breakfast?” Adler smiled, remembering the letter. Of course, the topic was completely beside the point. To have that name in
Die Aussicht
he would have published the man’s laundry bill.
He unbuckled his briefcase and peered inside: a copy of Schnitzler’s collected plays, a tablet of cheap writing paper—the good stuff stayed in his desk back in Saint Germain-en-Laye—yesterday’s
Le Figaro,
gathered, he thought of it as
rescued,
on the little train that brought him to Paris, and a cheese sandwich wrapped in brown paper.
“Ah, mais oui, monsieur, le fromage de campagne!”
The lady who owned the local
crémerie
had quickly figured out that he had no money, but, French to the bone, had a small passion for seedy intellectuals and sold him what she called, with a curious mixture of pride and cruelty,
cheese of the countryside.
Nameless, yellow, plain, and cheap. But, Adler thought, bless her anyhow for keeping us alive.
He took the tablet from his briefcase, hunted around until he found a pencil, and began to compose. “
Mein Herr Doktor
Mann.” Could he do better with the honorific? Should he try? He let that sit, and went on to strategy. “
Mein Herr Doktor
Mann: As I have a wife and four children to feed and holes in my underwear, I know you will want to publish an important essay in my little magazine.” Now, how to say that without saying it. “Perhaps not widely known but read in important circles?”
Phooey. “The most substantive and thoughtful of the émigré political magazines?”
Limp. “Makes Hitler shit!” Now, he thought, there he was on to something. What if, he thought, for one manic second, he actually came out and said such a thing?
His gaze wandered up from the paper to the deep green of chestnut trees on the other side of the pool. No children this morning, of course, they would be suffering through a June day in a schoolroom.
A stroller in the park came toward him. A young man, clearly not at work, perhaps, sadly, unemployed. Adler looked back down at his tablet until the man stood beside his chair.
“Pardon, monsieur,”
he said. “Can you tell me the time?”
Adler reached inside his jacket and withdrew a silver pocket watch on a chain. The minute hand rested precisely on the four.
“It is just . . .” he said.
M. Coupin was an old man who lived on a railroad pension and went to the park to read the newspaper and look at the girls. He told his story to the
flics
standing just outside the Jardin du Luxembourg, then to the detectives at the
préfecture,
then to a reporter from the
Paris-Soir,
then to two men from the Interior Ministry, and, finally, to another reporter, who met him at his local café, bought him a
pastis,
then another, seemed to know more about the event than any of the others, and asked him a number of questions he couldn’t answer.
He told them all the same story, more or less. The man sitting across from the sailboat pond, the man in the blue suit and the steel-rimmed spectacles who approached him, and the shooting. A single shot and a coup de grâce.
He did not see the first shot, he heard it. “A sharp report, like a firecracker.” That drew his attention. “The man looking at his watch dropped it, then leapt to his feet, as though he had been insulted. He swayed for a moment, then toppled over, taking the chair with him. His foot moved once, after that he was still. The man in the blue suit leaned over him, aimed his pistol, and fired again. Then he walked away.”
M. Coupin did not shout, or give chase, or anything else. He stayed where he was, motionless. Because, he explained, “I could not believe what I had seen.” And further doubted himself when the assassin “simply walked away. He did not run. He did not hurry. It was, it was as though he had done nothing at all.”
There were other witnesses. One described a man in an overcoat, another said there were two men, a third reported a heated exchange between the assassin and the victim.
Die Aussicht
he would have published the man’s laundry bill.
He unbuckled his briefcase and peered inside: a copy of Schnitzler’s collected plays, a tablet of cheap writing paper—the good stuff stayed in his desk back in Saint Germain-en-Laye—yesterday’s
Le Figaro,
gathered, he thought of it as
rescued,
on the little train that brought him to Paris, and a cheese sandwich wrapped in brown paper.
“Ah, mais oui, monsieur, le fromage de campagne!”
The lady who owned the local
crémerie
had quickly figured out that he had no money, but, French to the bone, had a small passion for seedy intellectuals and sold him what she called, with a curious mixture of pride and cruelty,
cheese of the countryside.
Nameless, yellow, plain, and cheap. But, Adler thought, bless her anyhow for keeping us alive.
He took the tablet from his briefcase, hunted around until he found a pencil, and began to compose. “
Mein Herr Doktor
Mann.” Could he do better with the honorific? Should he try? He let that sit, and went on to strategy. “
Mein Herr Doktor
Mann: As I have a wife and four children to feed and holes in my underwear, I know you will want to publish an important essay in my little magazine.” Now, how to say that without saying it. “Perhaps not widely known but read in important circles?”
Phooey. “The most substantive and thoughtful of the émigré political magazines?”
Limp. “Makes Hitler shit!” Now, he thought, there he was on to something. What if, he thought, for one manic second, he actually came out and said such a thing?
His gaze wandered up from the paper to the deep green of chestnut trees on the other side of the pool. No children this morning, of course, they would be suffering through a June day in a schoolroom.
A stroller in the park came toward him. A young man, clearly not at work, perhaps, sadly, unemployed. Adler looked back down at his tablet until the man stood beside his chair.
“Pardon, monsieur,”
he said. “Can you tell me the time?”
Adler reached inside his jacket and withdrew a silver pocket watch on a chain. The minute hand rested precisely on the four.
“It is just . . .” he said.
M. Coupin was an old man who lived on a railroad pension and went to the park to read the newspaper and look at the girls. He told his story to the
flics
standing just outside the Jardin du Luxembourg, then to the detectives at the
préfecture,
then to a reporter from the
Paris-Soir,
then to two men from the Interior Ministry, and, finally, to another reporter, who met him at his local café, bought him a
pastis,
then another, seemed to know more about the event than any of the others, and asked him a number of questions he couldn’t answer.
He told them all the same story, more or less. The man sitting across from the sailboat pond, the man in the blue suit and the steel-rimmed spectacles who approached him, and the shooting. A single shot and a coup de grâce.
He did not see the first shot, he heard it. “A sharp report, like a firecracker.” That drew his attention. “The man looking at his watch dropped it, then leapt to his feet, as though he had been insulted. He swayed for a moment, then toppled over, taking the chair with him. His foot moved once, after that he was still. The man in the blue suit leaned over him, aimed his pistol, and fired again. Then he walked away.”
M. Coupin did not shout, or give chase, or anything else. He stayed where he was, motionless. Because, he explained, “I could not believe what I had seen.” And further doubted himself when the assassin “simply walked away. He did not run. He did not hurry. It was, it was as though he had done nothing at all.”
There were other witnesses. One described a man in an overcoat, another said there were two men, a third reported a heated exchange between the assassin and the victim.
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