Arch of Triumph (21 page)

“Only because we live too much in rooms. Not if one is used to the open. One despairs more decently in a landscape than in a two-room-and-kitchenette apartment. More comfortably, too. Don’t contradict me! To contradict shows an occidental narrowness of the mind. Who actually wants to be right? Today is my day off and I wish to absorb life. By the way, we also drink too much in rooms.”

“We also urinate too much in rooms.”

“Get away with your irony. The facts of life are simple and trivial. Only our imagination gives life to them. It makes the laundry pole of facts a flagstaff of dreams. Am I right?”

“No.”

“Of course not. I don’t even want to be.”

“Of course you are right.”

“Good, brother. We also sleep too much in rooms. We become pieces of furniture. Stone buildings have broken our spines. We have become walking sofas, dressing tables, safes, leases, salaries, kitchen pots, and water toilets.”

“Correct. Walking party platforms, ammunition factories, institutes for the blind and asylums for the insane.”

“Don’t keep interrupting me. Drink, be quiet and live, you murderer with the scalpel. See what has become of us. As far as I know, only the old Greeks had gods of drinking and the joy of life: Bacchus and Dionysus. Instead of that we have Freud, inferiority complexes and the psychoanalysis. We’re afraid of the too great words in love and not afraid of much too great words in politics. A sorry generation!” Morosow winked.

Ravic winked, too. “Good old cynic with dreams,” he said. “Are you engaged in improving the world again?”

Morosow grinned. “I’m engaged in feeling it, you romantic without illusions, for a short time on earth, called Ravic.”

Ravic laughed. “For a very short time. This is now my third life as far as names go. Is this Polish vodka?”

“Estonian. From Riga. The best. Pour—and then let us sit calmly here and stare at the most beautiful street in the world and praise this mild evening and casually spit in the face of despair.”

The fire in the coke-ovens crackled. A man with a violin took up a position by the curb and began to play
Auprès de ma blonde
. Passers-by jostled him, the bow scraped, but the man continued to play as if he were alone. It sounded thin and empty. The violin seemed to be freezing. Two Moroccans went from table to table and offered garish carpets of artificial silk.

The newspaper boys passed with the latest editions. Morosow bought the
Paris Soir
and the
Intransigeant
. He read the headlines and pushed the newspapers aside. “They are all damned counterfeiters,” he growled. “Have you ever observed that we are living in the age of counterfeiters?”

“No. I thought we were living in the age of cans.”

“Cans? How so?”

Ravic pointed at the newspapers. “Cans. We don’t have to think any more. Everything is pre-meditated, pre-chewed, pre-felt. Cans. All you have to do is open them. Delivered to your home three times a day. Nothing any more to cultivate yourself, or let grow and boil on the fire of questions, of doubt, and of desire. Cans.” He grinned. “We don’t live easily, Boris. Just cheaply.”

“Cans with false labels.” Morosow lifted the papers. “Counterfeiting! Take a look at that! They build their ammunition factories because they want peace; their concentration camps because they love the truth; justice is the cover for every factional madness; political gangsters are saviors; and freedom is the big word for all greed for power. Counterfeit money! Counterfeit spiritual money! The lie as propaganda. Kitchen Machiavellism. Idealism in the
hands of the underworld. If at least they would be honest—” He crushed the newspapers together and threw them away.

“Very likely we are reading too many newspapers in rooms,” Ravic said and laughed.

“Naturally. In the open one only needs them to start a fire—”

Morosow stopped abruptly. Ravic was no longer sitting beside him. He had jumped up and was pushing his way through the crowd in front of the café in the direction of the Avenue George V.

Morosow sat for a second, astonished. Then he pulled some money out of his pocket, threw it onto a china plate beside the glasses, and followed Ravic. He did not know what had happened but he followed him anyhow, to be at hand if he should need him. He saw no police. Neither did he see any plain-clothes detectives hunting Ravic. The sidewalks were packed with people. Good for him, Morosow thought. If a policeman recognized him, he can easily escape. He saw Ravic again only when he had reached the Avenue George V. The traffic lights changed at that moment and the jammed lines of cars dashed forward. Notwithstanding, Ravic tried to cross the street. A taxi almost knocked him down. The cabdriver was furious. Morosow grabbed Ravic’s arm from behind and pulled him back. “Are you mad?” he cried. “Do you want to commit suicide? What’s the matter?”

