Free Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque Page A

She smiled faintly. “That’s not many, is it?”
    “No. Did Mr.——” Ravic tried to remember the name of the dead man. He had forgotten it.
    “No,” the woman said. “Raszinsky had friends here, but I’ve never seen them. He fell ill as soon as we arrived.”
    Ravic had not intended to stay long. Now, seeing the woman sitting that way, he changed his mind. “Have you had dinner already?” he asked.
    “No. I am not hungry.”
    “Have you eaten anything at all today?”
    “Yes. This noon. It’s easier during the day. In the evening—”
    Ravic looked around. The small bare room smelled of cheerlessness and November. “It’s time you get out of here,” he said. “Come. We’ll go and have something to eat.”
    He expected the woman to object. She seemed so indifferent that nothing could arouse her. But she stood up at once and reached for her raincoat.
    “That won’t do,” he said. “The coat is too thin. Haven’t you a warmer one? It is cold outside.”
    “It was raining before—”
    “It is still raining. But it is cold. Can’t you put something on underneath? Another coat or at least a sweater?”
    “I have a sweater.”
    She went toward the larger suitcase. Ravic noted that she had hardly unpacked anything. She got a black sweater out of the suitcase, took her jacket off, and pulled on the sweater. She had beautiful straight shoulders. Then she took the Basque beret and put on her jacket and coat. “Is this better?”
    “Much better.”
    They went down the stairs. The patron was no longer there. In his stead the concierge sat beside the keyboard. He was sorting letters and smelled of garlic. A spotted cat sat motionless beside him and watched him.
    “Do you still have the feeling that you can’t eat anything?” Ravic asked outside.
    “I don’t know. Not much, I think.”
    Ravic hailed a taxi. “Well, then we’ll drive to the Belle Aurore. One doesn’t have to eat a full dinner there.”
    The Belle Aurore was not crowded. It was already too late for that. They found a table in the small upstairs room with the low ceiling. Besides them, there was only one couple, sitting by the window and eating cheese—and a solitary thin man, with a mountain of oysters in front of him. The waiter came and eyed the checked tablecloth critically. Then he decided to change it.
    “Two vodkas,” Ravic ordered. “Cold.”
    “We’ll drink something and eat hors d’oeuvres,” he said to the woman. “I think that’s best for you. This restaurant is famous for its hors d’oeuvres. There’s hardly anything else here. Anyhow you seldom get to eat anything else. There are dozens of them, warm and cold, and they’re all very good. We’ll try them.”
    The waiter brought the vodka and got his pad ready. “A carafe of vin rosé,” Ravic said. “Have you Anjou?”
    “Anjou, open, rosé. Very well, sir.”
    “Fine. A large carafe in ice. And the hors d’oeuvres.”
    The waiter left. At the door he almost collided with a woman in a red-feathered hat, who was rushing up the stairs. She pushed him aside and approached the thin man with the oysters. “Albert,” she said. “You swine—”
    “Sh, sh—” Albert gestured and turned around.
    “Don’t sh, sh me.” The woman put her wet umbrella across the table and sat down determinedly. Albert did not seem to be surprised. “Chérie,” he said and began to whisper.
    Ravic smiled and lifted his glass. “We’ll drink this straight down.
Salute
.”
    “
Salute
,” Joan Madou said and drank.
    The hors d’oeuvres were rolled in on a small wagon. “What would you like?” Ravic looked at the woman. “I think it will be simplest if I fill a plate for you.”
    He piled a plate full and handed it to her. “It won’t matter if you don’t like any of it. There are more wagons to come. This is just the beginning.”
    He filled a plate for himself and began to eat, not concerning himself further about her. Suddenly he felt very hungry. When he