damaged by an earthquake. After about a dozen steps, we came to a little wine bar. It was packed with people standing quite close together, taking refuge from the storm.
The bartender spotted us. “Red or white?” he asked.
I looked into Chantal’s flushed face. She shook out her hair. I closed my eyes at the spray of rainwater. “Two reds!” she called back.
The glasses were handed over the bar and from one customer to the next before coming into Chantal’s hands. “Where do you live?” she asked.
I hadn’t anticipated this question. I couldn’t possibly tell her the name of my hotel. I thought about Hirschbiegel. “I stay in a friend’s apartment,” I said. He had described the flat to me once.
It was in the second arrondissement. A very comfortable place, according to him; you could invite women up there.
We clinked glasses. She sipped her wine. “Where is this apartment?”
“In the second.”
Chantal drank her wine in silence. A fine steam rose from her hair. The moth powder in my jacket exuded a peculiar smell.
More escapees from the rain crowded in. You could hardly see out the tavern window. Chantal grew tired. Her shoulders sagged against mine. I put my arm around her waist, turned her toward me a little, and took the back of her head in my hands. Her eyes were closed. I touched her lips; they opened easily. I felt the stream of her breath and her fingertips in my back. The man beside us jostled us and suggested we lean on someone else. Chantal’s eyelids opened. Violet and gray in her pupils. She felt with 64 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
one hand for the nape of my neck. Nearby, someone shook out his wet coat. A woman laughed. The smell of wine, of humanity.
“What do you do when you’re not reading the Fables ?” Chantal asked.
I had a vision of the interrogation room, the bound prisoners.
The ones who tried to haggle with Leibold in order to spare themselves pain. The weak ones, who revealed all they knew and were mistreated out of sheer contempt. The steadfast ones, who bonded with their pain and broke down all the same.
“I just live in Paris,” I said. Shortly after that, we left. The sky was clearing as we stepped outside. The heat of the day radiated from the walls. Chantal and I walked side by side, without touching. We reached the black gate.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.
She gave me back my jacket. “I’m not in the salon tomorrow,”
she said.
For a moment, I thought about Turachevsky’s, about her performance as Pallas Athena. Then I realized she meant the salon de coiffure , the barbershop.
“Shall we meet at Café Lubinsky?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes searched mine.
“Or would you rather meet in a park?”
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
I held the heavy door open for her, and she stepped through.
Before she reached the streetlight, everything went dark. But I was happy as I hastened through the ghostly, unlighted streets.
Monsieur Antoine had spent an evening with Chantal. No disguise, no playacting—it had been me, me myself !
9
The next evening, I climbed the stairs to the floor above and opened the door while I was still knocking on it. I’d just heard the boots fly into the corner, and the gramophone had played “Ma Pomme” once already. Hirschbiegel had come home.
“Hirschbiegel, it’s me.” The sound of running water; he was in the bathtub. I circled the bed and knocked on the bathroom door.
“Hirschbiegel?”
I pushed the door slightly open. There he was. His huge body threatened to burst the tub. His wet, hairy chest swelled up out of the water. His eyes were closed.
“Hey, Lieutenant!”
His response was a bloodcurdling scream and terrified eyes.
“Why did you creep up on me like that?” Drops of water glis-66 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
tened in his curly blond hair. He braced his arms on the side of the tub and started to pull himself up, accompanied by much cracking and creaking.
“No enemy in
The bartender spotted us. “Red or white?” he asked.
I looked into Chantal’s flushed face. She shook out her hair. I closed my eyes at the spray of rainwater. “Two reds!” she called back.
The glasses were handed over the bar and from one customer to the next before coming into Chantal’s hands. “Where do you live?” she asked.
I hadn’t anticipated this question. I couldn’t possibly tell her the name of my hotel. I thought about Hirschbiegel. “I stay in a friend’s apartment,” I said. He had described the flat to me once.
It was in the second arrondissement. A very comfortable place, according to him; you could invite women up there.
We clinked glasses. She sipped her wine. “Where is this apartment?”
“In the second.”
Chantal drank her wine in silence. A fine steam rose from her hair. The moth powder in my jacket exuded a peculiar smell.
More escapees from the rain crowded in. You could hardly see out the tavern window. Chantal grew tired. Her shoulders sagged against mine. I put my arm around her waist, turned her toward me a little, and took the back of her head in my hands. Her eyes were closed. I touched her lips; they opened easily. I felt the stream of her breath and her fingertips in my back. The man beside us jostled us and suggested we lean on someone else. Chantal’s eyelids opened. Violet and gray in her pupils. She felt with 64 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
one hand for the nape of my neck. Nearby, someone shook out his wet coat. A woman laughed. The smell of wine, of humanity.
“What do you do when you’re not reading the Fables ?” Chantal asked.
I had a vision of the interrogation room, the bound prisoners.
The ones who tried to haggle with Leibold in order to spare themselves pain. The weak ones, who revealed all they knew and were mistreated out of sheer contempt. The steadfast ones, who bonded with their pain and broke down all the same.
“I just live in Paris,” I said. Shortly after that, we left. The sky was clearing as we stepped outside. The heat of the day radiated from the walls. Chantal and I walked side by side, without touching. We reached the black gate.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.
She gave me back my jacket. “I’m not in the salon tomorrow,”
she said.
For a moment, I thought about Turachevsky’s, about her performance as Pallas Athena. Then I realized she meant the salon de coiffure , the barbershop.
“Shall we meet at Café Lubinsky?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes searched mine.
“Or would you rather meet in a park?”
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
I held the heavy door open for her, and she stepped through.
Before she reached the streetlight, everything went dark. But I was happy as I hastened through the ghostly, unlighted streets.
Monsieur Antoine had spent an evening with Chantal. No disguise, no playacting—it had been me, me myself !
9
The next evening, I climbed the stairs to the floor above and opened the door while I was still knocking on it. I’d just heard the boots fly into the corner, and the gramophone had played “Ma Pomme” once already. Hirschbiegel had come home.
“Hirschbiegel, it’s me.” The sound of running water; he was in the bathtub. I circled the bed and knocked on the bathroom door.
“Hirschbiegel?”
I pushed the door slightly open. There he was. His huge body threatened to burst the tub. His wet, hairy chest swelled up out of the water. His eyes were closed.
“Hey, Lieutenant!”
His response was a bloodcurdling scream and terrified eyes.
“Why did you creep up on me like that?” Drops of water glis-66 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
tened in his curly blond hair. He braced his arms on the side of the tub and started to pull himself up, accompanied by much cracking and creaking.
“No enemy in
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