Arch of Triumph (51 page)

There she stood, strong, secure, calm. She had thought over everything. The man belonged in the business. “Don’t have your money put in his name right away,” Ravic said. “Just wait to see how everything will work out.”

She laughed again. “I know how it will work out. We are sensible. We need each other in the business. A man is no man if his wife has the money. I don’t want a pimp. I must be able to respect
my husband. I can’t do that if he has to come to me every minute to ask for money. Don’t you see that?”

“Yes,” Ravic said, without seeing it.

“Fine.” She nodded contentedly. “Do you want a drink?”

“Nothing. I must go. Just dropped in. I’ve got to work tomorrow morning.”

She looked at him. “You are completely sober. Don’t you want a girl?”

“No.”

Rolande directed two girls with a light movement of her hand to a man who was sitting on a banquette, asleep. The others were romping around. Only a few of them were still sitting on the hassocks which stood in two rows along the middle walk. The others slid on the smooth floor of the corridor like children on ice in winter. Two of them at a gallop would drag a third in a squatting position through the long corridor. Their flying hair was disheveled, their breasts were swinging, their shoulders shone, their wisps of silk no longer hid anything, they screamed with pleasure, and suddenly the Osiris was an Arcadian scene of classic innocence.

“Summer,” Rolande said. “One has to grant them some freedom in the mornings.” She looked at Ravic. “Thursday is my last evening. Madame is giving a party for me. Will you come?”

“Thursday?”

“Yes.”

Thursday, Ravic thought. In seven days. Seven days. That is like seven years. Thursday—it would be done by then. Thursday—who was able to think so far ahead? “Of course,” he said. “Where?”

“Here. At six o’clock.”

“All right. I’ll be here. Good night, Rolande.”

“Good night, Ravic.”

———

It happened while he was applying the retractor. It happened swiftly, alarming and hot. He hesitated a moment. The open red abdominal cavity, the thin steam from the hot damp dressings with which the intestines were held up, the blood trickling from the delicate veins next to the clips—then suddenly he saw Eugénie looking at him with an inquiring glance, he saw Veber’s large face, with all its pores and every hair of his mustache under the metallic light—and he collected himself and went on working calmly.

He sewed. His hands sewed. The incision was closing. He could feel the sweat running from his armpits. It ran down his body. “Will you finish?” he asked Veber.

“Yes. Is something the matter?”

“No. The heat. Not enough sleep.”

Ravic saw Eugénie’s look. “It can happen, Eugénie,” he said. “Even to the righteous.”

The room seemed to rock for a moment. A mad exhaustion. Veber went on sewing. Ravic automatically helped him. His tongue was thick. The palate was like cotton-wool. He breathed very slowly. Poppies, something in him thought. Poppies in Flanders. Red, open poppy blossoms, the shameless secret, life, so close beneath the hands with the knife; a trembling running down one’s arms, the magnetic contact, from far off, from a distant death. I can’t operate any more, he thought. This has to be settled first.

Veber painted the closed incision. “Finished.”

Eugénie lowered the foot end of the operating table. The stretcher was rolled out noiselessly. “Cigarette?” Veber asked.

“No. I must leave. I’ve got to attend to something. Is there anything more to be done?”

“No. Veber looked at Ravic with surprise. “Why are you in such a hurry? Do you want a vermouth and soda or something else cool?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to hurry! I didn’t realize it was so late. Adieu, Veber.”

He left quickly. A taxi, he thought when he was outside. A taxi, quick! He saw a Citroën approaching him and stopped it. “To the Hôtel Prince de Galles! Quick!”

I must tell Veber he will have to get along without me for a few days, he thought. It won’t do. I’ll go crazy if I suddenly think during an operation that Haake may be calling at just that moment.

He paid the taxi and walked quickly through the entrance hall. It seemed to take an endless time before the elevator came. He walked down the broad corridor and opened the door. The telephone. He lifted the receiver as if it were heavy. “This is van Horn. Have there been any calls for me?”

