‘You believe that? Mostly we think it’s Nazi propaganda.’
‘Some of it surely is… exaggerated. But my mama always used to say, where there’s smoke there’s fire.’
‘Well, maybe, I don’t know.’
Consuela turned to look at him. ‘If you did at least mention them you’d be the only one on the radio. Everybody has forgotten how this crisis started.’
‘Mmm,’ he said. It started in Berlin.
Consuela appeared to have found the blemish, for she bent further towards the mirror. ‘Just a tiny mention,’ she said. ‘It would show fairness, it would show that you care. Your listeners will like that, it’s the best part of you.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Charais said.
‘Ah, now you make me happy.’
‘Done yet?’
‘I suspect it’s you who aren’t done yet, are you?’ She walked towards the bed, her breasts jiggling prettily with every step. ‘How you look at me!’ Closer and closer she came. ‘So what goes on under that blanket, eh? You want to show me?’
By cable, 30 September, from Rudolf Vollmer, director of the National Press Guild of Germany, to J. L. Ferrand, a senior executive of the Havas Agency, the French wire service: My dear Monsieur Ferrand, Allow us to express our great pleasure that you have accepted our invitation to deliver a lecture to The National Press Guild on 17 October. This cable is to confirm the arrangements for your visit. You will travel by Lufthansa Flight 26 from Paris on the afternoon of 15 October, to be met by a car that will take you to the Hotel Adlon, where you will occupy the Bismarck Suite on the top floor. Your lecture will be at 8.00 p.m. in the Adlon ballroom. We anticipate a large audience, and translation will be provided. On the 18 October, at 1.30 p.m., you are invited to dine with Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop in the Minister’s private dining room. After lunch you will meet with Reichs Chancellor Hitler. You will return to Paris on 19 October, on Flight 27 from Berlin. The honorarium for your lecture will be as specified: 100,000 reichsmarks, or, if you prefer, 50,000 American dollars. We look forward to meeting you, and to an interesting and much anticipated lecture on the role of the press in maintaining peace and stability in today’s Europe. With our most sincere and respectful good wishes, Rudolf Vollmer Director The National Press Guild of Germany
2 October. Telephone call from Philippe LaMotte, managing director of Champagne Rousillon of Epernay, to Albert Roche, publisher of the newspaper Le Temps.
‘Albert, good morning, how are you?’
‘A busy day — a busy time! But, for the moment, all goes well.’
‘Did you get to Deauville at all? During the, ah, crisis?’
‘We did. We had tennis friends and we played all weekend. You and Jeanette should come up and take us on again, really Philippe, you stay in Paris too much, it isn’t healthy.’
‘We should, and soon, before it starts raining.’
‘So, my friend, are you selling champagne?’
‘Oh yes, thanks to Le Temps. Going to the full-page advertisements has made a real difference, and we’re considering taking space in five issues a week instead of four. You know we compete with Taittinger and Moet et Chandon, and we’re determined to outsell both of them by the end of the year.’
‘Well, they’re good advertisements, and we’re all in love with the girl you’re using — how did you find her?’
‘By looking long and hard — we saw photographs of every model in Paris. Tell me, Albert, were you satisfied with Monday’s editorial?’
‘You mean “A Time to Reflect”? I thought it well written.’
‘Oh it was, well written, but we found it timid. You know my personal view on this — that France and Germany can never go to war again. Why not come out and say it? Especially now, that the peace has been preserved. And you must give Germany some credit for that. At the last minute, Hitler chose diplomacy over arms, perhaps that ought to be said — somewhere, why not in Le Temps?’
‘No special reason, it makes sense.’
‘You’re not personally against the idea, are you?’
‘Not at all. I can have a word with Bonheur.’
‘A reasonable editor — I’ve always thought so.’
‘He is. I suspect that the, um, perspective you describe simply didn’t occur to him.’
‘Perhaps it should have.’
‘And so I’ll tell him — we still have time for Wednesday’s edition, and Bonheur works quickly when he wishes.’
‘That would make us all very happy, Albert. We really believe in Le Temps, it’s the perfect place for our advertisements.’
‘Well, that makes me happy. I can send over the early edition, if you like.’
‘That would be wonderful, Albert. Now, tell Jeanette to expect a call from my wife, and prepare to be savaged on the court!’
‘We’ll give you a game, I can promise you that.’
‘Looking forward to Wednesday, and we’ll talk later this week.’
‘Until then, Philippe. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Albert.’
When you are in Paris, you have to make love to somebody.
Stahl was not immune to this, nobody was. And now that life would go on, now that he would not be blown up by a bomb, now that he would make a film, he couldn’t bear to be every night alone. The sandpiles had vanished, the gas masks — insufferable to the entire population over the age of ten — had been returned to the closet, the taxis were back. And as the autumn skies closed in over the city, as the lights in the shops went on at dusk, he grew lonelier and lonelier. He consulted a telephone directory and left a message with a maid for Kiki de Saint- Ange. She called back that evening, her voice warm and surprised. A drink at Le Petit Bar? She loved Le Petit Bar, she loved the Ritz, could he pick her up Friday at six? On that night, the simple act of walking out the hotel door excited him.
Kiki on Friday night: a black silk cap, snug and shimmering on her chestnut-coloured hair, a very different cocktail dress than the one she’d worn at the party, hem above the knee, neckline daring, in black wool crepe soft and thin enough to show her body when she moved. With silver-grey pearls and earrings, and precise but assertive — child-of-the-night — make-up on her eyes. At the tiny bar, they settled on chairs before a low table, they ordered champagne cocktails, they chatted, he explained the fading bruise on his face, she looked horrified, then sympathetic, then laid a hand on his forearm, poor thing, brave man, such dreadful times these are, what will become of us? Would she care to have another cocktail? Oh yes, why not? Even at the Ritz, a pretty couple. He heard his voice, low and rich — a tale of seafaring, a tale of Hollywood, the adventurer, the wanderer. Her turn: the country house of her parents by the Loire, picking wild strawberries, lost in the forest with her best friend Lisette, a sudden downpour. A husband in Paris, an Italian nobleman, how sad when these things went wrong. ‘Another cocktail? I don’t know
… oh what the hell… I don’t know what’s got into me but tonight I don’t care.’ She met his eyes.
There was a line of taxis outside the Ritz but they walked, out of the Place Vendome where jewellers waited, up into the cluster of streets near the Opera. It wasn’t that cold but it was cold enough — she shivered and leaned against him, he put his arm around her and could feel warm skin beneath the thin fabric of her raincoat. Down a side street, a blue neon sign, hotel dubarry; only two windows wide, anonymous, cheap but not dangerous. He never said a word, neither did she; they slowed down, stopped, then turned together and went up the single step to the door. The proprietor was casual, as though expecting a couple like them to appear around this time of the evening. ‘A room for tonight?’ he said. On the third floor, she cranked the window open and a breeze ruffled the sheer curtains. She was, when her clothes were off, smaller than he’d imagined — narrow shoulders, bare feet flat on the brown carpet, a hesitant smile — and, when he embraced her, even smaller. It was more pleasure than passion, as they played, courting urgency, which duly showed up, stronger than he’d thought it would be and welcome, very welcome.
