by Nan
“I will be ruined!” Robert said. “All these years of perfecting my recipes! My award from Holiday!”
“He is just worried about his stinking star!” Le Comte snarled as they went down a flight of stairs. “What about me? What am I to do if the police uncover my bedside manners? Epernay is not quite as liberal as San Francisco!”
“This should never have happened,” Isabelle said breathlessly as she held on to Edouard’s sleeve. “If only we had not been such fucking pussies. We should have planned to kill them ourselves!”
Claude stopped at the cellar room. “Clean it up. Get rid of everything.”
Le Comte pointed to the body lying on a mattress. “What do I do with Antoine?”
“As soon as it is dark, take him into the vineyards and bury him deep. He must never be found.”
“What do we tell his wife?”
“Nothing,” Claude said, going down the dark flight of steps. “We have not seen Antoine. That is all. She knows nothing of this. A tragic disappearance. We will look after her.”
He ran to the trunk room. Nicolas was sitting in front of the armoire. He held up a kerosene lamp. “There has not been a sound. I thought perhaps he might come back.”
“Meurice will not come back,” Claude said, stepping into the armoire. “Seal this up immediately. Fill the cask with some of your reserve.”
Le Comte was shocked. “You expect me to give that thief Pommel my reserve?”
“Fill it up!” Claude yelled. “You must seal this entrance!”
“But how will you get back?” Edouard asked.
“I will not be coming back this way. All of you must return home.” Claude began searching for the latch. “Perhaps they are still alive.”
“And if they are?” Isabelle asked.
Claude opened the door that led into the cask. “Then I shall be forced to be a hero.”
EMMA was wearing Dwight’s blazer. She had it on backward, as though it were a straitjacket. His arm was around her. They sat on the floor in one corner of the cell. Across the room, Lily wore Clifford’s jacket as though it were a beltless greatcoat. She made cuffs on the sleeves, turned the collar up fashionably and wrapped it tight around her waist. Clifford’s head was in her lap as he lay on the floor. Just outside the bars, Petit Meurice was digging into the limestone walls with a large shovel. He was carving out four graves.
As Emma and Dwight sipped the 1947 vintage, tears streamed down their cheeks. “But I could make you so happy,” she pleaded.
“It’s no use.”
“I have so much money I just don’t know what to do with it all.”
“It’s no use. I am destined for a life of penury.”
Lily looked up as she stroked Clifford’s hair. “Oh, Dwight. How dweary!” She took a sip of champagne and turned to Petit Meurice. “Can’t you do that more quietly? What a racket! I can’t hear myself drink!”
“Let’s not come back here,” Clifford said.
“Surely not until they finish renovating.”
“What do you think it costs them?” he asked. “All these glasses. Has to cost. How much do you think the bill is gonna be?”
“Who cares? It’s all on the expense account.”
Emma looked up and began sobbing. “He never lets me cheat on the expense account.”
Lily caressed Clifford’s cheek. “How dweadful! I must take you in hand. There’s so much I could teach you. Tipping. How to eat artichokes. How to buy fine leather. It would be wonderful! Like having a little boy of my own.” Lily looked over at Emma. “You must let me adopt him.”
“He’ll make your life a misery,” Emma warned. “Just like he did mine. Don’t take a taxi! Eat the free hors d’oeuvre and we can skip dinner! You can see better from the balcony!” She began crying hysterically. “I’m thirty-six years old and I’ve never ordered à la carte!”
Lily pointed a finger at Emma. “Dwight, is she dwunk?”
Dwight took a handkerchief and dabbed at Emma’s tearstained cheeks. “How could she be? The poor thing has only had a few.” He pulled her close and with great tenderness asked, “My dear, are you dwunk?”
“Twelve,” Clifford said. “So this is number twelve. Tastes just like eleven to me.”
“Oh, Dwight,” Lily laughed. “Isn’t he dwoll?”
“You can’t have both of them,” Emma said. “You have to share.”
“Share?” Lily said with disgust. “I hate sharing. It’s a dwag.”
“But you do share sometimes,” Emma said meanly.
