Cocktails were served once more. The conversation proceeded in English. The virtues of various types of cigars were discussed. The Polish emissary absent-mindedly brushed flakes of ash from his sleeve.
The reporters behind the doors impatiently opened and closed their pocket cameras. They were eager to capture the facial expressions of the diplomats leaving the summit and they worried that, with the poor lighting in the corridor, this historic moment might slip through their fingers.
Finally, at around nine o’clock, the door of suite No. 6 opened and the Polish emissary came out, awkwardly adjusting his immaculate snow-white cuffs. His was absolutely expressionless, as befits the face of a diplomat. The Polish emissary took the elevator to his suite.
Only a good half hour after his departure did the French president appear in the doorway of suite No. 6, shown to the door by his English colleague. His face was slightly puffy and pink, like that of a man who has smoked too many cigars. Some of the less experienced reporters mistook this for a flush of excitement. Unfortunately, the lighting in the corridor turned out to be woefully inadequate; these keen reporters were clearly not fated to capture for posterity the statesmen’s facial expressions on this momentous evening.
Having trailed the French president back to his suite, the journalists dispersed: some to the post office, others to the restaurant to polish off Wienerschnitzel and scribble out their articles, and still others headed off for some dancing, to stretch their legs after a hard day’s work. Both heads of state dismissed their servants and probably went off to rest. The political day had come to an end. Nothing of interest could occur until the next day. The last reporter, who hoped to be the first at his post the following day, exited the hotel.
And this was a pity. Had he only kept waiting till midnight, he would most certainly have noted an incident of some interest. A car pulled up to the hotel at ten to twelve. The Polish emissary came down the stairs, preceded by a bellboy carrying his suitcase. The emissary and the suitcase vanished through the car door. The car drove off to the train station.
A week later, buried deep on the back pages of the morning dailies, the word “Poland” appeared in print for the first time. By the end of the week the “Polish question” was cropping up with lightning speed, like quicksilver in the tubes of the newspaper columns, filling whole pages and creeping toward the headlines. The news became more and more detailed.
There had suddenly appeared in the territory of Poland – God knows how – a newly contrived hetman, who was planning a march on Ukraine to liberate her from the yoke of Bolshevik rule. In his many interviews, this hetman proclaimed the resurrection of a “self-reliant” Ukraine, joined to Poland in its historical union. With the silent consent of the Polish government, this freshly baked hetman assembled a Ukrainian liberation army on the territory of the Polish state. The Polish newspapers sounded the reveille. They recalled the all-too-recent historical borders… The government maintained a dignified silence.
When it seemed as though the situation was reaching its climax, the government of the Soviet Union addressed the Polish government with a gentle note of caution, requesting that, in the interests of European peace and good relations between neighbors, the rabble-rousing organizations threatening the peace and integrity of the Soviet Union should immediately be disbanded.
The bourgeois press saw this note as outlandish provocation and began alluding to war. The Polish government was spurred to make an unparliamentary reply. An exchange of harsh ultimatums ensued.
A violent northwest wind blew in Lyon that day, and shredded scraps of fog flapped like wet underwear on invisible clotheslines. A gale furiously hurtled down streets, knocking unwary passersby off their feet. Wind-tossed hats flapped in the air like heavy birds, and headless pedestrians hopped strangely after them like rubber balls.
At around six p.m., special newspaper supplements appeared on the streets. Pedestrians twirled like tops at the intersections, clutching at papers that slipped between their fingers. They fluttered their awkward newspaper wings like butterflies trapped under the impenetrable net of fog.
Behind the thick glass of the café windows, hefty, shiftless clientele played Preference and, solemnly choosing their suit, poked at their hearts with sharp spades of spades.
“Whist.”
“Naturally.”
“But the trump is ours.”
“Yes, monsieur, this is no laughing matter. Those bandits have provoked the Polish army into crossing their border. They’re clearly threatening the integrity of our loyal ally, Poland. France won’t stand for this kind of provocation.”
“Pass.”
“Tell me about it!”
“We’ll aid our Polish friends with troops and ammunition. We’ll drive out the Bolsheviks.”
“We’ll strike with our hearts! Yes, monsieur, that’s the only way to finally return Europe to the old, prewar order. I always used to tell that to my deputy, Juliet. We’ll never be rid of inflation until we finish off the Soviets.”
“Queen of spades.”
The wind was driving hard outside, it lashed the thick panes of glass, bounced upward, somersaulted over the rooftops, tripped, got tangled in the spider webs of antennae, and, freeing itself, pushed onward, while the vibrating antennae resounded long and dolefully.
In the industrialists’ club that evening, the guests were playing Baccarat and indulging heartily in the buffet as usual, chewing slowly and drizzling Chablis on plump Portuguese oysters. In the smoking lounge, tuxedoed gentlemen sat in comfortable leather armchairs, smoked cigars and cigarettes and held lively discussions.
Then a manager entered with two butlers, carrying a long scroll. When unraveled, it turned out to be a map of Europe. The butlers hung it on the wall.
The manager turned toward the graying gentlemen spread out comfortably on the couch and jovially explained:
“When there’s a war on, I know you like to have a map at the ready. During the last war we had to change maps six times. They were totally mutilated by the thumbtack holes.”
The men gathered in a circle around the map.
In the corner, on a sofa, a bald gentleman in a monocle was speaking to a gray man with muttonchops:
“Reportedly the English fleet set sail yesterday evening for St. Petersburg?…”
The man with muttonchops leaned confidentially toward his neighbor.
“A good friend of mine, the Minister of Internal Affairs, told me yesterday – just between you and me, of course – that the government plans to announce a mobilization tomorrow. A coalition of the whole civilized world is being formed, something like a crusade against those communist scoundrels. The Bolsheviks will be crushed in the next three weeks, and a rightful ruler will be restored to Russia. A provisional government made up of serious Russian émigré statesmen has been formed in London with the approval of the British and French governments. There’s even talk of…” The man with muttonchops leaned in closer and concluded what he was saying in an inaudible whisper.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the bald gentleman. “Yes, that’s quite conceivable. I, for one, have held that belief for ages. French industry will never get rid of this upheaval as long as the Soviets exist to the east. Dispatching the Soviets and bringing order to Russia will be a decisive blow to our local communists; it will mean a victory on our internal industrial front. All of level-headed France would not pale before sacrificing any number of victims for this cause…”
In the deserted streets outside, the blustery wind raced a lone motorcycle, and scraps of special supplements blew about like the gigantic snowflakes of a monster blizzard. Phantom-like policemen awkwardly danced on the street corners in their black oilcloth hoods.