The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

‘I wouldn’t even try.’ I nudged her.

  She adjusted the poufy blue fabric spread out around her and over the step. ‘Are you going to wear that tomorrow night with Henri?’ I wouldn’t put it past Charlotte. She’d probably wet her hair to keep the curls down, and bathe with special salts too.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ I said, and she turned to me. ‘About the… Well, you know…’

  She laughed. ‘You can say it,’ she said. ‘The wedding night?’

  ‘All right. The wedding night. Are you nervous?’

  Henri was tall and slender with soft features, not the rugged type. It never crossed my mind that he’d be anything other than gentle. Still, I was curious.

  Charlotte inhaled deeply, holding her arms to her chest, smiling. ‘I can’t wait.’ She looked at me. ‘When you’re in love there’s no time for nerves. It’ll be just me and Henri, and nobody else in the world. Just… us.’

  Suddenly it felt as if Charlotte didn’t have one night left, but had already gone. She felt years away, not my sister, but a woman. A married woman from the city.

  ‘I want a thousand babies!’ She lit up. ‘All with his brown eyes. Lots and lots of babies. Henri wants a thousand too. All for France. Did I tell you how Henri proposed? It was in the evening, and the sun had just begun to set…’

  ‘I know,’ I said, taking a drag. ‘You’ve told me a hundred times.’

  ‘Oh, have I?’ She laughed. ‘I’m just teasing you. I know I have.’ She paused, and then put her hand on my knee and sat there for many minutes, staring into the dark vineyard.

  ‘I’m going to miss this, Charlotte,’ I said. ‘Me and you…’

  She threw her arms around me. ‘I’ll always be your sister,’ she said. ‘Always.’

  A rustling on the patio startled me. ‘Hallo?’ I snubbed out my cigarette and got up, listening in the dark. Peat and sour grapes wafted warmly in the air, and then the fresh burn of sweet tobacco.

  ‘Luc?’ I said, and he turned around slowly from the other side of the patio.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ I said, as he smoked his cigarette.

  He slid over, patting the empty space next to him for me to sit down. That’s when I noticed the kitchen window was ajar and he was just a few feet away from where Mama and me were talking. My stomach dropped, and I felt very embarrassed. And when he looked at me in the dark, cigarette smoking from his lips with his reflecting eyes, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

  I sat down, tucking my skirt under my legs. ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo,’ he said.

  ‘How long have you been out here,’ I said, fishing to see exactly what he’d heard.

  He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Not long.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  I looked out into the dark vineyard, not sure what to say or how to react, legs pushed into my chest, but then sat up straight. ‘Can I have one?’ I said, and I motioned to his cigarette.

  He smiled, reaching into his back pocket for paper, and then the other pocket for the tobacco.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ I finally asked.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said, and a surprised little gasp came from my mouth, almost laughing.

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ I said, and now he was the one laughing.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because this is my patio,’ I said.

  ‘Oh…’ he said.

  I watched him roll me a cigarette, sprinkling in the tobacco he pulled from his pouch, and then move the paper to his lips to seal it. I hesitated when he offered it to me, both our fingers on the same cigarette, which I was sure he noticed. ‘Thanks,’ I said, pulling away, and he struck his lighter and we smoked together.

  ‘Mama said you’re set up in the barrel cellar,’ I said, and he nodded. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Long enough to know you were in Lyon,’ he said, looking at me. ‘With the sisters.’

  ‘Mama told you that?’ I said. ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘What was it like?’ he said. ‘You’re so…’

  ‘So what?’ I said, back straightening.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said, and I shoved my cigarette into my mouth, puffing nervously, thankful he couldn’t see me blushing in the dark. ‘Has nobody told you?’

  ‘Not the way you just did,’ I said.

  I’d heard a fleeting twinge of a British accent, which surprised me. ‘Where are you from? Not Vichy, are you?’ I said, but I was sure he was from somewhere far away.

  ‘I’m not from Vichy,’ he said, pausing, smiling.

  ‘And…’

  ‘And that’s all.’ He laughed. ‘I can’t tell you where I’m from.’

