“You’re the professor,” Andras said.
Vago took his coat from its wooden peg and put it on. He pushed Andras through the door ahead of him, followed him down the stairs, and steered him through the blue front doors of the school. Out on the boulevard he fished in his pocket for change; he led Andras down the stairs of the Raspail Métro just as a train flew into the station. They rode to Motte-Picquet and transferred to the 8, then changed again at Michel-Ange Molitor. Finally, at an obscure stop called Billancourt, Vago led Andras off the train and up onto a suburban boulevard. The air was fresher here outside the city center; shopkeepers sprayed the sidewalks in preparation for the morning’s business, and window-washers polished the avenue’s glass storefronts. A line of girls in short black woolen coats stepped briskly along the sidewalk, led by a matron with a feather in her hat.
“Not far now,” Vago said. He led Andras down the boulevard and turned onto a smaller commercial street, then onto a long residential street, then onto a smaller residential street lined with gray duplexes and sturdy red-roofed houses, which yielded suddenly to a soaring white ship of an apartment building, triangular, built on a shard of land where two streets met at an acute angle. The apartments had porthole windows and deep-set balconies with sliding-glass doors, as if the building really were an ocean liner; it lanced forward through the morning behind a prow of curving windows and milk-white arcs of reinforced concrete.
“Architect?” Vago said.
“Pingusson.” A few weeks earlier they had gone to see his work in the design pavilion at the International Exposition; the fifth-year student who had been their guide had declaimed about the simplicity of Pingusson’s lines and his unconventional sense of proportion.
“That’s right,” Vago said. “One of ours-an École Spéciale man. I met him at an architecture convention in Russia five years ago, and he’s been a good friend ever since. He’s written some sharp pieces for L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui. Pieces that got people to read the magazine when it was just getting off the ground. He’s also a hell of a poker player. We’ve got a regular Saturday night game. Sometimes Professor Perret pays us a visit-he can’t play worth a damn, but he likes to talk.”
“I can imagine that,” Andras said.
“Well, now, this Saturday night, guess what the talk was about?”
Andras shrugged.
“Not a guess?”
“The Spanish Civil War.”
“No, my young friend. We talked about you. Your problem. The scholarship. Your lack of funds”. Meanwhile, Perret kept pouring champagne. A first-rate ’26 Canard-Duchêne he received as a gift from a client. Now, Georges-Henri-that’s Pingusson-he’s an uncommonly intelligent man. He’s responsible for a lot of very fine buildings here in Paris and has a houseful of awards to show for them. He’s an engineer, too, you know, not just an architect. He plays poker like a man who knows numbers. But when he drinks champagne, he’s all bravado and romance. Around midnight he threw his bankbook on the table and told Perret that if he, Perret, won the next hand, then he-Pingusson, I mean-would pitch in for your tuition and fees.
Andras stared at Vago. “What happened?”
“Perret lost, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him beat Pingusson. But the champagne had already done its work. He’s a smart one, our Perret. In the end, smarter than Pingusson.”
“What do you mean?”
“Afterward, we’re all standing on the street trying to get a cab. Perret’s sober as an owl, shaking his head. ‘Terrible shame about the Lévi boy,’ he says. ‘Tragic thing.’ And Georges-Henri, drunk on champagne-he practically goes to his knees on the sidewalk and begs Perret to let him stand you a loan. Fifty percent, he says, and not a centime less. ‘If the boy can come up with the other half,’ he says, ‘let him stay in school.’”
“You can’t be serious,” Andras said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But he came to his senses the next morning.”
“No. Perret made him put it in writing that night. He owes Perret, in any case. The man’s done him more than a few favors.”
“And what kind of security does he want for the loan?”
“None,” Vago said. “Perret told him you were a gentleman. And that you’d earn plenty once you graduated.”
“Fifty percent,” Andras said. “Good God. From Pingusson.” He looked up again at the curving profile of the building, its soaring white prow. “Tell me you’re not joking.”
“I’m not joking. I’ve got the signed letter on my desk.”
“But that’s thousands of francs.”
“Perret convinced him you were worth helping.”
He felt his throat closing. He was not going to cry, not here on a street corner at Boulogne-Billancourt. He scuffed the sole of his shoe against the sidewalk. There had to be a way to come up with the other half. If Perret had worked magic for him, if he had made something for him out of nothing, if he considered him a gentleman, the least Andras could do was to meet the challenge of Pingusson’s loan. He would do whatever he had to do. How long had he spent looking for a job? A few days? Fourteen hours? The city of Paris was a vast place. He would find work. He had to.
There were times when a good-natured ghost seemed to inhabit the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt, times when a play should have fallen apart but didn’t. On the evening of Marcelle Gérard’s début as the Mother, all had seemed poised for disaster; an hour before curtain Marcelle appeared in Novak’s office and threatened to quit. She wasn’t ready to go on, she told him. She would embarrass herself in front of her public, the critics, the minister of culture. Novak took her hands and implored her to be reasonable. He knew she could perform the role. She had been flawless in the audition. The part had gone to Claudine Villareal-Bloch only because Novak hadn’t wanted to show favoritism toward Madame Gérard. Their affair may have been long past now, but people still talked; he’d been afraid that word would get back to his wife at a time when things were already delicate between them. Marcelle understood that, of course; hadn’t they discussed it when the decision had been made? He would never have considered allowing her to go on tonight if he didn’t think she would be perfect. Her fears were normal, after all. Hadn’t Sarah Bernhardt herself overcome a paralyzing bout of stage fright in her 1879 portrayal of Phèdre? He knew without a doubt that as soon as Marcelle set foot onstage she would become Brecht’s vision of the role. She must know it too. Didn’t she? But when he’d finished, Madame Gérard had pulled her hands away and retired to her dressing room without a word, leaving Novak alone.
Perhaps it was the earnest force of his worry that called Sarah Bernhardt’s ghost out of the walls of the theater that night; perhaps it was the collective worry of the cast and crew, the lighting men, the ushers, the costumers, the janitors, the coat-check girl. Whatever the reason, by the time the nine o’ clock hour struck, Marcelle Gérard’s hesitation had vanished. The minister of culture sat in his box, tippling discreetly from a silver flask; Lady Mendl and the honorable Mrs. Reginald Fellowes were with him, Lady Mendl with peacock feathers in her hair, Daisy Fellowes resplendent in a Schiaparelli suit of jade-green silk. The war in Spain had made communist theater fashionable in France. The house was packed. The lights dimmed. And then Marcelle Gérard stepped onto the stage and spoke as if in the plum-toned voice of Sarah Bernhardt herself. From his place in the wings, Zoltán Novak watched as Madame Gérard called forth a rendition of The Mother that put Claudine Villareal-Bloch’s love-addled performances to shame. He breathed a sigh of relief so pleasurable, so deep, he was glad his wife had denied him the chest-constricting comfort of his cigarettes. With any luck, he had left his consumption behind for good. The time he’d spent back home in Budapest at the medicinal baths had flushed the blood and pain from his lungs. The play had not failed. And his theater might survive after all-who knew-despite the long red columns in its ledger books and the debts that increased persistently each week.