for the last time. My most fervent hope, anyhow, and surely yours.’
‘It is.’
The baroness’s lips curved upwards at the corners and her eyes narrowed, the smile of a huntress. ‘Then we must do what we can to make sure of that, don’t you agree?’
‘I don’t think I can do very much,’ Stahl said. ‘I’m no politician.’
‘But you never know, dear, do you, about these things. Sometimes an opportunity presents itself, and then…’
Stahl had gone as far as he wanted with this and said, ‘And do you enjoy living in Paris?’
‘Enjoy? I’m passionate for it, completely passionate.’
‘I am as well.’
‘Then how lucky we are! I bought this house five years ago, though I worried that as a German I might not be welcome here. Fortunately, that’s not the case — Parisians, bless their souls, take you as you are, they care more about style, about character, than they do about nationality. So, I thought, perhaps we can live together, and there’s hope for poor old Europe after all. And, you know, there are some very well-regarded people, very accomplished people, in Paris who’ve discovered Berlin, the new Berlin, at last recovered after the war, after the financial crisis. They go for a weekend and when they return they say, “To hell with 1914, we had the warmest welcome in that city.” I must tell you the mood there is extraordinary; confident, forward-looking. Say what you will about Herr Hitler, perhaps not one’s favourite politician — yes, yes, I know, he’s the most awful little man, but the results! Prosperity, dignity restored, that you must see for yourself!’
The baroness took his arm and led him further into the room, which was so crowded that they brushed against shoulders and backs. ‘What a crush,’ the baroness said. Then, leaning closer to him, she said, ‘ Everyone wants to meet you, you know, they’re just pretending to ignore you. Good manners and all that. Now, who shall you meet?’
‘I leave it to your ladyship.’
‘Oh pfui, Monsieur Fredric Stahl, you must call me Maria.’ They pressed further into the room, then the baroness said, ‘Now here’s a fine fellow.’ The fine fellow, tall, lean, and slightly stooped, turned towards the baroness, who said, ‘Hello there, Philippe, look who’s here!’
The fine fellow wore an elegant grey suit, his thick grey hair perfectly in place, his smile irresistible. ‘Could you be Fredric Stahl? The movie star?’ As he said this, his eyes, his face, radiated an almost palpable warmth.
‘Monsieur Fredric Stahl,’ the baroness said, a rich pride in her voice, ‘allow me to present Monsieur Philippe LaMotte.’
LaMotte’s handshake was powerful. ‘ Enchante,’ he said. ‘I am your greatest fan.’
‘Martine!’ the baroness called out, spying a special friend. ‘I leave you in good hands,’ she said to Stahl. ‘We’ll talk again, may I depend on it?’ There was a gentle, and momentary, tightening of her hand on his arm, then she was off.
‘I can’t quite believe I’m standing here with you,’ LaMotte said. ‘For me, you’ll always be in that garden, rain pouring down on you, watching the woman you love embracing, what was he? Race-car driver, snake-in-the- grass…’
‘In Summer Storm.’
‘Yes, the raindrops falling into your drink. But I am especially fond of A Fortunate Woman. You’re a doctor in Manhattan and this woman comes to your office and she…’
‘Actually, the part was originally written for Barbara Stanwyck.’ Stahl knew from experience that LaMotte was going to recount the story of the film, and offering a bit of Hollywood gossip could politely break the flow.
‘Really? Barbara Stanwyck? That would have been wonderful. She’s the best actress in Hollywood, at least for me.’
‘Surely one of them,’ Stahl said. Time to deflect, he thought, and said, ‘What sorts of things do you do in Paris, Monsieur LaMotte?’
‘Just another businessman,’ LaMotte said apologetically. ‘I’m the managing director of the Rousillon company, in Epernay.’ He raised his glass so that the light caught the bubbles and said, ‘Rousillon Brut Millesime — we’re drinking our champagne.’ And, his tone slightly amused, added, ‘And if you haven’t heard our slogan, it’s “Champagne, the only drink you can hear.”’ He held the glass to his ear and listened theatrically.
Stahl imitated the gesture, but he’d had the glass long enough that the characteristic fizzing sound was no longer audible.
‘A fresh glass, perhaps,’ LaMotte said. He looked around, but the servant with a tray of glasses was on the other side of the room.
‘He’ll get here,’ Stahl said. ‘It’s very good champagne.’
‘Thank you, but to tell you the truth, I find my other work more absorbing.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’m one of the directors of the Comite Franco-Allemagne. Do you know what that is?’
‘Forgive me, but I don’t.’
‘You’d know if you were living in Paris,’ LaMotte said. ‘It was started in 1930, by a German called Otto Abetz, a simple drawing teacher in the public schools of Karlsruhe whose father had been killed in the war. The basic idea was that German and French veterans of the war would work together to keep it from happening again. And it’s been something of a success, because veterans, men who’ve actually done the fighting, are highly respected in both countries.’
‘That sounds like a very worthwhile undertaking,’ Stahl said. ‘The baroness was talking about something similar.’
‘Rapprochement,’ LaMotte said. ‘Do they have the word in English?’
‘You don’t often hear it, but it’s used. To mean the re-establishment of harmony, of good relations. The
