He dined alone at the hotel that evening, but then, still restless, went for a walk, and ended up at a bar nursing a cognac. A slogan painted on the wall opposite in red announced that Europe’s crisis was the world’s crisis. On a whim, he took a taxi to the seventh arrondissement, just beneath the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Gare, to a three-storey house with roses growing around the doorway. He took hold of the lion-head door knocker and knocked three times. The maid ushered him in, and Mila, a tall, thin woman in her late thirties, stood up to greet him, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. She welcomed him back, and told him it had been a while since they’d last seen him, but she never forgot a face.

  ‘What brings you back to Marseille? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Business is a good thing.’

  Artyom agreed that business was a good thing.

  ‘When business falls off, that’s when we all need to worry.’

  Mila liked to speak in clichés. She was thoroughly venal, but would pepper her conversation with all kinds of sentimentality.

  The room smelled of beeswax polish and strong tobacco. Two or three men were sitting at the bar, smoking and talking loudly, but the four or five girls around them weren’t saying much. One of the men, in a dark-blue velvet jacket, turned to look at him, then turned back to the girl at his side. Artyom remembered the curved bar; it hadn’t changed a bit. The last time he was here, some old codger had tried to teach Mila’s little spaniel to dance on its two hind paws as he sang a sea-shanty to it. It had been such a comical sight, everybody had been roaring. He’d laughed so hard, he’d very nearly wet himself.

  He was introduced to the girls who were in the house that night, and picked the redhead, who took him upstairs.

  Bed, chair, a basin and a jug of water. Paulina was from Bratislava, and didn’t have a word of French. She had some German though, and with lots of gesturing and a few common words, they understood each other as much as they needed to. After she undressed, she undressed him, folding his clothes neatly on the chair. He felt like a child again. Naked, he lay back on the bed and mused idly on how monotonous and constant his desire was. The girl poured a glassful of cold water and a glassful of hot, and put them on the small bedside table. She knelt between his thighs. She worked the tip of her tongue over his body, starting slowly under his chin, moving over his chest, his stomach. Every now and again, she’d take a sip, so that she could lick the water slowly over his skin, until his flesh was tingling. But when she swallowed his erection in a mouthful of hot water, his willpower dissolved. He couldn’t resist her, and he emptied himself into her mouth.

  17.

  The next day, Artyom left a message at the Artistic Bar for the two Corsican brothers, as L’Oreille had instructed. He then returned to his hotel room to wait for an answer. It was late in the afternoon before a knock came on the door. Zampa’s hairline was receding, and what was left was streaked with grey, but there was the same old sly look in his eyes. He told Artyom that Lolole Corse would meet him at the Cave de Falcion at eight o’clock that night. He left, and Artyom closed the door. He remembered the messenger well from the days of importing his brother-in-law’s arms through Marseille, during the war. At that time, Zampa, an Italian by extraction, though brought up in Nice, drove a motor lorry for the Trois Canards gang, and a rough lot they were. It was said they were the first thieves to wear balaclavas, though the only reason for that, Zampa had told him once, had been to keep themselves warm as they drilled through the wall of an icy cellar to the bank next door.

  Wearing balaclavas then become the thing for a while, even in summer, when they made the skin sweaty and itchy. Thieves were never very original, and stealing and smuggling were as much at the mercy of fashion as any other human activity. If one gang thought of an idea for a new scam, within no time every other gang would follow suit, which, Artyom supposed, made the police’s work that much easier.

  Promptly, at eight o’clock, Artyom walked into the Cave de Falcion, where he was directed to a private room at the back. Lolole, drinking pastis, gestured towards the chair opposite.

  ‘I understand your brother, Meme, is standing for election?’ Artyom asked, after some small talk about fishing, Lolole’s favourite pastime.

  Yes, he was, in Zicavo, answered Lolole. An uncle, their mother’s brother, was the councillor for Zicavo, which was a very primitive place. But then Corsica was a primitive island, as well as parochial – everybody knew each other, which was a virtue in many ways.

