Arch of Triumph (7 page)

The waiter wiped the table and waited. “A Pernod,” Ravic said.

“With water, sir?”

“No.” Ravic deliberated. “Don’t bring me a Pernod.”

There was something he had to wash away. A bitter taste. For that the sweet anise wasn’t sharp enough. “Bring me a calvados,” he said to the waiter. “A double calvados.”

“Very well, sir.”

It was Veber’s invitation. That tinge of pity in it. To grant someone an evening with a family. The French rarely invite foreigners to their homes; they prefer to take them to restaurants. He had not yet been to Veber’s. It was well meant but hard to bear. One could defend oneself against insults; not against pity.

He took a gulp of the apple brandy. Why did he have to explain to Veber his reasons for living in the International? It wasn’t necessary. Veber had known all he need know. He knew that Ravic was not permitted to operate. That was enough. That he worked with him nevertheless, was his affair. In this way he made money and could arrange for operations he did not dare perform himself. No one knew about it—only he and the nurse—and she kept quiet. It was the same with Durant. Whenever he had an operation to perform he stayed with the patient until he went under the anesthetic. Then Ravic came and performed the operation for
which Durant was too old and incompetent. When the patient awoke later on, there was Durant, the proud surgeon, at his bedside. Ravic saw only the covered patient; he knew only the narrow iodine-stained area of the body bared for the operation. He very often did not know even on whom he operated. Durant gave him the diagnosis and he began to cut. Durant paid Ravic about one-tenth of what he received for an operation. Ravic didn’t mind. It was better than not operating at all. With Veber he worked on a more friendly basis. Veber paid him a quarter of the proceeds. That was fair.

Ravic looked through the window. And what besides? There wasn’t much else left. But he was alive, that was enough. At a time when everything was tottering he had no wish to build up something that was bound shortly to fall into ruins. It was better to drift than to waste energy; that was the one thing that was irreplaceable. To survive meant everything—until somewhere a goal again became visible. The less energy that took, the better; then one would have it afterwards. The antlike attempt to build up a bourgeois life again and again in a century that was falling to pieces—he had seen that ruin many. It was touching, ridiculous, and heroic at the same time—and useless. It made one weary. An avalanche couldn’t be stopped once it had started to move; whoever tried, fell beneath it. Better to wait and later to dig out the victims. On long marches one had to travel light. Also when one was fleeing—

Ravic looked at his watch. It was time to look at Lucienne Martinet. And then go to the Osiris.

The whores in the Osiris were waiting. Although they were examined regularly by an official physician, the madame was not content with that. She could not afford to have anyone contract a
disease in her place; for that reason she had made an arrangement with Veber to have the girls privately re-examined each Thursday. Sometimes Ravic substituted for him.

The madame had furnished and equipped a place on the first floor as an examination room. She was proud of the fact that for more than a year none of her customers had caught anything in her establishment; but in spite of all the girls’ precautions seventeen cases of venereal disease had been caused by customers.

Rolande, the
gouvernante
, brought Ravic a bottle of brandy and a glass. “I think Marthe has got something,” she said.

“All right. I’ll examine her carefully.”

“I haven’t let her work since yesterday. Naturally, she denies it.”

“All right, Rolande.”

The girls came in in their slips, one after the other. Ravic knew almost all of them; only two were new.

“You don’t have to examine me, doctor,” said Léonie, a red-haired Gascon.

“Why not?”

“No clients the whole week.”

“What does madame say to that?”

“Nothing. I made them order a lot of champagne. Seven, eight bottles a night. Three businessmen from Toulouse. Married. All three of them would have liked to, but none of them dared because of the others. Each was afraid if he came with me the others would talk about it at home. That’s why they drank; each thought he would outlast the others.” Léonie laughed and scratched herself lazily. “The one who didn’t pass out wasn’t able to stand up.”

“All right. Nevertheless, I’ve got to examine you.”

“It’s all right with me. Have you a cigarette, doctor?”

“Yes, here.”

Ravic took a swab and colored it. Then he pushed the glass slide under the microscope.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Léonie said, watching him.

“What?”

“That you still feel like sleeping with a woman when you do these things.”

“I don’t understand it either. You’re all right. Now who’s next?”

