A Week in Paris

by Hore, Rachel

  Chapter 15

  1961

  It took a moment for Fay to realize that Mme Ramond had fallen silent, so caught up was she in the woman’s story. When she glanced up, it was to see her sunk in her chair, her eyes closed. Fay was alarmed at how exhausted she appeared.

  ‘Madame,’ she whispered, and the woman’s eyes opened and she smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fay said. ‘I’ve tired you.’

  ‘No, you have not, my dear.’ Mme Ramond sighed, shifting a cushion to make herself more comfortable. ‘It’s talking about the past. It’s . . . as if one is living it all again.’

  ‘You’ve told me a lot about my parents. I’m grateful, but there’s so much to take in. And I’ve no idea why my mother has never told me all this herself.’

  ‘You must hear the rest of the story,’ Mme Ramond said quietly, ‘and perhaps then you may judge for yourself.’

  Fay nodded, sensing foreboding in the woman’s tone.

  ‘But not today. You are right, after all. I think I am tired.’ She stirred from her chair and, crossing the room, she picked up one of the photographs of her husband from the shelves. As Mme Ramond stared at it, Fay was touched to see an expression of pride on her face. ‘You know,’ the woman said, replacing the photograph, ‘he is playing in the Golden Hall tonight. I wish I could be there to hear him.’

  ‘The Musikverein?’ Fay said with interest. ‘How marvellous.’

  ‘You know Vienna then?’

  Fay shook her head. ‘One day I hope to go. And to visit the Golden Hall. I’ve seen pictures. It looks so beautiful.’

  ‘In my opinion it is the best of all the concert halls. Maybe one day you will play there. The war cut off so much opportunity for your mother – but you? The world is open to you. You must be dedicated though. If you marry, you should find a husband who supports you in your work. And it will be harder if you have children.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Fay said a little stiffly. The shrewd way in which Mme Ramond was now regarding her made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t want to have to think about this sort of thing. Not for years and years, anyway. A rush of annoyance surprised her. Who was this woman to advise her like this? A friend of her mother’s, she’d said, but who!

  Mme Ramond must have sensed all this for she said, ‘I’m sorry. All this is still before you. And I forget you are no longer a child who needs protection.’

  Fay’s irritation subsided. Mme Ramond was an ordinary woman again, not a sinister threat. A woman who deserved Fay’s sympathy, too, with her swollen joints, her pain-filled face. And missing her absent husband.

  ‘Fay, I must ask you to excuse me. I’m afraid I need to rest before I go out this evening.’

  ‘Of course. I have to rush myself.’ The clock on the mantelpiece was inching towards half past five. She rose to go. ‘Mme Ramond, thank you so very much.’

  ‘It is delightful to see you,’ the woman said, pushing herself up from her chair. ‘When can you come again?’

  ‘Would you mind if I do? I’m free at the same time tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘That would suit me very well.’

  Fay collected her handbag from the floor and her eye fell on the wooden zebra on the table.

  ‘Take him,’ Mme Ramond said, seeing her hesitation.

  ‘Really, may I?’

  ‘Of course, chérie. He is yours. I always hoped to give him back to you.’ This was said with such warmth and yearning that Fay felt strangely touched. She stowed the zebra in her bag.

  She hardly noticed how she made her way downstairs, only that suddenly she was on the street and following Mme Ramond’s directions to a Métro station that would take her back to the hotel. It had been an extraordinary afternoon. Over the course of several hours her perception of who she was had been severely shaken. Everything her mother had led her to believe about her infancy – and admittedly that had not been very much at all – she now had to assume was untrue, or at least incomplete. A whole different narrative was taking its place.

  But why should she believe Mme Ramond rather than her own loving mother? Kitty had never spoken of any friend named Nathalie or Ramond, but then she hadn’t mentioned her Parisian past at all, so perhaps that wasn’t in itself significant. She thought of all the women Mme Ramond had mentioned and realized that she’d never once made reference to her own role in the narrative. Who was Mme Ramond? Fay wished she’d asked. And yet when she’d been in her flat, such was her trust in the woman’s telling of the story, she had sensed it would be revealed when the time was right.

