Arch of Triumph

“Until you are caught again?”

  “Exactly. It has taken a long while this time. Two years. A lifetime.”

  “We must do something. It can’t go on like this.”

  “It can. What can you do?”

  Veber thought about it. “Durant!” he then said suddenly. “Naturally! Durant knows a lot of people and is influential—” He interrupted himself. “My God, you yourself performed an operation on one of the principal bigwigs! That man with the gall bladder!”

  “Not I. Durant—”

  Veber laughed. “Naturally he can’t tell that to the old gentleman. But he’ll be able to do something. I’ll wring his heart.”

  “You’ll achieve very little. I cost him two thousand francs some time ago. His type doesn’t forget that sort of thing easily.”

  “He will,” Veber said, rather amused. “The thing is he’ll be afraid you might tell about those ghosted operations. You have performed dozens for him. Besides he needs you badly.”

  “He can easily find someone else. Binot or some refugee surgeon. There are plenty of them.”

  Veber smoothed his mustache. “Not with your hand. We’ll try it anyway. I’ll do it this very day. Can I get anything for you here? How is the food?”

  “Ghastly. But I can make them bring in something.”

  “Cigarettes?”

  “Enough. You can’t help me with what I really need—a bath.”

  Ravic lived there for two weeks with a Jewish plumber, a half-Jewish writer, and a Pole. The plumber was homesick for Berlin; the writer hated it; nothing mattered to the Pole. Ravic provided the cigarettes. The writer told Jewish jokes. The plumber was indispensable as an expert in combatting the stench.

  After two weeks, Ravic was summoned. First he was brought before an inspector who only asked him whether he had any money.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Then you can take a taxi.”

  An official went with him. The street was light and sunny. It was good to be outside again. An old man was selling balloons at the entrance. Ravic could not imagine why he was selling them in front of the prison. The official hailed a taxi. “Where are we going?” Ravic asked.

  “To the chief.”

  Ravic did not know which chief it was. It didn’t make much difference to him either as long as it wasn’t the chief of a German concentration camp. There was only one real horror in the world: to be completely and helplessly at the mercy of brutal terrorism. The present incident was harmless.

  The taxi had a radio. Ravic turned it on. He got the vegetable market reports; then the political news. The official yawned. Ravic dialed another station. Music. A hit. The official perked up. “Charles Trenet,” he said. “Ménilmontant. Real class!”

  The taxi stopped. Ravic paid. He was conducted into a waiting room that smelled of expectation, sweat and dust, like all the waiting rooms in the world.

  He sat for half an hour and read an old issue of La Vie Parisienne left behind by a visitor. It was like classic literature after two weeks without books. Then he was taken before the chief.

  It took some time before he recognized the short, fat man. Usually he was not concerned with faces when he operated. They were as unimportant to him as so many numbers. He was interested in the sick places only. But he had looked at this face with curiosity. There he sat, healthy, his potbelly filled again, minus gall bladder: Leval. Ravic had forgotten by this time that Veber had intended to seek Durant’s aid and he had not expected to be presented to Leval himself.

  Leval looked him up and down. Thereby giving himself time. “Of course your name is not Wozzek,” he grumbled.

  “No.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Neumann.” Ravic had arranged this with Veber, who had explained it to Durant. Wozzek was too improbable.

  “You are a German, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Refugee?”

  “Yes.”

  “One never can tell. You don’t look it.”

  “Not all refugees are Jews,” Ravic explained.

  “Why were you lying? About your name.”

  Ravic shrugged his shoulders. “What else can we do? We lie as little as possible. We have to—do you think it’s fun for us?”

  Leval swelled up. “Do you think it is fun for us to be bothered with you?”

  Gray, Ravic thought. His head had been whitish gray, the lacrimal sacs dirty-blue, the mouth had gaped half open. At that time he hadn’t talked; then he had been a heap of flabby flesh with a rotting gall bladder in it.

  “Where do you live? The address was wrong, too.”

  “I have lived everywhere. Sometimes here, sometimes there.”

  “For how long?”

