"Je me souviens des jours anciens et je pleure" – Paul Verlaine, Chanson d'automne

[V.]

Major Beilschmidt was relentless.

Minutes after his discovery, a plan was forming in his mind. He visited every hotel in and around the medina and docks that night, curfew be damned. He was a German officer – the rules did not apply to him. And he knew the presence of a Gestapo uniform would yield far better and faster results than a phone call. But none, it seemed, had any guests registered under the name Roderich Edelstein, nor any of the man's other aliases.

A hunger grew with each "no" he encountered. Exhilaration. A challenge! A game only he and Roderich could play. All was not yet lost.

The American had been wrong. He was Ali Baba. And he knew the secret words that would lead his treasure straight to him.

Major Beilschmidt hastened back to his office. He knew Roderich – liked to think he knew him well. And one thing he knew for certain was that the Austrian could be tempted. He realized that the day he discovered him playing the piano. Roderich could not resist so little a thing. But to tempt him now, in Casablanca, when he should be keeping his head low…that would be a challenge. Though there was only one thing that would get him to come out of hiding.

It was one of the oldest tricks in hunting. First, the trap must be set. Then you flush the quarry out.

The officer's fingers nimbly flicked through his filing cabinet, until he came to it. He took the folder back to his desk and began writing. He wet his lips as he finished, reading and re-reading it again. It was perfect.

He phoned the newspaper's editor, rousing him from sleep. "I need you to run an advertisement for me."

[o]

Alfred jerked awake. The conversation with the Austrian — Roderich — had resulted in a slew of his not so great war memories disguising themselves as equally not so great dreams. He didn't know he'd been sleeping until he woke up.

Alfred blinked, his office nothing more than a blur, though the pale light streaming in told him it was early morning. His glasses were...somewhere. Alfred shut his eyes, rubbing them. Something pressed on his chest. He opened his eyes again, squinting down at a grey lump resting on him. It was the cat. It purred, paws kneaded his shirt. Alfred winced as its claws pricked through the fabric and into his chest. He tried to shove it off, but the cat remained firmly in place. Giving up, he felt around for his glasses, eventually finding them resting on the back of the couch. As he settled them on his nose, two distant thoughts crashed together all at once: if the cat was here, sitting on his chest and not in the hall, then the Austrian...

The Austrian was gone!

Alfred bolted upright. The cat jumped off his chest with a throaty rumble, but Alfred did not pay it any mind as he dashed into the hall.

Alfred pushed the door open. It banged off the wall, surprising him — and a much alarmed Roderich, who was in the middle of pulling a shirt over a shockingly scarred back.

Alfred's mouth open and shut a few helpless moments before he found his voice.

"I-I…I'm sorry. I thought – "

"You thought I'd already left," the Austrian stated simply.

Alfred nodded.

The Austrian – Roderich – slid his arms into the shirt, frowning as he did up the buttons.

"I'm…sorry," Alfred said again, casting a furtive glance at Roderich's back.

"My clothes smell like a bar," Roderich muttered. "Though I've smelled worse, I'm sure." He stood with a sigh, shouldering past Alfred. "Well, Herr Jones, I said I would be out of your way come morning. Please excuse me."

"Hey – look, you don't have to….What I mean is, I'm sorry I was an ass last night. When you said – i-it's just that Francis – " Alfred huffed, rubbing his neck. "It was recent. That's all. When you said his name, I just…."

Roderich placed a hand on Alfred's arm. "My condolences. Death is something that never gets any easier."

"Believe me, I know."

Roderich gave his arm a light squeeze, his hardened glare softening.

Alfred sucked in a breath. A buzzing current coursed through his veins, warming at the gentle touch. He drew away, half ashamed at himself for having such a feeling, given the circumstances, and half knowing if he didn't, he would do something foolish. He thought he saw the Austrian frown, though admittedly it was hard to tell, given the haunted look that lingered about him.

"Would you like breakfast or – anything – before you go?" Alfred blurted, the silence stretching between them unbearable. "I-it's the least I can do."

Roderich bobbed his head, his eyes curiously light. "All right."

He descended the stairs, the cat following close at his heels. Alfred trailed behind, his eyes unwittingly focused on the Austrian's back, his mind on the marks beneath the shirt.

[o]

Major Beilschmidt was late to the office that morning. Odd, his secretary thought as he cast another look over his shoulder at the closed office door. The major was usually so punctual, you could set your watch by him. The secretary, Eduard von Bock, straightened his glasses, about to continue with his work, when the officer sped by his desk still wearing his sunglasses.

Eduard picked his head up in greeting, though he should have known better. The major never greeted anyone. Today was no different.

