‘I’m hung-over. I had too much to drink. And . . .’
‘And?’
‘I smoked some hashish.’
‘Who gave you that?’ Henry demanded. ‘Don’t tell me. I can guess.’
‘Bully for you.’
His dark eyes surveyed her. ‘That woman is not a good friend to you, Copper.’
‘You’re jealous,’ she retorted.
‘I’m concerned.’
‘Well, don’t be. I can run my own life without your help.’
‘This isn’t going to end well,’ he said with a grim note in his voice.
After he left, she struggled to concentrate on her work. Hashish, she decided, did not agree with her; though she forgave Suzy for trying the experiment on her, she would not repeat it.
That other experiment – the feel of Suzy’s naked body against her – had left her confused, yet in some way excited. It didn’t help that Pearl was sulky with her and lost no opportunity to nag. But her body felt uneasily alive and sensual.
A few days later, Dior came to find Copper at the place Victor Hugo. ‘Bébé hasn’t come home for days. Not since the party. They’re screaming for him at the Pavillon. We must find him. I’ve borrowed a car. Will you drive?’
‘What do you think has happened to him?’ she asked as they set off.
‘The usual,’ Dior said. ‘A spree that becomes a binge, and then an orgy. And then he is lost.’
‘Where will he be?’
‘We’ll look under the bridges first. That’s where he usually ends up.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘I am not.’
They drove along the banks of the Seine, stopping at each bridge. Under the arches of some were colonies of clochards, homeless people, deserters and tramps; most of them alcoholics. The weather was icy, and Copper saw at least one figure lying ominously still at the water’s edge. Dior made her wait in the car while he picked his way fastidiously among the huddled groups, peering into the grimy, bearded faces.
‘Not there,’ he said as he got into the car after the third such visit. ‘There are thirty-seven bridges in Paris. This could take a long time, Copper.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’
‘I’m so grateful.’ His cheeks were flushed with the cold. As always, no matter how little money he had, he was immaculately dressed. He had on a fine English overcoat and a hat. ‘Let’s go to the Port de Grenelle. That’s one of their favourite places.’ As they set off, he huddled into his overcoat like a bird fluffing up its feathers. ‘How are things with your Henry?’
‘I haven’t heard from him.’
‘I hear there was an incident at the party,’ he said delicately.
‘I made myself sick on crème de menthe,’ she replied lightly. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Don’t lose him,’ Dior said.
‘Tian—’
‘I say nothing more than that.’ He exclaimed suddenly, ‘Look out, ma petite!’ She braked hard. A crowd of men had blocked the street, forcing her to stop. They were marching purposefully towards the river carrying placards. There had been political turmoil in France for several weeks now, marked by regular strikes that often brought Paris to a standstill for several hours at a time. This, however, was the biggest demonstration she had seen.
‘I’m going to take some photographs,’ she said, reaching for her camera, which went with her everywhere.
‘Be careful,’ Dior said anxiously. ‘They may be dangerous. They are wearing the most dreadful clothes.’
Storing up this bon mot for an after-dinner story, Copper got out of the car and walked towards the strikers, already focusing her viewfinder. The men were sullen-faced, chanting ragged slogans. Copper saw that many of the placards bore the hammer and sickle. As Dior had remarked, they were working men wearing overalls and caps. The crash of their wooden clogs grew deafening as more of them poured out of the side street on to the main road. For a while, they ignored her as she photographed them; but then one or two began shouting at her angrily.
‘Copper,’ Dior called from the car, his voice quavering. ‘Let’s go!’
A large banner was being carried along in the crowd, flapping between two poles. She wanted to get a shot of it as it passed. ‘Just a moment,’ she called back to Dior.
‘Copper!’
She was aware of something whizzing past her. It was not until she heard it smash on the cobbles behind her that she realised it was a bottle. Startled, she looked up from her viewfinder, just in time to see a man throw something else at her – a large stone. She skipped nimbly aside and it rattled past her without doing any damage.
