by Nan
“I do.” It was Dwight.
Annette opened her mouth and sat down on the bed. Georges, who was already kneeling at the bottom drawer, sat back on his heels. Pierre took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Marie-Thérèse turned to Dwight with tears in her eyes. And Lily wished the clock had stopped five minutes ago. “Darling,” she said without looking at him. Then, referring as much to her indiscretion as to his, “What ever shall we do?”
“I would have played the scene differently, Lily. Much more intimately. But since you’ve assembled a cast of thousands, they might as well be in on the finale.”
“You must pardon me.” Pierre turned to leave.
“Don’t!” Dwight shouted. “I want you and you and you,” he said looking at Annette and Georges, “to hear what I am about to say.”
“I suppose I do deserve your being miffed at me.”
“Lily, what you did was unspeakable!”
“Oh, don’t I ever know it, Dwight! I never meant to get the little tyke in so much trouble. But you know me. Put a nickel in my mouth . . .”
“I have reached a decision.”
“Good. Then we can buy her something in Paris and save the postage.”
“I’m not getting any younger, Lily.”
“I know. Who is? These little episodes must be absolute hell on your nerves. I know they are on mine.”
“Lily! Don’t you hear what I’m saying? I am leaving you.” Marie-Thérèse looked up in astonishment. She put her hands to her face and began to sob. “After the tour, when this commitment is over, I am leaving you and going away with Marie-Thérèse.”
Lily took a deep breath. She sat down. “Exit. Curtain. End of Act One. Get your red-hots here.”
Dwight put his arms around Marie-Thérèse. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been put through.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she cried. “No one can hurt me now.”
Lily sat staring at the wall. Pierre walked quickly to the door. He motioned for Annette and Georges to leave with him. Dwight led Marie-Thérèse out. He never looked back. Lily ran a hand across her forehead as though she could brush away the fears. But there were too many. There was the fear of losing Dwight. The fear of growing old. The fear of being alone. And, as she looked around the room, the overwhelming fear that Georges had forgotten to refill the stationery folder for Baroness Frieda Krupp von Wittenberg.
PETIT Meurice was not in Paris on Saturday, August 26, 1944. He was not there as Le Général stood beneath the Arc de Triomphe and relit the flame at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. He did not cheer at two o’clock that sunny, cloudless day as Le Général began his victory march down the Champs-Elysées. He was, instead, pacing outside a schoolroom in Epernay while the American doctors worked to save Claude’s leg.
It was a sunny, cloudless morning nearly thirty-five years later when Petit Meurice finally stood beneath the Arc de Triomphe to begin his liberation march. He appeared every inch the boulevardier in his cream-colored suit with widely spaced brown stripes, tan shoes, white shirt, brown tie and best brown cap. As though planning a wonderful surprise for himself, the wish that comes true when one has blown out the birthday candles, he closed his eyes while still staring at the flame. Petit Meurice turned about face, his eyes tight shut. He smiled and opened them. There it was! As it had been that August 26! The very heart of the city! The Champs-Elysées!
The last time I saw Paris
Her heart was warm and gay,
I heard the laughter of her heart
In ev’ry street café.
Petit Meurice dodged the traffic rounding the Etoile as if stepping across a pond from stone to stone. He was startled as someone bumped into him. People did not bump into one another in Epernay.
He peered in at Le Drugstore. What was it? Un restaurant? Un tabac? Une pharmacie? Une librairie? Une boutique? Une boulangerie? All of them. All in one. It was a breathtaking sight. What a number Fred could have done in such a place! He looked closely at the plates of those in the café. Even the food was exotic. He would come back later for lunch and order something he had never eaten. A hamburger! He began to laugh, saying the word over and over in his mind. Hamburger! Hamburger! Hamburger!
The last time I saw Paris,
Her trees were dressed for spring,
And lovers walked beneath those trees,
And birds found songs to sing.
