Arch of Triumph (8 page)

The colonel tried to puzzle it out. “Then you are a—”

“You’d better make no statements,” Morosow interrupted him briefly. “It would only lead to conflict.”

Gomez became more and more confused. “But you as a White Russian and an officer of the Czar must be against—”

“We don’t have to be anything at all. We are old-fashioned creatures. We have different political opinions and, nevertheless, don’t break each other’s skulls.”

Finally it seemed to dawn upon Gomez. He stiffened. “I see,” he declared sharply. “Decadent democratic—”

“My friend,” Morosow said, suddenly becoming dangerous, “get out! You should have got out years ago! To Spain. To fight. Germans and Italians fought for you there instead. Adieu.”

He got up. Gomez took one step back. He stared at Morosow, disconcerted. Then he abruptly turned around and went back to his table. Morosow sat down again. He sighed and rang for the waitress. “Bring us two double calvados, Clarisse.”

Clarisse nodded and disappeared. “Stout, soldierly souls!” Ravic laughed. “A simple mind and a complicated conception of honor make life very difficult when one is drunk, Boris.”

“That I see! Here comes the next one already. Who is it this time? Franco himself?”

It was Navarro. He stopped two steps away from the table and addressed Morosow. “Colonel Gomez regrets to be unable to present his challenge. He is leaving Paris tonight. Besides, his mission is too important to risk difficulties with the police.” He turned toward Ravic. “Colonel Gomez still owes you the fee for a consultation.” He threw a folded five-franc bill on the table and was about to turn away.

“One moment,” Morosow said. Clarisse was just then at his side with a tray. He took a glass of calvados, briefly contemplated it, shook his head, and put it back. Then he took one of the water glasses from the tray and negligently tossed it in Navarro’s face. “That’s to sober you up,” he declared calmly. “Remember in the future that one doesn’t throw money. And now get away from here, you medieval idiot!”

Navarro stood still in astonishment. He dried his face. The
other Spaniards approached. There were four of them. Morosow got up slowly. He was more than a head taller than the Spaniards. Ravic remained sitting. He looked at Gomez. “Don’t make yourself ridiculous, you comic-opera characters,” he said. “None of you is sober. Within a few minutes you’ll be lying here with broken bones. Even if you were sober you would stand no chance.” He got up, seized Navarro by the elbows, lifted him, and put him down so near to Gomez that Gomez had to step aside. “And now leave us alone. We did not ask you to annoy us.” He took the five-franc bill from the table and put it on the tray. “That’s for you, Clarisse. From these gentlemen here.”

“The first time I ever got anything from them,” Clarisse declared. “Thanks.”

Gomez said something in Spanish. The five turned around and went back to their table. “It’s a pity,” Morosow said. “I’d have liked to beat up those fellows. Sorry that it can’t be done because of you, you illegal foundling. Don’t you sometimes regret that you can’t do it?”

“Not with those. There are others I’d like to get hold of.”

A few words in Spanish became audible from the table in the corner. The five rose. A threefold
viva
resounded. The glasses were set down clinking. There was the sound of one breaking. Then the martial group filed out of the room.

“I almost threw this good calvados in his face.” Morosow took the glass and emptied it. “And that’s the sort that governs Europe now! Were we too such fools once?”

“Yes,” Ravic said.

They played for an hour. Then Morosow looked up. “There is Charles,” he said. “He seems to be looking for you.”

The boy from the concierge’s box was coming toward them. He
held a little package in his hand. “This was left for you,” he said to Ravic.

“For me?”

Ravic examined the package. It was small and wrapped in white tissue paper, tied with a string. There was no address on it. “I’m not expecting any packages. It must be a mistake. Who brought it?”

“A woman—a lady—” the boy stammered.

“A woman or a lady?” Morosow asked.

“Just—just in between.”

Morosow grinned. “Pretty sharp.”

“There’s no name on it. Did she say it was for me?”