‘Hey,’ she yelled. ‘What’s the big idea, lunkheads? I’m on your side.’
A shower of abuse came back at her. Other men had their arms cocked back now, ready to hurl missiles at her.
She turned and bolted back to the car where Dior was in a state of panic. ‘Are you mad?’ he gasped. ‘We have to get out of here.’
She grabbed the wheel and turned the car around as fast as she could, riding up on to the kerb in her anxiety to get away. More missiles were flying towards them, bouncing off the bodywork. ‘They’re a little jumpy, aren’t they?’ she panted, wrestling with the gear lever. ‘I don’t mind being cussed out in French, but I draw the line at brickbats.’
‘Just go!’
As they sped away, something smashed loudly into the rear window, starring it like a spider’s web.
‘Holy Moses,’ Copper said, examining the damage in the rear-view mirror. ‘What did we do wrong?’
‘It’s the car,’ Dior said, still quivering. ‘They’re communists. They think anyone with a car must be rich. For God’s sake, don’t do that again. Let’s look under the pont de Passy.’
They drove there without further incident and walked under the arches of the great bridge together searching among the rubbish. A stray dog snarled at them before running off and a few clochards, huddled against the wind, watched them with bleary, suspicious eyes. Some had lit smouldering fires and were already, at this hour of the morning, clutching bottles of cheap wine. Overhead, a Metro train rumbled slowly towards Passy, showering them with black dust. Dirt, cold and desolation marked the place.
Suddenly, Dior gave a cry and hurried forward to a pile of refuse that lay against one of the iron pillars holding up the bridge. Shivering with the cold, Copper followed him. The pile of refuse turned out to be a man, and the man turned out to be Bérard.
There were tears on Dior’s cheeks as he helped Bérard to sit up. ‘Mon pauvre ami,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Bébé! Tu m’entends? My God. He’s half-dead with the cold, Copper. Help me.’
Copper knelt down beside Bérard and stared at him in horror. He was barely recognisable. His bloated face was heavily bruised down one side from a blow or a fall. His beard, always tangled, was matted and filthy; he stank of alcohol – and worse. His swollen eyes half-opened as they tried to rouse him, but he seemed unresponsive.
‘Bébé!’ Dior said, his voice cracking. ‘Peux-tu m’entendre?’ Bérard merely groaned. He was unable to walk and he was a heavy man, so getting him to the car was an exhausting process. ‘I have never seen him as bad as this,’ Dior gasped, shouldering the burden of his friend. ‘My poor friend. I blame myself. I’ve been so busy with the wretched dolls. I neglected him.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Copper replied. ‘Why does he do this to himself?’
‘He’s worked himself into nervous exhaustion with this damned Théâtre de la Mode. This is his way of escaping.’ They hauled Bérard on to the back seat of the car. Dior, weeping quietly, went through the pockets of his greasy coat and came up with a handful of blackened opium pipes, a syringe and a bottle of something that looked like paint thinner. ‘Merde,’ he said, tossing everything away.
Copper saw that Bérard’s small, dirty hands were still stained with the sky-blue paint he’d been using days earlier. For s
ome reason, this detail made her start crying, too. ‘Where are we going to take him?’ she asked.
‘To the Pitié-Salpêtrière. There’s a doctor there who knows how to treat Bébé’s problems.’
‘What do they do with him?’
‘What none of us can bear to do,’ Dior said grimly. ‘Lock him up and let him scream.’
She found Henry waiting for her at the apartment.
‘I hate being at odds with you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m just anxious about you. Can we make it up?’
‘You are a bully sometimes, you know.’
‘I know, and I apologise.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been crying. What has happened?’
‘I went with Tian to find Bébé Bérard.’ Copper described the morning’s events. ‘It was terrible when we got to the Pitié-Salpêtrière. He started to wake up as they carried him in. When he realised what was happening, he started to plead with us. Begging us not to leave him there. He was crying. So was Christian. When they locked Bébé in the room, he started to scream like a child. I couldn’t bear it. I had to cover my ears and run away.’
