She nods. Yes, sounds simple. Sounds organised. Sounds clear. Sounds plausible. But everything does until it’s tested. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ For the first time she is shocked. Even frightened. Jean remains quiet, perhaps having already guessed that this would be the case.
‘We must get her out now.’
Dominique tilts her head to one side again, this time genuinely weighing things up. ‘I understand.’
The Englishman watches her and waits. Dominique turns to Jean.
Jean shrugs, speaking to Dominique once more in French. ‘Simple. As anything can be.’ He leaves it at that: the implication that nothing these days is simple, you must decide for yourself.
She looks round the room, the silence, like the smoke, heavy in the air. But as much as she looks like she’s deciding, the fact is, once again, that she has already decided. They are playing a serious game, after all, and a little dramatic tension is always good. ‘All right,’ she says finally. ‘What time?’
‘Your train leaves from gare Montparnasse just after seven in the morning. We can’t,’ the Englishman adds, explaining the early departure, ‘take any risks. The journey is long, there may well be delays. The plane can’t sit there forever.’
He looks from Dominique to Jean and back again, before adding, ‘We would like you to stay here tonight. It is a safe house. We have your tickets, money, coupons – everything you need. And, of course, you have your papers.’
‘You’ve thought of everything,’ she says.
‘We try to.’
A long silence follows: everything, it seems, that has to be said has been.
Jean slaps his knees with his palms as you do at the end of a conversation or a discussion. ‘It’s time for me to go,’ he announces to Dominique and the room.
Dominique follows him as he rises and leaves. Events, indeed, are moving quickly. Soon they are both standing in the darkness of the hallway outside the apartment.
As he looks at her she could swear her owl is about to cry. He enfolds her in his winged arms. ‘I feel,’ he says, sighing, ‘like a pimp. Like I’ve just handed you over to them.’
‘What does that make me?’ She shakes her head. ‘You didn’t hand me over. I came willingly. I will do this thing freely, and I would have done this thing no matter what you said or did.’
With this she places her arms round his neck, rises on her toes and kisses him slowly and longingly, wishing it was their room just the other side of that door.
She falls back on her heels. ‘Now go.’ As he leaves, she swings round to go back inside, adding, ‘Book our room, it lacks us. Can’t you feel it?’
And with that her owl departs. And Dominique, suddenly alone, opens the door and steps back into this smoky room of strangers she has fallen in with. She sits, then eyes the Englishman. ‘Well, when do I meet this old friend of mine?’
There is a brief silence, then the Englishman swings round in his chair, indicating a closed door. ‘Now,’ he says, pleased with his little surprise. ‘Come!’ he calls to the other side of the door.
Once again Dominique is taken off guard. The door opens and a woman enters the room. She is, Dominique guesses, in her late twenties, but there’s experience beyond her years in her eyes. She is plainly dressed, like Dominique, and wears little make-up. Not that she needs it, for what is overpoweringly obvious is that she has the classical features that the god of Chance only occasionally assembles in one person. No wonder it would be difficult for her to travel alone. Men would flock to her, soldiers gather round her: gaze upon her, to talk, ask questions, just to brush with her. And while she’s taking this in, she’s also registering that the simple task she has taken on has just become all the more difficult because of this beauty.
The Englishman rises, gestures towards Dominique for the benefit of the woman and in a gracious voice says, ‘Meet Madame Aury, Dominique.’ And then, introducing the woman to Dominique, he says, ‘Madame Réage, Pauline.’ He pauses. ‘Then again, you, of course, know each other. You are old friends, after all.’
The two women shake hands in the English way. It is not, of course, Dominique knows, her real name. Any more than Dominique Aury is Dominique’s real name. Any more than the Englishman’s name, if he were to offer one, would be his real name. Only Jean is Jean, for Jean Paulhan can’t be anything other than Jean Paulhan. When you’re that well known, pseudonyms are pointless.
