Paris Echo

by Sebastian Faulks

  I was glad to be up on the street, even if it was only Raspail, the bully of the Left Bank boulevards. For a moment I stopped to get my bearings. I looked up and found myself opposite a large hotel called the Lutetia.

  Suddenly I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. I was bent by a spasm of homesickness – for the sound of the muezzin’s tinny loudspeaker call, for the whitewash of our house and the sparrows in the light well.

  Twelve

  Poissonnière

  There was a phone message from Julian when I got home one day. ‘I’ve been in touch with Leo Busch at the Centre Jean Molland and he was very helpful. I ended up going there myself and made a few photocopies. They took photographs of most of the people who gave spoken testimony. There’s one of Juliette Lemaire as an old woman, must have been taken when she made the recording, but she also gave them a picture of herself during the war. I saw a snap of Mathilde Masson, too. Leo says he thinks she’s still alive. Mathilde, that is. He wouldn’t give me her address, but he said if you could assure him of your good faith or something, he’d contact her on your behalf. I told him you were the very definition of good faith, but he needs to hear it from you in person. Plus some ID or letter from your professor, I think. E-mail would do. I can drop the photographs round if you’d like to have dinner one evening. Let me know.’

  It was typical of Julian to try to squeeze a date out of it, I thought. But when, after an early evening bath, I got dressed in a black woollen skirt and a dark green sweater I’d bought that day, I found I was almost looking forward to it. Julian had chosen a hipster place in rue Saulnier; he told me it was ‘important’ to go there because they distilled their own gin. After some thought I also put on some tourmaline earrings and a touch of lipstick.

  The restaurant turned out to be almost next door to the Folies Bergère. ‘So. Frilly underwear and moonshine liquor,’ I said as Julian brushed his cheek against mine. ‘Your dream destination, Julian.’

  ‘Have a drink. They recommend you have their gin with soda, not tonic. But try not to enjoy it too much.’

  ‘I’ll try. And that’s enough about my puritanical leanings.’

  ‘But I’ve only just … All right. I like that sweater, by the way. Is it new?’

  ‘Thank you. Please make the gin a big one.’

  Rue Saulnier was a dingy street, but in the light of April we were able to sit outside, beneath a blue awning.

  ‘Are you still in the sound archive?’ said Julian.

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard about twenty women now. It’s a good collection, but I got a little sidetracked and I started to read about the Resistance. I’m not sure how relevant it was to the life of the average woman in Paris.’

  ‘Very little, I’d guess,’ said Julian. ‘I think after the Liberation, de Gaulle gave medals to everyone who’d said “bonjour” to an Allied soldier and it came to about three per cent of the population. Which by coincidence was the same number who volunteered for the other side – for Vichy organisations like the Milice. And I guess that was representative of the whole country. At the start it was mostly pro-German, but by the end it was divided down the middle.’

  ‘It’s not really the active numbers that interest me,’ I said. ‘It’s more the question of attitude. Everyone must have had a view. They all cared about their own lives, their own country.’

  ‘Most people’s view was that they wanted the war to be over, I think,’ said Julian. ‘That’s what my first-ever landlady told me. And they passively supported whatever means would bring that end about most quickly. First the Germans and Vichy. Then, when that wasn’t working out, the Allies and the Resistance. Like François Mitterrand. Change horses, back the winner noisily and cover up your false start. Then deny you changed and keep on denying it until the clamour dies down.’

  ‘That sounds cynical.’

  ‘Some people were. Not all by any means. The most cynical thing was to present your cynicism as inevitable. Even in some odd way as principled. “C’est normal.” That took some nerve, I guess.’

  ‘I’m sure it was harder for women,’ I said. ‘With so many men away in prisoner-of-war camps or going to work in German factories. And women in all the worst jobs, making less money and having to feed a family.’

  ‘Yes, I think they had a harder life for sure.’

  ‘You agree with me, then?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is this a first?’

  ‘It could be. It’s also why I’m looking forward to reading what you come up with. Don’t make it all footnotes and sources, though.’

  ‘There are certain protocols.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s getting cold. Shall we go inside to eat?’

