Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  Into the bag went my shirtwaists and skirts, my soft-­brimmed hats, my wooden brush and comb set, and the silver picture frame of myself, Charles, Addie, and Louis in our last act—­a valuable I hadn’t the heart to pawn. Foolish, they would have called me, for I dearly needed the money. Soppy, I often told myself, because the war had steadily leeched every ounce of sentiment from my body. I paused in packing, my dancing slippers clutched to my chest. Perhaps that was why I had been turned away by more than one director in Paris’s numerous variety theaters.

  Not that I would have had much success otherwise. The Folies Bergère, where I’d managed to obtain a sporadic part dancing in the chorus of one of their many revues, hadn’t needed me after the matinée two months ago. It was time to celebrate Vive La France and la patrie, and I, a distinctly colored Scot—­no matter how fluent my French—­would take a position rightly given to a more deserving French girl.

  My fingers curled around the satin shoes, rubbing fabric pilled with age and wear. Charles and I had moved so well together, our steps as one, as we danced the maxixe or the tango across the floors of the best European nightclubs and theaters. I had even set a minor fashion with my draped hobble skirt, which made the fluid, leggy movements so much easier to execute. It had also made running easier, which we had done much of when war swept across the Continent, almost stranding our four-­piece dancing troupe in Budapest. I had run again, tripping down the railway platform, pushing through the crowds, in order to keep my hand linked with Charles’s, as he and Louis were shipped off to the Front after joining the French army.

  I jumped in shock, the shoes thudding on the floor from nerveless fingers, when a blurry shape pounced onto the kitbag. The gray and brown tabby that had followed me to my garret one night and refused to leave, now sat on my clothing and stared at me with accusing green eyes.

  “Go away.” I flicked my hands at the cat, who predictably declined to obey my order.

  I had learned a painful lesson during the one and only time I attempted to handle this intractable cat, and so I turned back to my open clothespress to gather the rest of my belongings. I pressed my lips together at the sight of Charles’s uniform, folded neatly at the bottom of the drawer. In the dim light cast by the tallow candles on my nightstand, the faded, ashen blue twill of the French poilu’s uniform appeared a deep, vivid navy. Only closer inspection revealed the shadowy patches to be the dark spread of Charles’s blood after he’d been killed by shrapnel. There hadn’t been enough of Louis to send back to Addie.

  Part of me wanted to leave the uniform where it lay, to shed any and all tangible memories of the war when I departed. I knew he was dead, and how he’d been killed, and that he wasn’t ever coming back. A bloodstained uniform wasn’t a necessary aide-­mémoire. Still, I reached for it, stiff and heavy with age, to place inside my suitcase (the cat had abandoned it once I showed no interest in it, and was now washing his face with his paw). The dancing shoes I’d dropped were the last items left unpacked, and once these had been stuffed between my shirtwaists, I could now tug the kitbag closed and fasten the leather straps.

  I sat for a moment on the bed to lace my sturdy boots and then grabbed the bag and hat.

  The cat was at my feet in a trice, nearly causing me to stumble over his sinewy body as I moved toward the door.

  He glared up at me, mouth opened wide on a terrifying whine of defiance.

  “No, you can’t come,” I scolded.

  The cat let out a series of chirps, his furry head cocked, as though to demand I explain why I wouldn’t take him with me.

  “You just can’t,” I said tautly, feeling ten times a fool for trying to reason with this cat.

  A cat whom I hadn’t had the heart to name though he had slept on my bed for the past six months, and had been the only one waiting eagerly for me when I trudged home, footsore and weary, after a late show.

  The door slammed open, causing the cat to flee through whatever hidey-­hole he burrowed into whenever someone entered my garret. I looked up to see Françoise Daudet lounging in my open door. A Gauloises cigarette dangled between two fingers and the other hand clutched the lapels of a short dressing gown stretched over her ample breasts, as she surveyed me through kohl-­rimmed eyes between the haze of her cigarette smoke.

  “So you’re leaving, are you?” said Françoise in her rapid, Lyonnais-­accented French. “Not without what you owe me.”

