April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  She broke a tiny piece of croissant off and dipped it in her coffee. She looked at it, sighed and put it down. ‘Well yes, I did that. That’s gathering information, is it? If I’d known . . .’

  ‘Ah, if you’d only known – the informant’s lament.’ I gave her a wry smile. ‘But you have a chance to make amends now.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By talking to me.’

  ‘That’s it? Revenge has never been so easy.’

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Is it too early for cocktails?’

  ‘Never.’

  She opened a desk, but instead of writing tools there was a secret drinks cabinet, full of shiny bottles and shinier glasses. She made us a cocktail she’d picked up in Italy over the summer and poured out all of her frustrations with the gin.

  With only the merest encouraging ‘Yes?’ and ‘Hmmm’, she talked on.

  ‘We came here just after the summer, when all of Paris was heading home from their holidays. It had taken me months to contact Katya. We eventually found her in Florence – she introduced us to this negroni cocktail, made by Count Negroni himself, slumming as a bartender – and she gave me the key and instructions about the maid and Katya’s regular suppliers. You’ve been to Italy? Of course you have. You know how golden it can be. As though the war never happened, as though, since the Renaissance, the purpose of life is to eat figs on a Tuscan hilltop one day and splash in the sunlit Mediterranean the next. I almost convinced myself that I was in love with Ferny. It was certainly lust – he’s rather . . . experienced. I was taken aback by how well he performed his role as lover.’ A secretive smile stole over her face. She brought out a bowl of glacé fruit, clearly meant for the cocktails, and popped a cherry in her mouth.

  ‘We took the slow train back to Paris, in our own compartment, looking out over the Swiss mountains and Alsace farmland as we . . . took advantage of our solitude. The golden sensations of late August followed us all the way into the city, up the stairs, into the flat, and promptly vanished with a rain squall as we shut the door. A typical northern September. The heat had vanished.

  ‘Ferny badgered me to introduce him to all of Katya’s friends, all of my distant relatives, which was odd as he already knew a number of them. His family is just as old and complicated as mine, although his relations are German – his mother’s side is entirely Prussian. I remember my brother going on holiday with his family to Berlin, sending me postcards from Rügen about their long days of hiking. I remember it clearly, as that was the summer before the war broke out; I’d just got engaged, it was a blessed time . . . But yes, a lot of those Prussians left Germany as soon as they could – they’re fleeing like the Russians – although not many have ended up in Paris, it’s true. Too tricky. Ferny told me most of them had gone east, to Croatia and Montenegro and other far-flung parts of the Austrian empire. But still, these French aristocrats and Russian émigrés have always been around . . .

  ‘But in the end, his badgering wasn’t the problem. He came to the parties, he ate and drank and charmed, he even danced with me once or twice. Then we’d come home and he’d interrogate me. Really, there is no other word for it. Who did I speak to, what did they say, what were they like . . . Then it became more intense. I had to seek out particular people, I had to make them say certain things . . . I told myself, over and over, of course it feels cruel, everything after Peter would feel less than loving, less than adequate . . . but it wasn’t that. Ferny played games. He would boss me about like I was a cadet in his command. He would set me riddles and punish me if I couldn’t unriddle them. He would tell me who to talk to and what to say, and if I deviated, I would be punished. The punishments were always some form of humiliation.’ Violet stared at a Buddha on the shelf as she blinked back tears.

  I took a guess. ‘Humiliation . . . you mean, like making you wait for hours in the rain, or cold, so that by the time he showed up your anger had been worn away?’

  ‘Yes – more than once.’

  ‘And quizzing you like a child on something only he could know – some obscure point of history, perhaps?’

  ‘Pre-war German politics.’

  ‘And then admonishing you for not knowing?’

  ‘Precisely—’

  ‘Quoting Romantic poetry, but twisted and altered to make you sweat, rather than make you swoon? Something like “If by dull maids our English must be chained”—’

  ‘Yes! How did you know?’

  These were Fox’s little games.