The Englishman picks up his briefcase, the sort a bank courier might use, and produces everything they will need for the trip, placing it on the table. ‘Tickets, papers,’ he says and, sliding an envelope towards Dominique, ‘expenses.’
Dominique takes in the envelope as the other woman sits down at the table. The Englishman swings round to the other man and speaks in fluent accent-free French, ‘It’s time we left these two old friends to get to know each other.’ But just before he leaves, he puts a piece of paper on the table, and says, in a practical, no-fuss tone, ‘Here’s a number to call if things go belly-up. Remember it, then destroy it.’
And with that they leave, and Dominique is suddenly sitting face to face with this stranger.
‘Well,’ Dominique eventually says, ‘do you remember that first time you said hello? I’ll never forget it.’
* * *
By the end of the evening Dominique can almost believe the memories they’ve created: the stir her old friend made when she first entered the school grounds because of her beauty; the crush she had on her that never amounted to anything; the hiking holiday across the Pyrénées before the war.
These things she can almost believe. As well as other invented memories that have emerged from the last few hours, which, if not actual, sound true. A kind of background story they both now have that gives them the illusion of knowing each other. And because they were invented by the both of them, they have a kind of collaborative truth.
Then Dominique asks the question that has been on her mind the whole evening. The one that has preoccupied her, but she hasn’t dared to raise until now. She hesitates, then plunges in. ‘This German . . .’
‘Yes?’ Pauline says, a mixture of the defensive and defiant.
‘You don’t mind my asking?’
Pauline stubs out her cigarette, then shrugs. ‘Why not? We’re old friends, after all. Aren’t we? And we are going on this trip together. God knows if you’ll come back or I’ll get away. You’ve got every right to know. Besides,’ she continues, lighting another cigarette, her smoking fingers, Dominique can’t help but notice, stained with nicotine, ‘it doesn’t matter any more.’
She collects herself, and when she begins, her manner an odd mix of the composed and the fragile and nervy, Dominique has the curious feeling she is talking about someone else: the story of some girl she’s heard about, or a character in a book, which she is now relating to Dominique. She is as detached from her tale as a storyteller might be. This girl, she says, and she calls herself a girl, lost the man she loved somewhere along the banks of the Meuse on the first day of the invasion. ‘The details are sketchy,’ she says, drawing on her cigarette. ‘What does it matter? He doesn’t exist any more, and I didn’t want to exist any more. I spent every day after that wishing I didn’t. This went on for a year. Maybe more. I wasn’t counting. After the sadness, and the unreality of it all, came the anger. And then this . . .’ She shrugs. ‘Resolution. I would do anything to get rid of the Germans. Perhaps even kill one.’ She throws her head back, almost giggling. ‘Just one.’ Smoke rises from her fingers. ‘I started delivering pamphlets, then escorting British flyers out of the country, usually posing as their fiancée. I usually did the talking, and the Germans were always happy to talk to a pretty girl.’
She says this not in a boastful manner, but matter-of-factly. ‘Then one day they asked me to do this thing.’ She taps her fingers on her knee. ‘To befriend a certain German officer. I knew what they meant. I said yes straightaway. My lover might not be alive an
y more, but I was still a girl in love.’ That, Dominique notes again, is the way she says it: a girl in love. ‘This officer was in Intelligence, not that it matters. And he was clever, and worldly and cultured, but he was easy.’ She pauses for a reflective moment, as if on the brink of adding, they’re always easy. ‘What I did,’ she eventually says, ‘you understand, I did willingly for love. Not for my country.’ She stubs out her cigarette. ‘I could live and love anywhere.’
When she finishes she quietly folds her hands together, as if closing a book at bedtime, and looks at Dominique, a sort of defiance in her eyes. That, and a kind of selflessness, as though none of it, the whole distasteful assignment, has touched her, that there is no her to be touched. She is this other, she implies, the role she has played. An actor without a self to reassume at the end of the night. Someone who doesn’t really exist. As though, in the end, she got her wish, after all. At least, that is the way Dominique reads her gestures.
