Heart of Lies (2 page)

The words stung. Leo sat back down. “What would you expect me to do?”

The other men exchanged glances. Graetz answered. “Simply this. We will have a meeting, very soon, of the people who could, in theory, supply the weapons, those who could, conceivably, transport them, and the men who are willing to pay for them. They come from different countries, including Switzerland, Soviet Russia, Germany, and America. Having you at that meeting will enable us to communicate effectively. Of course, you’ll be sworn to secrecy.”

“So you need me to translate? That’s all? Surely there’s someone else who can do this.”

“No one with your proficiency. Without you we would have to have several interpreters present. The more people who know about this, the more dangerous it becomes for all of us.”

“But couldn’t you merely agree to speak the same language, as we’ve been doing all evening?”

Again, the men exchanged glances. This time it was Bacso who spoke.

“You see, Leo, we need you to do more than just be at the meeting. We need for you to eavesdrop, telephonically, on the other participants, after the actual meeting, to make sure that we aren’t being betrayed.”

“Telephonically? Is that really possible?”

Graetz nodded. “The technology exists.”

“And,” Mitchell added, “You’ll be very, very well compensated for your services. In fact, if you perform well in this capacity, it could lead to great things for you. Yes indeed, great things.”

Leo thought for a moment. Was it such a terrible crime to disobey unjust laws that had been forced down Hungarian throats? If they were caught, they’d go to jail. But wasn’t his current life a prison of sorts, anyway? Five years ago he’d abandoned the idea that he could use his talents to create a dazzling life, and settled instead for the limited satisfaction he could achieve by mastering the details of an unimportant one. He spent his days fulfilling the shallow whims of the wealthy. Maybe it was time to take a chance on something. He felt a flash of excitement, a feeling he’d not had in a long time. It felt good.

And Bacso’s words had touched his pride. He’d told these men the truth; he picked up new languages very quickly. But in fact his ability to make sense of new sounds and turn them into words was just one aspect of his talent. Leo paid attention not only to the words a man used, but also to the motion of his hands, the posture of his body, and the way he held his eyes. He was captivated by the smallest nuance of expression. He might look in the mirror and still see a boy raised in a stable,
but the people around him did not. His methods of imitation were so subtle—a stance, a gesture, a slight inflection of speech—that he was able to make people feel comfortable, without them noticing that their comfort was grounded in the seductive power of familiarity. Perhaps it was time to exhibit his skills on a wider stage.

“Where is the meeting to be held?”

Bacso smiled. “Ah, there, you are in luck. We’re to meet in four days, in Paris. Our affairs should take no more than three or four days. You can take a long holiday and stay in Paris for Christmas.”

PARIS

The Orient Express arrived precisely on schedule, early in the morning on the 18th of December. It had been ten years since Leo had traveled in such luxury, and he’d missed it. He missed being the object of another’s solicitous attentions, of eating a meal cooked to perfection, of having his bed linens readied by a careful hand. And now he was in Paris: to be able to spend a few days in Paris was worth risking a little time in jail.

None of the other participants in the negotiations were traveling on the same train. They were to meet tomorrow morning, in a suite at the Ritz, on the Place Vendôme, where Bacso and the people with whom they would be negotiating were staying. Bacso instructed Leo to check into a small but perfectly acceptable hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, near the Louvre. They were to register under assumed names, except for Bacso. The banker explained that although he’d never before stayed at the Ritz, he was so frequently in Paris on business that an alias would be ineffective; indeed, rather than protect him, use of a false name could prove needlessly embarrassing.

After a leisurely lunch in a café bordering the Jardin des Tuileries, Leo walked up Rue Castiglione in search of the Ritz; he wanted to make sure he knew exactly how to get there the next day. The shops along the way displayed luxuries of every conceivable description, from furs worthy of a Czarina, to jewels capable of tempting the crowned heads of Europe, to antiques worth more than most men would make in a lifetime.

At the Place Vendôme he confirmed the location of the Ritz and then headed north again, where the street name changed to Rue de la Paix. Destination: the Paris Opera. Leo wanted to compare this building with the elaborate opera house on Andrassy Avenue. He found the Paris house impressive, but dull by Hungarian standards. Too few flourishes, not enough gilt.

Leaving the Place de l’Opera behind him, Leo once again headed west, determined to get at least a glimpse of the famous restaurant, Maxim’s. Many of his well-traveled clientele at the Bristol maintained that people-watching at Maxim’s provided better entertainment than any performance hall. On his way toward Rue Royal he passed by the Olympia music hall, world-renowned for its spectacular entertainment. The sight of it made him think of Erzsebet, telling him in her entertainingly silly way about a show she and József had once seen there. She always got the name of the performer wrong. He walked quickly past the theater.

The street broke into another wide-open space, and Leo stopped short. He was gazing at an enormous Greek temple. A bronze plaque informed him that it was in fact the Church of Mary Magdalene. The classic refinement of the building created an oasis of perfect harmony amid the pandemonium of cosmopolitan Paris.

