April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  Bertie stood in the most exquisite white tie. His tails were perfectly pressed, his bow tie as precise as a butterfly, every crease sharp. His top hat sat at a rakish angle so as he leant against a column and smoked he was the picture of insouciance.

  ‘Look at you, Bertie! You’d have no idea your heart was broken this afternoon.’

  ‘The war taught me many things, my darling,’ he said as he kissed me and gave me his cigarette. ‘How to keep a clear head before a battle is one. How best to follow Kiki is another.’

  ‘You’re an expert at both.’ He’d given me a Woodbine brought with him from London. It smelt of men, fear, danger, estaminets at midnight – it smelt of the war. He knew it too, as we watched the smoke curl in its thin line towards the stars.

  ‘I’ve had enough practice. Now,’ he said, as he lit his own cigarette, ‘fill me in on what I should know and who I should do.’

  ‘And how.’

  He tucked my arm close into his as we swam in and out of the pools of lamplight to the party.

  THE APARTMENT WAS SO LARGE it had its own ballroom. A small ballroom, with only a modest chandelier, but a ballroom nonetheless. It had been bought before the war, long before the Russian Revolution, when the owner’s grandfather could afford a Paris home for his succession of mistresses and their children. The wooden floor gleamed; the ceiling danced with a fresco of nymphs and goddesses; the large windows welcomed the moon. My cynicism evaporated with Bertie’s sigh of ‘Jesus wept! Old world splendour, this!’ If I hadn’t had to work, I would’ve danced and drunk and debated soulfully with any exiled prince or princess who could spare the time.

  As it was, I scanned the room for Fern and Violet. The butler had introduced us as Miss Button and Captain Browne, but only the hostess came forward to greet us, an old dame with jewels that sank into her bosom. Princess Drubetskaya held herself regally, her magnanimity extending beyond her unfortunate compatriots, to the likes of rich reporters and old soldiers.

  ‘Next month we will have a fête for the children,’ she said in too-perfect French. ‘A May ball to rival the Bolsheviks’ disgusting May Day parades. Tell that to your readers.’

  ‘A little unpaid advertising?’ Bertie asked.

  ‘I would never be so vulgar.’ The princess sniffed. ‘But those who wish to come deserve to know. It’s for the children.’

  ‘Which children?’ I asked, for my sins, as I was treated to a long story of train escapes, dolls stuffed with diamonds, titles on the heads of babes as parental limbs were caught in the claws of the dastardly Reds. Bertie slipped off to find champagne and, if possible, a handsome waiter. Eventually more guests arrived, the princess had duties, and I was left with a strange sympathy for some poor little rich kids floating around Paris.

  There was no sign of either Fern or Violet, though Violet seemed related to everyone and I was sure that she would turn up eventually. A tall woman, with a fiercely beautiful face and proud bearing, caught my glance. She smiled like the Cheshire cat as she came towards me with two glasses of champagne.

  ‘You’re not Russian,’ she said as she handed me a glass. Her eyes never left mine; it was exciting and unnerving.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘One can always tell,’ she said. ‘But your accent confirms it. Where did you spring from? Tell me everything.’

  She stood slightly too close to me and stared at me as she drank her champagne. I answered her, polite and bubbly in my gossip-reporter guise, but her flirtatious command sounded perilously close to an order – and I didn’t like to be ordered. But with her blonde hair and blue eyes, it was as though I looked in a magic mirror. Her magnetic charisma, her authority, the way she almost stared at me, was the female version of Fox. I didn’t need two of them in my life, but a woman with this much forbidding confidence intrigued me.

  ‘I’m Tamara.’ She procured us more champagne from a passing tray. ‘Tamara de Lempicka, for when you have your portrait painted.’

  ‘I’ve been warned about you.’

  ‘Excellent—’

  ‘I haven’t seen you around Montparnasse.’

  ‘You will. Look out for me. Yes, I will paint your portrait.’ She tucked my hair behind my ear and slipped a strap off my shoulder, lightly holding my arm to inspect me.

