The Missing Italian Girl

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  Suddenly all eyes were on Séverine and Clarie, two bourgeois ladies. Clarie closed her eyes. She prayed that her jacket was covering her enough to hide her heaving chest. She didn’t belong here. This was all such a bad, foolish idea.

  “Thank you!” Séverine said, showing no signs of shock or fright. “I will do my best to defend the Russian girls. And if any of you see the singers, contact me at Le Petit Parisien or L’Echo de Paris.” Then, she linked her arm in Clarie’s and led her out the doorway.

  “That was terrible,” Clarie said as soon as they were a block from the café. “To want to repeat something like the Charity Bazaar fire.” Over a hundred upper-class girls and women had been burnt alive as they tried to flee a wall of fire rolling across the pretty displays they had set up for their annual charity fair.

  “You know that was an accident. Or, as some say, God’s punishment of someone for something.”

  Clarie noted the sarcasm in Séverine’s response. “Of course, I know that.” It had been in the papers for days. A movie projector had erupted into flames just as the Bazaar was getting under way. Clarie shuddered at the ironic horror of it. A machine promising the newest of pleasures causing the most ancient of nightmares—a storm of hellfire—to rain down upon the poor, screaming women.

  Séverine shook her head as she pulled Clarie along. “That one could want something like that to happen again.” The irritation directed at Clarie had become anger aimed at the man who had spoken with such cold hatred.

  “But don’t you see, some of these people are violent.”

  Séverine stopped and grabbed Clarie’s other arm. “No, my dear,” she said, forcing Clarie to look her in the eye, “that’s not what I see at all. What I see are agents provocateurs. Two of them. But why two? Unless one is a police spy and the other a madman.”

  “Police spies,” Clarie whispered. As in Maura’s song, lying, hoping to provoke, in order to arrest. Or a madman on the loose.

  Séverine began pulling Clarie along again. “I’d better get you home.”

  14

  MARTIN HAD REASON TO WORRY. He put down his pencil and closed the books he had been perusing in the Labor Exchange’s library. To keep his newly created position at the Bourse, he had to prove himself useful. But he didn’t want merely to prove himself useful, he wanted to be useful. He glanced across the table at a youth mouthing each word of a newspaper article. It was workers like him that Martin wanted to help, to elevate, to enlighten. This is why he was here.

  Martin yawned and rubbed his eyes. He was preparing a course on labor law and trying to figure out the best way to explain the snarl of regulations that limited worker freedoms. The class was scheduled to begin next week, and he desperately hoped someone would show up for it. As he picked up his bowler to go out for a reinvigorating walk, he was all too conscious of the fact that what he was doing, taking a few minutes for rest and refreshment, was a right none of the union men or women legally held. Not yet. Engrossed in how they might produce legislation for that right, he almost ran into the Bourse’s reception clerk.

  “Maître Martin!”

  “Yes.”

  “This message has come for you.” The man handed Martin a pneumatic letter.

  “Thank you,” Martin murmured as he scanned the thin blue envelope in vain for a return address. It wasn’t from Clarie. Nothing terrible had happened at home. He pocketed it to read later.

  The clerk stood aside to let Martin go first, then both of them took the stairs down toward the Exchange’s main entrance. The clerk returned to his post, while Martin headed out into the sunshine. As he strolled toward the Place de la République he debated whether to stop at the corner café for a cup of coffee. No, he’d rather a bench under a tree. After he crossed the street to the square, he reached in his pocket, pulled out the pneu, and tore the envelope open. When he saw who the letter was from, he thanked God he had not attempted to read it at the Exchange.

  “Maître Martin, I write as a matter of professional courtesy. Please meet me at the Café Madeleine, between three and four this afternoon. I have a serious matter to discuss with you. Jobert.”

