The Paris Seamstress

by Natasha Lester

  She pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw, unworried by the relentless moan of the engines, the sudden lurches, the ceaseless vibration that Lena said rattled her teeth and which had made her ill several times. Estella had helped her as much as Lena would let her, which wasn’t a lot. Lena was asleep now, pale, looking childlike and artless in a way Estella had never seen.

  She glanced across at Alex once or twice, marveling at the transformation that came over him in sleep. His face looked even more handsome in repose because it was unarranged, that schooled, expressionless countenance suddenly relaxed, open, not hiding anything. She smiled as she watched him, knowing he’d hate for her to see him like that, enjoying having the upper hand on him for once even if he didn’t know it. Estella wondered for a moment how she looked in sleep, what worries left her, what dreams blessed her face with an expression different from that which she wore in life.

  She lost all track of time, glad to think of nothing other than her pencil on the paper, glad to discover that, while her first showing might have been an unmitigated disaster, she still loved to draw. And that, even if nobody else thought so, she could draw designs she believed were worthy of adorning a woman’s body.

  The sound of movement made her lift her head; Alex had woken and was checking on Lena, who seemed utterly diminished by the flight. “What can I bring you?” Estella heard him ask.

  “I don’t think my stomach can take any food right now,” Lena said.

  “Coffee?”

  “No. Just sleep.” Lena smiled at Alex.

  He touched Lena lightly on the shoulder and it occurred to Estella that she’d never seen any gesture pass between them that moved beyond close friendship—like Estella’s with Sam—and into passion. She’d never seen him kiss Lena, never seen him embrace her the way a lover would, never seen him do more than touch her back or her shoulder or her arm, never seen him reach out to her out of need or hunger or want. She felt her hand move up to her own lips, lips Alex had most definitely kissed, and she wondered how Lena could be so restrained when she had the chance to feel, every day, the way Estella had when she’d kissed Alex.

  She realized Alex was staring at her with curiosity written all over his face, was watching her hand on her lips. “Sorry,” she said, startled. “I was daydreaming.”

  “I hope it was pleasant,” he said dryly and she felt herself blush from her forehead right down to her toes. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I am,” Estella said. “Starving in fact.”

  He put his head through the doorway and, within a few minutes, a steward brought in a tray of food.

  “Should I take some over to Lena?” she asked Alex.

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t want anything.”

  “What time is it?”

  Alex checked his watch. “It’s almost four in the afternoon in Paris,” he said.

  “So we’re having afternoon tea,” she said, grinning at the plates of lobster, cold smoked salmon, spears of asparagus, the steaming tureens of soup.

  “Sorry, I forgot to order scones,” he said, dropping seamlessly into a very aristocratic English accent, and she laughed.

  “You know, you’re actually quite funny when you try,” she said.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he said conspiratorially as he sat across from her. “Besides, they’d never believe you.”

  “I suppose being funny isn’t in the spy handbook.”

  “It isn’t, as a matter of fact.” He pointed to her sketchbook. “They’re beautiful.”

  She went to put her hand over them but he sounded so sincere she was touched. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever make them up though.”

  “Don’t let Harry stop you. That’s what he wants.”

  “Well, he got what he wanted. I don’t think I’ll do another fashion show any time soon. I can’t afford to.” She helped herself to the lobster, then offered him the plate but he shook his head.

  He sipped his coffee. “If I didn’t think I would offend you so utterly that you’d throw yourself out the window, I’d offer you the money you need.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you have the sense not to,” she said, closing her sketchbook with a snap. “I’m not a charity project you can fly around the world and splash money on when you feel like it.”

  “And that’s exactly why I didn’t offer.” He smiled at her and she caught a glimpse of what she’d seen when he was asleep, of the man who might once have emerged from the skin of Alex if only his mother hadn’t died, if only he’d had a different father.

  “I’m being prickly again, aren’t I?” she said, smiling a little too.

  “Nobody would ever dare call you prickly, would they?” he said.

  “Not if they want to live a long life.”

  They were both quiet a moment after that, enjoying a rare moment of conviviality.

  “I should let you get back to it,” he said at last. “Tell me, do you ever sleep?”

  She laughed. “I forgot that you always tend to see me after midnight. But yes, I do sleep. Just not well or for long stretches.”

  “I know what that’s like,” he said. Then, “Estella.” He stopped.

  “What?” she asked, fear pressing against her throat at the way he was looking at her, as if he was about to hurt her and was trying to find the right words with which to do it.

  “France is a very different place from how you left it. Be prepared for that. And thank you for coming.”

  Estella chewed on a mouthful of delicious lobster, as well as the fact that he’d thanked her. “What happens next? Can you tell me that much at least?”

  “We land in Lisbon, then take a train to Perpignan, then on to Marseilles. The flying boats can’t land at Marseilles anymore because of the Germans, which makes the journey take twice as long as it should. We need to push on, to get to Paris as soon as we can, before…” He stopped and she knew he must be thinking about the man he needed to help. “I have Ausweis for us all, passes that allow us to cross the demarcation line into the Occupied Zone. Your pass has your name on it. You don’t have to pretend to be anyone other than who you are, which is always easiest. And you’re French, so being a translator for me, the incompetent American, shouldn’t raise an eyebrow.”