“Not just like that. Not your name. She said it was for the doctor who lives here. And—you know the lady.”

“Did she say that?”

“No,” the boy blurted. “But the other night she was with you.”

“From time to time ladies do come in with me,” Ravic said. “But you should know that the first virtue of a hotel employee is discretion. Indiscretion is only for cavaliers of the great world.”

“Go ahead and open the package, Ravic,” Morosow said. “Even if it isn’t for you. We’ve done worse in our deplorable lives.”

Ravic laughed and opened it. He unwrapped a small object. It was the wooden Madonna he had seen in the room of the woman—he tried to remember—what was her name?—Madeleine—Mad—he had forgotten it. A name something like that. He examined the tissue paper; there was no slip in it. “All right,” he said to the boy. “It’s for me.”

He placed the Madonna on the table. It looked strange among the chessmen. “A Russian?” Morosow asked.

“No. I thought so, too, at first.”

Ravic noticed that the red of the lipstick had been washed off. “What on earth shall I do with it?”

“Put it anywhere. Many things can be put just anywhere. There’s
plenty of room for everything in this world. Only not for human beings.”

“They will have buried the man meanwhile—”

“Is she the one?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever bother to see her again?”

“No.”

“Strange,” Morosow said, “we always think we’ve helped and yet we stop just when it’s hardest for the other.”

“I’m no charitable institution, Boris. And I have seen worse than that and done nothing. Why should it be harder for her now?”

“Because now she’s alone. Up to now the man was there even though he was dead. He was above the earth. Now he’s below it—gone, not here any more. This”—Morosow pointed at the Madonna—“is not thanks. It is a cry for help.”

“I slept with her. Without knowing what had happened. I want to forget that.”

“Nonsense! It is the least important thing in the world as long as there is no love in it. I knew a woman who said it was easier to sleep with a man than to call him by his first name.” Morosow leaned forward. His large bald head reflected the light. “I will tell you something, Ravic—we ought to be friendly to people if we can and as long as we possibly can because we’re still going to commit a few so-called crimes in our lives. At least I will. And probably you too.”

“Yes.”

Morosow put his arm around the pot containing the meager palm. It trembled slightly. “We all feed on one another. Such occasional little sparks of kindliness—that’s something one shouldn’t allow to be taken away. It strengthens one for a difficult life.”

“All right, I’ll go to see her tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Morosow said. “That’s what I meant. And now stop talking so much. Who has white?”

THE PATRON RECOGNIZED
Ravic immediately. “The lady is in her room,” he said.

“Can you call her and say that I am downstairs?”

“Her room has no telephone yet. I am sure you may go up.”

“What is the number?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I don’t remember her name. What is it?”

The patron showed no surprise. “Madou. Joan Madou,” he added. “I don’t think it is her real name. Probably a stage name.”

“Why stage name?”

“She registered as an actress. It sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I knew an actor who called himself Gustave Schmidt. In reality his name was Alexander Maria Count of Zambona. Gustave Schmidt was his stage name. Didn’t sound like one, did it?”

The patron would not concede defeat. “Nowadays so many things happen,” he declared philosophically.

“So much doesn’t actually happen. When you study history you’ll find that we are living in a relatively calm era.”

“Thanks, it’s enough for me.”

“For me too. But one has to find consolation wherever one can. Number twenty-seven, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ravic knocked. No one answered. He knocked once more and heard an indistinct voice. When he opened the door he saw the woman. She was sitting on the bed, which stood against the partition wall. She was dressed and wore the blue tailored suit in which Ravic had first seen her. She would have looked less forlorn had she been lying somewhere, negligently attired in a dressing gown. But this way, dressed for no one and nothing, out of mere habit which now had no meaning, there was something about her that touched Ravic’s heart. He was familiar with it—he had seen hundreds of people sitting this way—refugees driven helplessly into foreign countries. A little island of uncertain existence—that was how they sat, not knowing where to go—and only habit kept them alive.