  Lolole’s French was thick with the accent of the south of the island, so it was not always easy to understand what he was saying. He was a short, swarthy man, in corduroy trousers and blue braces over a white sleeveless tennis shirt. He was running to fat, and he had a wattle, which shook like jelly on a saucer when he laughed. His breathing was short and shallow, and he kept his mouth open, the lower lip slack, as if to catch some extra air. He had two days’ growth of beard on his cheeks, and his face was brown as a walnut, which made the whites of his eyes appear all the whiter. Artyom could smell the sun on his skin, and the grey of Paris on his own. As Lolole drained his glass of pastis, Artyom noticed a tattoo on his wrist – an aquamarine mermaid with the head of a red serpent and a black tongue.

  Lolole told him that his brother had addressed a large open-air meeting at Bonifaccio a few days previously, and had received a warm welcome. But, fighting an election was an expensive business.

  ‘I’d be happy to make a contribution to the war chest.’

  Lolole, his eyes as hard as two rosary beads, said he was sure that Meme would be very grateful. After their glasses were refilled, he went on to say that he and Meme admired Artyom for showing a little imagination. That was in scant supply in Marseille these days. Although he was perfectly courteous on the surface, Artyom knew it was a veneer which hid violence and lies.

  ‘Why did you burn my laboratory, then? Couldn’t you have talked to me first?’

  He denied that they were responsible for the arson. Spirito and Carbone did all sorts of things to other men – men like Artyom, who were paying them commission – and then spread the rumour that it was the two brothers from Corsica who were responsible. But the tactic was backfiring on them. Everybody knew the truth.

  ‘The flics want us to put a stop to this crap. We will too.’

  Artyom didn’t have much confidence in this explanation but he had made up his mind.

  ‘I’m an honest man, and I keep to my word. If you deal fairly with me, I’ll deal fairly with you,’ he said.

  ‘Then we can do business together.’

  Once they had negotiated the commission payable on every load, the atmosphere relaxed. Lolole even gave him some advice, telling him that he’d have no bother from them or the flics, but his own men would be the problem. Not right now, but within a year or two, as they vied among each other for power within his organisation.

  L’Oreille and his three.

  Pierre and his two.

  Albertini and his problem with the bottle.

  Did he know about that?

  Artyom didn’t, but said that he did.

  ‘I’ve seen it a thousand times. The more money they’ll see flowing through their fingers, the greedier they’ll become.’

  As Artyom rose to leave, he said. ‘I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. And thank you for the advice.’

  Lolole wished him well, but he didn’t offer to shake his hand.

  18.

  Alyosha had rented a hovel of a room for himself in Rüdersdorf, but paying for it was the problem. Being a foreigner in Berlin didn’t help, and everywhere Alyosha went, he was told, ‘If we had anything we’d give it to our own people first.’

  He persevered. He was willing to do anything: sell newspapers from a kiosk, be a messenger boy, factory work – he didn’t mind how lowly, he just wanted some sort of wage in his hand at the end of the week. He even tried for a job as a vacuum-cleaner salesman, commission only, but they said the housewives wouldn’t trust a foreigner. Eventually, he was taken on at the Palast Hotel on Leipziger Platz, for three hours every afternoon, to scrape the burns off the bottom of saucepans with a knife, before scouring them clean until they shone. It needed strong arms, but not much more, and it was monotonous work. The only reason he was taken on at all was because the rest of the kitchen staff were reluctant to do such a thankless task. Scraping the burns off saucepans was even worse than having to peel a sackful of potatoes.

  He also found some tutoring work, though again, it was only for a couple of hours a week, and not enough to make a livelihood. Worse still, the woman he taught was such a bad student, it was all he could do not to show his impatience. She simply could not grasp Russian grammar, and even conjugating a regular verb was beyond her, never mind the exceptions. He came to dread the weekly session, and, as he approached her house one evening, under a cloudy, storm filled sky, between one lamp post and the next, something came over him, and he turned on his heel and ran for his life.

