Nightingale by Aleksandr Voinov Read Free Book Online

other hand begin a carnal relationship with the enemy?
    “Is there something you’re not telling me, Maurice?”
    “You know I know everybody. Some people might run into difficulties with the Germans.”
    And wasn’t that the truth. There were several nightclubs that had very quickly changed their names and owners, forgetting any Jewish association once the repainted signs had dried. While the Germans seemed happy enough to ignore the obvious quick fix, chances were that once the mood took them, a crackdown would follow. Having an oberst in his pocket (well, his pants) might save lives.
    “Yves, please. Think about it. You might even enjoy it. Don’t be such a prude.”
    “I’m not a prude. I’m just not a hustler.”
    Maurice sighed theatrically. “Oh well. I see how it is. What do you want in return?”
    Yves didn’t know where it came from, the thought swam up like some monstrous sea creature and once he’d spotted its shape, it was impossible to shake off. “I want the same deal you had with Charles Gutman.”
    “Top billing at the Licorne?”
    “Only here. At the Palace. For starters.” Yves turned and stared at Maurice, suddenly disgusted. He knew he’d forgive him eventually, his wheedling and indiscretion and, most of all, the fact that nothing was holy to him—not art, and certainly not artists. Or emotions.
    “Can I simply add you to the top slot or do you want me to give my current star the boot?”
    “I’m happy to share,” Yves said.
    Maurice’s smile was predatory. “That’s good to hear. I’ll set up the contract. Now go out there and entertain the Germans.”
    Impossible to misunderstand that tone. Yves took his top hat and cane, glad that he didn’t wear any makeup for this show, as that would have been long ruined.
    He stepped onto the stage, began with a few of his most reliable jokes, and launched into Three Francs, a new song that had come together over the last few days, involving a handful of anecdotes about how three francs made a difference. A boy trying to impress his girl but lacking the money to buy her presents, a beggar receiving money that meant she could eat, a man stabbed to death for the contents of his pockets. It was one of his more melancholy songs, but he delivered it with a shrugging, “what can you do?” irony that even elicited a few laughs. His voice was giving him trouble, but when he apologized to the audience, claiming a recent cold, they received it warmly. He had their attention and goodwill now, and with the warmth and faint haze of brandy settling his stomach, he ran through his jokes, firing them off one by one, feeling the wash of approval and affection from the audience in return.
    Making them laugh at their tables filled him with a silent, long-burning joy that ran deeper than any surface mirth. In shows like these he loved his audience, from the old to the young, the fat to the thin, women, men, and anything in between, even the Germans, who, as always, sat at the front tables.
    He spotted von Starck among them and gave him a wink when their eyes met before he launched into the next song.
    They were soft and pliable in his hands. Responded as planned, as hoped, and better than that, lapping up what he gave them, carrying him high on approval and that magical understanding that made a good evening perfect. He launched into Don’t Be Angry , the song of a ne’er-do-well promising his sister he’d change and get back on the straight and narrow, his pleadings patently giving away that he was hopeless, a liar and a cheater. Still, Yves ensured his delivery made the audience understand he possessed a good heart.
    Among the Germans, only a few laughed—those who understood French, and who sat at von Starck’s table—but even the others seemed to like the music and Yves’s theatrics well enough.
    When he tried to finish, they called him back for an encore, but his voice was gone, and he only cracked a few more jokes before finally making his