Carreau cares little for gallows humour. “I’m taking risks on your behalf. Whatever you might think, I’m not a Nazi. I really want to help you.”
“And my friends?”
“That was never part of the deal — you didn’t tell me you’d show up with a whole tribe.”
Benjamin shakes his head. “I only mean Henny and her son — we met the other four on the mountain, taking the same route.”
“And they don’t matter? They can go to blazes, is that it? Well, that’s most heroic.”
Benjamin stares at the bedcover he sits on and says nothing.
“So at least we understand each other. A deal is a deal. You, the woman and her son, as we negotiated. I have the train tickets in my pocket, and valid visas for the three of you.”
“Par toi je change l’or en chemin de fer.”
“Exactly.”
“Et le paradis en enfer.”
It takes a moment for Carreau to appreciate that Benjamin is parodying poetry, though he can’t place the reference. “I don’t deal in heaven and hell, Dr Benjamin, only reality. Now show me the book. It’s in your briefcase, I assume?”
Benjamin reaches down and pats the black leather bag. “Mon chat sur le carreau,” he says gently, then looks up knowingly at the Frenchman. You remember Baudelaire, don’t you?”
“Evidently not as well as you.”
“But your nom de guerre is code, is it not? The suit in a pack of cards?”
“It’s my real name,” Carreau says blankly.
“Pity,” says Benjamin with a sigh. “It suggested to me so many associations: a diamond, a tile, an intersecting network of oblique lines. Do you know, the Englishman Browne wrote an entire essay…”
“Yes,” Carreau cuts him off. “I know. I have an early edition. Now open the briefcase.”
Benjamin does as he is ordered, and reaching among spare clothing and essentials crammed inside, retrieves a slim volume bound in pale calfskin which he passes to Carreau, the collector perusing the gilt-tooled cover for some time before even opening it to read the handwritten title page. He nods with satisfaction.
“I paid a lot of money for that,” says Benjamin. “Far too much.”
“If that’s true then it’s just as well you did,” Carreau replies without looking up from the elegantly bound manuscript whose pages transfix him.
Benjamin can easily understand the fascination they exert. “We both know what it’s like to be bewitched by a rare volume, a chance encounter, one that will certainly never happen again.”
“Bewitched?” Carreau echoes, half-listening. “An appropriate choice of word.” He closes the book and rests it on his lap. “What made you buy it?”
“Its interesting appearance, a persuasive seller. The contents mean nothing to me.”
“Of course.”
“Though even what is incomprehensible can have a certain poetic quality.”
“For all your talk of Baudelaire you don’t strike me as a poet.”
“When I was younger I thought I might be one. I even tried hashish, under scientifically controlled conditions.”
Carreau laughs. “And what did you discover?”
“That it was never my destiny to be an original creative artist, though I might still be a writer. I went to the island of Capri seeking inspiration, fell in love there, and also bought the item you judge to be so precious. To me it is the embodiment of everything that is lost.”
“In other words she turned you down.”
“But what about you, sir? Why did you go to such lengths, tracking me among the displaced hordes in Marseilles? When I got your telegram I realised this must be no ordinary book, no average collector looking for bargains in troubled times.”
Carreau looks witheringly at him. “You know I have no need to explain myself.”
Benjamin, humbled, is reminded that their encounter, unlike the object that prompted it, is entirely about material content, not form. “You promised payment.”
“I’m a man of my word.” Carreau brings the required travel documents from his pocket.
“Did you know our transit visas would be declared invalid at the border?”
“No, and I didn’t know you’d be arrested. But with these papers you should be fine.” He pauses, the keys to freedom held tantalisingly in his left hand, while his right rests on the book they almost equal. “You realise, of course, that I didn’t get these for nothing. And I still need to come to an arrangement with the chief of police.”
“You want more?” Benjamin asks, stunned.
“It’s only fair.”
“But I have nothing else.”
Carreau frowns. “Are you trying to tell me your socks aren’t stuffed with gold coins? Or is there perhaps another rare item hiding in that briefcase of yours?”
Benjamin lowers his head. “I’m not a rich man. Only an author and book lover.”
“Not a successful author, then? Or at least from a family wealthy enough to support a scholarly son?”
“Not even prestigious enough,” says Benjamin, “for my books to have suffered the honour of being burned by the fascists. Though I feel the heat.”
There is not a trace of sympathy in Carreau’s features. “Tell me, in all your hashish dreams, did you ever foresee a future like this?”
“I foresaw it only when sober. Intoxicated, I was in paradise.”
“Better to have stayed there. And do you honestly have nothing left to give?”
“It’s the truth, sir.”
The travel documents are still poised in Carreau’s hand. He purses his lips, reaches out his arm. “Take them.”
“Thank you…”
“Just take them.” Carreau rises to his feet to give the papers to Benjamin, too weak to leave his bed.
“And the chief of police…?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Thank you for the book.” He looks at it in his hand, tapping it with satisfaction. “Isn’t life hellishly ironic? Good luck to you, sir.”
The transaction complete, Carreau leaves the room, and in the silence bequeathed to him, Benjamin continues to stare a while longer at the open briefcase, then stuffs the travel papers inside his jacket and lies back with a sigh. He knows the truth: Carreau is a liar and a fraud. There will be no bribe, no negotiation, the parting good-luck wish was an admission that Benjamin is on his own now. Tomorrow they will all be sent back to France and interned there. Carreau is a cheating non-entity while Benjamin, on the contrary, is a genius and an honest man, completely honest, for it is true: he has nothing. His gold coins have been divided between Henny and Joseph, and they will all still have need of them.
Yvette is relieved to see her husband return; being alone in the dining room under the scrutiny of the lone stranger has been unnerving for her. When Carreau sits down again at the table he blocks the suspicious man’s unwelcome line of sight. “Did you get it?” Yvette whispers.
He nods.
“Then where is it?”
“I left it at the desk, Suner’s there.”
“Is that wise?”
“Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”
She glances beyond his shoulder. “That man’s been staring at me.”
Carreau doesn’t need to look round. “You should be flattered — have you really forgotten what it feels like?”
“Don’t mock me, Louis. You get what you want and suddenly everything’s a joke. That’s typical of you.”
He turns and waves to Pablo, who gives a harassed acknowledgment from the other end of the room.
“What about the refugees?” Yvette asks him.
“I told you, I’ll have a word with the chief of police, it’ll all be sorted by morning.”
Pablo attends them with a bow; the bill is paltry and Carreau settles it with a few notes, leaving a large tip. “Thank you, senor, thank you!” The waiter insists on shepherding them out of the dining room to the hotel lobby, where Suner is speaking on the telephone.