Farther down the Champs was the Bureau de Tourisme de Paris. Such beautiful pictures. He pushed the glass door and walked inside. The young man behind the counter did not look up.
“Bonjour,” Petit Meurice said.
“. . .jour,” he sighed.
“I am going to walk down the Champs-Elysées. I will stop to visit with someone. Then I would like to know how to walk to Notre Dame.”
“Walk? Not even Quasimodo walked. It is endless. So boring.” He sighed again and took out a map. “However, on this route,” he said, carelessly marking a thick yellow line, “you are least likely to be run over, or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Merci.” Petit Meurice picked up the map and hesitated. It could not be the right way. De Gaulle could not have been afraid of carbon monoxide. He looked at the young man, who had returned to his book. He held up the map. “Monsieur, is this the route of the liberation march of Général Charles de Gaulle?”
The man raised his eyes without moving his head. He tightened the corners of his mouth and reached out for the map. He tore it up. As he penciled a new line on a new map, he said, “You should have told me you wanted the De Gaulle waltz. One, two, three,” he mumbled as he drew the line. “One, two, three.”
“Merci.” Petit Meurice smiled. “I have been considering a holiday in Epernay,” he began in his most elegant tone. “Perhaps you have some information on Epernay?”
“Epernaaaaaay?” he asked, giving the last syllable the full range of his disbelief. “For how long?”
Petit Meurice shrugged. “For the season.”
“I wouldn’t give it more than a morning.” He reached behind the counter for a brochure. “Here. This is all we have on Epernay.”
“Have you ever been there? It is where they make champagne.” The man nodded. “Do you not like champagne?”
“I like champagne. I also like caviar, but I do not take my holiday in a sturgeon’s stomach.”
“Did you know Epernay was very important during the war?”
“Which war?”
Petit Meurice stood frozen.
I dodged the same old taxicabs
That I had dodged for years;
The chorus of their squeaky horns
Was music to my ears.
He continued walking along the Champs. All the women were so beautiful. They moved past him like an assortment of finely wrapped candies on a conveyor belt. Hard candies. He stopped at the Air France office.
“Monsieur?”
“Bonjour,” he said, leaning on the counter. “I have been thinking for a number of years about a trip.”
“I would be happy to help you, Monsieur. Where do you wish to go?”
He leaned closer to her. “Lisbon,” he whispered. “But I have heard it is impossible to get to Lisbon.”
“Not on our Lisbon for Lovers package. Three days and two nights, including two lunches, one dinner, a bullfight, Estoril and a book of discount coupons for shops and restaurants. What day would you like to leave?”
If only Ingrid Bergman and Paul Henreid had gone directly to Air France! “Tell me,” he began quietly. “What about. . . Berlin?”
She smiled. “You will have a wonderful time on our Moonlight in Berlin package. Everything worth seeing, starting at the bombed-out church, the site of the Reichstag and all that sort of thing if you’re a history buff. Then, after dark, we take you to the six top night spots at no additional cost, including gratuities and champagne.”
“Champagne?”
“May I make a reservation for you?”
The last time I saw
Paris
Her heart was warm and gay.
No matter how they change her
I’ll remember her that way.
The office of Paris-Watch was at 47, avenue des Champs-Elysées. Louise Vigran worked in the subscription department. She was in charge of address changes.
“Joseph sent you?” she whispered, looking up from her worn copy of Le Code Postal et Vous. She put a nail-bitten finger to her lips to signal him to keep quiet. A very plump woman in her late thirties, Louise Vigran had three pencils lodged in the curls of her unruly brown hair. She wore an oversize heavy knit sweater whose weave spread noticeably as it covered her enormous breasts. Her harlequin-shaped glasses were attached to a string around her neck.
“I have a message from Joseph.”