“Marthe.”

Marthe was pale, slender, and blond. She had the face of a Botticelli angel, but she spoke the argot of the Rue Blondel.

“There is nothing wrong with me, doctor.”

“That’s fine. Let’s have a look at you.”

“But there is really nothing wrong.”

“All the better.”

Suddenly Rolande was standing in the room. She looked at Marthe. The girl stopped talking. She looked at Ravic apprehensively. He examined her thoroughly.

“But it is nothing, doctor. You know how careful I am.”

Ravic did not reply. The girl continued to talk—hesitated and began again. Ravic swabbed a second time and examined it.

“You are sick, Marthe,” he said.

“What?” She jumped up. “That can’t be true.”

“It is true.”

She looked at him. Then she broke out suddenly—a flood of curses and maledictions. “That swine! That damned swine! I didn’t trust him anyway, the slippery trickster! He said he was a student and he ought to know, a medical student, that scoundrel!”

“Why didn’t you take care?”

“I did, but it went so quickly, and he said that he, as a student—”

Ravic nodded. The old story—a medical student who had treated himself. After two weeks he had considered himself cured without making a test.

“How long will it take, doctor?”

“Six weeks.” Ravic knew it would take longer.

“Six weeks? Six weeks without any income? Hospital? Do I have to go to the hospital?”

“We’ll see about that. Maybe we can treat you at home later—if you promise—”

“I’ll promise anything! Anything! Only not the hospital!”

“You’ve got to go at first. There’s no other way.”

The girl stared at Ravic. All prostitutes feared the hospital. The supervision was very strict there. But there was nothing else to do. Left at home she would furtively go out after a few days, in spite of all promises, and look for men in order to make money and infect them.

“The madame will pay the expenses,” Ravic said.

“But I! I! Six weeks without any income! And I have just bought a silver fox on installments! Then the installment will be due and everything will be gone.”

She cried. “Come, Marthe,” Rolande said.

“You won’t take me back! I know!” Marthe sobbed louder. “You won’t take me back! You never do it! Then I’ll be on the streets. And all because of that slippery dog—”

“We’ll take you back. You were good business. Our clients like you.”

“Really?” Marthe looked up.

“Of course. And now come.”

Marthe left with Rolande. Ravic looked after her. Marthe would not come back. Madame was much too careful. Her next stage was perhaps the cheap brothels in the Rue Blondel. Then the street. Then cocaine, the hospital, peddling flowers or cigarettes. Or, if she were lucky, some pimp who would beat and exploit her and later throw her out.

———

The dining room of the Hôtel International was in the basement. The lodgers called it the Catacombs. During the day a dim light came through several large, thick, opalescent-glass panes which faced on the courtyard. In the winter it had to be lighted all day long. The room was at once a writing room, a smoking room, an auditorium, an assembly room, and a refuge for those emigrants who had no papers—when there was a police inspection they could escape through the yard into a garage and from there to the next street.

Ravic sat with the doorman of the Scheherazade night club, Boris Morosow, in a section of the Catacombs that the landlady called the Palm Room; on a spindly legged table a solitary miserable palm languished there in a majolica pot. Morosow was a refugee from the first war and had lived in Paris for the last fifteen years. He was one of the few Russians who did not claim to have served in the Czar’s Guard and who did not speak of his aristocratic family.

They were sitting and playing chess. The Catacombs were empty except for one table at which a few people were sitting and drinking and talking in loud voices, breaking into a toast every few minutes.

Morosow looked around angrily. “Can you explain to me, Ravic, why there is such a rumpus here tonight? Why don’t these refugees go to bed?”

Ravic smiled. “The refugees in that corner don’t concern me, Boris. That is the Fascist section of the hotel. Spain.”

“Spain? Weren’t you there, too?”

“Yes, but on the other side. Moreover as a doctor. These are Spanish monarchists with Fascist trimmings. The remnants of them. The others have gone back a long time ago. These haven’t quite been able to make up their minds yet. Franco was not gentile
enough for them. The Moors who butchered Spaniards naturally did not disturb them.”

Morosow placed his chessmen. “Then they probably are celebrating the massacre at Guernica. Or the victory of Italian and German machine guns over the miners in Estremadura. Never before have I seen those fellows here.”

