by Tessa Lunney
‘I can’t help it,’ my voice sounded choked. ‘I will help you, whether you want me to or not. If that’s a tease, so be it.’
‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘You need me,’ I whispered, but it wasn’t what I meant. I meant I need you, and Tom knew it. My skin rose in goosebumps, but I couldn’t tell if it was the breeze or my fear.
‘Button . . .’ His voice held tears and I responded in kind. I couldn’t utter those three little words, that revolutionary cliché, the longed-for simple sentence. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t the time, I couldn’t commit and we’d make a mess of things unless I could. So what else was there to say but my name, his name, over and over?
‘Have we run out of wine?’ I said eventually with a sniff.
‘Completely. And cigarettes.’
‘What a catastrophe! Are you hungry?’
‘Always.’ He grinned. ‘I want steak and chips—’
‘Mussels and fresh bread—’
‘And beer, a tankard of beer—’
‘Ooh, no, a crisp white wine, in some kind of flagon—’
‘And pudding, an entire rice pudding—’
‘With ice cream!’
‘Oh, Button, yes.’ He put his hand over his heart.
‘Can you walk?’
‘For ice cream, I’ll manage.’
I didn’t know what time it was but I knew the Rotonde would serve us. I wanted to show off Tom to all my café people. I wanted North to fuss over his bruises and swoon at his smiles. I wanted Bertie to wink at me and dance his silly jigwalk and make Tom laugh. I wanted to forget Brownshirts and double agents and charges of treason, I wanted to forget Fox and his disturbing excitement, I wanted to forget the words that stuck in my throat. The Rotonde was just the place to do so. As we limped slowly up the street the lights called to us, then the music called to us, then North called to us from one of the terrace tables and she ran up to take Tom by the arm, just as I’d hoped. Bertie turned up too, just as I’d hoped, and Henri made the cook put his apron back on and make our dinner, and we only had to swap rice pudding for chocolate cake for all our dreams to come true. I watched Tom as he laughed and drank and expertly handled all the flirtations that came his way. I watched him until I didn’t have to, until I knew he was happy and I could relax.
‘You really care for him, don’t you?’ said Bertie as we danced a sweet foxtrot.
‘How can you tell?’
‘Oh, Kiki,’ he scoffed, ‘I’m not blind! Have you told him yet?’
‘Told him what?’
‘You know . . . those three little words.’
‘Good God, no. That would mean marriage—’
‘Dreadful—’
‘And leaving Paris—’
‘Unthinkable—’
‘And playing the little wife somewhere, with no money, under a false name—’
‘And a false moustache?’
‘Oh yes. It’s too absurdly complicated. We’re not ready for marriage yet, trust me.’
‘I always trust you, Kiki.’
‘More fool you. But . . . take care of him in London for me.’
‘He lives in London? Oh goody.’
‘Bertie . . .’ I warned.
‘What?’ But he undercut his faux innocence with a wink. ‘Never fear, Kiki. If he has you on his mind, he won’t easily be distracted.’
Then the band changed to a fast jazz and we had no more time to chat between our laughter.
24
Home Again Blues
BERTIE HAD LEFT ON THE DAWN TRAIN with a thousand promises. Tom and I woke with the midday bells, the little sparrows tapping on the window to be let in.
‘I feel fumigated,’ he croaked.
‘I feel soaked and dried,’ I returned. ‘Can you reach out and open the window?’
His camp bed lay the length of the tiny room. His head was near me but his feet dangled off his bed well before the ankle. He reached out with one foot, pushed down the handle of the window and nudged it open with his toe. I laughed as he flopped back onto the blankets.
‘Too much effort, Button.’
‘Will it be too much effort to get coffee?’
‘Never.’
But neither of us moved. We let the breeze from the street slowly freshen the air in the room, the sparrows chirp and chirrup, the geraniums’ perfume cancel out our toxic exhalations. The room filled with light and muffled street noises. I reached out to stroke Tom’s hair and he made a humming noise. The terrible truth was that I liked to wake up with him. He pulled my hand down to kiss my fingers. We clearly liked to wake up together.