“Just a minute, sir.”

Ravic waited. The voice of the telephone operator came again. “No. No calls.”

“Thank you.”

Morosow came in the afternoon. “Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.

“No. I was waiting for you. I thought we could eat here together.”

“Nonsense! That would attract attention. Nobody eats in his room in Paris unless he’s sick. Go and have something to eat. I’ll stay here. No one will telephone at this time of day. Everyone is eating now. Sacred custom. Nevertheless, in case he should call I’ll act as your valet, ask for his number, and tell him you’ll be back in half an hour.”

Ravic hesitated. “You are right,” he said then. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Take your time. You’ve waited long enough. Don’t get nervous now. Are you going to Fouquet’s?”

“Yes.”

“Ask for the open ’37 Vouvray. I’ve just had some. First-rate.”

“All right.”

Ravic went down. He crossed the street and walked along the terrace. Then he walked through the restaurant. Haake was not there. He took his place at an empty table on the terrace beside the Avenue George V and ordered
boeuf à la mode
, salad, goat cheese, and a carafe of Vouvray.

He observed himself as he ate. He forced himself to notice that the wine tasted light and sparkling. He ate slowly, he looked around, he saw the sky hanging above the Arc de Triomphe like a blue silk flag, he ordered a second cup of coffee, he felt its bitter taste, slowly he lighted a cigarette, he did not want to hurry, he sat for a while longer, he watched the people pass by, then he rose and walked across to the Prince de Galles and had forgotten everything.

“How was the Vouvray?” Morosow asked.

“Good.”

Morosow got a miniature chessboard out of his pocket. “Do you want to play a game?”

“Yes.”

They put the chessmen into the holes in the board. Morosow sat down in a chair, Ravic was sitting on the sofa. “I don’t think I can stay here more than three or four days without a passport,” he said.

“Has the office asked for it?”

“Not yet. Sometimes they ask for passports with visas at the registration desk. That’s why I moved in at night. The night porter didn’t ask questions. I told him I’d need a room for five days.”

“They aren’t so particular in exclusive hotels.”

“If they should come and ask for my passport, it would be difficult.”

“They won’t come for the time being. I inquired at the George V and the Ritz. Did you register as an American?”

“No. As a Dutchman from Utrecht. It doesn’t fit the German name exactly. That’s why I changed it somewhat to be on the safe side. Van Horn. Not von. It will sound just the same when Haake calls up.”

“Right. I still think it will work. You certainly didn’t rent one of the cheap rooms. They won’t bother about you.”

“I hope not.”

“It’s a pity you gave Horn as your name. I know of a perfect
carte d’identité
, valid for a year more. It belonged to a friend of mine who died seven months ago. At the coroner’s inquest we declared he was a German refugee without papers. So we saved the certificate and kept it valid. It does not matter to him to be buried somewhere as Josef Weiss. But two refugees have already lived on his papers. Ivan Kluge. Not a Russian name. The photo is blurred, taken in profile, unstamped, easily exchangeable.”

“It’s better the way it is now,” Ravic said. “When I move out of here, Horn will no longer exist and there will be no papers.”

“It would have been safer as far as the police are concerned. But they won’t come. They don’t come into hotels where one pays more than a hundred francs for an apartment. I know a refugee at the Ritz who’s been living there without papers for the last five years. The only one who knows about it is the night porter. Have you thought over what you are going to do if the fellows here should nevertheless ask for papers?”

“Of course. My passport is at the Argentine Embassy for a visa. I’ll promise them to call for it next day. Then, I’ll leave the suitcase here and won’t come back. There is time for that. The first
inquiry would come from the management, not from the police. I count on that. Only—then it would be all up, here.”

“It will work.”

They played until half past eight. “Now go and have a bite,” Morosow said. “I’ll wait here. Then I’ll have to go.”

