Midnight in Europe (24 page)

“Anything you like.”

“Hmm, that fisherman in front of the restaurant was preparing a
langouste
.” Spiny lobster or crayfish, succulent and sweet. “I see they serve it cold, cut in pieces, with a mayonnaise.”

“Let’s start with that,” he said. “Do you suppose it goes well with champagne?”

“I would think so.”

“And then?”

“Maybe,
boudins blancs
?” White sausages; pork ground with cream and butter.

“Sounds good, I will have that also.”

The champagne arrived in a silver bucket, the sommelier poured a thin, pale stream into each glass. Ferrar raised his and said, “
Salut
, Maria Cristina.” The commonplace toast—he found the other possibilities too intimate or just plain silly. Maria Cristina raised her glass, met his eyes, and said,
“Salut.”
They drank, then she said, “Cristián?”

“Yes?”

“There is a hole in this mirror. Everything else here is so perfect, I wonder they don’t see to it.”

With some relish, he told her what had happened and she watched him as he spoke—interested by the man telling a story more than the story itself. The
langouste
arrived, Maria Cristina took a forkful, tasted it, closed her eyes, and made a low sound of pleasure.

Ferrar said, “Oh this is very good.”

As the night wore on, the spirit of the brasserie rose to a high pitch, the conversation louder now and occasionally punctuated by a woman’s peal of laughter; somebody had said something irresistibly droll. Ferrar and Maria Cristina finished the bottle of champagne and Ferrar ordered another as they worked on their
boudins blancs
. The new bottle was uncorked and they each had more than a sip—Ferrar was beginning to feel a certain hazy elation.

“What a place this is!” Maria Cristina said. “And what a crowd, so … carefree, it’s like going to a party.”

“I hoped you would enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” she said, and briefly rested her hand on his forearm. “Just the thing for me, I spent the day brooding about a friend of mine, and this evening has made me feel better.”

“Brooding? What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “An old friend in trouble, I knew her at school in
Switzerland, Benita.” When she spoke the name she smiled, a triste smile, as she remembered her friend. “I had a letter from her this morning, she is in difficulty and doesn’t know what to do.”

“And the difficulty is?”

“Benita grew up in Madrid, her father was Spanish, her mother English. She has been living in Geneva but she cannot remain there, her residence permit will expire soon and cannot be extended. A few months ago her father died and, some time later, she went to the Spanish consulate to have her passport renewed, but her application was, after a few weeks, denied. The consul said something about a change in regulations that called for a search of records in Madrid, which is now impossible.”

“Sad. This does happen though, I’ve seen it before.”

“The consul in Geneva suggested she make application for what he called a compassionate exception, but her letter never arrived in Valencia, and now the time period for the request has expired.”

Ferrar shook his head. “Governments are often not compassionate, Maria Cristina. They make rules and enforce them.”

“Yes, I know, I know how they are. Now the only chance she has is to make a personal plea to the Spanish Republic, to, for example, the Spanish embassy in Paris. But, how to do this? She knows nobody in the government, and fears her application will be rejected by a clerk.”

“I’m afraid she isn’t wrong.”

“Then I wondered, what if I went myself, on her behalf, to plead her case?”

“You would have to see one of the senior diplomats,” Ferrar said.

“So I thought—the most senior diplomat who would agree to a meeting, but I don’t know a soul at the embassy.”

After a moment, Ferrar said, “I might be able to help you, I’ll look into it.”

“You will? I would be very grateful …”

“Now, my dear Maria Cristina, is that an empty glass I see?”

Again she touched his forearm and said, her voice emotional, “You are sweet, Cristián, you are a kind man.”

They had a
tarte tatin
for dessert; soft, golden slices of apple in a flaky crust. And left the brasserie at midnight.

In the taxi back to the Windsor, Maria Cristina was pensive, sat close to Ferrar, and rested her head on his shoulder. When they reached the hotel, Ferrar, his courage greatly buoyed by champagne, took a chance. “Maria Cristina?” he said. “May I see you to your room?”

A subtle nod and, almost inaudible, a whispered yes.

