Alan Furst - Red Gold

Marie-Claire was waiting for him, a little way down the street from the doorway on the rue de l’Assomption. She’d thrown a fur coat over a pair of pajamas. “Mon Dieu,” she said, when she got a look at him.

She took his arm and led him around to the side of the building, using the service entry meant for deliveries and adultery, avoiding the eagle-eyed concierge in her loge in the front hall. They took the stairs up instead of the elevator. Not the first time Casson had come this way. But then, not the first time for Marie-Claire, either.

She opened the door, Casson stepped inside. His old apartment-producer’s fees from Paramount for Night Run, development money from Pathe for The Man from Cairo, which was never made. That, and some very dire months when the bills sat in a desk drawer and steamed. But, back then, a love nest, so it didn’t matter. The dinner parties came later. And all the rest of it.

Casson took off his coat. Marie-Claire never faltered, hung the awful thing in the hall closet. “What about Bruno?” he said.

“In Rome. He’s getting the dealership for the Alfa Romeo. The 2500, I think. Is there an SS model?”

“Yes.”

“So there he is, wining and dining Mussolini’s nephew-somebody like that-to get an export permit. Anyhow, he’s not here.”

She shrugged off her coat, revealing cherry-red lounging pajamas, stepped out of her shoes, and put on matching slippers. “Jean-Claude,” she said, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “What time is it?”

“A little after six.”

She fell back on the sofa, covered her eyes with her hands. She was the same, he thought. Maybe a little blonder than usual, but the same. Not beautiful. Narrow eyes, thin lips-spite and meanness promised, though not all that often delivered. Then what, he’d always wondered, made her so deeply appetizing? She lived in clouds of perfume, sat close to you, touched you. But that was simply parisienne. There was more to her, and here he didn’t have the word. Indomitable? Strong, anyhow. And driven by grandes ardeurs-if she wanted something, she was on fire to have it.

“A shower?” he said. “Any warm water?”

“All you want. We have to pay the black-market prices, but Monsieur Krajec-you remember, the coalman-has been a magician.”

“I would like a shower,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what, just leave everything in the bathroom, and when Rosine comes in, we’ll try to do something with it. Jean-Claude?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you wear that little mustache? I had to look twice to make sure it was you.”

“It’s me.”

“It’s horrible.”

“I know.” He went into the bathroom and undressed. There was a full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. He shuddered at the sight of himself, thinner than he realized.

Marie-Claire was standing on the other side of the door. “Jean-Claude, when you disappeared, last June-what happened to you?”

“A long story.”

He turned on the taps in the shower, let the water run down his head, his arms and back and chest. The soap was scented. The glow inside him swelled until he burst into a helpless laugh.

The bathroom door opened a crack. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

He forced himself to step out of the shower, and dried off with a large white towel. On the knob of the door, Marie-Claire had hung a pair of slacks and a shirt. “Thank you,” he called out.

He put on the clean shirt, big and soft. Then the slacks-Bruno, he thought, was fatter than he’d realized. He held them up and stepped into the bedroom. Marie-Claire was lying on a chaise longue. She moved her legs to make room for him. “Come and sit,” she said.

“What time does the maid get in?”

“Eight. Should I send her away?”

“It might be better if she didn’t know I was here.”

This was, he could see, slightly annoying.

“She doesn’t gossip.”

“Even so.”

She nodded. “A day off then,” she said. “Did you know that your actress got married?”

“Yes, I read about it.”

“Local opinion had it that you had some sort of crise, a breakdown. Over her. But then, we had Germans in suits coming around and asking about you. They were nice enough-they’re very tender where their French friends are concerned, and they consider Bruno a friend. Still, I didn’t think unrequited love was the sort of thing they investigated.”

It wasn’t unrequited. Casson smiled and shrugged.

“Your lawyer friend Arnaud thought you’d jumped in the river. Of course, I know you too well for that. You might have jumped in the river-but then you would have swum to the other side.”

“And you?”

“What did I think?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I don’t know. That you’d found a way to get involved in the war. Possibly gotten yourself shot.”

“The first part is true.”

“I thought it might be. One of the resistance groups?”

“Yes.”

“I kept telling myself, he’d never do that, but I knew you would.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

She shook her head. “No, my love. Not me.”

“You liked the idea.”

Her expression said she did.

“Then how-forgive me for asking, Marie-Claire, but how can you live with somebody like Bruno?”

She laughed. “He’s not so bad. Just ambitious. And greedy. He wants to climb, Jean-Claude, and he was busy doing just that when this very inconvenient war broke out. Now he’s determined that it mustn’t spoil everything. What he’s doing is collaboration, of course, but he doesn’t want to hurt anybody, he just means to hang on to all he’s worked for.”

“And you?”

“I don’t like the Germans. I never did like them and I like them even less since they took the country. There was a time when Bruno was bringing them here, for cocktails and dinner parties. Well, I put a stop to that. Maybe it doesn’t get me a statue in the park when the war ends, but it’s better than nothing.” She paused for a moment. “And, truth be told, there might even be a little more than that.”

“Really?”

“Nothing much. A favor for an old friend. The use of the guest room for a few days.”

“Who was the guest?”

“No idea. A woman, on her way someplace.”

“And the old friend?”

“He’s with de Gaulle. Rather high up, I would guess. When I discovered what he was doing, I told him to ask if he ever needed a favor.”

“You discovered what he was doing?”

She smiled-she’d shocked him and she was enjoying it. “Jean-Claude, my dear long-lost husband, if it goes on in this city, in this arrondissement, among people I’ve grown up with, had dinner with, gone to bed with, and will lie next to in the cemetery, I know about it.”

That was true. She came from a prominent family in the 16th, old and mean and reclusive. With staggering hauteur. They’d certainly never approved of him, in fact they’d never approved of each other. But people on that level knew what went on. And, whether she liked it or not, Marie-Claire was one of them. He stood up, wandered over to the window, and stared out at the Bois de Boulogne; bare trees in the gray morning drizzle. He looked over at Marie-Claire, now lying curled up, her head propped on her hand, watching him with cat’s eyes. “And, once you found out what he was doing, he admitted it?”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“Courtship. He wanted to go to bed with me, so he puffed himself up like a pigeon, told me how terrifically important he was, that he lived in constant danger.”

“And, did you do it?”

“No. Ech.”

“Do I know him?”

“Mm, maybe.”

“Is it somebody I…”

She cut him off. “Jean-Claude, you are very tired. I think you ought to sleep, we can talk later. When Rosine comes, I’ll give her money for a taxi and tell her to go home. For now, we won’t worry about clothes or anything else.”