  “So you’re American now?” Estella asked.

  “Of course. If the Germans knew I was British, I’d be interned. That’s another secret you have to keep.” Alex shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s all half-lies and untruths. But I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “Oh, and you’d care about that,” she joked and was utterly taken aback when Alex said, very low so she almost didn’t hear. “I would.”

  Because she looked like Lena. He cared about Lena, and, by extension, Estella. Although after her earlier realization about their lack of intimacy, she wondered for the first time what exactly was the nature of his care for Lena. He had once said that he loved Lena though.

  She shrugged. It wasn’t a line of thought that was worth pursuing. He’d kissed Estella once by accident and she’d enjoyed it, more than enjoyed it; she’d been utterly capable of removing her clothes and his at that moment. But he’d only kissed her because he thought she was Lena. So, despite the fact she hadn’t witnessed any obvious affection—which probably meant he was more discreet than she’d given him credit for—he and Lena were some kind of oddly entwined item. He thought of Estella as Lena’s annoying sister. All of this was for Lena; he wanted to find proof for Lena that she had a sister—one family member who wasn’t a lunatic—and Estella was simply a means to the end of that, and of finding his agent.

  “I don’t seem to remember you telling me before we left that lying would be part of my job,” she said somewhat testily.

  “Because then you’d never have come.” He grinned at her, that goddamned heartbreaking grin that she knew women across the country must fall for because it was so seductive, so charming, and she made herself look away because
he didn’t need any more women prostrate under his spell.

  He picked up his coffee and walked back to his seat. She reopened her sketchbook, her pencil flitting over the pages, adding in another detail, loosening or lengthening a line, changing the fit of a sleeve. Within an hour there was nothing left to fix; everything was perfect. Yet the only breathing she could hear was Lena’s. Alex’s face was as blank as it always was, betraying the fact that, while his eyes might be closed, he no longer slept.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex slept a little on the train, as did Estella he noted with relief. Half an hour before they pulled into Marseilles, he leaned over and whispered in Lena’s ear. Judging by Estella’s sharp glance, he could tell she thought he was whispering sweet nothings and she moved to stand up and walk away but he held out a hand to stop her. Lena simply nodded at what he told her, for which he was grateful.

  Then he sat beside Estella and spoke quietly. “If anything happens en route or in Paris,” he said, “get yourself to Lyon or Marseilles. Go to the Vieux Port, or stay close to the cafés. Someone will pick you up.”

  She stared at him. Before she could say anything, he opened his traveling case and passed an acetate box to her and one to Lena. It was small, easily fitted into a coat pocket or a purse. He watched as Estella flipped open the lid and rifled through the contents, which he could list by heart: malted milk tablets, Benzedrine tablets, sweets, matches, chocolate, surgical tape, chewing gum, tobacco, a water bottle, Halazone for water purification, needle and thread, soap, fishing line. She held up the razor. “What’s it for?” she asked.

  “It’s magnetized,” he said. “You can use it as a compass if you have to. Sorry, they didn’t have anything more feminine.”

  Estella shook her head. “Not the razor. What’s the box for?”

  He reached across, took the box from her and slid it into her purse.

  “It’s an escape box,” he said shortly. Of the best kind, he didn’t say. Made by MI9 for the British air force and their agents. “Don’t put it in your valise. Keep it on you at all times. You can last a couple of days with that. Trade the tobacco if you don’t want to smoke it.”

  “Trade the tobacco?” Estella repeated incredulously.

  “Estella,” he said sharply. “Just leave it.” He’d tried to choose the best time. On the plane and it would have rattled her. But he knew that no matter when he gave it to her, it would make her ask questions. If only she could be like Lena and hide away her box as if it were a powder compact.

  “I’m sorry,” she snapped. “Maybe next time you want to pass me something so out of the ordinary you could give me a little warning.”

  And even though she might hate him even more than she already did for what he was about to say, he had to say it. “You have to stop questioning me. Otherwise I’ll have to send you back to Lisbon. I need your help but not at the risk of everything else. Trust that whatever I say and do, it’s for a good reason. It’s your job, for the next week, just to nod and agree with me no matter how much it irritates you. Can you do that?”

  He kept his voice tightly controlled but he could still tell that he sounded annoyed. She was the weak spot in this plan. He hated having to act like this with her, like the autocratic intelligence officer he had to be in order to keep everyone alive.

  He felt like an utter bastard when she bent her head to hide the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I can,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you,” he said, an edge to his voice that sat at the far end of courtesy. “There are no cars in France anymore. We’re catching the train to Paris. I need to stop at the Seamen’s Mission first, then we’ll go.”

  “The Seamen’s Mission?” Estella started to ask. Then she closed her mouth and picked up her valise. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.