He followed her up the two flights of stairs to her room, which was in fact a suite, virtually a private apartment. It was not at all luxurious—floral-print wallpaper that had seen better days, overstuffed furniture with forest-green slipcovers—but quite comfortable. He sat at one end of a sofa, she at the other.

“May I smoke?” he said.

She went off to another room and returned with an ashtray and a packet of Gauloises. “I will have one as well,” she said.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“
So
old-fashioned,” she said, “but I was raised to believe that it was not genteel to smoke in front of people.”

Ferrar said, “Times change, thank God.”

Now a silence that would grow awkward if allowed to continue. Finally he said, “I’ve been wondering all day …”

“Oh? Tell me then, what is it that you have been wondering about?”

“If we would kiss.”

They stubbed their cigarettes out in the ashtray, he moved to her side, she raised her face, their lips met. A chaste kiss that stirred him deeply. When the kiss ended Ferrar stayed close to her so that his voice was low as he said, “I was about to say good night but …”

“But …?”

“I wondered also what would happen if I asked you to take off your dress.”

“Well, now you will find out,” she said, her voice not entirely steady. She stood, worked at the back of her dress, then took it off, looked around, and laid it atop an easy chair. She remained standing, in a black silk slip with lace at the top and bottom.

“And then …,” he said.

She took a breath, raised the hem of her slip up and over her head, then folded it beside her dress. She had on a one-piece undergarment of glossy silver satin that went from the top of the breast to mid-thigh, where garters held up her stockings. His eyes moved up and down her profile, finding small breasts, the beginning of a tummy, and a derriere rather more splendid than he had imagined.

Now he stood, placed his hands on her bare shoulders, and was about to kiss her when he saw two tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, her mouth compressed in the manner of a woman who is about to weep but doesn’t want to. “I’m sorry,” she said, so quietly he could barely hear her. “I can’t. Not now …”

He took her hand and led her back to the sofa. She said, “I wanted to, I imagined we would …”

“Don’t worry, the first time doesn’t always go easily.”

She wiped at her eyes, he gave her his handkerchief and said, “Here.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “What have I done?”

“In time we’ll get around to it, there’s no rush, let’s just sit here, talk a little, be friends …”

“Thank you,” she said.

On 16 May, Ferrar took a train down to Lisbon, boarded the Pan Am flying boat, and was in Manhattan on the evening of the following day. The desk clerk welcomed him back to the Gotham and, not nearly ready to sleep, he took a walk down Fifth Avenue. On a
warm night in May, New Yorkers strolled along the avenue, looking at the displays of spring fashion in the windows of the department stores. To Ferrar they seemed confident and relaxed, and the phrase
taking it easy
came to mind. Yes, among the crowd were faces taut with worry—New Yorkers were good at worrying—but what was missing here was the undercurrent of tension that he’d grown used to in Paris. When Ferrar reached Thirty-Seventh Street he paused, for a moment wanted to turn east, toward Delaney’s Bar and Grill in the Murray Hill neighborhood. In fact, being in Manhattan reminded him too much of Eileen Moore and he didn’t want to make it worse, so he walked back to the Gotham. That part of his life was over.

In the morning he was at Coudert for meetings, which lasted all day. He sat at conference tables and contributed what he could, much of the legal work concerned the coming war, especially so now that the law firm represented the French arms-buying commission. At six-thirty he took a taxi up to Park Avenue—one of the senior partners, Hugh Courtney, had kindly invited him to “a home-cooked dinner.” They had chicken and string beans and mashed potatoes, then angel cake and coffee for dessert. After dinner he sat with Courtney, now in shirt and loosened tie, his wife, Faye, and Courtney’s oldest son, who was at Princeton. The host poured scotch for everybody and they settled down to talk.

“We look for Hitler to start it in ’forty-one or, at the latest, ’forty-two,” Courtney said. “He’ll have all his planes and tanks by then. One thing about Coudert, you are in touch with people from industry and government who have a real grasp of the future.” Courtney sat forward in an easy chair, elbows on knees, both hands holding his highball glass. “Meanwhile, the newspapers are filled with local scandals and baseball.”

He was going to continue, but Faye Courtney said, “Tell me, Cristián, do you have family in Paris?”

“I’m not married, but my parents and grandmother, a sister and a cousin, all live a few miles away, in a town called Louveciennes.”