Ravic did not answer. He stared across the street. The traffic was very dense. Car after car, four rows deep. It was impossible to get through.

Morosow shook him. “What happened, Ravic? The police?”

“No.” Ravic did not take his eyes from the passing cars.

“What is it? What is it, Ravic?”

“Haake—”

“What?” Morosow’s eyes narrowed. “What does he look like? Quick! Quick, Ravic!”

“A gray coat—”

The shrill whistle of the traffic policeman came from the middle of the Champs Elysées. Ravic dashed across between the last cars. A dark gray coat—that was all he knew. He crossed the Avenue George V and the Rue Bassano. Suddenly there were dozens of gray coats. He cursed and walked on as quickly as he could. The traffic had stopped at the Rue Galilée. He rapidly crossed it and ruthlessly pushed his way through the crowd, along the Champs Elysées. He came to the Rue de Presbourg, crossed it, and suddenly stood still. Before him was the Place de I’Etoile, huge, confusing, full of traffic, with streets branching off in all directions. Gone! No one could be found here.

He turned around slowly, still scrutinizing the faces of the crowd—but his excitement was gone. Suddenly he felt very empty. He must have been mistaken again—or Haake had escaped him a second time. But could one be mistaken twice? Could someone disappear from the surface of the earth twice? There were the side-streets. Haake could have turned into one of those. He looked along the Rue de Presbourg. Cars, cars, and people, people. The busiest hour of the evening. There was no point in searching along them. Too late again.

“Nothing?” Morosow asked when he caught up with him.

Ravic shook his head. “I am probably seeing ghosts again.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“I thought so. Only just a minute ago. Now—now I don’t know at all.”

Morosow looked at him. “There are many faces that look alike, Ravic.”

“Yes, and some that one never forgets.”

Ravic stood still. “What do you want to do?” Morosow asked.

“I don’t know. What can I do now?”

Morosow stared into the crowd. “Damned bad luck! Just at this time. Close of business. Everything crowded—”

“Yes—”

“And, moreover, the light! Half-darkness. Could you see him well?”

Ravic did not answer.

Morosow took his arm. “Listen,” he said. “Running around in the streets and cross-streets is pointless. While you are looking through one street you will think he is in the next one. Not a chance. Let’s go back to Fouquet’s. That’s the best place. You can keep a better lookout from there than by running around. In case he comes back, you’ll be able to see him from there.”

They sat down at an outside table which was open to the street in two directions. For a long time they sat in silence. “What do you intend to do if you meet him?” Morosow asked finally. “Do you know yet?”

Ravic shook his head.

“Think about it. It’s better for you to know beforehand. There’s no sense in being taken by surprise and doing something foolish. Particularly not in your situation. You don’t want to be imprisoned for years?”

Ravic looked up. He did not answer. He only looked at Morosow.

“It wouldn’t matter to me,” Morosow said. “If it were me. But it does matter to me in your case. What would you have done if he had been the one and you had got hold of him across the street at the corner?”

“I don’t know, Boris. I really don’t know.”

“You have nothing on you, have you?”

“No.”

“If you had attacked him without planning it, you would have been separated in a minute. By now you would be at police headquarters and he would probably have got away with a few black-and-blue marks. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Ravic stared into the street.

Morosow deliberated. “At best you might have tried to push him under an automobile at the intersection. But that wouldn’t have been sure either. He might have got away with a couple of scratches.”

“I won’t push him under an automobile,” Ravic replied without taking his eyes from the street.

“I know that. I wouldn’t do it either.”

Morosow was silent for a while. “Ravic,” he said then. “If he was the one and if you meet him you must be dead sure what to do, you know that? You’ll have only one chance.”

“Yes, I know.” Ravic continued to stare into the street.

“If you should see him follow him. But don’t do anything else. Only follow him. Find out where he lives. Nothing else. All the rest you can work out later. Take your time. Do nothing foolish. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” Ravic said absent-mindedly and stared into the street.

A man selling pistachio nuts came to their table. He was followed by a boy with toy mice. He made them dance on the marble table top and run up his sleeve. The violin player appeared for the second time. Now he wore a hat and played
Parlez moi d’amour
. An old lady with a syphilitic nose was hawking violets.

