Free Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque Page B

looked up after a while he saw that she too was eating. He shelled a langoustine and held it out to her. “Try this. It’s better than langouste. And now the pâté maison. With a crust of white bread. So, that’s not bad at all. And a little of the wine with it Light, dry, and cool.”
    “You are going to a lot of trouble for me,” Joan Madou said.
    “Yes—like a headwaiter.” Ravic laughed.
    “No. But you are going to a lot of trouble for me.”
    “I don’t like to eat alone. That’s all there is to it. Just like you.”
    “I’m not a good companion.”
    “You are,” Ravic replied. “For dining, you are. For dining you are a first-rate companion. I can’t bear garrulous people. Or those with loud voices.”
    He looked across the room toward Albert. The red-feathered hat was just explaining to him very audibly why he was such a swine, at the same time rhythmically rapping on the table with her umbrella. Albert was listening and did not seem impressed.
    Joan Madou smiled briefly. “Neither can I.”
    “Here comes the next wagon with supplies. Would you like to have something at once or do you want a cigarette first?”
    “A cigarette first.”
    “All right. Today I have different cigarettes, not those with black tobacco.”
    He gave her a light. She leaned back and inhaled the smoke deeply. Then she looked straight at him. “It is good to sit this way,” she said and for a moment it seemed to him that she was going to cry.
    They drank coffee in the Colisée. The large room facing the Champs Elysées was overcrowded, but they secured a table downstairs in the bar. The upper part of the walls was glass behind which parrots and cockatoos hovered and multicolored tropical birds soared to and fro.
    “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Ravic asked.
    “No, not yet.”
    “Did you have anything definite in mind when you came here?”
    The woman hesitated. “No, nothing in particular.”
    “I’m not asking out of curiosity.”
    “I know that. You think I should do something. That’s what I want, too. I say so to myself every day. But then—”
    “The landlord told me you were an actress. I didn’t ask him. He told me when I asked for your name.”
    “Had you forgotten it?”
    Ravic glanced up. She looked at him calmly. “Yes,” he said. “I left the slip of paper in my hotel and couldn’t recall it at the moment.”
    “Do you know it now?”
    “Yes. Joan Madou.”
    “I’m not a good actress,” the woman said. “I only played small parts. Nothing at all in the last few years. Also I don’t speak French well enough.”
    “What do you speak then?”
    “Italian. I was brought up in Italy. And some English and Roumanian. My father was Roumanian. He is dead. My mother is British; she is still living in Italy; I don’t know where.”
    Ravic only half listened. He was bored and he no longer knew what to talk about. “Have you done anything else?” he asked, just for the sake of asking. “Besides those small parts you played?”
    “Only what went with them. Some dancing and singing.”
    Ravic looked at her doubtfully. She didn’t seem suited for that. There was something pale and vague about her and she was not attractive.
    “That may be easier to try here,” he said. “For that you need not speak perfectly.”
    “No. But first I have to find something. It is difficult if one doesn’t know anyone.”
    Morosow, Ravic suddenly thought. The Scheherazade. Naturally! Morosow ought to know about such things. The idea revived him. Morosow had dragged him into this dull evening—now the woman could be passed on to him and Boris would have a chance to show what he could do. “Do you know Russian?” he asked.
    “A little. A few songs. Gypsy songs. They are similar to Roumanian ones. Why?”
    “I know someone who knows about these things. Maybe he can help you. I’ll give you his address.”
    “I don’t think there’s much point to it. Agents are the same everywhere.