by Ariel Lawhon
I cannot remember the last time I well and truly blushed. My face matches the sky.
He brushes the knuckles of his free hand against my cheek. “A girl who blushes. Now, that is a pretty sight.”
I look at him for a long time but don’t respond.
“What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking…,” I say, “that I am actually quite hungry after all.”
“Me too.”
And then Henri Fiocca kisses me right there on the river walk. It’s not that I haven’t been kissed before. I am twenty-four years old and I am not innocent. But still. I have never been kissed like this. It is thunder and rose petals at once. Static electricity and delicate intimacy. His lips are warm and soft and sweet. He goes slow at first and then he’s hungry. Ravenous, in fact. Henri Fiocca is consuming me. Tasting me. I think, if his hands were free, he might lift me off the ground altogether. I imagine us falling into the river. I imagine us falling in love. Getting married. Having babies. Growing old. I imagine silk sheets and ripe strawberries. Sweat. Swearing. Begging. It lasts ten seconds, but it may as well be a lifetime for all that I’ve planned out. I am Mrs.—damned—Fiocca by the time he pulls away.
Henri looks as me as though I have single-handedly invented womankind. As though I am Eve herself. He looks at me as if I am sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one. A galaxy. I am terrified of how I might be looking at him, as though all my thoughts are written right there on my face.
“Shall we find somewhere to eat?” he says.
I consider it a great testament to my character that I do not suggest him as the main course.
* * *
Henri
“Would you like to come in?” Nancy asks.
It is well past midnight and they stand at the door of her tiny flat. His laughing girl is quite solidly drunk. She is bright and funny and has a wit sharp enough to scratch diamonds, but the poor girl cannot hold her liquor. It goes straight to her head in the most charming and unnerving way. At the very least, she’s had too much for one day. At worst, it is Henri’s fault and he has allowed her to go too far around the bend. He takes full responsibility for the fact that she is leaning against him, warm and soft, inviting him not just into her home but, he suspects, her bed as well. So he tells her the truth.
“Yes, I would very much like to come in.”
He’s not entirely sure what she had to drink before he arrived at Luigi’s—at least the one glass of brandy—but she has since had a French 75 during their walk and another while they waited for a table. Then they shared a bottle of Chenin Blanc during dinner at Le Foquet’s. He does the math: at least one glass of liquor, two cocktails, and two glasses of champagne over a five-hour period. That would be enough to make an experienced drinker feel fuzzy around the edges.
Henri had only the champagne and a few sips of her 75, so he isn’t addled at all. He has, however, learned any number of things about Nancy this evening. Each more fascinating than the last. She is the youngest of six children. She left home at sixteen. She has traveled much of the world alone. She loves brandy but hates beer. She carries her little dog in her purse but would sooner shave her head than own a cat. She cannot sing, whistle, or clap in time to music. She cannot ride a bicycle. She hates goat cheese—you should have seen the way she pushed it to the edge of the charcuterie tray with her fork and then wiped the tines on her napkin—but will eat a pound of feta in one sitting.
He did his best to make her laugh throughout dinner just so he could hear the sound. He introduced her to gratinéed scallops poached in white wine and served over mushroom purée on the half shell. They talked, and they ate. And they drank—far too much, he realizes now.
Nancy fumbles with her key, trying to fit it in the lock. “Let me,” he says, gently pulling it from her hand after her third attempt.
Henri turns it easily and helps her into the flat. She sets her purse on the floor so Picon can climb out and then she kicks off her shoes. Nancy sways to some music in her head as she takes his hand and leads him toward the bedroom. It’s only a few steps from the front door to her room and it’s a good thing too, because she won’t stay upright much longer.
Her bedroom is small but the bed is large and it’s piled high with blankets and extra pillows. Nancy turns on the lamp and Henri turns down the bed. Her eyes are heavy and her smile is soft and she isn’t startled in the least when he scoops her up and sets her on the mattress. Then he pulls the covers up and tucks them beneath her chin. Only then do her eyes register a hint of surprise.
“You aren’t coming to bed with me?”
“Non.”
“Why not?”
“You’re drunk, ma fille qui rit.”
“So are you.”
He laughs. “I’ve never been that drunk.”
“Henri?” Her eyes, heavier now, open once more but with a struggle. “What does it mean?”
“What?”
“Ma fille…”
He bends low over the bed and brushes his lips against the soft curl of her ear. “My laughing girl.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Is that what you think I am?”
“Filled with laughter? Oui.”
“No,” she clarifies. “Yours.”
“Indeed, I do.” A second kiss, this time on her temple. “Clever girl. I see that you’ve caught on.”
And then she has slipped beneath the folds of sleep, her breath a gentle wisp of air between parted lips. “Good night, Noncee,” he says.
Henri stands there a bit longer than is polite, watching her sleep, and is jolted from his trance only when he feels something nudge his ankle. Little Picon stands beside him, tail wagging.
“Have I won you over, then, good sir? It’s your mistress I’m more interested in, but I’ll consider it a win if I’ve earned your trust.”