Morosow looked at his watch. “Eight,” he said. “It’s senseless to wait any longer, Ravic. We’ve been sitting here for over two hours already. The man won’t come back now. Everyone in France is eating supper somewhere at this hour.”

“Why don’t you go, Boris? Why are you sitting around here with me anyhow?”

“That has nothing to do with it. I can sit here with you as long as we like. But I don’t want you to drive yourself crazy. It’s senseless for you to wait here for hours. The chances of meeting him are now the same everywhere. No, now they are greater in any restaurant, in any night club, in any brothel.”

“I know, Boris.” Ravic stared into the street. The traffic had become less dense.

Morosow put his large hairy hand on Ravic’s arm. “Ravic,” he said, “listen. If you are destined to meet that man, you’ll meet him—and if not, then you can wait for him for years. You know what I mean. Keep your eyes open—everywhere. And be prepared for anything. But otherwise go on living as if you were mistaken. That’s the only thing you can do. Otherwise you will ruin yourself. I lived through the same thing once. About twenty years ago. I kept thinking I saw one of my father’s murderers. Hallucinations.” He emptied his glass. “Damned hallucinations. And now come with me. We’ll go somewhere and have something to eat.”

“You go and have something to eat, Boris. I’ll come later.”

“Do you intend to stay here?”

“Just for another moment. Then I’ll go to the hotel. I have something to do there.”

Morosow looked at him. He knew what Ravic wanted to do in the hotel. But he also knew that he couldn’t do anything else. This was Ravic’s business alone. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be at the Mère Marie. Later at Bublishki’s. Call me or come there.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “And don’t run any risks. Don’t be a hero for nothing! And a damned idiot. Don’t shoot unless you are sure you can escape. This is no child’s play and no gangster movie.”

“I know that, Boris. Don’t worry.”

———

Ravic went to the Hôtel International and started back immediately. On his way he passed the Hôtel de Milan. He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. He could still find Joan at home.

She came toward him. “Ravic,” she said surprised. “You’ve come here?”

“Yes—”

“You’ve never been here, do you know that? Since the day you brought me here.”

He smiled absent-mindedly. “That’s true, Joan. We lead a strange life.”

“Yes. Like moles. Or bats. Or owls. We see each other only when it is dark.”

She walked through the room with long lithe strides. She wore a dark-blue tailored dressing gown, drawn tight about her hips with a belt. The black evening gown which she wore at the Scheherazade was lying on the bed. She was very beautiful and infinitely remote.

“Don’t you have to go, Joan?”

“No. Not for half an hour. This is the best time for me. The hour before I have to leave. You see what I have? Coffee and all the time in the world. And now even you are here. I have calvados too.”

She brought the bottle. He took it and put it, unopened, on the table. Then he took her hands. “Joan,” he said.

The light in her eyes dimmed. She stood close to him. “Tell me at once what it is—”

“Why? What should it be?”

“Something. There is always something the matter when you are this way. Did you come because of that?”

He felt her hands trying to pull away from him. She did not move. Even her hands did not move. It was only as if something in them wanted to pull away from him. “You can’t come tonight, Joan. Not tonight and perhaps not tomorrow and not for a few days.”

“Do you have to stay at the hospital?”

“No. It is something else. I can’t talk about it. But it is something that has nothing to do with you and me.”

She stood there for a while, motionless. “All right,” she said then.

“You understand?”

“No. But if you say so, it is right.”

“You aren’t angry?”

She looked at him. “My God, Ravic,” she said. “How could I ever be angry with you about anything?”

He looked up. It was as though a hand had pressed hard on his heart. Joan had spoken without purpose, but nothing she could have done would have touched him more. He paid little heed to what she murmured and whispered during the night; it was forgotten as soon as dawn stood gray outside the window. He knew that the rapture of those hours in which she crouched or lay at his side was as much rapture over herself, and he took it for intoxication and the shining avowal of the moment, but never for more. Now for the first time, like a flier who, through an opening of gleaming clouds on which the light plays hide-and-seek, suddenly perceives the earth below, green, brown, and solid, he saw more. He saw devotion behind the rapture, feeling behind the intoxication, simple confidence behind the rush of words. He had expected suspicion, questions, and lack of understanding—but not this. It was always the little things that brought revelation—never the big ones. The big ones were too tied up with dramatic gestures and the temptation to lie.