He made his way through the tables to catch a closer glimpse of her, trying not to trip or step over anyone’s shoes. He had no idea what she was singing, but he figured out from a few verses that it was about lost love. She sung with such power and emotion that he got goose bumps.
Now he knew why his brother frequented this place, he thought.
Who could have guessed a place like that existed in such a solemn city.
She turned towards Melbourne and for just a few seconds their eyes locked. He knew he must have looked stupid with that smile on his face. She noticed it and gave him a short, half smile.
She turned away from him and he came back down to Earth. The people around him cheered and whistled as if they had never seen anything like it before. He looked around and noticed that most tables were filled with local Belgians while a few included German soldiers. On the far corner, close to the stage, was a table full of German officers, nodding their heads and smiling at the woman.
That night, in that café, there was no differences between the captors and the oppressors. They were too busy listening to an angel sing.
She finished her last words of the song and a deafening uproar of applauses and shouts drowned out the last few notes played by the band. Everyone stood up from their chairs and clapped hands with might.
The singer bowed and blew kisses around the room to her audience. She thanked them all but her voice was drowned out by the loud applause. Melbourne stood motionless and watched her as she walked with grace to the back of the stage and disappeared behind a door.
Any traces of exhaustion from the busy day had disappeared.
“Who is she?” he shouted to a man standing next to him as the applauses continued.
“What?! You don’t know La Baronne?” the man asked.
Melbourne felt glad he did now.
The show was over but he stuck around, chatting to the men around him, trying to gain some more information on the city and the café. Little came of it, but he learned a few more facts on how Brussels worked under the occupation. He was actually constructing his hypothetical article in his head, in case someone asked.
The café began emptying out after it was obvious to everyone that the show was over for the night. Drunken men stumbled out of the door, and only a few stayed behind, including the table of German soldiers, who had by now drunk about six pints apiece.
Melbourne sat at the bar, sipping a beer and feeling the exhaustion of the day finally settling in. He had almost forgotten about the pieces of poems he had found earlier. It was time to go home.
He set his glass down on the counter and was ready to depart when he heard her voice.
“The usual, Philippe.”
He turned to see La Baronne sitting two stools down from him. She seemed tired as well, and absentmindedly played with one of her long silver earrings, waiting for her drink to arrive.
“That last song almost made me weep,” Melbourne said with a smile.
“Was my performance really that bad?”
“No, the performance was aston — ”
Something clicked in his mind. The nightingale. A bird that sings only at night. The nightingale that his brother supposedly knew. He got up from his stool and sat down on an empty one next to her. She pulled out a long, black cigarette holder from her purse and put it to her lips. Next came a cigarette, which she placed in the holder.
“Astonishing,” he finished.
“Astonishing,” she repeated, pronouncing the word slowly. “That’s a new one. I long for a new adjective from time to time. Do you happen to have a light?”
Melbourne began fumbling in his pockets for the box of matches. When he finally found it, a hand holding a lighted match came between them. He turned around to find one of the German soldiers smiling at her.
“Wunderbar, mademoiselle.” He slurred his words.
She held the cigarette between those gorgeous red lips and drew it to life. The smell of tobacco began joining the reek of spilled beer and sweat.
“I… umm… we were wondering if you wanted to join us at our table?” the man said.
Melbourne turned to see the group of German soldiers sitting at that table behind him all staring towards his direction. Her whiskey had finally arrived.
“Thank you, but no. Maybe some other time,” the singer said.
“We want to offer you that drink. And all the others that will come after.”
“That’s very kind of you but I must refuse the offer for tonight.” She drew in a puff of smoke and blew it in his face. “Goodbye,” she said smiling.
The man turned around and stumbled back towards his table and his friends, mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath.
“A lot of sober gentlemen around here,” Melbourne said. “I just wanted — ”
“Listen,” she interrupted. She took a gulp of her whiskey. “You seem like a nice boy.”
Did she just call me boy? Melbourne thought.
“But I know your kind. You come to me every single night wanting to buy me a drink and maybe tell me some story of how you fought on the Front, or worse yet try to show me some gruesome scar that I could live the rest of my life without seeing. So, unless you have something extremely interesting to say that I have never heard before, and trust me that is very hard, you can just save your breath and your money on me. Goodbye to you too.”
Melbourne pursed his lips, feeling slightly embarrassed and uneasy. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m like the old whiskey you’re drinking. The more you taste me, the more flavours you discover.” What the hell am I saying? he thought.
She chuckled, trying not to choke on the gulp of whiskey in her mouth. She swallowed it and turned towards Melbourne. “Don’t tell me that is how you hit on women?”
“But I made you laugh. I’m sure that counts as a point.”
“Point given, but not enough to win the game I’m afraid.”
He suddenly felt an arm wrap itself around his shoulders. The gang of German soldiers surrounded them, all laughing, breaths heavy from large quantities of beer.