Thanks to their walk earlier that evening, his suit coat is covered in fine, white dog hairs, so he slides out of it and arranges it near Nancy’s feet. Then he plucks Picon from the floor and settles him in the center of the small nest. Picon yawns, little pink tongue curling at the end like a soupspoon, and burrows deeper inside.
Henri sets her keys on the nightstand, turns off the lamp, and makes his way to the kitchen. It takes him several minutes, but he finds a pen in one of the drawers and—offering a prayer for forgiveness—scribbles the number to his hotel onto the wall beside her phone.
“Good night, Noncee,” he whispers, again, into the darkness, and then he walks out of her flat, locking the door behind him.
* * *
PART TWO
Madame Andrée
The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY
Madame Andrée
CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE
March 2, 1944
“Gaspard! What the hell are you doing in that uniform?”
My French is best when I’m angry, and the words ring across the plateau, furious and clear. His head snaps up and I can feel those beady little eyes zero in on me beneath the brim of his cap. He goes perfectly still.
I recognize him now that he’s stepped into the bright ring of firelight. What I can’t make sense of is why he’s dressed as a Brownshirt. Hubert is beside me now, weapon leveled at Gaspard’s head, bending toward my pack. He grabs my revolver and hands it to me in a single, smooth movement. For all his appearances of being gangly and uncoordinated, the man can move like a quicksilver when the urge strikes him.
I feel better with the revolver in my hand. I’ve grown to like the solid weight of it; the wood grain in my palm and cool gunmetal against my finger. This fascinati
on with weaponry is one of the many surprises my new life has brought, and I am not unaware that, despite all my training, this is the first time I’ve ever pointed my revolver at a living person. Undaunted, I pull the hammer back with the pad of my thumb.
“Explain yourself,” I tell Gaspard.
All around us the shadows begin to move as Fournier’s men step from their hiding places at the tree line and shift toward the bonfire. Those who have weapons raise them and those who do not stand in solidarity with their brothers. Fifty poorly armed men now seem a great advantage against five.
Gaspard is an odious pig of a man, but he is not stupid. He recognizes that he is outnumbered and lowers his weapon.
“You,” he says with such loathing that he may as well have spit a glob of mucus onto the toe of my boot.
“What are you doing here?” Hubert demands.
“We thought you were Germans. We meant to kill you and take your weapons.”
“Yes, but did you plan to seduce us first?”
Oh, how badly Gaspard wants to shoot me! His entire body is quivering with rage. But Hubert takes a step forward, not quite placing himself between us, but letting Gaspard know he’ll have to go through him to get to me.
“And finding that we are not, in fact, Germans?” Hubert says. “What is your plan now?”
Gaspard flicks his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “I intend to depart in peace.”
“I believe nothing you say while in that uniform.” I nod toward his waist. “Where did you get that whip?”
Seeing no other way out of his predicament, Gaspard finally relents. “We ambushed a German supply line four days ago near Le Puy. We took their weapons and vehicles. Then we stripped these uniforms from their stinking corpses.” He raises a hand, palm out so as not to alarm us by the movement, and then slowly lifts the collar of his shirt to reveal a bloody bullet hole.
From the corner of my eye I can see Hubert study my face. Do you believe him? That’s what his expression says. He is waiting for me to decide. They all are. Not a single one of the Frenchmen who flank me has so much as moved a muscle. The realization that I am well and truly in charge is so startling that I have to keep my lips pressed together so my mouth won’t hang open.
I am not ready to let Gaspard off the hook this easily, however. I glare at him for a moment longer, and only when the plateau is so quiet that I can hear the crickets chirping again do I turn to Hubert and nod, once. Then I release the hammer on my revolver and place it back in the holster at my thigh. None of the men around me follow suit. Though I have declared a truce, they will not let their guard down.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for here,” I tell Gaspard.
Visibly relaxed, he turns from me and surveys the six open crates scattered across the plateau and the piles of weapons beside them. After a moment he returns that calculating gaze of his to me. “I see much here that I desire.”
“You had your chance to work with us.”
“Come, Madame Andrée, do not be unreasonable.”
It is the weak-minded man’s retort. A thing he says when thwarted by a woman. An excuse. A bit of intellectual poverty. He doesn’t like me, therefore I am unreasonable. A femme stupide.
“Va te faire foutre,” I say.
His eyes widen. His jaw clenches. I get the impression that no woman has ever dared speak to him like this. “You’re not the only English rat crawling these hills. I’ll get my weapons from someone else.” He pauses here, then leans in for the kill. “Non, you’re no rat like Victor and Patrice. You are la Souris Blanche, aren’t you?”
The White Mouse.
Merde. Gaspard knows.
I ignore the question and remain perfectly still, without emotion as I say, “There is one thing I require before you get your filthy carcass off my mountain.”
He snorts. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“You will, in fact. And you will learn that soon enough. But first, the uniforms. Yours. And those of your men. I didn’t care for them on the Germans and I like them even less on you.”