  “For three weeks. Three weeks ago I came from Switzerland. I was put across the border. You know that from a legal point of view we haven’t the right to live anywhere without papers—and that most of us haven’t yet been able to make up our minds to commit suicide. That’s the reason we bother you.”

  “You should have remained in Germany,” Leval grumbled. “It isn’t quite so bad there. People exaggerate.”

  A slightly different incision, Ravic thought, and you wouldn’t be here to talk this nonsense. The worms would have crossed your borderline without papers—or you would be a handful of dust in an undistinguished urn.

  “Where did you live here?” Leval asked.

  That’s what you would like to know, to catch the others too, Ravic thought. “In first-rate hotels,” he said. “Under various names. Always for only a few days.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Why do you ask me if you know better?” said Ravic, who was slowly getting fed up.

  Leval struck the table angrily with the flat of his hand. “Don’t be impudent!” Immediately afterwards he examined his hand.

  “You hit the scissors,” Ravic said.

  Leval put his hand into his pocket. “Don’t you think you’re rather impertinent?” he asked suddenly with the calm of a man who can afford to control himself because the other person is dependent on him.

  “Impertinent?” Ravic looked at him, astonished. “You call that impertinence? We are neither in school nor in a reformatory for repentant criminals! I’m acting in self-defense—would you like me to feel like a criminal begging for a mild sentence? Only because I’m not a Nazi and therefore have no papers? The fact that we still don’t consider ourselves criminals, although we have had experience of all kinds of prison, police, humiliations, only because we want to remain alive—that’s the only thing that keeps us upright, don’t you understand? God knows this is something other than impertinence.”

  Leval did not answer. “Have you practiced here?” he asked.

  “No.”

  The scar must be smaller by now, Ravic thought. I sewed it nicely at that time. It was quite a job with all that fat. Meanwhile he’s been stuffing himself again. Stuffing and drinking.

  “That’s where the greatest danger is,” Leval explained. “Without examinations, without control, you hang around here. Who knows for how long! Don’t think that I believe you about those three weeks. Who knows what you had your hand in, in how many shady affairs!”

  In your paunch with its hardened arteries, its swollen liver, and its fermenting gall bladder, Ravic thought. And if I hadn’t had my hand in it, your friend, Durant, would probably have killed you in a humane and idiotic way and would have become even more famous as a surgeon because of it and would have raised his fees.

  “This is where the greatest danger lies,” Leval repeated. “You are not permitted to practice. So you will accept anything that comes your way, that’s obvious. I was talking about it with one of our authorities. He’s of entirely the same opinion. If you really know anything about medical science, his name should be familiar to you—”

  No, Ravic thought, that’s impossible. He won’t say Durant now. Life can’t crack such jokes!

  “Professor Durant,” Leval said with digni
ty. “He explained it to me. Menials, students who have not yet completed their studies, masseurs, assistants, here all these claim to have been great medical men in Germany. Who can check on that? Illegal operations, abortions, collaboration with midwives, quackery, and heaven knows what else. We can’t be severe enough!”

  Durant, Ravic thought. That’s his revenge for the two thousand francs. But who’ll do his operations now? Binot, surely. Very likely they have got together again.

  He noticed that he was no longer listening. He did not become attentive again until Veber’s name was mentioned. “A certain Doctor Veber has spoken in your behalf. Do you know him?”

  “Slightly.”

  “He was here.” Leval gazed straight ahead for a moment. Then he sneezed loudly, got his handkerchief out and blew his nose circumstantially, contemplated what he had blown out, folded his handkerchief together and put it into his pocket again. “I can’t do anything for you. We must be severe. You’ll be deported.”

  “I know that.”

  “Have you been in France before?”

  “No.”

  “Six months’ imprisonment if you return. You know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see to it that you are deported as soon as possible. That’s all I can do. Have you any money?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Then you will have to pay for the trip of your escort and yourself to the border.” He nodded. “You may go now.”

  “Any special hour when we have to be back?” Ravic asked the official who was escorting him.

  “Not exactly. It depends. Why?”

  “I’d like to drink an apéritif.”

  The official looked at him. “I won’t run away,” Ravic said. He drew a twenty-franc bill out of his pocket and toyed with it.

  “All right. A few minutes can’t make any difference.”