Madame Petit was back behind the counter, ready with smiles and aspirin and endless coffees, ready to tut at me and to show off her still-girlish dimples to Tom. His travelling bag held enough clothes that he could look decent, if a little rough and unshaven. Through our midday breakfast, kindly rustled up by Madame Petit with a wink, we went over last night’s antics, laughing too loudly and too long as we pushed away the goodbye that waited for us. We continued as we caught a taxi to the station and he bought his ticket. We continued until we stood at the platform, the long line of carriages in front of us, steam rolling over the steel and porters scurrying by.
My arm was linked in his. He stood still at his carriage, then turned sharply and grabbed my hands. ‘Button—’
‘When are you coming back to Paris?’
‘As soon as I can. What are weekends for anyway?’
‘They’re for visiting me. Do so.’
‘Is that an order?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘If you like.’
Steam blew up around us and metal rang out its urgent clang.
‘Button . . .’
‘Tom-Tom.’
‘I know I said I that was happy to wait for the right words, but I can’t wait empty-handed,’ the words fell out in a rush, ‘tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Anything.’ His face searched mine, hunted desperately for a sign, a yes, in my expression. Of course I couldn’t refuse him. I went on tiptoes, pulled his face down and whispered in his ear. He lifted me off the ground with a whoop and gave me a huge smacking kiss on the lips. ‘That will do, Button! That will most definitely do.’
The train whistle sounded and the wheels began to move. He jumped aboard at the last second, waving his hat out of the window. I waved until long past the time when I could see him, until I was a lone fool on the platform. I was devastated, I was ecstatic, I was empty and full and overwhelmed. Thank God I still had to deliver the painting to Pablo, or I might have picked up any old fruit seller or taxi driver to assuage my fast all-consuming loneliness.
‘MADEMOISELLE KIKI.’ Céline’s smile was genuine. With it, I could picture her as a young woman, a bunch of flowers in her hand, as she walked down a summery country lane.
‘Céline, I have a delivery for Pablo.’ I indicated the painting under my arm.
‘Of course! Come in, come in,’ she said, ushering me into the hallway, ‘and I have something for you, if you would be so kind as to visit the kitchen afterwards.’ She nodded as she opened the studio door and announced me.
‘Kangaroo!’ Pablo held out both arms and kissed me three times. I placed the painting, still wrapped in tea towels, into his hands.
‘Your wife will love you again.’
‘She loves me regardless,’ he said as he tore off the wrappings to inspect the painting, ‘but now she has no excuse to make a fuss. Ah, perfecto! It’s an excellent portrait, no?’
‘I’ve never met your wife—’
‘That doesn’t matter. You can see that it’s excellent.’ He didn’t look at me, bent as he was on his handiwork. I had to restrain a smile. Then his attention snapped to me, his look took me in, and he laid the painting aside.
‘Right, payment.’
‘Oh, no—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. All you English-speakers are like that – you say no to the thing you want
most.’ After that station goodbye, truer words were never spoken. ‘And everyone in Montparnasse wants money. How much are your services?’
‘I’ve been paid by a third party.’ He looked shocked. ‘You can pay me by sending me more clients. If the artists of Paris need a mystery solved, I’m their lady detective.’
‘Ah! I’m your first client? Like . . . an advertisement?’
‘The very same. But . . . my walls are quite unbearably bare. Perhaps you could give me one of your little sketches?’
‘Now that is something I can do easily. Sit.’ He pointed at the lounge. I wore my lavender shift today and it settled around the lounge as I leant back, arm above my head, one foot up on the seat to show off my stockings and my black suede boots. The sketch took almost no time at all. He rolled it up and tied a ribbon around it. As he held it out to me, he leant in close, a kiss away from my lips.
‘Are you busy, Kangaroo?’
‘Always. But for you, never too busy.’ I touched the tip of my tongue to his lips and he drew in his breath with a gasp. He was about to embrace me when there was a crash in the hall, followed by a child’s cry and French yelled with a Russian accent.
