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interesting way to put it. But you’re right. Albeit I’d expect my countrymen to struggle more . . . unarmed with the language and ignorant of France’s rich culture.”
    “As if language is a weapon.”
    Von Starck measured him for a long moment. “It is not?”
    Yves turned his gaze away. “I’m just an entertainer. A cabaret singer. All I’m doing is making people laugh, and maybe cry if they are too drunk, but I’m not much of a philosopher. You’d have to ask somebody else.”
    “I’d assume your friend Maurice Lefèvre eviscerates a man if the mood strikes him.”
    “He does.” Yves laughed. “You got him in one.”
    “That is what I envy. The lightness. The way French can be like silk. And turn into barbed wire immediately.” Yves’ gaze fell to the oberst’s hands. On those big hands, fine white scars stood out even in the dim light.
    “You served in the first war.”
    “I did.” Von Starck flattened his hands on the table, looking like he was about to push away and leave, but the motion never made it to his torso. “I wasn’t much older than you are now, a young lieutenant in the trenches.”
    “And?” Yves said, his breath shallow.
    “It turned me into a man.” Despite those words that would doubtlessly please his masters and generals, there was more to it. “More precisely, it turned me into the man I’m now. I went on to study art history, as if the images the war has given me can be replaced with what an artist puts on a canvas. Replacing my inner landscapes with those of somebody else.” Von Starck fell silent when the waiter appeared with the duck meat steaming in its earthenware pots, surrounded by potatoes and other vegetables.
    “Where did you learn French?”
    “Switzerland.” Von Starck took a piece of the duck and chewed, swallowed, and looked right at Yves. “This is unbelievable.”
    “It’s just simple peasant cooking.” Yves enjoyed watching the officer eat with obvious relish. Yves forced himself to chew slowly and savor the food, though the meat offered no resistance. He poured von Starck more wine, delighted that the man seemed less stiff now that they were practically alone—or at least anonymous among the other patrons of the brasserie.
    Less conqueror and conquered, and more two men sharing a meal and a bottle of red. Yves smiled with the madness of it all.

Chapter 6
     
    “You scrub up nicely.” Maurice stepped close and corrected Yves’s collar. He smelled of smoke and perfume, an infernal combination as Yves was already busy gulping down acid that his stomach kept pressing up. “But you do look a bit green.”
    “I’m scared.”
    “All good entertainers are scared before a performance.”
    Yves swallowed and prayed to anything out there—including Apollo and the Muses—that he wouldn’t lose control over his stomach while onstage. He was not a beginner. And while the Palace crowd was notorious for being critical, he doubted they’d throw champagne bottles at him. They shouldn’t. Maybe. Damn Maurice.
    “I can’t go out there. Seriously, I can’t.”
    “You will go, or I’ll have you dragged. I’m sure you can make it look like part of your comedy routine.”
    That upset his stomach even more. And von Starck would be there, too. He wished he had no other ambition in his life than to sing in bars for a few francs. He could handle sixty or even a hundred half-drunks. Hell, even two hundred drunks were preferable to the Palace’s champagne laughter, the full orchestra and dozens of crystal chandeliers. “I’m going to be sick.”
    “Knock yourself out, my boy.”
    Yves rushed to the washbasin, where he fell to his knees in front of a metal bucket, stomach heaving. Dry cramps hurt his throat and every muscle down to his churning guts, and he thought he might just make it through without, but. A rush of saliva filled his mouth, and he knew that was it. In that moment, he was grateful for every bite of solid food he hadn’t had in the