The Foreign Correspondent (20 page)

“Did you mention it?”

“No. I don’t know that it has anything to do with me.”

“You should tell them about it.”

“Mm. Maybe I will. You don’t think it’s some kind of, problem, do you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, maybe I’ll ask about it.” He went back to the window and looked up and down the street. “Not there now,” he said. “Not where I can see him.”

The streets were deserted as Weisz walked back to the Dauphine, but he had an imagined Christa for company. Told her about his day, a version made entertaining for her amusement. Then, back in his room, he fell asleep and found her in his dreams—the first time they’d made love, on a yacht in Trieste harbor. She had worn, that late afternoon, a pair of oyster-colored pajamas, sheer and cool for a summer week at sea. He’d sensed that she had some kind of sensual affinity for the pajamas, so he did not take them off, the first time. Unbuttoned the top, slid the bottoms down her thighs. This inspired both of them, and, when the dream woke him, he found himself again inspired, and then, in the darkness, lived those moments once more.

The editorial meeting for the new
Liberazione
was at midday on the twenty-ninth of April. Weisz hurried to get to the Europa, but he was the last one there. Salamone had waited for him, and began the meeting as he was sitting down. “Before we discuss the next issue,” he said, “we have to talk a little about our situation.”

“Our situation?” the lawyer said, alert to a note in Salamone’s voice.

“Some things are going on that have to be discussed.” He paused, then said, “For one thing, a friend of Carlo’s was questioned by a man who represented himself as an inspector of the
Sûreté.
There’s reason to believe that he wasn’t who he said he was. That he came from the opposition.”

A long silence. Then the pharmacist said, “Do you mean the OVRA?”

“It’s a possibility we have to face. So take a minute, and think about how things are going in your own lives. Your daily lives, anything not normal.”

From the lawyer, a forced laugh. “Normal? My life at the language school?” But nobody else thought it was funny.

The art historian from Siena said, “It all goes on as usual, with me.”

Salamone, a sigh in his voice, said, “Well, what’s happened to me is that I’ve lost my job. I’ve been discharged.”

For a moment, dead silence, broken only by the muted sounds of café life on the other side of the door. Finally, Elena said, “Did they tell you why?”

“My supervisor wouldn’t quite say. Something about not enough work, but that was a lie. He had some other reason.”

“You think that he, too, had a visit from the
Sûreté,
” the lawyer said. “And not the real one.”

From Salamone, spread hands and raised eyebrows.
What else can I think?

This was immediately personal. Every one of them worked at whatever they could find—the lawyer at Berlitz, the Sienese professor as a meter reader for the gas company, Elena selling hosiery at the Galeries Lafayette—but that was common émigré Paris, where Russian cavalry officers drove taxis. Around the table, the same reaction: at least they
had
jobs, but what if they lost them? And as Weisz, perhaps the luckiest of them all, thought about Delahanty, the rest thought about their own employers.

“We survived Bottini’s murder,” Elena said. “But this…” She could not say, out loud, that it was worse, but, in its way, it was.

Sergio, the businessman from Milan, who’d come to Paris with the passage of the anti-Semitic laws, said, “For the moment, Arturo, you won’t have to worry about money.”

Salamone nodded. “I appreciate that,” he said. He left it there, but what didn’t need to be said was that their benefactor couldn’t support them all. “This may be the time,” he went on, “for all of us to consider what we want to do now. Some of us may not want to continue with this work. Think it over, carefully. Leaving for a few months won’t mean you can’t return, and leaving for a few months might be what you should do. Don’t say anything here, telephone me at home, or stop by. It may be for the best. For you, for the people who depend on you. This isn’t a question of honor, it’s practical.”

“Is
Liberazione
finished?” Elena said.

“Not yet,” Salamone said.

“We can be replaced,” the pharmacist said, more to himself than anybody else.

“We can,” Salamone said. “And that goes for me, too. The
Giustizia e Libertà
in Turin was destroyed in
1937
, all of them arrested. Yet here we are today.”

“Arturo,” the Sienese professor said, “I work with a Roumanian man, at one time a ballet master in Bucharest. The point is, is that I think he’s leaving, in a few weeks, to go to America. Anyhow, that’s one possibility, the gas company. You have to go down into the cellars, sometimes you see a rat, but it’s not so bad.”