He closed the door behind him. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said and at once felt how meaningless the words were. What was there that could still disturb this woman? There was nothing that could disturb her.

He put his hat on a chair. “Were you able to settle everything?” he asked.

“Yes. There wasn’t much.”

“No trouble?”

“No.”

Ravic sat down in the only armchair in the room. The springs squeaked and he could feel that one was broken.

“Did you intend to go out?” he asked.

“Yes. Sometime later. Nowhere in particular—just to go. What else can one do?”

“Nothing. That’s right, for a few days. Don’t you know anyone in Paris?”

“No.”

“No one?”

The woman raised her head with a tired movement. “No one—except you, the patron, the waiter, and the chambermaid.” She smiled faintly. “That’s not many, is it?”

“No. Did Mr.——” Ravic tried to remember the name of the dead man. He had forgotten it.

“No,” the woman said. “Raszinsky had friends here, but I’ve never seen them. He fell ill as soon as we arrived.”

Ravic had not intended to stay long. Now, seeing the woman sitting that way, he changed his mind. “Have you had dinner already?” he asked.

“No. I am not hungry.”

“Have you eaten anything at all today?”

“Yes. This noon. It’s easier during the day. In the evening—”

Ravic looked around. The small bare room smelled of cheerlessness and November. “It’s time you get out of here,” he said. “Come. We’ll go and have something to eat.”

He expected the woman to object. She seemed so indifferent that nothing could arouse her. But she stood up at once and reached for her raincoat.

“That won’t do,” he said. “The coat is too thin. Haven’t you a warmer one? It is cold outside.”

“It was raining before—”

“It is still raining. But it is cold. Can’t you put something on underneath? Another coat or at least a sweater?”

“I have a sweater.”

She went toward the larger suitcase. Ravic noted that she had hardly unpacked anything. She got a black sweater out of the suitcase, took her jacket off, and pulled on the sweater. She had beautiful straight shoulders. Then she took the Basque beret and put on her jacket and coat. “Is this better?”

“Much better.”

They went down the stairs. The patron was no longer there. In his stead the concierge sat beside the keyboard. He was sorting letters and smelled of garlic. A spotted cat sat motionless beside him and watched him.

“Do you still have the feeling that you can’t eat anything?” Ravic asked outside.

“I don’t know. Not much, I think.”

Ravic hailed a taxi. “Well, then we’ll drive to the Belle Aurore. One doesn’t have to eat a full dinner there.”

The Belle Aurore was not crowded. It was already too late for that. They found a table in the small upstairs room with the low ceiling. Besides them, there was only one couple, sitting by the window and eating cheese—and a solitary thin man, with a mountain of oysters in front of him. The waiter came and eyed the checked tablecloth critically. Then he decided to change it.

“Two vodkas,” Ravic ordered. “Cold.”

“We’ll drink something and eat hors d’oeuvres,” he said to the woman. “I think that’s best for you. This restaurant is famous for its hors d’oeuvres. There’s hardly anything else here. Anyhow you seldom get to eat anything else. There are dozens of them, warm and cold, and they’re all very good. We’ll try them.”

The waiter brought the vodka and got his pad ready. “A carafe of vin rosé,” Ravic said. “Have you Anjou?”

“Anjou, open, rosé. Very well, sir.”

“Fine. A large carafe in ice. And the hors d’oeuvres.”

The waiter left. At the door he almost collided with a woman in a red-feathered hat, who was rushing up the stairs. She pushed him aside and approached the thin man with the oysters. “Albert,” she said. “You swine—”

“Sh, sh—” Albert gestured and turned around.

“Don’t sh, sh me.” The woman put her wet umbrella across the table and sat down determinedly. Albert did not seem to be surprised. “Chérie,” he said and began to whisper.

Ravic smiled and lifted his glass. “We’ll drink this straight down.
Salute
.”