I turned in my chair and swiftly rose to greet her as she walked slowly toward us, smiling warmly, wearing the same blue dress that Rick had described to me so often.
“You’re here,” she said, looking past me, her smile, her eyes, only for him.
He shrugged almost like a Frenchman. “Where else would I he?”
He came around the table, past me. She kissed him swiftly, lightly on the lips. It was affectionate, but not passionate.
Rick helped her slip onto the bench behind the table and then slid in beside her. I would have expected him to smile at her, but his expression was utterly serious. She said hello to me at last, as Henri brought another glass to the table.
“Well,” I said as I sat down, “this is like old times, eh?”
Rick nodded, Ilsa murmured, “Old times.”
I saw that there was a plain gold band on her finger. I’m certain that Rick noticed it, too.
“Perhaps I should be on my way,” I said. “You two must have a lot to talk about.”
“Oh no, don’t leave,” she said, actually reaching across the table toward me. “I . . .” She glanced at Rick. “I can’t stay very long, myself.”
I looked at Rick.
“It’s all right, Louie,” he said.
He filled her glass and we all raised them and clinked. “Here’s . . . to Paris,” Rick toasted.
“To Paris,” Ilsa repeated. I mumbled it, too.
Now that I had the chance to study her face, I saw that the war years had changed her, as well. She was still beautiful, with the kind of natural loveliness that other women would kill to possess. Yet where she had been fresh and innocent in the old days, now she looked wearier, warier, more determined.
“I saw Sam last year,” she said.
“Oh?”
“In New York. He was playing in a nightclub.”
Rick nodded. “Good for Sam. He got home.”
Then silence stretched between them until it became embarrassing. These two had so much to say to each other, yet neither of them was speaking. I knew I should go, but they both seemed to want me to remain.
Unable to think of anything else to say, I asked, “How on earth did you ever get into Paris?”
Ilsa smiled a little. “I’ve been working with the International Red Cross . . . in London.”
“And Victor?” Rick asked. There. It was out in the open now.
“He’s been in Paris for the past month.”
“Still working with the Resistance.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” She took another sip of champagne, then said, “We have a child, you know.”
Rick’s face twitched into an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace.
“She’ll be three in December.”
“A Christmas baby,” Rick said. “Lucky kid.”
Ilsa picked up her glass, but put it down again without drinking from it. “Victor and I . . . we thought, well, after the war is over, we’d go back to Prague.”
“Sure,” said Rick.
“There’ll be so much to do,” Ilsa went on, almost whispering, almost pleading. “His work won’t be finished when the war ends. In a way, it will just be beginning.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s understandable.”
Rick stared into his glass and said nothing.
“What will you do when the war’s over?” she asked him.
Rick looked up at her. “I never make plans that far ahead.”
Ilsa nodded. “Oh, yes. I see.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m thinking about going into politics, myself.”
With a wry grin, Rick said, “You’d be good at it, Louie. Perfect.”
She took another brief sip of champagne, then said, “I’ll have to go now.”