  Martin was tempted to tear up the letter and forget it. He could see no good reason to meet in private with a police inspector. Yet he read it again and shook his head at the way, in these very few lines, Jobert had managed to put his considerable cunning on display. The appointment hour, since it was already almost three, did not give Martin much time to think about what to do. The place was easy to get to by omnibus, and it was posh, unlikely to be frequented by anyone from the unions. At the same time, the message conveyed a sense of urgency, without telling Martin anything. He closed his hand in a fist. If Jobert expected that he, Martin, would become a police spy or some other appendage of the government, just because he had once been a judge, because he had once worked for the state, well, then he needed to stop these suppositions once and for all.

  Martin beat a hasty retreat to the Bourse to tell the receptionist that he was off to work at the Law Library of the Palais de Justice and would be in early tomorrow. Then, cursing the police inspector who had turned him into a deceiver, Martin set out for the omnibus.

  Martin had to thread through a throng of tables serving contented well-dressed customers before he spotted Jobert, enjoying his cigar, at the back of the café, pointedly far from the windows. When he saw Martin, he jumped up to greet him and extended a hammy-pink hand. Martin did not take it. “Why am I here?” he demanded.

  “Sit down,” Jobert said, responding to Martin’s rudeness with his own.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Jobert peered at him and sucked on his cigar. As in their first meeting, the inspector’s blue eyes conveyed an irritating superiority, as if he possessed some secret knowledge. And again, even more loathsomely, he proved that he did. After blowing out a cloud of his sweet-smelling smoke, he declared “I think you may want to sit down when I tell you what your wife has been up to.”

  “I don’t see what business that is of yours—”

  “Consorting with loose women, anarchists.”

  Martin dropped into the chair. “What do you mean? What loose women? What proof do you have?” The questions tumbled in rapid fire, bullets aimed at Jobert’s impudence. Martin took off his bowler and placed it on the table.

  “Séverine. You’ve heard of her, I presume. Close friend of the old, dead Communards. Divorcée. Child abandoner. Always skirting the law, if you’ll excuse my bon mot for that thing she tends to lift for any man who comes along.” Jobert chuckled, enjoying his own joke.

  “And a good investigative journalist who doesn’t let the police get away with their abuses.” Why in God’s name had Martin blurted out a defense of a woman he disdained? Unless, having shot blanks at Jobert, he had no choice but to send up his own smokescreen. He was still getting over the shock that Clarie had come to the attention of the Paris police. He was grateful, at least, for the relative coolness of the cavernous café and the uninterrupted low conversations surrounding them.

  Jobert ran his tongue over his upper lip, almost touching his bushy gingery mustache. Finding some speck, he reached up and picked off a bit of the cigar’s debris. He was in no hurry. Martin got the annoying feeling that he was enjoying himself. Finally, leaning forward, the inspector said, quietly, “I am doing this as a professional courtesy. No matter what side we are on, I trust we are both men of the law. It’s not only that your wife is stepping out. She may also be putting herself in danger.”

  “What do you mean? How do you know all this?”

  Jobert stretched back, as if to get a better look at Martin. His hand rested on the table, with the last of the burning cigar jutting up through his fingers. “As you well know, we keep some of our own men in strategic places. One of them, a good man, had gotten on to this Russian anarchist, Pyotr Balenov, only a few days before his demise. This man was at this stinking little working-class café last night when your wife appeared
on the scene with the so-called journalist.” Jobert crushed his stub into an ashtray and waited.

  “Your man, an agent provocateur.”

  Jobert pursed his lips and nodded. “If that is what you insist on calling him.”

  “Yes, a police agent who tries to provoke a few fanatics to commit some violent crime so that you can prosecute anyone who calls himself an anarchist, even good union men.”

  “A man who protects the public. Upholds the laws…. Anyway,” the smile was sardonic, “we’re not talking about the Labor Exchange now. We’re talking about your wife. Do you know what she was doing there?”

  “No.” That’s all Martin intended to say about Clarie. No.

  “Well, here’s what I’m getting at. Generally, I think of these places as being filled with fools, but occasionally we spot someone who is really, seriously dangerous. That night after my man delivered the usual, shall we say, provoking declaration, some idiot went even further. He stood at the back wall and talked all sorts of bombast about wanting to set off a major explosion to kill a lot of people. That’s when your wife and her ‘friend’ took off. But not until everyone had a good look at them.”

