William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

Lysander rose to his feet as well, thinking that he didn’t want this to be their last encounter.

“May I offer you dinner tonight, Madame Duchesne? I’ve been in this city for four days now and I’m getting bored with my own company.”

She looked at him intently, her hard face expressionless. She had dark brown eyes, he saw. Fool, he thought — you’re not on some kind of a holiday.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most agreeable.”

He felt a boyish lightening of his heart at this response.

“Wonderful. Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a place near the museum with a very nice terrace that’s only open in the summer. The Brasserie des Bastions. Shall we meet there at 7. 30?”

“Perfect. I’ll find it — see you there.”

♦

That afternoon Lysander went to the bank and drew out 25, 000 francs in 500 franc notes — approximately £ 1,000. He had been offered 1, 000 franc notes but he suspected that, when it came to being tempted by a bribe, the bigger the wad of money on display, the better. He wondered what made Massinger so sure that Glockner was that biddable — perhaps it was a lazy assumption he made about poorly recompensed embassy functionaries. But Glockner didn’t seem down at heel or exhausted. He looked smart and spry — he wasn’t wearing celluloid cuffs or a spongeable cardboard shirt-front — there was nothing, at first glance anyway, that suggested he was corruptible.

He made sure he was early at the Brasserie, which turned out to be a wood and cast-iron building with two wide verandas extending from an ornate conservatory set back from the edge of the Place Neuve amongst the greenery of the gardens around the museum, yet far enough away from the circling omnibuses and automobiles of the busy square not to be disturbed by their noise or the dust raised by their tyres. He had changed his loathsome brown shoes for his black ones and his Homburg for his Panama and was wearing one of his new silk four-in-hand ties with a white soft collared shirt. He felt more like debonair Lysander Rief, the actor, and not stolid Abelard Schwimmer, the railway engineer. He wondered if Madame Duchesne would notice the subtle –

“Herr Schwimmer? You’re early.”

He turned to see Madame Duchesne walking along a white gravelled alley of young lime trees towards him. She was still in widow’s weeds, of course, but she was carrying an open fringed parasol against the evening sun and her fine taffeta dress was trimmed with lace at throat and wrists, falling fashionably short to her ankles to reveal gunmetal, buttoned boots with a neat French heel. She may be grieving still two years on, Lysander thought, but she was grieving in style. As they greeted each other and shook hands Lysander found himself speculating about her corsetry — she was very slim — and what chemise and bloomers might be underneath that rustling, close-fitting dress. He checked his thoughts, vaguely ashamed and surprised that Madame Duchesne brought out such lechery in him. As they were led to their table for two he caught a hint of her perfume — musky and strong. She wore no lip rouge or powder but the perfume was a gesture of sorts — perhaps she had put it on for him. He imagined her checking her appearance in the mirror before she set off and reaching for her scent bottle — a dab at the neck and the inside of her wrists…Enough. Stop.

“Shall we order a bottle of champagne?” he suggested. “I don’t think Massinger would object.”

“I don’t drink champagne,” she said. “Some red wine with the meal will be perfect.”

They each decided on the menu du jour : a clear soup, blanquette de veau , cheese and an apple tart. The wine he chose was rough and on the sour side, however, and they left it half-finished. Lysander felt increasingly tense and nervous and their conversation never really advanced beyond the formal and unrevealing.

As they ordered their coffee, Madame Duchesne asked if he was a soldier.

“Yes,” Lysander said. “I joined up soon after war was declared.” He didn’t expand on what kind of soldier he had been, telling her only that his regiment was East Sussex Light Infantry, but simply conveying that information seemed to make a difference. He thought Madame Duchesne looked at him differently, somehow.

“And what did you do before you became a soldier?” she asked.

“I was an actor.”

For the first time her impassivity wobbled and she registered surprise for a second or two.

“A professional actor?”

“Yes. On the London stage. Following in my father’s footsteps as best I can. He was a real giant of an actor — very famous.”

“How interesting,” she said, and he felt it wasn’t just a token remark. He had indeed become more interesting to her as a result, he was sure, and he felt pleased, calling for the bill and thinking he would go off somewhere for a cigarette and a couple of brandies. At least the evening had ended on a better note — better than he had expected. And what had you expected? he asked himself, aggressively. Idiot. Time had been filled, that was the main thing. Tomorrow he would reconnoitre Glockner’s apartment building and its environs and make a decision about what the best time to make a move would be on Sunday.

As they waited for his change, Madame Duchesne placed a small cardboard box on the table.

“A present from Massinger,” she said.

He picked it up — it was heavy and it rattled.

“Perhaps you should wait to open it when you return to your hotel,” she said.

But he was too curious and placed the box on his knee below the level of the table and lifted the lid back. He saw the gleam on the short barrel of a small revolver. There were some loose bullets beside it that had caused the rattling.

“What do I need this for?” he asked.

“It may be useful. Who knows? Massinger gave one to me, as well.”

Lysander slipped the box in his jacket pocket and they walked out into the formal gardens — box hedges, the trained rows of limes and planes, raked gravelled paths. There was still some light in the sky and the air was cool.

“Thank you for my dinner,” she said. “It was a pleasure to get to know you better.”

They shook hands and he felt the squeeze of her firm grip. Again he sensed this curious desire for her — this woman who apparently had no desire in her life.

“By the way, my real name is Lysander Rief.”

“You probably shouldn’t have told me that.”

“May I know your first name? Forgive me, but I’m curious. I can’t gain a full idea of a person without knowing their full name.”

“Florence.” French pronunciation, of course, so much nicer than the English — Florawnce .

“Florence Duchesne. Lovely name.”

“Goodnight, Herr Schwimmer. And I wish you good luck for Sunday.”

On Sunday morning at 9. 45 Lysander saw the concierge and her husband leave Glockner’s building for church. He had gone in the day before with a fake parcel for a Monsieur Glondin and had been assured by the concierge that there was no one of that name in the building — a Monsieur Glockner on the top floor, but no Glondin. It was definitely Monsieur Glondin, he said — must be a mistake, sincere apologies. He had gained a good sense of the entry floor and the stairway up to the apartments and, judging by the heavy cross the concierge wore around her neck and the larger cross on the wall of her cubby-hole, he suspected that a pious absence might be likely as the church bells began to chime on Sunday morning.

After a minute or so he pushed open the small street door and strode to the stairway, unnoticed by the little boy who was sitting in the concierge’s seat with his head down scribbling in a book. He climbed the stairs to Glockner’s apartment on the fourth floor.