Arch of Triumph (48 page)

He put out his cigarette and straightened up. Enough. Who looked back too much could easily run into something or fall off a cliff.

Now the car was climbing up the streets of Montmartre. The rain ceased. Silver clouds floated across the sky, heavily and hastily, like pregnant mothers hurrying to give life to a bit of moon. Kate Hegstroem had the car stop. They got out and walked around the corner and up a few streets.

Suddenly Paris lay below them. Widespread, flickering, wet, Paris. With streets, squares, night, clouds and moon, Paris. The wreath of the Boulevards, the pale shimmering of the slopes, towers, roofs, darkness thrust against the light, Paris. Wind from the horizons, the sparkling plain, bridges shaped of darkness and light, a downpour of rain far over the Seine fleeing out of sight, the innumerable lights of cars, Paris. Defiantly wrested from the night,
a gigantic beehive of buzzing life, built over millions of evil sewers, blossom of light above its subterranean stench, cancer and Mona Lisa, Paris.

“Just a moment, Kate,” Ravic said. “I’ll get us something.”

He went into the nearest bistro. A warm smell of fresh blood-sausage and liver-sausage struck him. No one paid any attention to his costume. He got a bottle of cognac and two glasses. The innkeeper opened the bottle and lightly inserted the cork again.

Kate Hegstroem was standing outside just as he had left her. She was standing there in her costume, a slender figure against the troubled sky—as if she had been left behind by some other century and were not an American girl of Swedish descent from Boston.

“Here, Kate. The best protection against coolness, rain, and the clamor of too great quiet. Let us drink to the city down there.”

“Yes.” She took the glass. “It’s good that we have driven up here, Ravic. It’s better than all the parties in the world.”

She emptied her glass. The moon fell on her shoulders and her dress and her face. “Cognac,” she said. “A good one too.”

“Right. As long as you recognize that, everything is in order.”

“Give me another. And then let’s drive down again and I’ll change and you too and we’ll go to the Scheherazade and I’ll plunge into an orgy of sentimentality and feel sorry for myself and take leave of all the wonderful superficialities of life, and from tomorrow on I’ll read philosophers, write my will, and behave as befits my condition.”

Ravic met the proprietress on the staircase of the hotel. She stopped him. “Have you got a moment?

“Of course.”

She led him up to the second floor and opened a room with a passkey. Ravic saw that it was still occupied by someone.

“What does this mean?” he said. “Why are you breaking in here?”

“Rosenfeld lives here,” she said. “He intends to move out.”

“I don’t want to change.”

“He intends to move out and has not paid for the last three months.”

“His belongings are still here. You can hold them.”

The proprietress contemptuously kicked a shabby suitcase that stood open beside the bed. “What is there in it? This has no value. Vulcanized fiber. Shirts frayed. His suit—you can see that from here. He only has two. You wouldn’t get even a hundred francs for the lot.”

Ravic shrugged his shoulders. “Did he say he intended to leave?”

“No. But you can see something like that. I told him so to his face. And he admitted it. I’ve made it clear to him that he must pay by tomorrow. I can’t go on like this with tenants who don’t pay.”

“All right. What have I got to do with it?”

“The paintings. They belong to him, too. He said they were valuable. He maintains he can pay much more than the rent with them. Now just look at that!”

Ravic had paid no attention to the walls. He glanced up. In front of him, over the bed, hung an Arles landscape by van Gogh in his best period. He took a step closer. There could be no doubt, the painting was genuine. “Abominable, eh?” the proprietress asked. “These are supposed to be trees, these crooked things! And just look at that!”

That was hanging over the washstand and was a Gauguin. A naked South Sea girl in front of a tropic landscape. “Those legs!” the proprietress said. “Ankles like an elephant. And that dull face.
Just look at the way she is standing there! And then he has another one that has not even been finished.”