Then, suddenly, she drops the act. Dominique has no idea what triggers this. But something in her disintegrates. She gazes at Dominique for a long time. There is a sharp intake of breath. She lights another cigarette, inhales and blows nervous smoke into the room, coughs – a smoker’s cough – then drains the wine from a glass in front of her. The silence goes on, and the longer it does the more Dominique is convinced that there’s something she not only wants to say, but has to say. Pauline draws strength from her cigarette, and begins.
‘Oh, yes. What I did was all for love. But . . . love moves in strange ways.’ She goes silent, lips quivering on the brink of confession. ‘Something happened that I never expected to happen.’ She shakes her head as if still trying to comprehend it. ‘I went into it thinking if I could only kill one German that would be enough, and this officer might well be the one. But it didn’t happen like that. I . . .’ and here she stammers, in disbelief, ‘I fell for him. And now I miss him. I miss him as much as I miss my dead lover. I miss them both,’ she says, incomprehension in her eyes: not with the fact of these things happening, but that it happened to her. ‘How cheap is my love?’
She catches herself, suppressing some deep sob, but not sure just how well smothered it is, and sits still, as if the thing could erupt from her at any moment. Dominique reaches out, takes her hand, and this woman, whom she barely knows, accepts it. She goes on, now confident. ‘I knew I was falling, and I went from not wanting to, not being able to stop myself and eventually not caring. What does that make me?’
‘It makes you human.’
The woman withdraws her hand and laughs. ‘Human, all right. I said I was going shopping. No, I didn’t need the car. Stefan looked up from his work and I walked out wearing the clothes I’m wearing now.’ She looks down at the floor, oblivious of everything around her. ‘I had half a dozen pairs of silk pyjamas,’ she says with a slight laugh, ‘and I couldn’t bring even one of them.’
She looks intently at Dominique as if to say thank you, I needed that. She stubs her cigarette, rises and goes to a sofa and pulls her coat over her. ‘I’m so tired,’ she says, eyes closing as she speaks. ‘Good night.’
Dominique watches her shivering under her coat.
‘Good night . . . Pauline.’
With what seems to be an enormous effort the woman raises her eyebrows in reply, as if to acknowledge that she’d better get used to her new name, then, over the next few minutes, slips quietly into sleep.
Dominique watches her chest rising and falling, asking herself the same question over and again. Has she the strength in her for one last performance? No wonder she can’t travel alone. They know how fragile, how nervy she is. At breaking point. And who wouldn’t be?
Dominique lies back on a small bed in the dark, taking in the shadowy shapes of chairs and the table and a small cupboard, feeling like a counterfeit priest who’s just received confession. It is after midnight, the city outside, like one etherised body, breathing in and out.
7.
Gare Montparnasse in the early morning. No dappled Impressionist colours. It’s almost as though the world has turned to black and white and all the shades of grey in between. It is a little before seven and the two women have been up since five, going over their stories. Each has been supplied with a small suitcase filled with all the things it ought to be filled with. There was even a mock interrogation before setting off.
Their train is in, the platform crowded. Steam from the engine floats back over the station. Grey steam on a grey station. German soldiers in grey move through the crowd with their dogs. Cinders and specks of soot fall on everyone. Dominique and Pauline – and they address each other as Dominique and Pauline as often as possible so they can both get accustomed to each other’s name – are walking up the platform to their carriage. Soldiers pass, a dog sniffs their shoes and moves on.
When they reach their carriage a French policeman is standing in the doorway, checking papers. Dominique’s papers are valid; Pauline’s – they were assured – as good as you can get. It’s going to take a real expert, they were told by the Englishman, to spot the difference. And as they queue up to get on the train, Dominique can’t help but wonder just how good the papers are. They’ll soon find out. Pauline is composed, even poised, as she takes her papers from her bag, sharing the slightest of reassuring glances with Dominique, as if to say don’t worry, I can do this. The fragile woman of the previous evening seems once more to have become a cool performer, taking on one last role. All the same, Dominique will be looking for cracks in her composure all through the journey: ready to step in and paper them over.