  Now she really did remind me of Fox. I couldn’t help it, my chin tilted up in defiance of her overfamiliar touch, and she laughed.

  ‘Oh yes, very good.’

  I had to swallow my instinct to lash out. ‘You’re an artist and an aristocrat.’

  ‘Someone must support the family now that we’ve sold our jewels. My husband . . . is good for what he trained for.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She took a little spoon heaped with caviar from a waiter. ‘This party reminds me of when I met him. Except then, I was a starry-eyed debutante who knew nothing of what she really wanted.’ She ate the caviar then, keeping the spoon in her mouth as she looked at me. I laughed at her brazen flirting.

  She smiled. ‘I wondered when you might relax.’

  ‘I wondered when you might let me. You have quite a stare.’

  ‘It’s seductive.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I don’t need to say so, I know so.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m wrong?’ Her eyebrow was haughty, her huge blue eyes demanding. The silver satin of her dress made her skin shimmer with danger. Her challenge was so imperious, I could easily see how she would bowl people over.

  ‘When will you model for me?’

  ‘I model for Picasso at the moment.’

  ‘Really? Since when? I haven’t heard of you.’

  ‘Maybe when he’s finished my painting.’ I shrugged.

  As she looked at me, an extraordinary range of emotions flashed over her face – shock, anger, deviousness, sadness, a eureka, and finally a smile. She was nettled that her usual techniques had failed but she refused defeat. I made a mental note to say hello next time I saw her in a café. I didn’t think we could be friends, but she would certainly be interesting. Maybe even useful.

  ‘Yes, maybe after Picasso. André would like that – André Lhote, my mentor.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I knew who he was, of course, but it was more fun to feign ignorance.

  ‘Yes.’ But she was clearly bored of not getting her own way. She turned, pinching her nose and sniffing, and excused herself.

  I looked around. There was still no sign of either Fern or Violet, which was odd – weren’t they everywhere one could find free food and valuable art? Bertie gave me a little ‘cheers’ with his glass from across the room. He had settled himself in with a group of handsome young men, talking about heaven-knows-what in his terrible French. I could see his hands dance as he spoke to the group, a satisfied smile hiding in his face as they punctuated his story with laughter.

  ‘Mademoiselle Kiki,’ a deep voice spoke into my ear. I whipped around to find Lazarev, champagne glass in one hand, pickled herring in the other.

  ‘Arkady Nikolaievich! Of course you’d be here. Now, who should I speak to? Will there be dancing? Is all the vodka chilled? How is one supposed to drink it?’

  ‘Women aren’t,’ he said, ‘you live on champagne. The men, however, are bound to drink the little tumblers at every toast. That usually begins after the dancing, which, if those violin cases are a clue, is about to begin.’

  A string quartet, in their black tie and serious moustaches, was in the corner tuning and setting up. At a nod from the cellist, the princess called forth all the couples for an opening waltz. Young men and old women, in their frayed finery, began to swirl around the floor. The hubbub increased, while champagne and caviar circled the edge of the dancing pairs. The chandelier winked at the diamonds that glinted on rings, combs and cufflinks. Highly polished shoes reflected laughing faces, and the dancers’ attitudes mimicked the ceiling nymphs. Even a seasoned cynic like myself felt the magic as I was transported to a world of snowy int
rigue in the St Petersburg court. If this was a preview of the May ball, then after my column was printed the princess may well have a number of my London readers join the party.

  Lazarev watched my delight with amusement. On the third song he finished his glass, bowed and held out his hand.

  ‘Would you honour me with this dance, mademoiselle?’

  He was as graceful on the dance floor as in the café. This was a far cry from the frenetic jazz parties I’d attended lately. I had to recall all my dancing lessons from school, with Miss Piggott tapping the floor with her cane and yelling instructions from beside the piano. After a few fumbling steps, I remembered how to follow, and Lazarev’s lead let us glide across the floor.

  ‘This is wonderful!’