“I’ll eat here later.”

“Nonsense. Go now and eat a decent meal. When that fellow calls you will probably have to drink with him first. In that case you’d better have had enough to eat. Do you know where you want to go with him?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, in case he still wants to see or drink something?”

“Yes. I know a lot of places where everyone minds his own business.”

“Go and have something to eat now. Don’t drink anything, eat heavy, fat things.”

“All right.”

Ravic walked across to Fouquet’s again. All this was not real, he felt. He must be reading it in a book or seeing it in a melodramatic movie, or he must be dreaming it. He walked by both sides of Fouquet’s again. The terraces were crowded. He checked on each individual table. Haake was nowhere.

He sat at a small table next to the door so that he could watch both the entrance and the street. At an adjoining table two women were talking about Schiaparelli and Mainbocher. A man with a thin beard was sitting with them, saying nothing. On the other side a few young Frenchmen were discussing politics. One was for the Croix de Feu, one for the Communists; the others made fun of both of them. In between they all studied two beautiful, self-assured American girls who were drinking vermouth.

Ravic watched the street while he ate. He was not stupid enough to disbelieve in accidents. Only in good literature are there no accidents; life was daily filled with the most absurd ones. He stayed at Fouquet’s for half an hour. It was easier this time than at noon. Once more he walked around the corner along the Champs Elysées and then back to the hotel.

“Here is the key to your car,” Morosow said. “I’ve exchanged it. Now it is a blue Talbot with leather seats. The other one had corded seats. Leather can be washed more easily. It is a cabriolet, you can drive with the top up or down. But always leave the window open. If you must shoot when the car is closed, shoot so that the bullet goes through the open window to avoid any bullet traces in the car. I’ve rented it for two weeks. On no account bring it back to the garage afterwards. Leave it in one of the side-streets. To air out. It is now parked in the Rue de Berri, opposite the Lancaster.”

“Good,” Ravic said. He put the key next to the telephone.

“Here are the registration papers for the car. I couldn’t get you a driver’s license. Didn’t want to ask too many people.”

“I don’t need it. I drove the whole time in Antibes without one.”

Ravic put the registration for the car next to the keys. “Park the car in a different street tonight,” Morosow said.

Melodrama, Ravic thought. Bad melodrama. “I’ll do it. Thanks, Boris.”

“I wish I could come with you.”

“I don’t. This is the sort of thing one does alone.”

“Come to my place and wake me up if I’m no longer in front of the Scheherazade.”

“I’ll come in any case. No matter whether something happens or not.”

“All right. So long, Ravic.”

“So long, Boris.”

Ravic closed the door behind Morosow. Suddenly the room was
very quiet. He sat down in a corner of the sofa. He looked at the hangings. They were of blue material, with a border. He had come to know them better in these two days than any others with which he had lived for many years. He knew the mirrors, he knew the gray velours on the floor, with the dark spot near the window, he knew every line of the table, of the bed, of the chair covers—he knew everything so exactly that it made him sick; only the telephone he did not know.

THE TALBOT STOOD
in the Rue Bassano between a Renault and a Mercedes-Benz. The Mercedes was new and had an Italian license plate. Ravic maneuvered the Talbot into the open. He was so impatient that he did not take sufficient care; the Talbot’s back fender touched the left mudguard of the Mercedes and left a scratch. He paid no attention. Without pausing he drove the car down to the Boulevard Haussmann.

He drove very fast. It was good to feel the car in his hands. It was good against the dark disappointment that lay like cement in the pit of his stomach.

It was four o’clock in the morning. He had intended to wait longer. But suddenly the whole thing seemed meaningless. Very likely Haake had forgotten the little episode a long time ago. Or perhaps he had not returned to Paris at all. Just now they had other things to do over there.

Morosow was standing in front of the door of the Scheherazade. Ravic parked around the next corner and walked back. Morosow looked at him expectantly. “Did you get my telephone message?”