“If the girl doesn’t come to the table, then the table comes to the girl,” the man with the arm around Melbourne said. The soldiers all burst into laughter. “Now get the hell out of my seat.” He pushed Melbourne off the stool and sat himself in it.
They began to praise her show, complimenting her, but their compliments began to get more explicit, their hands moving to touch her. She shrugged her shoulder, trying to remove that man’s hand from it. Her smile began to seem strained.
The compliments turned into requests to have the singer join them for some fun outside of the café. She declined, gently, but they would not leave her alone.
Melbourne had had enough. He patted one of the soldiers on the shoulder. “Sorry to disturb you gentlemen. I believe the mademoiselle here is not interested.”
“Mind your own business demented freak!” one of them said as he caressed her hair.
Melbourne and the girl exchanged glances. He could tell she was frightened.
He placed his hand on the soldier’s arm to stop him. He turned to look at Melbourne with a grin.
Melbourne planted a fist in the middle of that grin.
The others moved towards him, slowly surrounding him. The soldier that had a pistol placed in a holster in plain view put his hand on it. “Are you stupid or what? Can’t you see who we are?”
Melbourne’s fighter’s training kicked in. They were five. He was one.
Shit.
“I think this little imbecile needs a lesson on who controls who over here,” said another.
The singer got up to leave but one of the soldiers pushed her back in chair. “You need a lesson as well! Watch who is in charge in this place!”
One of the soldiers threw a punch towards Melbourne. He caught it on the left cheek and rolled with it, but the force of the blow threw him against a nearby stool.
The men laughed.
All right, re
assess and quickly. Five to one. Five drunk to one sober. One armed with a gun. He needed a weapon.
The soldier who had just hit him pulled his arm way back, telegraphing the punch from a mile away. Melbourne grabbed the stool and spun around, holding it in front of him.
The soldier let out a cry of pain as his fist smashed into the stool, knuckles hitting hard wood.
Melbourne was pushed back by the force but found his ground again, then rammed the stool into the soldier’s face. He went down.
He couldn’t use the stool, it was too unwieldy. He feinted with it, then dropped it and punched another soldier in the face, knocking him back. That’s it. They were onto him.
A fist came out of the blue and split Melbourne’s lip. He dodged a second blow and punched the man in the nose. Now it was two to one. Better.
One of them, the man he’d hit at first, was determined. He threw another punch. And another. And another.
Melbourne managed to deflect them – being sober helped. But that gun was still out there.
The soldier with the gun was shouting at his companion in German, urging him to break Melbourne’s face in two. As long as Melbourne was busy with his fists, the soldier wouldn’t use the gun. Melbourne planted his fist at the man’s stomach.
But one of the others – the biggest one – had recovered. He grabbed Melbourne by the jacket and threw him against a nearby table.
The soldier with the gun was still cheering for his friends.
Melbourne slowly got up. He hurt in a number of places, but he was mostly assessing the situation. The big man slowly moved towards him, unsteady on his feet. He couldn’t be far from going down. Melbourne exploded upward, planting a punch in the man’s face, then while he was stunned, landing a number of other punches in quick succession.
The man stood his ground, not moving while Melbourne pummelled him. Finally, Melbourne dropped back. The soldier stood motionless for a few seconds and then slowly fell backwards onto the ground.
Melbourne heard a clicking sound behind him. The gun had finally come out.
“You damned Belgian pig-dog. That was the biggest mistake of your goddamn life. Prepare to — ”
The tension was broken by a sudden loud whistle.
They turned around and saw a German officer rise from his chair in one of the nearby tables. “That is enough! Get out of here all of you or I will make you pay dearly. Have you understood?”
The soldier placed his gun back in its holster. His gaze had not moved from Melbourne’s. “Schweinhund,” he said under his breath.
Melbourne turned towards the singer, but she wasn’t there anymore. He started towards the exit, not giving a single glance to the soldiers behind him, forcing himself to walk straight with his head high even though he wanted to curl into a ball and lick his wounds. He emerged into the night, the bitter cold wind stinging his bleeding lip. It felt good to finally be out of the hot humidity of that place.
He began to walk back towards where he had initially come from, entering the colonnade, when he felt an arm grab his coat and push him into the darkness behind one of the columns. Melbourne wasn’t ready for another fight but he raised his fist, ready to defend himself with the little strength that remained in him. That is until he saw bright, blue eyes staring back at him.
“You are completely mad, you know that boy?” La Baronne seemed almost angry. A little crease formed between her eyebrows. “Those people could kill you or imprison you any day they want.”
He just stared at her, pursing his lips. She let out a sigh and opened her purse from which she extracted a handkerchief and a small bottle of perfume. Placing a few drops of perfume on the cloth handkerchief, she placed it on Melbourne’s lip. It stung, and he tried wincing as little as possible.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the crease disappearing. “I was rude to you back there. I apologise.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Danielle. And yours?” She had put on perfume since he had last seen her inside the club. The soft aroma of flowers filled his nostrils.
