Alan Furst - Mission to Paris

They sat on the sofa, talked about Apres la Guerre, talked about the weather. When the first glass of wine had been drunk and the second was on the way, she said, ‘How do you like my little palace?’ gesturing grandly around the room.

‘It’s a lot nicer than the places I lived in when I was here in the twenties,’ he said. ‘At least you have heat.’

‘The building isn’t heated,’ she said. This was common in Paris; in winter people without offices to go to spent the day in heated cafes, reading books or newspapers, making a coffee last all afternoon. ‘I have that thing,’ she said, indicating a kerosene stove in the corner with a pipe that went into the wall, rags stuffed around the opening. ‘My departed husband, not much of a mechanical man, believe me, installed it, but it hasn’t killed me yet.’

‘Perhaps this evening,’ Stahl said. ‘They’ll find us together, dead as mackerels. Very romantic.’

She grinned, the wine was at work. He picked up the bottle and waggled it over her glass, his eyebrows raised. She drank off what remained, said, ‘Please,’ and he refilled her glass. ‘This really is very good,’ she said, and looked at him with her head to one side: and so?

Now? No, later. What’s the hurry? He took out a cigarette and offered her the pack. Delicately, she drew one out and he lit it for her with his lighter. A board on bricks in front of the sofa held a vase of weeds, and a Suze ashtray purloined from a cafe. With one bony finger she moved it towards them. She had, he saw, at least not put polish on her pared-back fingernails.

‘Tell me when you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I have good ham and butter and a baguette and a salad from the charcuterie.’

‘For the moment, I’ll stay with this,’ he said, holding up his glass.

‘Are you comfortable?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘Why don’t you put your feet up?’

She stood, he raised his legs and stretched out full length. But he’d taken up too much of the sofa. She perched on the edge, then, with a jerk of her head, used a rough expression that meant move it and pressed a soft, heavy hip against his knee, making space for herself. He could have made more room by shifting his legs but didn’t, just stayed as he was, where he could feel the warmth of her body beneath the skirt. ‘Happy like that?’ she said.

He smiled at her. ‘What do you think?’

She took off her glasses and rested them on the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s starting to rain,’ she said.

He could hear the thin patter on the roof above them. He took the wine glass in his left hand and put his right hand on her knee. She looked at it, then back up at him, and, after a moment, covered his hand with hers. He thought about sliding his hand upwards, bringing her skirt with it, then didn’t. For a time they sat like that, the low-volume music and the sound of the rain made the room very still.

Now.

‘I wonder if I could…’

‘ Merde! ’ she said. ‘I forgot I bought candles. It’s too bright in here, isn’t it?’

With a small sigh he said, ‘Much too bright.’

She rose and hurried around the sofa, returning with two short white candles set on saucers. She struck a wooden match on the box, lit the candles, then twisted around and turned off a lamp. Turning back to him she said, ‘You were saying, monsieur?’ Delivered with one of her best ironic smiles.

‘Well, there was a preface to this, but now I’ll just ask you.’

‘And what were you going to ask?’

‘Why don’t you take off your clothes?’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘All right.’ Then, ‘Here? Or go into the other room and come back… without them?’

‘Here. So I can watch you.’

She stood up, rolled her sweater over her head and tossed it on the floor. Then unbuttoned her skirt, let it drop, and stepped out of it. Next the shoes came off, which left her in white bra and panties, garter belt and stockings. ‘Is this what you wanted to see?’

‘Some of it. There’s more.’

But in truth there was a lot. She was bigger than he’d imagined her, heavy breasts, hips, tummy, and thighs. Emphasized by a narrow waist.

‘More?’

‘Yes, everything.’

She bent over, reached behind her back, undid her bra and slid it down her arms, then cradled her breasts with her hands. He was already excited, but this gesture provoked him even more. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Now you’ve seen me.’ Her eyes fastened on his, she raised one of her thumbs and circled it around her nipple, which came erect as he watched.

Suddenly he sat upright, meaning to go and snatch the rest of her clothes off her, but she took two steps towards him, put a hand on his chest and made him lie back. ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I like you as a sultan.’

‘A sultan?’

‘Something like that — a ruler who expects to be served.’

‘A sultan. Do you have a towel I can wear on my head?’

She hadn’t moved back and now, standing over him, inches away, she unhooked her garter belt, took it off, and removed her stockings. ‘Anything else you want?’

Growing wildly impatient, he reached for the waistband of her panties but she took his hands and put them on his chest and said, ‘Now, now.’

‘Renate, take your pants down.’

She did, he gazed up at the vee between her legs.

Again he moved his hand towards her but she bent over, put her mouth on his and, as his tongue slid across her lips, climbed on top of him. But he still had his clothes on, so worked his hands beneath her. She gave him a little room, he pulled at the sweater until it bunched under his chin, managed to undo one button on his shirt, then yanked hard and the rest were torn off. Now, back curved, she let the tips of her breasts rub against his bare chest. He lay still for a time, face lit with pleasure, then put his arms around her and held her bottom in his hands and, when he tightened his grip, it drew from her a sharp intake of breath — startled and excited at once.

He let her go and tried to rid himself of his trousers, but she sat upright and worked her way backwards until she straddled his knees. ‘Soon enough,’ she said, ‘but there’s something I want to see.’ In no hurry, she unbuttoned his fly, freed him from his shorts, and, taking it between thumb and two fingers, gave it a few slow strokes, clearly pleased with the view, then lowered her head, met his eyes, and opened her mouth.

Eventually they got his clothes off and went at it; one way, another way — she knelt on the sofa and rested her forehead against the back — and did everything they liked to do. She was not the vocal type, though when the moment came it was accompanied by a series of moaning sighs that every time recharged him, inspired him to start over until, when he once again wanted her, she said, almost laughing, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think there’s another one in there.’ Then she led him to her bedroom, barely large enough to hold a narrow cot, with a yellowed shade pulled down over the window. There they talked quietly; he told her he loved her curved body, she said she loved the way he touched her, what his hands did to her. Thus they at least used the word, and there was more to say, but with ceaseless fucking and drumming rain and a wintry night in Paris they let it go at that and fell dead asleep.

It was the most adorable little tearoom, with chintz cafe curtains and pink linen tablecloths, on a tree-lined street across from the Tiergarten park, and Olga Orlova often went there when she was in Berlin and not out at the Babelsberg studio making films. That afternoon, the tenth of December, she didn’t have anything in particular to do, so invited Trudi Mueller for tea at four o’clock. Trudi was an easy companion, who saved up tidbits from her daily life and could be depended on for table conversation. Since their encounter at an alpine hotel, when Trudi had revealed her romantic feelings for Orlova, the Russian actress had made sure they saw each other often and stayed friends. It was important, to the clandestine side of Orlova’s life, that there be no bad feelings between them.