“No.”
“Will you go?”
“I have to think about it, probably I will.”
They walked in silence for a minute or two, then Casson said, “Mathieu, how long does this go on?”
“I can’t say.”
“There’s a record being built—a wire recording they made in Vernouillet, I’ve been seen with them. What if the war ends?”
“We’ll vouch for you.”
They reached the end of the path, a wire fence. Beyond were rakes and shovels and wheelbarrows. Mathieu took his hat off, ran a thumb around the lining to secure it, then put it back on, pulling the brim down with thumb and forefinger. “Don’t do anything until the twenty-third, then we’ll talk again. That’s the night—all hell’s going to break loose and we’re using that to get our job done. Meanwhile, you should go on as usual.”
They came to the gate, shook hands. “Be careful,” Mathieu said.
Casson couldn’t sleep the night of the twenty-third. He went to an after-curfew bar and drank wine. The bar was in a cellar off an alley, it had a packed-earth floor and stone walls. A long time ago, some madman had managed to coax an upright piano down the narrow staircase—perhaps he’d taken it apart. Clearly it was never going anywhere again, and that gave somebody the idea for a nightclub. The piano’s sounding board was muffled with a blanket, and an old woman in a gown played love songs and sang in a whispery voice. The cigarette smoke was thick, the only light from a single candle. Casson paused at the bottom of the stairs, then a woman took him in her arms and danced with him.
She smelled of cleaning bleach and brilliantine, had stiff hair that scratched against his cheek. They never spoke. She didn’t press herself into him as they danced, just brushed against him, touched him enough so he could feel everything about her. When the sirens started up, she froze. A man nearby called out in a hushed voice, “No, please. One must continue,” as though that were a rule of the house.
The rumbling went on for a long time, sharply felt in the cellar because stone foundations built in the Middle Ages carried the vibrations of the bombs and the gunnery beneath the city. A plane went down that night on the rue St.-Honoré, a Lancaster bomber made a fiery cart-wheel along the street, sliced through a jeweler’s and a millinery shop, then came to rest in the workroom of a dress designer.
Walking home after curfew, Casson stayed alert for patrols, kept to the walls of the buildings. The streets rang with sirens and ambulance bells, searchlights swept the sky, there was a second wave of bombers, then a third. The southern horizon flickered orange just as he slipped into the rue Chardin, and he felt the concussions in the marble stairs as he climbed to his apartment.
Later the telephone rang. He’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, still dressed. “Yes?” he said, looking at his watch. It was twenty minutes past five.
“Jean-Claude?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me.” It was Marie-Claire, she was crying. He waited, finally she was able to speak. “Bernard Langlade is dead, Jean-Claude.”
He went to the Langlades’ apartment at seven, the smell of burning was heavy in the air. At the newspaper stands, thick headlines: VILMA AND KAUNAS TAKEN, WEHRMACHT ADVANCES IN RUSSIA. Then, just below, PARIS BOMBED, REPAIRS TO FACTORIES ALREADY BEGUN.
He was the last to arrive. Arnaud opened the door, Casson could see the Pichards, Véronique, a few friends and relatives talking in quiet voices. The Langlades’ two grown children were said to be en route to Paris but the bombing had caused havoc on the railroads and they weren’t expected until nightfall. When Casson entered the living room, Marie-Claire hugged him tight. Bruno was in the kitchen, he shook his head in sorrow. “This is a rotten thing, Jean-Claude,” he said. “Believe me, there will be something important done in his memory, a subscription. I’ll be calling you.”
Yvette Langlade sat on the end of the couch. She was white, a handkerchief gripped tight in her fist, but very self-possessed. Casson pulled a chair up next to her and took her hand, “Jean-Claude,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you could be here, Jean-Claude.”
“What happened?”
“He went out to Montrouge, to the factory.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Something went wrong earlier in the evening—a door left open, or maybe an alarm went off. I’m not sure. A detective called, demanded that Bernard come out to Montrouge and make sure everything was secure. Because of the defense work, the police are very sensitive about things like that. So, he went—”
She stopped for a moment, looked away. The friends who’d arrived first were busy, had claimed the small jobs for themselves: Marie-Claire and her sister making coffee, Françoise Pichard straightening up the living room, her husband answering the telephone.
“He had to do what they told him,” Yvette said. “So he changed his clothes and went back out to Montrouge. Then, then they called. This morning. And they told me, that he was gone.” She waited a moment, looked away. “They asked a lot of questions.” She shook her head, unable to believe what had happened. “Did Bernard store explosives in the factory, they wanted to know. I didn’t know what to say.” She took a deep breath, pressed her lips together, squeezed Casson’s hand. “It’s madness,” she said. “A man like Bernard. To die in a war.”
Véronique brought him a cup of coffee—real coffee, courtesy of Bruno—and they exchanged a private look. He didn’t know exactly what part she played in the British operation, but she could have known that sabotage was planned under cover of an air raid. Now, he thought, her look suggested that she did know. He read sympathy in her eyes, and sorrow. But, also, determination. “Careful with this,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “It’s very hot.” She turned to Yvette. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to bring you some.”
“No, dear. Please, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’m going to go and get it. And Charles Arnaud has just gone out for fresh bread.”
After a moment of resistance, Yvette nodded, accepting, giving in to the inevitable. Véronique went off to get the coffee.
My fault, Casson thought. His heart ached for a lost friend. Not that he would survive him very long. They would meet in heaven, Langlade would explain what was what, the best way to deal with it all. Casson wiped his eyes. Merde, he thought. They’ll kill us all, with their stupid fucking wars.
24 June, 9:10 A.M.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. I’m looking for a copy of the Decameron, by Boccaccio.”
“Any particular edition?”
“No. Whatever you have.”
“I’ll take a look, I’m sure we have something.”
“I’m at 43 09 19.”
He was in a café on the boulevard St.-Germain, noisy and crowded and anonymous. The phone rang a moment later.
“Yes?” It was Mathieu on the line.
“I’ve decided to go to Strasbourg. Right away, because I need to be in Lyons on the first of July.”
“Please understand, about Strasbourg, that we really don’t know what’s going on there.”
“Perhaps I can find out.”
“It will help us, if you can.”
“I’ll call Millau this morning, let him know I’m ready to go.”
“All right.” There was a pause, a moment’s hesitation. “You have to walk very lightly, just now. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I know.”
All day he felt numb and lifeless. He went to the office, though it seemed to him now a dead place, abandoned, without purpose. He looked in the bottom drawer of his desk, found the notebook with the last version of Hotel Dorado and began to read around in it. A few days earlier he’d tried to locate Fischfang, but now he really had disappeared. Perhaps gone underground, or fled to Portugal. Maybe arrested, or dead. Perhaps, Casson thought, he would never know what happened.