  Just like that. “How do you know it was her?” Martin demanded.

  “My man followed her. Easy enough to do. Although the cab gave him a bit of a run for his money. She was even clever enough to be dropped off at the corner so that none of the neighbors would see her getting out of the carriage. After that it was a walk in the park, so to speak, to follow her to your place.”

  “Do you mean to say, he chose to follow some innocent woman, whoever she may be, rather than the man who was making all the threats?”

  “Maître Martin,” Jobert drawled. “Please. Changing the subject will not change the fact that you had better talk to your wife.”

  Martin had to restrain himself from grabbing Jobert’s suit jacket by the collar and shaking him. “I repeat, why was your agent following an innocent woman instead of that man?”

  Jobert shrugged. “Until last night, there was no particular need to follow him. He seems to have become something of a fixture at that café. According to the bartender, he started coming around a few months ago, claiming that the side of his face was burned by an eruption of flames while he was shoveling coal at the gas works. But we doubt it. My man says he is too skinny, too refined to be a stoker. But it was a good story. Industrial accidents. Isn’t that one of the things you and your union men bleat about all the time? It certainly got the sympathy of the young Russian.” Jobert screwed his mouth to one side and peered into Martin’s face with those irritatingly knowing eyes. “He may be crazy and violent.”

  Clarie in danger. Clarie associating with a loose woman. Clarie, Clarie, Clarie. What are you doing?

  Taking advantage of Martin’s stunned silence, Jobert reached into his vest and took out a new cigar and his “little guillotine.”

  “And you don’t know who he is?”

  “Not yet. Doesn’t seem to be from the neighborhood. Of course,” Jobert said, as he carefully aimed one end of the cigar into the hole of the guillotine and chopped off the cap, “maybe he’s from yours.”

  The complacency with which Jobert insinuated that this fanatic might be near enough to put Clarie in danger filled Martin with loathing. He bolted out of his chair. “Is that all?”

  “Mmm,” Jobert nodded as he struck a match and puffed on his cigar until the fire caught. Then he waved his hand to put out the flame. “All for now,” he said, taking the cigar out of his mouth. “Talk to your wife.”

  If Jobert expected a response, Martin made sure that he would be sorely disappointed. He grabbed his bowler and wove his way out of the café as fast as he could.

  Reaching the street did not offer much relief. He wanted to walk. To work off the tension. But he realized that pushing his way through the gawking, chattering, window-shopping crowds on the Grand Boulevards would only frustrate him. After almost being hit by a motor car as he neared the Place de l’Opera, he boarded a tram. Even that moved too slowly. Hanging on to a strap, Martin lowered and shook his head. He had to talk to Clarie. No, he had to confront his wife. What did she think she was doing? He tried to calm down. He tried to tell himself that perhaps she wasn’t the woman that the police agent had seen. But a quick reprise of the last few days routed this hope. She didn’t just come upon this Séverine’s article by accident. She had to be looking for it, and she had to buy it, and, then, read it, before showing it to him. Or, worse, she had to have had some secret connection with that woman before the article came out. Sweat sprouted under the lining of his bowler and into his shirt. How had this gotten by him? What in God’s name was Clarie up to? He had never been so humiliated. Being told by a police inspector to “talk to your wife.”

  He jumped off as the tram slowed at the Square Montholon and wound his way home, along the same route they took on their peaceful Sundays. He was so angry that everything around him was a blur. How could she?

  When he got to the apartment, he ran through the entrance and courtyard to their stairway and took the steps two at a time. Chest heaving, he forced himself to catch his breath before, with trembling fingers, he took out his key and opened the door.

  Clarie was in her chair, reading to Jean-Luc. When she first looked up, there was a smile on her face, before it turned white. “Bernard, you’re home early. This is a surprise.”

  “Not as big a surprise as the one I just had. Talking to a police inspector.” Martin barely got these words out through his clenched teeth. “Where is Rose?”