  The menu was minimal. Cauliflower, sweetbreads, salmon and pork were on offer, but only in a single word, with no suggestion of how they might be prepared.

  ‘Does it make you long for Mom’s turkey and ice cream?’

  ‘Mom’s meatloaf maybe. I’ll go with the salmon.’

  Julian chatted with the waitress in his annoyingly good French and chose the wine she recommended.

  ‘You’re such a flirt,’ I said, as the young woman disappeared.

  ‘I was just being polite. And she was nice, wasn’t she? I think the day of the surly Paris waiter is over.’ He poured some water. ‘You know when we had lunch last time we talked about that SOE group, Prosper? I’ve read a bit more about them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not just out of politeness. I was intrigued.’

  ‘It is interesting. I’ve become fascinated by the courier, Andrée Borrel.’

  ‘She was quite a character, wasn’t she? Very active. Bicycles, mountain walking. Her sister called her a garçon manqué. I think she was sleeping with the wireless operator.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Maybe it was to her. You never knew if it was going to be your last day before the Gestapo knocked at the door and took you off to Avenue Foch.’

  ‘I thought the Gestapo were in the Hôtel Lutetia.’

  ‘Strictly speaking that was the Abwehr, the counter-intelligence service. Avenue Foch was home to the Sicherheitsdienst, who were part of the SS, while the Gestapo—’

  ‘Poor Andrée.’

  ‘Yes. She had maybe eighteen different security organisations, French and German, to deal with. I think he was quite dashing, the radio guy, by the way. Don’t look so doubtful.’

  ‘That wasn’t what was significant about Andrée.’

  ‘I know. She was a brave and idealistic woman who died an appalling death. I do understand that. I wish there was a biography of her.’

  There was something earnest, almost pleading, in the way Julian looked at me that I hadn’t seen before. At the end of dinner, he discovered that he’d left the photographs of Mathilde and Juliette at his flat.

  ‘Come back and have a brandy. It’s only two minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Is it? To Strasbourg–Saint-Denis?’

  ‘You must have gone past it.’

  ‘No. I took the Métro to Poissonnière because it’s on the line from Tolbiac.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s a long way round.’

  I began to laugh. ‘Where do you find these words?’

  ‘“A long way round”? That’s—’

  ‘No. “Blimey”.’

  ‘It’s part of being English. Along with a high tolerance of uncarbonated beer. And outdoor theatre.’

  Julian opened a door off the cobbled street next to an Alsatian brasserie. His apartment was two floors up; the hall gave on to a large, parquet-floored living room with a piano and hundreds of books on shelves and tables or piled up on the floor. The furniture was old and covered in woollen rugs and throws; the ochre-tinted light came from lamps with red and orange shades. There was a framed nineteenth-century print of an effete-looking man I took to be Alfred de Musset. The room was scruffy, but the effect was quite pleasant, I had to admit; there were not as many socks and tennis shoes lying about as I’
d somehow expected.

  ‘Did you tidy up specially?’ I asked when I got back from the bathroom (unmodernised, but surprisingly clean).

  ‘No. I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  ‘You didn’t forget the photographs—’

  ‘On purpose? No. Genuine half-wittedness. Try this.’ He handed me a glass of brandy with water. ‘It’s fine à l’eau. Hemingway was always banging on about it. Have you ever been to the Closerie des Lilas?’

  ‘Ten years ago I used to walk by sometimes and peer inside and imagine him there. But I couldn’t afford to go in.’

  ‘It’s not too bad if you go to the bar bit, not the restaurant. When I was in disgrace with Sylvie, I used to spend whole afternoons there with the plat du jour and a glass of Côtes du Rhône. I’d read a book and spin it out for hours. I’ll take you there one day. Here. Have a look at these pictures. This is Juliette Lemaire as an old woman.’

  He handed me a photocopied image of a white-haired woman in a cardigan with a printed silk scarf tied at the neck. She was smiling, weakly, but with goodwill in her eyes.

  ‘She looks nice.’

  ‘And here she is in 1942.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ For a moment I think I stopped breathing. ‘This must be her friend Sophie with her. This is the rue de Rivoli, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so. That colonnade. The Nazi flag. And the shop looks like it.’