“As-tu perdu ton putain d’esprit?”
“My mind is quite intact. And if you are not a collaborationist, as you claim, you will have no issue surrendering those uniforms to be burned. You can leave here without them or you can face a firing squad. The one behind me will do just fine.”
“Boudin,” he spits.
I sigh. “Have you no imagination at all? Ugly? Is that the best insult you can come up with? I would expect more creativity from a man who wants to lead others into battle.”
The four men behind him are shifting uneasily as we glare at each other. But I am out of patience. I pull my revolver from my holster and raise it once again. “The uniforms. Now.” Gaspard opens his mouth to argue—or, perhaps, to deliver a better insult—but I pull the hammer back with my thumb. “Please give me an excuse to shoot you. I regret not doing so last time I had the chance.”
Hubert takes a step forward, followed by a handful of Fournier’s men. “Do as she says.”
Gaspard is out of options, but he doesn’t tremble at the edge of the firelight. He walks directly toward me and looks me right in the eyes as he tosses the whip onto the fire.
“Do you know what it means? That whip?” he asks as the edges begin to blacken.
“No.”
He chucks the brown hat into the flames as well and then goes to work on the buttons of his shirt, never once looking away from my face. “It’s a sign of Hitler’s favor. Something he gives to his officers. They are called Obersturmführer. Senior Storm Leaders. They are the ones he has pulled from prisons and gangs and mental institutions. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Child molesters. They are chosen specifically for their depravity and then given whips so they can be let loose upon whatever victims please the Gestapo. Usually Jews. The man I took this from had a pocket full of children’s teeth.”
I think of Vienna and the waterwheel, of Obersturmführer Wolff. “What was his name? The man you took this from?”
“I didn’t ask,” Gaspard says through gritted teeth.
The world will be a better place without Wolff, but I want to be the one to kill him. I want that satisfaction. I am torn between hope that he is rotting in the ground somewhere, unable to hurt anyone else, and jealousy that Gaspard might have gotten to him first.
Behind him, Gaspard’s men begin to peel their uniforms off, though they are not quite so bold about it. They hover beyond the ring of firelight. They ball their clothing and throw it as near the fire as they can get. Hubert kicks each piece into the flames.
But Gaspard is in a rage now, pulling off his boots, yanking at his belt, bending over so I can see the top of his broad, hairy arse. “I don’t regret killing them!” he shouts.
“Nor should you.”
“And I don’t regret using their filthy, disgusting uniforms to get what I need to arm my men, so I can kill more of them.”
He stands before me now, in his skivvies, in the cold night air. His jaw is clenched, his eyes wild.
“Just don’t make an enemy of me in the process,” I say.
He leaves, then, without a word, and his men skulk off after him, wearing nothing but socks and underwear. Hubert and I remain still as the engines roar to life. Fournier joins us from where he’s been watching on the other side of the fire. None of us speak as they drive away. My arm aches from holding the revolver. I am cold. I am exhausted from being up half the night. And yet I stand there, unable to hide my grin as I imagine Gaspard and his men walking back into Château Mont Mouchet. Fournier is shaking with mirth beside me. Hoots, whistles, and laughter float up from the tree line. Someone claps.
I can feel Hubert’s gaze burrowing into the back of my skull, so I turn and face him. “What?”
“I assume that you have a plan when it comes to Gaspar
d?”
“I do, in fact.”
But even he cannot quite suppress the wry smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And is humiliating him part of it?”
“Oh, no. That was just for sport.” I return my revolver to its holster and stretch my arm. “He is a reckless, arrogant brute. A liability to everything we’re doing here.”
“Agreed. But what is your plan?”
“I will bring him to heel.”
* * *
—
Hubert is quiet as I drive back to Château de Couffour. The sky is only now beginning to lighten and Denis Rake is sprawled out on the backseat of the little Renault, one arm draped across his face like a swooning Victorian. The effect is somewhat ruined by his snoring, however. I am tempted to open the window and wake him with a blast of cold air, but he’s exhausted—we all are after unpacking and cleaning weapons late into the night. Our orders from London were to arrive at the plateau at ten in the evening and be gone by four the next morning to avoid detection. Easier said than done, as it turns out, but Fournier’s first group of men has their weapons, and everyone seems to be happy. Except Hubert. He’s scowling at the windshield.
“You make me nervous when you think,” I tell him.
“And you make me nervous when you don’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You let Gaspard go.”
“What was I supposed to do? Arrest him? Shoot him? He’s an absurd, arrogant, disgusting prick, but he’s not a collaborationist.”
“He’s trouble,” Hubert says.
“Indeed. But he also commands four thousand men spread across the Auvergne. We can’t be starting a civil war between him and Fournier. We’re on the same side of this bloody war.”
He goes quiet again, popping his knuckles one by one, first the fingers on his left hand, then the right. “Still, I don’t like it—”
“Oh.” I’ve finally realized what’s troubling him. “He knows our location—”