The door to the major's office slammed shut only to be wrenched open moments later, followed by a sharp "Bock, coffee!"

Eduard sighed. "It's von. Von Bock," he said under his breath as the office door shut again. Eduard stood and fetched the officer's coffee.

Major Beilschmidt was seated at his desk, head cradled in one hand, when Eduard entered. His sunglasses were off and his eyes were closed.

Pink tinged the officer's brow and cheeks, all the bony protrusions of his face. He must have forgotten his umbrella again, Eduard thought. The major was the first person with albinism he had ever seen. And though he'd been working for the officer for little more than a month, Eduard still found his appearance…odd.

"Just put it on the desk," the officer grit out. "And for God's sake, stop staring."

Eduard jumped and did as instructed, wondering how on earth the officer had known. "M-my apologies, sir."

"They think it's a joke," Major Beilschmidt muttered, "sending someone with my affliction to chase after a ghost in the desert."

The major's eyes opened. The madder red staining his pupils bled out, infecting the whites of his eyes. They were bloodshot, haggard. The crazed look of a man who had not slept. Adding another level to his already ghastly appearance.

The officer reached for his coffee. Eduard shrank away. Major Beilschmidt's mouth settled into a grim line. He picked up a folder on his desk and flipped it open.

Eduard cleared his throat, hoping the major was done with him. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Major Beilschmidt ignored him, continuing to shuffle through the papers in the folder. His mouth moved, uttering words Eduard could not hear, until:

"What do you make of this, Bock?"

Eduard inwardly cringed as the officer slid the folder over to him. Not daring to approach any closer, he craned his neck to see what the officer was talking about.

It was a photo. A grainy photo of a man in glasses. Short, dark hair. Thin face.

"Well!" Major Beilschmidt demanded.

Eduard's brow knit. "I…don't really know, sir."

The officer took the folder back. "Of course you don't," he muttered. "You weren't there. You never saw him. But it's him. It must be. They think it's a joke, sending me here. But we will see who's laughing. The waiting is the hardest part. But we'll see…."

Eduard backed towards the door, afraid the sun was damaging more than just Major Beilschmidt's skin.

[o]

Not knowing when his café would be permitted to open again, Alfred settled for frying up some eggs and sausage from the walk-in fridge in the kitchen. Didn't want it going bad before it had chance to be eaten. He set the coffee to brew and plated up their meals, placing everything on a tray when it was done and carried it out to the dining room where Roderich was sitting at one of the tables.

"Haven't done this in a while," Alfred said, as he served their meal.

The Austrian's head was bowed. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Each tucked into their plate, the Austrian seeming to savor every bite. Funny, Alfred thought. He never did consider himself much of a cook. But, he supposed, anything was bound to taste decent after three years in a concentration camp, followed by another five years of being on the move – no time to rest or really sit back and enjoy simple things. Alfred remembered when he came home after years in the jungle and the taste of his mama's cooking and how nothin' could beat it.

"Did he have any family?" Roderich asked, tearing Alfred away from his thoughts.

"Who? Francis?"

Roderich nodded.

Alfred shook his head. "None that I'm aware of. We never….That sorta stuff never really came up in conversation. We had our own reasons for washing up on this continent." Alfred lit a cigarette. "Closest thing he had to a family was those kids that'd tail us around in Massawa. And Angie, I guess – the singer."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Alfred bristled.

"You didn't include yourself on that list."

"We were business partners. That's all."

"Really? Because your reactions whenever his name is brought up would suggest otherwise."

Alfred gave a wry grin but said nothing more.

Roderich took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Forgive me. I was just…thinking out loud. Francis had some travel documents for me. Now I'm not sure into whose possession they may have fallen."

Alfred looked away.

"It seems a shame there's no one – no family – we can contact. About Francis, I mean," Roderich said quietly.

"Yeah, well…I'm sure they knew what kinda guy he was, so…."

Roderich clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"What?"

"Your cynicism surprises me. Though I suppose it shouldn't. Circumstances can change a man, Herr Jones. I've seen it. All too often."

Alfred finished his cigarette.

"What about your family?" he asked at length.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever contact them? After you escaped."

Roderich's shoulders stiffened. "No. We severed ties a long time ago. My aristocrat parents never cared for my choosing the poor life of a teacher over their money. Nor did they much care for my politics. Or any of my other preferences, for that matter."

His lips twitched in what could have been a smirk. It was soon chased away by a knock at the door. Alfred's eyes locked onto the Austrian's. Both men wore a look of shared suspicion.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Roderich asked.

Alfred shook his head.

The knock sounded again.