“Shhhhh!” she said. “Sit down,” she whispered. “Just push those envelopes onto the floor. They’re No Forwarding Address Given, and to hell with them.” Petit Meurice was careful to arrange the envelopes neatly. “Either they give you no address or they are like R. Villeneuve, who changes his/her address every month. No sooner do I get R. Villeneuve’s address plate settled in the right tray than he/she moves again. Always lovely little notes from him/her. But that and one franc fifty will get you on the Métro.”
“The plan has been changed.”
“What plan?”
“The plan you and Joseph had.”
“Which plan?” She became frightened.
“You know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You mean, The Plan?”
“Yes.”
“He told you?” she gasped.
“There was no choice.”
“My God. He said they would kill him if they found out.” She waited for Petit Meurice to tell her.
“We did not kill him.”
Louise Vigran stood up. A pile of envelopes with address changes fell from her lap. She put her hand to her mouth and pointed to him in horror. “You are one of them!”
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle!”
“You have come to kill me!”
“I have come to speak with you.”
She began to cry. “It was all his idea,” she pleaded as she sat down, crushing a pile of envelopes. “What do I know of such things? I have no imagination. The most exciting thing that happens to me is when R. Villeneuve changes his/her address.”
“I have come to speak with you.”
“He told me this was to be my ticket out of Address Change and into Editorial.” Tears began to fall. “I did not think when he told me I would be out of Circulation that I would be out of circulation.” She sniffed deeply and wiped her eyes with her wrists. “So, this is how my subscription gets cancelled.” She sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. “What have you done with Joseph?”
“We have done nothing with Joseph. He is one of us.”
“Aha! So there is a branch of the Old Boys Club even in the Maquis. Joseph saves his skin while Louise the drudge becomes Addressee Deceased.” She grabbed the telephone, but before she could dial, Petit Meurice pulled the cord from the wall.
“Mademoiselle, when I leave this office I shall continue my walk down the Champs-Elysées, across the river Seine and to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. I shall enjoy my walk, Mademoiselle, because I am confident you will never at any time in your life mention anything about this plan to anyone. I know I need not worry about such a thing ever happening.”
“You do not have to worry, Monsieur. Trust me!” she pleaded. “Even the new postal codes terrify me. Do you think I am the type who would make trouble for you?”
He paused and took a breath. “Mademoiselle, I have a cousin who works for Sabatier. He has given me a small four-inch blade that is thinner than a razor.”
“My God! You are planning to stab me to death!”
“No, Mademoiselle. I will take you from this office to the basement of a café where we will not be disturbed. There is a single bare light bulb over a long table. I will tie you to the table very securely. Then I will very carefully remove all your clothes.”
“My God! You are planning to rape me!”
“No, Mademoiselle. I will take my special knife and begin to slice your nose.” Her eyes widened. She put her hand to her mouth. Then to her nose. “I will first slice off all of the skin on one side, and then I will slice off all of the skin on the other side. As though trimming the meat from each breast of a chicken, I will slice away your nose.”
“Oh, my God!”
He continued in his most polite manner. He leaned over toward her. She froze against the back of her chair as his forefinger gently traced the outline of her mouth. “Then I shall take my special knife and slice away your lips in a single circular cut. They will fall from your face in one piece.”
She slumped in her chair. “I swear. I will never say anything.”
“Then, while you are lying there, bleeding from your nose and mouth, and trying not to swallow your own blood, I will take a very small mouse and carefully insert him into your vagina.”
Petit Meurice moved back as Louise Vigran threw up on her envelopes. He heard her retching as he walked to the elevator. Once downstairs, he walked to the parked car in which Emile sat waiting. “You can take her to the airport now,” he said. Petit Meurice left 47, avenue des Champs-Elysées confident he would never have to worry about Louise Vigran.
No matter how they change her
I’ll remember her that way.
THERE were always unfamiliar faces at the Café Zola for lunch. Few of the evening regulars worked in the area. The Zola offered Claude a welcome anonymity. There were no polite nods to be acknowledged, no friendly faces reassuring him they knew who he was. Except for Emma Benjamin.