  “I’ve paid my share of the rent through next week,” I replied coldly, moving past her indolent form.

  “You’ve forgotten about the doctor’s fees when you were sick for a fortnight, and the medicine I sent Marie to fetch during an air raid,” she said, stepping into my path. “There’s also the matter of your excessive use of candles.”

  She fidgeted nervously beneath my flat stare, her rouged lips pulling into a clownlike grimace.

  I set my bag on the floor and opened it to retrieve my small handbag. The short stack of francs were cold and heavy, and I plonked them one by one into her waiting palm. Avarice gleamed in Françoise’s pale eyes as she glanced around the neat garret room, undoubtedly hoping to discover another infraction. She gave a little Gallic shrug, her mouth pursed into a moue of disappointment as she brought the cigarette to her lips.

  “I would have regretted calling a gendarme on you after your wretched experience.” She pocketed what were the last bits of my savings and stepped aside.

  I owed her far more than this, she’d reminded me countless times over the last three years. Five hundred francs she’d spent to collect me from the jail where I’d been sent after a gendarmerie picked me up on the streets of Montmartre—­and to pay for documents that allowed me to remain in France. My gratefulness was grudging; since her rescue was based on so many conditions I had often wondered if I wouldn’t have been better off in a French prison. At least I would have had my dignity—­no, I paused mentally. I had my dignity. It was my excessive pride that had been trampled and bruised by what I’d had to do in order to survive.

  I didn’t look back after picking up my bag to pass Françoise and descend the narrow, creaking staircase of the equally narrow house of ill repute.

  MORE THAN A little tremor of trepidation passed through me as I squinted beneath the early afternoon sun from where I stood on the Pont de la Concorde. This was the very bridge from which Addie had thrown herself not quite four years ago, to be fished out hours later by sympathetic Bateau-­Omnibus passengers not yet inured to the sight of death. At the time I had mourned her as a coward; I now thought her brave.

  And now I was the coward, intimidated by the long, unknown vistas of life just as I was by the long, unknown vistas of the war.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the truth: I had very little money, I knew very few ­people in Paris (well, who would acknowledge me outside the cover of night), and very little claim to anything resembling a home. Memory of a letter I’d hoped to be my salvation suddenly sprang into my mind, like a blast of artillery. It broke me to pieces like artillery, too, and I tightened my grip on my kitbag as I crossed the bridge to the Right Bank, where the remnants of last night’s orgy of celebration littered the Place de la Concorde. French flags, American flags, British flags, and striped bunting fluttered from windows and balconies of the Hôtel de Crillon. Wreaths of flowers now encircled the Strasbourg statue at its center, and multicolored confetti blanketed the pavement, shushing beneath the wheels of the motorbuses and automobiles crossing the square.

  The gurgling waters of the Fontaines de la Concorde were a balm, however. They reminded me of the first time I saw Paris; a dazzling, beguiling Paris that seemed to offer endless opportunities. Charles had often discussed settling here on a permanent basis, perhaps in one of the bucolic suburbs, as the French had been the most welcoming and enthusiastic over our colored dance troupe. That was why we hadn’t left Paris during the mad rush during the war. By the time Louis had been k
illed at Artois, six months after he and Charles joined the French army, it was far too late for me and Addie to leave the country, even had we desired it.

  My arms began to tire of holding the heavy leather bag, and I started for the Jardin des Tuileries, at the right of the square, also ignoring the nascent ache of hunger in my belly. I had to remain vigilant about the expenditure of my last francs. The cost of living had risen tremendously over the past four years, and rationing had made the traditional French breakfast of rich, buttery brioche and piping-­hot cup of coffee a thing of the past. Still, my mouth filled with a taste memory of such petits déjeuners, and in my gastronomic distraction, I failed to notice the knot of idlers standing in the passageway to the Orangerie until one of them backed directly into me. I went sprawling on the grass, my bag flying from my grasp to land above my head.