  And yes, she did believe Mme Ramond’s story. She recognized it instinctively in a way that she’d never recognized what her mother had told her. When Mme Ramond had described the apartment that had been Fay’s first home, Fay had seen pictures in her mind of fine net curtains with a flowery pattern blowing in a breeze, of a ball rolling across a paved yard with high white walls around it. Somewhere deep inside she remembered these things, even though she was probably very young when she left. There was her reaction to the tolling bell in Notre Dame, too. Perhaps these disturbing experiences she’d been having in Paris were all actually memories of some sort. If it was true, at least it meant she wasn’t going mad, which was the other explanation.

  The train was packed with rush-hour crowds. A bashful young man with pock-marked skin gave up his seat to her, but then stood right by her, giving her little glances, so to avoid his attention she brought the zebra out of her bag and examined it, running her fingers over its dear blunt nose and smooth, rounded belly. Once again she saw herself as a child, walking the zebra on a window-ledge. The animal had a name, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall what it was. Something beginning with S? Or was it an M? When she looked up next they’d reached the Louvre and the young man had gone.

  Fay changed trains at the next station, then alighted at Madeleine. Coming up onto the street, she glanced across to where the great church lay bathed in the early-evening light and remembered the little priest who had been so helpful. How tactless she’d been, she burned with embarrassment to remember, asking him about the war. He’d answered her so mildly, deflecting the question. Who knew what depths of suffering he might be hiding. She was beginning to understand this now. For Paris was part of her own past.

  What had happened to her mother here? In some ways Fay could hardly wait to return to Mme Ramond’s the next afternoon, but she also dreaded it. She guessed now that she was being led down into some dark area of her mother’s life that she, Fay, needed to know about, but which Kitty not only refused to speak of but had also blanked out entirely, it seemed, cutting it out of her life like some vile canker, perhaps in order to survive. She remembered what Dr Russell had said, that her mother was brooding on something, some secret. Was it guilt? What could her mother, from whom she’d only ever received love and kindness, possibly have done?

  Fay felt only sympathy for her, and now, walking past the church on her way to the hotel, she experienced a deep longing to speak to her. It would be half past five in England – perhaps somebody would answer, she reasoned, so she retraced her steps to the square and went into the post office where – was it only the day before yesterday? – she’d tried to find the address of the convent. Picking up the receiver at one of several telephone booths that lined the far wall, to her surprise she found herself speaking to Dr Russell.

  ‘Doctor, it’s Fay Knox, calling from Paris.’

  ‘Fay.’ The man was equally surprised. ‘I was on my way out. You were lucky to catch me.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you’re in a hurry, but I wondered if you could tell me how my mother is.’ She pressed the receiver closer to her ear, winding the flex around her fingers.

  ‘Of course. I spent some time with her today. She’s doing well. Brighter, if anything, I’d say.’

  ‘Is she?’ Fay said, releasing the flex and smiling. ‘That is wonderful. Would you mind giving her a message from me? Tell her that I’m fine, the concerts are going well, and
that I’ve found Nathalie Ramond. That’s an old friend of my mother’s. Please be sure to tell her that.’

  Fay spelled the surname for him, and the doctor promised to tell Kitty. He said goodbye and she replaced the receiver with a sense of lightness. Her mother was getting better!

  Chapter 16

  Half an hour later, Fay was resting on her bed, waiting for Sandra to be ready and wondering why there had been no message from Adam, when one of the hotel staff knocked on the door. There was someone on the telephone for her – a Monsieur Warner. She hurried downstairs, breathless with anticipation. In reception, she leaned her elbows on the desk listening to Adam’s voice ask her about her day. He had an attractive voice on the telephone, warm and low, almost confiding, though because of the background noise at his end she guessed this was because he didn’t want to be overheard by the rest of the office.

  ‘I’ve had a really interesting afternoon,’ she said in answer to his question.

