Puttin’ on the Ritz

“This is my bedroom at the Ritz. Yes, it is different from the one I first used you in. As soon as Reichsmarschall Göring arrived, I was kicked out of the Imperial Suite. I was only there, preparing for his arrival, for the time before he came to Paris. I am one of his aides. This one is rather Spartan compared to others in the hotel, but I like it more for that. It’s a man’s room. It’s a soldier’s room. I’m told that this is where Ernest Hemingway stays when he comes to Paris. Room 31. Although, if he comes now, he will have to fight me for the room.” Von Kaube laughed at his little joke.

“So you are here with the Reichsmarschall. Why is he here?” Paul didn’t have to ask who Göring was. Everyone in Paris spoke of him in hushed tones.

“He is a cultured man. Paris is the heart of culture. He comes to collect art.” Von Kaube recited these phrases as if by repeating holy doctrine—not necessary to believed, only to assert as if by dictate from a higher power, which it no doubt was. “I come at those times and at others on other business. I will be here frequently. And you will be here with me, in my bed when I’m in Paris. I care not who you fuck when I am in Berlin, but here, when I am in Paris, you are mine. I just ask that you are careful not to pick up a disease.”

“I am yours?” Paul didn’t seem particularly upset at that prospect. “How did I get here? The last I knew, I was—”

“Being assaulted at Claude’s. Yes, I know. I intervened. The soldiers were disobeying orders. They were not told they could rampage against French civilians who were not Jewish. You are not Jewish, are you?”