Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque

Recommendations are of little help.”
    Ravic realized she thought he wanted to get rid of her in theeasiest way. Since that was so, he protested. “The man I mean is not an agent. He is the doorman of the Scheherazade. That’s a Russian night club on Montmartre.”
    “Doorman?” Joan Madou lifted her head. “That is something else,” she said. “Doormen are much better informed than agents. That may be something. Do you know him well?”
    Ravic looked at her in surprise. Suddenly she had spoken like a professional. “He is a friend of mine,” he said. “His name is Boris Morosow and he has been with the Scheherazade for the last ten years. There’s always a pretty big show. They change the numbers frequently. He’s on good terms with the manager. If there’s no spot for you in the Scheherazade he will be sure to know of something else. Will you try it?”
    “Yes. When?”
    “It would be best around nine o’clock in the evening. He’s not busy then and he will have time for you. I’ll tell him about it.” Ravic looked forward to seeing Morosow’s face. Suddenly he felt better. The slight burden of responsibility he had still felt had disappeared. He had done what he could and now it was up to her. “Are you tired?” he asked.
    Joan Madou looked straight into his eyes. “I’m not tired,” she said. “But I know that it is no pleasure to sit here with me. You came out of pity and I thank you for it. You took me out of my room and you spoke to me. That means a great deal to me, since I’ve hardly spoken to anyone for days. Now I’ll go. You have done more than enough for me. What would have become of me otherwise?”
    My God, Ravic thought, now she is starting that. He looked uncomfortably at the glass wall before him. A fat dove was trying to ravish a cockatoo. The cockatoo was so bored that she did not even shake him off. She merely went on eating and ignored him.
    “It was not pity.”
    “What else?”
    The dove gave it up. He hopped down from the broad back of the cockatoo and began to clean his feathers. The cockatoo indifferently lifted her tail and defecated.
    “We’ll both drink a cognac now,” Ravic said. “That’s the best answer. But believe me I’m not really such a philanthropist. There are many evenings when I sit around by myself. Do you consider that particularly interesting?”
    “No, but I’m a bad partner. That’s worse.”
    “I’ve given up looking for partners. Here’s your cognac.
Salute!
”
    “Salute.”
    Ravic put his glass down. “So. And now we’ll leave this menagerie. You wouldn’t like to go back to your hotel, would you?”
    Joan Madou shook her head.
    “All right. Then let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to the Scheherazade. We’ll have a drink there—we both seem to need it—and at the same time you can find out what’s going on there.”
    It was almost three o’clock in the morning. They stood in front of the Hôtel de Milan. “Have you had enough to drink?” Ravic asked.
    Joan Madou hesitated. “I thought I had enough when I was there, in the Scheherazade. But now here, looking at this door—it wasn’t enough.”
    “Something can be done about that. Maybe we can still get something here in the hotel. Otherwise we’ll go to some bar and buy a bottle. Come.”
    She looked at him. Then she looked at the door. “Very well,” she said with determination. Yet she continued to stand there. “To go up there,” she said, “in that empty room—”
    “I’ll go with you. And we’ll take a bottle with us.”
    The doorman woke up. “Have you anything to drink?” Ravic asked.
    “Champagne cocktail?” the doorman asked immediately, businesslike, but still yawning.
    “Thank you. Something stronger. Cognac, a bottle.”
    “Courvoisier, Martell, Hennessy, Bisquit Dubouchée?”
    “Courvoisier.”
    “Very well, sir. I’ll take the cork out and bring the bottle up.” They walked upstairs. “Have you got your key?” Ravic asked the