  “I don’t know … I suppose….”

  “Rose,” he called. “Rose.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before their maid came scurrying out of the kitchen. “Yes, Monsieur Martin. Oh, you’re home.”

  “Would you mind taking Jean-Luc into the kitchen with you for a few minutes? I need to talk to my wife.”

  Clarie got up, kissed her son, and handed him to Rose without once taking her eyes off Martin. “Your wife?” she said, even before the door had closed to the kitchen.

  “Yes, my wife.” Unable to stand still, he began to pace. “How could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  “You know what. I knew it was true as soon as I came in and mentioned the police.”

  “I have a right—”

  “To what? To consort with that woman? Go where you want? Even if it’s dangerous? You are a mother.” His hands had become hard fists; his heart was pounding.

  “I was in no danger. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  This was a weak defense, and Martin was sure that she knew it. He knew, too, that he should try to regain his composure. But he was angry. And he could see that whatever remorse she had, should have had, had turned into anger. “How long have you known that woman? When did all this start?” he demanded.

  “A few days ago. After that column. I went to see her, because she, at least, was willing to help.”

  “Help? With those Laurenzano girls? You have no idea what they were involved in.” There was terrible buzzing in his ears, a sign that his anger was mounting, a sign that he should try to calm down.

  “I think I have a better idea than you.” Each word came out distinctly, defiantly.

  “Listen, Clarie, my love,” he pleaded, “you may be putting yourself in danger, or at least taking up the wrong cause. That boy was carrying a bomb. Those girls probably knew it. One of them was murdered, for God’s sake, murdered, probably by one of their own gang.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  It was the cold calm of her declaration that drove him mad, mad enough to say it. “I forbid you to consort with that woman. I forbid you to have any more to do with those girls.”

  “You forbid me?”

  Suddenly Clarie’s beautiful, passionate face dissolved before his eyes, the buzzing got louder, and his heart was pounding. It was frightening until he realized that his vision was dimmed by tears—of frustration and sorro
w. They had never been so angry at each other before. They had to stop. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just trying to reason with you.”

  “Reason?” Her tone was defiant, incredulous.

  He took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow, hoping Clarie would not notice that he was also wiping his tears away. “Yes, reason.” He looked down at the crumpled white cloth in his hand.

  “Did I try to reason you out of helping your friend Merckx, even when you were breaking the law? No, I comforted you, I helped you, I kept your secret. And you loved me for it. You called me your strong, brave girl. And now, what am I, your wife?”

  “Quiet. Rose.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. She’s not listening. And if she were, she’d never betray us.”

  Martin put his handkerchief in his pocket and continued more quietly. “What happened to Merckx happened a long time ago. And there’s a difference. He was my oldest friend. And I was young and foolish.” She knew how important his childhood friend had been to him and how guilty he felt for trying and failing to help him escape from the army.

  “You wouldn’t do it again?”

  Do what again? Get Merckx shot dead? The room fell so silent, Martin heard the clock ticking over the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as if she finally understood the cruelty of using what had happened to Merckx against him.

  “You don’t know these people,” he retorted. He was so hurt.

  “But I know from you about justice. How we should seek it. How we should understand what it means to be poor.” The fire in her almond-shaped brown eyes had been almost completely extinguished. She was the one who was pleading now.

  “Justice is my profession,” he said, still smarting. Another blunder, which reignited her defiance.

  “Your profession. Your sense of justice. For men, for workers, for Jewish army officers. Girls are beaten every day, by their bosses, by their husbands, by their lovers, and you always found their trials rather ‘sordid.’ Perhaps I have a different sense of justice: for mothers who have lost their children, for girls lost in the world.” Her voice was steely, and her gaze never wavered from his face. Mothers who have lost their children. Clarie and their dear, dead Henri-Joseph. They had to stop. They could not continue to thrust and probe until they laid bare their deepest wounds. Even though he wanted nothing more in the world than to convince Clarie that his concern was for her, her safety, her well-being, the ground they were treading was too treacherous. He dare not say another word.