  They had the taxi stop at the next bistro. There were a few tables already standing outside. It was cool, but the sun was shining. “What will you have?” Ravic asked.

  “Amèr Picon. Nothing else at this hour of the day.”

  “Give me a fine. Without water.”

  Ravic sat there calmly and breathed deeply. Air—what could that be! The branches of the trees on the sidewalk had brown shining buds. There was a smell of fresh bread and new wine. The waiter brought the glasses. “Where is the telephone?” Ravic asked.

  “Inside—to your right, next to the toilets.”

  “But—” the official said.

  Ravic put the twenty-franc bill into his hand. “You can probably imagine to whom I’m going to telephone. I won’t disappear. You can come with me. Come along.”

  The official didn’t hesitate for long. “All right,” he said and got up. “A human being is a human being, after all.”

  “Joan—”

  “Ravic! My God! Where are you? Have they let you out? Tell me where you are!”

  “In a bistro—”

  “Stop it! Tell me where you really are!”

  “I’m really in a bistro.”

  “Where? Are you no longer in prison? Where have you been all this time? This Morosow—”

  “He told you exactly what went wrong with me.”

  “He hasn’t even told me where they took you. I would have come right away—”

  “That’s why he didn’t tell you, Joan. Better so.”

  “Why do you telephone from a bistro? Why don’t you come here?”

  “I can’t come. I’ve only a few minutes. I had to persuade the official to stop here for a moment. Joan, I’ll be sent to Switzerland in the next few days, and—” Ravic glanced out the window. The official was leaning on the counter and talking. “And I’ll be back at once.” He waited. “Joan.”

  “I’ll come. I’ll come at once. Where are you?”

  “You can’t come. I’m half an hour’s distance from you. I’ve only a few minutes left.”

  “Hold the official off! Give him money! I can bring money with me!”

  “Joan,” Ravic said. “It won’t work. I must stop now.”

  He heard her breathe. “You don’t want to see me?” she then asked.

  It was difficult. I shouldn’t have telephoned, he thought. How can one explain anything without being able to look at the other person. “I’d like nothing better than to see you, Joan.”

  “Then come! That man can come with you!”

  “It’s impossible. I must stop now. Tell me quickly what you’re doing now.”

  “What? How do you mean that?”

  “What are you wearing? Where are you?”

  “In my room. In bed. I was up late last night. I can put something on in a minute and come right away.”

  Late last night. Of course. All that went right on also while one was imprisoned. One forgot about it. In bed, half asleep, her hair tumbled on the pillows, stockings scattered on chairs, lingerie, an evening gown—things began to reel; the window of the hot telephone booth, half misted by his breath; the infinitely remote head of the official that swam in it as though in an aquarium—he pulled himself together. “I must stop now, Joan.”

  He heard her disconcerted voice. “But that’s impossible! You can’t simply go away like this and I don’t know anything, either where you are going or what—” Propped up, the pillows pushed aside, the telephone like a weapon and an enemy in her hand, the shoulders, the eyes, deep and dark with excitement …

  “I’m not going to war. I’m merely traveling to Switzerland. I’ll be back soon. Imagine I am a businessman who is going to sell a carload of machine guns to the League of Nations.”

  “When you come back, then it will be the same all over again. I won’t be able to live from fear.”

  “Say the last sentence once more.”

  “It’s true.” Her voice became angry. “I’m the last one to be told anything. Veber can visit you, not I! You’ve called up Morosow, not me! And now you’re going—”

  “My God,” Ravic said. “We won’t quarrel, Joan.”

  “I’m not quarreling. I’m merely saying what’s wrong.”

  “All right. I must stop now. Adieu, Joan.”

  “Ravic!” she called. “Ravic!”

  “Yes—”

  “Come back again! Come back again! I’m lost without you!”

  “I’ll come back.”

  “Yes—yes—”

  “Adieu, Joan. I’ll be back soon.”

  He stood in the hot steaming booth for a moment. Then he noticed that his hand had not let go of the receiver. He opened the door. The official looked up. He smiled good-naturedly. “Through?”

  “Yes.”