The one that had not even been finished was a portrait of Madame Cézanne by Cézanne. “That mouth! Crooked. And there is color missing on the cheek. With these he wants to cheat me! You saw my pictures—those were pictures! True to nature and genuine and correct. The snow landscape with the deer in the
salle à manger
. But this trash—as if he had done it himself. Don’t you think so?”

“Well, approximately.”

“That’s what I wanted to know. You are an educated man and you understand these things. Not even frames are around them.”

The three paintings were hung without frames. They shone on the dirty wallpaper like windows into another world. “If only they had good gold frames! Then one could take them. But this! I see that I’ll have to keep this trash and I’ll be taken in again. That’s what happens when you are kind!”

“I don’t think you’ll have to take the paintings,” Ravic said.

“What else can I do?”

“Rosenfeld will get the money for you.”

“How?” She looked quickly at him. Her face changed. “Are these things worth something? Sometimes just such things are of value!” One could see the thoughts leap behind her yellow forehead. “I could take possession of one of them without more ado, just for the last month! Which do you think? The big one over the bed?”

“None at all. Wait until Rosenfeld gets back. I’m sure he’ll come with the money.”

“I’m not. I am a hotel owner.”

“Then why did you wait so long? You don’t usually.”

“Promises! The things he promised me! You know how it is here.”

Suddenly Rosenfeld stood at the door. Silent, short, and calm. Before the proprietress could say anything else he took some money out of his pocket. “Here—and here is my bill. Will you kindly mark it paid?”

The proprietress looked at the notes in surprise. Then she looked at the paintings. Then back at the money. There was much she wanted to say—but she could not utter it. “You get some change back,” she finally declared.

“I know. Can you give it to me now?”

“Yes, all right. I don’t have it here. The cashbox is downstairs. I’ll change it.”

She left as if she had been gravely insulted. Rosenfeld looked at Ravic. “I am sorry,” Ravic said. “The old lady dragged me up here. I had no idea what she had in mind. She wanted to know about the value of your pictures.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No.”

“Good.” Rosenfeld looked at Ravic with a strange smile.

“How can you have such paintings hanging here?” Ravic said. “Are they insured?”

“No. But paintings don’t get stolen. At most once every twenty years out of a museum.”

“This place might burn down.”

Rosenfeld shrugged his shoulders. “One has to take the risk. The insurance is too expensive for me.”

Ravic studied the van Gogh. It was worth at least a million francs. Rosenfeld followed his look.

“I know what you are thinking. Who has this should also have money to insure it. But I haven’t, I’m living on my pictures. I’m slowly selling them. And I don’t like to sell them.”

Under the Cézanne a spirit-cooker stood on the table. Beside it a box of coffee, some bread, a pot of butter, and a few paper bags.
The room was poor and small. But from its walls shone the splendor of the world.

“I can understand that,” Ravic said.

“I thought I could manage all right,” Rosenfeld said. “I’ve been able to pay for everything. The railway fare, the ship ticket, everything; only not these three months’ rent. I’ve hardly eaten anything, but I couldn’t manage it. The visa took too long. I had to sell a Monet tonight. A Vertheuil landscape. I thought I would be able to take it with me.”

“Wouldn’t you have been forced to sell it somewhere else just the same?”

“Yes. But for dollars. It would have brought twice as much.”

“Are you going to America?”

Rosenfeld nodded. “It’s time to get away from here.”

Ravic looked at him. “The Bird of Death is leaving,” Rosenfeld said.

“What Bird of Death?”

“Ah yes—Markus Meyer. We call him the Bird of Death. He knows by smell when one has to flee.”

“Meyer?” Ravic said. “Is that the short bald-headed man who plays the piano in the Catacombs from time to time?”

“Yes. We have called him Bird of Death since Prague.”

“A good name.”