Pablo looked to the ceiling. ‘Olga is home.’
‘I’d better go.’
‘Until next time,’ he whispered as he ushered me out.
‘Ma chérie!’ he called. ‘Little Paulo . . .’ He walked out and enveloped his wife and child with such an embrace that they couldn’t see me. I slipped past and into the kitchen to see Céline. She smiled and I took her hand.
‘Did you have something for me?’
‘I do.’ She pulled out a basket. ‘In here are some orange spice biscuits from my sister, some burgundy from my cousin, blackberry jam I made myself, and some pâté from the village of Jean-Claude’s father.’
‘My goodness!’ I felt the intricately embroidered lace edge of the linen cloth that sat inside the basket. ‘And this?’
‘That, I made myself, for my trousseau.’ She looked so proud.
I started to protest but she held up her hand.
‘I know I should save it for my daughter-in-law, but without your help, Jean-Claude would never have had a chance to find me a daughter-in-law. No,’ she held herself straight, ‘I would be honoured if you would accept this gift.’
I took the basket in both hands and kissed Céline on both cheeks. ‘The honour is all mine. Truly. How is Jean-Claude?’
‘He is . . . “all right”, as you English say.’ She shrugged. ‘Thankfully he still has his job at Citroën. He seems to have lost his friends – which I think is excellent – except that he is lonely. That is something a mother cannot do for her son – he must find his own men. But . . . there were no nightmares last night. That is another thing to be thankful for.’ Céline poured me a cup of tea and placed a thumbnail-sized biscuit in the saucer.
‘Long may it continue,’ I said, and I was about to sip when her name was called through the door.
She sighed heavily and I put down my cup. ‘No, no, it’s time for me to go,’ I said.
‘Are you still one of Pablo’s models?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Then, until next time.’
I had hours until Fox’s call. It was a Monday; the office clerks had gone back to work and only the tourists remained. I could seek out Manuelle, but after the aborted assignation with Pablo, I didn’t want to – it’d make her second best, or third or fourth best. She wasn’t and I wouldn’t treat her that way.
But it was more than that. My life had revolutionised in the last week. In the last month – and had it only been a few months ago that I’d left Sydney? Had I been footloose and fancy-free a week ago, and now I was a detective, a spy, a lover? And if so, where were my lovers, my spymasters? For a moment the city seemed empty, just buildings full of cardboard men and flimsy women, wooden children and their wind-up toy dogs. Then a car hooted me as I crossed the road with my basket, a flower girl called and a newspaper seller tipped his hat and offered me cigarettes. I could smell freshly baked bread and rotting vegetables, I could smell salt and fried potato and burnt sugar. A couple kissed and a horde of schoolgirls in their white gloves giggled around a corner. Paris was alive and it welcomed me. It taught me that loneliness was a core part of freedom, that my sort of loneliness – asked for, paid for, and treasured – could be soothed remarkably easily. By the sights and smells of the street. By a basket of delicious local goodies. By just knowing that Maisie and Harry were a block away, Bertie a call away, Tom-Tom just a train ride away.
The wind whipped up my skirt but I enjoyed the breeze where it tickled my thighs. I didn’t push it down.
‘KIKI! DARLING, where’s your lovely Australian fellow?’ North kissed me and looked around for Tom. We stood in the thicket of the Rotonde’s outside tables, sunset and already full.
‘He went back to London.’
‘And left you? Too cruel! When was this?’
‘Earlier today.’ I sighed theatrically.
‘Why didn’t you drown your sorrows here with us?’
‘I read a book instead.’
‘A book!’ North gaped.
‘Shocking, I know.’ I’d bought a stack of books at Shakespeare and Company, all the ones I hadn’t been able to get in Sydney – D.H. Lawrence’s Women in Love, Virginia Woolf’s Night and Day, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise. It would’ve been great to say that I’d read one of them. But they’d been used as a table, and instead I had ripped through a detective novel by a new writer called Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Her Hercule Poirot made me smile. It was the most peaceful afternoon I’d spent since I’d arrived in Europe.