“America,” the lawyer said. “Lucky man.”

“We can’t all go to America,” the Venetian professor said.

Why not?
But no one said it.

Report of Agent
207
, delivered by hand on
30
April, to a clandestine OVRA station in the Tenth Arrondissement:

The
Liberazione
group met at midday on
29
April at the Café Europa, the same subjects attending as in previous reports. Subject SALAMONE reported his discharge from the Assurance du Nord company and discussed the possibility that a clandestine operative had defamed him to his employer. SALAMONE suggested that a friend of subject WEISZ had been similarly approached, and warned the group that they may have to reconsider their participation in the
Liberazione
publication. An editorial meeting followed, with discussion of the occupation of Albania and the state of Italo-German relations as possible subjects for the next issue.

The following morning, with a hesitant spring day, the real
Sûreté
was back in Weisz’s life. The message came this time, thank heaven, to the Dauphine, and not to Reuters, said simply, “Please contact me immediately,” had a telephone number, and was signed “Monsieur,” not “Inspector,” Pompon. Looking up from the slip of paper, he said to Madame Rigaud, on the other side of the reception desk, “A friend,” as though he needed to explain the message. She shrugged. One has friends, they telephone. For your room rent, as long as you pay it, we take your messages.

He’d worried about her, lately. It wasn’t that she’d stopped being nice to him, just, lately, not quite so warm. Was this simply another Gallic shift of mood, common enough in this moody city, or something more? There had always been, in her demeanor, a night visit on the horizon. She was playful, but she’d let him know that her black dress could, at some point, be removed, and that beneath it lay a lovely treat for a good boy like him. This bothered Weisz, the first few weeks of his tenancy—what if something went wrong? Was lovemaking a covert condition of room rental?

But that wasn’t true, she simply liked to flirt with him, to tease him into the bawdy landlady fantasy, and, in time, he began to relax and enjoy it. She was hatchet-faced, hatchet-minded, and henna-dyed, but the accidental brush or bump—
“Oh pardon, Monsieur Weisz!”
—revealed the real Madame Rigaud, curved and firm, and all for him. Eventually.

That was, the last week or so, gone. Where did it go?

•

On the way to the Métro, he stopped at a post office and telephoned Pompon, who suggested a meeting at nine the following morning, at a café across from the Opéra—the lobby floor of the Grand Hotel—and conveniently close to the Reuters office. These arrangements were,
oh no,
considerate, and,
uh-oh,
thoughtful, and led to one more day of trying to work while fighting off the urge to speculate.
Britain and France Offer Guarantees to Greece:
calls to Devoisin at the Quai d’Orsay, then to other sources, swimming deeper in the tidal pools of French diplomacy, as well as contact with the Greek embassy, and the editor of an émigré Greek newspaper—the Paris side of the news.

Weisz worked hard. Worked for Delahanty, to show how truly crucial he was to the Reuters effort, worked for Christa, so he wouldn’t be driving a delivery van when she came to Paris, worked for the
giellisti
—the paper was on the edge of mortality and losing his job might very well be the last straw. And for his own pride—not money, pride.

A long night. And then, the café meeting, and a topic he should have, he realized, foreseen. “We have come into possession of a document,” Pompon said, “originally mailed to the Foreign Ministry. A document that should be made public. Not directly, but in a covert manner, in, perhaps, a clandestine newspaper.”

Oh?

“It contains information that the newspaper
Liberazione
mentioned, as rumor, in its last issue, but that was rumor, and what we’ve got our hands on now is specific. Very specific. Of course we know you have contact with these émigrés, and someone like you, in your position, would be a realistic source for such information.”

Maybe.

“The document reveals German penetration of the Italian security system, a massive penetration, in the hundreds, and revealing it could create antagonism toward Germany, toward these sorts of tactics, which are dangerous to any state. The rumor, as published in
Liberazione,
was provocative, but the actual
list,
now that could really cause problems.” Did Weisz see what he was getting at?

Well—what the French called
un petit oui,
a little
yes
—yes.

“I have a copy of the document with me, Monsieur Weisz, would you care to see it?”

Ah, naturally.

