Midnight in Europe (15 page)

“I have to go home first, I’ll meet you there.” Ferrar was more than pleased, anything to get him out of his apartment and yet one more bachelor supper. He looked over the form, answered a few questions, then, as de Lyon went back to work, said, “Don’t you have a secretary who can type that out for you?”

“Usually I do, but her husband was badly wounded yesterday, by a German tank, as it happens. Anyhow, poor girl, she tried to work but she’s better off at home for a few days.”

“The form can’t wait?”

“Maybe, but in situations like these, with two bottles of wine
and so forth, it’s better to have the form ready for signature and in one’s pocket. Something to remember if you have to do this by yourself.”

“Just out of curiosity, how did you manage the phone call?”

“I use a woman, so the operator can say, ‘A Mademoiselle Duval on the line for you.’ For men, it’s good bait. They wonder, Is she young? Is she sexy? I’ll just see who she is. Meanwhile, I’m on the extension line.”

From Ferrar, an appreciative laugh, then he said goodby and left de Lyon to his typing.

At eight-fifteen, Ferrar walked down to the avenue des Grands Augustins, which faced the Seine. He crossed the avenue and spent some time gazing at the river, which was running a heavy swell in the spring flood, the dark surface of the water ruffled by a gusty March wind. Eventually he looked at his watch and set off for the restaurant, sorry to leave the river. But as he entered Lapérouse his heart lifted: here was a lovely private little world: warm air, fragrant with the aromas of rich food; silverware and china gleaming in the muted light; and the low, civilized music of dinner conversation. Ferrar was led to the table, where de Lyon was laughing, apparently at some clever remark delivered by the general.

General Zoltau appeared to be a man of some vanity, who wore a cavalry mustache with its ends trained to sharp points, of the sort twirled by a villain in a melodrama. He was tall and fair, held himself in a stiff, military posture, his suit likely sewn up by a Bond Street tailor. He rose and shook Ferrar’s hand as de Lyon introduced them, then, as Ferrar sat down, de Lyon said, “General Zoltau has suggested we have
gentiane
as an apéritif, would you like one? Myself, I’ve never tasted it.”

This was a lead and Ferrar followed it. “Always good to try something new,” he said.

“It is a liqueur,” Zoltau said, savoring the French pronunciation, “made from the roots of the gentian plant, little blue flowers picked in the mountains. As for the taste, it cannot be described, so you must try a sip.”

“Then that is what I’ll do,” Ferrar said, bowing to the general’s sophisticated taste.

“General Zoltau is one of the military attachés at the Estonian legation here in Paris,” de Lyon said.

“Oh yes? And do you enjoy the city, General?”

“Indeed, yes, of course. It’s full of Frenchmen, unfortunately, but one can’t have everything.” De Lyon and Ferrar laughed at the barb.

“And where do you live?” Ferrar said.

“In the Eighth Arrondissement, on the avenue Montaigne, my wife and I so like that part of the city we’ve bought an apartment there.”

Ferrar knew the neighborhood, which was just off the Champs-Elysées, and one of the most expensive areas in the city. What did they pay generals in Estonia? Not enough to live on the avenue Montaigne.
Maybe family money
, Ferrar thought.
Or the wife has money. Or the gossip has it right:
“Always better to buy, in Paris,” Ferrar said.

“I believe so,” the general said. His eyes wandered over the restaurant’s lavish, nineteenth-century decor: the grand style, its crowning glory a magnificent chandelier made of hundreds of perfect crystal pendants. The general’s eyes paused there a moment, then he continued, “We are now engaged, more my wife than I, in redecorating. An impressive apartment, it deserves the best.”

A waiter arrived with the
gentiane
, which Ferrar had always liked, though the general had it right, the exotic flavor was beyond words. As they drank they studied the menu. “Lapérouse is known for its quenelles of lobster in cream sauce,” de Lyon said, choosing the most expensive dish offered. “And of course we must begin with the caviar. How does that sound to you, General Zoltau?”
From Zoltau, an approving nod. When the sommelier appeared, de Lyon ordered two bottles of Château Mouton Rothschild.