  ‘I’ve met his type before.’ I raised my glass in a mock ‘cheers’ and we both downed a large gulp. ‘What did he do in the war?’

  ‘The war? I never really asked. I didn’t want to be reminded of all the men who saw the bullet with their name on it . . .’

  ‘What regiment was he in?’

  ‘Oh, the . . . actually, I don’t know. He’s never mentioned it.’ She popped a piece of croissant into her mouth. ‘That’s odd. All my brother’s friends were always going on about the Buffs or the Queen’s Own – the regiments near our estate in Kent – and when a mate from his regiment popped into the Rose and Crown, my brother cried with joy, it was as though a lover had come home.’

  ‘But Ferny has never mentioned his regiment.’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Has he met up with his mates from the war?’

  ‘Just the one. A horrid piece of work. We met him here in Paris, actually, Eddy something. Tall, pale, blond hair perfectly in place and a habit of stubbing his cigarettes out on the carpet.’ She rubbed at a cigarette burn on the oriental rug with her foot, her polished toe doing nothing to hide the circular singe in the pattern.

  ‘I think he’s a distant cousin of Ferny’s or something – they were very pally – and I’m fairly sure he didn’t have an eye for women. He was handsome but no one liked him. He had this odd voice. High-pitched, clipped, sounded a bit . . . well, he sounded a bit German. He had a nasty smile and simpering manners. He had a repellent effect at parties, as though his pretty face was actually Dorian Gray. Women would come up to him to talk and then draw back in disgust – or in tears.’

  ‘What did he say to them?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I know what he said to me. “So, Violet, how did you get Ferny in your pocket? He doesn’t like brunettes. Was it a trick taught to you by the ladies of Piccadilly?” After I expressed my opinion on the waste of life in the war, he said, “Oh, yes, that’s what all the old men say. Tell me, can you form opinions of your own, or did Daddy not give you enough education?” That one made me quite angry.’

  ‘As it would.’

  ‘So I decided to follow them late one evening.’ She smiled and made us more cocktails: double serves with a twist of lemon.

  ‘They met just near the Café Rotonde. I half expected them to kiss, or embrace, but they just pulled down their hats and headed towards the river. They caught a cab – I followed, though it was almost impossible; I had to get out of one cab and grab another, as my first driver was rather too chatty. I needed discretion. Anyway, they wound up next to a factory, although it was so dark I couldn’t see which one. Big warehouses loomed near the river. I saw them walk through the gates into a particular warehouse; including the cab driver, which I thought odd. I couldn’t go in as it was brightly lit with gas and, even wearing my uniform black, I’d be noticeable. But I caught a peek as the cab drove past the gates. They had met with a group, both men and women, in tattered clothing. I spied a cripple and a woman with some knitting and a couple of scruffy others. They shook hands, but I couldn’t see any more. I had to get the driver to bring me home.

  ‘Of course, I went straight into his room, but I didn’t know what I was looking for. I wish I’d known about codes and all of that – how do you know, by the way?’

  I didn’t want to reveal the exact extent of my work for Fox. ‘An old boyfriend.’ Fox would be happy with that. ‘From the war.’

  ‘They have to be good for something, don’t th
ey? Well, I sat in here and smoked and tried to remember all the times he’d been away. He was away every Sunday night, until quite late, and always returned home exhausted and stinking of tobacco. This was his regular card night, he said, but growled when I asked what game he played. He went away once a month for a couple of nights and always came home with a present of Swiss chocolate or beautiful gloves – one of the few nice things he did – although he only gave these things to me on the condition that I didn’t ask about them. I rummaged through his pockets once or twice, but there were no train tickets or foreign currency or even a packet of matches that might indicate where he’d been.’

  Ferny hadn’t forgotten all of his training, then.

  ‘But you accepted this.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have told me anyway. And the gloves were really very nice, German made. I kept thinking, although he flirted with other women in front of me, he never came home smelling of another woman’s perfume, or with his shirt less than perfectly neat, or even the tiniest smudge of lipstick on a collar or cuff. He came home stinking of tobacco, sometimes with grazes on his cheek, grumpy and growly like a tomcat, but never that blissful, wistful look of a sated lover. So either the blondes he saw were violent and cruel—’

  ‘Entirely possible.’

