Next, she was hungry. It meant they had to get dressed all over again and go out in the rain, joining the early workers in the cafe on the corner. Every eye went to Aleksandra as they entered. She peered out at the world from beneath a yellow straw hat -- a "boater," with circular crown and flat brim -- wore a green wool muffler looped around her neck, and was lost in the immensity of Khristo's sheepskin jacket while he made do with a heavy sweater. To top it off, she was smoking a thin, gold Turkish cigarette. The workingmen in the cafe acknowledged her entrance with great affection. She was so titi -- the classic Parisian street urchin, given to storm -- blown passions yet impossibly adorable -- towing her coatless lover into a café so early in the rainy morning, so delighted with her own eccentricity yet so vulnerable -- blond shag hanging down to her eyes -- that every one of them felt obliged to desire her. For she was, if only for a moment, some girl they'd once loved. Khristo and Aleksandra seated themselves at a small table by the window, shivering as the warm air drove out the chill, inhaling the luxurious morning fog of strong coffee, tobacco smoke and bread.
"Two breakfasts, please," Khristo said to the owner when she came out from behind the bar. She was back in a moment with bowls of milky coffee, a flute -- the slimmest loaf with the most crust -- cut into rounds, and saucers of white butter and peach jam. It took both hands to hold the coffee. They polished that off in short order and ordered two more.
"Pauvres!" said the owner from behind the bar, meaning you poor starving things, a fine Parisian irony twinkling in her tight smile. It was her divine right as proprietaire of the cafe to make fun of them a little -- I know why you're so hungry.
To the second breakfast she added, unbidden, two steaming bowls of soup. Last night's, no doubt, and all the better for having aged. When these did not appear on the bill, Khristo began to thank her but she tossed his gratitude away with a flip of the hand. It was her right to feed them, to play a small role in their love affair. These were some of the sacred perquisites of the profession, to be dispensed at her whim.
Excerpted from Night Soldiers by Alan Furst. Copyright 2002 by Alan Furst. Excerpted by permission of RH Value Publishing, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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