  Once the train stopped, he left to see Peter Caskie at the Seamen’s Mission, one of the many stops a downed airman might make on the long and secret journey across France. He distributed money and tobacco for the couriers, so much tobacco—it had become a more reliable currency than any paper money. He gathered intelligence, made sure nobody on the escape line thought anything was amiss, that no Germans were aware of its existence. He arrived back at Marseilles station just as the train shot steam into the air.

  Then began the long trip from Marseille to Paris, which he hoped would take no longer than a day and a half, what with all the checks they’d be subjected to, which made what used to be a simple journey far from smooth. At five in the morning the next day, as the sun began to rise, he moved over to sit beside Estella; Lena had been asleep for hours and he thought she’d be more comfortable if she could lie down on the seat. Even though Estella looked the most exhausted of them all, she was still awake.

  He didn’t speak to her, just tilted his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, needing to rest for even ten minutes; that would be enough or else he’d have to start on the benzedrine and he tried to save that for only when absolutely necessary. He awoke with a jolt some time later—night had passed and sunlight was seeping into the sky—feeling something land on his thigh. It was Estella’s upturned hand. She’d fallen asleep and, while oblivious to the world, her body had turned toward his and her arm had shifted.

  He stared at her hand, at the nimble fingers that he’d watched caressing paper with a pencil, transforming lines of lead into stunning images, studied the tips of her index finger and thumb, which were marked, he saw now, with tiny wounds—needle marks perhaps—a side effect of the work she did. In sleep, her hand looked tranquil and lovely and he remembered that the French seamstresses were reckoned to have doigts de fée—fairy fingers—and all he wanted to do was to reach out his own hand and link it with hers.

  He shook his head; what was the matter with him? He’d never in his life wanted to just hold hands with anyone. But, right now, he knew he’d be completely happy to feel her palm against his, to know that she cared enough about him to hold his hand. Of course, she was only here because he’d persuaded her in the worst possible way. If he did so much as reach out a finger to lightly touch her, she’d snatch her hand away, say something biting and wouldn’t speak to him again for the rest of their time in France.

  So it was better just to sit in the carriage of a train on an early morning in France, watching the sun gently lift into the sky. It was better to simply endure the torment of her hand resting on his thigh, knowing that if she was aware of what she was doing, a moment like this would never happen.

  After passing through Lyon, Alex slipped out from under Estella’s hand, not daring to pick it up and place it on the seat, just letting it slide away from him as he pulled out the bread and cheese and wine he’d bought in Marseilles. They were about to cross the border and food would help them keep their wits.

  “I’m starving,” he heard Estella say as his rustling paper bag woke her.

  He passed her bread and water and sat down next to Lena, nodding at the window. “You should take in what you can of France now,” he said to Estella. “It’s different in the Occupied Zone.”

  The train ran along the escarpment of the Côte d’Or, the valley of the Saône spread out in front of them, flashing gold off the leaves of the grapevines, reminding him of the dress Estella wore the first night he met her. The river drifted along beside the train, a belt of blue, unraveling gently, and the grapes and the water and the undulations of the country were glorious, one peaceful moment on this whole fraught journey. An idyll, where one could forget the war raging around them.

  “Oh,” he heard Estella say as she turned her eyes to the view.

  They ate, eyes fixed to the pastoral scene outside, souls feasting on it the way their mouths did on the bread. When he was done, he rested back, legs stretched out before him and Lena smiled at him. He saw, as he always did, the damaged soul lying beneath her eyes and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture meant to show her that he did care.

  He realized Estella was watching, that to her
it would look like the action of a lover. And even though, in the deepest part of him, he didn’t want her to think that he and Lena were lovers, he was glad she did because that was another barrier between them. Without such barriers, he knew that he would—if his past was anything to go on—only hurt Estella in the end and he couldn’t bear the thought of doing that.

  Eventually he had to turn to business. “I’m supposed to stay at the Ritz,” he said. “But it’s crawling with Germans and I’d rather you two not be so close to the Wehrmacht. I’ll go in and out of the hotel from time to time to keep up appearances but, Estella, I hoped we could use the house in the Marais. I had it chalked outside as a maison habitée months ago, which you have to do if you don’t want the Germans commandeering your home. So it’s safe. You shouldn’t go to your mother’s apartment yet, just in case.” Just in case you get caught helping me steal an agent with a broken leg out of Paris, he didn’t say.

  She opened her mouth and he could tell she was about to protest, that he was in for another of their neverending battles. Then she nodded, surprising him. “Whatever you think is best. I don’t want to put Maman in danger.”

  It wasn’t until they emerged from the Metro that Estella comprehended what Alex had meant when he said it was different in the Occupied Zone. The Metro had been overstuffed, carrying the kind of wealthy and coutured women who would never, before the war had rid the country of cars and fuel, have deigned to sully themselves on the trains. There were also women who belonged to a breed Estella had never seen before: thin, dresses almost translucent with wear, legs bare, shoulders turned in, heads dropped so low that it was as if they wanted to hide inside themselves. The stink of unclean bodies made it hard to breathe. Estella didn’t ask questions. But when they reached the Rue de Rivoli, she stopped still.