  ‘It was like this all the time when I was a child,’ said Lazarev, ‘except there were many more young people. They took charge of the dance floor as the old women spun their gossip in the corners. Now, alas, all those who have legs to dance must.’

  The song ended and he bowed.

  ‘I insist on another,’ he said with a glint in his eye.

  ‘Well, if you insist . . .’

  ‘Have you heard from the magnificent Pablo?’ he asked. His expression was unreadable as we whirled around.

  ‘Not recently,’ I hedged. ‘Why?’

  ‘I heard some . . . fuss has been made over a painting. By darling Olga Stepanovna.’ He looked me right in the eye as he twirled me. ‘I heard that I couldn’t get hold of the painting even if I wanted to.’

  He waited for an answer. I didn’t want to break Pablo’s confidence, but Lazarev could be a good source of information.

  ‘I think . . . there will be an exchange tonight. I thought it would be here, but I can’t see Violet and Hugh—’

  ‘The British couple? I should think not! The princess hates them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re too German.’

  ‘Too German? How are they German at all?’

  ‘The man – the one with the limp and scar, yes? – has been seen with the former German ambassador’s nephew. It isn’t clear why the ambassador’s nephew has come back to Paris, as no Frenchman would willingly be seen with him. He runs around with some skulking old soldiers from Alsace, who can’t marry their French ways to their German tongues. Your Englishman is probably with them now, at the only place that will serve Germans in this city.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘It’s near the stock exchange. A tiny bar called, naturally, the Exchange. I only know it to avoid it. Wait, mademoiselle, won’t you try the herring? The vodka toasts have begun . . .’

  But I couldn’t wait. I pulled Bertie away from the pretty princeling he’d found and into the street.

  ‘It’s isn’t an exchange that Fern is making tonight – he’s at the Exchange.’

  ‘Kiki, slow down—’

  ‘We can’t! We have to run. He may have left!’

  ‘Wait – what – why wasn’t he at the party?’

  ‘Because the Russians know that he’s German – they know it – and they hate him for it. He hasn’t been as discreet as he assumes.’

  ‘Kiki, stop, you’re getting puddle splashes on your dress – I’m hailing a taxi.’

  IT TOOK HALF AN HOUR of winding through the lanes before we saw the tiny sign to the Exchange. It was down a set of rickety stairs, barely lit, that turned into a dark, smoky room. The hum of voices stilled as we clattered into the bar and I mentally cursed our hurry and my startling golden dress. Bertie held my waist and whispered in my ear ‘There once was a man from Nantucket’ – every dirty version he could think of – until the hum slowly returned. We groped our way to the bar through the miasma and took the only spirit they had left.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Bertie looked into his glass. ‘OP rum. I can’t seem to drink it without ending up under a sailor.’

  ‘If you can end up under a soldier – a German soldier at that – all the better.’

  We clinked our glasses and pretended to be a clandestine couple. It must have worked, as not a single patron looked at us again; it was hard even to get the barman to serve us a second drink.

  ‘You know, Kiki, I’ve been in trenches that are cosier than this.’

  ‘And I’ve seen battlefields that are friendlier. Hugh Fernly-Whiting isn’t here.’

  But he had been. The barman looked at us like we were swindlers when I asked, not twitching a muscle when I gave him my best smile – he couldn’t possibly be French. He answered in gruff tones that Fern had been there earlier but wouldn’t say when or with whom. He just topped up our rum with a stingy finger and turned around to the telephone behind the bar.

  ‘Since when do dive joints have telephones? There’s only a handful of outside lines at the Ritz!’ Bertie buried his observation in his glass.

  ‘The floor’s sticky, the bar’s understocked, and the patrons haven’t got a spare two sous between them – who paid to have it put in?’

  ‘Shall we leave?’ Bertie gulped his drink. ‘Before the rum kicks in?’

  ‘Before something kicks in.’