In the event, there is only a quick check of their tickets and papers before they pass into the corridor. Men, mostly men, and mostly civilians and the occasional soldier, lean out of open windows, lingering on their morning cigarettes and taking in the spectacle. But the moment they see Pauline they forget about the spectacle of the platform and gaze upon her in a trance. She has that effect. And it’s not so much longing in their eyes, Dominique can’t help but think, as a sort of stupefaction: as though they never thought to encounter such beauty in the comings and goings of ordinary life. As though a movie star has stepped down from the screen and is moving among them. Eyes follow her; Pauline, after a lifetime of being looked at, no doubt, seems oblivious. Dominique, walking behind her, has the distinct feeling of being invisible. And she’s happy with that: she wishes they were both invisible. The sooner they disappear into their compartment the better.
When they reach the compartment it is already occupied, apart from their two spaces: there’s a middle-aged woman and, presumably, her daughter; and a young man who looks like a student. A man in a suit, a businessman of some kind, stands and takes their suitcases, placing them on the racks above the seats. They sit and take out their magazines. The journey begins. Two old friends going back to their old haunts for a few days. Doors slam. The engine heaves into motion, carrying them all with it. And they have no choice now but to surrender themselves to this motive force.
The drab, grey buildings and apartments around the station pass by. Streets, cafés, corner shops, all waking to just another day, slip past them. Slowly, slowly, the city and the suburbs give way to countryside, and as Dominique looks out the window the world acquires colour again: green fields, orange rooftops, a red tractor, a blue-smocked farmer ploughing his fields as he always has.
It’s been a long time since she was out of the city and there is something vaguely uplifting about travelling through the countryside again. Almost as though she and her friend really are just taking a short trip to their old haunts. She realises she is looking forward to seeing Avranches again, wondering if the baker who made the best bread in the world really did. Or if the market still fills the main street on Saturday mornings, or if Mont Saint-Michel is open to the public. She hasn’t seen the town she grew up in since before the war and anything, anything, she tells herself, is possible.
Their cover, she’s beginning to feel, could be true. The story is becoming r
eal. And if she thinks it’s true, then it will look that way.
Pauline leans forward and taps Dominique on the knee with her magazine.
‘I’m finished,’ she says.
Dominique hasn’t even looked at hers. She nods, and as Pauline passes Dominique her magazine Dominique takes her hand briefly. They sit back in their seats. The businessman in a suit looks at them both, asks a few casual questions: Where are they going? Business or pleasure?
‘Avranches,’ Pauline says casually. ‘Pleasure,’ she adds, and Dominique can’t help but note that she has a way of saying the word as though it could mean anything.
‘We grew up there,’ says Dominique.
‘Haven’t been back since before the war,’ Pauline continues, and the man frowns for a moment at the mention of war, as though reminded of some nasty memory, and at the same time Dominique is beginning to wonder why he’s asking questions.
‘Ah,’ their fellow traveller says, ‘two friends off on a trip, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Pauline says brightly, eyeing the clouds through the window. ‘We’re hoping the weather holds.’
‘Madame, I have no doubt the clouds will part for you and your friend,’ and he says this with a lingering look that suggests beauty has its privileges, after all, then returns to his newspaper.
Dominique breathes easily. Pauline is playing her part with a natural ease that she could believe. A town, the name of which Dominique doesn’t catch but doesn’t need to, for she is familiar with all the stops along the line, comes into view and is gone in the blink of an eye. Then, for no apparent reason, the train comes to a halt. In the middle of the countryside. Their fellow passengers look up, then gaze at each other in silent inquiry. They sit, they wait. Somebody huffs; the young man next to her shrugs and returns to his book. Suddenly a train passes, heading for Paris: a troop train, an anti-aircraft gun in an open carriage points to the sky. The soldiers sit, calmly smoking. Then they are gone, and their train moves on.
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