  ‘My God, she’s so …’

  The young Juliette was coltish, her tailored dress cut short to show off her legs in their silk stockings. Her hair was not curled with a parting, like Sophie’s, but left long and free, almost to the shoulders. She had dark lipstick. A leather bag hung on a long strap from her shoulder. Her eyes were engaged with the camera, smiling at whoever might see her in the years after the shutter closed; she was a girl with nothing to fear.

  I surreptitiously wiped away a tear from the corner of my eye. Julian took back the piece of paper and handed me another one.

  ‘And this is Mathilde. It’s dated 1998, which I guess is when she did her recording.’

  Mathilde Masson, the child of Belleville, had a broad face and small, pugnacious eyes. At the age of eighty, her hair was still dark, probably dyed. It was wiry, held in check by grips and slides. She had lipstick and some black colouring round the eyes. The gaze was neither kind nor cowed.

  I exhaled as I handed back the piece of paper.

  ‘You can keep them,’ said Julian.

  ‘Thank you. I like your apartment.’

  ‘It’s on an eight-year lease. But there’re only three years left.’

  ‘Was that part of the divorce?’

  ‘It was complicated.’ He sat down on a velvet-covered couch, facing me. ‘Sylvie had much more money than I did and it didn’t seem right to sell her flat in the rue des Marronniers. So I just got this lease.’

  ‘So she got to keep the family home and you have the garret with the smell of sauerkraut.’

  ‘Have you noticed? I think I’m used to it now. They’re very nice people. I often go down and eat at the bar there.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem quite fair.’

  ‘You think I should have asked for “alimony” and all that? I didn’t feel entitled to what Sylvie had inherited from her family. And I like this flat.’

  I sipped the fine à l’eau, which was both fiery and weak. ‘What was the final straw between you? But don’t tell me if you think it’s … inappropriate.’

  Julian laughed. ‘What a choice of word.’

  ‘Was it one of those pretty Dutch students?’

  ‘God no. In eight years of marriage I had only one lapse. At a conference in Berlin. One night. Even then I didn’t sleep with her. Just … messed about a bit. Apart from that … Nothing. Not even flirtations.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘Well … I suppose I may as well tell you. If we’re going to be friends?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Sylvie had been sleeping with one of her colleagues for five years. As well as with a gallery-owner in the Marais, and—’

  ‘The one where she picked up the masterpiece for nothing?’

  ‘Indeed. And with her childhood boyfriend. And with the lifeguard at the Keller public swimming pool just over the Pont de Grenelle.’

  ‘My God, Julian.’

  ‘Yes, I was pretty shocked, too. She had what you might call a need. I mean, these were the ones she told me about. It’s rather like a criminal who knows he’s going to jail asking for other crimes to be “taken into consideration”. She wanted to get these names out there so there’d be no further proceedings. But I’m pretty sure there were others.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  ‘For a time. I was in shock. My life didn’t seem to make sense. But in the end I came to admire her, really. She did what she had to do. She wasn’t designed for marriage. Not to me, anyway.’

  ‘And are you … You know, do you speak to each other?’

  ‘There’s no need. We have no children. But I see her occasionally and I find myself being polite. Friendly, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘And Sylvie?’

  ‘She looks a little … Underfed. Chic, but hungry. But she also looks happier than before. She smiles more and smokes less. So that’s something.’

  We carried on talking till nearly one o’clock, when we went down on to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Julian pulled over a cab and briefly hugged me before opening the car door. The embrace was so brief that for a moment I wondered if I’d upset him.

  The next day at the Centre Jean Molland, I called up the last of Mathilde Masson’s audio files. I’d brought Julian’s photocopied piece of paper with me and gazed at the old woman’s face as I listened.

  I was tormented by what Louise said about Armand and the girl. I decided I had to have it out with him. So the next Sunday when we were having our walk in the Buttes-Chaumont I said, ‘A little bird told me you were seeing a lot of a girl who works in the Resistance.’

  He looked put out. ‘Who told you?’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to be seen with anyone. Who told you?’