  As I headed for the stairs, the barman’s stare made the skin on the back of my neck tingle. We had headed down a dead end and I wanted to get away before ‘dead’ and ‘end’ became more than just metaphor. The stairs were as noisy going up as going down, creaking and clanging. If anyone was waiting for us at the top, they’d hear us coming.

  Which they did. As soon as I stepped out from behind the heavy door a gloved hand slapped me hard across the face as another grabbed my arm. I was so shocked I didn’t scream, but I heard Bertie yell behind me. I twisted around to see him being clubbed over the head by a man in a carnival mask.

  ‘Ber—’ but I choked on my call as the gloved hand clenched over my mouth, another twisted my arm behind my back, and I was dragged down the alley towards a waiting car. I couldn’t see who had hold of me, but the gloved hands were wiry and very strong. The masked man ran past us – Bertie must be unconscious, or worse – to open the doors and start the engine. It was a Paris taxi, black and anonymous, the back covered, the front open, no glass in the window near the driver.

  I was shoved onto the back seat, face first. I could feel something heavy on my back – a knee, maybe? – holding me down as my hands were tied together roughly and, I suspected, inexpertly as I twisted and yelled in French, English, Italian, even German, anything to grab attention. My attacker dragged my head back and tied a scarf too tightly over my mouth, before shoving me by the bum into the taxi and climbing in after me.

  The taxi rattled down the alley, its mirrors almost scraping the wall, and out into the bright wide boulevard. Not that the lights mattered; they didn’t reach me where I writhed in the back seat, and even if they had, no pedestrian would take a proper look to see what was really happening – the French could sometimes be too discreet. I had half twisted around when my attacker grabbed me and turned me, so that I lay on the seat, my legs over his, held in place by his strong, thin hands.

  He sneered – his mouth was the only thing I could see beneath his mask. I could finally get a good look at him. Like the driver, he was dressed all in black. He wore a mask from the Venice Carnivale, black with a long beak and teardrop eyes. The mask was attached to a sock that fitted neatly over his head. He grabbed my gag and pulled it down, hurting my lips and jaw as he did. He held my thighs, one in each hand, so I couldn’t move my body properly. The taxi drove from one wide boulevard into another, the lights and their safety tantalisingly close.

  ‘You’re right,’ my attacker said to the driver. He was French, but his accent wasn’t one that I recognised.

  ‘I know I am,’ said the driver. He spoke French too but wasn’t – his accent was definitely English.

  ‘She’s a feisty one though,’ said my attacker. ‘This should be fun.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘But why wait? She’s ready.’ He ran his hands along my legs.

  ‘Le
t me go!’ I struggled. ‘Help!’ But my yell was stopped with another fierce slap. It stung and I could taste blood in my mouth. I hated that I could also feel tears in my eyes.

  ‘Now, now, none of that,’ he said. ‘We have a little bargain for you.’

  ‘You’ll get nothing.’ I spat blood at him but he laughed even as he flinched.

  ‘Oh, I think we will,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be glad to give it.’ He pinched my legs, hard twisty pinches that left red welts on my skin. It hurt, but more, it was humiliating, the way I couldn’t help but jump with every touch, the way he smiled wider every time I did.

  The taxi stood at the roundabout, waiting to go through. Pedestrians waved at the masked driver, who waved back.

  ‘You’re going to tell us who you work for—’

  ‘And why—’ cut in the driver.

  ‘And in return, we won’t kill you.’

  ‘No deal,’ I said. I wasn’t brave, I was just reckless. I should’ve been more calculating as my fighting words received their due and he slapped me again, harder this time, so pain flashed through my head, leaving the world high-pitched and ringing.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Now, who do you work for?’

  ‘Is it Fox?’ asked the driver. I was still.

  ‘You got her attention there.’

  ‘Well?’ The driver was tense, his gloved hands clutched the wheel and it seemed that he had to stop himself from turning around to look at us. He could have easily – my attacker was behind him and I was sprawled out on the back seat, in easy viewing range – so why didn’t he turn? I checked – there wasn’t much traffic—