Arch of Triumph

  “Fine,” Veber said. “Congratulations. It didn’t look as if she had. A pulse of a hundred forty and a blood pressure of eighty; caffeine, coramine—that was damn close.”

  Ravic shrugged his shoulders. “That’s nothing to be congratulated for. She came earlier than the other girl. The one with the gold chain around her ankle. That was all.”

  He covered the girl up. “This is the second case within a week. If it goes on you’ll have a hospital for mishandled abortions from the Buttes-Chaumont. Wasn’t the other girl from there, too?”

  Veber nodded. “Yes. And from the Rue Clavel. They probably knew each other and went to the same midwife. She even came about the same time in the evening as the other girl. It’s a good thing I was able to get hold of you at the hotel. I was afraid you wouldn’t be in.”

  Ravic looked at him. “When one lives in a hotel one usually isn’t in at night, Veber. Hotel rooms in November aren’t particularly cheerful.”

  “I can imagine that. But then why do you go on living in a hotel?”

  “It’s a comfortable and impersonal way of living. One’s alone and one isn’t alone.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have all that in another way too. If you’d rent a small apartment, it would be just the same.”

  “Maybe.” Ravic bent over the girl again.

  “Don’t you think so, too, Eugénie?” Veber asked.

  The nurse glanced up. “Mr. Ravic will never do it,” she said coldly.

  “Doctor Ravic, Eugénie,” Veber corrected. “I’ve told you a hundred times. He was chief surgeon in a great hospital in Germany. Far more important than I am.”

  “Here—” the nurse began and straightened her glasses.

  Veber quickly stopped her. “All right! All right! We know all that. This country doesn’t recognize foreign degrees. Idiotic at that! But what makes you so sure he won’t take an apartment?”

  “Mr. Ravic is a lost man. He will never build a home for himself.”

  “What?” Veber asked in astonishment. “What’s that you are saying?”

  “There is no longer anything sacred to Mr. Ravic. That’s the reason.”

  “Bravo,” Ravic said from the girl’s bedside.

  “I have never heard anything like it!” Veber stared at Eugénie.

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself, Doctor Veber?”

  Ravic smiled. “You hit the mark, Eugénie. But when there is no longer anything sacred to one, everything again becomes sacred in a more human way. One reveres the spark of life that pulses even in an earthworm and that forces it from time to time up to the light of day. That’s not meant to be a comparison.”

  “You can’t insult me. You have no faith.” Eugénie energetically smoothed her white coat over her breast. “Thank God, I have my faith!”

  Ravic straightened up. “Faith can easily make one fanatical. That’s why all religions have cost so much blood.” He grinned. “Tolerance is the daughter of doubt, Eugénie. That explains why you, with all your faith, are so much more aggressive toward me than I, lost infidel, am toward you.”

  Veber guffawed. “There you are, Eugénie. Don’t answer! You’ll get in even deeper!”

  “My dignity as a woman—”

  “Fine!” Veber interrupted. “Stick to that. That’s always good. I’ve got to leave now. I’ve still some things to do in the office. Come, Ravic. Good morning, Eugénie.”

  “Good morning, Doctor Veber.”

  “Good morning, Nurse Eugénie,” Ravic said.

  “Good morning,” Eugénie replied with an effort and only after Veber had turned around to look at her.

  Veber’s office was crowded with Empire furniture; white and gold and fragile. Photographs of his house and garden hung on the wall above his desk. A modern broad chaise longue stood against the wall. Veber slept on it when he stayed overnight. The private hospital belonged to him.

  “What would you like to drink, Ravic? Cognac or Dubonnet?”

  “Coffee, if there is any left.”

  “Of course.” Veber placed the coffeepot on the desk and put the plug in. Then he turned to Ravic. “Can you substitute for me in the Osiris this afternoon?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least. I’ve no other plans.”

