He had intended to just have a quick chat and leave, but they ended up talking for quite a while. It had been a long time since Jörg had last spoken with a woman his age, and because he looked like someone she knew, Christine stared at him the entire time, so it took a lot of effort for Jörg to suppress his racing emotions.
Christine removed a photograph from her wallet and showed it to him. “This is Hubert, and that’s Fabrice. If you see them anywhere, please let me know.”
The photograph showed her with the soccer team. Jörg didn’t recall ever seeing either of the men. Hubert had his arms crossed and was leaning to the side, a football at his feet and a carefree smile on his face. He was more muscular than Jörg and taller than Christine. Apparently, he was also kind to the neighborhood children. The thought of a man like that heading off to war to slaughter other human beings in the name of his homeland filled Jörg with an unbearable sadness.
Fabrice’s appearance, however, surprised him completely. They didn’t just look alike—he was identical to the man. The Count must have based this simulacrum off Fabrice.
In which case, this body might contain some of his memories. Surely the Count knew a way to weave someone’s memories into a simulacrum. Fabrice’s intense longing for home might have seared itself inside this simulacrum, which would explain why it had headed directly for Christine’s apartment building.
Jörg committed Hubert’s face to memory, then returned the photograph to Christine.
“If I hear anything about their whereabouts, I’ll get in touch immediately. Could you write down the address here?”
Christine nodded, and Jörg removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. He passed it to her, and she scribbled down the address with a pencil before saying, “Thank you.”
“I guess I should be on my way,” Jörg said. “Stay strong and wait for the day when Hubert and Fabrice come back home.”
“Thank you for everything. It’s dark now, so watch your step.”
When Jörg opened the door of the apartment building and stepped outside, an inky blue-black color was already staining the sky.
The city was darker than he’d imagined it would be. Plenty of streetlights dotted the roads, but none were lit. He’d heard that Paris had electricity, but the streetlamps around here were all still gas, so the lamplighter must be running behind schedule.
“Do you need a taxi, sir?” someone called out to him from behind.
He turned to see a friendly-looking man in a flat cap. The man wore a deep-brown jacket with khaki pants and was leaning against a red automobile. When had it arrived? Jörg hadn’t heard the sound of an engine or brakes.
The driver slowly opened the car door. “First time in Paris? You look like you’re fresh from the front, taking some time for a bit of rest and recuperation.”
“You could say that.”
“It’s easy enough to find places on your own during the day, but at night, it’s that much harder. I’ll give you a discount. Come on, hop in.”
The taxi consisted of a boxy passenger cabin behind a driver’s seat protected only by a canvas awning. The driver’s seat was wide enough to fit two people side by side, and a vertically sliding window separated the driver and passenger sections. With the window closed, the driver couldn’t hear any conversation going on in the passenger cabin, but passengers could open the window to give directions. The driver told him the car was a 1911 Renault AG-1 and boasted about how easily he could steer something this size.
“I thought the taxis in Paris were all being used on the front,” commented Jörg.
“That was for the battle at Marne; most of them are back now. There are also some made by new companies.”
“Then, could you take me someplace I can relax over a drink?”
“Of course, sir. May I recommend Montparnasse? It’s become quite the hot spot for young artists. They’ll even paint a caricature of you as a souvenir.”
Jörg smiled bitterly and touched the mask covering his wound. “Even with a face like this?”
“Have them draw what you looked like before you got injured. Real artists can draw what the eye can’t see. And that place is crawling with all sorts of talented people who’ll probably be famous one day.”
“What do you mean they’ll ‘probably’ be famous?”
“Most of the really talented artists are fighting right now. Braque, Léger—they and so many others have been sent off to war. If they don’t come back, though, that’s it. The people who stayed here in France will lead the next generation.”
“I see.”
“You used to be able to find Picasso in Montmartre and Montparnasse pretty often not too long ago, but I’m not sure about now. Chagall went back to his hometown two years ago, and Utrillo has been hospitalized too many times to count. So when you’re in Montparnasse, try to find some budding young talent. Even Japanese artists who’ve come all the way from the Far East go there, and the stuff by Modigliani is interesting, even though it doesn’t sell. He does caricatures to pay the bills, so find a café and ask around. The drawings he does have strangely exaggerated proportions.”
“I don’t know much about art, so I can’t hope to understand anything too complicated.”
“If you don’t like it, you can just pay them and not accept the painting. That’s what everyone does.”
Jörg got in and closed the door behind him, and the man climbed into the driver’s seat. As soon as he sat down, Jörg felt the vibrations of the engine as the car smoothly took off. It was a pleasant sensation, riding in a car along the paved road.