‘He does it to himself,’ Henry said curtly.
‘Henry, it was pitiful.’
‘You should save your pity. If he makes himself a beast, he must suffer as the beasts suffer.’
‘You’re cruel,’ she exclaimed.
‘No, I’m disciplined. I don’t admire the lack of discipline in anybody, no matter how clever they are.’
‘While we were searching for him, we had a brush with some strikers. I stopped to take photographs, but they threw bottles and stones at us. They actually broke a window in the car.’
His face was serious. ‘These people are dangerous, Copper. Don’t go near them.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m supposed to photograph this stuff.’
‘They don’t know that. They see a camera and they think you’re from the secret police.’
‘Do I look like I’m from the secret police?’ she demanded, raising one eyebrow.
He shook his head gravely. ‘Not exactly. You’ve heard nothing from your husband?’
‘I had one letter, but that was weeks ago. All he said was that he’d reached a Nazi concentration camp and that it was shocking. I have no idea where he is now, or what he’s doing. I wrote back to him, but he didn’t reply.’
‘Do you miss him?’
She couldn’t lie to Henry. They had always told each other the truth about everything. ‘Sometimes I convince myself that the pain has gone. At other times, I feel absolutely wretched. We had happy times together.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why didn’t he respect that happiness more?’ she asked. ‘Couldn’t he have learned to be faithful? Wasn’t I enough for him?’
‘I don’t think he knew what he had, or how lucky he was.’
‘Do you miss your wife?’
‘Of course. Sometimes I think it is better to be taken swiftly, unexpectedly, than to have to waste away. I wish I could remember her as she was – glowing and vibrant – and not as the suffering invalid she became.’
‘You went through a lot together. Do you think that anyone could ever really take her place?’
‘Nobody can take another’s place. Love doesn’t work like that. One can love more than once, but each love is glorious in its own way.’
‘I agree.’
‘What would you do if your husband wanted to come back to you?’
‘It’s over,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no going back.’ She looked up into Henry’s dim face. ‘If I don’t say yes to your offer right away, it’s not because of Amory.’
‘You don’t have to say anything yet, my dear. I am a patient man.’
Nine
The next day, Paris woke up to find its streets plastered with posters calling for a general strike.
The posters, blotchily printed on cheap paper, bore the hammer and sickle of the Communist Party. Copper’s interest quickened. They reminded her of the handbills she’d seen distributed in New York during the Depression.
And a few days later, an even more lurid poster appeared. This one read TOUS AUX BARRICADES – ‘Everyone to the barricades!’
This slogan hadn’t been heard since the Nazis had left. No barricades appeared in the stately streets where Copper lived, but she heard that on the Left Bank of the city, traditionally the most revolutionary part of Paris, citizens were obeying the age-old call to arms. This was certainly something she had to cover. Taking her camera, her oldest coat and a stout pair of walking shoes (the taxis and buses were obeying the strike call), she set off for the Quartier latin.
Near the place Saint-Michel she did indeed come across a barricade. It was made from a pissoir. Copper had never got used to the presence of these cast-iron urinals that were placed even in the smartest streets of Paris and were designed so that one saw the legs of the (male-only) users. This one had been wrenched off the pavement and dragged into the middle of the road where it made a very substantial, one-ton obstacle to traffic, and was manned by some twenty or thirty men and women. Copper took a couple of photographs, but she doubted whether any editor would print a photo of a public toilet being used as a political statement.
‘You can’t go through,’ one of the women manning the barricade told Copper, throwing back her press card. ‘We’re here to block all fascist bastards.’
‘But I’m not a fascist bastard,’ she protested.
A man wearing a Resistance-style white armband and an army helmet sauntered up to Copper. He had a Gauloise dangling from his unshaven lower lip.
‘Salut, comrade. Remember me?’