“Never!”
“Yesterday you did!” Emma accused. She was breathing hard as she got onto her knees and then, leaning on Dwight’s shoulder, stood up. She pointed a shaky finger at Lily. “J’accuse!”
“Oh, dwat!” Lily put Clifford’s head on the floor and slowly raised herself to her feet. “Hey, you,” Lily called to Emma. “Come with me.” Lily dragged Emma toward the small alcove with the toilet. “I’m gonna powder your nose.”
“Save me,” Emma whimpered.
They held on to each other as they turned the corner, careful to avoid stepping on the broken glass. Once inside the alcove, Lily grabbed Emma by the shoulders and pressed her against the wall. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “If you tell, I’ll throw you against the wall instead of my glass. I have never regarded you as anything other than a guttersnipe, Emma Penny Pincher.”
“Lily, tell me! When did you and Claude . . .”
“What an ironic turn my life has taken.” Lily began to cry. “Now, Emma, I know you do this sort of thing with delivery boys and garage mechanics . . .”
“Oh, please,” Emma sobbed, “tell me what time?”
“Listen, you cheap floozie, I’ll cut out your tongue if you say one word about yesterday.”
“Oh, Lily,” Emma pleaded. “I must know what time you and Claude—”
Lily grabbed Emma by the arm. “I thought I told you not to say one word—”
“But Lily, I would never say a word to Dwight about you.”
“You dreary wretch, I’m not worried you’ll tell Dwight about me. I’m worried you’ll tell him about you.”
“About me?”
“Don’t you understand anything, you smarmy urchin? If Dwight knew Claude went to bed with you, the only conclusion he’d draw is that Claude would go to bed with anyone!”
Emma began to smile. “Oh, I understand.”
Lily began to cry for joy. “I knew I could count on you, you sleazy little tart.”
Emma put an arm around Lily. “We might have been great friends if I’d been born dumb and heartless.”
“It would have been an improvement.”
“I’ll promise if you tell me what time.”
Lily sighed. “First, you must give me your most solemn oath.”
Without breaking eye contact, Emma spat into the palm of her hand. Unable to suppress a smile, she turned the wet palm toward Lily, who closed her eyes in horror as she realized what had to be done. Lids at half mast, Lily spat into her hand. As though she were sucking a lemon, her face twitched while she bravely brought her palm to meet Emma’s. Lily moaned as their wet palms touched. Emma shrugged. “After all, what’s a foe for?”
They were startled by the sound of Petit Meurice announcing, “Nineteen forty-five!”
Lily turned and started walking back into the cell. “Oh, this is the one I’ve been waiting for!”
“Lily, you promised to tell me! Please! I’m feeling so sick.”
“Darling, just as soon as I’ve had a drinkie. My throat is absolutely parched.”
Clifford was sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling. Dwight was sitting against the wall unable to focus. Lily shook her head as she bent down to pick up their glasses. She walked to the alcove. “You two had better get up. I have no intention of going to the bar unescorted.” She began smashing their glasses. “This one is for you, Dwight. You dwip! And this is for The Vagabond King! And this one, is pour moi.” She made certa
in Emma was watching. “For Lily, who also rises with the sun.”
“Before breakfast?” Emma gasped.
“Such a lovely way to begin the day.”
Emma threw her glass angrily against the wall. “I don’t remember the room!” she cried. “I don’t remember the table! I don’t remember the harpsichord! I don’t remember the chandelier! And most of all, I don’t remember the Eiffel Tower!”
Lily smiled smugly and put an arm around Emma. “What you need is a drink.” She guided her over to Petit Meurice. “How about holding down the noise during this round?”
Petit Meurice smiled. “You must take a glass for Mr. Simon. He must taste every vintage!”
Lily took two glasses. “I can’t promise. But why don’t you try bringing the next bottle a bit sooner? The service here is really slipping. And just look at you. All sweaty.”
“It is from the digging,” he said. He held the tray for Emma.
“I don’t feel good,” she said. “I’m dizzy.”
“Just two more glasses,” he said. “This and then the ’42.”
“And then what?”