Alfred stood, peering around a curtain, and just about doubled over upon seeing a petulant face framed by waves of dark hair.

"Christ, Angie."

"Do I have to knock again or what?" she called through the door.

Alfred wrenched the door open. "What're you doin' here?"

Angelique stepped in just as the cat came trotting up to her, trilling a hello. She scooped it up, scratching it under the chin.

"Don't you feed this thing? It's so scrawny."

"No. It can fend for itself. What are you doin' here?" Alfred repeated.

Angelique sniffed, tossing her hair back. "I sang for you last night."

"I recall. And?"

"And don't I get paid?"

"Who said anything about payment? You were doin' me a favor, kid."

Angelique's eyes narrowed.

"Look," Alfred huffed, "payday's on Tuesday. And that's only if Monsieur le Préfet lets me open the café again."

Angelique took a seat with a haughty look at Alfred that suggested she was not about to leave until payment was received.

"I mean it, kid. I can't pay ya 'til next week. Come back then."

Angelique opened her mouth, about to protest, when Roderich cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle. But I was wondering if you might help me with something. Just a simple errand, but you would be compensated of course."

"And what might that be?"

"I need you to retrieve my suitcase. And a newspaper."

Alfred's eyes widened in disbelief. He had not missed Roderich's not so subtle interjection regarding payment, but was the Austrian so presumptuous as to consider making the café his new home, too?

"There's no need for payment, monsieur, I can assure you," Angelique said, an eager smile lighting up her face. "You stood up to them last night – the Germans. At least someone around here had the guts to." She sent Alfred a pointed look.

"Please, I insist – "

Angelique shook her head. "Je me souviens des jour anciens,"she began.

"…Et je pleure,"Roderich finished, somewhat bewildered.

Angelique smiled. "I thought it was you, when I saw you last night. Francis told me what you would look like. You're the one he spoke about. He said – even if we did nothing else for the Resistance – that we must do whatever it takes to help you."

"Then I am indebted to you both, mademoiselle. Though I regret I can never repay Francis my gratitude." Roderich took out a notebook and pen and scribbled down a name and address and handed it to her along with a few francs for the news vendor.

Angelique solemnly pocketed it all and left.

"Use the back door next time," Alfred called as the door closed.

He sank into his seat, grabbing his cup of coffee. It had grown cold as the morning wore on, but he drank it anyway.

"I thought you were leaving. What's this business with Angie fetchin' your suitcase?"

"As we breakfasted, it occurred to me, Herr Jones, that the major no doubt made some enquiries at the surrounding hotels last night."

"Because you think he recognized you."

Roderich nodded. "Exactly."

Alfred blew out his cheeks.

"I'm registered under a new alias. One the Gestapo is likely not to have. Still. I'd rather not take any chances."

"Then you've as good as led them straight here. This isthe last place the major saw you. It's likely he'll come and question me."

"I am sorry to have put you in the middle of this, Herr Jones."

"I told you to call me 'Alfred.'"

"My apologies."

"And what's to stop me from answering truthfully?"

"Trust. If Francis trusted you, then so must I," Roderich said, his eyes heavy.

Alfred puffed out a laugh. He tipped his chair back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"You think I'm wrong to?"

"I think if I were in your shoes, I'd be more careful about who I trust."

"That philosophy seems to serve you well, Herr Jo – Alfred."

Alfred stared back, incredulous.

"Do not mistake my trust for blindness," Roderich continued. "I still retain the mind of a skeptic deep down. But I must also be inclined to put my faith in others. Our cause demands it. Or else what's the point? One person cannot do this work alone. If I held every professed Resistance member at a distance, the resolution of our organization would crumble. Every one of us wants to feel accounted for, that our actions are making a difference. Experience has taught me to recognize deceit. And I do not see deceit in you. Only a measure of self-imposed arrogance."

Alfred sneered. "Maybe you ought to look closer."

Roderich shook his head, mouth falling agape. "Are you so determined to make yourself unlikable?"

Alfred looked away, a flush heating up his cheeks.

"I can see I've struck a nerve," Roderich said, rising. He went over to the piano, running his fingers along the keys. He sat and began to play.

Alfred folded his arms, glaring moodily at the table. "What are you gonna do now?" he called over his shoulder. "Your great plan is falling apart. Francis is gone. You don't have your precious travel documents. And now you don't have anywhere to stay in Casablanca, what with the major and his goons sniffing at every hotel."

"There is an underground network here. Once I make contact, I will go into hiding again, with their help."

"I wouldn't bet on it. Least not from what I've heard from Angelique. Face it. You're stuck here, just like the rest of us."

