CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  There was a very long silence. Murphy’s logic was inescapable. He stood up. His smile returned. “I’m sure once you’ve thought about it, you’ll understand we’re not at cross-purposes. Now, we at NAA realize just how tiring air travel can be. I’ll make your excuses to the guys. But before you leave, I thoughtfully prepared a few tokens of NAA’s appreciation.” As though banging the last nails into their coffins, he slammed down small packages in front of them. “Alligator notebooks. One. Two. Three. Four. Eighteen-carat gold pens. One. Two. Three. Four. Engraved luggage tags. Mrs. Simon. Mr. Simon. Mrs. Benjamin. Mr. Benjamin.”

  AS far as the world was concerned, it was Claude’s dinner hour. Everyone knew that if he didn’t eat at the Louis Q or wasn’t dining with the maîtres who favored his reservations, he always ate at the Café Zola. With its coterie of regulars, the Zola served as a private club for local businessmen and their families. It was too unyielding a setting to attract passersby, much less tourists. It was at the Zola that friends met friends, played belote or chess, argued politics, made a business deal or sat peacefully and read newspapers speared on wooden poles courtesy of the management.

  Emile Zoladz, the management, leaned in the doorway, his arms folded across his broad chest. For nearly twenty years, Claude had never paid for a drink or a meal at the Zola. He accepted Emile’s hospitality, knowing that to refuse would insult the boy whose parents he had saved from the Nazis. The Zola, with its bourgeois voices fighting and laughing and belching, was as much a part of his France as the elegance of the Louis Q.

  Claude approached Emile, who smiled and winked at him. “Bonsoir, Monsieur le Concierge.”

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur le Propriétaire. And what is on the menu to give me indigestion tonight?” Claude shook hands with Emile while his eyes searched the faces of those at the outside tables.

  “I think you will find all of your favorites tonight,” Emile said, nodding toward the dining room. He leaned over to kiss Claude on both cheeks. “They are inside,” he whispered.

  Claude narrowed his eyes as he walked into the dimly lit room. The inside of the Zola was cavernous. He walked down the center aisle toward his usual table against the wall. Next to the Lebrun family, with their crying baby, was a nervous man with a nervous white moustache. He picked at an omelette. A worn copy of Vol. 8, R–T, of L’Encyclopédie des Maladies Tropicales was at the side of his plate. EDOUARD LIBOR. WAITER. CAFE VICTORIA. EPERNAY. 1942. STOLE FOOD FROM SUPPLIES REQUISITIONED BY GERMANS. CURRENTLY WAITER. CAFE VICTORIA.

  Claude turned away and nodded to Armand, the taxi driver, and his dog Gervaise, who sat like a haughty wife with her nose in the air sniffing as each waiter walked by. A handsome woman in her sixties, smoking a thin cigar and sipping a crème de menthe, tapped her fingers on Vol. 3, E–F. ISABELLE TESSIER. TELEPHONISTE. EPERNAY. 1943. PUBLISHED UNDERGROUND NEWSPAPER. CURRENTLY TEACHES KINDERGARTEN.

  Once seated, Claude motioned to the waiter. At a back table, the man with Vol. 6, M–N, blew his nose. ANTOINE BAUDIN. GARAGE MECHANIC. EPERNAY. 1943. STOLE PARTS FROM GERMAN CARS. INSTALLED TIME BOMBS ON TROOP TRUCKS. CURRENTLY OWNS GAS STATION.

  Across the aisle, the old-maid Dupire sisters were already into their nightly drunken argument about which one Father loved best. The man at the table next to them pretended to be scanning the pages of Vol. 4, G–I. The book was upside down. NICOLAS PLANCHET. TOWN ACCOUNTANT. EPERNAY. 1940. ALTERED GERMAN RECORDS TO SIPHON OFF FUNDS FOR THE RESISTANCE. CURRENTLY HEAD OF RECEPTION. HOTEL SAINT-PIERRE.

  The waiter brought a bottle of Pernod, a bottle of Perrier and a stemmed glass. Claude always substituted Perrier for water. Although he refused to drink champagne, he loved bubbles.

  “There have already been three deaths from the Boeuf Bourguignon,” the waiter said, putting down the Pernod. “If you wish modest odds for survival, order the chicken, which I myself ate earlier and from which I suffered only a mild rash.”

