As Loubec’s pencil worked away — obediently, it seemed to Stahl — he repeated his memorized summary, hitting the points that made the movie sound dramatic and exciting. Loubec asked a tame question or two, then they left the hotel and Rene took a number of photographs. But Stahl never saw them.
Le Matin reached the news-stands at 5.30 in the morning, Stahl had one back in his suite by 5.45. The front- page headline said that the insurance salesman from Toulon, who’d married four women, then poisoned them and taken their money, had been sentenced to death at the conclusion of his trial. In the grainy photograph, a fat little man with a moustache was being taken down the courthouse steps by two policemen. Above the right-hand column, a smaller headline: VON RIBBENTROP CALLS FOR GERMAN CONTROL OF DANZIG. The German foreign minister was photographed shaking hands with Josef Beck, his Polish counterpart. Of the two, von Ribbentrop had the larger smile.
Stahl hunted through the paper and, towards the back, across from the racetrack results, a mid-column photograph caught his attention: a man with an intense and mildly disturbed expression on his face, a serious man, leaned forward, his mouth parted as he began to speak. A good photograph, really, nothing to do with being a movie star, simply a concerned, notably handsome individual. At the top of the column was a publicity still: Stahl holding a doctor’s bag as he stood in a doorway, with the caption Fredric Stahl as Dr Lawton in ‘A Fortunate Woman ’. This photo was beneath the story’s headline:
AMERICAN ACTOR FAVOURS DIPLOMACY
In smaller print, a subhead: Hollywood Star Fredric Stahl Speaks Out for Rapprochement
Stahl’s first try at a reaction was mild irritation because it doesn’t matter, but slowly, inevitably, anger began to build inside him. It wasn’t that he’d never been manipulated — not in his business it wasn’t — but there was a certain arrogance, almost bravado, in the way it had been done. And, worse, he had watched it happening to him but could do nothing about it. And this was what took a whetstone to the edge of his anger.
The story was nothing but sweetness and light. Surely it made Philippe LaMotte and the Baroness von Reschke happy as they ate their morning croissants. As far as Stahl was concerned, the story went: anti-German feeling in France was muted, except in the case of certain politicians who were anxious to rearm, who were preparing to take the nation into war. ‘“Do they want to see people killed, cities burned down?” a puzzled Stahl asked this reporter.’ And, a few sentences later, ‘Who doesn’t believe that it would be better if countries never again went to war?’ The man who said this was clearly, as the first paragraph pointed out, a highly respected and accomplished American. So, went the innuendo, that’s what important Americans are thinking.
Stahl had always admired good work and he admired it now. Loubec was a sneaky little bastard but he was good at his job. Did the story matter? In the greater scheme of things, maybe not all that much, just another drip from the leaky faucet. But, Stahl supposed, the people who’d done this knew that it was a slow but effective way to create a flood.
Mme Boulanger waited until a decent eighty-thirty before she called. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what did you think?’
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I realized what was going on but I couldn’t stop it. Will it matter?’
‘To your career? No, not much, not at all. I have to translate the story for Warner publicity in Hollywood, but I doubt they’ll do more than take a quick glance to make sure you haven’t said anything dreadful.’ She paused a moment, then said, ‘Also, a copy goes to somebody named Walter Perry, I expect he’s important but I don’t know who he is.’
‘An eminence grise, Jack Warner’s personal stand-in.’
‘Well, so they care about you, you’re a valuable asset.’
‘Were you disturbed by it, Madame Boulanger?’
‘Oh, maybe a little. Those aren’t my political views — it’s the Le Matin line. Did you mean what you said?’
‘Not the way it came out.’
‘Ahh, journalists,’ she said. ‘But, aside from the fact that you stuck your nose into French politics, it’s not that damaging. For one thing, an American reader would think you simply care about peace and don’t hate Germans. They have no idea what goes on here. None. And, speaking of that, I think you’d do well to meet a friend of mine. His name is Andre Sokoloff, of Russian extraction but completely French, completely Parisian says it better.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The senior correspondent for Paris-Soir, which is sort of the New York Times of France. Have lunch with him, he’ll tell you some things you ought to know.’
‘Things I ought to know?’
‘They’re after you, Monsieur Stahl. I surely didn’t mean to help them but I did, so this is my way of helping you protect yourself.’
‘There’s more to come, you mean.’
‘That I can promise you. As the English detectives say in the mystery novels, “the game is on”.’
Stahl ordered coffee and croissants, had his breakfast at the window, and watched the brown leaves go swirling down the rue Francois 1er. He felt better, Mme Boulanger had made him feel better, that was her job. When a client was the subject of bad press, she helped them get through it. He couldn’t say exactly how she managed to do that, but the tone of her voice had a lot to do with it — an unstated but clear message: this is not the end of the world.
Done with breakfast, he caught a whiff of his underarms — he’d had a difficult morning — and realized he’d better shower before he went out to Joinville. So he was naked when the phone rang. Stahl was no psychic, he couldn’t foresee future events — sometimes a very fortunate thing — but he knew who this was and he was right.
‘Franz, good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you, is it too early?’
He didn’t slam the phone down — he wanted to, but he didn’t. He knew, since his meeting with Wilkinson, that he was talking to the enemy. So then, what did the enemy have to say? Something Wilkinson could use? Maybe it didn’t matter but, in case it did, he wasn’t going to sacrifice it for the simple pleasure of slamming down a phone. ‘Hello, Moppi,’ he said, some resignation in his voice.
‘I was wondering if you’d seen today’s Le Matin.’ Moppi was not at all his usual blustering self, he was, for him, quiet, subdued, delicately sympathetic.
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘I must admit I was surprised… at what you said.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes, it really didn’t sound like you. Nothing wrong with the — sentiments, of course not, you just don’t seem like somebody who would talk about politics in a foreign newspaper. But maybe I’m wrong.’
‘You’re not wrong. The quotes weren’t inaccurate but they were presented in a way that made me into something I’m not.’
‘Ach!’ said Moppi in Austrian despair. ‘These journalists have no decency.’
‘Well, next time I’ll know better.’
‘Maybe you should be glad it wasn’t worse, if you understand me.’
‘Worse? How?’
‘Oh, for example, you were briefly in jail. Imagine what a French newspaper could make of that!’
How did… ‘I was caught in a street march. I was never charged with anything.’
‘Of course not! You’re important, a star. But still, they could have suggested anything, some terrible accusation. And then, even the fact that you were discreetly set free, without publicity, could be used against you. Big movie star, look how the powerful are treated differently from you and me. L’Humanite, the communist party newspaper, would give it prominent space.’
‘But they haven’t, have they?’
‘Thank heaven. In truth, the story in Le Matin wasn’t so bad, by now the market women are wrapping fish in it.’
‘Moppi, I have to go out in a little while…’
‘Forgive me, Franz, I blabber too much, my wife… I am calling to ask of you a favour, not that you owe me anything, you don’t, but my position in the embassy concerns culture, and I could be in difficulties if you won’t have a little lunch with us.’
‘When?’