  A press of ­people immediately surrounded me. I looked up, my brows slanted in irritation, and one of the group peered at me over the cover of their English-­French dictionary in surprise.

  “Why, you’re a colored girl!” the woman exclaimed in American-­accented English. “Help her up, Lionel, since you were the one to knock her over.”

  “Allow me.”

  I closed my eyes at the sound of the rich, molasses-­tinged drawl of the man extending his hand to me. What memories it evoked, for Charles had sounded just like this; its foreignness had delighted and stymied me upon our first meeting, so accustomed was I to the clipped accents nearly everyone in the British theater circuit took on—­unless the broad regional accents were part of their skits. But there was something a little more substantial in this man’s voice, a bold purposefulness that was absent from Charles’s easygoing tenor.

  His hand was still waiting when I opened my eyes, and despite the barrier of our gloves, something strange ran through me when I placed mine in his.

  I handily identified the emotion that bathed my face in heat when I glanced up the length of his sleeve to meet his eyes. Shy! There I was, at twenty-­eight, with reams of ill-­begotten experience, and was unexpectedly, absurdly bashful at looking a man in the face. And it was the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. Tawny tanned skin stretched over features both sharp and strong, with cheekbones so high it was as though a sculptor had scooped a tad too much clay while forming his appearance. The fullness of his bottom lip and the faint crease of dimples—­dimples I knew would be deep enough to pillow my forefingers when he smiled—­softened the severity of his face.

  It was a crime for a man to be this handsome, and as he helped me to my feet, I was reminded of how worn and tired I must have appeared. Too thin beneath my heavy coat, the bruises of fatigue shadowing my eyes, and my unruly hair just reaching my jawline after the doctor had cut it when I came down with a virulent strain of influenza. His intense scrutiny exacerbated my sudden feelings of inadequacy. Those who had collected my cigarette cards, or saved my clippings from theater periodicals, would find little trace of the vivacious, curvaceous music hall performer I’d been before the war.

  “I recognize you,” he said suddenly, his grip tightening around my hand. “Didn’t you play in—­”

  “You must be mistaken.” I pulled my hand from his and bent to grasp my bag, almost hugging it to myself as a shield.

  “Are you sure?” He moved to block my path. “Miss Morven Williams?”

  “Now why don’t you let her alone, Sidney?” one of the older women, in blue-­green khaki uniform and cap, scolded. “Are you all right, honey? Do you need some assistance?”

  “No, I’m all right,” I replied, backing away from their curious gazes. “I was on my way to the British consul.”

  The woman’s deep-­set brown eyes softened with sympathy. “On your way back home now that the war is over, I’ll bet. Your folks will be mighty glad to see you.”

  “Yes.” I forced my mouth into a smile.

  The smile wobbled at the corners and then threatened to collapse when my eyes met his—­Sidney, the woman had called him. The narrowing of his eyes and the rigid line of his jaw as he stared at my face made my stomach churn, as though he knew something about me that I didn’t . . . or feared to know. There was something disturbing in his insistence that he recognized me. I had never toured in America, especially after marrying Charles. It was possible that he had caught one of my shows, but our colored community was quite small enough that we all bumped into one another eventually. I’d never laid eyes on him in my life, and it further disturbed me that I didn’t want to stop once I had.

  “Well,” I said brightly, turning back to the older woman, “I must be off. There’s bound to be a queue.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” Her brow puckered beneath her fringe.

  “I’m sure,” I said and turned to leave.

  A hand on my arm stopped me as I made my way toward the Quai des Tuileries. I knew it was him before I glanced at his hand and back to his face. I frowned.

  “I beg your pardon—­”

  He smiled, a thoroughly disarming, dimpled smile I was sure he had long ago learned to use to its full effect. It lit his dark eyes and raised his eyebrows, giving him a mischievous look that must have gotten him out of an outlandish number of scrapes. I pressed my lips firmly to fight its infectiousness.

  “I beg yours, Miss Williams.” His eyebrows rose again, as though impressing upon me his assurance that I was who he said I was. “Now that we’ve met, it would be most convenient of you to lead our group on a guided tour of Paris.”