  Claude poured a drink without looking up. “The boeuf.”

  “A perfect choice,” the waiter said, putting down a plate of beef stew. “I thought you might be in a hurry.”

  Claude smiled and drank his Pernod in a single gulp. He watched a distinguished-looking man in a black cape meticulously filet a large black olive as he avidly read Vol. 9, U–W. LE COMTE DE MONTAIGNE-VILLIERS. HEIR TO CHAMPAGNE FIRM. EPERNAY. 1943. CONFIDANT TO THE GERMAN HIGH COMMAND. DOUBLE AGENT FOR THE RESISTANCE. CURRENTLY HEAD OF CHAMPAGNE FIRM. By the time Claude was ready for the stew, the waiter had returned with a carafe of red wine.

  Vol. 5, J–L, spilled his cup of coffee. ROBERT DEROT. SCHOOLBOY. EPERNAY. 1943. DELIVERED MESSAGES. NEWSPAPERS. CURRENTLY CHEF–OWNER. CAFE DEROT. Robert looked up, and their eyes met. Claude turned away.

  At the table next to the black wife and Vietnamese husband who came once a week for dinner was Vol. 7, O–Q. He was folding and refolding his napkin. JOSEPH VITRY. CHAMPAGNE SALESMAN. EPERNAY. 1943. SABOTAGED SHIPMENTS DESTINED FOR BERLIN. CURRENTLY TAXI DRIVER.

  Claude looked up as the fat man turned sideways and squeezed through the doorway. Dressed in a cream-colored suit, wearing a brown cap and carrying Vol. 2, C–D, Petit Meurice walked down the aisle toward Claude. E–F was watching. G–I, J–L, M–N, O–Q, and U–W were watching. R–T’s eyes widened as the volume they were waiting for took one heavy step after another on his way toward Claude’s table. The Lebrun baby continued to cry. Gervaise, the dog, continued to sniff. The Dupires continued to argue. But the others, those who knew the man whose footsteps made the floor squeak, sat frozen until he reached Claude’s table.

  Petit Meurice stopped for a moment. He looked directly at Claude and smiled broadly. He raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes and sang in a whisper, “Oh, yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play!”

  Claude watched Petit Meurice walk to the back as though heading for the rest room. G–I, J–L, O–Q asked for their checks. R–T stood up. U–W crumpled his napkin. E–F left something extra for the waiter. And M–N cancelled his dessert.

  THE basement of the Zola had been converted. The cans of oil and tomatoes and juice, the cartons of paper napkins, the cases of beer and wine and water had been cleared away. They were neatly stacked to make room for a table with one chair at the head and four on either side. Tacked to the center wall was a large map of France on which the area of Champagne was outlined in black. Large photographs of the Simons and the Benjamins were taped to the cartons.

  The chair at the head of the table was empty. To the right of it, Petit Meurice sat pouring some wine into his glass. He was always served first, as one would feed a hungry attack dog before sitting down to dinner. A few coughs developed as cigarettes were lit. Smoke began to curl around the single naked light bulb.

  Edouard pointed accusingly at Petit Meurice. “I want to know why he came First Class!” Petit Meurice looked up. He was accustomed to being referred to in the third person.

  “Because Lucas is still afraid of him!” Robert said. “And if you had been at the station early enough, we would have all come First Class!”

  “Did you want the guns? Or perhaps you think we could pull this off without guns?” Edouard yelled.

  “First Class,” Le Comte muttered. “And you wonder why I am concerned about the future of France.”

  Edouard pointed again at Petit Meurice. “I killed as many Nazis as he did. He should have been in Second with us.”

  Nicolas took the wine bottle from Robert, who said, “The vin ordinaire compares himself to the grand cru!”

  Isabelle smiled a thank you as Le Comte poured wine for her. “The Maquis helps those who help themselves.” She turned back to her crocheting.

  Edouard shook his head angrily and again pointed to Petit Meurice. “I thought we were all equal!”

  Robert sighed. “You are equal to no one.” He turned to the others. “You are a waiter. A form of life overlooked by evolution.”

