Arch of Triumph (55 page)

“All right. Then I’ll come down.”

Ravic returned to his room. He stood by the window for a while. The lilies of the refugee Wiesenhoff shone in the window box below. Opposite the gray wall with the blank windows. Everything had come to an end. It was right thus and good and had to be this way, but it had come to an end and there was no longer anything to do. Nothing was left. Nothing before him any more. Tomorrow was a word without meaning. Outside his window today fell sleepily into nothing.

He undressed and washed once more. He held his hands in alcohol for a long time and let them dry in the air. The skin around
the joints of his fingers was taut. His head was heavy and his brain seemed to roll loosely inside it. He got out a hypodermic needle and sterilized it in a small electric boiler on a chair by the window. The water bubbled awhile. It reminded him of the brook. Of the brook only. He knocked off the heads of two ampules and drew their contents, clear as water, into the syringe. He made the injection and lay down in his bed. After a while he got his old bathrobe and covered himself with it. He felt as though he were twelve years old and tired and alone in the strange loneliness of growing and of youth.

He woke up at dusk. A pale pink hung above the roofs of the houses. Wiesenhoff’s and Mrs. Goldberg’s voices came from below. He could not understand what they said. Nor did he want to. He was in the mood of someone who has slept in the afternoon without being accustomed to it—severed from all connections and ripe for a sudden unmotivated suicide. I wish I could perform an operation now, he thought. A severe, almost hopeless case. It occurred to him that he had not had anything to eat the whole day. Suddenly he felt desperately hungry. The headache had disappeared. He dressed and went downstairs

Morosow was sitting in his shirtsleeves at the table in his room, solving a chess problem. The room was almost empty. A military coat was hanging on the wall. In one corner was an icon with a light burning before it. In another stood a table with a samovar, in the third a modern refrigerator. It was Morosow’s luxury. He kept vodka, food, and beer in it. A Turkoman rug lay by the bed.

Morosow got up without saying a word, brought two glasses and a bottle of vodka. He filled the glasses. “Subrovka,” he said.

Ravic sat down at the table. “I don’t want to drink anything, Boris. I’m damned hungry.”

“Good. Let’s go and have something to eat. Meanwhile—” Morosow rummaged in the refrigerator for black Russian bread, cucumbers, butter, and a small box of caviar “—have this! The caviar is a present from the chef of the Scheherazade. Trustworthy.”

“Boris,” Ravic said. “Let’s not behave like actors. I met the man in front of the Osiris, killed him in the Bois, and buried him in St.-Germain.”

“Were you seen by anyone?”

“No. Not even in front of the Osiris.”

“Nowhere?”

“Someone came across the meadow in the Bois. When everything was finished. I had Haake in the car. There was nothing to be seen except the car and me, vomiting. I might have been drunk or I might have become sick. Not an extraordinary incident.”

“What have you done with his things?”

“Buried them. Removed the labels and burned them with his papers. I’ve still got his money and a receipt for his suitcases at the Gare du Nord. He had checked out of his hotel room by then and intended to leave this morning.”

“Damn it, that was luck. Any traces of blood?”

“No. There was hardly any blood. I’ve given up my room in the Prince de Galles. My belongings are back here again. It’s possible that the people with whom he had dealings here will assume he took the train. If we call for his luggage, there will be no trace of him left here.”

“They’ll find out in Berlin that he didn’t arrive and they’ll investigate back here.”

“If his luggage isn’t here, they won’t know where he has gone.”

“They’ll know. He hasn’t used his sleeping-car ticket. Have you burned it?”

“Yes.”

“Then burn the receipt for his luggage too.”

“We could send it to the checkroom and have them send his suitcases to Berlin or somewhere else, collect.”

“That amounts to the same thing. It would be better to burn it. If you are too smart they might suspect more than this way. Now he simply disappeared. That can happen in Paris. They will investigate and, if they are lucky, will find out where he was last seen. In the Osiris. Were you in there?”

“Yes. For a minute. I saw him. He didn’t see me. Then I waited for him outside. No one saw us there.”

“They might inquire about who was in the Osiris at that time. Rolande will recall that you were there.”

“I often go there. That doesn’t matter.”

“It would be better they didn’t question you. Refugee without papers. Does Rolande know where you are living?”

“No, but she knows Veber’s address. He is the official doctor. Rolande will leave her position in a few days.”

“They’ll know where she is.” Morosow filled his glass. “Ravic, I think you’d better disappear for a few weeks.”

Ravic looked at him. “That’s easily said, Boris. Where to?”

“Any place where there is a crowd. Go to Cannes or Deauville. There’s a lot going on there now and you can easily disappear in the crowd. Or to Antibes. You know it and no one asks for papers there. Then Veber and Rolande can always let me know if the police have been inquiring for you to question you as a witness.”

Ravic shook his head. “The best thing is to stay where one is and to live as if nothing had happened.”

“No. Not in this case.”

Ravic looked at Morosow. “I won’t run away. I’ll stay here. That’s part of it. Don’t you understand?”

Morosow did not reply. “First burn the receipt for his luggage,” he said.

Ravic took the check out of his pocket, lighted it, and let it
burn over the ashtray. Morosow took the copper plate and threw the fine ashes out of the window. “So, that’s done. You’ve nothing else of his on you?”

“Money.”

“Let’s see it.”

He examined it. There were no markings on it. “You can easily get rid of that. What will you do with it?”

“I could send it to the committee for refugees. Anonymously.”

“Change it tomorrow and send the money in two weeks.”

“Good.”

Ravic put the bills into his pocket. Folding them, he realized that he had been eating. He gave his hands a fleeting glance. What strange thoughts he had had that morning. He took another piece of the fresh dark bread.

“Where are we going to eat?” Morosow asked.

“Anywhere.”