At the edge of the square, across from the church itself, Leo spotted a lively café and went to investigate. Upon entering, he was struck by how similar the interior of this establishment was to that of the New York in its prime. Tall, gilt-edged mirrors covered the walls. Angels and nymphs created a Belle Époque pageant along the edge of the ceiling, the center of which was covered with a mural depicting an idyllic day in a rural Roman paradise. Ornate wrought iron chairs partnered dainty marble-topped tables. At the front of the shop was a small counter displaying the delicacies of the day.

Leo chose a seat near the huge front window and ordered a hot chocolate. At four-thirty the winter sun was already fading. Matrons passed by with long, crusty baguettes tucked under their arms, making their way home to prepare the evening meal. Businessmen walked in pairs, their long black coats flapping behind them, buried deep in conversation about currency trades and the price of sugar beets. Children pranced along in cheerful clusters, full of plans for Christmas.

Leo liked Paris. He liked the fervent, free rhythms of the city.
This is what Budapest should have been, what it could have become, if our side had not lost the war.

A young woman approached the window. Leo sat up straight. He caught her eye briefly but she immediately, modestly, looked away.

Leo was used to seeing beautiful women, and he was used to having beautiful women look back at him, but the sight of this particular young woman sent little pulses of pleasurable excitement radiating through his whole body. Like a good tourist, she was reading the menu posted outside before coming in. Leo was fumbling for pocket change, to pay his bill quickly in case he had to follow her down the street in order to meet her, when she passed through the café’s double glass
door. She moved with unconscious grace over to the front counter and studied the temptations spread out under the glass.

Leo left his table and walked toward the counter until he stood just behind her. Her head barely cleared his chin. Amber-gold hair peeked out from under her cloche hat and curled against the base of her neck. He fought an impulse to kiss her right where the escaped ringlets rested.

The young woman sensed someone close behind her. Without turning she pointed to a plate of small, golden, rectangular tea cakes, which Leo had already learned were named in honor of the church that adorned the square in front of the café.

“What are these?” she asked politely. The words were French, but the accent was distinctly German. As she finished her sentence she looked back over her left shoulder to catch Leo’s response, and jumped slightly when she saw he was not a waiter.

“Those are called ‘Madeleines.’ Very tasty,” Leo answered in French.

“Would you care for one? Just come this way.”

She smiled. It was a smile that began gradually, like the morning sun peeking over the horizon. By the time its full brilliance hit Leo he was mesmerized. Grasping her hand as if he were escorting her to the dance floor, he led her back to his table.

“But you’ve already finished your chocolate,” she said with dismay as Leo pulled out a chair for her to sit down.

“Oh, no, I haven’t finished anything. Won’t you please join me?” She hesitated. Sensing her unease, Leo came around to stand behind her and placed his hands on her delicate shoulders. He bent down and whispered to her, his mouth nearly touching her ear. “Please, won’t you join me?”

She sat down.

Leo took the seat across from her, trying not to stare. Her face was truly, splendidly heart-shaped. Her emerald green eyes, greener than spring, were punctuated with flecks of gold. Her amber hair glowed.

He extended his hand across the small table. “Leo Hoffman.”

“Martha. Martha Levy,” she replied, touching his hand for a fraction of a second.

He noticed the green guidebook she put down on the table as she removed her gloves. “So, are you visiting Paris for the first time?”

“Yes.” Her German accent once again betrayed her origins.

“What do you like best so far?”

“The people.”

Leo laughed. “That’s unusual. The French don’t have a good reputation for making visitors feel welcome.”

“Aren’t you French?”

“No, I’m Hungarian.”

“Hungarian? But you speak with no accent.”

“No, I speak French with a French accent, as opposed to a Hungarian one. And you are German, correct?”

“Is it that obvious? Don’t answer that.”

“So where are you from in Germany?”

“Munich.”

“And what brought you to Paris?”

“I’m here for a short vacation. I’ve been going to the university in Munich, but next semester I want to take some time off from school to work for a while. I thought I should come to see Paris now, before I find a job, because otherwise it might be a long time before I can travel. I’m sorry, I really am prattling on.”

“No, it’s perfect. I want to know. I want to know everything about you. Do you have any brothers and sisters? How many pairs of shoes do you own? Do you take sugar in your coffee? What’s your favorite color? How long are you staying in Paris? Are you here with your family?”

Now it was Martha’s turn to laugh. “Do you always interrogate your new acquaintances this way?” she asked, randomly flipping through the guidebook to give her fingers something to do. She heard herself talking, but it was like listening to someone else, someone far away, whose voice did not matter. How could this happen? What was there about meeting this man that instantly reduced the eighteen years of her life to a meaningless period of waiting, of waiting for this moment, the moment when she came alive?

“Oh, look,” she said, attempting to steer the conversation to safe ground. “Here’s a description of the beautiful church across the street. The Madeleine. Why, that’s the same—”

“—Name as the little tea cakes. I assure you it’s not a coincidence. Shall we order some?”