“And then you will not feel dizzy any longer.”
Emma sat next to Clifford. Lily leaned back against the wall and slid down onto the floor near Dwight. She held out his glass. “Hey, beautiful dweamer.”
He looked at her. “You’re Lily.” He took the glass and began to cry. “Can you forgive me?”
“No.”
“I don’t love that girl.”
“Which one?” Lily asked.
“I don’t remember her name.”
“Marie-Thérèse,” she said.
“Lily, can you forgive me?”
“There you go again.”
“I love you, Lily. Can you forgive and forget?”
“I can forget.”
“We’ll never speak of it again,” he said.
“Speak of what?” Lily clinked glasses with him. “I can forget.”
Across the room, Emma held Clifford’s head in her lap. “It’s not that there’s anyone else, Cliffy. I don’t want you to think that. Even if there were someone else, I wouldn’t be leaving you for someone else. I’m leaving you for myself.” She drank her glass empty. “I say I’m leaving you, but that’s not true. I’ve already left you. I just haven’t said a proper goodbye.” She leaned over to kiss him gently. “Proper goodbye,” she whispered. She slipped her Mickey Mouse watch into his pocket.
Dwight and Lily were holding on to each other. Clifford was asleep, and Emma was crying. It was suddenly very quiet except for Petit Meurice’s enormous sigh. He had finished the digging.
CLAUDE was lost. The indelible image he had carried for thirty-five years was unreliable. He could not navigate the reality of the caves on memory alone. He was panicked by not being able to recall his sense of direction. Now, even the caves were conspiring to make Claude doubt his every move.
In May of 1940, the Germans entered France via Champagne. He was seventeen. Isabelle was twenty and beautiful. They swore to defend each other, to defend France. Claude stayed in the caves in defiance of the French High Command’s order to evacuate Epernay. Finally, in August of 1944, they cried with joy and vowed to defend France forever. In August of 1944 they still knew their way around the caves.
The two hours he had been there seemed an even longer span than the years he had been away. Had the caves always been so cold? So dim? Surely the light was different when he and Meurice sneaked out to change the “a” in Hamburg to an “o” in order to misdirect the cases ready for shipment. O! Galerie O! It was from Galerie O that Meurice had taken him to Pommel’s secret room. But which end of Galerie O?
Somehow the act of running, of reestablishing his role as hunter, made him feel less vulnerable. He would find the room, he knew that now. But would he find it in time? Claude was breathing hard. Number 6. Number 7. Number 8 and then number 9. He listened. Nothing. He reached up and loosened the screws that held marker number 9. He pushed the latch and a door opened from within the wall. He listened for a voice. He listened for Emma’s voice. Claude stepped back as the door was pushed open. Petit Meurice appeared.
“Le Dom,” he said, smiling. “Bonjour.” He came out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.
“Are they alive?” Claude asked.
“I knew you would come.”
“Meurice, are they alive?” Is Emma alive? he wanted to ask.
Petit Meurice stood protectively in front of the door. “Antoine did not understand. I think we are well rid of him. He did not remember our vow.”
Claude put his hands on Petit Meurice’s shoulders. “The Simons and the Benjamins are not the Nazis!”
“Le Dom, you will be proud of me!”
Claude shook him by the shoulders. “Are they alive?”
Petit Meurice smiled. “Champagne will not be occupied again!”
Emma was dead. He had killed her. He, Claude, had killed her. Claude embraced Petit Meurice in despair. “I should never have left you here.”
“I was sad you did not take me with you. I thought often of you and Pierre and Marcel in Paris together. Oh, the good times you must have had! Sometimes, Le Dom, I even thought you had forgotten about me.”
“Never, Meurice, I never forgot.”
He smiled. “Oh, I understand that now. It was only during the first five or ten years that I wondered. I knew there must be a reason for me to remain in the caves.”
“I should have kept you with me.”
“I wanted you to be proud of me again. No one has been proud of me since the war.”
“Mon ami,” Claude whispered. “You know I love you.”
“And you know I would give my life for you.”