  Then, he stopped turning up at the hotel as well, and began to feel very low. He knew he was in danger of spiralling into hopelessness. Some days, he couldn’t even get out of bed, and lay there all day, too listless to dress or wash himself. He went out less and less, and when he did, he felt snappy and irritable. Seeing healthy, happy people going about their day made him feel all the more inadequate.

  When he looked in the mirror, the face staring back at him was pallid and thin. He could feel his ribs, as by now he was surviving on one meal a day. He felt weak, and was constantly famished, taking any opportunity that came his way to stuff his face, though he avoided his cousins, because he still had some pride, and he didn’t want them to see him so down on his luck. Eventually, just when things were so bleak he thought he might actually die of starvation, he found a job selling cigarettes in the Mexico nightclub on Geisbergstraasse.

  19.

  As he lit his cigar for him, Alyosha could see the surprise grow on Baron von Haumer’s bulging face in the light of the flame. He pulled in his chin and corked his monocle into his eye socket, and prodded Alyosha back so that he could look at him properly. The Baron proceeded to look him over minutely, but there were no two ways about it. He recognised him from the Hotel Adlon days of old, and it was more than he could do to hide his surprise at finding the son of Fyodor Mikhailovich Alexandrov, of all people, working as a cigarette boy in a nightclub. He promised to try and set him on his feet: ‘I’ll do my very best for you my boy, don’t you worry,’ he said, his voice slurring with emotion.

  Alyosha’s hopes were high for a few days, but, unbeknown to him, by lunchtime the next day, when the Baron’s headache had cleared, all that remained of the previous night’s conversation was a hazy memory of talking with somebody from the old days, the man’s name completely eluding him.

  The Mexico was housed in a low-ceilinged, long and narrow cellar. All along the walls were rows of small red lamps, which threw little pools of weak light onto the rose wallpaper and the red leather banquettes. The management had been at pains to create an intimate and stylish ambience, in order to attract a better class of clientele – people like Freiherr von Cramm, who liked to order jeroboams of champagne for his handsome entourage. They would sit huddled together like a nest of kittens, talking boisterously and smoking heavily, enveloping themselves in a fug of hashish smoke. Apart from his house in town, von Cramm also owned a place in the country, in Freienwalde, on the edge of the marshlands of the Oder, with the woody hills of the Märkische Schweiz nearby. Whenever there was a full moon, they’d all go out there, strip, and have an orgy. So went the rumour, at least. One Saturday night, after the Mexico shut, Alyosha was invited to go with them. He went expectantly, but was disappointed, as all they did was listen to jazz records on the gramophone, dance a little, and drink and smoke a lot.

  One evening, a former mistress of his stepfather, Alexei Alexeivich Dashkov, swept down the staircase of the Mexico, in a black-and-white strapless silk dress split to the thigh, and high-heeled red shoes. Svetlana Gosovska was the actress who had made his mother demented with jealousy back in Berlin, but, by now, even she was not in the first flush of youth, though she looked much younger than most women of thirty-five. Her hair was now a honey-blonde colour, with one little curl artfully falling over her eye. She was accompanied by an old general from the Kaiser’s army, who limped, leaning heavily on the gold hilt of his walking-stick, and they were with another couple, Hermann Goering and his wife, Carin. Alyosha overhead them speaking enthusiastically about the performance of Parsifal they had just seen at the Deutsches Opernhaus. A bottle of champagne was placed in its ice bucket by their table, as Svetlana mischievously tickled her lover under his chin.

