cities. Until, in 1930, some good soul took pity on them and granted them Parisian residence permits.
Morath ordered aperitifs, then chatted with Szubl until Mitten returned, the skin of his face ruddy and shining, from the WC. Good God, Morath thought, he hadn’t
shaved
in there, had he? “Ah, Morath,” Mitten said, offering a soft hand and a beaming theatrical smile. A professional actor, Mitten had performed in eight languages in the films of five nations and played always the same character—best defined by his most recent appearance as Mr. Pickwick in a Hungarian version of
The Pickwick Papers.
Mitten had the figure of a nineteenth-century cartoon, wide at the middle and tapering on either end, with hair that stood out from his head like a clown wig.
They ordered. Copiously. It was a family restaurant—thick china bowls and heavy platters. Bearing sausage, some of it in oil, slices of white potato fried in butter, fat roasted chickens, salads with
haricots blancs
and salads with lardoons of bacon. Mont d’Or cheese. And strawberries. Morath could barely see the tablecloth. He spent money on the wine—the ’26 burgundies—exciting the red-faced
patron
to smiles and bows.
They walked afterward, down the dark streets that ran from the back of the 5th to the river. “An apartment,” Morath said, “for a clandestine love affair.”
Szubl thought it over. “A lover who won’t rent his own apartment.”
“Very romantic,” Mitten said.
“Very clandestine, anyhow,” said Szubl.
Mitten said, “What are they, prominent?”
“Cautious,” Morath said. “And rich.”
“Ah.”
They waited. Morath said, “Two thousand a month for the love nest. Five hundred for you. One of you signs the lease. If they need a maid, you hire her. The concierge knows you, only you, the friend of the lovers.”
Szubl laughed. “For the five hundred, do we have to believe this?”
“For the five hundred, you know better.”
“Nicholas,” Mitten said, “people like us don’t get away with spying.”
“It isn’t spying.”
“We get put against a wall.”
Morath shook his head.
“So, God willing, it’s only a bank robbery.”
“Love affair,” Morath said.
“Six hundred,” Mitten said.
“All right. Six hundred. I’ll give you money for the furniture.”
“Furniture!”
“What kind of love affair is this?”
They were, to Morath’s surprise, good at it. Quite good. Somehow, in a week’s time, they managed to unearth a
selection
of love nests. To start, they took him up to Mistress Row, the avenue Foch area, where gorgeous shop girls luxuriated on powder-puff sofas, behind windows draped in pink and gold. In the apartment they took him to, the most recent
affaire
had evidently ended abruptly, an open tin of caviar and a mossy lemon left in the little refrigerator.
Next, they showed him a large room, formerly servant’s quarters, up in the eaves of an
hôtel particulier
in the Fourth Arrondissement, where nobody ever went. “Six flights of stairs,” Mitten said.
“But very private.”
And for an actual love affair, Morath thought, not the worst choice. A quiet neighborhood, last popular in 1788, and deserted streets. Next, a taxi up to Saint Germain-des-Prés, to a painter’s atelier on the rue Guénégaud, with a pretty blue slice of the Seine in one of the windows. “He paints, she models,” Szubl said.
“And then, one afternoon, Fragonard!”
Morath was impressed. “It’s perfect.”
“For a Parisian, I’m not so sure. But if the lovers are, perhaps,
foreign,
well, as you can see, it’s pure MGM.”
“Très chic,”
Szubl said.
“And the landlord’s in prison.”
Their final choice was, obviously, a throwaway. Perhaps a favor for a friend—another Szubl, a different Mitten, penniless and awash in a Gallic sea. Two rooms, barely, at the foot of the Ninth Arrondissement, near the Chaussée d’Antin Métro stop, halfway down the side street—the rue Mogador—just behind
Morath ordered aperitifs, then chatted with Szubl until Mitten returned, the skin of his face ruddy and shining, from the WC. Good God, Morath thought, he hadn’t
shaved
in there, had he? “Ah, Morath,” Mitten said, offering a soft hand and a beaming theatrical smile. A professional actor, Mitten had performed in eight languages in the films of five nations and played always the same character—best defined by his most recent appearance as Mr. Pickwick in a Hungarian version of
The Pickwick Papers.
Mitten had the figure of a nineteenth-century cartoon, wide at the middle and tapering on either end, with hair that stood out from his head like a clown wig.
They ordered. Copiously. It was a family restaurant—thick china bowls and heavy platters. Bearing sausage, some of it in oil, slices of white potato fried in butter, fat roasted chickens, salads with
haricots blancs
and salads with lardoons of bacon. Mont d’Or cheese. And strawberries. Morath could barely see the tablecloth. He spent money on the wine—the ’26 burgundies—exciting the red-faced
patron
to smiles and bows.
They walked afterward, down the dark streets that ran from the back of the 5th to the river. “An apartment,” Morath said, “for a clandestine love affair.”
Szubl thought it over. “A lover who won’t rent his own apartment.”
“Very romantic,” Mitten said.
“Very clandestine, anyhow,” said Szubl.
Mitten said, “What are they, prominent?”
“Cautious,” Morath said. “And rich.”
“Ah.”
They waited. Morath said, “Two thousand a month for the love nest. Five hundred for you. One of you signs the lease. If they need a maid, you hire her. The concierge knows you, only you, the friend of the lovers.”
Szubl laughed. “For the five hundred, do we have to believe this?”
“For the five hundred, you know better.”
“Nicholas,” Mitten said, “people like us don’t get away with spying.”
“It isn’t spying.”
“We get put against a wall.”
Morath shook his head.
“So, God willing, it’s only a bank robbery.”
“Love affair,” Morath said.
“Six hundred,” Mitten said.
“All right. Six hundred. I’ll give you money for the furniture.”
“Furniture!”
“What kind of love affair is this?”
They were, to Morath’s surprise, good at it. Quite good. Somehow, in a week’s time, they managed to unearth a
selection
of love nests. To start, they took him up to Mistress Row, the avenue Foch area, where gorgeous shop girls luxuriated on powder-puff sofas, behind windows draped in pink and gold. In the apartment they took him to, the most recent
affaire
had evidently ended abruptly, an open tin of caviar and a mossy lemon left in the little refrigerator.
Next, they showed him a large room, formerly servant’s quarters, up in the eaves of an
hôtel particulier
in the Fourth Arrondissement, where nobody ever went. “Six flights of stairs,” Mitten said.
“But very private.”
And for an actual love affair, Morath thought, not the worst choice. A quiet neighborhood, last popular in 1788, and deserted streets. Next, a taxi up to Saint Germain-des-Prés, to a painter’s atelier on the rue Guénégaud, with a pretty blue slice of the Seine in one of the windows. “He paints, she models,” Szubl said.
“And then, one afternoon, Fragonard!”
Morath was impressed. “It’s perfect.”
“For a Parisian, I’m not so sure. But if the lovers are, perhaps,
foreign,
well, as you can see, it’s pure MGM.”
“Très chic,”
Szubl said.
“And the landlord’s in prison.”
Their final choice was, obviously, a throwaway. Perhaps a favor for a friend—another Szubl, a different Mitten, penniless and awash in a Gallic sea. Two rooms, barely, at the foot of the Ninth Arrondissement, near the Chaussée d’Antin Métro stop, halfway down the side street—the rue Mogador—just behind
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