The sound of the piano grew in volume. Alfred smirked to himself. He turned in his seat, anticipating another retort, but Roderich seemed wholly lost in his music. He had rolled his shirtsleeves up, his body gently rocking back and forth with the rhythm. A smile illuminated his face, genuine and sublime. Alfred felt a lightness spreading through him as he watched the Austrian play. That familiar weightlessness and warmth as the rest of the world receded away. Nothing else existed save for he and Roderich. The music carried him back, years and years before, when he first washed up on this continent. When he first met Francis. In Ethiopia. He had felt so sure he was doing something right for a change. He had fought against the rebels in Nicaragua under orders from his government. Something that, as time wore on, never fully sat right with him. And he had hoped in arming the Ethiopians, he could somehow make up for it. Hoped it would somehow all balance out. But the profits from running guns far outweighed any sense of soul satisfaction. And he knew, then, he was damned.

[o]

Major Beilschmidt sipped his coffee staring down at the medina from his office window. He pressed his forehead against the glass, willing it to feel cool against his skin. But it, like the whole damned city, was hot. Like a mouth. One that was slowly closing its jaws around him. If he did not find this operative, if he did not secure those letters of transit, he would be stuck here. Just like everyone else.

Below him, the city bustled. Cafes and shops swelled with refugees, seeking some semblance of the lives they had left on the continent, eating and drinking, buying and selling. A pantomime of life in limbo, one that would begin again as soon as the sun rose on the next day.

A young woman with a suitcase approached a newspaper vendor just outside the medina. Major Beilschmidt watched as she bought a paper, feeling oddly as if he knew her from somewhere. She wasn't a refugee – wasn't European. Then it struck him: the singer from the American café. She disappeared into the medina's maze with her paper and suitcase.

Major Beilschmidt's eyes narrowed. He knew where she was going. How could he have been so blind? The major's head buzzed in elation as the puzzle that had plagued him since the courier's death took shape. The realization was intoxicating, vivifying – he wanted to burst out of his skin. But the major managed to curb his jubilation. Patience was the key to everything. A manic grin stretched across his pale lips as his plan grew in his mind. The girl was an unwitting messenger, delivering the bait straight to his quarry. And if that trap failed to spring, he knew exactly where his fugitive was hiding: Al's Place.

[o]

The dull thud of someone knocking at the back door sounded through the empty café some minutes after Roderich had stopped playing piano. Alfred rose to answer, returning moments later with Angelique a few steps behind.

The suitcase she carried was not terribly heavy – she estimated it contained enough changes of clothes for a weekend trip and other sundry toiletries. Angelique set the case down and sank into a chair, tossing the newspaper onto a table beside Roderich. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, damp from the desert heat. Alfred wordlessly handed her a glass of water as Roderich settled himself at the table and started combing through the newspaper.

"Folks generally pause to read those," Alfred remarked, as Roderich flipped over page after page.

"I'm quite aware of that. What I'm interested in, however, is….Ah! Here!"

Roderich spread the paper out, smoothing out its folds so Alfred and Angelique could both see.

Alfred's brow dipped. "The classifieds? You lookin' for a job? Or a room to rent?" he added hopefully.

Roderich clicked his tongue. "No. I'm looking for a code, Herr Jones." His finger ran up and down each column, eyes quickly scanning the words.

"You oughta let Angie help. Since she's Resistance too and all," Alfred said flippantly.

Angelique glared at him, but Roderich's face softened. "She has helped the cause tremendously already."

Alfred folded his arms and leaned against a table as Angelique drew herself up proudly. Roderich resumed his perusal, eventually pausing at an advertisement on the second page.

"Did you find something?" Angelique asked.

"Yes, but…it's old. Do you know why they would be using it?" Roderich asked, addressing Angelique.

Angelique shook her head.

Roderich frowned, looking back at the paper. "Maybe it's just an old signal."

"Non.They would not leave something like that."

Roderich wet his lips, thinking a moment. "…It might be someone trying to make contact."

"Maybe."

"Or it could be a trap," Alfred interjected, none too pleased about being left out of the conversation.

Angelique's eyes widened, but Roderich appeared unmoved.

"I am very much aware of that, Herr Jones. Everything I do carries risk, but I cannot let that stop me from acting on this."

Roderich took out a notebook and pen and began writing down the address in the advertisement.

"Do you know where this is?" he asked Angelique.

She nodded. "It's a few blocks south. Just outside the medina."

"Good." Roderich folded the newspaper up and pocketed his notebook. "Then, would you mind joining me on a walk, mademoiselle?" He stood, offering her his hand.

