Arch of Triumph (50 page)

“Love?”

“Love. And that’s why this is the end.”

He closed the door behind himself. The elevator. He pressed the button. But he did not wait for the elevator to creep up. He expected Joan would follow him. He walked quickly down the stairs. He was surprised not to hear the door. He stopped at the second landing and listened. Nothing moved. No one came.

The taxi was still standing in front of the house. He had forgotten about it. The driver touched his cap and grinned confidentially.

“How much?” Ravic asked.

“Seventeen francs fifty.”

Ravic paid. “Don’t you want to ride back?” the chauffeur asked, surprised.

“No. I want to walk.”

“It’s rather far, sir.”

“I know.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been necessary for you to have me wait. Cost you eleven francs for nothing.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

The driver tried to light a cigarette butt that stuck to his upper lip, brown and damp. “Well, I hope it was worth it.”

“More!” Ravic said.

The gardens stood in the cold morning light. The air was already warm, but the light was cold. Lilac bushes, gray with dust. Benches. On one of them a man slept, his face covered with a copy of the
Paris Soir
. It was the same bench on which Ravic had sat during that rainy night.

He looked at the sleeping man. The
Paris Soir
rose rhythmically over the covered face as though the cheap paper had a soul, or as though it were a butterfly that would dart skyward at any moment with great news. The fat headline breathed softly: Hitler declares he has no more territorial claims, except the Polish Corridor. And beneath it: Presser kills husband with hot iron. A buxom woman in her Sunday dress stared out of the rotogravure. Next to her billowed a second photograph: Chamberlain declares peace still possible; a sort of bank clerk with an umbrella and a face like a happy sheep. Underneath his feet, in small print and somewhat hidden: Hundreds of Jews clubbed to death at the frontier.

The man who had protected himself with all this from the night dew and the early light slept soundly and peacefully.

He wore old, torn canvas shoes, brown woolen pants, and a torn jacket. All of this didn’t concern him. He was so far down that it didn’t concern him any more—as a deep-sea fish is not concerned with the storms above it.

Ravic walked back to the International. He was clear and free. He hadn’t left anything behind. He had no need of anything either. He couldn’t use anything now that would confuse him. He would move into the Prince de Galles today. Two days too early; but it was better to be ready for Haake too early than too late.

THE LOBBY OF THE
Prince de Galles was empty as Ravic came downstairs. A portable radio was playing quietly on the reception desk. A couple of scrub women were working in the corners. Ravic walked across quickly and inconspicuously. He looked at the clock opposite the door. It was five in the morning.

He went up the Avenue George V and over to Fouquet’s. No one was sitting there. The restaurant had been closed for some time. He paused for a moment. Then he stopped a taxi and drove to the Scheherazade.

Morosow was standing in front of the door and looked at him questioningly. “Nothing,” Ravic said.

“As I thought. You could not have expected it today.”

“You could. Today is the fourteenth day.”

“You can’t count on one day. Have you been in the Prince de Galles all the time?”

“Yes. From morning up to now.”

“He’ll call up tomorrow,” Morosow said. “He may have had something to do today, or may have left a day later.”

“I have to operate tomorrow morning.”

“He won’t call that early.”

Ravic did not reply. He was looking at a taxi out of which a gigolo in a white tuxedo had stepped. A pale woman with big teeth followed him. Morosow opened the door for them. Suddenly the street smelled of Chanel Five. The woman limped a little. The gigolo walked lazily behind her after paying for the taxi. The woman waited for him at the door. Her eyes were green in the light of the lamps. The pupils were contracted.

“At this time of day he certainly won’t call,” Morosow said as he returned.

Ravic did not answer.

“If you give me the key I can go up at eight,” Morosow declared. “I can wait then until you get back.”

“You must sleep.”

“Nonsense. I can sleep on your bed if I want to. No one will call, but I can do it if it puts you at ease.”

“I’ll have to operate until eleven.”

“All right. Give me the key. I wouldn’t like you to sew the ovaries of a lady of the Faubourg St. Germain to her stomach in your excitement. She might vomit up a child. Have you the key?”

“Yes. Here.”

Morosow put the key into his pocket. Then he took out a case with peppermint troches and offered them to Ravic. Ravic shook his head. Morosow took a few out and threw them into his mouth. They disappeared behind his beard like small white birds flying into a wood. “Refreshing,” he declared.

“Have you ever sat in a plush hole the entire day and waited?” Ravic asked.

“Longer. Haven’t you?”

“Yes. But not for something like this.”

“Didn’t you take anything along to read?”

“Enough. But I didn’t read anything. How long will you be busy here?”

Morosow opened the door of a taxi. It was crowded with Americans. He let them in. “At least another two hours,” he said when he came back. “You see what’s on. The maddest summer for years. Everything filled to capacity. Joan is in there, too.”

“Is she?”

“Yes. With a different man, in case you’re interested.”

“No,” Ravic said. He turned, ready to leave. “Then I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

“Ravic,” Morosow called after him.

Ravic came back. Morosow drew the key out of his pocket. “Here! You must be able to get into your room in the Prince de Galles! I won’t see you before tomorrow. Leave the door open when you go out.”

“I won’t sleep at the Prince de Galles.” Ravic took the key. “I sleep in the International. It’s better if my face is seen as little as possible over there.”

“You should sleep there. One doesn’t live in a hotel where one doesn’t sleep. It’s better so, in case the police inquire at the reception desk.”

“That’s true. But it’s also better to be able to prove that I’ve lived all the time in the International in case they do inquire. I’ve arranged everything in the Prince de Galles. The bed rumpled, the washstand, bath, towels, and everything else used so that it looks as if I’d left early in the morning.”

“All right. Then give me the key again.”

