This is what he found when he explored the house: It had a huge kitchen in the basement, and in the huge kitchen a huge drain that led directly into the Paris sewers. In the courtyard of the house there was an office, and near the office a triangular room with one false door and an aperture in the wall where you could see in without anyone seeing out. He could do a lot with the place. No question. He could do just about everything with it.
The house would talk to him and he would listen.
Even on the day he bought the house he stood there again, ears cocked, stuck in its shadow again. He drew odd stares: from the passing lorries carrying German platoons to the Eastern Front, from the Jewish couple next door who'd negotiated the purchase, even from the two members of the French Gestapo who were on their way to headquarters just a few blocks down.
But he didn't move, not until he'd collected all the whispers and laid them end to end till they made sense. Then he rubbed his hands together and answered yes. Yes. It was just as he'd thought-the house had a place for him after all.
Once upon a time Marcel got his first customer.
He'd only put the word out several days ago, like casting a gleaming lure into the middle of a deep black pond, waiting only for something to bite hard. Now something had.
Marcel waited for him in 21 Rue la Soeur, staring through the window at the bare branches of the ash trees that lined the opposite sidewalk from corner to corner. It was a bitter night, the eighth day of Christmas according to the calendar. And why not? Wasn't Marcel about to receive a gift? Not eight geese a-cackling though; more like the golden egg.
Finally he saw him, trudging forward at the far end of the block, just a small dot beneath the trees. Gushenow the furrier. Gushenow the Jewish furrier, who by his own best guess had but several weeks before deportation to the East. But he didn't intend to be there when they came for him. He was going south. Petoit had promised to get him there-all the way to Argentina. They'd met once to settle on the price-five hundred thousand francs, steep for sure, but then what was a life worth? Marcel hadn't needed much time to persuade him-Gushenow had said yes almost immediately. Besides, he was leaving Gushenow more of where that came from, wasn't he? Much more-over one million francs that Gushenow had carefully sewn into the lining of his coat and hidden in the handle of his suitcase. And all those furs-silver sable, black lynx, red fox-that Marcel promised to send after him. All this Gushenow was carrying with him now, flitting between the tree trunks like a fat squirrel burdened with nuts. Marcel opened the latch, then walked back into the living room to wait for him. Seconds later, the door squeaked, creaked open. Petoit… Gushenow whispered, Petoit, are you in there…? Come in, Marcel answered. Gushenow was flushed and sweating, animal fur enveloping animal fear. Marcel could smell it. I have the pictures, Gushenow whispered. I didn't forget… Pictures…? Yes. For the passport. Oh. Of course. The passport. Marcel remembered. He offered Gushenow, fat, flushed, furrier Gushenow, a seat. But Gushenow fumbled for the pictures and handed them over. Will they do? he wanted to know. They're fine, Marcel said, barely glancing at them. Oh good… good. Gushenow wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It was very hard for me, he told Marcel. Hard? Saying goodbye to my wife. Marcel patted him on the back and said, I understand. Not telling her. That was hard. Hardest thing I've ever done. You must understand the risks, Marcel explained. The dangers. I do. But all the same… Do you have everything? Marcel asked. For instance, the money? Yes, Gushenow whispered. But I have a question. About the currency. Currency? The currency in Argentina. What do they use there? Shillings. They use shillings in Argentina. Gushenow blinked. Isn't that what they use in England? I'm sure they use that in England… And Argentina, Marcel explained. England and Argentina both. Gushenow was more or less unconvinced; Marcel could plainly see that, but he also knew Gushenow was too nervous to care. What do I do now? Gushenow asked. Wait. That's all. Marcel reminded him about all the work he'd put into this, all the meticulous planning. Gushenow had to put his faith in him-after all, that's what he'd paid him for, wasn't it? Gushenow had to agree. But all the same, he wanted to know when they'd be leaving. It's hard to say, Marcel told him. There are factors. For instance… the moon… Moon? But I don't believe there is a moon tonight. Just my point, Marcel explained. With so little light, the patrols will be more diligent than usual. We'll have to pick our time carefully. Okay, Gushenow said. But isn't there anything for me to do? Well, Marcel explained, now that you mention it, there is one thing we've forgotten. What is it? Gushenow asked, looking nervous, that is, more nervous than usual. Nothing really. Just your vaccination. Vaccination? Against smallpox. I've got to vaccinate you against smallpox. That's the rule in Argentina. But I've already been vaccinated against smallpox, Gushenow whined. Why do I have to have another? There's typhus too, Marcel explained. Argentina insists on both. Gushenow pouted. Is Marcel sure? Couldn't he just say that he was vaccinated? Marcel frowned, a good frown too, one he'd practiced in front of mirrors from time to time. Just as he'd practiced looks of concern, of passion and joy and paternal warmth, all of them acted out in front of the looking glass till he'd gotten them more or less down. There's something called professional ethics, Marcel said. Besides, typhus is a problem in Argentina. Did Gushenow really want to run the risk of catching it? Gushenow sighed, resigned. Where do I have to get it? he asked timidly. There's a room in the courtyard… No. Gushenow shook his head. I meant what part of the body? Could he have it in the backside perhaps? It hurt him when they gave it to him in the arm. Of course, Marcel said reassuringly. Wherever you want it. Gushenow stood up. Where's this room then? I might as well get it over with. Marcel led him out of the drawing room toward the back of the house. They passed through the back door into the closed courtyard where a cat shrieked at them from the top of an ivy-shrouded wall. Where are we going? Gushenow asked. There. Marcel pointed to an outcrop of brick and mortar that was fastened to the back wall like coral. My office. They entered a small doorway: several finely polished chairs, a recently waxed desk, a glass bookcase with a stuffed mongoose sitting on top of it. Further down, Marcel said, moving off into a dimly lit hallway. Then, suddenly, they were in a room. What a strange place, Gushenow said, wrinkling his nose as if in the presence of bad cheese. It's a triangle. Yes, Marcel said. Three sides. Should I lie down? On that table? Good idea, Marcel said, then began rummaging in the black bag that he'd left by the doorway. You will be gentle, won't you? Of course, Marcel said. As gentle as a lamb. But isn't that needle a little large? Gushenow said now, staring at the syringe that Marcel was holding up to the ceiling. Not at all. Gushenow had already loosened his pants-they were lying bunched around his knees. He rolled onto his stomach and shut his eyes. Marcel began to push the needle into Gushenow's left buttock and in fact had it halfway in when Gushenow asked him about Argentina. Argentina? Yes, Gushenow said. Could Marcel talk to him about it? About it? About Argentina. About what Argentina's like. Anything at all. Well, Marcel said. They have coconuts there. Ahh… coconuts… Argentinians have to watch out for the coconuts. They have to remember to look up for them because the coconuts can drop on their heads and hurt them. I'll remember that, Gushenow said. What else? Beaches. Nice beaches? Very nice beaches. White and sandy beaches. And the people there? The people? Are they nice? Are they a friendly sort of people? Yes. Very friendly. No Nazis? No Nazis in Argentina? No, Marcel said, feeling Gushenow tremble. No. No Nazis.