"…Wait, so…you're actually going?" Alfred asked, incredulous. He straightened up, pushing his glasses up his nose. "You find some old code in a newspaper that might or might not actually be from the underground network here and you – you're still gonna check it out?"

"I must, Herr Jones."

"But…why? Why risk it? If you ask me, this whole thing seems more than a little fishy."

"I do not disagree. I have a degree of skepticism myself. But also think about how many people are in this city – how many refugees. How many of them know about our network and are looking for a signal? What happens to them if they arrive at this address tonight and the trap is sprung? If this does indeed turn out to be some form of deception, I will do what I can to ensure as many get to safety as possible."

Alfred shook his head. "You're riskin' too much. Hell, you've already risked more than enough and what has it gotten you?"

Roderich smirked. "If you are trying to dissuade me, Herr Jones, I must insist you save your breath."

"I'm only worried about what happens after you're caught and you spill the beans and those Gestapo goons come sniffin' around my place."

Roderich sighed, rubbing his brow. "Excuse me a moment, mademoiselle," he said to Angelique. He approached Alfred, standing so close their chests almost touched. He drew a deep breath, angling his head up to meet the American's gaze with his own steely glare.

"I wonder if you could imagine something," he began, " – imagine, just for a second, caring about another's life more than your own. And how much it drives you every day. To have a goal, a purpose – something to fight for that is far bigger than you – and then you may just begin to understand. This is not about me. I do not matter. But for me to be in a position of knowledge – to have seen what I've seen – and to do nothing – nothing! – about the atrocities happening now makes me just as culpable as the ones who commit those acts. I could turn my back on the world – I certainly have enough to be bitter about – and I could let it carve me out and leave me hollow. A cold shell. I could let these things happen. But I will not. Because if I were to, I imagine that's what it would be like to be you. Good day."

Roderich retrieved his suitcase and he and Angelique were out the door.

Alfred remained standing a few moments more, the sudden stillness of his café ringing in his ears. Even the cat had enough presence of mind to not make a sound. It slunk off under a table and watched as Alfred made his way over to the bar on unsteady feet. He poured himself a whiskey and downed it all in one go, telling himself Roderich's words had not unsettled him.

[o]

On the boulevard, Roderich paused, turning his somber expression to the American café.

"What is it?" Angelique asked.

Roderich shook his head. "Nothing."

A police car drove by. Roderich instinctively turned his face away.

"Come on. Let's drop your stuff at my flat. You don't look too out of place, wandering around with a suitcase this close to the docks, but the further into the city you go…."

"I'll raise suspicion."

Angelique nodded.

"My apologies, mademoiselle. If this is too much of an imposition, I can just find another hotel – "

"It's no trouble. Really. Francis believed in you, in what you're doing, and so do I."

"…That's very kind of you to say. Though I regret he paid dearly for it."

Angelique threaded her arm through Roderich's. They continued down the boulevard in silence before turning and heading back into the medina at one of the walled district's entrance gates.

"Would you like something to drink before we set out again?" Angelique asked as they reached her apartment. "Perhaps some tea?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

Angelique opened the door then began heating water as Roderich took a seat on her couch while the tea steeped.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need," Angelique said.

"With any luck, I hope to be on my way in a few days' time. Without that letter of transit, I suppose I should reevaluate my plans."

Angelique's brow knit as she handed Roderich a cup of tea. "You mean the travel document Francis was after? I thought you had it. That's why you were at Alfred's, yes?"

"I was there, waiting on Francis, if that's what you mean."

"Non, non. He gave it to Alfred. I'm sure of it. The night that he – " Angelique's voice caught in her throat. "I was with him, at the American café that night. He thought he could persuade Alfred to hide it for a few days, until you came to get it. But Alfred refused, so we left. Later that night, we ran into the Vichy police. We had to split up. Francis couldn't get caught – not with that document on him. He went back to Alfred's. I know it. Francis would not have trusted it to anyone else."

Roderich sipped his tea, thinking.

[o]

The trouble with owning a bar that had no orders to fill was you became your own best customer. Trouble also was, there was no money coming in to replace the dwindling booze supply. Damn Mathieu. Throwin' in his lot with those Germans. Alfred poured out two fingers of whiskey and swallowed it down. He was sitting at the piano, hands working out their own rendition of some bluesy thing he'd heard on the radio. He was not much of a piano player – not like Roderich. He could pick out a tune, adjust the notes 'til they sounded right. But music, like so much else, was a thing a farmer's boy like him didn't have the time nor money to learn. What little he did know about chords and scales he owed to that boy from Ozona. The one that had given him the horseshoe. The one that he had spent many an afternoon joy ridin' with when he shoulda been at his supper. Although those memories were not as clear as they had once been, when he left his homeland for the shores of Africa. What remained of the boy existed in vague impressions, reclaimed in mundane moments, blindsiding him with their sudden recollection. The sound of a car engine. A hand on a gear shifter, guiding his as he learned to drive. Kisses stolen on a front porch. Pa'll skin me alive if he catches what we're up to. Fields of bluebonnets. An arm around his waist. The look on the boy's face when he finally returned home. We could leave — could find our own place. No. I ain't like you. Words shouted in desperation, in anger, and never taken back. The slam of a barn door.