  They went back outside to their table. Ravic emptied his glass. I shouldn’t have telephoned, he thought. I was calm before. Now I am confused. I should have known that a telephone conversation could bring nothing else. Not for me, or for Joan. He felt the temptation to go back, to call up again and tell her everything he really wanted to tell her. To explain to her why he couldn’t see her. That he didn’t want her to see him as he was, dirty, under guard. But he would come out and it would be the same all over again. “I think we’ve got to move on,” the official said.

  “Yes—”

  Ravic called the waiter. “Give me two small bottles of cognac, all the newspapers and a dozen packages of Caporals. And the check.” He looked at the official. “Permissible, isn’t it?”

  “A man is a man,” the official said.

  The waiter brought the bottles and cigarettes. “Open the bottles,” Ravic said, while he carefully distributed the cigarettes in his pockets. He corked the bottles again in such a way that he could easily open them without a corkscrew and put them into the inside pocket of his coat.

  “You’re good at that,” the official said.

  “Practice. Sorry to say. As a boy I would never have thought I might have to play Indian again in my old age.”

  The Pole and the writer were enthusiastic about the cognac. The plumber did not drink stro
ng liquor. He was a beer drinker and explained in detail how much better the beer had been in Berlin. Ravic lay on his plank and read the papers. The Pole did not read; he didn’t understand French. He smoked and was happy. At night the plumber began to cry. Ravic was awake. He listened to the suppressed sobbing and stared at the small window behind which glimmered a pale sky. He could not sleep. Nor could he later on when the plumber was calm. Too well lived, he thought. Too many things already to hurt when one didn’t have them any more.

  18

  RAVIC WAS ON HIS WAY from the station. He was tired and dirty. Thirteen hours in a hot train with people who ate garlic, with hunters and their dogs, with women who held cages containing chickens and pigeons on their laps. And before that almost three months at the frontier—

  He walked along the Champs Elysées. There was a twinkling in the dusk. Ravic looked up. The twinkling seemed to come from pyramids of mirrors standing around the Rond Point and reflecting back and forth the last gray light of May.

  He stopped and looked more sharply. There actually were pyramids of mirrors. They were everywhere, behind the tulip beds in ghostlike repetition. “What’s that?” he asked a gardener who was leveling a bed of newly turned dirt.

  “Mirrors,” the gardener answered, without looking up.

  “I can see that. The last time I was here they weren’t around.”

  “Haven’t you been here for some time?”

  “Three months.”

  “Ah, three months. This was done in the last two weeks. For the King of England. Coming for a visit. So he can see his face mirrored here.”

  “Terrible,” Ravic said.

  “Of course,” the gardener replied without surprise.

  Ravic walked on. Three months—three years—three days; what was time? Nothing and everything. The fact that the chestnut trees were in bloom now—and before they hadn’t yet had any leaves—that Germany had broken her treaties again and occupied the whole of Czechoslovakia—that in Geneva, the refugee Josef Blumenthal had shot himself in a fit of hysterical laughter in front of the Palace of the League of Nations—that somewhere in his own chest there was the aching remnant of the pneumonia he had survived in Belfort under the name of Guenther—and that now, on an evening soft as a woman’s breast, he was back again; all this held almost no surprise for him. One took it as one took many things, with fatalistic calm, which was the only weapon of helplessness. The sky was the same everywhere, always the same, above murder and hatred and sacrifice and love—the trees blossomed anew, unsuspectingly, every year—the plum-blue dusk changed and came and went, unconcerned with passports, betrayal, despair, and hope. It was good to be in Paris again. It was good to walk, to walk slowly, without thinking, along this street in the silver-gray light; it was good to have this hour, still full of respite, full of a mild interchange at the boundary where a distant grief and the tender recurrent happiness of simply being alive melted into each other like horizons—this first hour of arrival before one was again pierced by knives and arrows—this strange animal feeling, this breath reaching far and coming from afar, this breeze, without emotion yet, along the streets of the heart, past the dull fires of facts, past the nail-studded cross of bygone days and past the barbed hooks of the future, this caesura, the silence within oscillation, the moment of pause, most open and most secret form of being, the unemphatic beat of eternity in the very transitoriness of the world—