  “Fine. Then I won’t have to drive in again just to go there. I can work in my garden. I’d have asked Fauchon but he is on his vacation.”

  “Nonsense,” Ravic said. “I’ve done it often enough.”

  “That’s right. Nevertheless—”

  “Nevertheless no longer exists nowadays. Not for me.”

  “Yes. It’s idiotic enough that you are not permitted to work here officially and have to hide out as a ghost surgeon.”

  “But Veber! That’s an old story now. It is happening to all physicians who fled from Germany.”

  “Just the same! It’s ridiculous! You perform Durant’s most difficult operations and he makes a name for himself.”

  “Better than if he did them himself.”

  Veber laughed. “I’m a fine one to talk. You do mine too. But after all, I am a gynecologist and not a specialist in surgery.”

  The coffeepot began to hum. Veber turned it off. He took cups out of a closet and poured the coffee. “One thing I really don’t understand, Ravic,” he said. “Why do you go on living in that depressing hole, the International? Why don’t you rent one of those nice new apartments in the neighborhood of the Bois? You could buy some furniture anywhere cheap. Then at least you’d know what’s your own!”

  “Yes,” Ravic said. “Then I would know what was my own!”

  “See! Why don’t you do it?”

  Ravic took a gulp of his coffee. It was bitter and very strong. “Veber,” he said, “you are a magnificent example of the convenient thinking of our time. In one breath you are sorry because I work illegally here—and at the same time you ask me why I don’t rent a nice apartment—”

  “What’s one got to do with the other?”

  Ravic smiled patiently. “If I take an apartment I must be registered with the police. I would need a passport and a visa for that.”

  “That’s right. I hadn’t thought of that. And in hotels you don’t need any?”

  “There too. But, thank God, there are a few hotels in Paris that don’t take registration too seriously.” Ravic poured a few drops of cognac into his coffee. “One of them is the International. That’s why I live there. I don’t know how the landlady arranges it. But she must have good connections. Either the police really don’t know about it or they are bribed. At any rate I have lived there for quite a long time undisturbed.”

  Veber leaned back. “Ravic!” he said. “I didn’t know that. I only thought you weren’t permitted to work here. That’s a hell of a situation!”

  “It’s paradise. Compared with a German concentration camp.”

  “And the police? If they do come some day?”

  “If they catch us we get a few weeks’ imprisonment and are deported across the border. Mostly into Switzerland. In case of a second offense we get six months in prison.”

  “What?”

  “Six months,” Ravic said.

  Veber stared at him. “But that’s impossible! That’s inhuman!”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Until I experienced it.”

  “How do you mean experienced? Has that ever happened to you?”

  “Not once. Three times. Just as to hundreds of others as well. In the beginning, when I knew nothing about it and counted on so-called humaneness. After that I went to Spain—where I didn’t need any passport—and got a second lesson in applied humaneness. From German and Italian fliers. Then later when I returned to France I, of course, knew the ins and outs of it.”

  Veber got up. “But for heaven’s sake”—he figured it out—“then you have been imprisoned over a year for nothing.”

  “Not as
long as that. Only two months.”

  “How is that? Didn’t you say in the case of a second offense it was six months?”

  Ravic smiled. “There are no second offenses when one is experienced. One is deported under one name and simply returns under another. If possible, at another point on the frontier. That’s how we avoid it. Since we have no papers it can only be proven if someone recognizes us personally. That very rarely happens. Ravic is my third name. I’ve used it for almost two years. Nothing has happened in that time. It seems to have brought me luck. I’m beginning to like it more every day. By now I’ve almost forgotten my real name.”

  Veber shook his head. “And all this simply because you are not a Nazi!”

  “Naturally. Nazis have first-class papers. And all the visas they want.”

  “Nice world we live in! And the government doesn’t do a thing!”

  “There are several million men out of work for whom the government has to care first. Besides it’s not only in France. The same thing is happening everywhere.”