“If you wish.” She put her nose back in the book and began to read aloud.

“A magnificent example of neoclassical architecture, the Church of Mary Magdalene was begun in 1812 by the Emperor Napoleon as a monument to the victories of his Grand Army. After Napoleon was overthrown, the building was consecrated as a church.”

She looked up. “Ironic, isn’t it, how war and arrogance can give birth to such beauty?”

For the first time in his life, Leo gazed into the face of an attractive woman without seeing a reflection of how she saw him, or a suggestion
of what she wanted him to be. He saw only Martha, exuding a blend of confidence and innocence that struck him as the perfect expression of femininity. He thought suddenly of the Rigo Jancsi torte, the irresistible confection served at Budapest’s most elegant bakeries. The famous pastry had been inspired by the true story of a Belgian princess who’d run off with a gypsy violinist, leaving her husband, family, and fortune behind without a word of explanation. Now that story made sense. What the French called the
coup de foudre
: the lightning bolt. Something more than love at first sight. Surely she felt it, too. She had to. He saw the flush on her cheeks and the way she looked at him while trying not to look at him. She was his. She was his already. He knew it.

He asked her question after question. She was staying with an old school friend of her father’s, and his wife, in their apartment on the Rue de Babylon. She had an older sister who went to graduate school in Graz, in Austria, and would remain at school over the winter break, to study for her comprehensive exams. Her father was a professor. Martha planned to be back in Munich in time for Christmas.

“Perhaps we should go?” he proposed, as she finished her last sip of coffee.

“Of course,” she stammered, deliberately misunderstanding him, “I should go.”

Wordlessly Leo stood up, came around the small table, and pulled Martha’s chair out for her. She rose quickly, accepting his help with her coat, preparing to bolt. She had to flee, to run back out into the street, to escape this man with his astonishing blue eyes and his hypnotic smile.

“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she said lightly. “Thank you for the coffee. If you’re ever in Munich—”

But she could not finish. He was looking at her with those eyes. She instructed her feet to back away, but her body would not listen.

“Surely you’re not going to abandon me so abruptly?”

She could not speak. Leo touched the tip of her nose with his finger.

“What time are you expected back this evening?”

Martha found her voice. “For dinner. Around eight.”

“Excellent. I don’t have to give you up for three hours. Have you been to the Champs-Élysées yet?”

She shook her head. “I thought I would go tomorrow.”

“Might I accompany you now? I don’t believe it’s very far from here. There we’ll be able to admire another one of Napoleon’s monuments to himself, and perhaps I can even persuade you to let me treat you to an apéritif.”

“That sounds delightful.” Everything about him was delightful, Martha thought as they left the café: from the carefree way a few of his black curls had escaped their pomade prison, to the poised confidence of his long stride. When he took her arm she fought the urge to reach up and touch his face. Touching him would be her undoing. She hid her free hand in her coat pocket.

“How long are you in Paris?” she asked.

“Just a few days. I have to be back at work the day after Christmas.”

“In Budapest?”

“Yes, indeed, mademoiselle. You are looking at the head concierge of the Hotel Bristol, the most elegant establishment on the Corso.”

“Corso?”

“The most fashionable street in the city. It runs along the Danube.”

“Sounds beautiful. I would love to see it someday.”

“I would love to show it to you.”

She blushed. This sudden intimacy was not…normal. But then what was normal? For her to feel out of place and restless? In her mind’s eye Martha saw a picture of herself, standing in the center of a stage, surrounded by all the people she knew in Munich. Everyone was prepared for the curtain to rise. Everyone knew their cues and their lines. But she did not. She was in the wrong play. Was that normal?

Leo stopped short and looked down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I feel the same way.” Martha did not ask him to explain.

They strolled leisurely down to the Place de la Concord and then up the grandest boulevard in the city, stopping periodically to admire an interesting architectural detail, to comment on the luxurious goods laid out in the brightly lit store windows, or to make a quip about a patron in one of the many cafés lining the street. When they reached the Arc de Triomphe at the end of the avenue, Martha pulled out her guidebook and added to Leo’s knowledge of that famous landmark, then they settled into a small bistro for a snack and a pre-dinner cocktail.

“To you, Martha Levy, and the fates that brought us together today,” Leo said as he raised his glass. She laughed.
I could spend my life listening to her laugh,
he thought.
Maybe I’ll be able to do just that.

“So tell me more about yourself,” she said after taking a sip of her drink. “I think the inquisition has been a little one-sided so far.”

“Ask me anything.”

“Well, does your family come from Budapest?”

He pondered all the imprecise answers he usually gave that question, and thought at first that he would resort to one again, but then found himself telling her the truth. “No. I was born in a very insignificant village not far from what used to the Austrian border. My father
was the blacksmith on the local baron’s estate. When I was twelve, a student from the university came to start a small school. I impressed him and he brought me to Budapest, where I lived with him and his sister until…until after the war.”