  ‘Especially with some of the places one can patronise in Paris – or else he wasn’t seeing other women.’

  ‘And your conclusion, as the woman who knows him best?’

  ‘His vice is neither wine nor women.’ Violet slugged back the last of her own vice. ‘Gambling perhaps, but he is very meticulous and hates to lose. No, he has a “something else” – mysterious, strange, and he’s made it clear that I’m not to ask.’ In her excitement she had polished off not only her own croissant but mine as well. I secretly cheered; I’d take her out to lunch when this was over.

  ‘I started recording his trips in a little notebook – I don’t know why, I think I just wanted to know more clearly, you know, to see it all written down – all the times he was away, how he was when he returned.’

  ‘You were spying on him.’ I couldn’t help a smile.

  ‘No! Oh . . . yes, I suppose I was. But not for anyone . . .’

  ‘Except me,’ I said. ‘That little notebook is just what I need.’

  Violet raised her eyebrows. She went to the bookshelf and returned with a slim volume that had The Bachelor Girl’s Guide to Everything on the spine. Instead of a how-to guide for soon-to-be flappers, however, inside was a list of times, dates and observations. ‘It appears that I’m not useless after all,’ she said.

  ‘Far from it.’ I kissed her hand and she barked a laugh. ‘This is beautiful, Violet.’

  ‘Well, I’m very flattered—’

  ‘And you know what else is beautiful? A set lunch at the Rotonde. My shout.’

  ‘If you insist.’ She went to grab her handbag. Something had dropped away – her sharp edges, the bitter taste of her black clothing – and she had more colour in her cheeks. Clearly her secrets, and her lover, had been draining her of energy. She’d unloaded her secrets and I was about to relieve her of her lover.

  ‘Kiki! It’s been so long! Where have you been?’ North was effusive as usual. She had a cigarette in one hand and a fizzy pink concoction in the other, which she waved around as she kissed me on both cheeks.

  ‘Eating with strangers and sleeping under the stars.’ I pulled Violet in. ‘This is Violet. She’s a spy.’

  ‘A spy!’ North gasped, her Californian-blue eyes wide. ‘Who for?’

  Violet looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I winked.

  ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you,’ Violet said. ‘And if I don’t get a drink—’

  ‘You’ll have to kill everyone,’ I finished. ‘Another negroni?’

  ‘No, something a bit simpler this time – just champagne,’ she said with a wave as North pulled her towards a table. They both looked as tipsy as each other; Violet would be in good company. I hoped, even, that she might make some desperately needed new friends, as North was nothing if not friendly.

  I ordered Violet the set lunch and champagne – a bottle, just to make sure – and scanned the café. North was lunching with some Americans I didn’t know, all of them high on cheap wine and Paris, allowing Violet to play up her aristocratic background. Djuna Barnes was in a corner by herself, although I knew from past encounters that she preferred it that way. Most of the artists I knew didn’t come out until dusk, when work had to finish as the light was gone. This lunchtime it was mostly tourists and bureaucrats. And Henri, behind the bar. He beckoned to me.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, bowing his head, ‘I have a message for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please, do not thank me.’ With a very serious face he handed me a slip of paper.

  ‘This isn’t his handwriting.’

  ‘I don’t know, mademoiselle. It was delivered, in person, this morning.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘A man, very large, with a crushed nose and dark eyes, almost black. I did not recognise him, but by his accent, I think he is English.’

  ‘What does he have over you?’

  Henri stared at my question.

  ‘Fox – what does he know? How can he play with you like a puppet?’

  Henri looked down and blushed. ‘My brother,’ he almost whispered. ‘He could not . . . he ran away. From Verdun. He was found by a British surgeon—’

  ‘Fox.’

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle. His secret safe in return for . . .’

  ‘For?’