She recognised the seamed face and insouciant manner of Francois Giroux, the self-proclaimed Maquis leader who had taken her to meet Christian Dior. ‘Monsieur Giroux! How are you?’
He shrugged. ‘Comme ci, comme ça. Working for the Revolution, as always.’ He pulled his jacket aside to show her the black-and-red ribbon pinned to his blouson. ‘They gave me the médaille de la Résistance.’
Copper noted the revolver stuck in his belt. ‘Congratulations.’
‘It should have been the Légion d’honneur,’ he said sourly. ‘But they know I’m a communist. Where are you trotting off to?’
‘I heard there was going to be a big demonstration today.’
‘And you think it’s a spectator sport?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ she replied with dignity.
Giroux puffed on his Gauloise, showering her with sparks. ‘A journalist? You write about those bastards who charge twenty thousand francs for a dress. Enough to feed a working-class family for a year. You call that journalism?’
‘Well, if you let me through, I’ll write about something else today.’
‘How do I know you’re not a spy?’
‘You know very well that I’m not a spy,’ she said indignantly.
He showed no inclination to budge. ‘I hear your husband ran away from you. And you’re very friendly with la Comtesse Dior. How is the old pansy?’
‘Don’t call him that.’
The man showed pointed teeth. ‘You like these degenerate types, it seems. Now why would that be?’
‘I like him because he’s talented, kind and generous,’ she replied staunchly. ‘Are you going to let me pass?’
He squinted against the smoke of his cigarette. ‘What’s it worth to you?’
He was plainly angling for a bribe. She produced a couple of hundred-franc notes and passed them to him. ‘To help with the Revolution.’
He pocketed the money, tossed his cigarette into the gutter and gave her a helmet. ‘Wear this,’ he said with a malicious wink. ‘There will be fun and games this morning, mark my words.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Down there,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘But watch your head, comrade. The capitalist thugs don’t play games.’
‘And neither do we,’ a woman shouted aft
er Copper.
The helmet was heavier than it looked, pressing down on her brows. Copper made her way through the roadblock and walked further into the Latin Quarter. As always, the streets were vibrant here, despite the light rain that had begun to fall. Not for the first time, she rather regretted having allowed Dior to settle her in the fashionable part of the city. It would probably be a lot more fun to live here among the artists and the revolutionaries. She might not be an artist or a revolutionary, but she sure as hell wasn’t a fascist bastard, either.
A few streets further on, she started to encounter less art and more revolution. Groups of men and women were marching, carrying banners and chanting slogans. They all seemed to be making towards a common point. Copper joined in. She could hear massed singing from up ahead. She felt her heart start to speed up. She recalled marching with her father and brothers on the Lower East Side.
The gathering point was a large square lined with spindly plane trees. There were already several thousand people crammed into the area, singing ‘The Internationale’ and waving banners. A platform had been set up, decked with red flags, where speeches were evidently going to be made. The needling rain seemed to deter no one.
Wanting to get a shot of the whole, tumultuous scene, Copper asked some men nearby to give her a boost up into one of the trees. Grinning, they obliged, not reluctant to grab handfuls of her buttocks. She scrambled along a somewhat slender branch and got the photographs she needed. It was a good vantage point, but she wanted to get back among the crowd. However, before she could ask her posse of young men for a lift down, the atmosphere in the square changed abruptly.
The crowd had fallen silent, allowing the battering of hoof beats on cobbles to be heard. It grew louder. At the far end of the square, mounted gendarmes emerged from side streets. There were dozens of them. Behind them marched a phalanx of police on foot. Their black capes were slick with rain and they swung long batons, their faces shadowed by the heavy helmets they wore.
A rumble of fear and anger went through the crowd. These were the hated CRS, the security police used to break up riots. They had filtered through the back streets, avoiding the barricades. Resuming ‘The Internationale’, the mass of people pressed forward to confront the police. A senior police officer began bawling at them through a megaphone, telling the crowd to disperse, but he was barely audible over the roar of the communist anthem.
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