  ‘I look forward to hearing all about it. Are you still able to meet me tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but Adam, I simply must have a drink with the others first or they’ll think I’m rude. Would you mind picking me up from Harry’s Bar at about eight?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Oh, and you won’t need your diamonds tonight. We’re going to be new Bohemians.’

  ‘What diamonds are those?’ She was amused.

  ‘I only meant we’ll be going to the Left Bank.’ He chuckled. ‘See you later.’ And he rang off.

  Bohemians, honestly, she thought, grinning as she skipped back upstairs. What should she wear? She had a mental picture of loose flowing dresses and trailing head-scarves, but that was the 1920s, wasn’t it, and she owned nothing like that. Maybe he was referring to Simone de Beauvoir, or today’s young intellectuals – the Nouvelle Vague, Jean-Luc Godard? She’d glimpsed a picture of the film-maker’s pretty new wife on the cover of Paris Match, all pale lipstick and a rose in her hair. She preferred the singer Juliette Gréco. Mysterious in black with great kohled eyes . . .

  Back in her room she washed quickly, dabbed on some cold cream, frowning at herself in the washstand mirror, then contemplated her meagre wardrobe. She selected finally a flared skirt in a stiff, shiny material, matching it with a silky black top, and dressing up the outfit with a pendant on a gold chain. Gold clip earrings, lashings of eye-liner, some pale lipstick, then a quick brush of her hair, which fell nicely into Jean-Paul’s layered waves, and she would have to do. She turned as the door opened and Sandra came into the room like a queen in a golden robe and a towel turban, and with her face glowing pink from her bath.

  ‘Oh là là, we are chic!’ Sandra exclaimed on seeing Fay.

  ‘Are we?’ Fay sat on her bed to roll on her stockings, smiling up at her.

  ‘Très parisienne. Très jolie.’

  Fay laughed. She told her friend about the telephone call and finished, ‘I’ve no idea where Adam’s taking me.’ Despite the story she’d heard this afternoon she felt very happy suddenly. Her mother was improving and she was looking forward to the evening ahead. Sandra knew nothing of this afternoon’s quest, and when Fay changed handbags, something made her hide the wooden zebra in the lining of her suitcase. The past could stay safely in the past for a little while longer.

  But the past did not do that at all. As soon as she and Sandra walked into Harry’s Bar, she remembered that it was here, according to Mme Ramond, that her father had brought her mother on their first evening together. From the neon sign outside to the dark wooden panelling and plush red seating within, it felt clubbish in that East Coast American kind of way she’d seen in films, and she wondered if it had always been like this or whether it had changed much since 1937. Certainly many of the clientele were still well-heeled Americans and from somewhere further inside cascaded the bright notes of a pianist playing ‘The Entertainer’.

  Fay was surprised to see only five members of the orchestra at the bar, and they were Frank Sowden and his acolytes: the eldest of the first violinists, the bassoonist and two brass players, in evening suits. ‘So where’s everyone else then?’ Sandra whispered in her ear. ‘Frank said—’

  ‘Ah, the fair sex, at last,’ Frank interrupted. ‘Cocktails, ladies? What’ll you have?’ His satyr-like face was flushed, as though he’d been making his way down the cocktail menu for some time already.

  ‘A White Lady for me, thank you, Frank,’ Sandra said in a prim voice and Fay said she’d have the same.

  ‘Harry’s Bar invented the White Lady, don’t you know,’ Frank said as they watched the barman measure gin and Cointreau into a shaker. ‘And the Bloody Mary, if you’ll pardon my French.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ Sandra said. ‘Where are the others? I thought you said everyone was coming.’

  ‘It seems they have no sense of adventure.’ Frank pressed his lips together. ‘Some of ’em went off to a chamber concert. I don’t know about the rest. Tucked into bed early with their teddies, I expect, ready for the schools concert tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘It appears we’re the only ones to make a proper evening of it. And we shall. Carpe diem, seize the day. Or the night rather. Chin-chin, ladies.’

  A glazed look of politeness crossed Sandra’s face as she took a large sip of her cocktail.

