From some distant century, an ancient waiter in a swallowtail coat moved toward them, parchment face lit by a beatific smile, parchment hands holding a silver tray, which trembled slightly, bearing two glasses of champagne. Drinks in hand, they watched him shuffle back toward the kitchen. Anna started to say something, but another officer wife descended on them, leading a small fellow in a dark suit, one of the men from Renault. After the introductions, she swept away, in search of other strays.
“So, Monsieur Blanc,” Mercier said, “a worthwhile visit, so far?”
“Yes, I would say it is; we are making our case. The R-Thirty-five tank is a magnificent machine.”
“And what do you do for the Renault company?”
“I am one of the senior engineers-I concern myself mostly with treads.”
From Anna, an appreciative, encouraging nod. Treads!
“Yes, that’s me. And you, colonel?”
“I’m the military attache, at the embassy.”
“Ah, then you must support us-these Poles can be stubborn. Don’t you think, Madame Mercier?”
“Oh yes, indeed, terribly stubborn.”
“Tell me, Major Kulski,” Anna said, “do you favor the Renault machine?”
“Mmm, well …”
“Oh, perhaps you are unpersuaded.”
“Mm. And how do you come to be here tonight, Pana Szarbek?”
“I’m accompanying Colonel Mercier. He’s over there, by the pillar.”
“Then you must live in the city.”
“Yes, I do, major.”
“I wondered. You see, when I’m done with the army for the day, I’m something of an artist; that’s my real passion in life. So, allow me to say that you would make a superb model, for a life drawing. Truly, superb.”
Mercier shook hands with Colonel Vyborg and said, “How goes the visit?”
“Not too badly. This afternoon I had a talk with Habich’s assistant-you know Habich?”
“I’ve met him.”
“The best armaments designer in Europe. Anyhow, his assistant believes that if we buy this worm of an R-Thirty-five, the engineers can do something to improve it.”
“That’s encouraging. Are they thinking about numbers?”
“No, not yet. We need to get our hands on one of them and Habich’s people will tear it to pieces, then we’ll see what can be done, and then we’ll talk about numbers.”
“So, you’re with the League of Nations.” The woman was in her seventies, Anna thought; her husband, with grand white cavalry mustaches, at least in his eighties. “Such a hopeful notion, my dear, really. A league, of nations! How far we’ve come, in this dreadful world. My husband here, the general, was the late-life son of a colonel in the Hussars. In 1852, that was. A great hero, my husband’s father, he fought in the Battle of Leipzig and was decorated for bravery-we still have the medal.”
“At Leipzig, really.”
“That’s right, my dear, with Napoleon.”
“At last,” Mercier said, appearing at Anna’s side. “It’s time for dinner. Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I had a little caviar.”
“You seem to have found people to talk to, I kept an eye on you.”
“All sorts of people. I met a major who asked me to pose for a life drawing.”
“The hound. And will you?”
“Oh certainly, wouldn’t miss it. I think I’ll need a feather boa. Or maybe not.”
From the table, a woman called out, “Colonel Mercier? You’re over here.”
“Thank you.” Mercier drew back a gilded chair and Anna seated herself, brushing her dress forward as she sat. “Here’s the menu,” he said.
Anna hunted around in her evening bag and came up with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “At last, I can see.”
The grand menu-both hands required-was printed in spidery italic, with gold cord and tassel down the middle, and simply named the courses to be served. As he watched her reading, it occurred to Mercier that Anna’s long, searching glances were precisely that-not personality, myopia. “There’s sole meuniere,” he said. “I’ve had that here, and it’s good. Then a roast. Abundant, the roast.”
“Abundant is the word,” she said. “Six courses.”
“That’s the Europejski. And you should at least taste the wines, the cellar is famous.”
From Anna, a wry smile. Champagne, three wines-imagine.
“Yes,” Mercier said, falling in with her mood, “all of it rich and elaborate. And be sure to leave room for the tangerine flan.”
On Mercier’s right, the placement card said Madame de Michaux: a formidable woman, with low-cut neckline and a circle of rubies at her heavy throat. Evidently, she’d also read his card. “Mercier de Boutillon,” she mused. “And your home, where is that?”
“Down in the Drome, about an hour from Montelimar.”
“I believe there’s an Albertine, Mercier de Boutillon, in Paris. Is that the same family?”
“My cousin. A friend of yours?”
“Well, we’ve met. My husband is on the Renault board of directors, also the opera. I believe that’s how I know her. A very engaging woman, a collector of certain antiquities-is that so?”
“It is. Objets, in onyx. Mostly cameos, I believe.”
“You must tell her we sat together, at a dinner in Warsaw. Amusing, no?”
“Certainly I will, the next time I’m in Paris.”
“Do you come often, colonel?”
After the duck pate, the consomme, and the sole, as plates were brought with great red slices of roasted beef, the rules of the formal dinner dictated a turn to the other partner. For Mercier, a welcome turn, Anna Szarbek seemed easy and comfortable after the determined Madame de Michaux-one of those upper-class women who, polite as could be, worked like a beaver at discovering one’s personal life. Anna reported that the man on her left, Julien Travas, the manager of the Pathe newsreel agency in Warsaw, had been extremely entertaining. Something of an adventurer, he’d traveled, as a young man, from Shanghai to Siam by foot and oxcart, and told a good story.
Mercier and Anna worked their way through the roast, then the macedoine of vegetables, left the quivering tangerine flan on their plates, drank the coffee, and tasted the cognac. Then it was time for the nightclub. The Adria was not far from the Europejski, but one had to arrive in one’s automobile. As they drove away from the hotel, Anna said, “Is this something you do often?”
“Now and then, it’s part of the job.”
“Good lord.”
“Sip the wine, taste the food, find everyone fascinating-a good motto for diplomacy.”
She shook her head. “I guess that’s one way to save the world.”
“Yes, one way,” he said. “After the fish.”
There were tables reserved for them at the Adria, and more place cards, which led to a lighthearted interval of confusion and commentary in the dark, smoky nightclub. Mercier found that Colonel Vyborg had had them seated at his own table, with the director of Renault’s armaments division and a major in the purchasing section of the Polish General Staff, an owlish, balding fellow, and their wives.
After they were settled, Vyborg ordered champagne, three bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and, as the waiter opened the first, a blue spotlight pierced the darkness to reveal, on the small platform that served as a stage, Marko the Magician-so said a card on an easel-in top hat and tails, his face stark white with makeup. And his assistant, a girl in a very brief spangled costume, who opened her mouth, from which Marko began to extract, with immaculate white gloves, a series of red balls. Another, then another, each one producing horrified glances at the audience as she discovered yet one more red ball inside her. The major’s wife, on Mercier’s left, began to giggle, and Mercier guessed she’d more than sampled the dinner wines. The wife of the Renault director whispered, “Next time, darling, don’t eat so many balls.”