Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 5 - The Barman of the Ritz

SEPTEMBER 28, 1940

For more than a month now, Frank has been officiating in an empty cathedral, and the silence is excruciating. So terrible that he almost misses the racket of the Krauts. He had assumed that, having been reassured of Guitry’s intention to return, the Widow would immediately reopen the doors, but she has done no such thing.

All that money down the drain, it defies belief.

“How much longer do you think we’ll be closed, Monsieur Meier?” asks Luciano.

Although Georges has been on unpaid leave while the bar is closed, Frank’s apprentice Luciano is still at his post, and he has much to learn. Frank has been finding it impossible to devise new recipes—his heart is not in it—so he has been teaching Luciano classic cocktails. It fills the empty hours.

“I have no idea, son. I have a meeting with Elmiger tomorrow and we’ll see what he says. In the meantime, let’s get back to your training. How do you make an American Beauty?”

“First, take a coupe glass,” Luciano recites. “In a cocktail shaker, add a dash of white crème de menthe and a dash of grenadine. Next, add the juice of a squeezed orange, one ounce of French vermouth, and one of brandy. Fill with crushed ice and shake well. Pour into the chilled coupe glass and garnish with seasonal fruit. Is that right?”

“No. You need to focus. You’re missing the most vital thing. The secret ingredient.”

“Oh yes! The Monsieur Meier special. A float of port wine.”

“Voilà. And you serve it with a straw and a swizzle stick.”

“Of course.”

“Now, the recipe for a Blue Bird.”

“A Blue Bird! Pour one ounce of gin into a shaker, add a dash of curaçao and— I think I just heard someone knocking, monsieur.”

Frank heard the knock. But it is very late.

“Please, let me in!”

Another knock, and suddenly Frank recognizes the muffled voice on the other side of the door: Blanche, at long last.

“Please, Frank. I’m begging you.”

Frank stands, frozen, behind the bar. The boy glances at him.

“Luciano,” Frank composes himself and whispers, “go out through the service door, go on, hurry.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Tomorrow, I need to remind the lad that he never heard that knock.

On the other side of the door, Blanche is getting impatient.

“Open up, for pity’s sake!”

Frank takes a deep breath.

Don’t let yourself be taken in, keep her at arm’s length.

“Come on, come in, quick,” he says, as he opens the door.

He gazes at Blanche Auzello. Beneath the silk kerchief she has draped over her head, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her face is lined, her body frail. She has lost a lot of weight over the past year. As their eyes finally meet, Frank realizes that, for all his doubts, he has been waiting for this reunion.