Morosow looked at him. Ravic smiled. It was the first time he had smiled. “Boris,” he said. “Don’t look at me as a nurse might, expecting me to have a nervous breakdown. I’ve wiped out a beast that deserved a thousand times worse. I have killed dozens of people who did not matter to me, and I was decorated for it, and I didn’t kill them in fair fight, but sneaked up on them, spied them out from behind when they were unsuspecting, and that was war and honorable. The only thing that was repugnant to me for a few minutes was that I could not first tell Haake to his face, and that was an idiotic desire. He’s done with and he will never again torture anyone, and I’ve slept on it and it is as far removed from me as if I were reading about it in the papers.”

“Good.” Morosow buttoned his coat. “Let’s go. I need a drink.”

Ravic looked up. “You?”

“Yes, I,” Morosow said. “I.” He hesitated a second. “Today for the first time I feel old.”

THE FAREWELL PARTY
for Rolande began punctually at six o’clock. It lasted only an hour. Business started again at seven.

The table was set in an adjoining room. All the whores were dressed. Most of them wore black silk dresses. Having always seen them naked or in a few thin wisps, Ravic had difficulty in recognizing a number of them. Only half a dozen had been left behind in the big room as an emergency force. They would change at seven o’clock and be served then. None of them would come in their professional costumes. This was not madame’s rule; the girls themselves wanted it this way. Ravic had not expected anything else. He knew the etiquette among whores; it was stricter than that of high society.

The girls had collected money and given Rolande six wicker chairs as a present for her restaurant. Madame had presented her with a cash register, Ravic with two marble tables to go with the wicker chairs. He was the only outsider at this party. And the only man.

The dinner started at five minutes past six. Madame presided.
Rolande sat at her right, Ravic at her left. Then followed the new
gouvernante
, the assistant
gouvernante
, and the rows of girls.

The hors d’oeuvres were excellent. Strasbourg goose liver, pâté maison, and old sherry to go with it. Ravic was served a bottle of vodka. He loathed sherry. This was followed by a Vichyssoise of finest quality. Then by turbot with Meursault 1933. The turbot was of the same quality as that served at Maxim’s. The wine was light and exactly young enough. Then green asparagus came after it, then roast chicken, crisp and tender, carefully chosen salad with a whiff of garlic, with it a Château St. Emilion. At the head of the table they were drinking a bottle of Romanée Conti 1921. “The girls don’t appreciate it,” madame declared. Ravic appreciated it. He was served a second bottle. In exchange he passed over the champagne and the mousse chocolat. Together with madame he ate a ripe Brie with the wine and fresh white bread without butter.

The conversation at the table was that of a boarding school for young ladies. The wicker chairs were adorned with bows. The cash register glittered. The marble tables gleamed. An air of melancholy pervaded the room. Madame was in black. She wore diamonds. Not too many. A brooch and a ring. Fine blue-white stones. No coronet, although she had become a countess. She had taste. Madame loved diamonds. She declared that rubies and emeralds were risky. Diamonds were safe. She chattered with Rolande and Ravic. She was well read, her conversation was amusing, light, and witty. She quoted Montaigne, Chateaubriand, and Voltaire. Her white, slightly bluish hair shimmered above her clever ironical face.

At seven o’clock, after the coffee, the girls rose like obedient young ladies at a boarding school. They thanked madame politely and took leave of Rolande. Madame stayed on for a while. She had an armagnac brought such as Ravic had never drunk before. The
emergency brigade that had remained on duty came in, washed, less painted than when they were working, dressed in evening gowns. Madame waited until the girls were seated and eating turbot. She exchanged a few words with each of them and expressed her thanks that they had sacrificed the preceding hour. Then she said goodbye graciously. “I’ll see you, Rolande, before you leave—”

“Certainly, madame.”

“May I leave the armagnac here?” she asked Ravic.

Ravic thanked her. Madame left—every inch a lady of the highest rank.

Ravic took the bottle and sat down at Rolande’s side. “When are you going?” he asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at four-seven.”

“I’ll be at the station.”

“No, Ravic. That cannot be. My fiancé will be here tonight. We’ll leave together. You understand why you can’t come?”

“Of course.”

“We plan to pick out a few more things tomorrow morning and have everything sent off before we leave. Tonight I’ll move into the Hôtel Belfort. Good, reasonable, clean.”

“Is he staying there, too?”

“Of course not,” Rolande said in surprise. “We are not married yet.”

“I see.”

Ravic knew that all this was not a pose. Rolande was a bourgeoise who had been in a profession. Whether it was a boarding school for young ladies or a brothel did not matter. She had completed her professional work; it was over and she was returning to her bourgeois world without taking a shadow of the other world with her. It was the same with many whores. Some of them became excellent wives. To be a whore was a serious profession, not a vice. That saved them from degradation.

Rolande smiled at Ravic, took the bottle of armagnac, and refilled his glass. Then she took a slip of paper out of her bag. “In case you’d like to get away from Paris someday—here is the address of our house. You can come any time.”

Ravic looked at the address. “There are two names on it,” she said. “One is for the first two weeks. It’s mine. Afterwards, that of my fiancé.”

Ravic put the slip into his pocket. “Thank you, Rolande. For the time being I’ll stay in Paris. Besides, your fiancé would certainly be startled if I suddenly dropped in.”

“You mean because I don’t want you to come to the station? That’s something else. This is only in the event that you have to get away from Paris someday. Quickly. In that event.”

He glanced up. “Why?”

“Ravic,” she said. “You are a refugee. And refugees are sometimes in difficulties. In that case it’s good to know where one can live without having the police concerned about it.”

“How do you know I am a refugee?”

“I know. I haven’t told anyone. It’s no one’s business here. Keep the address. And in case you should need it some day, come. No one will question you at our place.”