“They have been here for years. You didn’t see them because you never eat here.”

“Do you eat here?”

“No.”

Morosow grinned. “All right,” he said. “Let’s skip my next question and your answer, which certainly would be insulting. For all I care, they could have been born here in this hole. If they would only lower their voices. Here—the good old queen’s gambit.”

Ravic moved the pawn opposite. They made the first moves quickly. Then Morosow began to brood. “There is a variant by Alekhine—”

Ravic saw that one of the Spaniards was coming over. He was a man with close-set eyes and he stopped by their table. Morosow looked at him ill-humoredly. The Spaniard did not stand quite straight. “Gentlemen,” he said politely, “Colonel Gomez requests you to drink a glass of wine with him.”

“Sir,” Morosow replied with equal politeness, “we are just playing a game of chess for the Championship of the Seventeenth Arrondissement. We express our grateful thanks, but we can’t come.”

The Spaniard did not move a muscle. He turned to Ravic formally as if he were at the court of Philip II. “You rendered a friendly service to Colonel Gomez some time ago. He would like to have a drink with you in token of appreciation before his departure.”

“My partner,” Ravic replied with the same formality, “has just
explained to you that we must play this game today. Give my thanks to Colonel Gomez. I am very sorry.”

The Spaniard bowed and went back. Morosow chuckled. “Just like the Russians in the first years. Stuck to their titles and manners as if they were life preservers. What friendly service did you render to this Hottentot?”

“Once I prescribed a laxative for him. The Latin people have a high regard for good digestion.”

Morosow winked at Ravic. “The old weakness of democracy. A Fascist in the same situation would have prescribed arsenic for a democrat.”

The Spaniard returned. “My name is Navarro, First Lieutenant,” he declared with the heavy earnestness of a man who has drunk too much and does not know it. “I am the aide-de-camp of Colonel Gomez. The colonel is leaving Paris tonight. He is going to Spain to join the glorious army of Generalissimo Franco. That’s why he would like to drink with you to Spain’s freedom and to Spain’s army.”

“Lieutenant Navarro,” Ravic said briefly, “I’m not a Spaniard.”

“We know that. You are a German.” Navarro showed the shadow of a conspiratorial smile. “That’s just the reason for Colonel Gomez’ wish. Germany and Spain are friends.”

Ravic looked at Morosow. The irony of the situation was marked. Morosow kept from smiling. “Lieutenant Navarro,” he said, “I regret that I must insist on finishing this game with Doctor Ravic. The results must be cabled to New York and Calcutta tonight.”

“Sir,” Navarro replied coldly, “we expected you to decline. Russia is Spain’s enemy. The invitation was directed to Doctor Ravic only. We had to invite you too since you were with him.”

Morosow placed a knight he had won on his huge flat hand and looked at Ravic. “Don’t you think there has been enough of this buffoonery?”

“Yes.” Ravic turned around. “I think the simplest thing is that you go back, young man. You have needlessly insulted Colonel Morosow, who is an enemy of the Soviets.”

He bent over the chessboard without waiting for an answer. Navarro stood undecided for a moment. Then he left.

“I don’t know whether you noticed that I have just promoted you to the rank of colonel, Boris,” Ravic said. “As far as I know you were a miserable lieutenant colonel. But it seemed unbearable to me that you shouldn’t have the same military rank as this Gomez.”

“Don’t talk so much, old boy. I’ve just messed up Alekhine’s variant because of these interruptions. That bishop seems to be lost.” Morosow looked up. “My God, here comes another one. Another aide-de-camp. What a people!”

“It is Colonel Gomez himself.” Ravic leaned back comfortably. “This will be a discussion between two colonels.”

“Short one, my son.”

The colonel was even more formal than Navarro. He apologized to Morosow because of his aide-de-camp’s error. The apology was accepted. Now Gomez invited them to drink together to Franco as a sign of reconciliation since all obstacles had been removed. This time Ravic refused.

“But sir, as a German and an ally—” The colonel was obviously confused.

“Colonel Gomez,” said Ravic, who was gradually becoming impatient, “leave the situation as it is. Drink to whomever you like and I’ll play chess.”