Mission to Paris (7 page)

The baroness took his arm and led him further into the room, which was so crowded that they brushed against shoulders and backs. ‘What a crush,’ the baroness said. Then, leaning closer to him, she said, ‘
Everyone
wants to meet you, you know, they’re just pretending to ignore you. Good manners and all that. Now, who shall you meet?’

‘I leave it to your ladyship.’

‘Oh pfui, Monsieur Fredric Stahl, you must call me Maria.’ They pressed further into the room, then the baroness said, ‘Now here’s a fine fellow.’ The fine fellow, tall, lean, and slightly stooped, turned towards the baroness, who said, ‘Hello there, Philippe, look who’s here!’

The fine fellow wore an elegant grey suit, his thick grey hair perfectly in place, his smile irresistible. ‘Could you be Fredric Stahl? The movie star?’ As he said this, his eyes, his face, radiated an almost palpable warmth.

‘Monsieur Fredric Stahl,’ the baroness said, a rich pride in her voice, ‘allow me to present Monsieur Philippe LaMotte.’

LaMotte’s handshake was powerful. ‘
Enchanté
,’ he said. ‘I am your greatest fan.’

‘Martine!’ the baroness called out, spying a special friend. ‘I leave you in good hands,’ she said to Stahl. ‘We’ll talk again, may I depend on it?’ There was a gentle, and momentary, tightening of her hand on his arm, then she was off.

‘I can’t quite believe I’m standing here with you,’ LaMotte said. ‘For me, you’ll always be in that garden, rain pouring down on you, watching the woman you love embracing, what was he? Race-car driver, snake-in-the-grass …’

‘In
Summer Storm
.’

‘Yes, the raindrops falling into your drink. But I am especially fond of
A Fortunate Woman
. You’re a doctor in Manhattan and this woman comes to your office and she …’

‘Actually, the part was originally written for Barbara Stanwyck.’ Stahl knew from experience that LaMotte was going to recount the story of the film, and offering a bit of Hollywood gossip could politely break the flow.

‘Really? Barbara Stanwyck? That would have been wonderful. She’s the best actress in Hollywood, at least for me.’

‘Surely one of them,’ Stahl said.
Time to deflect
, he thought, and said, ‘What sorts of things do you do in Paris, Monsieur LaMotte?’

‘Just another businessman,’ LaMotte said apologetically. ‘I’m the managing director of the Rousillon company, in Epernay.’ He raised his glass so that the light caught the bubbles and said, ‘Rousillon Brut Millésime – we’re drinking our champagne.’ And, his tone slightly amused, added, ‘And if you haven’t heard our slogan, it’s “Champagne, the only drink you can hear.”’ He held the glass to his ear and listened theatrically.

Stahl imitated the gesture, but he’d had the glass long enough that the characteristic fizzing sound was no longer audible.

‘A fresh glass, perhaps,’ LaMotte said. He looked around, but the servant with a tray of glasses was on the other side of the room.

‘He’ll get here,’ Stahl said. ‘It’s very good champagne.’

‘Thank you, but to tell you the truth, I find my other work more absorbing.’

‘And that is?’

‘I’m one of the directors of the Comité Franco-Allemagne. Do you know what that is?’

‘Forgive me, but I don’t.’

‘You’d know if you were living in Paris,’ LaMotte said. ‘It was started in 1930, by a German called Otto Abetz, a simple drawing teacher in the public schools of Karlsruhe whose father had been killed in the war. The basic idea was that German and French veterans of the war would work together to keep it from happening again. And it’s been something of a success, because veterans, men who’ve actually done the fighting, are highly respected in both countries.’

‘That sounds like a very worthwhile undertaking,’ Stahl said. ‘The baroness was talking about something similar.’

‘Rapprochement,’ LaMotte said. ‘Do they have the word in English?’

‘You don’t often hear it, but it’s used. To mean the re-establishment of harmony, of good relations. The baroness was describing her own experience, here in Paris.’

‘She’s a great supporter. She’s terribly rich, you know, and very generous. This is the sort of organization that’s only effective if it has money to spend. We were, from the beginning, often in the news, in the papers and on the radio, and even in
Time
magazine. We sponsor visits, back and forth, meetings in Paris and Berlin, we hold the occasional press conference, and we’re always available to react as political events unfold – we’re trying to deal with problems in Czechoslovakia right now, but it’s not easy.’

‘What’s your approach?’

‘Anything but war. That’s
always
our approach. And the public in Europe has been very sympathetic – in Paris, Berlin, London, everywhere. We’ve worked hard for that. About four years ago, for instance, I suggested we build an organization for young people – they must learn early how terrible war is. The idea was, French youth and German youth would together create a bridge of understanding, to work together for rapprochement, for mutual respect and reconciliation. We have summer camps – free summer camps – and a magazine,
Notre Temps
, our times, that’s widely read and reports on all our activities.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Stahl said.