Ravic shook his head. “It’s better they shouldn’t see you there.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does, Boris. We don’t want to be idiots. Your beard is not ordinary. Besides, you are right: I must act and live as if nothing
in particular were the matter. If Haake really should call up tomorrow morning, then he’d call again in the afternoon too. If I didn’t count on that I’d be a nervous wreck within a day.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To bed. We can’t expect him to call at this time of day.”

“I can meet you somewhere later if you want me to.”

“No, Boris. I hope I’ll be asleep by the time you’re free here. I must operate at night.”

Morosow looked at him doubtfully. “Good. Then I’ll drop in on you tomorrow afternoon at the Prince de Galles. In case something happens before, give me a ring at the hotel.”

“Yes.”

The streets. The city. The reddish sky. Flickering red and white and blue behind the buildings. Wind playing around the corners of the bistros like an affectionate cat. People, fresh air, after a day lived through in a sticky hotel room. Ravic walked along the avenue behind the Scheherazade. The fenced-in trees hesitantly exhaled a memory of woods and greenery into the leaden night. Suddenly he felt empty and exhausted, ready to drop. If I’d let go of it, something within him thought, if I’d let go of it completely, forget it, strip it off as a snake strips off its outworn skin! What does it matter to me, this melodrama of an almost forgotten past? What does even this person matter to me, this little incidental instrument, this insignificant tool in a dark fragment of the Middle Ages, of a solar eclipse of Central Europe?

What did it still matter to him? A prostitute tried to tempt him into a doorway. In the dark of the door she opened her dress. It was made so that it opened like a robe when she undid the belt. The pale flesh glimmered indistinctly. Long black stockings, black
sockets of eyes in whose shadows one no longer saw any eyes; frail, decaying flesh which seemed already to phosphoresce.

A pimp with a cigarette sticking to his upper lip leaned against a tree and stared at him. A few vegetable vans passed by. Horses, heads bowed, muscles working powerfully under their skins. The spicy smell of herbs, of heads of cauliflower which looked like petrified brains in green leaves, the red of tomatoes, the baskets with beans, onions, cherries, and celery.

What did it still matter to him? One more or less. One more or less out of a hundred thousand men who were just as bad or even worse. One less. He stopped abruptly. That was it! He was quite awake all of a sudden. That was it! That was what had made them grow, the fact that one got tired, that one wanted to forget, that one thought: What does it matter to me? That was it! One less! Yes, one less—it was nothing, but it was also everything! Everything! Slowly he drew a cigarette out of his pocket and slowly lighted it. And suddenly while the yellow light of the match illuminated his palms like a cave with gorges of lines in it, he became aware that nothing could keep him from killing Haake. Everything depended on it in a strange way. It was suddenly much more than just a personal act of vengeance. It was as if he would make himself guilty of an immense crime if he did not do it; as if something in the world would be lost forever if he did not act. At the same time he knew exactly that it wasn’t so—but nevertheless and far beyond explanation and logic, the dark knowledge pulsed in his blood that he had to do it, as if invisible waves would emanate from it and far greater events happen later. He knew that Haake was only a small official of horror and not of much significance; but suddenly he knew too that it was infinitely important to kill him.

The light in the cave of his hands went out. He threw the match
away. The dawn hung over the trees. A silver fabric, held up by the pizzicato of the awakening sparrows. He looked about in astonishment. Something had happened to him. An invisible court had held a sitting, and a sentence had been pronounced. He saw the trees with extreme clarity, the yellow wall of a house, the gray color of an iron fence beside him, the street in the blue mist; he had the feeling that he would never forget them. And he knew that he would kill Haake and that it was no longer his own little affair, but far more. A beginning—

He passed the entrance of the Osiris. A few drunks staggered out. Their eyes were glassy, their faces red. Ravic glanced after them. They walked to the curb. There was no taxi there. They cursed for a while and then they walked on, heavy, strong, and noisy. They were speaking German.

Ravic had intended to go to the hotel. Now he changed his mind. He recalled Rolande’s words that there had often been German tourists in the Osiris during the last few months. He entered.

Rolande was standing at the bar, cool, observant, in her black
gouvernante’s
uniform. The music box blared resoundingly against the Egyptian walls. “Rolande,” Ravic said.

She turned around. “Ravic! You haven’t been here for a long time. It’s good that you’ve come.”

“Why?”

He stood beside her at the bar and looked around the place. There were no longer many customers there. They were hunched sleepily at the tables here and there.

“I’m leaving here,” Rolande said. “I go in a week.”

“Forever?”

She nodded and took a telegram out of the neck of her dress. “Here.”

Ravic opened it and gave it back to her. “Your aunt? She finally died?”

“Yes. I’ll go back. I’ve told madame. She is furious, but she understands. Jeanette must replace me. I still have to break her in.” Rolande laughed. “Poor madame. She wanted to show off at Cannes this year. Her villa is crowded with guests by now. She became a countess a year ago. Married a pimp from Toulouse. She pays him five thousand francs a month as long as he doesn’t leave Toulouse. Now she’s got to stay here.”

“Will you open your café?”

“Yes. I run around all day ordering things. One can get them cheaper in Paris. Chintz for the curtains. What do you say to this pattern?”

She drew out of the neck of her dress a crumpled piece of material. Flowers on a yellow background. “Wonderful,” Ravic declared.

“I’ll get it at a discount of thirty per cent. Last year’s stock.” Rolande’s eyes radiated warmth and tenderness. “I’ll save three hundred and seventy-five francs. Not bad, eh?”

“Marvelous. Will you marry?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to marry? Why don’t you wait awhile and attend to everything you want to do first?”

Rolande laughed. “You don’t understand business, Ravic. It won’t work without a man. A man belongs in it. I know what I’m doing all right.”