Alfred jumped, certain the sound had only been a distant memory, though he heard it clear as if it'd just happened. There were times he wished he could forget that boy and the man he became. Times when he wished he could scrub that part of himself clean. He had tried, many times – but the truth was, that boy would forever be a part of him.

Alfred reached for the whiskey, ready to pour himself another drink, when he heard it again. A dull thud. Like someone bangin' the meaty part of their fist on his door. He put the bottle down, dragging himself to his feet and over to the door.

There, on the other side, stood Major Beilschmidt.

[o]

At quarter to eight that night, Roderich set out, tracing the path he and Angelique had walked earlier that afternoon. She wanted to join him at the underground meeting that evening, but Roderich insisted she should stay at the flat, mistrustful of the old code and the location it specified. The address was an abandoned storehouse near the docks. An old chain link fence surrounded it, sagged down by the weight of time, with gaps large enough for a man to pass through.

Roderich frowned as he once again approached the building. All his senses screamed at him it was a trap. But, if anyone else deciphered the message, he reasoned it was still his duty to meet them there.

Evening fell as he slipped through a gap in the fence. In an hour it would be curfew. He was cutting it close, he knew.

Silhouetted against the dusking sky, the dark storehouse stood ominous. Roderich drew a deep breath as he shouldered his way through a heavy metal door. Inside was quiet and still. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, nebulous figures began to take shape – the straight lines and angles of boxes scattered about, and in the corner, something more organic.

A woman and two men. Huddled together. The woman drew her arms about her, looking warily around. One of the men struck a match, lighting a cigarette. And saw Roderich.

Not a breath was released. The group of three and Roderich remained frozen in place. Then, the man with the cigarette said: "Je me souviens des jours anciens."

To which Roderich replied: "Et je pleure."

"You are here for the meeting?" the man asked.

"Yes," Roderich said, approaching them.

"I thought there would be more of us. Though we only just arrived a few days ago."

"I am in a similar situation," Roderich said. "But – " He stopped, suddenly motioning for the others to be silent, ears straining in the stillness, for they had just heard the familiar scraping sound of heel-ironed boots.

The man with the cigarette quickly put it out as the sound drew nearer.

"It's a trap," Roderich breathed. "We must get out. Follow me."

[o]

Major Beilschmidt watched through binoculars as his men moved in. They were to circle the perimeter from behind, flushing the conspirators out toward the boulevard. He was on the roof of a building opposite the storehouse, waiting. He had to make sure Roderich was among them….

Figures began to emerge, running scattered from the storehouse. Except one. A man. Roderich. He signaled to the others, herding them toward the fence, ensuring every last one got out before shoving himself through the gap, his arm catching on a piece of metal. He stumbled, picking himself up and clutched his injured arm as he ran.

The conspirators fled in different directions, but Major Beilschmidt kept his eyes trained on Roderich. He was heading for the medina.

[o]

"Major," Alfred said curtly. "You here to open my café back up?"

"Quite the opposite," Major Beilschmidt said, barging his way in. "I'm here to search it."

Alfred snorted. "For what? Thought you took care of that when you closed it down the other night."

"The Resistance operative, Herr Jones."

"And what makes you think he's here?"

"Because my men uncovered a Resistance meeting tonight. One of the conspirators fled to the medina. And I don't need to remind you, your café is already suspect for all the incidents that have taken place near it."

Alfred's stomach sank. He knew the meeting the major was referring to. The same meeting Roderich would have been at.

The major went around the bar and up the stairs to Alfred's apartment.

Alfred followed. "Hey! I thought you were searchin' my café. My private quarters are off limits."

"And what better place to house the scoundrel," the major said, opening Alfred's closet.

Alfred clenched his fists, blood boiling as the major ransacked his bedroom and office. He wanted to stop him. But there was nothing he could do that would not end in his arrest – or worse. He lit a cigarette instead, wishing this day's surprises would be over already.