  A rush of heat—­irritation—­swept across my throat and forehead. Here was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted no matter whom he trampled over.

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I am British, therefore not obligated to provide entertainment to American troops—­”

  “Why, that’s a wonderful idea!” The older woman’s voice swallowed my retort.

  The murmurs of agreement and the exchange of joyful smiles lapped over my anger like a tidal wave.

  “We’re mostly YMCA, with a sprinkling of doughboys,” explained the older woman, pointing at the other six with her. “I’m Annette Rochon, and these are my assistants Mrs. Tanner Craigwell and Netta Mosswell. YMCA secretary Lionel Richardson and Reverend Bullock of the 369th. You’ve already been acquainted with Lieutenant Sidney Mercer here.”

  I could feel Lieutenant Mercer’s gaze sharpen as I reluctantly gave my name, and the air, charged with a peculiar sensation of triumph, made me glance in his direction. I met his eyes with an unwavering stare. Yes, I was Morven Williams, though the woman who’d earnestly borne that name had died in Flanders field. My breath released on a gust of air I hadn’t been aware I was holding when he lowered his gaze and released my arm. Miss Rochon was speaking again.

  “Lionel here hasn’t a lick of direction. He’s liable to lead us into the catacombs.”

  “I’m not that bad!” Lionel exclaimed as he folded the map of Paris into his red leather-­bound Baedeker. “We managed to get to this garden.”

  “After getting turned around on the Metro,” Mrs. Craigwell retorted.

  I was still clutching my bag to my side, my fingers clamped so tightly around the handle they tingled with numbness. Their easy warmth, their camaraderie, disturbed and frightened me. The bitter chill of detachment, which I’d so successfully retreated into, threatened to thaw, and I wanted no part of it.

  “We’ll compensate you for your time, if that’s a concern,” said Miss Rochon. Her hand on my arm, in the same place as Lieutenant Mercer’s, was gentle and considerate where his was insistent and assertive. “Please say yes. It’s a blessing to see a familiar face where one least expects it.”

  There was Addie—­that was what she’d said the moment we met in a provincial theater in the middle of Yorkshire, she an elocutionist on the marquee, and me a lowly eleventh-­billed act. What was it about these colored Americans—­Negroes, as they were called and c
alled themselves—­that made them open their hearts and their arms to ­people of their shared skin, no matter if they were born and raised in the heart of Edinburgh? My curiosity and longing pulled me in their direction, though my instincts recoiled away from what their proximity would crack open within me.

  What my proximity to Lieutenant Mercer would crack open within me, if I so chose.

  SHE DIDN’T APPEAR to be a flimflam artist.

  Lieutenant Sidney Mercer hung back behind the YMCA group making its way through the Louvre as the woman who called herself Mrs. Charles Williams paused to study a painting of a woman with a chubby baby between kneeling saints. Filippo Lippi, La Vierge et L’Enfant Entourés d’Anges, said the label. Morven Williams’s pinched, drawn expression relaxed for the first time, revealing traces of the soft, sparkling woman he’d seen in Julia’s scrapbook. He uncrossed and then recrossed his arms again, unsettled by the reality of her in the flesh. The weariness in her eyes hadn’t dimmed their vivid green color, nor had her photograph prepared him for the texture of her skin or the curl of her hair against the vulnerable column of her throat.

  She was supposed to be blowsy, garish even, with a mean, greedy look in her eyes. Morven Williams wasn’t supposed to be this slender woman of medium height, whose clothes nearly swallowed her frame, and who had hell in her eyes.

  Sidney forced himself to look away from the flat curve of her lips as she listened to something Lionel and Netta were saying. It was as though she’d forgotten how to smile. In one pocket of his tunic, a letter from his aunt, and in the other, a cashier’s check he’d drawn from Bordeaux’s American Express branch even before he’d joined his company at the Front.

  The decision he’d thought so easy to make when marking his journey to France had blossomed into a new set of complications.