Claude glanced behind the bar. Emile turned away. Even the waiter avoided Claude’s eyes. What were they thinking as she sat copying the menu?
“I’m so glad I came,” Emma whispered as she saw him. “This place is a super find!”
“Madame.”
“What a coup! Only fifteen francs for a three-course lunch. No wonder you tried to keep it to yourself.”
She had bested him. He had been incredibly stupid to think she would consider the Zola off limits. “How incredibly stupid of me.”
Emma was shocked by the anger in his voice. She had made her cover too convincing. “Please,” she said. “Sit down. I’m here alone.”
“Monsieur Benjamin?”
“He doesn’t even know I’m here,” she said, hoping to exonerate herself.
Claude stood stiffly over her, his hand atop a chair as though to steady his rage. “Ah, then let me help you with your research. First, you must remember to tell him about the bistro chairs. They are prewar and not mere reproductions. You and your readers will also be interested in the bullet hole in the mirror over the bar. One night Madame Lacroix tried to kill a waiter for serving her an overdone omelette. It will add to the local color.”
Emma turned away from the loathing in his eyes. “I hate overdone omelettes too,” she said softly.
Claude leaned toward her. “The perky little yellow ashtrays add a charming Gallic touch, don’t you agree? You should really be taking notes, Madame. These are all details that could make this the find of the year. By the way, the cassoulet on Tuesday is better than the lamb stew on Thursday. An inside tip. Exclusive to you. However, the most guarded secret of all, Madame, is that the basement of the Zola is said to have been used by members of the Résistance during the occupation of their country.”
Emma stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said flatly. “I didn’t realize what time it was.” She looked down at her wrist—but she had given Claude her watch. “I’m late.” She turned away, unable to bear the hatred in his eyes.
“Why have you come here?” he asked.
I thought I would be meeting a friend. I was wrong.”
Claude had seen the enemy many times before. But there was something in Emma’s face he did not recognize. He grabbed her by the elbow as she started to leave.
He spoke softly. “Your friend was delayed at the jeweler’s. Mickey’s little hand has been repaired.”
“Thanks.” She was still afraid to look at him. “Will it glow in the dark?”
Claude turned her toward him. He put his hand under her chin and raised her head until their eyes met. “We shall see.”
Without a word, they sat down at the table. He snapped his fingers for the waiter. He took her hand and fastened her watch as though symbolically uniting them. There was no need to speak.
“Are we really going to have an affair?” she asked in a rush.
The concept was dizzying. Erotic. Unexpected and totally irresistible. To make love to Emma Benjamin on the eve of battle. Literally, to bare himself before the enemy. “Yes.”
“I know this nifty little hotel on the rue de Dragon. For under fifty francs, including Continental breakfast, we can get a room on the top floor overlooking a lovely garden.” She saw the displeasure on his face. “Well, then I know a cheaper hotel. There’s a color TV in the lobby, but it’s still very Old World. You’ll adore it. I think it’s in the fourteenth.”
“Madame, you must not plan the tour for this affair.”
She sat back in her chair and laughed. “I’ve done everything wrong so far.” And then, before he could agree, she added, “Maybe I could relax if you stopped calling me ‘Madame.’ ”
“Emma.”
She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I’m afraid ‘Concierge’ is all I know.”
“Claude. Claude Picard.”
“Bonjour, Claude.”
“Hello, Emma.”
“Mon Dieu,” she said, with a deep sigh. “What a jour! Who would have thought? Although I guess I knew I was headed for Something Big the moment I left Clifford.”
“How did you know?” He reached for her hand.
She leaned forward as though recounting an ancient folktale. “I stood there. Outside the convent. It was cold. I was alone. Crying. Frightened. And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do, as though I had done it hundreds of times before, I just raised my hand and hailed a taxi.”
“Monsieur?” It was the waiter, careful to avoid eye contact with Claude.