A motion at his feet startled Alfred. He tensed, ready to jump back, but it was only the cat. It twined around his legs, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Alfred sighed, scooping it up. He took it downstairs, to the back entrance, and tossed it outside. The cat looked back at him a moment, then took off down the alley.

Alfred flicked away his cigarette and shut and locked the door. He headed back upstairs.

The major was staring at his safe. He looked up when he saw Alfred.

"Open it," he said with a nasty sneer.

Alfred's palms grew sweaty. He wiped them on his pants and bent down, fumbling the combination. The safe clicked open. Major Beilschmidt bent down, first examining the papers at the front, then feeling around inside, he found the secret back.

"A-ha! How clever, Herr Jones."

Major Beilschmidt pressed his hand against the false back. It sprang forward. He extracted the contents within with an avaricious smile and stood. His expression soon faltered, though, as he looked at the objects in his hands. A letter. Service medals. And an old horseshoe.

The major looked at Alfred, his countenance souring as he let everything fall. He swept over to the American in an instant. They stood toe to toe, the major's hand curling around Alfred's shirt front.

"I know you are helping him! You cannot keep eluding me. You will slip and I will catch you."

"I thought I made it clear last night: I don't believe in sides. I stick my neck out for nobody."

Major Beilschmidt's eyes narrowed. He shoved Alfred away. "Very well, Herr Jones. Then perhaps I should make it clear, that until this fugitive is caught, your café will remain closed. I shall be calling on you again soon. Maybe then you will have changed your mind. Good night."

The major left. Alfred went downstairs and sank into a chair, rubbing a hand across his brow, wondering what the hell he was going to do, when he heard a faint yowl coming from the back.

[o]

Roderich cradled his arm as he ran. He had gashed it on a loose fence wire as he fled the storehouse. He wrapped what was left of his shirt sleeve around it, hoping to stem the blood flow as he dashed along the boulevard beside the medina wall, eyeing it frantically. The entrance gate had to be near, but the wall of the medina stretched, unbroken, down the boulevard.

In desperation, Roderich flung himself at it, climbing up and over the top. He landed on the other side with a yelp of pain as his shoes hit the ground much harder than he was expecting. He scrambled up, limping his way through the maze of streets.

Out of breath from the chase, Roderich paused a moment, leaning against a wall and trying to orient himself and locate Angelique's flat. But nothing looked at all right. All of the buildings wore the same pitch black façade. Not a light shone. Curfew was in effect. And he was lost.

Roderich sank onto an empty crate in the alley, half considering making that his bed for the night. He'd slept in far worse places under far worse conditions. But he had to press on. He could not risk being out in the open. The jackboots were sure to search the medina.

He pushed himself up, ready to continue on, when he heard a soft meow.

A cat sat at his feet, looking up at him. The cat from the American café. It stood, arching its back as it stretched, and rubbed against his leg.

"Now's not a good time," Roderich whispered, bending down to pick it up. But the cat trotted away, meowed once more, sat down and looked at him, as if it was waiting on him.

As Roderich approached, the cat again trotted away then sat down and looked, waiting. Knowing this cat was quite unlike any other he had ever encountered, Roderich decided to follow it. The cat led him deeper into the medina, heading northward through the twisting streets, until they came to an alley that dead-ended at the back of a building. The alley was empty except for a single door and a pair of trash cans. Roderich looked around, half wondering why the cat led him here and half wanting to just curl up right there on the ground and sleep. His whole body ached with exhaustion, his head dizzy from loss of blood. He slid down the wall, legs giving out as he collapsed beside a trash can.

The cat sat in the middle of the alley, watching him. Then it got up, went over to the door and let out a yowl.

The door opened, flooding the alley with light. Roderich squinted up, eyes adjusting at the sudden brightness. The cat trotted over to him as a figure appeared in the doorway uttering a low "Jesus Christ."

Roderich smiled.

"My apologies, Herr Jones. But it seems you cannot be rid of me."

"It's not for lack of tryin', believe me," Alfred said, hurrying over and helping Roderich to his feet. He let the Austrian lean on him as they quickly shuffled back into the café.

"What happened?" Alfred asked.

The Austrian peeled back his sleeve. The blood around his cut had dried to a rusty brown.

"You were right. It was a trap. I only just got away, but not before slicing my arm on a bit of fence."

Alfred took him back to the kitchen, over to the sink, and turned on the water. "This is gonna sting like hell, but we need to clean it."

He took Roderich's arm and rinsed it under the tap, then cleaned it with soap. Roderich winced, jerking back a little.

"Sorry," Alfred said, examining the cut. "It doesn't look too deep. I don't think you'll need stitches. 'Sides, it's been too many years since I've had to suture a man." He got a clean hand towel and wrapped it tight around Roderich's arm. "Compression oughta help stop the bleeding."

