He boarded first so Luki could see him, and took his first-class cabin, alone. He tucked his suitcase away so as not to invite a search, and listened to Luki’s voice drifting from the adjoining cabin. Would his forged papers be good enough if he had to produce them here on the train? The real US visa that also served as a document in lieu of passport in his own name was sewn into the lining of his jacket, along with his real French residency permit and camp release. He had a French identity card, also real, in his coat pocket; it had belonged to an Henri Roux, whose photograph had been carefully replaced with one of Edouard by Varian’s new forger. Edouard had memorized everything handwritten into the form, the details of the real Henri Roux, recently deceased: born December 9 of the year before Edouard was born, in the Dordogne, to parents Pierre and Marie Roux. Height: 70 inches, to Eduard’s 71. All the other details stated on the card were close enough that they might describe Edouard, with the exception of the last line, Signes particuliers: Néant. Distinguishing marks: None. The real Henri Roux had no defining mole at his left eyebrow. If the line had been left blank, like the line for facial hair, the forger might have written in Edouard’s mole, but None was written clearly there. Bill Frier might have been able to transform the single word into something suggesting Edouard’s mole, but that was beyond the skill of this new forger. Still, this was, Varian had assured him, the safest kind of alias. Any check would show Henri Roux as a real French businessman, and wouldn’t likely turn up his death only two days earlier.
A few moments later they departed, without any document check. The train would take all day to get to Perpignan, where they would change to a local train to Banyuls-sur-Mer. The threat of discovery would remain every minute. There might be a document check anywhere along the way. Still, as Edouard watched Marseille disappear out the window, he wondered if luck might finally be on his side.
Sunday, December 8, 1940
MONTPELLIER
Where are you going, Monsieur Roux?” the uniformed train attendant at the door to Edouard’s compartment asked—demanded, Edouard would have said, but he was trying not to seem defensive. They were at the station in Montpellier, quite far to have gotten without their documents being checked, and the man was Vichy, that was clear from his words, his attitude, even his bearing. Better Vichy than German.
Edouard handed him the ticket to Banyuls, a real ticket but in Henri Roux’s name. As the man glanced at it, punched it, and handed it back, Edouard tried to appear relaxed.
“And your documents?”
Edouard handed over the identity card with its fingerprints of a dead man not yet buried.
“What business have you in Banyuls?” the attendant asked. Again, demanded. “And what need have you of a camera?”
Edouard smiled and raised the Leica slightly, unsure whether the man would be flattered to have his photograph taken, or suspicious.
“I’m exploring Banyuls as a location for business expansion,” he said. “Photographs are so often helpful for remembering.”
The man frowned, unconvinced.
To Edouard’s horror, he began ticking through the details listed on Henri Roux’s identity card, reading each under his breath and looking up at Edouard to confirm.
“Height: 70.”
Edouard sunk into his heels, hoping to shrink that extra inch.
“Face shape: Square.”
“Complexion: Brown.”
“Hair: Brown.”
“No mustaches.”
No mustaches, Edouard thought. But not no distinguishing marks. Was there any chance the inspector could be convinced Edouard’s mole was not distinct enough or had been inadvertently left off?
“Forehead: Ordinary.”
“Eyes: Green.”
“Nose: Medium.”
The man considered Edouard’s nose, leaving Edouard remembering that shot he’d taken so many years ago now, of the Nazi measuring a man’s nose with a caliper.
“Mouth: Medium.”
The next line would be his chin, and then there would be nothing left but Signes particuliers: Néant.
Edouard moved his Leica aside, in the process deliberately clipping one of the cabin’s lamps with his elbow so that it hit the man’s arm before tumbling to the ground with a gratifying commotion.
“Terribly sorry,” Edouard apologized, stooping to retrieve the Henri Roux documents that had fallen to the floor and righting the lamp as, already from next door, Nanée could be heard calling out in fear.
The attendant went running. Edouard set the forged identification on the table in his compartment and followed.
Nanée stood cowering in her cabin, holding Luki close, already exclaiming to the inspector about a spider. “Right there,” she insisted. “He was right there.”
Much fuss was made moving cushions and searching everywhere.
No spider surfaced. There was, Edouard knew, no spider.
“There is an empty compartment at the far end of the carriage that perhaps would better suit?” the attendant offered.
Nanée, holding Luki’s hand, squeezed it and said to her, “Did it frighten you, sweetheart?”
Luki shook her head.
“It didn’t? But it was as big as my hand. And hairy. Did you see it? I hate hairy spiders.”
Again, Luki shook her head.
“You didn’t see it?” Nanée said, seeming astonished. “It was like something from a Surrealist painting.” She looked quite confused. “Was I . . . Was I sleeping?” Then to the inspector, apologetic now, “I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps I dozed off? It does seem, now that I think of it, that it was too impossibly terrible to be real. I . . . How mortifying.”
The inspector said it was no trouble at all, he was there to serve her. But perhaps if she was truly all right, then he might check her travel papers?
Edouard backed away, only to have the inspector say, “Oh yes, I do still need to see your documents, sir.”
Edouard was astonished to hear himself say, “But you did just examine them. My ticket to Banyuls? My identity card and French transit visa. If you need to see them again, though, they’re in my cabin.”
“I did, yes, of course,” the inspector said, and Nanée apologized for being such a terrific pest as a neighbor, saying she would promise to have better dreams if she dropped off again. Edouard waved his hand as if to say it was no bother and backed out of Nanée’s compartment.
Luki smiled a little as she watched him go. The whole time, Nanée had held tightly to her hand, and she hadn’t said a word.
Sunday, December 8, 1940
PERPIGNAN
If there was anyone at the Perpignan train station who wasn’t a refugee on the run, you could have fooled Nanée. A fierce wind bit at her fingertips even down here on the plain, making her wonder how cold it must be in the mountains already tipped with snow. Still, the nearby cafés were full, with hawkers openly shouting out black-market dollar exchange rates—outrageous ones—and even the people-smugglers openly offering for a price personal guides over the border, diplomatic limousines, and passages on ships to Gibraltar, from which one was expected to jump off and swim the last leg of the trip. Everyone here hoped to leave quickly; the few remaining ways to escape France might close any day, any minute. But of course one had to be careful. More than one of the hawkers would take you up the mountain, strip you of your possessions, and leave you stranded. More than one would collect payment for the promise of transit over the border, then turn you over to Vichy to collect a reward.
Nanée sat next to Luki on a bench in front of the brick-and-limestone station, waiting for the local train on to Banyuls-sur-Mer. Edouard sat at the far end of the bench as if he had nothing to do with them. Gussie’s book was open on his lap, but he was watching the pétanque players in the square, men laughing together as the little balls they tossed rolled toward the smaller target ball, and chattering in Catalan—Spaniards who’d escaped Franco. Were they headed back now, the threat of Hitler in France worse than the fascist ruling Spain?
Edouard stood and raised his Leica. He photographed the bowlers. He walked a few paces, then turned back to frame a shot of the bench and the station behind it—an excuse, Nanée assumed, to photograph his daughter.
Nanée breathed deeply, sea air with an undertone of the lingering coal exhaust from the trains and the human smell of travelers too long on the road. She huddled closer to Luki, to keep her warm as they waited. So much of the journey through life is spent waiting.
“They have different words,” Luki said.