  Henri shrugged. ‘Whatever Fox wishes.’

  I reached out and squeezed Henri’s hand, almost squeezing a tear or two from him.

  I ordered a coffee and opened the note as calmly as I could. He’d already sent a telegram today – what more could Fox possibly have to say?

  Ever since she put on a uniform

  I have just one heart for just one girl

  Dream on, little soldier boy?

  A man is only a man!

  Why don’t you give us a chance?

  I’ll take you back to London

  You’ll send him back to London

  Goodbye, France!

  He’s on his way to Germany

  With Hausmann’s Brown Shirt Band

  F to V

  This was the note that Bertie had given me a few days ago, of titles of Irving Berlin songs. But the titles had been inverted and changed. I didn’t have time to take this note home and think about it; I had to decipher it immediately.

  The first section read for all the world like a love note. I could hardly believe it. Was this another game? I couldn’t help but think of his photo of me and Tom, of his telegram Darkling I listen, of his soft voice on the telephone. I hadn’t lied when I told Bertie that I didn’t think Fox knew what love was. No, it had to be another game, a way to soften me, to make me as dependent on him as I had been during the war. Wasn’t that how it worked – when someone professed their love, you thought of them tenderly, you didn’t want to hurt their feelings, you took pains to comfort them – surely this must be his aim. He didn’t want love, he only wanted power. Surely.

  I ordered some frites and a beer for sustenance and skipped quickly to the second section. Hausmann – this stood out like it was written in lights. This line tied together what Tom had said on the telephone, what Martin had said – Hausmann wasn’t just involved with the Brownshirts, he was some kind of Brownshirt leader. But how could that be, when Hausmann had ties to Luc’s and Marie’s Communist revolutionaries? They were opposite sides of politics. If Fern was the mole, what on earth was he doing with those revolutionaries, and Picasso’s painting, and a Brownshirt Hausmann? And why would Fox choose to give me this information now? Unless the clue was He’s on his way to Germany – was Fern leaving for Germany soon, today, now? How on earth could I know?

  You’ll send him back to London. This must mean the mole – I knew he had to go
back to London, so perhaps Fox meant with the Englishman Henri had described, with the battered face. I scanned the restaurant again for a large dark-eyed man. No one watched me, no man sat in a corner, ready to nod in acknowledgement of my glance. But it had to come, and soon; there would be no other reason for a hand-delivered note. There was still no drop-off date or place mentioned. I’d have to rely on Tom for that.

  I dipped my frites into the mayonnaise and tomato sauce, Belgian style, that Henri had provided. Violet had enough alcohol and new friends to take care of her; I could slip away to work. I felt for the coded notebook in my pocket as I left my money on the table and slipped out the door. I needed to decipher the code, to find out what Fern had planned for me, for Luc and Marie, for tonight or tomorrow, as I was sure that whatever it was would happen soon.

  The grey sky had turned to drizzle, leaving droplets on my hat and coat. I checked my watch: it was almost three, I’d have to go straight to the station to meet Bertie. He would surely help me to decipher the notebook. I couldn’t help it, but I looked over my shoulder all the way to Gare du Nord.

  19

  Kitten on the Keys

  BERTIE’S PALE FACE ABOVE his camel cashmere coat was a beacon in the dark steel of the station platform. He looked as though all the industrial grit of Gare du Nord couldn’t touch the perfect press of his lapel, hat brim or swish of scarf.

  ‘Kiki! In trousers! My God, have all my dreams come true?’

  ‘It’s a dream to see you, Bertie. And how do you manage to look so fresh? Surely you didn’t sleep before you jumped on the train.’

  ‘No, I slept all the way here instead. Have you put the champagne on ice?’

  ‘You’ll have to put that idea on ice. I’ve only just got over my lunchtime cocktails.’

  ‘But how could you start the party without me?’

  ‘I didn’t, those cocktails were work. As is this.’ I let the notebook peek out of the inside pocket of my coat. Bertie peered at the title and gave me a funny look.

  ‘A book of poetry?’