The conversation turned to politics—no French dining rules that night. The general inquired about the progress of the civil war, in the way of a military attaché trolling for information. “It is not going well,” de Lyon said. “Now that Franco’s Nationalists have recaptured Teruel, they’ve begun to attack east of the town, heading for the Mediterranean coast. If they reach it, they will cut the Republic in two.”

“And then?” the general said.

“As long as we hold Barcelona and Madrid, there is hope,” de Lyon said.

From the general, a sage nod. He turned to Ferrar and said, “Your friend has it right, I think, arms merchants are known to have a good nose for war.”

Ferrar said, “And you, General Zoltau, what is your view?”

“If you can hold out long enough, perhaps a cease-fire, followed by a political solution, especially if the British support the idea.”

“They will not,” de Lyon said. “They will hem and haw, but in the end they won’t. We believe that the British Foreign Office and General Franco have made a secret arrangement. Something on the order of: we will allow you to win, if you will remain neutral when we fight Germany. This would mean the British could keep Gibraltar and thus control the Mediterranean.”

“They are hard people, the British,” Zoltau said, a note of admiration in his voice.

“They are,” de Lyon said. “And because they, and the French, keep us from buying armaments, we must take what the Russians offer, and then buy the rest wherever we can find it. What that means on the battlefield is that the soldiers of the Republic are armed with forty-nine different types of repeating rifle, forty-one types of automatic weapon, and sixty different kinds of artillery. Many of the replacement parts can’t be found, and we need ammunition of all sorts of calibres. When the war started, we were
using hand grenades that were said to be ‘impartial’—sometimes they killed the man they were thrown at, while just as often they killed the man who threw them.”

“From a military point of view, an impossible situation,” Zoltau said.

A speculative de Lyon said, “I wonder if Estonia, a small nation bullied by powerful neighbors, Hitler on one side, Stalin on the other, might not be sympathetic to our difficulties.”

“Sympathetic, perhaps, but there’s little we can do.”

“There is one possibility, General Zoltau. We have managed to purchase fifty anti-tank cannon in Czechoslovakia, but the Skoda people must have an end-user certificate. Is there some way you could help us with this problem? Because the non-intervention pact does not affect Estonia, only Spain.”

“Ah, the caviar arrives!” Zoltau said. As indeed it had.

The conversation drifted away, to life in Paris and then, as they worked through the second bottle of wine and ordered a third, to
night
life in Paris: nightclubs high and low, and brothels catering to every imaginable inclination. De Lyon’s knowledge here was broad and deep, and the general was quite attentive. Finally, after the nude dancing girls and Pierre the Donkey, de Lyon closed with a homily. “The Parisians are worldly in these matters,” he said. “They believe that with money, all things are possible. They accept the reality of the human appetite, and the reality of markets. Here, one can have whatever one can pay for. I have always admired their point of view.”

“As do I,” Zoltau said. “Life is short, one must have all the pleasures it can provide.”

Now matters had proceeded to a certain point, and Ferrar had to let de Lyon know what he meant to do. “Max,” he said, “do you recall Monsieur Blanc, one of my clients?”

“A thin fellow? With a limp?”

“Yes. He believed that he’d found the very house he was seeking, but the sale did not go through, and poor Monsieur Blanc had
already invested in splendid furniture which—I won’t bore you and the general with legal whys and wherefores—now sits in a warehouse and is not really owned by anybody.”

“For splendid furniture, a sad fate,” de Lyon said.

“The best of it is a magnificent chandelier, surely the equal of the one here. And it occurred to me that since General Zoltau is redecorating his apartment, perhaps he has a home for it.”

They both looked at Zoltau, who said, “Why yes, we have
just
the place for it, in our dining room.”

Back to nightlife in Paris.

After coffee, a cordial good night—if all that Mouton Rothschild didn’t make you cordial, nothing would. As they put the swaying Zoltau in a taxi, de Lyon said, “May I get in touch with you, General, towards the end of the week?”

“I will expect your call,” said the general.

On the following morning, when Ferrar arrived at the Coudert office, he sat down with his secretary and went over what he had to do that day. Reading from a list, she said, “You are supposed to call Count Polanyi at the Hungarian embassy, he’s a principal in the French holding company that controls a Budapest bank. Next you are to call a Monsieur Belesz, in Budapest, he is the heir who refuses to vote in order to force his sister from the holding company. I have a note here that says
vizsla dogs
. Does that make sense to you, Monsieur Ferrar?”