“Remy.”
“You’re a new face around here. Unless I’m mistaken.” She removed the handkerchief from his lip, folded it, and placed it back in her pursue. “Not quite like new,” she said, eyeing the wound, “but it will heal soon.”
“You’re not mistaken. I was just passing by and I heard your voice coming out through the door. My curiosity got the best me.”
He looked over her shoulder and noticed the German soldiers were stumbling out of the café. They headed the opposite direction, not even noticing that Melbourne and Danielle were standing a few paces from there. They disappeared around a bend, singing loudly, and holding each other so as not to fall over.
He pointed to the rowdy band. “Do those sober gentlemen bother you often?”
“Sometimes. It has almost become a habit in these parts. Strange to say you get used to it.”
“Then allow me to walk you home.” He tried smiling but it hurt like hell.
“Don’t worry about it. You have done enough for me tonight. And I live fairly close by.” She got into a fighting stance, fists raised to her face. “I can’t defend you much if you get into another fight.” She relaxed and giggled.
Melbourne put his arm out, hoping she would accept it. “Come on. I promise I will only get into a fight if it involves German soldiers or officers.”
She smiled and accepted his invitation, taking his arm. Danielle began leading the way, crossing the street on the other side of the colonnade, peppered with empty cafés passed closing time, their doors shut tight and dark curtains drawn on the windows. They passed the ghostly street in silence before emerging into a bigger and more illuminated road.
“You don’t seem to be from around here,” she said at last.
What it so obvious? “No, I’m not. Good observational skills. I’m actually Swiss.”
“And what brings you to beautiful occupied Brussels?”
He was by now inebriated by her perfume. “I’m a journalist.”
“A journalist.” He could hear a slight quaver of excitement in her voice. “Well, now that is interesting. Investigating, finding facts. I was thinking of becoming one back when I was little.”
“Yes. I’m trying to write something on the efficiency of the German governing system.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Ugh! You could have honestly picked a better subject. Don’t waste your time with that. Write something more exciting.”
“Say… the adventures of a beautiful and talented singer in some beaten up bar filled drunken Germans?”
Danielle laughed once again. “I’m afraid that’s not much more interesting.” She stopped under a gas lamp and let go of his arm. “I live just down the street here. You have been kind enough to walk with me all the way here.”
Under the yellowish light, he noticed her eyes up close for the first time. Deep icy blue with a swirl of a darker shade around her pupil.
“Thank you. And thank you for standing up for me.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and began walking away.
“Wait!” he said. She stopped and turned around. “Let me interview you. Tomorrow. I need to hear some stories from people that live here in Brussels. You could be of great help.”
“Well, why not. Let’s meet at twelve o’clock in front of the Church of the Blessed Lady of the Sablon.”
“I’ll be there.”
She smiled at him, turned around, and walked away, disappearing into the gloom of the street.
“Good night!” he called out but no answer came back.
Melbourne let out a sigh, his pain completely forgotten. He had found his nightingale.
But was she also Henry’s nightingale?
XVI
- 6 days
The next morning, Melbourne’s felt that the descent down the stairs to the living room was worthy of a medal on its own. His body pulsed with pain at each step. Sore and stiff, he slowly made his
way into the living room where Monsieur Esmond and his wife were already sitting at the table having breakfast.
“Good morning.” Even saying those two words hurt.
Madame Esmond dropped her slice of bread with honey on it and gasped. Her husband’s knife stopped midway between the jar and his bread, the honey slowly dripping off the blade.
“Goodness gracious, son! What the hell happened to you last night?”
Melbourne knew he was not a lovely sight – a glance in the mirror had told him as much. His broken lip had swollen, and a lovely purple bruise had formed on one cheek. He slowly, and achingly, sat down in front of them and told them of the drunken German soldiers, the fight, and of Danielle.
Madame Esmond placed a finger on each of her temples. “You got into a fight with German soldiers.” She slowly shook her head. “You do know that spies tend to keep their heads down?”
“Oh, don’t be hard on the boy,” Monsieur Esmond said. “His first day here and he’s already kicked some German ass.” He took a bite of his piece of bread. “Now that is what I call having some balls.”
Madame Esmond’s eyes slowly rolled towards her husband. “Jacques…”
“And tell me, the girl, is she beautiful?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Melbourne said. “The most beautiful girl my eyes have ever seen. Blonde, slender, blue eyes.”
“Yes…” Monsieur Esmond spread some more honey on his slice.
“A smile to kill for. And her voice! The girl really knows how to sing.”
His host shook his head. “I wish I were thirty years younger.”
Madame Esmond turned to give him a cold stare.
“To kick German ass, of course.”
She ignored him and turned back to Melbourne. “You need some medication for that cut on your lip.”
The Iron Shadow Page 10