‘You wouldn’t think so, would you. But we have our enemies, particularly from certain political factions who do nothing but press for French rearmament.’ LaMotte shook his head, more than a little anger in his expression. ‘And who will bankrupt the nation to do it. Spending millions of francs on warplanes and cannon while the needy go unfed. When the states of Europe try to intimidate their neighbours with new guns and ships, the next step is war, as we learned in 1914 to our great sorrow.’

‘Then you are, perhaps, a pacifist?’

LaMotte shrugged. ‘I’m just an honourable businessman who loves his country. But these people will have us at war if they get their way.
Bellicistes
we call them, warmongers. Back in 1936, when we had the so-called Popular Front, a communist front, they wanted to arm the Republicans fighting in Spain. Well, we put all the pressure we could on the government, and France remained neutral, but the government still sent four hundred aeroplanes to the Spaniards, secretly. There were investigations in the senate, and the numbers kept changing, but law meant nothing to them and the country saw that.’

Stahl wondered how to answer this, and said, ‘Well, our newspapers …’

Just then a very appealing woman appeared at LaMotte’s side. She wore a tight cloche hat with chestnut hair swept across her forehead, her eyes were heavily made up and looked enormous, and she wore a tied rope of pearls above a low neckline. Looking at Stahl she said, ‘Oh Philippe, are you going to keep our guest all to yourself? I trust you’re not talking
politics
.’ She grinned wickedly at Stahl.

‘Me?’ LaMotte said. ‘Politics? How could you think such a thing?’ He laughed and said, ‘Kiki de Saint-Ange, may I present Monsieur Fredric Stahl.’

She dropped a cool hand into Stahl’s and said, ‘
Formidable
, to think someone like you would turn up
here
.’

LaMotte said, ‘It was a wonderful surprise to meet you in person, Monsieur Stahl, and I hope to see you again sometime, if your schedule permits.’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Stahl said.

‘What a courteous fellow you are,’ Kiki said. ‘Philippe can be amusing, but you’ve landed among the most boring, stuffy old mummies in France. These are the aristos who got away in 1789!’

‘Oh? Well, you’re here.’

‘I am standing in for my parents, Monsieur Stahl, so I have to be here, but not for long.’

‘Won’t you be missed?’

‘Not me. And I’m going to a much livelier party than this.’

‘That sounds exciting,’ Stahl said.

‘Why not see for yourself? Not a soul will know who you are, they don’t
go
to American movies.’

This hit home, for it summoned his former life in the city, but he didn’t think he could just disappear.

She moved closer to him, her voice lowered. ‘So we shall conspire, you and I. When I can’t stand it any more I’ll let you know, then you can do as you like. Where I’m going it’s a
very
different crowd.’

Stahl hesitated. ‘The Baroness von Reschke would think …’

Kiki flicked her fingers from her lips, the kiss floated in the air. From the corner of his eye, Stahl spotted the baroness, cutting her way through the crowd like a determined shark. ‘Here she comes now,’ Kiki said. ‘Cinderella’s stepmother. Perhaps I’ll see you later.’

She slipped away, to be replaced by the baroness. ‘My dear Monsieur Stahl, there’s someone here you absolutely must meet …’

It was eight-twenty when he escaped. Kiki de Saint-Ange, now wearing an embroidered evening jacket, was lighting a cigarette by the doors, made eye contact with Stahl, and left. Stahl followed her. Outside he found a classic autumn drizzle, and as he caught up to Kiki she said, ‘Now, a taxi.’

‘No need for that,’ Stahl said and led Kiki to the Panhard. Jimmy Louis leapt from the car and opened the back door, Kiki got in, and Jimmy closed the door and led Stahl around to the other side. ‘We’re going up to Boulogne-Billancourt, the
quai
on this side of the river,’ Kiki said. Jimmy took the rue de Grenelle, heading west, but not for long. Suddenly the Panhard jerked to a stop and Jimmy said, ‘
Merde
,’ under his breath, as though to himself, then added one or two elaborations in deep argot that Stahl couldn’t understand.

Stahl leaned forward. ‘What’s
wrong
? Is it the car?’

‘No, sir, not the car.’ Clearly much worse than that, whatever it was. They had stopped by the Mairie, the mayor’s office of the Seventh Arrondissement, where a group of people stood in front of the doors, with more arriving.

‘Excuse me for a moment, sir,’ Jimmy said, left the car, and joined the crowd.

‘Any idea what’s happened?’ a puzzled Stahl said to Kiki.

She knew. ‘
Affiches blanches
,’ she said. ‘We’re in for it now.’