Pompon unbuckled his briefcase and withdrew the pages, folded so that they would fit into an envelope, and handed them to Weisz. It wasn’t the list he’d typed, but a precise copy. He unfolded the pages and pretended to study them; at first puzzled, then interested, finally fascinated.

Pompon smiled—the pantomime had evidently worked. “Quite a coup for
Liberazione,
no? To publish the real evidence?”

He certainly thought so. But…

But?

The present condition of that journal was uncertain. Some members of the editorial board had come under pressure—he’d heard that the paper might not survive.

Pressure?

Lost jobs, harassment by fascist agents.

A silent Pompon stared at him. Amid tables of chattering Parisians, who’d been shopping at the nearby Galeries Lafayette, hotel guests with guidebooks, a pair of newlyweds from the provinces, arguing about money. All in clouds of smoke and perfume. Waiters flew past—who on earth was ordering éclairs at this time of the morning?

Weisz waited, but the inspector did not bite. Or maybe bit in some way that Weisz could not observe. “Fascist agents” pestering émigrés was not the subject for today, the subject for today was inducing a resistance organization to do a little job for him. Or for the Foreign Ministry, or God only knew who. That other business, a different department handled that, down the hall, one flight up, and who’d want their inquisitive snouts poking into his carefully tended émigré garden? Not Pompon.

Finally, Weisz said, “I will talk to them, at
Liberazione.
”

“Do you wish to keep that copy? We have others, though you must be very careful with it.”

No, he knew what it was, he would prefer to leave the document with Pompon.

As he’d earlier said to Salamone:
hot potato.

The taxi sped through the Paris night. A soft May evening, the air warm and seductive, half the city out on the boulevards. Weisz had been happy enough in his room, but the night manager at Reuters had sent him off, pad and pencil in hand, to the Hotel Crillon. “It’s King Zog,” he’d said on the Dauphine telephone. “The local Albanians have discovered him, and they’re gathering on the place Concorde. Go and have a look, will you?”

Weisz’s driver took the Pont Royal bridge, turned on Saint-Honoré, drove ten feet down the rue Royale, and stopped behind a line of cars that disappeared into a crowd. There they were stuck, and were now honking their horns, making sure that nobody got out of their way. The driver threw his taxi into reverse, waving at the car behind him to back up. “Not me,” he said to Weisz, “not tonight.” Weisz paid, jotted down the fare, and got out.

What was Zog, Ahmed Zogu, former king of Albania, doing there? Thrown out by Mussolini, he’d wandered through various capitals, the press keeping track of him, and had apparently landed at the Crillon. But, local Albanians? Albania was the lost mountain kingdom of the Balkans—and that was very lost indeed—independent in
1920
, then snatched at, north and south, by Italy and Yugoslavia, until Mussolini grabbed the whole thing a month earlier. But, as far as Weisz knew, there was not much of a political émigré community in Paris.

There was certainly a crowd on the rue Royale, mostly curious passersby, and, when Weisz finally pushed his way through, on Concorde, where he realized that however many Albanians had made their way to Paris, they’d showed up that night. Six or seven hundred, he thought, with a few hundred French supporters. Not the Communists—no red flags—because what you had in Albania was a little dictator eaten up by a big dictator, but those who thought it was never a good idea for one nation to occupy another, and, on a lovely May night, why not take a stroll over to the Crillon?

Weisz worked toward the front of the hotel, where a bedsheet nailed to a pair of poles, swaying with the motion of the crowd, said something in Albanian. Up here they were also chanting—Weisz caught the words
Zog
and
Mussolini,
but that was about it. At the Crillon entry, a score of porters and bellmen were ranged protectively in front of the door and, as Weisz watched, the
flics
began to show up, truncheons tapping their legs, ready for action. All across the face of the hotel, guests were looking out, pointing here and there, enjoying the show. Then a window on the top floor opened, a light went on in the room, and a matinee idol, with dashing mustache, leaned out and gave the Zogist salute: hand flattened, palm forward, over the heart. King Zog! From behind the drape, someone reached out, and now the king wore a general’s hat, heavy with gold braid, above his Sulka bathrobe. The crowd cheered, Queen Geraldine appeared at the king’s side, and both waved.