Courtney Junior spoke up and said, “There’s a really good Pissarro painting of Louveciennes.”

“I know the road he painted,” Ferrar said. “It’s on the way to the house.”

“What will your family do if there’s a war?” Faye Courtney said. “Have you made provision for them?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Ferrar said, guilt in his voice. “But the idea that they’d have to go somewhere new …”

“Paris will be bombed,” Courtney Junior said. “Just like Spain was,
Life
magazine had photographs.”

“Yes, I suppose it will,” Ferrar said.

“Then you must do something about that,” Mrs. Courtney said. “Really, Cristián, you must.”

“What do you suggest?” Ferrar said, meaning it.

Thus Ferrar left the office early the next day and, accompanied by the Courtneys, found himself at a tall apartment house on West End Avenue.

“Of course you have a choice,” Faye Courtney said, “but the people coming out of Europe now are taking apartments up here. So your family would be with other refugees.”

“Yes, you’re right, Faye. They are isolated in Louveciennes.”

Led by the owner of the building, who spoke English with a thick German accent, they looked at several vacant apartments—big apartments with plenty of room, the Ferrar clan would need at least four bedrooms. On the third try he found one he liked, airy, with high ceilings, that looked out on a courtyard formed by three sides of the building. The owner said, “Is this one right for you, Mr. Ferrar?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“There’s a doorman and an elevator man,” the owner said. “The rent is sixty-eight dollars a month.”

“You can afford it,” Hugh Courtney said. “Money well spent.”

“Then I’ll take it,” Ferrar said. “They might never come here, perhaps the future will turn out differently in Europe.”

“A future to hope for,” Faye Courtney said. “But, better safe than sorry.”

As Ferrar was renting an apartment, Max de Lyon was in a brothel in Istanbul. Not the worst he’d seen—two floors in a lime-green building that looked out over the Golden Horn, with the Bosphorus in the distance. De Lyon had taken a girl, and her room, for the night. The girl had the stomach of a belly dancer, round and firm, and sat naked on the bed, content and peaceful, repairing a ripped stocking with a needle and thread, awaiting the pleasure of her customer.

De Lyon had worked hard on his contacts in Paris, a city rich in Russian émigrés; some had fled the revolution in 1917, others had reached Paris in 1920, as the White Army was beaten by the Bolsheviks. Eighteen years had passed, yet certain of the émigrés, using clandestine methods, had managed to stay in touch with family and friends in the USSR. De Lyon had handed out a lot of money to various taxi drivers and nightclub doormen and dishwashers, some of them terribly poor, all of them eager to help de Lyon, who always paid generously for information. But, in the end, the man with the information wasn’t poor at all; he owned a garage in the Paris suburb of Saint-Denis, he was rich, and deeply interested in politics. That interest was not comfortable for de Lyon—politically active émigrés drew secret police like flies—but the garage owner’s contacts were up-to-date and he himself was from Odessa which meant, as he pointed out to de Lyon with some vigor, that he was not Russian, but Ukrainian. Still, he knew the gangs and claimed his information was current. “Bratya?” he said. “That’s not a man’s name, it means ‘cousins,’ the name of a gang, and they are all, every one of them, in Siberia or in the ground.”

The best of the gangs, whatever that meant—fiercest? richest?—had no name for the NKVD to file and was led by a man named Vadik, short for Vadim. Could the garage owner arrange a meeting?
Anywhere outside the USSR? He could. De Lyon tried to pay him but he held up a stiffened hand. “If it works, a favor some day when I need it.” Which made de Lyon even less comfortable, he didn’t like owing favors, returning a favor could be dangerous, whereas money was money, but the garage owner was emphatic.

So then, Vadik. The belly dancer looked up now and then to see if her customer might be ready to have what he’d paid for, but de Lyon just smiled and the belly dancer smiled back; they had not a word of any language in common. From the garage owner, de Lyon knew that Vadik would have to spend a good day and a half on a freighter steaming down the Black Sea coast to Istanbul, so he had offered to pay for the meeting. But he would have to pay Vadik directly. When he’d suggested a payment in advance, the garage owner had wagged his index finger,
naughty boy
, and said, “No, no, can’t send money.”