It did not go unnoticed by Roderich the sudden manner in which Alfred was treating him. It was clinical yet unflinching, wholly different from the cynical swagger he had thus far observed. And it left Roderich with the impression the American was not as impartial as he liked to imagine. A part of him wished he could take back the things he had earlier said. If Angelique was right, there must have been a reason Francis trusted him, Roderich thought. Maybe now he was just beginning to see it.

Alfred went back to the sink and began cleaning himself up, his hands starting to shake.

He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. The Austrian's hand. He turned his head to see Roderich standing beside him.

Alfred straightened up, drying his hands, his stomach feeling oddly fluttery as he looked at the Austrian.

"Thank you," Roderich said.

"Don't mention it," Alfred said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I guess you'll be staying here again."

Roderich looked away, his cheeks flushing. "…If it's not too much to ask."

"Should probably get you a new shirt," Alfred said, gesturing at Roderich's ruined shirtsleeve. "You can have one o' mine. Though it might be a bit big on ya."

They went upstairs. Alfred pulled an old shirt from his closet and hung it on the back of the door. He then went into his bathroom, rummaging in the medicine cabinet. He had gauze somewhere and wanted to make a better dressing than a hand towel. Finding the roll, he went back to the bedroom and knocked.

"Yes?" Roderich called.

Alfred entered. The Austrian was sitting on the bed in a thin cotton undershirt. His torn button-up lay discarded on the floor.

"I thought this might help," he said, showing Roderich the gauze.

He sat beside Roderich and positioned his arm to undo the dressing. The bleeding had stopped for the most part, though the wound remained a bright scarlet in color. Alfred tossed the hand towel on the floor with the shirt and began wrapping Roderich's arm with the gauze.

"There," he said when he'd finished. "That should feel better."

But Roderich did not move. He looked at his arm, looked at the American.

Alfred felt heat starting to crawl up his neck as Roderich looked at him. The fluttering sensation had not left his stomach. Instead it grew, running up his chest and through his arms, down his legs. He tried to look away, knowing if he didn't, he would do something very, very stupid. But Roderich's eyes…Roderich's eyes were the color of –

"Bluebonnets," Alfred breathed.

Roderich's brow furrowed. "What?"

Alfred's eyes widened. "N-nothing! I-it's – "

But Roderich seemed genuinely curious, lips twitching as he asked: "What is a bluebonnet?"

Alfred fidgeted with the roll of gauze. "…It's a flower. Grows wild where I'm from," he said quietly. "Your eyes're the same color." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Sorry – I'm sorry!" he stuttered, springing up. "I-it's been a long night. I'll just – I'll get this cleaned up, and – g'night!"

Alfred hurriedly picked up the shirt and towel, all but tripping over his feet as he made for the door. He closed it behind him with more force than necessary and dashed down the hall to his office.

Alfred tossed the shirt and towel on top of the safe and lit a cigarette. He sank onto his couch, cradling his head in his hands. Eyes squeezed shut as his jaw clenched. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

He finished his cigarette as embarrassment eventually gave way to a numb exhaustion, leaving Alfred feeling stretched thin as he sat, the full weight of the events from that week crashing down upon him. He got ready for bed, hoping that night at least he would get some sleep. He hung his jacket on a coatrack, noting as he did the slip of paper poking out of the inside pocket. The travel document. He smoothed down the lapel, arranging the jacket so the pocket was hidden, his mind buzzing with a decision that would soon need to be made.

.

.

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A/N: The quote at the beginning is from the poem Chansons d'automne by Paul Verlaine. It translates to"I remember former days and I cry." Lines from this poem, and many others, were used by the Allies in World War II to pass messages to members of the Resistance in occupied France. Other ways of signaling or passing messages to Resistance members included advertisements in newspapers. In the story, the poem is used a signal between Angelique and Roderich, and later the Resistance member and Roderich to let the other know they are both part of the underground.

If I haven't mentioned it before, Roderich is based on Ilsa Lund and Victor Laszlo from the original movie. And Alfred is of course based on Rick. Both Ilsa and Laszlo challenge Rick to put aside his personal feelings for something more important, which is what Roderich tries to do just before he leaves with Angelique.

madder red – a pigment derived from the madder plant

Resistance meeting and Roderich's injury – in the movie, Victor Laszlo attends a Resistance meeting that is raided by the police. He injures his hand as he escapes and goes to Rick's.

Alfred's line "I stick my neck out for nobody" is both borrowed from and a tribute to the original movie.

Bluebonnets are the state flower of Texas.