‘I suppose that is why we’re all here, isn’t it?’ North said with a frown. ‘To make art. But still, Kiki, you could’ve done it in public. How can you show off how modern you are if we can’t see you?’
I laughed and North winked. There was something in her face, a little smile that went with her wink – she wasn’t as silly as she liked people to believe. I had a hunch that she had never intended to make art, but had so many relatives visit her that she had to keep up the charade in order to stay in Paris. She was here, like me, to get out of the marriage market and be free.
We settled in and let all the pearls and all the riffraff swoop by our table. Fernand Léger came by with his tubular moustache, on the arm of that irrepressible Brit, Nina Hamnett. She sang bawdy songs to Mr Monocle, Tristan Tzara, who kissed me three times on each cheek. Tzara nodded to Cocteau, who wafted by in a cloud of opium and opulent absurdity, waving vaguely at Pascin and Hermine on the tables behind us. Hermine joined us and we gossiped about the l’ecole Grande Chaumière, where she knew all the ‘so-called teachers’. Californians that North knew from home swirled around us; North begged me to scare them off, so I spoke French to Hermine and they evaporated. I drank but never became drunk, I ate but never became too full. I eventually went inside to buy more cigarettes, where Henri bowed to me and refused payment.
‘Is it time then, Henri?’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’
I lit a cigarette and followed him into the office. I hoped that I was past caring what Fox thought, defiant as I picked up the receiver.
‘Oui?’ I put on my best Gallic accent.
‘She dwells with Beauty . . .’ purred Fox.
This game again; here we go. ‘Beauty that must die? I don’t think so – no, go not to Lethe—’
‘Let me be a partner in your sorrow’s mysteries—’
‘Fox, only those whose strenuous tongue can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine can see Melancholy in her sovran shrine.’
‘Which is where? In a Montparnasse café?’
‘In a Montparnasse studio.’
‘So when will you invite me?’
‘When you burst Joy’s grape. Do you even know Joy?’
‘She’s my secretary.’
‘Ha! Why didn’t you hire a Prudence?�
��
‘Prudence is no fun. But truly, I await your invitation.’
‘Rubbish. You don’t wait for invitations. You demand entrance.’
‘Not with a lady.’
‘Oh, so I’m a lady now? Not a messenger, ratcatcher, dogsbody, whore—’
‘Whore? You’d never let me.’
‘Ugh.’ I stubbed out my cigarette. I didn’t mind the banter but I hated his flirtation. ‘Fox, I looked around for my little follower but there was no one. I missed my flies and their haunting murmur. I almost felt lonely.’
‘You don’t think the newspaper boys are the flies.’
‘Of course not. If they were, how could they sing a high requiem of honour and nation? How could their plaintive nationalist anthem fade?’
Fox hummed in appreciation. ‘Very good, my bright star.’
‘Only a Nightingale could sing such a song. Only a forlorn fox cub.’
‘Forlorn; the very word is like a bell—’
‘I’m not coming to London. Dream on, little soldier boy.’
He laughed then, rich and deep, and I couldn’t help but think, I will fly to thee—
‘So, why did you stop the newspaper boys following me?’ I had to move on before I could finish that thought; before that thought could finish me.
‘Your follower was no longer necessary.’
‘You knew I’d behave? That’s a gamble.’
‘I knew you’d worked out the clues. All that was left was the conclusion of the mission.’
‘Although it’s not quite concluded, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’ His silvery voice again, the one he used to entice. ‘How so?’
‘The Brownshirts and Action Française. The exiled Russians. Hausmann.’
‘He’d be a catch.’
‘When do I catch him?’
A long pause, as he gulped some drink and lit another cigarette. I would’ve been impatient if I hadn’t been too used to his manipulative silences. I looked around the office: posters for exhibitions, dances, ballets and operas in a palimpsest on the walls—
‘Your friend’s husband knows a lot of Brownshirt supporters,’ he finally said.