  ‘Well it’s only fair since you know where I’m from,’ I said, but he didn’t look like he was going to give in. ‘How about this… What do you miss the most from where you’re from?’

  ‘That’s a hard one,’ he said, but then took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. ‘Fresh bread and vanilla oil. Haven’t had that in a long time. And sipping wine in the sun, lying in the grass. That’s it. All four of them together. Took them for granted before I…’ He looked at me. ‘Well, you know.’

  The last time I had wine in the sun I was with Gérard. ‘I’ve had enough wine in the sun,’ I said, and Luc looked at me.

  ‘One day you might find you miss it,’ he said, and I realized how difficult his job must be. To not see the sun, to not feel it on your face without fear of someone seeing you and questioning who you are.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ he said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure there’s lots of things you miss.’

  ‘I have a feeling you’ll know soon enough,’ he said. His cigarette was done, and he got up after stubbing it out on the patio, but I still had half mine left.

  ‘Thanks for the cigarette. See you around?’ I said, and then winced. That wasn’t a phrase I normally used, and I thought he could tell.

  He smiled, stepping into the shadowy darkness of the night. ‘See you around.’ He winked, and my stomach flipped again; then when he was out of sight, I collapsed backward on the patio and smoked my cigarette while staring up into the stars.

  ‘Christ, Adèle,’ I said to myself. ‘You’re such an idiot.’

  13

  The following morning, I packed a tin with a crust of bread and a jar of peaches from the root cellar. I wasn’t going to give Gérard any of our meat until Mama talked me into it. ‘He’d know,’ she said, ‘that you weren’t sincere if you didn’t hand it over.’ As much as I hated to admit it, I knew she was right and stuck a can of the pork in with the rest of it.

  Before I could deliver anything to the Hotel du Parc, I had to look for a new dress. Something Gérard hadn’t seen before. With the tin hooked on my arm and a gingham towel as a cover, I took the money Marguerite had given me to Le Grand Marché Couvert, a covered market filled with a hundred vendors selling everything they could get their hands on. Nothing lacy, I told myself, but something sophisticated.

  Mme Dubois had been selling textiles and exotic foods brought up from Marseilles for donkey’s years, as she’d always say. But since the armistice she kept the clothes hidden. Mama once told me she sewed for Coco Chanel twenty years ago, but Madame denied it when I asked.

  Mme Dubois’ oversized glasses had slipped to the end of her nose and she pushed them back up as she talked. ‘I don’t want to go out naked, of course. I always stash a little of the fabric away for myself.’ She pointed discreetly to the linen-covered bolts of fabric she had under her table.

  ‘Madame Dubois, naked?’ I laughed softly.

  Mme Dubois picked lint from her rose-print skirt before looking over the rim over her glasses. ‘It could happen.’ She leaned over her vendor table, her striped top grazing the jars of dates and sticky figs she had imported from
Africa. ‘Not that anyone would want to see me naked.’ She laughed, running a hand through her thin brown hair.

  A woman selling ground chicory at the table next to hers rolled her eyes as Mme Dubois talked. ‘You talk about the strangest things, Dubois.’ Madame waved for her to go away, but the woman sprayed rosewater at her from a perfume bottle.

  ‘Ahh, the smell of rose,’ Madame said. ‘She sprays it to cover up the stink the Vichy police leave behind. They passed by not too long ago, love.’ She put her hands together and played unconsciously with her wedding band. ‘What can I help you with today?’ The spray misted behind her. ‘The chicory makes a nice coffee substitute!’

  Mama had enough coffee stored in her root cellar to last three more months, but I wouldn’t dare tell anyone we had such a treasure.

  ‘I need a dress, Madame. Something fresh.’

  Her eyes brightened. ‘I have just the thing!’ Underneath the bolts of fabric she had under her table were two dresses made from the same cloth as her shirt. ‘Pinstripes are always in season, no matter how dreadful the drought is.’