  And I said, ‘I’m not giving names. But she said you seemed very close.’ And Armand said, ‘Of course we’re close. We trust each other with our lives.’ And I said, ‘No. I mean, close like we are. You and me.’

  Then he started patting me on the hand and telling me I was talking nonsense. He said he was sorry for the times he hadn’t been free to take me out, but it was all very important and soon the Americans would come to France and then the Resistance would help and then we’d get married. He promised me there was nothing between him and any other girl.

  I wasn’t taken in. ‘So there is a girl in your group,’ I said. ‘What’s her name?’ He said he didn’t know her real name but she was known as ‘Simone’. I asked what she looked like and he wasn’t sure whether he should tell me. Then I got angry and I said, ‘You’re my fiancé. You have to tell me. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?’ And he said she was unusually tall and often wore a beret to cover her hair, which was blonde. But maybe it was dyed and it might be a different colour by now.

  So I said, ‘Is she French? Or is she a foreign spy?’ And Armand said she was French, she came from a village near Nantes. She’d worked as a pharmacist’s assistant. He said she was very committed to the struggle and that she’d done some sabotage in the Loire region.

  We were walking over a bridge by the waterfall next to a funny little building with stone pillars. I’ll never forget it. I could feel my life ending. I didn’t trust him. Armand. The only man who’d ever shown me any kindness. The man I loved. I couldn’t trust him any more.

  And I panicked. I wanted to get away from him. I started to run. Armand was calling out to me and started to run after me, but I screamed at him to leave me alone. I ran to a Métro station and caught the first train I could. I didn’t know where I was going.

  When I next had time off work, I went to the Café Victor Hugo,
where Armand had been seen with the girl. I went inside and saw that the patron was working behind the bar. I showed him a photograph of Armand that I carried in my bag and asked if he’d seen him. He said, ‘You’re Louise’s sister, aren’t you? I remember when she first brought you in, when you were little.’

  Then he looked at the picture and said, ‘Yes, I think he’s been here.’ And I said, ‘Was he with a tall woman? Maybe she was wearing a beret. Probably with blonde hair.’

  Monsieur Hugo laughed and said, ‘What do you mean “probably”?’ And I said, ‘I think she changes the colour quite often.’ He was wiping down the top of the bar. ‘Yes, I remember her. They were whispering together. Lovers’ talk, I suppose. I remember thinking he was much shorter than she was – that’s why I remember them.’ Then he laughed into his big white beard and said, ‘Tell Louise I’ve got some apple tarts coming in tomorrow.’

  Well, I couldn’t keep going back on the off-chance that the girl would be there. I had a job in a factory in rue d’Angoulême on the other side of the Boulevard de Belleville and I only had Sunday off work. But my day finished before Armand’s and I knew where his office was near the Opéra, so I could follow him and see if he met her again. I suppose it sounds mad now, but I can’t explain how much I hated this Simone bitch. I didn’t care what her beliefs were or how brave she was or anything like that. I couldn’t bear the thought of her opening her legs to him. I’d done it, sex, with Armand. I know we weren’t married and everything, but we’d been careful and it meant a lot to us. And I thought of this girl and to her my little Armand was probably just a toy. She did it to amuse herself. And would she have taken care of him anyway, made sure his glasses didn’t get broken, made his coffee the way he liked it?

  One night after work I sat in the window of a café in the rue Cambon, which was a very expensive street that I couldn’t afford—it was full of smart clothes shops. That slut Chanel had her shop there. She was sleeping with German officers in the Ritz all through the war, Louise told me, and getting her pick of paintings and furniture from Jewish flats she’d informed about. I had to be careful to drink only one small coffee, I didn’t even ask for a glass of water and the waiter kept looking at my shabby coat. But I had a view of the front door of Armand’s office and the light in the café was dim so I knew he wouldn’t see me. He was supposed to finish at five thirty but he often stayed late. Eventually he came out and began to walk quickly up the boulevard. It was a time of year I like, and the trees should have been in blossom, but they’d all been cut down for firewood and the buildings alongside were stained black by the cheap fuel. It’s funny how you remember these things. Then he went up rue de Sèze to Madeleine, where he went down into the Métro.