The spies of warsaw (20 page)

professor didn't much care for them, and, discovering that Mercier

was French, went on and on about Matisse. Mercier spoke also with

Shublin's girlfriend, who was very up-to-date on European politics--

perhaps the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about. But she

was smart and amusing, and Mercier discovered he was, as promised,

actually having a good time. The wine and vodka were plentiful, and

platters of hors d'oeuvres had been brought in from a good restaurant, generously provided by Madame Dupin. With secret embassy

funds? Lord, he hoped not.

It was nine-fifteen when Anna Szarbek appeared. The same Anna

Szarbek; dark-blond hair, swept across her forehead and pinned in

back, deep green eyes, wary and restless, the slight downward curve of

her nose and heavy lips suggesting sensuality. Suggesting it to him, certainly. His heart rose to look at her, he wanted to rush her through the

night in a taxi, off to his bedroom, there to relieve her of coat, boots,

sweater, skirt, and all the rest, there to see what he'd barely touched

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the night they danced together. And then . . . Well, his imagination

was in perfect order, and therein her desire, in their first moment

together, was the equal of his, and his desire was making him almost

dizzy. But not so much that he didn't search the room for Maxim, who

was nowhere to be seen, and Mercier, elated beyond reason, felt a

great smile appear on his face. His search of the room did reveal

Madame Dupin, turned partly away from a conversing group, a sharp,

inquisitive eye directly on him. Was this why she'd wanted him here?

Was she
matchmaking
? Could that be true? Back and forth he went.

Trapped, meanwhile, by the most boring man on earth--"But,

you understand, the laws of the city expressly forbid them to build a

wall there! Myself I find it almost impossible to believe"--Mercier

kept saying "Mm," and "Mm," his eyes wandering rudely over the

man's shoulder. Anna was easy to spot--her sweater was a deep red,

with a design in tiny pearls below a raised collar--as she navigated

through the crowded greenhouse. Stopped to have a look at the skeletons, peered nearsightedly at the cardboard nameplates, responded

with a wry smile, and moved on.

"We could go to court, serve them right, having to hire some

expensive lawyer. . . ."

"Mm. Mm."

Now she saw him. She had been looking for him. His heart leapt.

"Forgive me, I think I'll have another glass of wine."

"You don't have a glass of wine."

"Then I'll go and get one."

Mercier worked his way toward her, and they exchanged conspiratorial smiles--
oh what a crowd
--at the difficulty of his progress. At

last they stood together and shook hands, her skin cold from the night

outside. "Very nice to see you again," he said.

"I think I saw you at the foreign office cocktail party," she said.

Her voice was slightly husky--he'd forgotten that, as well as the faint

accent.

"You did. I saw you too, but I couldn't get over to say hello."

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"You seemed busy," she said.

"An official reception. I had to be there. But this is much nicer."

"A Marie Dupin affair, they're always good parties. Poor Maxim

had to interview a politician, so I almost didn't come, but, I thought,

why not? And I'd promised."

"Something to drink?"

"Yes, good, I can use it. The cold tonight is awful, even for Warsaw."

They made their way to the bar in the far corner. "Two vodkas,

please," Mercier said. Then, to Anna, "Is that all right with you? Insulation against the weather."

"Yes, thanks. I knew it would be freezing in here, I mean, it's

glass
."

"They have kerosene heaters."

Anna wasn't impressed. "Poor plants."

"Not anymore. What do you think of the paintings?"

"A little frightening--they're not cozy fires."

"War fires, you think?"

"Violent, anyhow. At least they don't show what's burning.

Houses, or ships."

"Maybe you're meant to imagine them."

She nodded,
yes, could be,
searched in her bag, found a cigarette

and a lighter, and handed the lighter to Mercier. He lit her cigarette

and said, "I'll go find you an ashtray, if you like."

"Let's go together, I don't know a soul in here."

As they began to move toward the hors d'oeuvres table, a heavy

gust of wind hit the greenhouse, then the sound of hail, loud against

the glass roof. It stopped almost immediately. "I don't know anybody

either," Mercier said. "You're supposed to introduce yourself around,

at these affairs."

"Not me. You have to be the bright and cheerful sort to do that.

I'm not. Are you?"

"No."

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"I didn't think so."

"I depend on introductions, then I can socialize. Otherwise--"

"It's the dreadful corner. And the hopeful smile."

They circled around the professor, now with an older woman

wearing a cloche hat and still raving on about Matisse. Then Madame

Dupin materialized in front of them. "Hello you two, I see you found

each other."

"We did," Anna said. "You've got a good crowd."

"Marc is pleased, anyhow I think he is; he doesn't talk, I
was

afraid of the weather, but, as you see . . ."

"We're in search of an ashtray," Mercier said.

"Over by the food. Try the smoked sturgeon while you're there,

it's from the chef at the Bristol." Again the wind moaned. "Oh my,"

Madame Dupin said. A brief shower of hail rattled furiously against

the greenhouse. "
Listen
to it, perhaps we'll have to stay all night." She

scowled up at the heavens, the embattled hostess, then said, "I'm off,

my dears. Please try and circulate."

When she'd gone, Anna said, "Maybe we should."

Mercier shrugged. "Why?"

She grinned. "Such a scoundrel," she said, and gave him a playful

push on the shoulder.

"Oh yes, that's me," he said, meaning very much the opposite, but

wishing it were so.