  I presumed the drought she was talking about had something to do with clothing rations and the designers in the north. She held the dresses by the sleeves to my shoulders. One was a size too large, but the other was a dead match. She folded it nicely and then set it on the table to be wrapped.

  A woman with her arms full of bags reached for the dates, and Madame shooed her away. ‘Not for sale,’ she told her. ‘Not. For. Sale.’ The woman tilted her frilly hat before finally deciding to go to another table. Only after the woman was a good distance away did Mme Dubois’ smile return.

  ‘You should have a try of these dates before the shipments stop.’

  ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘Only thinking out loud, love.’ She lifted her glasses from her face, her eyes large as teacups filled with dark brown tea. ‘When Africa is taken by the Allies, all of this will be gone.’ She put a finger to her mouth, shushing herself. ‘You didn’t hear that from me, of course.’

  I pointed into a sea of oily bottles. ‘Is that vanilla oil?’ I said, and she handed it to me.

  ‘Last one,’ she said. ‘Better buy it before it goes too.’

  A yellowy bottle with twine wrapped around the neck and a worn paper label, corked like wine. ‘It smells heavenly.’ I held the scent seeping from the cork, closing my eyes, thinking of Luc. ‘It’s perfect. I will take it.’ I gave her a few coins.

  Two girls about seventeen lingered between both tables; they giggled, talking about how handsome the gendarmes were in the Vichy police. One touched a bag of chicory for sale, and the woman with the rosewater sprayed her with it. ‘Her son was given to the Germans also,’ Madame said. ‘Same camp as my son. But I can’t talk about it with Pierre around.’

  Her eyes flicked to her husband, who’d been stacking old books on a shelf behind her. A hazy greyness clouded his eyes when he looked up, and Madame cleared her throat. That’s when I noticed that behind Pierre was a makeshift changing area made from a hanging curtain and a rod.

  ‘Perhaps I could wear the dress out of here?’

  ‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said.

  Mme Dubois held the curtain closed while I slipped out of my dress and into the new striped one. I smoothed the soft fabric over my thighs and listened to Madame talk about the crowds and how she could get coffee on the black market. ‘You want bread? Forget about it. Unless you were smart enough to hoard some flour…’

  Mme Dubois didn’t have a mirror, but I could feel the fit of the dress against my body, smooth and snug, just enough leg to keep Gérard interested. I opened the curtain and handed Madame my old dress to sell in its place, along with a few francs to make up the difference. She smiled when she saw the Chanel label, but she had never stopped talking.

  ‘Food for everyone Pétain says—what about our sons? Where are our prisoners? Bastard of a man—bargains with the Nazis and gains nothing—’ She groaned and snarled when she said Pétain’s name. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Enough talk about the devil. This dress looks divine on you, love.’ She glanced at the tin hanging off my arm. ‘Need something else? Looks like you have your lunch.’

  ‘No, actually.’ I patted the tin. ‘This is for Gérard—’ No sooner had his name flown out of my mouth did I wish I could suck it back in and chew it up.

  ‘Gérard Baudoin?’ Every wrinkle in Mme Dubois’ face flattened. ‘Why would you be going to see him, love?’ She put a hand on my old dress lying on her table. ‘I thought you left him months ago, ran away before the wedding. That’s what I heard from your mother, from everyone.’

  ‘I did leave,’ I said, standing straight, ‘but I’m back now.’

  ‘You’re back together?’

  I pulled my shoulders back. I was with a collaborator as far as she was concerned. ‘He was a hero, you know, at the Battle of Sedan.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the hero, Adèle. But I do know about his reputation as a gendarme with the Vichy police… the strings his uncle pulled so that he didn’t have to be a prisoner of war.’ Mme Dubois looked me over, her eyes skirting over the dress on my body and down the lines of the stripes. ‘Like my son.’

  A disgusted look pulled at her bottom lip, and I had a feeling she regretted letting me try the dress on. She shoved my old dress into my hands. ‘I can’t sell this rag. You’ll need to pay entirely with francs.’

  I handed her enough francs to more than cover the cost of the dress, but still she asked for more, shaking her head saying it just wouldn’t do. After I had given her everything I had she motioned to the woman with the rosewater, snatching back my old dress from my hands.

