building, his apartment on the fifth floor with a small balcony. Through the glass doors he had looked out at the top third of the Eiffel Tower. From the telltale glow at the edge of the curtains he was pretty sure somebody was home.
A silhouette moved toward him through the darkness. A woman, bent over slightly, walking quickly. “Madame Fitou!” It was out before he could stop it—his old concierge.
She stopped, peered at him, then clapped a hand over her heart and breathed, “Monsieur Casson?”
He crossed the street. Madame Fitou, in a long black coat with a black kerchief tied under her chin, clearly dressed for night raiding. A string bag of potatoes suggested a visit to the black-market grocer, or maybe one of her countless sisters, all of whom lived in the country and grew vegetables. As he approached she said, “Can it be you?”
“ Bon soir, madame,” he said.
“I knew you would return,” she said.
“As you see.”
“Oh, monsieur.”
“Everything going well, madame? With you and your family?”
“I cannot complain, monsieur, and, if I did . . .”
“Not so easy, these days.”
“No, we must—Monsieur Casson, you are here for the shirts!”
“Shirts?”
“I told . . . well, it was a year ago, but I thought, well certainly Monsieur Casson will hear of it.”
“Madame?”
She came closer. “When the German came, Colonel Schaff— Schuff—well, something.” She snorted with contempt—these foreigners and their bizarre names! “However you say it, he had his driver throw your things out in the street. I was able to save, well monsieur, it was raining that day, but I did manage to save some shirts, two of them, good ones. I kept them for you. In a box.”
“Madame Fitou, thank you.”
“But a moment!” she said, very excited, disappearing into the building. Casson stepped back against the wall. He could hear keys in locks, doors opening, then closing. Overhead, a flight of aircraft—no air-raid sirens had sounded so they must be German, he thought. Heading west, to bomb Coventry or the Liverpool docks. The bombers droned away for what seemed like a long time, then Madame Fitou reappeared, very excited still and breathing hard. “Yes,” she said in triumph. “Here they are.”
He took the package, wrapped in a sheet of newspaper, and thanked her again. “Madame Fitou, you must not tell anybody you’ve seen me. It would be very dangerous if you did. For both of us. Do you understand?”
“Ahh”—she said, her expression conspiratorial—“of course.” A secret mission. “You may depend on me, monsieur. Not a word.”
He wished her good evening, then hurried off into the night, damning himself for a fool. What was the matter with him? A few blocks away, in the shadows, he peeled back the newspaper. His dress shirt, for a tuxedo—he used to wear it with mother-of-pearl studs and cufflinks that came to him when his father died. Well, it didn’t matter, he could sell it, there was a used-clothing market on the rue des Francs-Bourgeois. And then, a soft gray shirt he’d worn with sweaters on weekends. It smelled of the cologne he used to wear.
EVREUX. 27 OCTOBER.
Six-thirty in the morning, the night shift at Manufacture d’Armes d’Evreux rode through the factory gates on their bicycles, heading home to the workers’ districts at the edge of the city. Weiss moved along with them, pedaling slowly, his briefcase under one arm. Down a cobbled street—mostly dirt now—past a few ancient buildings and into a small square with a church and a café. He chained his bicycle to the fence in front of the church and went into the café. It was crowded, wet dogs asleep under the tables, a smoky fire in the fireplace, two women, their makeup much too bright, served chicory infusions to the men at the bar.
Weiss looked around the room and spotted Renan in the corner, playing chess. A hard head with a fringe of gray hair, a worn face, maybe handsome long ago. He rested his
A silhouette moved toward him through the darkness. A woman, bent over slightly, walking quickly. “Madame Fitou!” It was out before he could stop it—his old concierge.
She stopped, peered at him, then clapped a hand over her heart and breathed, “Monsieur Casson?”
He crossed the street. Madame Fitou, in a long black coat with a black kerchief tied under her chin, clearly dressed for night raiding. A string bag of potatoes suggested a visit to the black-market grocer, or maybe one of her countless sisters, all of whom lived in the country and grew vegetables. As he approached she said, “Can it be you?”
“ Bon soir, madame,” he said.
“I knew you would return,” she said.
“As you see.”
“Oh, monsieur.”
“Everything going well, madame? With you and your family?”
“I cannot complain, monsieur, and, if I did . . .”
“Not so easy, these days.”
“No, we must—Monsieur Casson, you are here for the shirts!”
“Shirts?”
“I told . . . well, it was a year ago, but I thought, well certainly Monsieur Casson will hear of it.”
“Madame?”
She came closer. “When the German came, Colonel Schaff— Schuff—well, something.” She snorted with contempt—these foreigners and their bizarre names! “However you say it, he had his driver throw your things out in the street. I was able to save, well monsieur, it was raining that day, but I did manage to save some shirts, two of them, good ones. I kept them for you. In a box.”
“Madame Fitou, thank you.”
“But a moment!” she said, very excited, disappearing into the building. Casson stepped back against the wall. He could hear keys in locks, doors opening, then closing. Overhead, a flight of aircraft—no air-raid sirens had sounded so they must be German, he thought. Heading west, to bomb Coventry or the Liverpool docks. The bombers droned away for what seemed like a long time, then Madame Fitou reappeared, very excited still and breathing hard. “Yes,” she said in triumph. “Here they are.”
He took the package, wrapped in a sheet of newspaper, and thanked her again. “Madame Fitou, you must not tell anybody you’ve seen me. It would be very dangerous if you did. For both of us. Do you understand?”
“Ahh”—she said, her expression conspiratorial—“of course.” A secret mission. “You may depend on me, monsieur. Not a word.”
He wished her good evening, then hurried off into the night, damning himself for a fool. What was the matter with him? A few blocks away, in the shadows, he peeled back the newspaper. His dress shirt, for a tuxedo—he used to wear it with mother-of-pearl studs and cufflinks that came to him when his father died. Well, it didn’t matter, he could sell it, there was a used-clothing market on the rue des Francs-Bourgeois. And then, a soft gray shirt he’d worn with sweaters on weekends. It smelled of the cologne he used to wear.
EVREUX. 27 OCTOBER.
Six-thirty in the morning, the night shift at Manufacture d’Armes d’Evreux rode through the factory gates on their bicycles, heading home to the workers’ districts at the edge of the city. Weiss moved along with them, pedaling slowly, his briefcase under one arm. Down a cobbled street—mostly dirt now—past a few ancient buildings and into a small square with a church and a café. He chained his bicycle to the fence in front of the church and went into the café. It was crowded, wet dogs asleep under the tables, a smoky fire in the fireplace, two women, their makeup much too bright, served chicory infusions to the men at the bar.
Weiss looked around the room and spotted Renan in the corner, playing chess. A hard head with a fringe of gray hair, a worn face, maybe handsome long ago. He rested his
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