  “It is that kind of intellectual bigotry which has plagued my profession. Every nig
ht we must face the same enemies. We are blamed because the chef cannot cook. And we are blamed because the customers do not know how to order. And once again, I was given the wrong order.” Edouard stood up and bent his arm at the elbow as though he had a waiter’s napkin over it. He spoke mockingly. “ ‘Waiter, I want two loaded guns.’ ‘Yes, sir. Would you like anything with your loaded guns?’ ‘Oh, no. Just two loaded guns will be fine. Oh, waiter—I’ve changed my mind. Bring me four loaded guns.’ ‘Four. Yes, sir. Would you like anything with the four loaded guns?’ ‘No, I don’t need anything with the four guns.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘But waiter, what is this?’ ‘It is what you ordered, sir. Four loaded guns.’ ” Edouard put four guns on the table. “ ‘But waiter, where are the extra bullets?’ ”

  There was a loud thud as Joseph dropped a bag of bullets onto the table. “Here are the extra bullets.”

  “You didn’t order extra bullets!” Edouard yelled. “I would have gotten them if you had ordered them!”

  “You see what I mean?” Robert said. “The waiter’s mentality. They say the same thing when they bring the soup without a spoon. Stupid! Stupid! They are all stupid!”

  “How dare you?” Edouard yelled at Robert. “If anyone is stupid, it is you! Mon Dieu, what do chefs know of reality? You know nothing about life. Like morticians, all you do is rearrange the dead.”

  “The only thing worse than dealing with waiters was dealing with the Nazis,” Robert said.

  “How the hell would you remember?” Antoine asked. “You were only ten years old at the time.”

  Le Comte put his hand on Robert’s arm. “You were a beautiful child.”

  Robert moved his arm away uneasily. “I was only ten!”

  Isabelle smiled. “That was one nouveau Beaujolais you missed, Comte.”

  “There were distractions.” He shrugged. “The Gestapo. I had a great deal to lose.”

  “And now?” Antoine asked.

  Le Comte smiled. “I still have a great deal to lose. The tourists are just as deadly an army. They will change Epernay as much as the Germans.”

  “They will be worse!” Antoine said. “The Germans paid for nothing. We hated them for what they took. But the tourists will pay and pay and pay. We will grow to depend on them. I do not want them at my gas station!”

  Nicolas sneered. “Of course. Why should he bother with tourists when he makes all the money he needs selling stolen cars?”

  Antoine laughed. “You know why he is angry? It was not enough I gave him free gas for the trip. He wanted a complete tune-up and a new spare.”

  “What if I had broken down?” Nicolas argued.

  “That is not my problem. Do not presume we are friends merely because we have the same enemies. We live in the same town and I do not see you from one war to the next. I tell you what I will do. I will give you free gas every time you give me a free room at your hotel.”

  Isabelle looked up from her crocheting. “Cher Antoine, why do you need a room at the Saint-Pierre?” She smiled at him. “Are you still fucking around with your sister-in-law?”

  Antoine sighed. “And they let her teach our children!”

  “I only teach them to sing ‘Frère Jacques’ and to read Pierre Lapin,” she said. “I do not teach them how to knock up their brother’s wife.”

  “You stinking old hag!” Antoine yelled.

  Isabelle jumped up and held her crochet hook like a dagger at Antoine’s neck. “That is no way to speak to a woman my age. If you do it again, Antoine, I will cut off your balls.”

  Le Comte smiled. “I suspect it can be done with a cuticle scissors.”

  Antoine pulled away from Isabelle and straightened his collar. “What is wrong with you? He is a pervert, but you say nothing to him. It is because he is rich!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabelle said. “It is easy to understand his liking young boys. But liking to fuck your sister-in-law I cannot understand.”

  Antoine was enraged. He reached across the table and grabbed one of the guns. His hand shook as he turned around and aimed directly at the picture of Dwight that was taped to a carton. He pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped between Dwight’s eyes. A moment later, to the shock of everyone, red liquid began pouring out of the hole in Dwight’s head. They got up from their chairs, eyes fixed on the oozing picture. It made no difference that it was tomato juice. Antoine had made them remember the reason they were all there.

  No one heard Claude enter. He stood at the top of the stairs. Even he was shocked by the sight and waited without a word until the can had emptied itself down the middle of Dwight Simon’s head. “I see your aim has improved.”

  They turned as one to look up at him. “Le Dom,” Antoine gasped.

  Claude smiled. “Fortunately for Herr Fruchtmann, you were not so accurate in 1941.”