“He always smells it. Two months before Hitler, he left Germany. Vienna three months ahead of the Nazis. Prague six weeks before they marched in. I’ve stuck to him. Always. He smells it. That’s how I have saved the paintings. One could no longer take money out of Germany. The mark was blocked. I had a million and a half in investments. I tried to liquidate it. Then the Nazis came and it was too late. Meyer was smarter. He smuggled part of his fortune out. I hadn’t the nerve. And now he’s going to America. So am I. It’s a pity about the Monet.”

“But you can take the rest of the money you got for it with you. There are no blocked francs as yet.”

“Yes. But I could have lived on it longer if I had sold it over there. This way I’ll probably have to sacrifice the Gauguin soon.”

Rosenfeld fumbled with his spirit-cooker. “They’re the last ones,” he said. “Only these three more. I must live on them. A job—I don’t count on one. It would be a miracle. These three more. One less is a bit of life less.”

He stood forlornly in front of his suitcase. “In Vienna—five years, it was not yet expensive, I could live cheaply; but it cost me two Renoirs and a Degas pastel. In Prague I lived on and ate up a Sisley and five drawings. No one wanted to give anything for drawings—there were two by Degas, a crayon by Renoir, and two sepias by Delacroix. In America I could have lived longer on them, a whole year. You see,” he said sadly, “now I’ve only these three paintings left. Yesterday there were still four. This visa has cost me at least two years’ living. If not three.”

“There are many people who have no paintings to live on.”

Rosenfeld shrugged his skinny shoulders. “That’s no comfort.”

“No,” Ravic said. “That’s true.”

“They must get me through the war. And this war will last a long time.”

Ravic did not answer. “The Bird of Death says so,” Rosenfeld said. “And he is not even sure that America will remain safe.”

“Where would he go then?” Ravic asked. “There is not much left now.”

“He does not yet know exactly. He is thinking of Haiti. He doesn’t believe a Negro republic would go to war.”

Rosenfeld was entirely serious. “Or Honduras. A small South American republic. San Salvador. Perhaps New Zealand too.”

“New Zealand? That’s pretty far away, isn’t it?”

“Far?” Rosenfeld said, smiling sadly. “From where?”

A SEA, A SEA
of thundering darkness beating against his ears. Then a shrill ringing through the corridors, a ship marked for destruction, the ringing—and night, the familiar pale window intruding into the ebb of sleep, still the ringing—telephone.

Ravic lifted the receiver. “Hello—”

“Ravic—”

“What’s the matter? Who is it?”

“I. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Yes. Now. What’s the matter?”

“You must come! Quick! Right away!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Come, Ravic! Something has happened.”

“What has happened?”

“Something has happened. I’m scared! Come! Come immediately! Help me! Ravic! Come!”

The telephone clicked. Ravic waited. The open-line signal buzzed. Joan had hung up. He put the receiver back and stared into the pallid night. Drugged sleep still hung heavy behind his forehead. Haake, first he had thought it was. Haake—until he had
recognized the window and become aware that he was in the International, not in the Prince de Galles. He looked at his watch. The phosphorescent hands stood at four-twenty. Suddenly he jumped out of bed. Joan had said something on the evening when he had encountered Haake—something about danger, fear. If—anything was possible! He had seen the strangest things happen. He hurriedly picked up the most necessary implements and dressed.

He found a taxi at the next corner. The driver had a small griffon with him. The dog lay around the man’s neck like a fur collar. It swayed when the taxi swayed. It drove Ravic mad. He would have liked to throw the dog onto the seat. But he knew Parisian taxi drivers.

The car rattled through the warm July night. A faint scent of shyly breathing foliage. Blossoms, somewhere linden trees, shadows, a star-studded jasmine sky, in between an aeroplane with intermittent red and green lights like a sinister and threatening beetle among glowworms, colorless streets, buzzing emptiness, the singing of two drunks, an accordion playing in a basement, and suddenly hesitation and fear and driving, rending haste: perhaps too late—

The house. Lukewarm drowsy darkness. The elevator came creeping down. Creeping, a slow, lighted insect. Ravic had already reached the first landing when he changed his mind and turned back. The elevator was faster however slow it was.