Stahl had no idea what she meant. White notices? At the Mairie, Jimmy was working his way towards the doors. ‘They must have just posted them,’ Kiki said. ‘Nobody at the party said a thing.’

‘“Them”? What are they?’

‘Mobilization notices,’ Kiki said. ‘Telling the men of Paris, telling men all over the country, that they must join their reserve units.
Tomorrow
. We’re at war, Monsieur Stahl.’ She found a cigarette and lit it, then threw the gold lighter angrily into her handbag. ‘So, that’s that,’ she said.

Jimmy came trotting back to the car. ‘Categories two and three,’ he said.

‘Not general?’ Kiki said.

‘No,
mobilisation partiale
– it’s in big letters.’ He got behind the wheel, then sat there. ‘I’m in category three, so I’ll be on the train at dawn, Monsieur Stahl. I’m very sorry, but I have to go and fight. I’m sure Zolly will find someone for you.’

‘Can you take us up to the party?’ Kiki said. ‘Later we’ll find a taxi.’

‘There won’t be any taxis,’ Jimmy said. ‘The drivers will be home, packing and saying goodbye.’

‘Then we’ll use the Métro, or we’ll walk,’ Kiki said. ‘And if they start bombing us, we’ll run.’

‘What sort of unit are you in, Jimmy?’ Stahl said.

‘Infantry,’ Jimmy said, and put the car in gear.

War came to the ‘
very
different crowd’ that night, its long shadow sometimes a presence in the room, but the crowd fought back; defiant and merry and to hell with everything. They had the radio on, tuned to Radio Paris, the official state network, which played light classical music interrupted by news bulletins: mobilized men must report to their units in the east, extra trains would be running from the Gare de l’Est on the Boulevard de Strasbourg. And the government wished to emphasize that war had not been declared. ‘Yet!’ cried the party guests every time they heard the announcement. Of the thirty or so people crammed into an artist’s studio, four or five of the men had been mobilized. Somebody said, ‘We who are about to die salute you,’ and that set the wits among them to shouting every possible obscene variation on the phrase. It kept them busy, it kept them amused, it chased the doom away.

The party was on a barge, tied up to a wharf in a long line of working barges where the city of Paris bordered the industrial suburb of Boulogne-Billancourt. The host, a cheerful old gent in a paint-spattered shirt, had a huge tangled grey beard with a bread-crumb caught in the middle. He gave Kiki a powerful hug, put his arm around Stahl’s shoulders, and led them both around the room. He’d built himself a studio on the barge; removed some of the deck planking and installed a set of angled windows above the curve of the bow. So, with little space for hanging paintings, he’d used easels to display his work. Not Picasso, but not bad, in Stahl’s opinion. After the tour they found a place to sit, Stahl took off his jacket and tie and turned up the cuffs of his shirt, while Kiki slipped out of her embroidered jacket. ‘It’s from Schiaparelli,’ she told a woman who asked. Mildly abstract nudes seemed to be the artist’s favoured style. One of which, a few feet from where Stahl and Kiki sat – on a love seat obviously rescued from a fire – had a face Stahl recognized. There was Kiki de Saint-Ange, lying languorous and seductive on a sofa, a ‘Naked Maja’ that imitated the Goya painting. ‘I see you keep looking at that,’ she said, teasing him. ‘It’s not a bad likeness, though I seem to have been grey-green that afternoon.’

They called him ‘Fredric’, the men and women getting drunk together on strong, sour wine poured from ceramic jugs, smoking up the host’s hashish, petting the barge cats, now and then each other. The barge’s bedroom, partly obscured by a lank curtain, served those who simply had to shed their black sweaters and make love despite the coming storm, or because of it. Two or three of the guests told Stahl he looked familiar, had they met before? Stahl just smiled and said he didn’t think so. What with the long hours at the baroness’s party, he was tired of being
the
Fredric Stahl and had packed it in for the night.

Needing some air, he made his way up to the deck, then noticed a young man who’d apparently done the same thing. He was one of those heading east in the morning and when their eyes met Stahl thought he might be close to tears – perhaps he’d sought privacy for that reason. They stood there in silence, then the man spoke. ‘You know, my life hasn’t been too bad, lately,’ he said, voice unsteady. ‘But now those bastards are going to get me killed.’ He shook his head and said, ‘No luck. No luck at all.’ Stahl didn’t answer, there was no answer. He just stared at the silent lights across the river and felt the heavy current in the deck beneath his feet. He had half turned to rejoin the party when there was a white flash that lit the clouds in the eastern sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder. Maybe. Stahl and the young man looked at each other. Finally Stahl said, ‘I think that’s thunder.’ The young man nodded,
yes, probably thunder
. Then they went back to the party.