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There are certain establishments that exist solely to fill a certain need, and l’Oasis de Minuit is one of them. You wouldn’t guess it to look at it, either from a comfortable remove or as close as the proprietor would let you look. For one thing, the small central stage never feels the grace of a performer, instead taking up space that could have more tables for guests, but canned jazz is piped in non-stop, the singers in a number of languages, one after the next, blurring together like the faint haze of smoke that always seems to be in the air, despite how few people are ever there. That might be the next thing you notice: there are never that many people inside. You might think that this is explained by the ‘members-only’ sign in the window, but then, nobody ever seems to show a card or get their name checked on a list either. And, despite the maitre’d at the front, resplendent in french cuffs and tails, no-one is ever led to a table.
Instead you get scenes like this one, where a young woman, hair bobbed short (hers? A wig?) wends her way through the tables (small, tastefully spaced) where an older gentleman (a prematurely gray mid-forties? Bright-eyed and sixty-five?) waits, a glencairn glass set before him. A glass of something expensive, Italian, and red arrives for her; they wait until the waitress has moved away before saying anything.
“Good to see you again, Doctor,” the woman says, smiling, raising her glass to his.
“And you, Clara; is it still Clara?” The man dips his head and takes a brief sip.
“It’s always Clara for you.”
“Don’t know how you can keep all those identities straight,” the man mutters.
“We can’t all be from days gone by when a single codename was all you needed,” she teases back. There is a fondness, a familiarity to it, you notice as you watch. Professional rivalry and personal friendship - as heady and dangerous a concoction as anything the bar is serving. She slides him a book across the table; its pages are carefully marked with invisible ink to spell out a message that points to which ‘i’ is dotted with a microdot. The microdot, is, of course, filled with useless information, which is why he’ll dump the book somewhere conspicuous for a rival to find, keeping the picture used as a bookmark, the real message.
“Luckily I rarely have to interact face to face with my patients,” the Doctor quips. At least never more than once, you know. A particular irony between his codename and his actual profession.
“Means I’m doubly glad you’ve never had to pay me a house call.”
“So am I,” he replies, the note of pain unmistakable in his voice at even the thought. “For both our sakes, I think.” He shakes his head as if to drive away a fly, and sips the last of his scotch. “You have my payment?”
She pats the satchel beside her. “Gauche to count it in public, don’t you think?” Is there a hopeful note beneath that teasing lilt, you wonder?
“I think the Oasis still keeps a few private rooms upstairs. For just such occasions.” A deliberate hedge, you know, given his obvious ease and familiarity with this space. Worried about seeming too keen?
“In that case,” she replies, tossing back her wine. “Shall we go upstairs and see if your payment is to your liking? If not, I can always sweeten the pot…” Her lips, full and red, purse to an inviting, knowing smirk. She stands, offers him her arm; he rises, takes it, the usual fear of blackmail cast away. No hostile action in the Oasis of any kind, and in their line of work, that includes taking pictures.
That is the need that l’Oasis de Minuit arose to fill - there are any number of places where persons in their line of work could meet discreetly if the need arose, exchange pleasantries and payments and photographs. But there are vanishingly few where those who wear the cloak and the dagger may put aside the subterfuge and be their true selves - if they can remember who that fragile stranger is - and that is why l’Oasis de Minuit remains, inviolate and unchanging, even as the profession changes and the years pass. Its doors are always open - if you know where to look.