  Ravic got up. “Adieu, Veber. I’ll look in on the girl again in two hours. And once more at night.”

  Veber followed him to the door. “Listen, Ravic,” he said. “Why don’t you come out to our house sometime? For dinner.”

  “Certainly.” Ravic knew he would not go. “Sometime soon. Adieu, Veber.”

  “Adieu, Ravic. And do come, really.”

  Ravic went into the nearest bistro. He sat by a window so that he could look out upon the street. He loved that—to sit without thinking and watch the people passing by. Paris was the city where one could best spend one’s time doing nothing.

  The waiter wiped the table and waited. “A Pernod,” Ravic said.

  “With water, sir?”

  “No.” Ravic deliberated. “Don’t bring me a Pernod.”

  There was something he had to wash away. A bitter taste. For that the sweet anise wasn’t sharp enough. “Bring me a calvados,” he said to the waiter. “A double calvados.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  It was Veber’s invitation. That tinge of pity in it. To grant someone an evening with a family. The French rarely invite foreigners to their homes; they prefer to take them to restaurants. He had not yet been to Veber’s. It was well meant but hard to bear. One could defend oneself against insults; not against pity.

  He took a gulp of the apple brandy. Why did he have to explain to Veber his reasons for living in the International? It wasn’t necessary. Veber had known all he need know. He knew that Ravic was not permitted to operate. That was enough. That he worked with him nevertheless, was his affair. In this way he made money and could arrange for operations he did not dare perform himself. No one knew about it—only he and the nurse—and she kept quiet. It was the same with Durant. Whenever he had an operation to perform he stayed with the patient until he went under the anesthetic. Then Ravic came and performed the operation for which Durant was too old and incompetent. When the patient awoke later on, there was Durant, the proud surgeon, at his bedside. Ravic saw only the covered patient; he knew only the narrow iodine-stained area of the body bared for the operation. He very often did not know even on whom he operated. Durant gave him the diagnosis and he began to cut. Durant paid Ravic about one-tenth of what he received for an operation. Ravic didn’t mind. It was better than not operating at all. With Veber he worked on a more friendly basis. Veber paid him a quarter of the proceeds. That was fair.

  Ravic looked through the window. And what besides? There wasn’t much else left. But he was alive, that was enough. At a time when everything was tottering he had no wish to build up something that was bound shortly to fall into ruins. It was better to drift than to waste energy; that was the one thing that was irreplaceable. To survive meant everything—until somewhere a goal again became visible. The less energy that took, the better; then one would have it afterwards. The antlike attempt to build up a bourgeois life again and again in a century that was falling to pieces—he had seen that ruin many. It was touching, ridiculous, and heroic at the same time—and useless. It made one weary. An avalanche couldn’t be stopped once it had started to move; whoever tried, fell beneath it. Better to wait and later to dig out the victims. On long marches one had to travel light. Also when one was fleeing—

  Ravic looked at his watch. It was time to look at Lucienne Martinet. And then go to the Osiris.

  The whores in the Osiris were waiting. Although they were examined regularly by an official physician, the madame was not content with that. She could not afford to have anyone contract a disease in her place; for that reason she had made an arrangement with Veber to have the girls privately re-examined each Thursday. Sometimes Ravic substituted for him.

  The madame had furnished and equipped a place on the first floor as an examination room. She was proud of the fact that for more than a year none of her customers had caught anything in her establishment; but in spite of all the girls’ precautions seventeen cases of venereal disease had been caused by customers.

  Rolande, the gouvernante, brought Ravic a bottle of brandy and a glass. “I think Marthe has got something,” she said.

  “All right. I’ll examine her carefully.”

  “I haven’t let her work since yesterday. Naturally, she denies it.”

  “All right, Rolande.”

  The girls came in in their slips, one after the other. Ravic knew almost all of them; only two were new.

  “You don’t have to examine me, doctor,” said Léonie, a red-haired Gascon.