“Yes, Jeannette, it does,” Ferrar said, a sigh in his voice.

Jeannette had the Polanyi file ready for him, Ferrar called the embassy. “Good morning, Monsieur le Comte,” Ferrar said, following the French protocol for titles. “This is Cristián Ferrar, from Coudert Frères. Do you have a moment?”

“I do, monsieur, I am fed up with Nephew Belesz and his damned schemes.”

“I will be brief, monsieur. We are preparing your lawsuit against
Monsieur Belesz but, in order for us to proceed, he will have to be lured to Paris—we cannot sue him in Budapest. We were hoping that you might suggest a way to induce him to come here.”

“Throw him in the trunk of a car,” Polanyi said.

“A last resort,” Ferrar said, with just a hint of lawyer’s irony. “A ruse will cause less fuss and bother.”

“Very well, a ruse. Which means you are asking me what he might find irresistible. Well, what he likes is wine, women, and song, absent the song. I can’t imagine him coming all the way here for wine, which leaves women. But there are lots of women in Budapest, Monsieur Ferrar.”

“Did he ever live in Paris, monsieur?”

“Years ago, he did, for a time. He pretended to go to the Sorbonne, but mostly he chased girls. He’s a lusty little monkey, Nephew Belesz.”

“And did he catch them?”

“Not the smart ones, he didn’t.”

“Was there, perhaps, someone special?”

“Not that I …”

Polanyi paused, finally Ferrar said, “Monsieur?”

“My memory,” Polanyi explained, “takes its own sweet time … I seem to recall one he caught, then lost.”

“And she was?”

“An actress, at the lower depths of the film business. Her name was, oh hell, Albertine? No, that’s not it. Why do I think of Babar the elephant?”

“Celeste?”

“Celestine!”

“Do you know what became of her?”

“I have no idea. He was passionate for her, kept her photograph on his dresser, courted her, had her, then lost her.”

“Could she be used as bait?”

“I doubt she would agree to that, even if we could find her. But it occurs to me that she might be of use even so.”

“How?”

“Perhaps a letter to the nephew from his former sweetheart; she misses him, regrets their amour ended, could they possibly meet again some day. Of course I would write the letter myself. Maybe you would help me do it.”

Ferrar was dubious. “Do you think a letter would work?”

“I don’t know, but why not try? We must do
something
, Ferrar.”

Ferrar saw that Polanyi had become enchanted by the idea of a faked letter and was not to be dissuaded. “Very well, a letter. Is there any possibility you can remember her last name? For a return address?”

“Surely she had one, but I never knew it.”

“No matter, we’ll make up a name, a married name. She’ll explain in the letter that her husband is deceased.”

“Do you think this might work, monsieur?”

“It might. If not, we’ll try something else. But there is one other possibility,” Ferrar said. “I could telephone him in Budapest and see if he’ll listen to reason. Suggest that a settlement, of the generous variety, might be more to his advantage than being involved in a lawsuit.”

“But you said you can’t sue him in Budapest,” Polanyi said.

“I doubt he knows that.”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll agree, but if you want to try, go ahead. Do you have his telephone number?”

“As a client, soon to be a former client, we do.”

“Then good luck. He’s hard to handle and proud of it.”

It took all day to reach Belesz, who was apparently not home. Then, at five-thirty, a woman answered who spoke only Hungarian. After Ferrar tried in three languages, she yelled “Fabi!” and Belesz came to the phone. Speaking in German, the second language in Hungary, he said, “Who is this?” He sounded annoyed; either the call had come at an inconvenient moment, or, it occurred to Ferrar, Belesz was one of those people who are perpetually annoyed.

“Please forgive the intrusion, Herr Belesz, this is Cristián Ferrar, from the Coudert law firm in Paris. We represent the holding company that owns the First Danubian Trust.”

“Yes? And so?”

“I am calling to see if we can help to resolve a problem with your company, Herr Belesz, which cannot function so long as you withhold your vote. Isn’t there some way out of this conflict?”

“Oh-
ho
! Now they’ve set the lawyers on me!”

“There are always alternatives, when people disagree. What would you suggest?”

“I would
suggest
that my sister resign from the company, then she can keep her filthy dogs.”