“And nothing?” Ben Yakov said. “Not a trace of him?”

Rosen shook his head. “I searched the place from basement to attic. Nobody had seen him, or at least they claimed they hadn’t.”

“And what if you’d found him?” Tibor asked.

“What would I have done, you mean? At the time, I would have choked him to death with my bare hands. But I would have been a fool to do it. We need to know who his accomplices were.”

The student café began to clear. Doors opened and slammed all around the atrium as students filtered into the classrooms. Tibor watched them go, his eyes grave behind his silver-rimmed glasses.

“What are you thinking about?” Andras asked him in Hungarian.

“Lucky Béla,” Tibor said. “Ember embernek farkasa.”

“Speak French, Hungarians,” Rosen said. “What are you talking about?”

“Something our father used to say,” Andras said, and repeated the phrase.

“And what does that mean, in the parlance of the rest of the world?”

“Man is a wolf to man.”

That night they were supposed to go to a party at József Hász’s on the boulevard Saint-Jacques. It was to be the first time Andras would spend an evening at József’s since the beginning of his liaison with Klara. The idea made him anxious, but József had invited him in person a week earlier; a few of his paintings were to appear in a student show at the Beaux-Arts, which Andras must be sure to miss because it would be a terrible bore, but after the opening there would be drinks and dinner at József’s. Andras had demurred on the basis that Tibor would be in town and that he couldn’t burden József with another guest, but that had only made József insist all the more: If Tibor were in Paris for the first time, he couldn’t miss a party at József Hász’s.

When they arrived, the company was already drunk. A trio of poets stood on the sofa and shouted verse in three-part cacophony while a girl in a green leotard performed acts of contortion on the Oriental rug. József himself presided over the card table, winning at poker while the other players scowled at their dwindling piles of money.

“The Hungarians have arrived!” József said when he saw them. “Now we’ll have a real game. Pull up a chair, men! Play cards.”

“I’m afraid we can’t,” Andras said. “We’re broke.”

József dealt a hand with dazzling speed. “Eat, then,” he said. “If you’re broke, you’re probably hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” He didn’t look up from his cards. “Visit the buffet.”

On the dining table was a raft of baguettes, three wheels of cheese, pickles, apples, figs, a chocolate torte, six bottles of wine.

“Now that’s a welcome sight,” Tibor said. “Free dinner.”

They made sandwiches of figs and cheese and took them to the large front room, where they watched the contortionist become a circle, a bell, a Spanish knot. Afterward she posed erotically with another girl, while a third girl took photographs with an ancient-looking camera.

Tibor watched in a mesmeric trance. “Does Hász have parties like this often?” he asked, following the girls with his eyes as they shifted to a new pose.

“More often than you’d imagine,” Andras said.

“How many people live in this apartment?”

“Just him.”

Tibor let out a low whistle.

“There’s hot water in the bathroom, too.”

“Now you’re exaggerating.”

“No, I’m not. And a porcelain tub with lion feet. Come see.” He led Tibor down the hall toward the back of the apartment and paused at the bathroom door, which stood open just enough to show a sliver of white porcelain. A glow of candles emanated from within. Andras opened the door. There, blinking against the glare from the hallway, was a couple standing against the wall, the girl’s hair disheveled, the top buttons of her shirt undone. The girl was Elisabet Morgenstern, one hand raised against the light.

“Pardon us, gentlemen,” the man said in American-accented French, each word delivered with drink-soaked languor.

Elisabet had recognized Andras at once. “Stop looking at me, you stupid Hungarian!” she said.

Andras took a step backward into the hall, pulling Tibor along with him. The man gave them a wink of drunken triumph and kicked the door closed.

“Well,” Tibor said. “I suppose we’d better examine the plumbing later.”

“That might be best.”

“And who was that darling girl? She seems to know you.”

“That darling girl was Elisabet Morgenstern.”

“The Elisabet? Klara’s daughter?”

“The.”

“And who was the man?”

“Someone awfully brave, that’s for sure.”

“Does József know Elisabet?” Tibor said. “Do you think the secret’s out between them?”

Andras shook his head. “No idea. Elisabet does seem to live her own life outside the house. But József’s never mentioned a secret cousin, which I’m certain he would have, as much as he loves to gossip.” His temples began to pound as he wondered what exactly he had discovered, and what he would tell Klara.

They wove their way back to the sofa and sat down to watch the guests play charades; a girl appropriated Andras’s coat and wore it over her head like a hood while she stooped to pick invisible flowers. The others called out the titles of films Andras had never seen. He needed another glass of wine, and was ready to get up and look for one when Elisabet’s lover staggered into the room. The man, blond and broad-shouldered and wearing an expensive-looking merino jacket, tucked his shirt into his trousers and smoothed his hair. He raised a hand in greeting and sat down on the couch between Andras and Tibor.

“How are we, gentlemen?” he asked in his languid French. “You’re not having nearly as much fun as I am, from the look of it.” He sounded like the Hollywood stars who did commercials for Radio France. “That girl’s quite a firecracker. I met her on a ski vacation over Christmas, and I’m afraid I’ve become addicted to her.”

“We were just leaving,” Andras said. “We’ll be on our way now.”

“No, sir!” the blond American crowed. He put an arm across Andras’s chest. “No one goes! We’re staying all night!”

Down the hall came Elisabet, shaking drops of water from her hands. She’d hastily rearranged her hair and misbuttoned her blouse. When she reached the front room, she beckoned to Andras with a single urgent sweep of her hand. Andras got up from the sofa and excused himself with a half bow, then followed Elisabet down the hall. She led him to József’s bedroom, where a deluge of coats had overflowed the bed and pooled on the floor.

“All right,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Nothing!” Andras said. “Not a thing.”

“If you tell my mother about Paul, I’ll kill you.”

“When would I tell her, now that you’ve banished me from your house?”

Elisabet’s look became shrewd. “Don’t play innocent with me,” she said. “I know you haven’t spent the past two months hoping I’d fall in love with you. I know what’s going on between you and my mother. I could see how she looked at you. I’m not a fool, Andras. She might not tell me everything, but I’ve known her long enough to be able to tell when she’s got a lover. And you’re just her type. Or one of her types, I should say.”

Now it was his turn to show a self-conscious flush; I could see how she looked at you. And how he must have looked at her. How could anyone have failed to see it? He glanced down at the hearth; a silver cigarette case lay among the ashes, its monogram obscured. “You know she wouldn’t want you to be here,” he said. “Does she know you know József Hász?”

“That idiot who lives here, you mean? Why, is he some sort of notorious criminal?”

“Not exactly,” Andras said. “He can throw a rather rough party, that’s all.”

“I just met him tonight. He’s some friend of Paul’s from school.”

“And you met Paul in Chamonix?”

“I don’t see where that’s any business of yours. And I mean it, Andras, you can’t tell my mother about any of this. She’ll lock me in my room for life.” She tugged at her shirt, and when she saw she’d buttoned it wrong, pronounced an unladylike curse.