At the food table they found an ashtray, then tried the sturgeon,

the smoked trout, and salmon roe with chopped egg on toast. Anna

ate with zeal, once making a small sound of satisfaction when one of

the hors d'oeuvres was especially good. Next, back to the bar for

another vodka, and they clinked glasses before they drank. Outside,

the storm began to beat wildly against the glass.

"Maybe we'll have to stay all night," Mercier said.

"Please!" she said. "You'll get me in trouble."

"Well, at least let me see you home."

"Thank you," she said. "That I would like."

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*

Twenty minutes later, they said good night to Shublin and Madame

Dupin and left the greenhouse. Mercier looked around for a taxi, but

the street was deserted. "Which way is home?" he said.

She pointed and said, "Up there. It's a block off Marszalkowska,

where we can take a trolley car, or we're much more likely to find a

taxi."

They set off, heading west, then north, against the wind, which

howled and moaned in the narrow street, sent a sheet of newspaper

flying past, and made it difficult to walk. It wasn't so bad at first, but

soon enough striding boldly into the storm changed to walking sideways, hunched over, eyes half shut, the hail stinging their faces.

"Damn!" she said. "This is worse than I thought."

Mercier kept searching for a taxi, but there wasn't a headlight to

be seen anywhere.

"I'm going to have to hang on to you," she said. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

She held his arm with both her own, tight against her body, and

hid her face behind his shoulder. Moving slowly, they made their way

to Marszalkowska avenue, the Broadway of Warsaw. "How much further?" Mercier said. He sensed she wasn't doing well.

"Twenty minutes, on a nice day."

She was trembling, he could feel it, and, when he turned to look at

her, there were frost crystals in her eyelashes. "Maybe we'd better get

inside somewhere," he said. The cold was brutal, her sweater thin, and

her winter coat more stylish than warm.

"Allright. Where?"

"I don't know. The next place we see." Up and down the avenue,

the Marszalkowska cafes and restaurants were shuttered and dark. In

the distance, a man made slow progress, holding his hat on his head,

and the streetlamps, coated with ice, glowed dimly on the whitened

pavement, with not a tire track to be seen.

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"My father used to talk about these storms," she said. "They blow

down from Siberia, a gift to Poland from Russia." Her teeth chattered,

and she held him tighter.

Mercier had begun to consider doorways, maybe even trying the

door of one of the cars parked on the avenue, when he saw, up ahead

somewhere, light shining on the sidewalk. "Whatever that is," he said,

"that's where we're going."

He felt her nod, urgently:
yes, anything.

The light came from a movie theatre, from a ticket booth set back

beneath a small marquee. The old lady in the booth wore one shawl

over her head and another around her shoulders. As Mercier paid, she

said, "You shouldn't be out in this, my children."

In the theatre, the audience, unaware of the storm outside, was

laughing and having a good time. Mercier found seats and rubbed his

frozen hands.

"That was awful," Anna said. "Really. Awful."

"Maybe it will die down," Mercier said. "At least we'll be warm

for a while."

On the screen, a diminutive soldier with a Hitler mustache was

saluting an officer, a vigorous salute yet somehow wrong--a parody

of a salute. A close-up of the officer's face showed a man at the end of

his patience. He spoke angrily; the soldier tried again. Worse. He was

the classic recruit who, believing he has assumed a military posture,

only manages to mock the prescribed form. Mercier leaned over and

whispered, "Do you know what we're watching?"

" '
Dodek na froncie,
' Dodek Goes to War. That's Adolf Dymsza."

"I know that name."

"The Polish Charlie Chaplin."

"Have you seen it?"

"No, actually I haven't." After a moment, with a laugh in her

voice, she said, "Were you concerned?"

"Of course," he said.

"You can be very droll, colonel."

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"Jean-Francois."

"Very well. Jean-Francois."

From behind them: "
Shhhh!
"

"Sorry."

Mercier tried; but the film was more romantic comedy than farce,

and the hiss and crackle of the sound track was particularly loud, so

he missed much of the dialogue, and that's what was making the audience laugh. At one point, Anna also laughed, and Mercier whispered,

"What did he say?"

In order not to annoy the man behind them, she whispered by his

ear. "In French, it's 'That's odd, my dog said the same thing.' " But

then, she didn't turn away, she waited, and, when he turned toward

her, her eyes closed and they kissed--tenderly, her lips dry, moving

softly against his. After a few long seconds, she sat back in her seat,

but her shoulder rested against his, and there it stayed.

Forty minutes later, the film ended and they had to leave the theatre. The storm had not abated. They walked quickly, her hands in the

pockets of her coat; neither one of them wanted to be the first to

speak. Then, as the silence grew heavy, Mercier saw a horse cab. He

waved and shouted, the driver stopped, and Mercier took Anna's hand

and helped her into the carriage. This might have been an opportunity

sent down by the gods of romance, but it wasn't to be. Anna was

quiet, and thoughtful. Mercier tried to start a light conversation, but

she, politely enough, made it clear that talking was not what she

wanted to do, so he sat in silence as the intrepid horse, its blanket covered with melting hail, clopped along the avenue until Anna directed

the coachman to turn into the street that Mercier remembered from

the night he'd taken her to the Europejski.

He helped her out of the carriage as he asked the driver to wait--

he would take the cab back home--then the two of them stood facing

each other. Before he could say anything, she put her hand flat against

his chest and held it there--a gesture that silenced him, yet somehow,

and he felt it strongly, meant also attraction--desire mixed with

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regret. He could see in her face that she was troubled: about what had

happened in the movie theatre, about what had happened all evening.