  ‘Actually, neither of us can stay long, I’m afraid,’ Fay said, trying to look regretful. Frank gave a harrumph of disappointment, but she didn’t care. If they’d known it was just his small coterie who’d be here, she would never have come. They were the more raffish element of the orchestra, the ones who turned up to the morning rehearsals late and bleary-eyed. It didn’t seem to affect the high standard of their playing, goodness knows how, but it displeased the conductor all the same.

  ‘That is a pity,’ Frank said, waggling his eyebrows. ‘We’d better make the most of you ladies whilst you’re here. Where shall we disport ourselves?’

  Fay found herself squeezed between Sandra and Frank at a table, the drink relaxing her despite everything. Sandra finished hers quickly and kept glancing at her dainty wristwatch. Whilst the other men argued about where they should go to eat, Frank jiggled his leg against Fay’s and rambled on.

  ‘So you’re enjoying Gay Paree, are you, girls? Marvellous city, isn’t it? Always love coming here. So invigorating after stuffy old London. I was here during the war, you know.’

  ‘Were you?’ Fay said, edging her knee away.

  ‘Twenty-sixth of August 1944, we followed de Gaulle and the Frenchies in. The fighting was mostly over by that time though. The Resistance fellows had done the messy business. They didn’t muck about, by all accounts. Not that le Général was very happy about that. He wanted the glory for himself, you see.’ Frank had a solemn air, and despite his reductive interpretation Fay caught a glimpse of a more serious person beneath the habitual banter.

  ‘I don’t really know much about it,’ she said humbly. ‘Only that General de Gaulle spent most of the war in London trying to help his country from there. And after France was liberated he became President.’ Beside her, Sandra was laughing at some anecdote the bassoonist was recounting, her head lifted, revealing her long white throat.

  ‘That’s right. Well, some of the Parisians weren’t at all pleased to be liberated. They’d got their feet under the enemy’s table, you see. Collaboration – and worse. I saw some nasty incidents, I can tell you. Rough justice, acts of revenge, that sort of thing.’ He looked about him furtively, like a conspirator, then leaned across and said hoarsely,

  ‘I’ll tell you what, you don’t want to scratch beneath the skins of some of the people in this city. They know things they want to forget about. The war was only yesterday.’

  ‘It feels like ancient history to me.’ His words gave her a shiver of dread though.

  ‘So it should,’ he continued, his eyes twinkling. ‘We need to press on with life, don’t we? Now, how are you doing with that tipple? Have another, will we?’

  On the dot of seven forty-five
, Sandra stood up. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, but I promised to be at Maxim’s about now.’

  ‘Maxim’s, eh? Very nice,’ Frank sneered. As she left, Sandra telegraphed Fay a glance of sympathy.

  ‘Hope you meet Monsieur Delon,’ Fay told her.

  ‘What’s that?’ Frank growled.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I’ll have to go when my friend comes,’ Fay told him. Glancing surreptitiously at her watch for the hundredth time, she wondered where Adam could be. Quarter past eight came, half past, and here she was still stuck with Frank and his chums, who were now gossiping unpleasantly about other members of the orchestra. She hardly heard. She was worried that something was wrong, that Adam wasn’t coming after all. Had he gone to a different bar? She went over their conversation in her mind, but still thought she’d got the time and meeting place right. There was a lump in her throat. He’d let her down.

  At a quarter past nine there was still no sign of Adam, and Frank was glancing at her pityingly, so she made a decision to cut her losses and return to the hotel. She hadn’t eaten, but didn’t feel like anything now, and if she did later, perhaps she could order a snack at one of the cafés near the Madeleine. She thanked Frank for the drinks, but then, as she was going out of the door, she almost bumped into Adam coming in. He was agitated and quite out of breath.

  ‘Fay, thank heavens I caught you.’ He ushered her outside and stood facing her. ‘Something came up I had to deal with. Look, I can’t say how sorry I am – are you very angry with me?’ His hair was ruffled and the look of dismay on his face melted her heart.