  “Why not?”

  “No clients the whole week.”

  “What does madame say to that?”

  “Nothing. I made them order a lot of champagne. Seven, eight bottles a night. Three businessmen from Toulouse. Married. All three of them would have liked to, but none of them dared because of the others. Each was afraid if he came with me the others would talk about it at home. That’s why they drank; each thought he would outlast the others.” Léonie laughed and scratched herself lazily. “The one who didn’t pass out wasn’t able to stand up.”

  “All right. Nevertheless, I’ve got to examine you.”

  “It’s all right with me. Have you a cigarette, doctor?”

  “Yes, here.”

  Ravic took a swab and colored it. Then he pushed the glass slide under the microscope.

  “You know what I don’t understand?” Léonie said, watching him.

  “What?”

  “That you still feel like sleeping with a woman when you do these things.”

  “I don’t understand it either. You’re all right. Now who’s next?”

  “Marthe.”

  Marthe was pale, slender, and blond. She had the face of a Botticelli angel, but she spoke the argot of the Rue Blondel.

  “There is nothing wrong with me, doctor.”

  “That’s fine. Let’s have a look at you.”

  “But there is really nothing wrong.”

  “All the better.”

  Suddenly Rolande was standing in the room. She looked at Marthe. The girl stopped talking. She looked at Ravic apprehensively. He examined her thoroughly.

  “But it is nothing, doctor. You know how careful I am.”

  Ravic did not reply. The girl continued to talk—hesitated and began again. Ravic swabbed a second time and examined it.

  “You are sick, Marthe,” he said.

  “What?” She jumped up. “That can’t be true.”

  “It is true.”

  She looked at him. Then she broke out suddenly—a flood of curses and maledictions. “That swine! That damned swine! I didn’t trust him anyway, the slippery trickster! He said he was a student and he ought to know, a medical student, that scoundrel!”

  “Why didn’t you take care?”

  “I did, but it went so quickly, and he said that he, as a student—”

  Ravic nodded. The old story—a medical student who had treated himself. After two weeks he had considered himself cured without making a
test.

  “How long will it take, doctor?”

  “Six weeks.” Ravic knew it would take longer.

  “Six weeks? Six weeks without any income? Hospital? Do I have to go to the hospital?”

  “We’ll see about that. Maybe we can treat you at home later—if you promise—”

  “I’ll promise anything! Anything! Only not the hospital!”

  “You’ve got to go at first. There’s no other way.”

  The girl stared at Ravic. All prostitutes feared the hospital. The supervision was very strict there. But there was nothing else to do. Left at home she would furtively go out after a few days, in spite of all promises, and look for men in order to make money and infect them.

  “The madame will pay the expenses,” Ravic said.

  “But I! I! Six weeks without any income! And I have just bought a silver fox on installments! Then the installment will be due and everything will be gone.”

  She cried. “Come, Marthe,” Rolande said.

  “You won’t take me back! I know!” Marthe sobbed louder. “You won’t take me back! You never do it! Then I’ll be on the streets. And all because of that slippery dog—”

  “We’ll take you back. You were good business. Our clients like you.”

  “Really?” Marthe looked up.

  “Of course. And now come.”

  Marthe left with Rolande. Ravic looked after her. Marthe would not come back. Madame was much too careful. Her next stage was perhaps the cheap brothels in the Rue Blondel. Then the street. Then cocaine, the hospital, peddling flowers or cigarettes. Or, if she were lucky, some pimp who would beat and exploit her and later throw her out.

  ———

  The dining room of the Hôtel International was in the basement. The lodgers called it the Catacombs. During the day a dim light came through several large, thick, opalescent-glass panes which faced on the courtyard. In the winter it had to be lighted all day long. The room was at once a writing room, a smoking room, an auditorium, an assembly room, and a refuge for those emigrants who had no papers—when there was a police inspection they could escape through the yard into a garage and from there to the next street.