  During the occupation, the Nazis had assigned a member of a German wine-making family to control the production of champagne. The manufacturers were relieved that the “Führer of Champagne” was at least a wine-maker. Others, like Antoine, took every opportunity to try to assassinate him.

  Le Comte raised his fist. “It was stupid to shoot at Fruchtmann! Better to have had him in charge than some beer-drinking swine!”

  “Better still to have no one in charge,” Claude said. He came down the steps and embraced Isabelle.

  She kissed him. “Did I ever tell you what a good lay Fruchtmann was?”

  “Every time we made love you told me.”

  Isabelle smiled. “That often?”

  Claude walked around the table shaking hands. He kissed Petit Meurice on both cheeks. “So. I understand you rode First Class?” he said.

  “How do you know that?” Antoine asked.

  Claude shrugged. “There are spies all around us!” He took his place at the head of the table. They all watched as he reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. He held it up. Everyone smiled. “I have finished the letter. As soon as we have completed our business, I shall read it to you.” He nodded to the picture of Dwight. “And to you as well.” He put the letter in the center of the table.

  “First, you must tell us what the Penny Pinchers are like,” Isabelle said.

  Claude tensed. “We have never allowed ourselves to become involved with personalities in the past. It is no different now.”

  “I told you she was very beautiful.”

  Claude looked up at the picture of Emma. Then he turned quickly to Antoine. “Let us get to business.”

  “The van has been repainted. I got false license plates from my cousin in Avignon.”

  “Lucienne?”

  “Yes. You remember her?”

  Claude smiled. “Very well.”

  “How well?” Isabelle interrupted.

  “Isabelle, it was thirty-five years ago!”

  “Thirty-five years, thirty-five minutes. It is all the same when you look back.”

  “You speak as though nothing had happened in between.”

  “Nothing has happened. I teach the same things to the same little children. Only the faces change. You make the same reservations for the same tourists.” She pointed to Edouard. “He serves the same shitty food.” She shook her head at Petit Meurice. “And for him with his bottles, it is the worst of all. There are not even faces that change.”

  “I have changed!” Nicolas said. “I was not always head of reception. And now I have a chance to buy the hotel!”

  “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” Isabelle shrugged. “You are still fighting for your big chance in life.”

  “Of course I am. Do you think Chabanne will sell to me if he can sell to NAA? He will hold out for a price higher than I can afford.”

  Claude picked up one of the guns from the table. He turned to Edouard. “These cannot be traced?”

  “Not unless they can find the SS records.”

  Claude looked up at Robert, who reported, “The food will be superb! I am preparing all my regional specialties.” He sneered at
Edouard. “And since we have decided upon a buffet, I know the service will not ruin the food.”

  “Isabelle?”

  “The mattresses have already been delivered.” She reached into her bag and took out four crocheted ski masks. “These are Nicolas’s and Edouard’s favorite colors.” She looked at Claude with a sudden urgency. “For God’s sake, give me a gun! The Isabelle who was in the caves, fighting by your side, that Isabelle would not be crocheting ski masks!”

  Claude reached across the table. “Isabelle, it was you who taught us that all successful machines have replaceable parts.”

  “At the time, I did not believe I was the part that was replaceable.”

  Claude sighed. He turned to Le Comte. “The shifts?”

  “I have compensated quite easily for the loss of Marcel. Naturally, the big problem was that we do not want everyone reporting sick for work on Wednesday. There are no difficulties with Joseph, Antoine and Robert, since they are self-employed. Edouard does not go in until late, and Isabelle finishes early. I feel we have maximum flexibility.” Le Comte pointed to Petit Meurice. “He and Nicolas are set for the night shifts, and I’ve given instructions on how everyone is to be picked up and dispatched.”

  Joseph put his briefcase on the table. “I have made my arrangements with Emile to pass on their personal effects.”

  “And I shall give Emile the letter after I have read it to you,” Claude said. “It would seem, mes amis, we are ready!”

  “There is one thing more, Le Dom.” Joseph opened his briefcase and took out some papers. “I would like everyone to sign a release.”

  “A release?” Claude asked.

  “Against litigation for invasion of privacy. We will have a very important and,” he added with a smile, “a very salable story to tell. We must protect the literary rights, television, films . . .”