Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 8 - The Barman of the Ritz

JUNE 3, 1943

Inga Haag, perched on a stool opposite Frank, is the only customer in the bar. A breath of fresh air. Tonight, she is wearing a cotton sundress of mimosa yellow with white checks. Inga and Frank have established a little ritual. The moment she walks through the door, he pours a glass of Roederer and adds a raspberry. Then he walks around his bar and takes her hand as she settles herself on the bar stool. Her magnificent cat has also found his own place—curled up next to the cash register. He sleeps with one eye closed, the other warily observing the barman. For the past twenty minutes, Frank has been listening, a little awestruck, as Inga recounts tales of her childhood in Berlin, her expensive boarding school in London, her mother’s matchless beauty, and her beloved father, an investment banker and collector of rare books. As she reminisces, Inga runs a polished fingernail over the rim of her empty champagne glass. Frank is mesmerized by her. But what about Blanche? Blanche, who at this very moment is probably going through hell… As he pours her more champagne, Inga glances at the framed portrait of Fitzgerald.

“I would love to have spent an evening with him,” she murmurs.

“Not very long ago, he was sitting on that very bar stool.”

Inga looks stunned; Frank swells with pride.

“Did you know him well?”

“I think I can say that we were friends.” Frank smiles, remembering his fond exchanges with the great writer.

“Really?” Inga is sitting up straighter, genuine awe in her eyes. “But that’s amazing!”

“I miss him.”

How I would love to be serving him drinks again, him and the old crowd. Will those days ever return?

Inga Haag purses her lips. She looks moved. Then she talks about her secret passion for American literature. Before the war, she devoured all Fitzgerald’s novels. Frank is stunned; there are not many people in Paris who have read The Great Gatsby. Knowing this beautiful woman is familiar with Fitzgerald’s work entices him even more than her smiles. He watches as she raises the glass to her lips.

How I’d love to take her in my arms, hold her close, bury my face in her neck, and inhale the intoxicating scent of her golden skin.

For God’s sake, just do it.

Blanche can never be yours. She’s a married woman. What are you waiting for? In times like these, any one opportunity may be my last.

Frank’s nervousness is palpable and Inga seems to have sensed his discomfort.

How long has it been since I last slept with a woman?

Inga smiles at Frank and gently strokes her cat’s head.

“Do you know how I learned French?” asks Frank, with a touch of bravado.

“No, tell me.”

“By reading and rereading Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le Noir.”

“Really!”

“I admire the audacity of Julien Sorel.”

“Men always think of Julien Sorel as a romantic hero, but isn’t the novel about his failure?”

Inga’s words course through Frank like a torrent, and he is shaken. Failure. He never thought about it like that. Has the devastating fall from grace of Stendhal’s hero been playing on his subconscious mind for thirty years?

The bar clock chimes. It is nine o’clock.

“Monsieur!”

Frank is startled.

Overcome by his emotions, Frank had completely forgotten that Luciano was at the door acting as a lookout.

“Monsieur Lafont is coming.”

“Is he alone?”

“No, there are two German officers with him. Gestapo.”

Inga Haag immediately slips her cigarette case into her leather evening bag, gets to her feet, tucks her cat under one arm, and gives Frank a wink.

“I won’t hang around, Frank, it’s getting late.”

“Of course, madame.”

Lafont enters the bar, all swagger and sneer.

“Good evening, Frank! Well, well, Mademoiselle Haag… what a pleasant surprise!”

“Good evening, Henri.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But we shall see each other on Tuesday, at Admiral Canaris’s house.”

Frank can sense the young woman’s unease. She is running away.

Who is she afraid of? Lafont or his two henchmen?

The two Gestapo officers do not say a word. Inga Haag gives Luciano a little wave as she leaves. Meanwhile, the three men seat themselves at the bar.

“Three Martinis, Frank.”

Lafont is playing the bigshot.

“Of course, monsieur.”

“So, you are a friend of Mademoiselle Haag?”

“I have that honor,” Frank says guardedly.

Lafont’s coarse chuckle startles him.

“Be very careful, Frank, her husband might take a dim view. He is an officer in the Wehrmacht.”

She’s married?

But she calls herself Fräulein, and she’s so flirtatious…

Frank feels heartsick. But he catches himself.

Where is Blanche right now? Why is he pining over another married woman?

She is no doubt in some dark cell, watched over by thugs like these three bastards…

Frank stumbles, overwhelmed by guilt, and ashamed to have been so tempted by Inga. Will he have the courage to ask Lafont, even casually, what has become of Blanche?

His all-consuming worry for Blanche hits him in the face.

Inga was right, Le Rouge et le Noir is the story of failure.