  ‘Spray her.’

  *

  Thin and measly Armistice Army soldiers guarded the front entrance of the Hotel du Parc between two flapping blue, white, and red Vichy flags. I walked in with my head held high, as if I was used to walking into the Parc with a lunch tin on my arm. The old front desk was now a processing area for visitors, and I made my way toward two men who looked like concierges with French kepi hats and shoulder boards.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Mademoiselle Ambeh,’ one said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and they both looked at each other, smirking. ‘Do you know me?’

  ‘We know of you,’ one said, pointing down the corridor. ‘Office number sixteen.’

  They whispered to each other as I quietly made my way down the stuffy carpeted corridor to Gérard’s office. The offices were guestrooms from when it was a spa and the secretaries had small desks in the corridors. I found Gérard’s secretary chewing on a pencil and staring out the window. Her hair was done up in tight ringlets—older, maybe early fifties, and probably a wife to someone in the regime. I introduced myself, and she pointed to a chair for me to wait.

  She watched me openly, her eyes gazing at my new dress. ‘Adèle, you said?’ Her cheeks rounded when she talked.

  I nodded, smiling. ‘Mmm.’

  She opened a window to filter out some of the hovering cigarette smoke, and I shifted around in my seat, uncomfortable from the unwavering heat. Sweat beaded between my breasts and on my neck, which made the scent of rose all that more distasteful and stickier on my skin. Think about the cigar box, I told myself, shifting again.

  I practised what it would be like to open the cigar box and offer him a cigar, choosing one out of many as he looked at me. Smiling—or would he be licking his lips? Then the words I was thinking came tumbling out, ‘Want one?’

  The secretary glanced up. ‘Want what?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Nothing.’

  She got up from her chair and adjusted her thin dress belt. ‘I believe they’re almost finished,’ she said, putting her ear to the door, listening to the muffled voices inside Gérard’s office. She hopped back in her seat and turned toward her desk just as the door swung open.

  I straightened up at the sight of G�
�rard, and my hands instantly trembled. ‘He’s attracted to the way you are,’ Marguerite had said. I took a deep breath. Be yourself.

  Gérard’s guest was a man with slicked-back hair. I guessed he was a member of the police, but by the style of his suit I started to think he was someone even more important. ‘Absolutely, Monsieur Bousquet,’ Gérard said, and my heart skipped a beat with this news—René Bousquet, head of the national police.

  I closed my eyes briefly, thinking about the grass and the sun, but nothing seemed to help my thumping heart. My palms sweated.

  Bousquet stopped in the doorway on his way out of Gérard’s office, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. ‘We understand each other. Good.’

  ‘Fully, sir.’

  They laughed, patting each other’s backs. His secretary stood, motioning for me to get up. ‘Stand,’ she said very concerned, and I quickly moved to my feet, but Bousquet walked down the corridor, never even batting an eye in my direction.

  Gérard stood in his doorway, his mouth open as if still laughing.

  ‘I see my lunch has arrived.’

  I swallowed, feeling my heart thrashing against my ribs. ‘Certainly has, Gérard,’ I said, placing a hand on the tin.

  He glanced at my hands, which were still trembling and I curled them into fists. ‘No water from the Source des Célestins?’

  The Source des Célestins was a warm spring that flowed from decorated iron taps under the park pavilion. It was common to see people lined up near the Allier River in the morning and early afternoon wanting to get a sip of the sweet, bubbling water. Many believed the water could heal the most vicious of maladies, even reverse the signs of ageing. Others believed it was just water.

  ‘I couldn’t get a foot near it. There were people everywhere walking the promenade,’ I lied. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘I drink from it several times a day, Adèle. You could get a foot in, if you wanted.’ He motioned for me to come into his office.

  ‘Like I said—’ smiling ‘—maybe next time.’ Gérard’s secretary had sat back down in her chair, but popped back up just before the door closed. ‘I did bring you a nice piece of pork, though,’ I said, pulling the can of meat out from under the gingham towel.