Claude stepped back. “Meurice, I want you to close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“I want you to think of something. I want you to think of the happiest day of your life.”
Petit Meurice closed his eyes. And then he smiled. “It was the day I saved you! I can see myself carrying you in from the vineyard. I remember as though it were yesterday.”
“It was yesterday, Meurice. I remember it too.” Claude reached into his pocket and took hold of the gun. “I want you to see it clearly in your mind. It is happening now. It was very early in the morning.”
“I remember the birds singing. The ground was wet. There was still smoke over the mountains.”
“I remember the sky, Meurice. It was morning, but I could still see the stars.”
“I thought you were the enemy.”
“I called out to you, ‘Help me, I am a Frenchman. Help me!’ ” Claude pressed himself against Petit Meurice’s chest. “Can you feel me in your arms as you carry me?”
Petit Meurice smiled. “Yes, I can feel you in my arms,” he said excitedly. “It is happening all over again. ‘I will save you, Frenchman. You will be safe soon.’ ”
Claude took the gun from his pocket. “I shall never forget you, Meurice. You are a hero.”
Petit Meurice’s eyes were tight shut. “We must hurry, Frenchman. I know a place. Deep in the caves. We will be safe there.”
Claude began to cry as he put the gun to Petit Meurice’s heart. “It is all right. Put me down.” He pulled the trigger. Petit Meurice fell to the ground. Claude knelt next to him. “Rest for a moment, patriot.” Claude was sobbing as he leaned over him. “You are a defender of France. A true hero. I am still proud of you, Meurice. You must never forget that!”
Petit Meurice looked up at Claude. His eyes began to flutter. He could barely catch his breath. Putting a hand on Claude’s shoulder, he pulled him close. Just before he died, a small smile crossed his lips. “No, no! They can’t take that away from me!”
Claude reached over and closed Petit Meurice’s eyes.
After pulling the latch behind marker number 9, he opened the door. Dwight Simon was slumped in a corner. Lily Simon lay next to him against the bars. On the other side of the cell, Clifford Benja
min was face up on the floor. Emma Benjamin was sprawled across his body.
Claude reached out and grabbed on to the bars. In his rage, he began to shake them.
“Well, it’s about time!” Lily whimpered. “Where the hell is the ’42?”
Thursday
CLAUDE refused to look into the cameras as the reporters swarmed around him. They had been waiting all morning outside the Louis. “One picture, Claude,” Etienne urged. “Please.”
“Picard,” one of the reporters shouted as Claude pushed his way to the car. “Give us a smile! They’re going to use your face on all the travel posters!”
“Claude,” Etienne pleaded, “you are a national hero. This is a national event. You cannot do this to me!”
Claude took Etienne’s arm and pulled him to the curb. Gaspar held proudly on to the door of the Presidential limousine. As the flashbulbs popped, and photographers ran around to get a picture of Claude inside the car, Etienne smiled and waved, shouting from the window, “D-u-v-e-r-t!”
As they drove toward the Elysée Palace, Etienne opened and closed every compartment on the lap desk and bar. Claude stared silently out the window. It was a sunny afternoon and the St.-Honoré was deserted. There was no traffic. Salesgirls stood in front of empty boutiques and chatted.
“Isn’t it a wonderful day?” Etienne asked, looking out the window. “It took me only three minutes to get down the Champs.” He pointed to the empty cabs lined up at a taxi stand. “It is a pleasure to see those bastards waiting for us, for a change!” Etienne turned to Claude. “I do not understand you, mon ami. You look as though you are to be shot instead of decorated. I don’t mind telling you, as grateful as the President and I were that you saved the Simons and the Benjamins, we were glad you did not save them any sooner.” Claude looked up at Etienne. “I mean, it was not easy to arrange for the export . . . uh, departure of so many. To have to arrange for them to come right back . . .” Etienne raised his hands. “I do not want to think of what a horror that would have been!” He began to laugh. “But all is well that ends well. The city was evacuated. The tourists were delivered. The Americans were saved. And a Frenchman is about to receive a medal!” Etienne smiled. He slapped his hand hard on Claude’s knee.