  They raised their glasses, and the four of them smiled broadly as the flash lamp popped, illuminating their dark corner like lightning in a cave. Miss Gosovska had strong, good teeth, white and straight, very evident when she laughed, and there was plenty of laughter from her table that night. Goering bought two packets of cigarettes from Alyosha’s tray, and told him to keep the change. The actress didn’t notice him. All her attention was for the General. As Alyosha wavered, not sure whether to introduce himself or not, he saw somebody else who diverted his attention, but he couldn’t get a good look at her before she disappeared out of sight up the stairs.

  20.

  On his return to Paris, Artyom called on Madame Prideaux. As they often did, they played a game of cards in her small back parlour, where one or two of her favoured customers were lolling. She had opened a bottle of Haut-Brion, her favourite red wine. Madame Prideaux was a courteous woman, careful to ask after everybody’s health and spirits.

  ‘Whatever happened to that boy? What was his name?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Artyom.

  ‘Your nephew,’ replied Madame Prideaux.

  ‘Alexei Fyodorovich?’

  ‘Yes, him. Don’t you remember? You brought him here with you once. When he had just arrived from Berlin, it must be a few years ago now. And then he came again, on his own.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s rather a long story, but to make it short, he never forgave me for helping his mother get rid of some maid who was after his money.’

  ‘There’s nothing new under the sun.’

  ‘He was besotted with her. Couldn’t see through her. His mother and I got rid of Grete for his own good.’

  ‘He’ll thank you for it one day. I hope he’s well.’

  ‘No idea,’ answered Artyom cheerfully, striking a match.

  It was only after the last customer had left that they got down to business. The door was locked, and the table cleared to make room for some thousands of francs to be counted. Once that was done, Artyom, as always, settled her commission.

  This was an arrangement which suited them both down to the ground. After every load reached Paris from Marseille, on a ‘Pastis de Marseille’ company motor lorry, usually, the heroin would be distributed from the Orphans’ Friend’s warehouse to a network of dealers all over the city. The money would then be collected by two young boys and delivered to Madame Prideaux, after which Artyom would call by to count the takings.

  ‘It won’t be possible for you to have the use of this place for much longer, Artyom.’

  The Sûrété was his first thought.

  ‘What? Are the police threatening to raid?’

  ‘When I keep such a well-ordered house?’ She pretended to be shocked at such an idea. ‘The very thought, Artyom. No, but it’s like this. This place has changed hands.’

  This was news. ‘When did this happen? Who’s buying?’

  ‘Somebody from Algeria, only he lives here, in Marseille. A Frenchman, naturally. I’d hate to think of some old Arab getting his dirty paws on this place.’

  Did she know the name of the buyer?

  She didn’t. But he didn’t want her and the girls there as his tenants, so she’d have to shut up shop.

  ‘You won’t have a problem finding alternative premises, though, will you?’

  ‘That’s just it. I’ve decided to retire. I’ve plenty of money thanks to you and the girls, and I’m getting too old for these late nights. I was thinking of moving out of Paris. But where will you go is the question.’

  Artyom felt in his bones that the two Corsican brothers were behind this. The buyer from Algeria was just a frontman. Lolole and Meme Corse were placing their shadow over him, as much as to say that they had him in their sights, and could control him like a puppet. He’d heard enough from L’Oreille and Pierre to know that the Corsicans didn’t so much smash the competition in Marseille as take it over. They had realised long ago that conflict was best avoided, and picking quarrels with people only led to the flics poking their noses in places where they shouldn’t. That did nobody any good.

  Artyom knew he wouldn’t be able to cheat the Corsicans out of one franc, and he also knew they’d insist on coming in as full partners. He’d be sharing even more of his profit with them in the end, and he didn’t want that to happen, because he was already paying them handsomely. But he could feel their fingers tightening around his throat.

  21.

  She was sitting on one of the high bar stools at the Mexico. He peered at her through the low light and thick smoke; her hair was a different colour, she seemed thinner, and there was something nervy about her, which made him think he might have made a mistake. He took another look at her bony shoulders and back, but when he approached her, he saw that it was definitely Galina.